"Thank you, Admiral," Carlos beamed.
"... that senior officers rarely get the appreciation they should," Admiral Wagam went on, "for-how should I put this?-tempering the enthusiasm of the young men for whom they are responsible?"
"Yes, Sir," Dawkins beamed. "I was just this afternoon having a conversation with Captain Galloway about his excessive enthusiasm for flying."
"At the expense of his duties as commanding officer, you mean?"
"No, Sir. I can't fault Captain Galloway's command. What I was trying to do was point out that all work and no play makes good squadron commanders lousy squadron commanders."
The Admiral grunted. "There was a study, a couple of years back, Medical Corps did it on the quiet. They found out that a newly appointed destroyer captain on his first voyage as skipper averaged five point three hours sleep at night. A man, especially an officer in command, can't function without a decent night's sleep. There's such a thing as too much devotion to duty, Galloway. You listen to Colonel Dawkins."
"Yes, Sir."
"That sleep requirement apparently doesn't apply to aides, Admiral?" Lieutenant (j.g.) Greyson asked.
"Aides have very little to do," the Admiral replied. "They can get their necessary sleep while standing around with their mouths shut." He put his arm around Greyson's shoulders. "I learned that from a distinguished sailor, Mr. Greyson. Your father. I was his aide when he told me that."
A second messboy appeared in the door to the dining room.
"Excuse me," he said. "Admiral, dinner is served."
"Hold it just a moment, Enrique," Admiral Wagam said. "I need another one of Carlos's martinis."
Charley glanced at Dawkins. Dawkins, just barely perceptibly, shrugged his shoulders, signifying that he had no idea what the hell this was all about, either.
The admiral passed out four fresh martinis.
"Let me offer another toast," he said. "Prefacing it with the observation that, obviously, it is not for dissemination outside this room. To the officers and men of VMF-229, who will sail from Pearl Harbor aboard the escort carrier Long Island two August. May God give you a smooth voyage and good hunting."
"Hear, hear," Colonel Dawkins and Lieutenant (j.g.) Greyson said, almost in unison.
"Thank you," Charley said.
"Although I am afraid he sometimes qualifies as one of the foolish, overly enthusiastic young men we were talking about a moment ago, my nephew tells me that VMF-229 is the best fighter squadron in Marine Aviation. Do you think I should believe him, Captain?"
"Sometimes even foolish young men have it right, Admiral," Charley said.
"Is that another example of that famous Marine modesty, Captain?" Admiral Wagam asked, as he put his hand on Charley's arm and led him into the dining room.
"A simple statement of facts, Sir," Charley said.
The admiral took his seat at the head of the table and pointed to the chair where Charley was to sit. Dawkins went to the far end of the table. Greyson sat across from Charley.
"I'm a little surprised you haven't asked where you're going," Admiral Wagam said.
"Sir, I thought that would be classified," Charley said.
"It is, of course," Wagam said. "And I suppose that disqualifies you as a foolish young man. Only a foolish young man would ask, right?"
"Yes, Sir."
"But let me put you on the spot, Galloway. Where do you think you'll be going? What's the scuttlebutt?"
Wagam saw Galloway's discomfiture.
"I will neither confirm nor deny, Galloway. But sometimes it is of value to know what people think, what they are guessing."
Galloway looked at Dawkins for help. Dawkins shrugged again, barely perceptibly. Galloway interpreted this to mean, "Tell him what you think."
"Sir, I think that once the 1st Marine Division has secured the airfield on Guadalcanal, we'll be flown off the Long Island onto the island."
Admiral Wagam audibly sucked in his breath.
"And when does the scuttlebutt have it that the 1st Marines are going to invade, what did you say, Guadalcanal?"
"Yes, Sir. Guadalcanal. Shortly after the first of the month, Sir."
"Goddamn it, I'd love to know where you got that!" Admiral Wagam exclaimed, and then immediately regained control of himself. He held out his hand in a stop gesture. "If you were about to answer me, belay it. We will now change the subject."
"Yes, Sir," Charley said, and put a fork to the shrimp cocktail the messboy had set in front of him.
There was no question in his mind now that Big Steve's scuttlebutt, and his own studied guesses, were right on the mark. VMF-229 was going to Guadalcanal to operate off a captured Japanese airfield. Presuming, of course, that the 1st Marine Division could capture it.
"You're a bachelor, I understand, Galloway," the admiral said.
"Yes, Sir."
"In wartime, there are a number of advantages to being a bachelor," the admiral said.
"And in peacetime, there are a number of advantages to being a bachelor," Dawkins said.
The admiral gave him a frosty look.
"Spoken like a longtime married man, Colonel," he said. "I share that opinion, to a degree. But what I had in mind was that a bachelor can devote his full attention to his duties, where a married man is always concerned with the welfare of his family. Wouldn't you agree?"
"Yes, Sir. I take your point."
"But what you said just made me think of something else," the admiral said. "My wife would probably kill me if she heard me say this, but I would say-how can I phrase this delicately?-Would you agree, Colonel, that the pain of separation from one's wife is less for people like you and me, who have been married for a long time, than it would be for someone who has recently married and then is almost immediately separated from his bride?"
"Yes, Sir. I agree. And I think you phrased that very delicately, Admiral."
"Yes," the admiral agreed.
The messboys appeared, removed the silver shrimp cocktail bowls, and served the roast beef, roasted potatoes, and broccoli with hollandaise. A bottle of wine was introduced, opened, sipped by the admiral, and then poured.
The admiral raised his glass.