In Danger's Path (65 page)

“Somewhat, sir.”

“Goddamn you, you sniveling pup, don't waffle with me! Yes, goddamnit, or no?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you are doubtless aware, Mr. Pickering, that the Magna Carta is the basis of what we think of as English common law?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that when the Founding Fathers of this great republic of ours got around to writing the laws for it, they incorporated much of English Common law? Except that we pledge our allegiance to the flag of the United States and the country for which it stands, et cetera, et cetera, instead of to the English monarch. You do have that straight in your head, Mr. Pickering?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then possibly you are also aware that the duly elected officials of this great republic of ours, recognizing that the basic law provided for the ordinary citizens of this great republic of ours was not really adequate to govern its navy, came up with what we call the Regulations for the Governance of the Naval Service. You are familiar with that, Mr. Pickering?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you are aware that you, as a Marine, are subject to it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then perhaps you can tell me what the Regulations for the Governance of the Naval Service has to say about what you can do with the physiological symbol of your gender?”

“Sir?”

“Where you may insert your pecker, Mr. Pickering.”

“No, sir.”

“Are you trying to plead ignorance of the law, you miserable little prick?”

“No, sir.”

“Ignorance of the law is no defense, Mr. Pickering. You might wish to make note of that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It says—this is not a direct quote, but it's close enough—that anybody who has carnal knowledge of—sticks his pecker into—any woman to whom he is not lawfully joined in holy matrimony shall be punished as a court-martial may direct.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Were you aware of that, Mr. Pickering?”

“No, sir, I was not.”

“I am not surprised. Now, in addition to providing suitable punishment for someone who can't keep his pecker in his pocket, the Regulations for the Governance of the Naval Service makes special provision for those whom Congress has seen fit to declare officers and gentlemen. Are you aware of any of these provisions, Mr. Pickering?”

“No, sir.”

“I am not surprised. Let me enlighten you. The Regulations for the Governance of the Naval Service provide that any officer found guilty of conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman shall be punished as a court-martial may direct.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you really believe, Mr. Pickering, that doing a barrel roll over my airfield's control tower, endangering not only the lives of the fine sailors performing their duty therein, but also the valuable aircraft with which you had been entrusted, was conduct
becoming
an officer and a gentleman?”

“Sir, I didn't think about it in quite those terms.”

“Did you, for some perverse reason, think that handing the flight safety officer that bullshit about having all your attention on an oil-pressure warning light was conduct
becoming
an officer and a gentleman?”

“No, sir.”

“But you did believe that hiding your salami in this banker's lonely and probably sexually unsatisfied wife was in keeping with behavior of a Marine officer and gentleman? That you were, perhaps, performing some sort of public service? Keeping up morale on the home front?”

“No, sir.”

“You didn't think it was conduct becoming an officer? And a gentleman?”

“The truth, sir, is that I didn't give it much thought.”

“You may have guessed, Mr. Pickering, that I don't like you very much,” Admiral Ball said.

“Yes, sir.”

“One of the reasons I don't like you is because, in the short time I have been privileged to know him, it is apparent that your father is a fine Marine. Cast from the same mold as my old friend General McInerney. I would have had a fine time last night, celebrating the promotion of my old friend, and in the company of another fine Marine, if you hadn't been there, you miserable pimple on a Marine Corps PFC's ass.

“How, I asked myself, is it possible that a fine man, a fine Marine officer such as General Pickering, holder of the nation's second-highest decoration for valor—a man decorated for valor in both world wars, a Marine who has
shed blood
in both world wars, a man who enjoys the confidence of the Commander in Chief himself, can have spawned such a miserable, irresponsible, amoral, useless sonofabitch like you?”

He glowered at Lieutenant Pickering.

“Any comment, Mr. Pickering? How can this have happened?”

“No comment, sir.”

“May I hazard a guess what's running through that probably diseased mind of yours at this moment?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are thinking, I will bet ten dollars to a doughnut, something along these lines: ‘Doesn't this old bastard realize that I myself am something of a hero? I stand before him a veteran of Guadalcanal, a recipient of the Distinguished Flying Cross, a superb fighter pilot who has shot down seven enemy aircraft, and managed to shed a little of my own blood in the process.' Were you thinking something along those lines, Mr. Pickering?”

“Sir, I'm proud of my service with VMF-229,” Lieutenant Pickering said uncomfortably. “I like to think I did my duty on Guadalcanal, sir.”

“Let me tell you what I think of your service with VMF-229, Mr. Pickering,” Admiral Ball said. “First of all, God gave you more hand-eye coordination than he saw fit to give other people. Since you had nothing to do with that, you can't take pride in it. Your hand-eye coordination, from God, gives you the ability to fly airplanes better than most people. But you really shouldn't take pride in that. You are, of course, aware of the study, vis-à-vis pilots, conducted by the University of California?”

“No, sir,” Lieutenant Pickering said, confused.

“The behavioral scientists at the University of California, after extensive research, concluded that the best human material to train to be a pilot are classified intellectually as cretins. Do you know what a cretin is, Mr. Pickering?”

“No, sir.”

“A cretin is a high level moron,” Admiral Ball said. “Judging by your behavior outside the cockpit, it fits you to a T. So you went to Guadalcanal, God having made you a cretin, and the Marine Corps having seen fit to put you in a cockpit, and you got lucky. God, it is said, takes care of fools and drunks, and you obviously qualify for His special concern on both counts. You managed to shoot down seven of the enemy, and—to be fair about this—the enemy pilots were probably divided, say four and three, into the incompetent and the unlucky.

