It hurt, but he didn’t feel much real pain.
He found himself staring up into the face of a rough-hewn Navy Corpsman, who looked far younger than Clete imagined from hearing his voice.
The Corpsman was manipulating his left arm.
“Any pain?”
“It feels like it’s asleep.”
The Corpsman pinched his upper arm painfully.
“Hey!”
“How about here?” The Corpsman chuckled, and painfully pinched the skin on the back of his hand.
Clete said, “Shit.”
“It looks like you had a good landing, Lieutenant,” the Corpsman said.
“What?” Clete asked incredulously.
“I thought you guys say any landing you can walk away from is a good one.”
“I didn’t walk away,” Clete argued. “Somebody dragged me.”
“Close enough,” the Corpsman said. “What we’re going to do now is put you on a stretcher, haul you to the hospital, and let a doctor have a look at you.”
Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins, USMC, walked up to the hospital bed of First Lieutenant Cletus H. Frade, USMCR. Dawkins was commanding officer of Marine Air Group 21. He was a tall, thin, sharp-featured man in the middle stage of male-pattern baldness, and he was wearing khakis, sweat-stained at the armpits and down the back. Over his arm he carried a Suit, Flying, Cotton, Tropical; a T-shirt; and a pair of skivvy shorts.
“I have been led to believe, Lieutenant Frade,” he said, handing Clete the clothing, “that you have once again disgraced the United Marine Corps. I am here to rectify that situation.”
This was intended as a joke, but was not received that way. Frade’s face showed embarrassment, even humiliation.
“Clete, for Christ’s sake, that was a joke,” Dawkins went on hastily. “Believe me, you are not the first aviator who…had a small bowel problem…going through something like you just went through. Including your beloved MAG commander.”
“I used to think that ‘shitting your pants’ was just a figure of speech,” Clete said.
“Now you know it’s not,” Dawkins said. “I’m just surprised this was your first time.”
“Sorry about the airplane, Skipper,” Clete said, wanting to get off the subject.
“What happened?”
“It veered to the right on touchdown. I probably had a flat; I don’t think the strut collapsed.”
“Feinberg told me he saw you taking hits from the tail gunner of the Betty…” Dawkins said, referring to a Japanese bomber aircraft.
Feinberg? Who the hell is Feinberg? Oh, the New Guy.
“…just before her wing came off,” Dawkins went on. “How many does that make, Clete?”
“I thought I felt something,” Clete said, sitting up on the cot to demonstrate with his hands the relative positions of the aircraft. “I took her from above and to the left, and was pulling up…”
He was naked under the sheet, and Dawkins noticed the ulcerated insect bites and the ugly blue-black of his left arm and shoulder.
He must have really slammed into the side of the cockpit, Dawkins thought. I’m surprised nothing was broken.
“How many does that make, Clete?” Dawkins asked again.