the far wall. Love? Jake could almost hear the story being told in the chiefs’ mess: “And then he asked, ‘D you love her?”‘ Slightly embarrassed, the pilot returned to the issue at hand.
“I’ll sign this chit, Hardesty, but let me tell it to you straight. By marrying without permission you violated a general regulation. The Skipper may decide to take disciplinary action against you.”
“Sir, I didn’t know nothing about any regulation. The sailor set his jaw focused on Jake’s nametag “You’re responsible for knowing the regulations, though, and if you disobey them you’re subject to discipline. But that’s neither here nor there. I expect to see a certified copy of the marriage license when we pull out of port or you’re going to be in hot water failing to support your lawful dependents. You realize that you are legally and morally obligated to support this woman now that you’ve married her?”
“Yessir. I understand that. I’ll get a copy of the license.” The lieutenant signed the chit and told Hardesty to take it down to Personnel.
Hardesty thanked him and left.
Grafton stood up to leave. “If he thinks he can marry one of these women and get laid every night in port,” he told the chief, “then wave a permanent good-by when we go back to the States, he has another think coming.”
The chief shrugged. “He’s just a kid,” he said.
“What a mess.” The officer went up to the ready room to tell the skipper.
“What do you want to do, Jake?” Camparelli asked “Captain’s Mast?” Routine discipline problems were handled by the commanding officer in periodic formal hearings, which had been known as “Captain’s Mast” since the days when the captain dispensed justice before the main mast on a sailing ship.
“No, sir. I’d just as soon forget the discipline end of it, give him his leave, and ensure he does right by her.”
“Okay. Hope it all works out. By the way, pull up a chair, Jake.” The pilot complied. “I hope you understand about the shenanigans in the ready room this evening?”
“Yessir.”
“It was no disrespect for Morgan. But we have to keep morale up or this outfit can’t fight.” The skipper eyed him. “You do understand?”
“I understand, sir.”
“I doubt if most civilians would. But this was Morgan’s profession. We have to keep going regardless of who gets bagged. In fact, losing people makes it all the more essential that we let off some steam.” He shifted his weight in the chair. “You see, the aircrews are the weapons, not the planes.”
Jake nodded.
“Okay. Just wanted to be sure you understood.”
Back in his stateroom Jake worked on the evaluations. When he had them finished it was almost 0100. He went up to the forward wardroom on the 0-3 level, right under the flight deck, for a hamburger. Abe Steiger was sitting by himself. “Hey, Jake. Drop anchor.” The air intelligence officer had a book opened beside his plate.
“Hi, Spy. How’s it going?” The Pilot slid into a chair.
As he bit into his burger he looked at the book.
“Jake, we got a bomb-damage assessment on that hop you flew yesterday down south with the Skipper.”
Abe grinned.
“Yeah?” Jake lifted the book and read the title.
Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. He had read it in college.
“Yep- Let me tell you, you did one hell of a job on those gomers, baby. You got confirmed forty-seven killed in action.”
Jake put down the book. “Forty-seven?” he whispered.
“Yep. Forty-seven KIA.” Abe grinned again.
“You really plastered them. That’s our best single-mission damage assessment this cruise. Probably a Navy Commendation Medal in there for you, Jake. Maybe even an Air Medal.”
“Why, you greasy little asshole!” Steiger wore a broad grin. Jake felt his stomach churn. “You shit, What the hell did you tell me something like that for?
“You think I need to know that?” He was shouting. “Do you know their names? Tell me that! I’ll bet you have the names!”
“Well, I just thought you’d want to know.”
“Why the fuck would I want to know? Now I’m the poor shit who has to live with it.”
“I didn’t mean-“
“And a fucking medal! You think I give a shit about a fucking medal? What the hell kind of guy do you think I am? Do you think I’m some idiot glory hound?”
He was spraying saliva. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“A fucking medal to wear on my uniform so every time I put it on I’ll remember I killed forty-seven men! Yeah, I need that, you stupid bastard. I need a medal like that. Now why don’t you get the hell out of here and run down and write the report up. Go tell Lundeen. He writes up shit like that for Wilson.
Go to him!” He lunged across the table trying to get his hands on Steiger, who jumped up and back so quickly his chair fell over.
“Get outta here, Steiger! Go tell him!”
The intelligence officer strode out quickly. Jake glared at the audience he had attracted. They turned their faces, and Jake sat down, breathing hard, and stared at his coffee cup. What does Steiger know about flying? What does Steiger know about killing? Jesus Christ!
EIGHT
In their white uniforms, the men in ranks were in a crescent in the morning sunlight. A modest breeze ruffled the flags and pennants flying from the mast on the ship’s island. Jake Grafton sat behind the podium in the chairs reserved for the officers of the A-6 squadron. He kept his gaze on the ever-changing points of light on the swells of the South China Sea.
How did they know there were forty-seven men? Why not forty-six, or forty-eight? What did they count to get forty-seven? Noses, tongues, penises? What could be left after four tons of high explosive shrapnel had ripped and pulverized human bodies and had welded together flesh and earth?
When he had been in flight training, Jake had been assigned to an accident-investigation team. Walking in rows through a pasture in Mississippi, they had searched for the pieces of a training plane that had slammed into the ground at more than 400 knots.
The engines had dug long furrows, but the rest of the machine had disintegrated and scattered parts over a third of a mile. He had found a little patch of skin, a piece about the size of a quarter, which he had carefully placed in a transparent bag. It had been just a little piece of a man, from somewhere on his body-no telling where-lying there in the grass. A crash would be a good way to die. The two guys in that training plane were gone in less time than it takes for a single sensation to register on the brain. Maybe dying under the bombs had been fast like that. Morgan hadn’t been that lucky.
When they came off target, he had made that turn for the coast. Morgan had reset the armament panel and was working on the computer. If only…
“Time to go, Jake.” Sammy was standing beside him.
Everyone was leaving.
Morgan hadn’t been lucky at all.
That evening Harvey Wilson called Jake to his stateroom and handed the pilot the evaluations on Jones and Hardesty. “These aren’t good enough, Grafton. You must’ve spent four years trying to pass freshman English. I want them redone before you fly off the ship in the morning.”
“Yessir.”
“You just don’t know how to do paperwork, Grafton. You should talk to your roommate Lundeen. The awards stuff he writes is outstanding. Have him give you some tips.” Wilson leaned back in his chair. He had a stateroom to
