All good Marine officers have contempt for such officers. But in Jake Dillon's case, the contempt was magnified by his own experience with chickenshit officers. He had far more time in The Corps as a sergeant than he did as a field-grade officer and gentleman.
If you make a pass at Barbara, I'll break your other fucking leg. Why did I tell this sonofabitch it was all right to sit down?
As a matter of fact, if you make a pass at either one, I'll break your other fucking leg.
"May I ask, Sir," Macklin said, "if you're a fellow patient?"
"Just passing through," Dillon said.
"On your way to Guadalcanal?"
"No," Dillon said.
"We had press people with us," Macklin said. He raised his stiff leg. "That's where I caught this. I went in with the first wave of parachutists when we hit the beach at Gavutu."
"Then we went in at about the same time," Dillon said, wearing a patently insincere smile. "I went in to Tulagi with Jack Stecker's 2nd Battalion of the Fifth."
"Really?" Barbara Cotter asked. It was the first time Jake had said anything about what he had done at Guadalcanal.
Without thinking about it, she'd decided that as a press agent, Jake had gone in after the beach had been secured.
"Jack Stecker and I were sergeants in the Fourth," Dillon said. "He let me tag along."
That's not surprising, Barbara thought.
Jake was like Joe Howard. Both were Marine Mustangs (officers commissioned from the ranks); she knew the type.
They felt somehow cheated if they weren't where the fighting was. This was admirable, unless of course you were in love with one of them, in which case they were damned fools.
Barbara hadn't believed a word Dillon told her about Joe Howard being all right. What she didn't already know, or guess, about the Coast watchers and Joe's chances of survival, she had learned from Yeoman Daphne Farnsworth, Royal Australian Navy Women's Volunteer Reserve. Daphne not only worked with the Coast watchers, she had become involved with Sergeant Steve Koffler before the two Marines parachuted onto Buka.
"What happened to you, Ward?" Macklin asked, obviously not wanting to swap war stories with Dillon.
"I thought the guy said `stand up,"' Jim Ward said. "What he said was `shut up."
"He got hurt flying out of Henderson with VMF-229. With Charley Galloway," Dillon said. "You remember Charley, don't you, Macklin?"
"No, Sir," Macklin said, searching his memory.
Jim Ward not only remembered Lieutenant Macklin from Lakehurst; he'd picked up on Dillon's contempt; and was just as annoyed as Dillon with Macklin's raised-leg, look-at-me-the-hero attitude.
"Sure, you do," Ward said. "He was our instructor pilot on the Gooneybird. Tech Sergeant Galloway?"
yes, of course." Captain Galloway, now," Jim Ward added. "My squadron commander."
"Really?" Macklin asked.
From the look on Macklin's face, Ward saw that he had struck home. Nothing else he could have said would so annoy a Regular Marine officer with a commission from Annapolis than to be told that a technical sergeant he had tried to push around now outranked him as an officer and a gentleman.
Meanwhile, Lieutenant Richard B. Macklin might not have been a prince among men, or even a very decent human being, but he was no fool. He saw that his high hopes to get to know one of the nurses, perhaps even carnally, were not going to come to fruition.
Although Dillon had claimed that the blonde with the big boobs was taken, she kept looking at Dillon with something like affection. And the other one kept stealing looks at the aviator.
He had been done in, he realized, by the natural tendency of female officers to be attracted to field-grade officers and/or aviators. He didn't understand this-as far as he was concerned, it took far more courage to jump out of an airplane than it did to fly one-but that was unfortunately the way things were.
"How long are you going to look like that?" Dillon asked Ward.
"I beg your pardon?"
Joanne Miller understood the question.
"He ought to look more or less human in a week or ten days; at least the black-and-blue will have gone away," she said.
"The ribs will take six weeks or so to heal."
"I can fly now," Ward said. "I didn't want to come here and they shouldn't have sent me."
That's not bullshit intended to impress the girls and me, Jake decided. This kid is a Marine.
"Where are you from, Ward?"
"Philadelphia. Or just outside. Jenkintown."
"Right. Where Charley's girlfriend is from, right?"
"She's my aunt," Jim Ward said.
"What about you, Macklin? Where are you from?"
"California, Sir. Near San Diego."
"Where'd you go to school?"
"The Naval Academy, Sir."
Jake Dillon Productions, Jake thought, has just completed final casting of his epic motion picture, or at least newsreel feature epic, Wounded Marine Heroes of 1942.
But I won't tell either of them just yet. Ward will be genuinely pissed when he hears what I'm going to do to him. And I suspect that Macklin will be so pleased I'm taking him out of harm's way that he'll piss his pants.
He remembered a story going around the aid stations on Gavutu and Tulagi about the 2nd Parachute Battalion officer who'd taken a minor flesh wound to his calf and had to be pried, screaming and hysterical, from a piling on the seaplane wharf where he had been hit.
There was absolutely no question in Jake's mind that that officer was now sitting at his table.
Chapter Seven
[One]