"That will be all, Captain Galloway. Thank you."
Chapter Eight
(One)
HEADQUARTERS
MARINE AIR GROUP TWENTY-ONE (MAG-21)
EWA, OAHU ISLAND, TERRITORY OF HAWAII
1135 HOURS 27 JUNE 1942
PFC Alfred B. Hastings, who was seventeen and had been in the Corps not quite five months, had just about finished drying with a chamois a glistening yellow 1933 Ford convertible coupe, when he noticed that his labor had attracted the attention of an officer.
The Ford was parked in the shade of Hangar Three. When Hastings was finished, his orders were to return the car to the other side of the hangar, to a parking space lettered MAINTENANCE NCO.
For a long moment, PFC Hastings pretended he did not see the officer, who was a captain and an aviator. He did that for two reasons. First, he had slipped out of the sleeves of his coveralls and tied them around his waist, which left him in his sleeveless undershirt and thus out of uniform. Second, despite the dedicated efforts of his drill instructors at the San Diego Recruit Depot to instill in him a detailed knowledge of the Customs of the Service as they applied to military courtesy, he was not sure what was now required of him.
The basic rule was that officers got saluted by enlisted men. But it wasn't quite that simple. You were not supposed to salute indoors unless you were under arms. That meant actually carrying your rifle, or a symbol of it like a cartridge belt. And you were not supposed to salute when you were on a labor detail. The NCO in charge of the labor detail was supposed to do that, first calling "attention" and then saluting the officer on behalf of the entire labor detail.
I suppose, PFC Hastings finally decided, that since I am the only one on this labor detail, I am in charge, and supposed to salute. And that sonofabitch obviously isn't going to go away. He's looking at the car like he never saw a '33 Ford before.
And I don't think anybody ever got in real trouble in the Corps for saluting when they really didn't have to.
He gave the chrome V-8 insignia on the front of the hood a final wipe, stepped back a foot; and then, as if he had first noticed the officer just then, he popped to attention and saluted.
"Good afternoon, Sir!" PFC Hastings barked. At the same moment, he realized that coming to attention had rearranged his hips so that the bottom of his coveralls was sliding down off them.
"Good afternoon," Captain Charley Galloway said, crisply returning the salute and doing his best not to laugh. "Stand at ease and grab your pants."
"Aye, aye, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
PFC Hastings quickly untied the sleeves of his coveralls, shoved his arms through them, and buttoned the garment as regulations required. When he looked up, he saw that the Captain was carefully inspecting the Ford's interior. He took a chance.
"Nice car, isn't it, Sir?"
"Yes, it is," Galloway said, smiling at PFC Hastings. "And Sergeant Oblensky lets you take care of it for him, does he?"
"Yes, Sir," PFC Hastings said, a touch of pride in his voice. "I try to keep it shipshape for him, Sir."
"And you seem to have done so very well," Galloway said.
"Thank you, Sir."
"Do you happen to know where Sergeant Oblensky is?"
"Yes, Sir. He's inside, in the hangar, I mean."
"Would you please find Sergeant Oblensky and tell him I'd like a word with him, please?"
"Aye, aye, Sir," Hastings said, and started to walk away, then stopped. He had forgotten to salute; and he also hadn't done what Sergeant Oblensky had told him to do with the car when he had finished washing it.
"Sir, I'm supposed to put the car back in Sergeant Oblensky's parking space."
"It'll be all right here," Galloway said. "Just go get him, please."
"Aye, aye, Sir," Hastings said, and this time remembered to salute.
Galloway, fighting the urge to smile, returned it; and then when the kid had disappeared, at a fast trot, around the corner of the hangar, he leaned over the mounted-in-the-front-fender spare tire and raised the left half of the hood.
The engine compartment of the nine-year-old Ford was as spotless as the exterior. The first time Charley had seen the Ford's engine it was a disaster; where it wasn't streaked with rust it had been coated with grease. Now it looked as good as it must have looked on the showroom floor. Better. And mechanically it was better too. The engine had not just been completely rebuilt, it had been greatly modified. The heads had been milled to increase compression. The carburetor had been upgraded. There had even been thought about "blowing" the engine, getting an aircraft engine supercharger from salvage, rebuilding it, and adapting it to the flathead Ford V-8. That probably would have happened had the war not come along.
Captain Galloway lowered the hood, fastened it in place, and stood erect. Technical Sergeant Stefan Oblensky appeared at the corner of the hangar.
He was known as "Big Steve" because he was big. He stood well over six feet, had a barrel chest, and large bones. He was almost entirely bald, and what little hair remained around his ears and the back of his neck was so closely shorn as to be nearly invisible.
He was forty-six, literally old enough to be Charley's father. Seeing him, Charley realized with surprise that he had forgotten both how old and how big Big Steve was. And how formidable appearing in his stiffly starched, skin-tight khakis, his fore-and-aft cap perched on his shining, massive head.
There was no suggestion on his face that he had ever seen Captain Charles Galloway before in his life. He raised his hand in a crisp salute.
"Good afternoon, Sir. The captain wished to see me?"
Charley returned the salute.
"Good afternoon, Sergeant," he said. "Yes, I did."
"How may I help the captain, Sir?"
"I think we might as well start by putting this back in my name," Galloway said, waving at the Ford. "Does it run as good as it looks?"
"I don't think the captain will have any complaints, Sir."
"Well, then get in, Sergeant, and we'll go see the Provost Marshal."
"Sir, with the captain's permission, I'll have to inform the maintenance officer that I will be out of the hangar."
"That won't be necessary, Sergeant. I've explained to your squadron commander that we have some business to take care of."
"Yes, Sir."
That's bullshit.
What I did, with absolutely no success, was try to placate his squadron commander after he had been told five minutes before that he had just lost his Maintenance NCO to VMF-229, and that the decision was not open for discussion or reversal When I walked out of his door, the man was still steamingly pissed off-not only at his Wing Commander but, if possible, even more at Captain Charles M. Galloway, CO, VMF-229. I wonder why I didn't tell Big Steve that he now works for me?
Obviously, because I don't want him to think that Santa Claus has come to town, and that he now has a squadron commander in his pocket