Wingmen (9781310207280) (24 page)

“Why?”

“You have to
get permission from the skipper. That’s why.”

“Really?” said
Jacobs, the wonder of discovery in his voice. “Is that right?”

“Would I lie to
you, Dave?” Fred dried his face and began to brush his teeth.

“Hey,” said
Dave, suddenly changing the subject, “did you really slug that
prick lieutenant on the quarter-deck the other night? That was sure
a—”

“No,” said Fred
loudly. “I didn’t slug anyone.”

“Was it one of
the jarheads that gave you the broken nose?”

“No. I fell
against the life line.” He hadn’t talked to Brogan since that
night. He felt a twinge of guilt. “You haven’t seen Brogan around,
have you?”

“He’s in his
rack. Been there almost full time since the Skipper confined you
guys. That was sure a rough thing to do.”

Fred wiped the
toothpaste from his chin and some shaving lather from one ear.
“That’s all right,” he said. “We can take it.”

“Geez,” said
Jacobs. “You guys are something else.” He got up from the bunk and
left the stateroom. Fred combed his oily hair, put on his shirt,
and went to find Brogan.

The party at
the Officer’s Club had been going full steam at an early hour. It
had begun at eleven with something called a Sunday brunch, a sort
of breakfast-luncheon, accompanied by lots of free booze. To Jack,
it was just another excuse to begin drinking early in the day. He
helped himself to goodly portions of food, mixed a weak
screwdriver, and retired to a table on the edge of the dance
floor—dancing before noon, he couldn’t believe it—to watch the rest
of the pilots enjoying themselves.

The girls had
been there first. They had set up chairs, put out aluminum trays of
steaming food, poured orange juice, and never stopped smiling. He
wasn’t sure just who was responsible for the party; it was CAG
perhaps, with one of the other air groups, in which case the
fighter pilots were lucky to be invited at all. Jack ate slowly and
drank sparingly. He wasn’t surprised when Higgins approached with a
loaded plate and what looked like a glass of straight bourbon or
scotch. He sat down beside Jack and pulled a chair around to prop
his feet up on.

“Food’s not bad
at all,” he said.

Jack thought
for a moment, then nodded in agreement.

“But some of
those girls. Whoever rounded them up ought to be taken out and
shot.” A four-piece combo arrived now and began setting up on the
small bandstand. A pair of sailors in working whites set up a
microphone with a long, trailing cord. The other pilots were
clustering around the buffet table or the bar and making
conversation with the girls. They were probably from the USO. Who
else would volunteer to host such an affair?

“Everyone says
we’re headed back to the ’Canal in the next few weeks,” said
Higgins.

“I wouldn’t
know,” said Jack. He finished his food and leaned back with his
screwdriver. And I don’t really care, he thought.

“But what I
hear,” said Higgins, around a mouthful of toast and eggs, “if you
can believe the news reports, is that they’ve finally wrapped it up
on the ’Canal and are moving up towards Rabaul. What are those
islands called, Shortlands?”

“Probably the
Russells. They’re closer to Guadalcanal.”

“Vella Lavella.
Kolombangara.”

“New
Georgia.”

“Kolombangara.
Who the hell thought up a name like that?” Duane stopped talking
and watched a pair of girls slowly cross the dance floor to sit at
a table near his and Jack’s table. The way they walked suggested
that they were tired, that they wanted to sit quietly by themselves
for a little while. Duane appraised them for several moments, then
turned to Jack. “What do you think? Take a chance?”

Jack didn’t
feel like picking up any girls. Quite honestly, all he wanted to do
was head back to the ship and try to catch up on the paperwork
while it was quiet and no one would bother him. But he wouldn’t
think of offending the Air Group Commander, whom he had just seen
come through the door with a tall blonde woman.

“Would you look
at that,” said Higgins. “Where do you suppose he digs them up?” The
tall blonde looked around hesitantly, then let Commander Jennings
lead her toward the tables. She was, by any standards, a looker.
Jack twisted around and looked at the two girls who had sat near
them. Neither could be called beautiful, but one of them had on a
sleeveless summer dress with thin straps that showed some of her
breasts and a lot of her back.

“On second
thought,” said Jack, jutting his thumb over his shoulder, “if you
make the introductions, I’ll take the brunette with the low
top.”

“Now you’re
talking,” said Higgins. He picked up his drink and headed for the
girls’ table. Jack watched Jennings and the tall blonde—bleached,
he was sure—take a table and begin eating.
No one
, thought Jack,
particularly the honorable air
group commander, will outdo Jack Hardigan
.

Fred found
Brogan where Jacobs said he would be: in the rack. He was facing
the bulkhead and was only partly covered up. Schuster was there,
too, sitting in a chair balanced perilously on two legs, reading a
magazine. Neither was speaking. Schuster looked up when Fred
entered.

“Hi, Trusty,
how’s it going?”

“Is he asleep?”
asked Fred, pointing to Brogan.

“Naw,” said
Schuster, flipping a page, tearing it. Brogan turned over, and the
single sheet that had covered the lower half of his body was pulled
away. Fred saw with a mild shock that Brogan was naked. He leaned
against a locker and tried not to look below Brogan’s shoulders,
but something about the man’s hairy body sent a sharp little bolt
of energy through him and made him feel tense.

