“Button,” Espiritu Santo
Went to the Officers Club yesterday evening and got well tanked up on beer with a bunch of the boys. Ran into Chuck Allen of VP-72. Haven’t seen him for sometime. We had a mutual “bitch” session – mostly about the fact of a certain small group of squadrons and pilots seem to be fighting the whole goddamned war by themselves. Again and again, we run into the same old pilots, both Army and Navy. “Saw you last at Midway,” or “Guadalcanal,” or “Australia.” Very few new faces.
When it came time to go home there was no transportation, so we stole some poor bastard’s jeep. (All keys fit all jeeps, and I had “found” a key.) Had a very enjoyable but hair-raising drive home.
After supper (still well tanked) I started shooting at some of these tremendous bats that fly about at dusk. Couldn’t hit them though; it was too dark to see the sights. A few minutes later a couple of M.P.s drove up and asked if I had seen a jeep drive by. They suspected the occupants of the jeep of having been shooting, which was a direct violation of General So-And-So’s orders. I told him no, that I hadn’t seen the jeep, at which they piled in their own jeep and squished off into the mud in search of the offenders. They didn’t ask me if I knew of anyone firing, so I didn’t volunteer the information.
Went to see a movie at Cub One.
(Sunday continued) Washed clothes. “Stack” Glanz and “Cotton-picker,” or “Swamp-water,” Oliver inaugurated the arrival of a washing machine by burying it in three months’ dirty clothes.