“Find out what platoon a man named Moore, John Marston Moore, is in,” Major Humphrey ordered. “Then send word I want him available; and that I want to see his Drill Instructor here, right now. And then go to personnel and get his record jacket.”
“If I leave, Sir, there will be no one to answer the telephone.”
“I know how to answer a telephone,” Major Humphrey said, more sharply than he intended. “Get moving.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
Staff Sergeant J.K. Costerburg, Private John Marston Moore’s Drill Instructor, was not very helpful: Moore had not given him any trouble, but on the other hand he hadn’t been an outstanding trainee, either. There had been genuine concern that he was going to have trouble on the rifle range for a while, but he’d finally shaped up. He kept to himself.
“Sir, he’s just not ... out of the ordinary, ” Staff Sergeant Costerburg said, almost visibly pleased that he’d found the right words.
Private Moore’s record jacket, which included a synopsis of the FBI Complete Background Investigation, was more illuminating: Moore was the second of three children born to the Reverend Doctor and Mrs. John Wesley Moore. He had been born in Osaka, Japan, twenty-two years before. There was a notation that under a provision of the Immigration & Naturalization Act of 1912, as amended, Moore was considered to be a native-born American, as his father’s service abroad as a missionary representative of the Methodist Episcopal Church was considered to be service abroad in the interest of the United States.
He had lived in the United States, in Washington and Philadelphia, from 1922 until 1929 (Humphrey checked the dates and did the mental arithmetic and came up with from the time he was two until he was eight), and then had returned to Japan with his family, staying there until 1940, during which time he had matriculated at the University of Tokyo. On his return to the United States, he had entered the University of Pennsylvania as a junior and graduated in June of 1941 with a Bachelor of Arts degree in Oriental Languages.
He applied for the Marine Officer Candidate Program in January 1942 and was accepted. He was sworn into the Marine Corps Reserve in February, and ordered to active duty 1 April.
Humphrey was aware that people who spoke Japanese were in great demand, and that a young officer who spoke Japanese would almost certainly be given duties to take advantage of his skill, but that did not explain the attention being paid to him by a lieutenant colonel who “sat at the foot of the divine throne.”
He now knew a little something about Private John Marston Moore, but he had no idea what that little something meant. And there was no time to really think it through; for he was still examining the contents of his record jacket when Colonel Westman called again.
“The plane was early,” Westman announced by way of greeting. “He’s on his way in my staff car with one of my lieutenants.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Humphrey said. For a reply he got the clatter and click of a telephone being replaced in its cradle.
Captain Sessions appeared ten minutes after that. He was a stranger to Humphrey, but he had a manner that suggested that he had been a Marine before the war.
That didn’t annoy Humphrey; but there was something about his attitude that did. He was polite, but superior. It was an attitude that Humphrey had sensed in other officers who worked in Headquarters, U.S. Marine Corps, and who seemed to be very much aware of their own importance.
“Sir, my name is Sessions,” Sessions had begun. “I understand that someone telephoned to alert you that I was coming.”
“They didn’t tell me why,” Humphrey said.
“I want to look at the service records of Private John Marston Moore, and then I’d like to talk to him, Sir.”
“Have you got some kind of orders, Captain? Or at least some identification?”
“Yes, Sir,” Sessions said. He handed Humphrey a small leather folder. It contained a gold badge, and an identity card sealed in plastic with Sessions’s photograph and name—but not, Humphrey noticed with curiosity, his rank. And it was not a Marine Corps identity card. It bore the seal of the Navy Department, and the legend CHIEF OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE. It identified Sessions as Special Agent, not as a Marine Captain.
“That ought to do it,” Humphrey said, and then blurted, “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
“There’s not very many of them,” Sessions said, matter-of-factly.
“I’ve got Moore’s record jacket here,” Humphrey said.
“May I see it, please?” Sessions replied. “And then could you send for him, please, Major?”
“I’ve got him standing by,” Humphrey said. “Is this boy in any kind of trouble, Captain?”
“Not so far as I’m concerned,” Sessions replied, and then smiled, “I was about to put that same question to you, Major.”
(Three)
UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS RECRUIT DEPOT
PARRIS ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA
1615 HOURS 15 JUNE 1942
Private John Marston Moore, United States Marine Corps Reserve, had practiced the maneuver, but he had never before rendered the rifle salute to a real officer: He marched through the door identified by a stenciled sign as that of MAJOR H.B. HUMPHREY, USMC, BATTALION COMMANDER, with his piece at right shoulder arms, determined to do so to the best of his ability.
He stopped eighteen inches from the Major’s desk, with his heels together and his feet turned out equally and forming an angle of 45 degrees. He then moved his left hand smartly to the small of the stock, forearm horizontal, palm of the hand down, the first joint of his left forefinger touching the cocking piece of his Springfield Model 1903A4 rifle.
“Sir,” he barked, looking at Major Humphrey, a thin, leather-skinned man of about thirty-five who wore his hair so short his scalp was visible, “Private Moore, J.M., reporting to the battalion commander as ordered.”