“And then you came home, Mr. Pickering, entrusted by the Marine Corps to train other Marine Aviators in the techniques of aerial combat. To train is to lead. How is the best way to lead, Mr. Pickering?”

“I'm not sure I understand the Admiral's question, sir.”

“The best way to train, Mr. Pickering, the best way to lead, is by example. You might make note of that, since it apparently never occurred to you before.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what sort of example did you set for the young Marines entrusted to your hands to lead, Mr. Pickering? You made it perfectly clear to the men entrusted to your care that the way to become a splendid Marine fighter pilot like you is to ignore any regulations you find it inconvenient to obey; to spend as much time as possible racing, over the speed limit, out of uniform, between bars; to endanger the lives of enlisted men by barrel-rolling over the base control tower; to lie through your teeth to flight safety officers and other officers; and finally, to hide your salami in the first married woman you could entice to raise her skirt, without one goddamned thought about the trouble this might cause for her, for her husband, for me, and for the United States Marine Corps, which for reasons I don't pretend to understand, thought you had the character of an officer and a gentleman, and gave you a commission.”

Admiral Ball met Lieutenant Pickering's eyes for a full sixty seconds, which seemed to be much longer.

“Would you say, Mr. Pickering, that the foregoing was an accurate assessment of the situation?”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Pickering said. “Sir—”

Admiral Ball raised his hand to silence him. “I have several options open to me,” Admiral Ball said. “One of which, I am sure, you devious sonofabitch, has already occurred to you.”

“Sir?”

“The Marine Corps has been sending some of its misfit aviators—fuckups of your ilk, Mr. Pickering—to a squadron based in Hawaii. There is a shortage of fighter pilots in the Pacific, Mr. Pickering, and the reasoning is that it is better to try to salvage these ne'er-do-wells, these disgraces to the uniform, and utilize their flying skills, rather than send them to the Portsmouth Naval Prison. Wiseass that you are, I am confident that you are thinking, ‘Fine, let the old bastard send me to VMF-229. Charley Galloway is the skipper, and he appreciates what a fine fellow and all-around splendid aviator I am.' Did that thought occur to you, Mr. Pickering?”

“Sir, if I could be transferred to VMF-229…”

“Transferring you to VMF-229 is not one of the options available to me, you miserable sonofabitch. I know Charley Galloway, too. I have known him for years, I think what the Marine Corps is doing to him is disgraceful, and I am not going to add to his burden by sending him a miserable excuse for a human being like you to baby-sit.”

He let that sink in.

“Neither am I going to take you off flight status and send you to Quantico for retraining as an infantry officer. For that matter, as a platoon leader in a mess-kit repair company. You are not fit to command men.

“That leaves me with very few other options. One of them is to offer you the chance to resign for the good of the service, which would make you immediately available for the draft. Unfortunately, you might be drafted back into the Marine Corps as a private, or, God forbid, into the U.S. Navy as an apprentice seaman, and I wouldn't want that on my conscience.

“Similarly, while six months or a year in the Portsmouth Naval Prison—I believe the penalty for unlawful carnal knowledge is five years at hard labor, but I have been told that prisoners are being released early—might give you an opportunity to ruminate on your behavior, I am reluctant to do that, too. The idea of you sitting in a warm cell, eating three hot meals a day while good and decent men are being sent in harm's way, offends my sense of right and wrong.

“Furthermore, if I send you off in irons to Portsmouth, your father would be distressed. And probably General McInerney, too—why he likes you is a deep mystery to me. Your father would be ashamed and humiliated. As I said, I like your father.”

Admiral Ball let this sink in a moment.

“Going back to my observation that God takes care of fools and drunks like you, and what I said about there being a shortage of pilots, there is one other option available to me.”

“Yes, sir?”

“General McInerney has a requirement for twin-engine, R4-D or PBY-5A, aviators. He was not at liberty to divulge the nature of the operation, except to say that it was somewhere in the Pacific and involves an unusual degree of risk to the participants.”

“I have some R4-D time, sir.”

“So I understand,” Admiral Ball said. “But no PBY-5A time, as I understand it?”

“No, sir.”

“My problem in offering you the chance to volunteer for General McInerney's operation—glossing over, for the moment, your manifold character weaknesses—is that if I send you, you might be more trouble to the people involved than you would be worth. This mission does not need fuckups, Mr. Pickering, and you have proved yourself to be a world-class fuckup.”

“Sir, am I being offered the chance to volunteer for this mission?”

“I'll have to give that some serious thought,” Admiral Ball said. “Right now, on a scale of one to ten, your chances that I will are hovering around two. If you're looking for advice, what I would do in your shoes is get a copy of the Regulations for the Governance of the Naval Service and see what you can learn about defending yourself in a court-martial.”

“Sir, I'll do anything to keep flying.”

“Marine officers don't beg,” Admiral Ball said. “God, you are a disgusting specimen of a human being!”

Admiral Ball pushed the lever on his intercom.

“Send the guard detail in here,” he ordered. “And if my aide is out there, send him in, too.”

The Marine guards marched into the room.

“Take the prisoner to his quarters,” Admiral Ball ordered. “Post a guard outside his door. Arrange for his meals to be brought to him from the enlisted mess. See that he's provided with a copy of the Regulations for the Governance of the Naval Service.”