"How long are you going to look like that?" Dillon asked Ward.
"I beg your pardon?"
Joanne Miller understood the question.
"He ought to look more or less human in a week or ten days; at least the black-and-blue will have gone away," she said.
"The ribs will take six weeks or so to heal."
"I can fly now," Ward said. "I didn't want to come here and they shouldn't have sent me."
That's not bullshit intended to impress the girls and me, Jake decided. This kid is a Marine.
"Where are you from, Ward?"
"Philadelphia. Or just outside. Jenkintown."
"Right. Where Charley's girlfriend is from, right?"
"She's my aunt," Jim Ward said.
"What about you, Macklin? Where are you from?"
"California, Sir. Near San Diego."
"Where'd you go to school?"
"The Naval Academy, Sir."
Jake Dillon Productions, Jake thought, has just completed final casting of his epic motion picture, or at least newsreel feature epic, Wounded Marine Heroes of 1942.
But I won't tell either of them just yet. Ward will be genuinely pissed when he hears what I'm going to do to him. And I suspect that Macklin will be so pleased I'm taking him out of harm's way that he'll piss his pants.
He remembered a story going around the aid stations on Gavutu and Tulagi about the 2nd Parachute Battalion officer who'd taken a minor flesh wound to his calf and had to be pried, screaming and hysterical, from a piling on the seaplane wharf where he had been hit.
There was absolutely no question in Jake's mind that that officer was now sitting at his table.
Chapter Seven
[One]
FERDINAND SIX
BUKA, SOLOMON ISLANDS
0605 HOURS 7 SEPTEMBER 1942
Sergeant Steven M. Koffler, USMC, woke suddenly and sat up, frightened. His guts were knotted and he had a clammy sweat.
It was from a nightmare, he concluded after a moment, although he couldn't remember any of it.
The feeling of foreboding did not go away. Something was wrong. There was enough light in the hut for him to see that Patience was gone. That was not unusual. Since she had moved in with him, she habitually rose before he did and was out of the hut before he woke.
But then, slowly, it came to him, what was wrong. He heard no noise. There was always noise, the squealing of pigs, the crying of children, the crackling of a fire, even hymn singing.
That image sent his mind wandering: They don't sing hymns here, like in church. It has nothing to do with God. It's just that "Rock of Ages" and "Faith of Our Fathers" and "God Save the King" and "Onward Christian Soldiers" and the other ones are the only music these people have ever heard. He corrected himself. Plus the Marine Hymn, which of course me and Lieutenant Howard taught them.
Why can't I hear anything?
He felt another wave of fear and reached for the Thompson.
He checked the action and then stuck his feet in his boondockers and stood up.
He went to the door of the hut and looked out. No one was in sight.
Where the fuck is everybody?
With his finger on the Thompson's trigger, he left the hut, took one quick look to confirm that no one was visible, then ran into the jungle behind the hut. He moved ten feet inside it, enough for concealment, and then he moved laterally until he found a position where he could observe the other huts.
There was no one there. The fires had gone out.
Even the fucking pigs are gone!
The sonsofbitches ran off on me!
Well, what the hell do you expect? he asked himself. If I wasn't here, they're just a bunch of fucking cannibals; the Japs don't give a shit about cannibals unless they're causing trouble. The worst thing the Japs would do would be to put them to work.
With me here, they're the fucking enemy. The Japs would kill them, slowly, to show they're pissed off.
And they'll do it so it hurts, to teach the other cannibals it's not smart to help the While Man. Like cutting off their arms and legs, not just their heads, and leaving the parts laying around.
A chill replaced the clammy sweat.
What the fuck am I going to do now?
He was suddenly, without warning, sick to his stomach.
When that passed, he had an equally irresistible urge to move his bowels.
He moved another fifteen yards through the jungle and watched the camp for another five minutes. Finally he walked out of the jungle and started looking in the huts.
The radio was still there.
Why not? What the hell would they do with the radio?
