“Don’t say I never gave you anything,” Pickering said.
The package was heavier than it looked; Dunn almost dropped it.
“Bribery of superior officers is encouraged,” Dunn said. “What is it?”
“Royal Australian Air Force Rompers and booze,” Pickering said.
“From Port Moresby.”
Dunn took a K-Bar knife from a sheath and slit the cord. Then he carefully removed a pair of quart bottles of Johnny Walker scotch from the two cotton flying suits they were wrapped in and put them in the Japanese shipping crate that served as his bedside table.
“Thanks, Pick,” Dunn said.
“I figured even an unreconstructed Rebel like you would rather drink scotch than not drink at all,” Pick said.
“Kicking the gift horse right in the teeth, what I really need is underpants,” Dunn said. “I don’t suppose there’s…”
“Shit, I didn’t even think of skivvies,” Pickering said. “When I saw the booze and the flight suits…”
“All contributions gratefully received,” Dunn said. He proved it by stripping out of the sweat-soaked flight suit he was wearing; and then, standing naked except for his held-together-with-a-safety-pin shorts, he began tearing off the labels from one of the flying suits.
He looked at Pickering.
“So tell me all about the great secret mission.”
“Not much to tell. It went like clockwork.”
“Where did you learn to fly an R4D?”
“On the way to New Guinea,” Pick replied.
Dunn looked at him curiously, then saw he was serious.
“Then how come… ?”
“I was about to go over the edge,” Pick said. “Galloway saw it and took me along, just to work the radios, to get me out of here.”
“Because of Dick Stecker?” Dunn asked quietly.
“I was about to turn in my wings of gold for a rifle,” Pick said.
“Same thing happened yesterday as happened to Dick. Or nearly the same thing. Ted Knowles ran out of gas and crashed. Did you get to meet him before you left?”
Pickering shook his head, no.
“He was making a dead-stick approach. According to Oblensky, he tried to stretch his glide and didn’t make it. He rolled it end over end. When I went to see him, all you could see was gauze.”
“Did he come through it?”
Dunn shook his head, no. “Nice guy. My fault. I didn’t check the flight about remaining fuel, and he didn’t want to look like he was anything less than a heroic Marine Aviator, so he tried to fly it on the fumes.”
“That’s not your fault,” Pickering said.
“So Colonel Dawkins says,” Dunn said as he started pulling on the new flight suit. “Personally, your notion about turning in the wings for a rifle seems tempting.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I don’t know if I do or not,” Dunn said. “Galloway talked you out of it?”
“No. I talked myself out of it. I’d make a lousy platoon leader. And so would you. But we do know how to fly airplanes. Ye old round pegs in ye olde round holes, so to speak.”
Dunn zipped the zipper of the new flying suit up and down, and admired himself.
“Thanks, Pick,” he said, and started to transfer the contents of the discarded flying suit into the new one.
Captain Charles M. Galloway entered the tent. He saw Dunn’s new RAAF flight suit.
“Where’d you get that?”
“They had many too many flight suits at Moresby,” Pickering said. “They probably won’t even miss the ones I stole.”
“And what if you have to go back there?”
“What if I don’t?” Pickering replied.
Galloway shook his head in resignation.
“Oblensky redlined the R4D for a fuel-transfer pump,” Galloway said. “They’re going to have to fly it up from Espiritu Santo. It’ll be tomorrow before your pal The Killer and his friends can leave, in other words.”
“His pal ‘The Killer’?” Dunn said. “That sounds interesting.”
“He’s a very interesting guy, as a matter of fact,” Galloway said, and then looked directly at Pickering. “You feel up to flying?” he asked. When there was no immediate response, he went on: “The Skipper wants a search of the Southeast.”
“And you volunteered me?”
“I volunteered me,” Galloway said. “You want to go along with me? Or do you want to go to Espiritu Santo?”