Line of Fire

by W. E. B Griffin

  This left McCoy in the center of the Japanese attack with a.30 caliber machine gun, plus his personal weapon, a Browning Automatic Rifle.

  His orders were to try to fight his way back to the main Marine Raider Line, if it became apparent that he could not hold his position in the face of overwhelming enemy force.

  "I couldn't do that," McCoy, a stocky, barrel-chested young man who was a steelworker before becoming a Marine, told this reporter. "Marines don't leave their wounded and run." So he stayed, using brief interludes in the fierce fighting to render what first aid he could to the men with him, and to recharge the magazines of his Browning Automatic Rifle.

  "I had plenty of ammo," McCoy reported, "so all I had to worry about was the machine gun getting so hot it would either jam, or cook off rounds." (When a great many rounds are fired through the air-cooled Browning Machine Gun, the weapon becomes hot enough to cause cartridges to fire as soon as they enter the action.) When that happened, McCoy would pick up his Browning Automatic Rifle and fire that until his machine gun cooled enough to fire reliably again.

  "There were at least forty Japanese within yards of his position," Lieutenant Swain reported, "There's no telling how many others he killed in the jungle on the other side of the clearing." McCoy was painfully wounded during his ordeal, once when a Japanese rifle bullet grazed his upper right leg, and several times more when he was struck on the face and chest by Japanese mortar and hand grenade fragments. His hands were blistered from the heat of the machine gun, and bloody from his frantic recharging of automatic rifle magazines.

  "I had to order him out of his position," Lieutenant Swain said. "He didn't want to leave until he was sure the wounded men with him had made it to safety."

  When he finished the story, Jake raised his eyes to General Stewart.

  "One hell of a Marine, wouldn't you agree?" the General said.

  "Yes, Sir.

  "Take a look at the radio, it's under the news story." Jake turned the page in the manila folder and found the radio.

  URGENT

  HQ USMC WASHINGTON DC 1135 20SEP42

  COMMANDING GENERAL

  FIRST MARINE DIVISION

  VIA CINCPAC

  1. REFERENCE IS MADE TO THE NEWS STORY BY MR. ROBERT MCCANDLESS,

  INTERNATIONAL NEWS

  SERVICE, OF 14SEPT42 DEALING WITH THE EXPLOITS OF SSGT THOMAS M. MCCOY

  WHICH HAS RECEIVED WIDE DISTRIBUTION THROUGHOUT THE UNITED STATES.

  2. IF THE FACTS PRESENTED BY MR. MCCANDLFSS ARE TRUE, IT WOULD SEEM THAT

  SSGT MCCOY SHOULD

  BE CITED FOR VALOR IN ACTION ABOVE AND BEYOND THE CALL OF DUTY. IF THIS

  TS THE INTENTION OF YOUR COMMAND, PLEASE ADVISE BY URGENT RADIO THE

  DECORATION, INCLUDING THE PROPOSED CITATION THEREOF, TO BE

  RECOMMENDED.

  3. SSGT MCCOY, AS SOON AS HIS PHYSICAL CONDITION PERMITS, IS TO BE

  DETACHED FROM 1ST

  RAIDER BN AND PLACED ON TEMPORARY DUTY WITH PUBLIC AFFAIRS DIVISION, HQ USMC, WASH DC IN CONNECTION WITH WAR BOND TOUR BEING CONDUCTED

  BY THIS OFFICE. AN AIR PRIORITY OF AAAA IS ASSIGNED. PAD HQ USMC, ATTN: SPECIAL PROJECTS WILL BE ADVISED BY URGENT RADIO OF DATE AND TIME OF

  SSGT MCCOY'S DEPARTURE FROM 1ST MARDIV, AND HIS ROUTING, TO INCLUDE ETA PEARL HARBOR HAWAII AND SAN DIEGO CAL.

  4. IN CONNECTION WITH THE ABOVE, IT IS SUGGESTED THAT SSGT MCCOY NOT

  REPEAT NOT BE AWARDED

  ANY DECORATION FOR VALOR, INCLUDING THE PURPLE HEART MEDAL (S) FOR

  WOUNDS SUFFERED UNTIL HE IS RETURNED TO THE UNITED STATE S. IT I S

  CONTEMPLATED THAT A SENIOR USMC OFFICER OR A HIGH RANKING

  GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL WILL MAKE SUCH AWARD (S).