And he found some baked sweet potatoes, or whatever the hell they were, and some of the smoked pig.
A farewell present? Merry Christmas, Sergeant Koffler? How the fuck long are those sweet potatoes and five, ten pounds of smoked pig going to last me?
Oh, shit!
There came the sound of aircraft engines, a dull roar far off.
Fuck èm! What the fuck do I care if the whole Japanese Air Corps is headed for Guadalcanal?
He walked to the tree house. They'd left him the knotted rope, he found to his surprise. He used it to walk up the trunk.
Good morning, Steven," Patience Witherspoon said. She was sitting on the floor of the platform, wearing an expression that said she expected to be kicked.
Ian Bruce was leaning against the trunk.
"You heard the engines, Sergeant Koffler?"
"Fuck the engines, where the hell is everybody?"
"The men went to seek Lieutenant Reeves," Ian said. "The women have gone away from here."
"Gone where?"
"You would not know where they have gone," Ian said with irrefutable logic. "Away.
`Why?"
"If it has not gone well with Lieutenant Reeves, the Japanese will come looking for us. If they find this place, with the radio, they may believe there were no other white men. You will come with us to where the women are making a camp. We may be able to hide you."
"You think something fucked up, went wrong, don't you?"
"I think something has fucked up. Otherwise Lieutenant Reeves would have returned when he said he would return."
"Why wasn't I told?"
"Because I knew you would forbid it," Ian Bruce said.
"Lieutenant Reeves left you in charge; he told me I was to take your orders as if they had come from him."
"What are you doing up here, then?" Steve asked.
"Watching for the Japanese aircraft," Ian said. "We will need the binoculars."
"They're in my hut," Steve replied automatically.
"I will get them," Patience said, and quickly got to her feet and started down the knotted rope.
"If we're going to hide in the goddamned jungle," Steve asked, "why are we bothering with this shit, anyway?"
"Because," Ian Bruce said, again with irrefutable logic, "we do not know that Lieutenant Reeves is dead.
We only believe he is. Until we know for sure, or until the Japanese come, we will do what he wishes us to do."
"Semper Fi, right?"
"I do not understand."
"Yeah, you do," Steve said.
"Is that English?"
"It's Marine," Steve said. "It means... you do what you're expected to do, I guess. Or try, anyway."
"I see," Ian Bruce said solemnly.
[Two]
USMC REPLACEMENT DEPOT
PARRIS ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA
2250 HOURS 7 SEPTEMBER 1942
Because he was on a routine check of the guard posts, the officer of the day happened to be at the main gate when the 1939 LaSalle convertible pulled up to the guard and stopped.
It had been a long and dull evening and showed little prospect of getting more interesting.
"Hold it a minute," the OD said to his jeep driver.
"Aye, aye, Sir," the driver said and stopped the jeep.
The OD got out and walked towar
d the LaSalle. The driver was apparently showing his orders to the guard, for the beam of the guard's flashlight illuminated the interior. The OD saw that the car held two lieutenants, neither of whom was wearing his cover.
But what the hell, it's almost eleven o'clock.
"Welcome to sand flea heaven," the OD said. "Reporting in?"
"Just visiting," McCoy replied.
He was a first lieutenant, the OD saw, not any older than he himself was. But he was wearing a double row of ribbons, including the Bronze Star and what looked like the Purple Heart with two clusters on it.
The other one was a second lieutenant, and he too was wearing ribbons signifying that he had been wounded and decorated for valor.
Am I being a suspicious prick, or just doing my job? the OD wondered as he reached to take the orders from the guard.
The orders were obviously genuine. They were issued by Headquarters, USMC, and ordered First Lieutenant K. R.
McCoy to proceed by military or civilian road, rail, or air transportation, or at his election, by privately owned vehicle, to Philadelphia, Penna., Parris Island, S.C., and such other destinations as he deemed necessary in the carrying out of his mission for the USMC Office of Management Analysis.
What the hell is the Office of Management Analysis?
