The engine started immediately. Galloway slipped it in gear and made a U-turn away from the hangar.
"I heard you were back," Oblensky said.
It starts. "You," not "the captain" No "Sir."
"I got in yesterday," Galloway said. "I got a ride on an Army Air Corps B-17."
"Do they give them guns and ammo now?" Oblensky asked.
Again, no "Sir," Galloway thought. What the hell is he talking about?
And then he remembered. During the attack on Pearl Harbor, a flight of B-17s had arrived in Hawaii. Since they had left the United States in peacetime-and to decrease the parasitic drag the weapons would cause if in place-their.50 caliber Browning machine guns had been stowed inside, and they had carried no ammunition for them. They had arrived in the middle of a battle absolutely unable to defend themselves.
"These had ammo," Galloway answered, remembering. "The side positions were faired over, and their guns were on the deck. The turrets were operational."
"I heard they were giving you a squadron."
Of course you did. If you could find out from the Navy the course of the Saratoga at sea, it was no problem at all for you to find out from the sergeant in Colonel Dawkins's office that I was going to get VMF-229.
"VMF-229," Galloway said.
It was not far from the hangar to the Provost Marshal's office. Oblensky did not attempt further conversation.
There was a lanky buck sergeant on duty. He stood up behind his desk when Galloway walked into the small frame building.
"Good morning, Sir," the sergeant said. "Can I help you?"
"I want to register a car," Galloway said. "You got the papers, Sergeant Oblensky?"
"Yes, Sir," Oblensky said, taking the vehicle registrations, military and civilian, from his wallet and handing them over.
"Sir," the Provost Marshal Sergeant said, "if the captain is buying the car from the sergeant, you'll need a notarized bill of sale."
"I'm not buying it," Galloway said. "I already own it. I gave Sergeant Oblensky a power-of-attorney to use it when I went to the States."
"It's on file," Oblensky said. "Look under 'Oblensky.' "
"Let me check," the sergeant said, and he went to a vertical file cabinet. In a moment, he found what he was looking for. He returned with a manila folder, reading from it as he walked.
"You're Tech Sergeant Galloway, Sir?"
"No. I'm Captain Galloway. But I was a Tech Sergeant when I signed that power-of-attorney."
"Yes, Sir. That's what I meant, Sir. I'll get the forms, Sir."
He went into a small storeroom.
"I think he knows who you are," Oblensky said, softly.
"Who am I?"
"I mean, I think he knows what happened, who you are," Oblensky said.
The sergeant came out of the storeroom with several printed forms and a small metal plate. He sat down at the typewriter and fed the forms into it. He asked for Galloway's serial number and unit.
"There's a new regulation, Sir," the sergeant said. "You'll need your CO's permission to have a car on the base."
"Colonel Dawkins, you mean?"
"No, Sir, your squadron commander will do."
"I command VMF-229," Galloway said.
"Yes, Sir," the sergeant said, visibly surprised.
Big Steve was right. That guy did make the connection. It will be interesting conversation at the Staff NCO Club tonight-for that matter at the Officer's Club, too-and all over the base by tomorrow:
"Remember that story about the Flying Sergeant of VMF-211 who fixed up the F4F the Japs got on December 7? Fixed it up and flew it out to the Saratoga at sea and really pissed the Navy off? The guy they sent back to the states for court-martial? Well, he's back, and guess what, he's a captain, no shit, and a squadron commander!"
The sergeant came from his typewriter and handed Galloway forms to sign and then the small metal plate.
"You screw this on top of the Hawaiian plate, Sir," he said. "That'll be fifty cents, please."
Galloway handed him two quarters.
"Thank you," he said.
"Excuse me, Sir," the sergeant said. "You used to be a flying sergeant with VMF-211, right?"
"Right."
"I thought I remembered the name," the sergeant said.
Would you like my autograph? How to Succeed in the Corps: Really fuck up!
He became aware that Oblensky was tugging at the small metal plate, and released it to him. When they went outside, Oblensky opened the rumble seat, took a screwdriver from a small tool roll, and replaced the tag (for enlisted men) above the license plate with the new officer's tag Galloway had just been given.
"Thank you, Steve," Galloway said. "And also for keeping the car so shipshape."
"Don't be silly," Oblensky said. "I was using it, wasn't I? I owe you."
I'm not very good at this psychological bullshit, "How the wise commissioned officer should deal with the enlisted swine." Fuck it!
"Steve, I had you transferred to VMF-229," Galloway said. "Is that going to cause any problems?"
"You're starting with problems," Oblensky said. "What you have is fourteen pickled F4Fs on a wharf at Pearl, Christ only knows what shape they're in; a dozen-maybe fifteen, sixteen-kids who are not sure what a wrench is used for;, and a young pilot scuttlebutt says runs from fights."