Part 69 (1/2)
”I had three steam engines painted on the fuselage of my Corsair,” Pick went on, ”under the impressive row of j.a.panese meatb.a.l.l.s from War Two. I even wrote the Air Force asking if they had a record of how many steam engines had been shot up in War Two, and if so, by who, to see who and what I was competing against.”
”Jesus!” Dawkins said.
”Billy, of course, thought this was bulls.h.i.+t, dangerous bulls.h.i.+t, and told me to stop. And of course I ignored him, a senior officer. Proving his point that I have never understood that I am a Marine officer.”
”What happened when you went in?”
”You mean, what put me on the ground?”
Dawkins nodded.
”I made a run at a train,” Pick said. ”Came in over the end of it, right on the deck, and worked my fire up the length of it. Sometimes, if there's gas on the train, you can set it off with tracer rounds; we were loading one tracer in five rounds. I don't remember any gasoline explosion, but I saw the locomotive go up just before I pa.s.sed over it and began my pull up. Immediately, large and small parts of the locomotive punctured my beautiful Corsair in Lord knows how many places. I lost power, hydraulics, et cetera, et cetera. There was a rather large rice paddy convenient, so I set it down, got out, and got maybe one hundred yards away- maybe a little farther-before it caught on fire and blew up. The landing wasn't really all that bad. I dumped a Corsair on Tinian just before the war was over-couldn't get the right gear down-that was really a h.e.l.l of a lot worse.”
The door opened and Captain McGowan returned with three china cups of coffee.
”Be careful,” he said. ”It's hotter than h.e.l.l.”
”Thank you, Art,” Dawkins said, then turned back to Pick. ”Were you on fire?”
”No, sir.”
”I thought maybe the antiaircraft, tracers, or exploding sh.e.l.ls might have got you.”
”No, sir. No ack-ack.”
”And you're sure you weren't on fire?”
”Yes, sir.”
”How badly were you hurt in the crash?”
”Not at all, sir.”
”How close did you come to the village?”
”Sir?”
”Was there a village where you went in?”
”No, sir.”
”Give me the citation, Art,” Dawkins ordered. McGowan went into his tunic pocket and came out with an envelope. Dawkins took a sheet of paper from it and read it.
”Where were the Marines-the grunts-when all this happened?” Dawkins asked.
”I was nowhere near the lines, sir. I guess I was four, maybe five miles into enemy territory.”
”And the weather? What was the weather like?”
”It was good weather, sir.”
”Just about everything you have told me, Major Pickering, ” Dawkins said, ”is inconsistent with this.”
”What is that, sir?”
”It's the citation to accompany your Navy Cross,” Dawkins said, meeting his eyes.
”What Navy Cross, sir?” Pick asked, visibly confused.
”The one the President is going to pin on you,” Dawkins said. ”Or if he can't fit you into his busy schedule, and the commandant is similarly occupied, and the commanding general of Camp Pendleton can't make it, I will pin on you.”
”May I see that, sir?”
Dawkins handed it to him, and Pick read it.
As he did, he shook his head and several times muttered an obscenity.
”This is somebody else's citation,” he said, finally, as he handed the sheet of paper back to Dawkins. ”It has to be. The weather-I told you-was good. Ceiling and visibility were unlimited. I was not flying close support for the grunts. There was no antiaircraft. I was not on fire, and if there was a village or a school, I didn't see either. Jesus, what a f.u.c.kup!”
”I don't think there's more than one Major Malcolm S. Pickering in the Corps, Pick, and that's the name on the citation, ” Dawkins said.
”General, that's not my citation. I did nothing to deserve any kind of a medal. I probably should have been court-martialed for what I was doing.”
”I'll look into this,” Dawkins said. ”In the meantime- this is an order, Pick-I don't want you saying anything to anybody about this.”
”Aye, aye, sir,” Pick said. ”If that got out, the Corps would look pretty G.o.dd.a.m.n stupid.”
”The order to give you the Navy Cross, I am reliably informed, came from the President, personally,” Dawkins said. ”Anything to say about that?”
”Only that I really don't understand any of this, sir,” Pick said.
”Okay. I'll look into it and get back to you,” Dawkins said. He smiled at Pick. ”This Chinese fire drill aside, I'm really glad that you made it back, Pick. You were gone so long that we were all really getting worried.”
”Thank you, sir.”
”As soon as they'll let you, my wife wants you to come out to the base for dinner.”
”I accept, thank you. I'm not entirely sure about you, sir, but I'm sure Mrs. Dawkins qualifies.”
”Qualifies for what?”
”When they give me a pa.s.s out of this place, it has to be in the company of a responsible person.”
Dawkins looked at him a moment, shaking his head as if in disbelief.
”Captain McGowan,” he said. ”We have just had proof that this officer belongs in the Neuro-Psychiatric Ward. No sane Marine major would say such a thing to a very senior officer such as myself. Even if he did on more than one occasion save my tail while we were off winning World War Two all by ourselves.”
”Yes, sir,” Captain McGowan said.
”You understood, Pick, that it was an order you are not to mention this Navy Cross business to anyone, right?”