Ordinarily, Private Moore had learned, persons in the Naval Service of the United States do not salute indoors, except when Under Arms. He was obviously, with the Springfield, Under Arms, but he had also learned in his six weeks of service in the Marine Corps that things were most often not as one expected them to be. He had asked the staff sergeant in the outer office what he was supposed to do with the rifle. The reply—“Get your ass in there and report to the Major”—had not been very helpful.
Major Humphrey touched his eyelid with his right hand, fingers together and straight, palm down.
The salute had been returned.
Private Moore cut his left hand smartly back to his right side, fingers extended and together, so that his thumb touched the seam of his utility trousers. He then looked six inches above Major Humphrey, in the prescribed position of attention.
“Order arms,” Major Humphrey ordered, and then followed this command immediately with, “stand at ease.”
Private Moore moved the Springfield so that it cut diagonally across his body, the center of the rifle just below his chin, held at the point of balance by the left hand. He moved his right hand from the butt on the rifle to a point one-third down from the muzzle, and then moved the rifle beside his right leg, checking the movement with his left hand. When the butt touched the floor, he moved his left hand so that its thumb touched the seam of his utility trousers. Then he leaned the Springfield forward, put twelve inches between the heels of his boots, and set his left hand in the small of his back. He was now At Ease.
“He’s all yours, Captain,” Major Humphrey said.
“Good afternoon, Moore. How are you today?” the Captain asked.
His tone was conversational, even friendly, which was almost astonishing, but what was genuinely astonishing was that the Captain had asked the question in Japanese.
“Very well, thank you, Sir,” Private Moore said.
“Could you reply, please, in Japanese?” the Captain asked.
Moore did so.
“Do you read and write Japanese with equal fluency?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Maj
or,” the Captain said, switching to English, “I wonder if there’s some place I could talk to Private Moore privately?”
“You can use my office, of course,” Major Humphrey said.
“Very kind of you, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” the Captain said, and then waited for Major Humphrey to get up and leave.
It was not lost on Private Moore that no matter what their ranks, the captain was giving orders, however politely, to the major, and that the major didn’t much like it.
Sessions waited until Major Humphrey had left the office, closing the door behind, and then turned to Moore. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, then chuckled.
In English, he said, “I was about to ask you how you find boot camp, but I suppose when you open your eyes in the morning, there it is, right?”
Now he laughed, almost a giggle.
John Marston Moore had no idea how to react. There was no emotion on his face at all. Sessions saw this.
“My name is Sessions,” he said. “I’m from Headquarters, USMC.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“You’re posing something of a problem to the Marine Corps,” Sessions began seriously, but then his eyes lit up in amusement. “Usually, with a private, and especially here, that works the other way around, but in this case, you’re causing the problem.”
“Sir?”
“I’m going to have to take your word that you read and write Japanese,” Sessions said. “I suppose I should have brought some document in Japanese for you to read from, but I left Washington in rather a hurry and didn’t think about that. And the way I write Japanese ... that wouldn’t be a fair test.”
Moore had just decided that Marine Captain or not, this man was an amiable idiot, when Sessions met his eyes. The eyes were both intelligent and coldly penetrating; not the eyes of a fool.
“You do read and write Japanese with fluency, right?” Sessions asked.
“Yes, Sir.”
“OK. You ever read any Kafka, Moore?”
“Sir?”
“Franz Kafka? Everyman’s problems with a mindless bureaucracy? They kept telling him he was guilty, but they wouldn’t tell him of what?”
“Yes, Sir, I know who you mean.”
“This is going to be something like that, I’m afraid,” Sessions said. “There is a Marine Corps unit somewhere which has a priority requirement for a man with your Japanese language skills. I can’t tell you what that unit is, where it is—except somewhere in the Pacific—or what it does, because that’s all classified.”
“Sir—” Moore began hesitantly, and then plunged ahead. “Sir, I was told that I’ve been granted a SECRET security clearance.”
“Yeah, I know. But then there’s Top SECRET, and above Top SECRET are some other security classifications. In this case, your SECRET clearance wouldn’t get you in the door.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I don’t suppose,” Sessions said, “that based on what little I’m able to tell you, you would be disposed to volunteer for service with this unit, would you?”
I am being asked to do something. This is the first I have been asked, as opposed to being told, to do anything since I got off the Atlantic Coastline train in Yemassee, South Carolina.
An image of that scene popped into his mind, complete to sound and smell; it was the start of his first night of active duty in the Marine Corps.
They had gotten off the chrome-and-plastic, air-cushioned, air-conditioned ACL cars and transferred to ancient, filthy wooden passenger cars resurrected from some railroad junk yard for the spur line trip to Port Royal. From Port Royal, they had been moved to Parris Island, like cattle being carried to the slaughter house, in an open trailer truck.
In Port Royal, he heard for the first time the suggestion that he might as well give his soul to Jesus, because his ass now belonged to the Marine Corps. Those words had subsequently been repeated many times.
From the moment he boarded the spur line train in Yemassee, his every action had been ordered, usually at the top of some uniformed sadist’s lungs, his language punctuated with obscenities.
