“Whatever you say, Sir,” Pickering said.
“Mr. Dunn,” Carstairs said, “Mr. Larsen has informed me that he would consider it a privilege if you were to permit him to drive your personal automobile to Corey Field. I told him I felt sure you would grant him that privilege.”
Well, that explains what the kid is doing here; Carstairs wants us in the staff car with him.
“Sure,” Dunn said, and then had a second thought. “Can you drive an automatic shift? That’s my mother’s car, all the new gadgets.”
Larsen’s face fell.
“Sir, no, Sir, I never drove a car with an automatic shift, Sir.”
“Show him how, Dunn,” Carstairs ordered.
“You just put it in ‘R’ for ‘Race’ and step on the gas,” Pick offered helpfully.
“God, you must really want to be a basic flight instructor, Mr. Pickering,” Carstairs said.
“I’d forgotten about that,” Pick said. “I am now on my very best behavior.”
“You’d better be, when we get over there,” Carstairs said.
“OK,” Pick said.
“I had dinner with Martha last night. She was disgustingly pleased to hear that you were safely home. I think she expects you to call her. Have you?”
“No. I told you. She’s made herself pretty clear about how she feels about me. I don’t see any point in calling her.”
“Suit yourself, Pick,” Carstairs said.
Dunn came back.
“He can handle the car all right,” he said. “When it works, any idiot can do it.”
“When it works?”
“It broke when my mother was driving over the causeway to Mobile; just refused to move another inch. It’s supposed to have been fixed.”
“Well, he’ll be following us,” Carstairs said. “It shouldn’t be a problem. You ride in the front, Pickering. Dunn and I will ride in the back.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
[FIVE]
Corey Field
Escambia County, Florida
0820 Hours 2 November 1942
Because he had a good view from the front seat of the car, Pickering saw the four Grumman F4F4 Wildcats almost from the moment the Plymouth passed inside the gate.
And he instantly understood what they were doing there. They were props in a bullshit session. He had gone through much the same thing himself, once upon a time. Aviation cadets (or in his and Dick Stecker’s case, student officers) were gathered someplace shortly after reporting aboard, and a couple of fighters or dive-bombers were flown in from someplace and put on display: This is what you will be privileged to fly if you work ever so hard and shine your shoes properly and don’t kill yourself in a Yellow Peril learning how.
He was surprised that the Plymouth headed in the direction of the Wildcats. Two of them were parked nose to nose, in front of bleachers… as though they were on a stage, or were part of a classroom display. The other two were parked to one side, on the grass between the ramp and a runway. As they drove closer, he saw that the bleachers were full of Naval Aviation cadets. Some of these were in flight suits, and some were in their sailor suits. There were only a few Marines.
Of course there’s only a few Marines, stupid! We ‘re always outnumbered at least ten to one by the goddamned Navy. I wonder what the hell is going on here. There’s an admiral’s flag, and a staff car to go with it, and I’ll be damned, a little tent. I’ll bet they put up the tent so the Admiral can take a piss without having to walk a hundred yards. It must be a graduation ceremony or something.
The Plymouth headed right for the other staff car and pulled up beside it.
What the hell is this?
“Out, gentlemen,” Carstairs ordered from the rear seat.
The door of the Plymouth beside them was opened by a white hat. An admiral stepped out, and then Colonel Porter got out the other side.
Captain Carstairs saluted.
“Good morning, Admiral,” he said. “May I present, Sir, Lieutenant William C. Dunn and Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering?”
“Lieutenant Dunn, I consider it an honor to make your acquaintance,” Rear Admiral Richard B. Sayre, USN, said, offering his hand. Then he turned to Lieutenant Pickering and put his arm around his shoulder as he shook his hand.