"Well, as I said," the OD said, smiling, "welcome to sand flea heaven."
"I know all about the sand fleas," McCoy said, smiling. "But how do I find the BOQ?"
"How do you know about the sand fleas and not the BOQ?" the OD asked, and immediately felt like a fool as the answer came to him: This guy was a Mustang. He had gone through Parris Island as an enlisted man before getting a commission.
He knew about sand fleas. But Marine boots do not know where bachelor officers rest their weary heads.
Follow the signs to the Officer's Club," the OD said. "Drive past it.
Look to your right. Two-story frame building on your right."
"Thank you," McCoy said.
The guard saluted. McCoy returned it. McCoy drove past the barrier.
"Interesting," the OD said to the guard. "Did you see the ribbons on those officers?"
"Yes, Sir. And one of them had a cane, too."
"I wonder what the hell the Office of Management Analysis is?" the OD asked, not expecting an answer.
"I'll tell you something else interesting, Sir," the guard said.
The sergeant major is looking for them. At least for Lieutenant McCoy. He passed the word through the sergeant of the guard we was to call him, no matter when he came aboard."
"Him? Not the OD? Or the General's aide?"
"Him, Sir."
"Well, in that case, Corporal, I would suggest you get on the horn to the sergeant major. Hell hath no fury, as you might have heard."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
"Does this place fill you with fond memories?" McCoy asked as they drove through the Main Post, an area of brick buildings looking not unlike the campus of a small college.
"I would rather go back to Guadalcanal than go through here again," Moore said.
"How's your legs?"
"I won't mind lying down."
"Well, you wanted to come."
"And I'm grateful that you brought me. I was going stir crazy in the hospital."
"I think what you need, pal, is a piece of ass. I also think you're out of luck here."
"Says he, the Croesus of Carnal Wealth," Moore replied.
"What?"
"Says he, who doesn't have that problem."
"What Ernie and I have is something special," McCoy said coldly.
"Hell, I realized that the first time I saw you two looking at each other in San Diego," Moore said. "My reaction then, and now, is profound admiration, coupled with enormous jealousy."
"Your lady really did a job on you, huh?"
"When I got her letter, in Melbourne, I was fantasizing about getting to be an officer and marching into the Bellvue Stratford in my officer's uniform with her on my arm.... `Dear John,' the letter said."
"Hell, your name is John," McCoy said. "And you have your officer's uniform, three sets of khakis, anyway...
And thank you for that, too. I wouldn't have known where to go to buy them."
"Horstmann Uniform has been selling uniforms to The Corps since Christ was a corporal," McCoy said.
"And as I was saying, your Dear John letter lady is not the only female in the world."
"So I keep telling myself," Moore said.
"Well, there's the club, and it looks like it's still open. Would you like a drink?"
"I'll pass, thank you," Moore said. "But go ahead if you want to." "I've got a couple of pints in my bag,"
McCoy said. "I didn't really want to go in there anyway." A moment later he said, "That must be it."
Moore looked up and saw a two-story frame building.
McCoy drove around behind it and parked the car. Since he'd packed Moore's two spare khaki uniforms in his own bag, there was only one to carry.
A corporal was on duty in the lobby of the Bachelor Officer's Quarters.
McCoy told him they were transients and needed rooms; and the corporal gave them a register to sign, then handed each of them a key.
"End of the corridor to the right, Sir. Number twelve."
"Thank you," McCoy said and walked up the stairs.
Halfway down the corridor he swore bitterly: "Shit! Sonofabitch! " Moore saw the source of his anger. A neatly lettered sign was thumbtacked to one of the doors. It read, RESERVED FOR KILLER McCoy.
He walked quickly to the sign and ripped it down. He started to put his key to the lock in the door, but it opened before he could reach it.
"Well, if it isn't Lieutenant McCoy," a man wearing the three stripes up, three lozenges down insignia of a sergeant major said, standing at rigid attention. "May the sergeant major say, Sir, the Lieutenant looks just fine?"
