Chapter Thirteen
(One)
First Lieutenant William C. Dunn, Executive Officer, VMF-229, was sitting at the bar with Lieutenant (j.g.) Mary Agnes O'Malley, Nurse Corps, USN, having an after-dinner cognac. Dunn had learned that an after-dinner cognac-for that matter, any kind of alcohol at any time-seemed to trigger in Mary Agnes lewd and carnal desires. As they sipped their cognacs, her arm was resting on his upper leg, and her hand was gently stroking his inner thigh. She was fully aware what this did to him. And he knew that once there was proof positive, so to speak, that she had flipped his HORNY ON switch, and the mechanism had been activated, she would look into his eyes with pleasure and understanding, and purse her lips in promise of what was to come. And probably even give it a friendly little pat on the head. Good doggie.
Dunn had recently been giving a good deal of thought to his relationship with Mary Agnes O'Malley.
For starters, he was the envy of most of his peers, even the noble minded who chose to believe she wasn't really giving him any. The ratio of young bachelor officers in the Naval Establishment around Pearl Harbor to good-looking, socially acceptable females-or for that matter, to any kind of females-was probably two-hundred-fifty to one. Phrased another way, the odds against a first lieutenant hooking up with a good-looking, firm-breasted, blonde-headed nurse who fucked like a mink were probably on the order of a thousand to one.
What did every red-blooded Marine Aviator want? A nymphomaniac whose father owned a liquor store. Mary Agnes's father didn't own a liquor store, but there didn't seem to be any question that if she wasn't really a nympho, she was pretty damned close.
But Bill Dunn kept remembering from college some great philosophical truth-he forgot who said it-to the effect that the only thing worse than not realizing one's dreams was to realize them: Here he was with a good-looking woman who couldn't wait to get him in bed every night. There she would eagerly perform sexual acts he had seen before only in stag movies. And he was unhappy with the situation.
Even the sex, once the novelty wore off, was becoming a chore. He was regarding it lately as his duty, his more and more reluctant holding up of his end of the bargain.
The sad truth was that Mary Agnes O'Malley was dumber than dog shit. It was a realization he'd come to somewhat belatedly, probably because intellectual attainment was not high on his original list of priorities. But it didn't take him long to begin to think that it was entirely within the realm of possibility that an original idea and a cold drink of water would actually kill her.
Mary Agnes O'Malley read Photoplay and Screen Life magazines for intellectual stimulation; she was a veritable fountain of information regarding the private life of movie stars. She had read somewhere, for instance, that actor Tyrone Power had entered the Corps and was in flight training. Her dream was that Power would be assigned to Hawaii and Dunn would introduce them. She spoke of this often.
If that happened, Lieutenant Power-or Captain Power, whatever he was-would probably set the minimum time record for the Marine Aviator getting his ashes hauled after arrival in the Territory of Hawaii.
But in the meantime, Mary Agnes made it plain that Lieutenant Bill Dunn was all that her heart-and other anatomical parts-desired. This was not because she found him a charming companion, or even an outstanding lover, but because he looked, as she often told him, just like an actor named Alan Ladd.
Dunn knew that if he really wanted to break it off with Mary Agnes, he could do it relatively easily. He could just call her and say that he had the duty and could not make it over to Pearl. She was dumb, but she was capable of understanding that. He was convinced that if he did this five nights in a row, say, no matter how determined she was not "to cheat" on him, she would have a snifter or two of Hennessey VSOP, her blood would start to boil, and some other soul would find himself sneaking up the back stairs to Room Eleven, Female Officer's Quarters Fourteen.
But in his own eyes he had no character. Or phrased less delicately, he was letting his dick do his thinking for him. He made "Sorry, I have the duty" telephone calls at least four times-for two nights in a row, twice. But that was as far as logic could go, vis-…-vis overwhelming the sinful lusts of the flesh.
No matter how high his original resolve and how firm his original intentions, by the third day, he was unable to refute the whispers in his ear, Billy-Boy, they are not pulling your chain with that "Live Today For Tomorrow We Die" shit. The piece of ass you are so casually rejecting may well be the last piece you are ever offered. Tomorrow morning, you may crash inflames. Or they may tell you to get your ass aboard a carrier; and away you will sail to your hero's death. With that in mind, does it really make any sense to spend your last night alive or ashore in your room with a portable radio for company, when you can play Hide the Salami and other games in Mary Agnes's perfumed bed?
Dunn noticed First Lieutenant David Schneider within sixty seconds or so of the moment Schneider walked into the bar of the Main Club. Schneider caught Dunn's attention because he was wearing a white uniform. Officers wearing white uniforms outnumbered officers wearing greens about ten to one, but Schneider's white uniform was the only one-Marine or Navy-with gold Naval Aviator's wings pinned to it.
I wonder who that horse's ass is? was Bill Dunn's first thought. If you were an aviator, you could get away with not wearing whites.
His second thought immediately followed the first: He probably just got here. He's probably, as a matter-of-fact, one of the two we got today.
When Dunn had signed out in the squadron office for the Main Club at Pearl Harbor, PFC Hastings told him VMF-229 had two new officer pilots.
"If you don't stop that, I'm going to bust my zipper," First Lieutenant Dunn said quietly to Lieutenant (j.g.) O'Malley, removing her hand from his crotch.
"Promises, promises," she replied and pursed her lips at him.
"Excuse me," he said, getting up.
"Where are you going?"
"I think the guy in whites down at the end of the bar is one of ours," he said. "I'll be right back."
Mary Agnes looked toward the end of the bar and saw First Lieutenant David Schneider.
"Oh, he's cute!" she exclaimed, "He looks just like John Garfield."
Dunn reached Schneider in time to see the bartender fill the lieutenant's glass with ginger ale. He was a little surprised, because there was no darker liquid already in the glass.
"Good evening," Dunn said.
Schneider nodded an acknowledgment, but did not speak.
"Is your name John Garfield, by any chance?"
"No, it is not."
"Just get in? To VMF-229 by any chance?"
Dunn saw that the question made the lieutenant uncomfortable.
Obviously, he can't answer that question. Japanese ears are everywhere. Loose lips sink ships. And I probably look like a Jap spy in disguise.
"My name is Dunn. I'm Exec of VMF-229."
"Oh," Schneider said, straightening. "Yes, Sir. My name is Schneider, Sir. I reported aboard today, Sir."
Dunn gave him his hand.
"How do you do, Sir?"
"I heard there were two of you?"
"Yes, Sir. Lieutenant Jim Ward was on the same set of orders."
"He here with you?"
"No, Sir. I believe he stayed aboard Ewa."
"Oh, now I know who you are. The Skipper stole you from Quantico, right?"
"We were stationed at Quantico, yes, Sir."
"Now, don't misunderstand this. This is a simple suggestion. I'm about to return to Ewa. I have a car. If you need a ride?"
"Yes, Sir, thank you very much. Actually, I came in here hoping to get a ride."
"Well, then, come on down the bar while I finish my drink."
"Won't I be in the way, Sir? Two's company, and so on?"
"Not at all," Bill Dunn said. "The lady and I are just friends."