  BY DIRECTION OF THE COMMANDANT:

  J. J. STEWART, BRIG GEN, USMC

  DIRECTOR, PUBLIC AFFAIRS DIVISION HQ USMC

  "If that story is true, and I have no reason to believe it is not, that sergeant is going to get the Distinguished Service Cross.

  Possibly even the Medal of Honor."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "I am going to recommend to the Commandant the Medal of Honor," General Stewart said. "But in any event, obviously, the sergeant belongs on your war bond tour."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Do you think it likely that he will encounter on his way home the same kind of difficulty you did?"

  "Yes, Sir. I think he probably will."

  "OK. I'll take steps to see that doesn't happen," General Stewart said firmly. "As soon as I have word on when he's due here, I'll let you know."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "I had his records checked. He has a sister in Norristown and a brother in The Corps. An officer. A first lieutenant. Here. "

  "Sir?"

  "I thought it would make a very nice human interest photograph. A Marine officer welcoming his brother, a sergeant and a hero, home."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "His brother is assigned here to headquarters. The Office of Management Analysis, whatever the hell that is. It's in Building T-2032 on the Mall. You know where that is?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Good, because I want you to go over there and see him. I had one of my people call over there and they got the runaround. They said they never heard of Lieutenant K. R. McCoy. I want you to go over there, Jake, and lay your hands on him, tell him-more importantly tell his superiors-that we need him."

  "Aye, aye, Sir. Sir?"

  "Yes?"

  "Sir, would that wait until tomorrow? I really feel a little bushed. I'd sort of like to take it easy today."

  "Absolutely," General Stewart said after a moment's hesitation. "First thing tomorrow morning would be fine. Perhaps by then your film will be in from the West Coast, right?"

  "Yes, Sir. It should be."

  "You take the day off, Jake," General Stewart said magnanimously.

  "You've earned it."

  "Yes, Sir. Thank you, General."

  [Two]

  TEMPORARY BUILDING T-2032

  THE MALL

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  0845 HOURS 21 SEPTEMBER 1942

  Major Jake Dillon had little trouble finding Building T-2032 among its many twins on the Mall; but because he was more than a little hung over and in a foul mood, he grew rapidly annoyed when there was no answer to his repeated knocking on what seemed to be the building's main door.

  "What the fuck are these feather merchants up to?" he inquired aloud.

  Then he spotted a less imposing door to the left. And when he tried it, it opened. Inside he discovered a set of interior stairs, which he then climbed. At the top of the stairs, he found himself facing a counter.

  Above the counter, wire mesh rose to the ceiling. A staff sergeant and a civilian examined him curiously from behind the counter.

  "Is this the Office of Management whatever?"

  "The Office of Management Analysis, yes, Sir," the staff sergeant said.

  "I'm looking for First Lieutenant K. R. McCoy," Dillon said, taking a note from his pocket.

  "I'm sorry, Sir," the staff sergeant said immediately. "We have no officer by that name, Sir."

  "Then you better tell Eighth and Eye," Dillon said, just the near side of nasty. "They say you do."

  "I'm sorry, Sir," the sergeant said. "We have no officer by that name." Dillon became aware of movement behind him. He glanced and saw a second lieutenant, then turned back to the sergeant.

  "I want to see the officer in charge of this outfit, please," Dillon said. "Who would that be?"

  "That would be General Pickering, Sir." There was the buzzing sound of a solenoid; a gate in the wire mesh opened and the Second Lieutenant went through it.

  "Would you get word to him that Major Dillon of the Public Affairs Office, USMC, would like to see him?"

  "General Pickering will not be in today, Sir. Sorry," the staff sergeant said.

  "Well, then, goddamn it, Sergeant, tell whoever is in charge here that I want to talk to him."

  "Major Dil
lon!" the Second Lieutenant said.

  Dillon looked at him. There was no recognition.

  "Do I know you, Lieutenant? More to the point, do you work here?"

  "Yes, Sir," the Lieutenant said. "My name is Moore, Sir. We met in Australia."

  "In Australia?" Dillon asked, searching his memory.

  "You know this officer, Lieutenant? He's been asking for Lieutenant McCoy." Recognition came to Dillon.

  "You were Fleming Pickering's orderly," Dillon accused.