"That fucking sign isn't funny, goddamn you!" McCoy flared. "What the hell is the matter with you, anyway?" The sergeant major was not as taken aback as Moore expected him to be. He seemed more hurt and disappointed than alarmed by McCoy's intense and genuine anger.
"Aw, come on, Ken," he said.
McCoy glowered at him for a moment and finally said, "I don't know why the hell I'm surprised. You never did have the brains to pour piss out of a boot. How the hell are you, you old bastard?"
"No complaints, Ken," the sergeant major said with obvious affection in his voice, taking McCoy's hand.
And then he saw Moore, and a moment after that, there was recognition in his eyes.
"I believe I know this gentleman, too, don't I?"
"I don't think so," McCoy said. "Moore, this is Sergeant Major Teddy Osgood. We were in the Fourth Marines together."
"Yeah, sure," Moore said. "I remember you now, Sergeant Major. When I left here-"
"Oh?" McCoy asked, curious.
"Captain Sessions came down here and pulled me out of boot camp," Moore explained. "The sergeant major... how do I say it?"
"Handled the administrative details," the sergeant major furnished.
"I remember you telling Captain Sessions that you had known the Killer-OooPs!-Lieutenant McCoy in China."
"If you think that was funny, you asshole, it wasn't," McCoy said.
But he was not, Moore saw, furious anymore.
"I see neither one of you paid attention when you went through here. Is that three Purple Hearts, Ken?"
"Two of them are bullshit," McCoy said. "Moore took some mortar shrapnel on Guadalcanal. He needs to lie down."
"This is a field-grade officer's suite, all kinds of places to lay down," Osgood said. "Would you like a drink, Lieutenant?"
"Yes, thank you, I would," Moore said.
"Get in bed, I'll make the drinks," McCoy said.
"That Captain said you was with the 2nd Raider Battalion," Osgood said to McCoy.
"I was."
"You were on the Makin Island raid?" McCoy nodded.
"And now?"
"I'm doing more or less what Captain Sessions does," McCoy said.
"Yeah, I figured that. When the TWX came in saying you was coming, the G-2 shit a brick. What the hell do you people do, anyway?" McCoy didn't immediately reply. He dug in his bag, fished out a pint of scotch, poured some in a glass, and handed it to Moore, who by then had crawled onto one of the beds.
"The name is the Office of Management Analysis," he said finally. "We're sort of in the supply business."
"Yeah, sure you are. That's why every time we get some boot who speaks Japanese, who has civilian experience as a radio operator, or who's lived over there, we notify you, right? So they can pass out rations, right?"
"Right," McCoy said.
"Well, I got a dozen, thirteen people, lined up for you to talk to tomorrow, three who speak Japanese...
what do you call them?"
"Linguists," McCoy said.
"... half a dozen amateur radio operators, and a couple of guys who are going to cryptography school."
"Great," McCoy said. "Everything laid on for me, us, to talk to them?"
"You tell me when and where and I'll have them there."
"You got someplace?"
"Yeah. I'll take care of it," Osgood said. "I'll send a car for you in the morning. You have to make your manners with the G-2, I guess?"
"I suppose we'll have to," McCoy said.
"There's another guy, Ken. He don't speak Jap, and he's no radio operator, but he's interesting."
"Why interesting?"
"Well, for one thing, he used to be a cop. Actually a vice squad detective. Saint Louis."
"A vice squad detective?" Moore asked, laughing.
"Maybe he could do something to solve your problem, Lieutenant," McCoy said, and then added, "I don't understand, Teddy."
"He went after one of his DIs, was going to break his arm."
"Sounds like my kind of guy," Moore said.
Osgood looked at him and smiled. "The word is that the DI, an assistant DI, is a real asshole."
"And this guy broke his arm?" McCoy asked.
"No. The platoon DI saw what he was up to and stopped him. He said the guy really knows how to use a knife. If he had wanted to cut the DI, kill him, he would be dead, the DI said.
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