He had once been ordered by a corporal to run around the barracks with a galvanized bucket over his head, his piece at port arms, shouting, “I am an ignorant asshole who can’t tell the difference between his piece and his prick.” He’d done it, too.
He had only been permitted to stop when he ran full bore into a concrete pillar and nearly knocked himself out. He could not recall, now, the offense.
And now I am being asked to do something. I am not prepared to make a decision.
“Sir, I don’t know what you’re asking me to do.”
“Let me throw one more thing into the equation,” Captain Sessions said. “It would also mean, for the time being, that you would give up your commission. One can be arranged at a later date, but you would not get one now.”
“Sir—”
“The bone I am authorized to throw to you is sergeant’s stripes, effective immediately, and a five-day delay en route leave, not counting travel time.”
“Sir, I don’t mean any disrespect, but could you tell me why I should do something like this? I’m almost through here. When I finish at Quantico, I’ll be an officer.”
He had clung to that, the belief that when he had endured all that Parris Island, specifically all that his Drill Instructor and his assistants, could throw at him, he would be granted a commission. An officer, even a lowly second lieutenant, was not required to obey the orders of enlisted men.
Captain Sessions didn’t reply. He shrugged and opened his mouth as if to speak, but then closed it again.
“Couldn’t this assignment wait until I get my commission, Sir?” Moore asked.
“No,” Sessions said simply, “it couldn’t. You’re needed now.”
“Captain, what if I tell you ‘no’?”
Sessions shrugged his shoulders again, almost helplessly. He did not respond to the question, but after a moment, he said: “I suppose that in your shoes, I would react exactly the way you are. And I would probably snicker, at least privately, if someone like me announced the reason you should do what you’re being asked to do is that you’re a Marine, and when the Corps asks Marines to do something, they do it.”
“I’ve only been in the goddamned Marine Corps six fucking weeks!” Moore heard himself blurt and was horrified.
The consequences of making a statement like that, especially to an officer, boggled the imagination.
Sessions, to Moore’s genuine surprise, did not flare back at him. He looked at him and chuckled.
“Six weeks is long enough, don’t you think? Don’t you think that six weeks has changed you forever?”
“Oh, Christ,” Moore said, and heard himself chuckle. “Yes, Sir, I think I have been permanently changed.”
“For what it’s worth,” Sessions went on, “I’ve learned that you get back from the Corps whatever you put into it. Sometimes a little more.”
He believes that. This man is not a fool, not one of the cretinous savages they make into drill sergeants. He’s well educated—Christ, talking about Franz Kafka and Everyman at Parris Island! And he speaks Japanese, and not at all badly. And whatever this is they want me to do, it’s important. He really did come down here to see me from Washington.
And what happens if I say ‘no’? Since it is important, then obviously they will be annoyed that I have refused So far as they’re concerned, I’m a Marine and Marines do whatever they are asked, or told to do. I will have, so to speak, in their judgment, let the side down. And equally obviously, the consequences of that would be very unpleasant. Am I a Marine? Why do I have the insane urge to go along with this?
Possibly because he is the first man in authority to talk to me as if I were a human being, perhaps even an intellectual equal, since I got on that fucking train from Yemassee to Port Royal.
Fuck it! Why not? What the fuck have I got to lose? The fuckers are right, my fucking ass really does belong to the fucking Marine Corps!
Why, John Marston Moore! Listen to your language!
“Yes, Sir,” Moore said. “Whatever it is you want me to do, Sir, is fine with me.”
He had no idea what sort of response his patriotic, “Aye, Aye, Sir! Semper Fi, Sir! We Are All Marines In This Together, Sir!” decision would produce in Captain Sessions, but the one he got was not at all what he expected:
“OK,” Sessions said, matter-of-factly, even coldly. “That’s it. But don’t feel noble. What you just did made you a sergeant and got you five days at home. If you had decided the other way, you would have been on a plane tomorrow as a private.”
“Yes, Sir,” Moore said, more as a reflex action than a reply.
“This is very serious business, and we can’t take any chances with it whatever. Between now and tomorrow, I will come up with some sort of credible story for you to tell your parents when you go home. But from this moment on, you’re operating under a whole new set of restrictions. For example, you will not tell anyone that you were pulled out of boot camp and made a sergeant, or that you even met me. If anyone asks you any questions, your response will be, simply, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t talk about that.’ Clear?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Just so that I’m sure you understand me, that includes everybody here, including Major Humphrey. Clear?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Sessions got up, walked to the door, and opened it.
“Major Humphrey? May I see you a moment, please, Sir?”
Humphrey came into his office, uneasy, Moore saw, about taking his own chair behind his desk.
“Something I can do for you, Captain?” he asked.
“Yes, Sir. There are several things I’d be grateful if you would do for me. From this point on, you will consider this conversation classified Top SECRET.”
“OK,” Humphrey said. Moore had the feeling that Humphrey had only with effort kept himself from saying ‘Yes, Sir.’ There was now a tone of command, I Will Be Obeyed, in Sessions’s voice that had not been there before.
“Sergeant Moore will not be returning to his platoon,” Sessions said. “I will take his service records jacket with me...”
Battleground Page 7