  And then associations came. The Lieutenant was wearing the woven gold rope worn by aides-de-camp to General Officers. "General Pickering will not be in today, Sir. "

  The kid's name is Moore. He was a buck sergeant at Pickering's house when I went there from New Zealand with Whatsisname, the First MarDiv G-2 who got himself killed right after we landed on thèCanal

  "Yes, Sir," Second Lieutenant John Marston Moore, USMCR, replied. "More or less."

  "What the hell is going on here, Moore?" Dillon demanded.

  General Pickering? What the fuck is that all about?

  "Is the Colonel back there?" Moore asked.

  "Yes, Sir," the civilian behind the counter replied.

  "Open the gate, Sergeant, please," Moore said. "Major Dillon, will you come with me, please?" The solenoid buzzed. Moore put his hand to the gate and pulled it inward.

  "This way, please, Major."

  "Lieutenant, what about the log?" the staff sergeant asked.

  "Log him in on my authority," Moore said.

  Dillon followed him through a door, and then down a corridor. He noticed that Moore was walking awkwardly, limping.

  "What did you do to your leg?" he asked.

  Moore did not reply.

  They came to an office at the end of the corridor. Through a partially opened door Dillon saw a skinny civilian sitting at a desk. He had taken off his suit coat. His trousers were held up by a pair of well-worn suspenders.

  He glanced up from his desk and saw Moore.

  "You want to see me, Moore?"

  "Yes, Sir. I think it's important." The civilian gestured for Moore to enter. Moore motioned for Dillon to precede him.

  "This is Major Dillon, Sir," Moore said.

  "Who is Major Dillon?" the civilian asked.

  "The question in my mind is who the hell are you to ask who I am?" Dillon flared.

  The civilian looked at him.

  "I think we need some ground rules in here," he said.

  "Major, I am a colonel in the USMC. If you insist, I will show you an identification card. For the time being, however, I suggest you stand there, at attention and with your mouth shut, until I find out what's going on here." There was an unmistakable tone of I-Will-Be-Obeyed authority in the civilian's voice.

  Jake Dillon came to attention, wondering, If he's a colonel, how come the civilian clothes?

  "OK, John, who is this officer?" Colonel F. L. Rickabee asked.

  "He's Major Dillon, Sir. He has something to do with Public Relations."

  "Fascinating! And what's he doing here?"

  "He's looking for Lieutenant McCoy, Sir. I overheard that as I came through the gate." Rickabee looked at Dillon.

  "If you find this officer-Lieutenant McCoy, you said? What will you do with him, Major?"

  "Colonel, Lieutenant McCoy's brother behaved very heroically on Guadalcanal; he is being returned from Guadalcanal to receive a high decoration."

  "And you wanted to tell him about that?"

  "No, Sir. General Stewart-"

  "Who the hell is General Stewart?"

  "Public Affairs, Sir. At Eighth and Eye?"

  Rickabee nodded. "Go on."

  "General Stewart thinks Lieutenant McCoy would be helpful in connection with getting The Corps some good publicity."

  "That's out of the question," Rickabee said. "Forget it. Can you relay that to General Stewart or will I have to do it?"

  "I think it would be helpful if you spoke with the General, Sir," Dillon said.

  "Sir, there's more," Moore said.

  "What would that be?"

  "Major Dillon and General Pickering are friends."

  "Is that so, Major?"

  "If we're talking about Fleming Pickering, yes, Sir. We're old friends."

  "Sir, Major Dillon is a friend of Major Banning's too. I don't know if-"

  "Do you know what Major Banning's doing for a living these days, Major?"

  Rickabee interrupted him.

  "Yes, Sir, I do."

  "Damn!" Rickabee said. "But, now that I think of it, maybe you don't.

  You tell me what you think Banning's doing."

  "Colonel, I don't know who you are," Dillon said. "I'm sure what Banning is doing is classified, and I'm not sure you have the Need to Know."

  "Show him your badge, Moore," Rickabee ordered. Moore took his credentials from his pocket and showed them to Dillon.

  Jesus Christ, what the hell is this? The last time I see this kid, he's a sergeant passing canap‚s for Pickering, and now he's a Special Agent of the Office of Naval Intelligence!

  "That's his Need to Know. And I'm his boss," Rickabee said. "Good enough?"

  "Yes, Sir," Dillon said. "Sir-"

  "Close the door, John," Rickabee interrupted him. "And you can pull up a chair, Major. If you're a friend of General Pickering, you're obviously not the asshole of a public relations feather merchant I first thought you were." Colonel Rickabee was just about finished explaining to Major Dillon the change in Fleming Pickering's military status when there was a knock at his door.