“What do you
want, Trusty?” Brogan asked.

“Just wanted to
see how you were doing these days.”

“I’m doing
fine. Just fine.” But his tone of voice belied his assertion.

“You recovered
from the other night? You sound like you’re still hung over.”

“Ha,” said
Brogan. “Ain’t never had a fucking hangover.” He scratched himself
in a personal spot, but Fred didn’t look away from him.

“Well, what the
hell’re you just laying around for?” Fred asked. “The guys say you
haven’t been out of the rack in two days.”

“I’m trying to
lose weight,” said Brogan. He propped himself up on one elbow.
“Hey, Schute, you ugly son of a bitch, why don’t you get the hell
out of here. Getting so a man can’t get any goddamn privacy.”

Schuster tossed
the magazine to the deck in a fluttering heap. “Why don’t you take
a flying fuck?” he said, standing up.

“I tried it
once,” said Brogan, “but the broad thought the stick was the dick
and we nearly crashed.”

Schuster
laughed and ambled out of the compartment. Fred and the naked pilot
were alone.

“Come over
here,” said Brogan. He motioned at Fred to come up to his bunk, and
when he got there, grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled
him up close. “Look,” he said, “I haven’t apologized to a man more
than three times in my entire life, and that’s the Lord’s truth.
But I figure I got it coming this time since I got you screwed up
with me and that asshole Schute. So listen close, Trusty, ’cause I
won’t say it again. I’m sorry I got you into this fuckup with me.
Okay?” He turned Fred loose but Fred didn’t move.

“It wasn’t your
fault,” Fred said. “It was that prick lieutenant who had it in for
us.”

Brogan searched
Fred’s face, reached out, and playfully clipped the end of his
nose. “I didn’t break your schnozz, did I?”

Fred felt his
nose carefully. “It still works.” Then, surprised: “You remember
that?”

“Hell, I wasn’t
drunk. Two more minutes and I’d have had that jerk of an oh-oh-dee
and all four of them gyrenes punched out for good.”

“There were
only two,” said Fred.

“No shit?”
Brogan looked at Fred closely again. “You’re sure I didn’t hurt
you?”

“Don’t worry
about it,” said Fred.

Brogan thought
for a moment, not looking at him. “You’re all right,” he said,
finally.

“You need a
shave,” said Fred, “and how long’s it been since you brushed your
teeth?”

“You think my
breath’s bad,” said Brogan, “you should have smelled that whore’s
pussy. Like last week’s dead fish. Whooee,” he said, and rolled
onto his back. “That was something fucking else.”

Fred stepped
back so he could see all of Brogan at the same time. The man was
fascinating. “Look,” he said, “you get out of the rack and get
yourself put together, and I’ll let you teach me the finer points
of a real man’s game.”

“Acey-deucy?”

“No, dum-dum,
old maid.”

“You’re on,
pal.” Brogan rolled out of the bunk and rummaged around in a lower
drawer. Fred decided he liked Brogan better with his clothes on.
“If I teach you one-quarter of what I know about the game, you’ll
be a rich man inside a week.”

“Ready room?”
asked Fred.

Brogan sat on
the bunk and put on a pair of socks. “No, dum-dum, the captain’s
sea cabin.” Brogan laughed.

It wasn’t until
Fred had left the stateroom and was walking alone in the passageway
that he realized he had a hard-on.

Taking an early
liberty boat back to the
Ironsides
had been a good idea. There was no one
else on it from the
Constitution,
so no one would know, at least for
now, that Jack had abandoned a promising date with a good-looking
girl before the sun even set. She had seemed pleased, or maybe just
content, when Jack suggested they break it off early in the day;
she was a nurse at the Naval Hospital working the day shift six
days a week, and she said she could use the rest. Before getting
into the cab he had paid for, she had written down her address on a
paper napkin and given it to him, but he knew now that he probably
would never see or speak to her again.

The harbor
sparkled under the late afternoon sun. The gray ships that lined
the quays or clustered in anchored groups looked more asleep than
alive, but Jack knew that wartime manning procedures required every
ship to keep at least half the crew aboard even the smallest
vessel. He didn’t really think the Japanese would try another sneak
attack, but it was sound policy not to take any chances. Halfway
back to the ship, he spotted the emerging remains of the
Oklahoma
and
asked the coxswain if he could move in a little closer. The sailor
obligingly swung in until they were less than fifty yards away.

“You know,
sir,” he said, “they say there’s a couple of hundred men still
inside her.”

“I don’t doubt
it,” said Jack. He was fascinated by the salvage project, with the
cables and the oil boom and the winches on Ford Island, and the
great rotting carcass of the stricken ship. It appeared to be
upright now, but a closer look showed parts of the main deck still
under water. Small, oily waves broke around twisted stanchions and
lapped against the forward-most main turret. No one was working on
the ugly wreck at this time, and from the harbor side it looked
completely abandoned. As they passed down the ship’s port side,
Jack was surprised to see a small American flag flying from the
stern post. He wondered who had the unlucky duty of holding
reveille and taps on the old ship. Until now, the thought that she
might still be in commission had never occurred to him.