"Jesus H. Christ!" Ellis said.
"I guess he didn't have a family."
"It means you get the ten thousand insurance," Staley said.
Ellis gave him a look of disgust.
"There's a letter for you, too. Where the Western Union was."
The white envelope bore the neatly typewritten message, "To Be Delivered to Chief Ellis in the Event of My Demise. It. Commander J. R. Dolan, USNR."
Ellis tore it open. It was undated and short.
Dear Chief Ellis:
It's my professional judgment that one of these To rpex-filled airplanes is going to sooner or later blow up with me in it.
If you get this, I was right.
Kfo complaints. It's a lot better way to go than sitting around the Old Sailors' Home waiting for it.
I have a cousin. I never could stand the sonofabitch.
Unless I named you as my beneficiary, he would have gotten the insurance.
Hoist one for me, if you think about it some time.
Regards,
iJo/yi [mqa
John R. Dolan Chief Aviation Pilot, USK, Retired (Temporary It. Commander, USNR)
Ellis folded the letter and put it back in the envelope, "What's it say?" Staley asked.
"I'm going to catch a shave and put on a fresh uniform," Ellis said.
"Then I'm going to go to the Chiefs' Club at the Navy Yard and tie one on. You want to come along?"
Afterword
Readers who have read others of my books may find this of interest.
I was privileged to know Wendell Fertig, and another reserve officer, commissioned in the Philippines as Fertig was, who also became a guerrilla, Major Ralph Fralick. Fralick and I were good friends. It was my sad honor to deliver his eulogy when he was buried in the National Cemetery in Pensacola.
I have always thought that the Army's refusal to promote Wendell Fertig above the rank of colonel was outrageous. He had more than thirty thousand men under arms, under his command, when the Army returned to Mindanao.
Thirty thousand men is just about the strength of two divisions. Major generals command divisions. Three-star lieutenant generals command Army Corps, which are defined as tactical units consisting of two or more divisions.
If--as far as I'm concerned--Brigadier General Fertig felt any resentment that he had to take the stars from his epaulets and exchange them for the silver eagles of a colonel, once the war was won, he never let it show.
He was frequently seen at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, in the company of Colonel Arthur "Bull" Simon, lending his expertise to the training and doctrine of the Green Berets, and elsewhere around the Army, including Fort Rucker, Alabama, where his friend Colonel Jay D. Vanderpool was in charge of Combat Developments for Army Aviation.
I don't think the story of a bona fide and unquestioned hero like Wendell Fertig can be told too often, and I make no apologies for telling his story in both this book and in Behind the Lines. In this book, a fictitious Army officer went ashore on Mindanao from a submarine to establish contact with General Fertig. In Behind the Lines, a fictitious Marine officer did the same thing.
When that book was published, I got a somewhat angry telephone call from the editor of the coincidentally titled Behind the Lines, which is sort of a professional magazine for Special Operations people. He asked what I had against Jay Vanderpool. I assured him I had nothing whatever against him; that I flattered myself to think we had been friends, and why the question?
"You should have said something about him in your book."