  "Come!"

  "Colonel," Captain Ed Sessions said, putting his head in the door.

  "There's an Army officer out here asking for General Pickering."

  "Tell him the General will not be in today and ask him what he wants."

  "I did, Sir. He said he's a liaison officer for General MacArthur. I think maybe you had better see him."

  "Douglas MacArthur?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Jesus Christ! Well, go fetch him." The door closed and then a minute later, reopened.

  "Colonel Rickabee," Captain Sessions announced formally, "Colonel DePress." A lieutenant colonel marched into Rickabee's office. He was in Army Pink and Green uniform, the lapels decorated with the insignia of the General Staff Corps, his brimmed cap tucked under his arm; and he was carrying a leather briefcase chained to his wrist. He saluted crisply before he seemed to notice the man behind the desk was not in uniform.

  Rickabee made a vague gesture in the direction of his forehead; the gesture could be loosely defined as a salute.

  "I'm afraid General Pickering is not available right now, Colonel," he said. "I'm his deputy. Maybe I could help you somehow?"

  "Sir, I have a Personal from General MacArthur to General Pickering."

  "I'll see that he gets it," Rickabee said, holding his hand out.

  "Sir, my orders from General MacArthur are to personally deliver the Personal."

  Rickabee considered that a moment. While they were talking, Rickabee gave the Army Lieutenant Colonel a quick once over. He may be a Doggie Feather Merchant, he decided, but he wasn't always one.

  On his right sleeve, Lieutenant Colonel DePress was wearing the insignia of the 26th Cavalry, Philippine Scouts, signifying that he had served in combat with that unit. And topping the I-Was-There fruit salad on his breast were ribbons representing the Silver Star and the Third Award of the Purple Heart.

  "Colonel," Rickabee said, "not for dissemination, General Pickering is in the hospital."

  "I'm sorry to hear that, Sir."

  "I'm about to visit him. Would you have the time to come along?"

  "Yes, Sir. I would appreciate that, Sir."

  "Sessions, is there a car available?" Rickabee asked.

  "I'll check, Sir."

  "Colonel," Lieutenant Moore said, "I've got General Pickering's car. If you wanted to use that, Sergeant Hart could bring you back."

  "OK, done," Rickabee said. "Y
ou have the material packed up for the General, Moore?"

  "No, Sir."

  "It's on my desk, Sir," Sessions said.

  [Three]

  WALTER REED ARMY GENERAL HOSPITAL

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  1015 HOURS 21 SEPTEMBER 1942

  Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, had been assigned a three-room VIP suite in the Army Hospital. His rank would have entitled him to a private room in any case, but the hospital authorities had decided that since a VIP suite was available, who was better qualified to occupy it than a man who was not only a brigadier general, but "an old and close friend of the President," according to The Washington Star?

  The suite was on the third floor. It consisted of a fully equipped hospital room and a sitting room, furnished with a sofa, a pair of upholstered chairs, and a four-place dining table set. These rooms were connected by a smaller room that held a refrigerator and a desk.

  When Colonel Rickabee and party entered the suite, they found General Pickering in the small connecting room playing gin rummy on the desk top with Sergeant Hart. Pickering was wearing a silk bathrobe, and Sergeant Hart was in civilian clothing; his shoulder holster and pistol were on top of the refrigerator.

  Hart stood up.

  "Good morning, General," Rickabee said, and then, "as you were, Sergeant."

  "Where he was was about to take me for twenty dollars," Pickering said. "I didn't expect to see you here this morning, Rickabee. And who is that ugly Marine tagging along behind you?"

  "How the hell are you, Fleming?" Dillon inquired, walking to Pickering and shaking his hand.

  "General," Rickabee said, "this officer has a Personal for you from General MacArthur." Lieutenant Colonel DePress saluted.

  "Good morning, General," he said.

  "Good morning," Pickering said.

  "May I inquire as to the General's health?"

  "You may," Pickering said. "The General's health is a hell of a lot better than I can convince anybody around here that it is."

  "I'm glad to hear that, Sir," Colonel DePress said.

  "What, Colonel? That my health is better? Or that I can't convince the doctors that it is?"

  Colonel DePress, looking uncomfortable, finally managed, I'll m glad to hear the General is feeling better, Sir," and then, somewhat awkwardly-because it was chained to his wrist opened his briefcase and handed Pickering a large manila envelope.