"Yes, Sir," Hastings said, smiling.
"Galloway, Sir," Charley said to the telephone. "I just got in."
"And how many hours is that today, Captain Galloway?" Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins asked, innocently. "I haven't checked my log book, Sir."
"But you can tell time and count, right? Up to say five hours and forty-five minutes?"
What the hell has he done? Gone and checked the goddamned board?
"Was it that much, Sir?"
"You know goddamned well it was," Dawkins said. "On the other hand, if you're dumb enough not to believe me when I say I don't want you flying more than four hours, maybe you are too dumb to count."
"Yes, Sir."
"But that is not the reason, at least the main reason, I wanted this little chat with you, Captain Galloway."
"Sir?"
"Knowing as I do your penchant for obeying only those orders you find it convenient to obey, I suppose it's hoping too much to expect you to have a white uniform for formal occasions?"
"Sir, I have a set of whites."
"Just in passing, I believe the regulation says you are required to have two sets. Is the one set you have suitably starched and pressed for wear at a formal occasion, for example, taking cocktails and dinner with an admiral?"
Charley took a quick mental inventory of his closet in the BOQ. His whites, never worn, were there, still in the bag they'd come in. If they weren't pressed, he had an iron. "Yes, Sir," he said.
"Good. The admiral will be pleased. He is sending his car for us at 1830. Try not to spill tomato juice on your whites between now and then. With you owning only one set, that would pose a problem."
"What admiral is that, Sir?"
"Take a guess."
Since Charley was reasonably convinced that for reasons he could not imagine, Dawkins was pulling his chain about dinner with some admiral, he could not resist the temptation: "Admiral Nimitz?"
"No. Close, but no. Guess again."
Christ, he's serious!
"I have no idea," he confessed.
"I'll give you a hint: How many officers do you have with uncles who are admirals?"
"Oh, Christ! What's he want?"
"I don't know. What I do know is that his aide was over here around noon-in his whites by the way, with the golden rope and everything-bearing an invitation for you and me to take cocktails and dinner with the admiral at his quarters. The admiral is sending his car for us, and the uniform is whites."
"Jesus!" Charley said.
"Have you been saying unkind things to Lieutenant Schneider, Charley?"
"No. I was just flying with him, as a matter-of-fact. He's doing very well, and I just told him so. He's going to be all right, Colonel."
"Well, he is not, repeat not, to be informed of where you and I are going tonight. The way the aide put it was, 'the admiral thinks that it would be best if Lieutenant Schneider didn't hear of this.'"
"I wonder what the hell is going on?"
"Considering how you ignore me when I tell you I don't want you flying more than four hours a day, I wonder if you will be able to keep our dinner plans a secret from Lieutenant Schneider."
That won't be a problem. Schneider at this very moment is probably already showered, shaved, shined, and doused with cologne, and breathing through flared nostrils as he arranges tonight's rendezvous with Mary Agnes O'Malley; he won't surface until tomorrow morning, looking wan, exhausted, and visibly satiated.
"That won't be a problem, Sir."
"You told me that keeping your flying under four hours a day wasn't going to be a problem, either, as I recall," Colonel Dawkins said. "My quarters, not a second after six-thirty. We don't want to keep the admiral waiting, do we, Charley?"
Colonel Dawkins hung up while Charley was on the "No" of "No, Sir."
At 1825 Admiral Daniel J. Wagam's aide-de-camp arrived at Lieutenant Colonel Dawkins's BOQ in the Admiral's Navy gray Plymouth staff car. Captain Charles M. Galloway arrived a moment later in his nine-year-old yellow Ford roadster. By the time Charley found a place to park the Ford, Colonel Dawkins had emerged from the building and was standing by the Plymouth.
The admiral's aide, a Lieutenant (j.g.), got in the front seat beside the driver, affording Captain Galloway, in deference to his rank, the privilege of riding in the back. Charley had often wondered why in military protocol the back seat represented privilege and prestige. If he were the brass hat, he would have chosen to ride in front, where there was often more room and you could see better.
After considerable idle thought, he'd finally figured out an answer that made sense: It went way back, to horse-drawn carriages. The front seat then had been less comfortable, and often out in the rain.
The services were very reluctant to change tradition. Charley knew that chances of his ever having to take a swipe at somebody with a sword were pretty goddamned remote. But a sword, in the pattern prescribed for Marine officers, was like his white uniform, yet one more thing he had had to buy when he took the commission.
The crown of his white brimmed hat cover had embroidered loops sewn to it. These were not the gold embroidered loops ("scrambled eggs") worn by senior officers on their caps. So anyone could tell at a glance whether or not he was looking at some lowly company grade officer. The loops went back to the days when Marines were posted as sharpshooters in the rigging of sailing ships. The officers then had fixed knotted rope to their headgear so the sharpshooters would not shoot them by mistake. Charley somewhat irreverently wondered if that now sacred tradition had come into existence after too many officer pricks had been popped "by mistake" by their men in the rigging.
"You should not have shot Lieutenant Smith in the head, Private Jones. You could see that he was an officer. He had rope on his hat."
How come, Charley wondered, only the officers wore rope loops? Why not all Marines? Or in those days, was it considered OK to shoot enlisted Marines by mistake?
Admiral Wagam's aide turned around on the front seat.
"Colonel, by any chance do you know Commander C.J. Greyson?"
"Yes, I do," Colonel Dawkins replied. "He was a classmate."
"Yes, Sir. I knew that. I didn't know if you knew Charley."
"Knew him well. We were both cheerleaders."
You were what? Cheerleaders? Jesus Siss Boom Bah! Go Navy!
"Charley's my brother, Sir."
"Oh, really?"