Call to Arms

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Come in, Captain Banning,” the headshrinker said, when he saw Banning in the outer office.

  Banning was in pajamas and a blue bathrobe, his bare feet in cloth hospital slippers.

  “Good morning, sir,” Banning said. “I was told to report to you.”

  “I’m Dr. Toland,” the headshrinker said. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

  “Why?” Banning challenged. It sounded like a bullshit remark.

  The headshrinker looked at him intently for a moment, and then smiled.

  “Actually, because I thought you would be more interesting than my general run of patients. These go from bed-wetting sailors trying to get out of the service to full commanders experiencing what we call the ‘midlife crisis.’ You’re my first battle-scarred veteran.”

  Banning had to chuckle. “And you’re the one who decides whether or not I’m crazy, right?”

  “If I were in your shoes, Captain, that would annoy me too,” Dr. Toland said. “So let me get that out of the way. I find you to be remarkably stable, psychologically speaking, considering what you’ve gone through.”

  “I just walked in here,” Banning said. “Can you decide that quickly?”

  “Sit down, Banning,” Dr. Toland said. “I’ll get us some coffee, and we can go through the motions.”

  Banning expected a corpsman, or a clerk, to bring coffee, but instead Toland walked out of the office and returned with two china mugs.

  “You take cream and sugar?” he asked.

  “No, black’s fine,” Banning said, taking the cup. “Thank you.”

  “The way it works,” Toland said, “unless somebody walks in here wild-eyed and talking to God, is that I consider the reason an examination was requested; the aberrations, if any, that the patient has manifested; and the stress to which he has been subjected. Taking those one at a time, I’m a little surprised that you’re surprised that they wanted you examined.”

  “I don’t quite follow that,” Banning said.

  “According to General Forrest,” Dr. Toland said, “the duties they have in mind for you are such that they just can’t take the chance that you will either get sick, physically as opposed to mentally; or that you will suddenly decide you’re Napoleon.”

  Banning looked at him sharply. He had not expected to hear General Forrest’s name. He wondered if Toland was telling him the truth or whether this was some kind of a headshrinker’s game. After a moment he concluded that Toland was telling the truth and that he had been discussed by this headshrinker and the Deputy Chief of Staff for Intelligence, USMC. Then he wondered why that had happened. Why was he important enough for Forrest to spend time talking about him to a headshrinker?

  “That seems to surprise you,” Toland said, and Banning knew that was a headshrinker’s question.

  “I’m just a captain,” Banning said.

  “Not for long,” Toland said. “One of the questions on General Forrest’s mind was whether or not it was safe to make you a major.”

  Banning was surprised at that, too, but when he looked at Dr. Toland for an explanation, Toland was going through a stack of papers on his desk. He found what he was looking for, took a pen from a holder, and signed his name on each of four copies. Then he handed one to Banning.

  “The significant part is on the back side,” Toland said.

  It was a Report of Physical Examination. In the “Comments” block on the reverse side there was a single typewritten line and a signature block:

  “Captain Edward J. Banning, USMC, is physically qualified without exception to perform the duties of the office (Major, USMC) to which he has been selected for promotion.

  “Jack B. Toland, Captain, Medical Corps, USNR”

  Banning looked at Toland with mixed surprise and relief. Toland didn’t look old enough to be a captain. (A Naval captain is equivalent to a colonel, USMC.) And he was surprised to learn—in this way—that he was being promoted. But mostly, he was enormously relieved to read the words physically qualified without exception.

  Toland smiled at him.

  “We watched you while we were running you through the examinations,” Toland said. “What I was afraid we might find was a tumor. That’s sometimes the case when there is an unexplained loss of sight.”

  “What was it, then?”

  “I think it falls into the general medical category we refer to as, ‘we don’t know what the hell it is,’” Toland said. “If I had to make a guess, I’d say it was probably either a brain concussion or that the nerves to the eyes were somehow bruised, so to speak, by concussion. I understand you were shelled twice, and pretty badly.”

  “Yes, sir,” Banning said.

  “Well, whatever it was, Major Banning, I think you can stop worrying about it.”

  “I’m astonished at my relief,” Banning blurted. “I suddenly feel—hell, I don’t know—like a wet towel.”

  “That’s to be expected,” Toland said. “What’s unusual is that someone like you would admit it.”

  Banning looked at him, but didn’t reply.

  “You could do me a service, Banning, if you would,” Toland said.

  “Sir?”

  “Other men are going to be blinded,” Toland said. “Some of them are already coming back. It would help me if you could tell me what it’s like.”

  “Frightening,” Banning said. “Very frightening.”

  Toland made a gesture, asking him to go on.

  “And then I got mad,” Banning said. “Furious. Why me? Why hadn’t I been killed?”

  Toland nodded, and then when Banning said nothing else, he asked, “Suicide? Any thoughts of suicide?”

  Banning met Toland’s eyes for a long moment before he replied. “Yes,” he said.

  “Why didn’t you?” Toland asked.

  “I had a cocked pistol in my belt when I took the bandages off,” Banning asked.

  “And do you think you would have—could have—gone through with it?”

  “Yes,” Banning said, simply.

  “Because you didn’t want to face life without sight?”

  “Because I was useless,” Banning said. “I’m a Marine officer.”

  “And didn’t want to be a burden to your family?”

  “The only family I have, aside from the Corps, is a wife. And I left her on the wharf in Shanghai. God knows where she is now.”

  “I knew you were married,” Dr. Toland said. “I didn’t know the circumstances. That makes it a little awkward.”

  “Sir?”

  “My next line was going to be ‘Well, now that we’re through with you, you’re entitled to a thirty-day convalescent leave. A second honeymoon at government expense.’”

  “Christ!” Banning said.

  “What’s worse is that it’s not ‘do you want a convalescent leave?’, but ‘you will take a thirty-day convalescent leave,’” Toland said. “That’s out of my hands. No family anywhere? Cousin, uncle…?”

  “None that I want to see,” Banning said. “I’d really rather go back to duty.”

  Toland shook his head, meaning “that’s out of the question.”

  “The BOQ rooms here are supposed to be the cheapest hotel rooms in New York City,” Toland said. “Dollar and a half a day. Be a tourist for a month.”

  Banning looked at him doubtfully.

  “You’d be able to get a lot of the paperwork out of the way,” Toland pursued. “And get yourself some new uniforms.”

  “Sir?”

  “Our benevolent government, Major Banning,” Dr. Toland said dryly, “is not only going to finally pay you, once they get your service records up to date, but is going to compensate you for the loss of whatever you were forced to leave behind in the Far East. Household goods, car, everything. And I understand the only uniform you have is the one you were wearing when you came in here. You’ll have to make up a list of what you lost, and swear to it.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that,” Banning admitted.

  “Yo
u’ll have a good deal of money coming to you,” Toland said. “And a newly promoted major should have some decent uniforms. Hell, you’ll be able to afford going to Brooks Brothers for them.”

  “Brooks Brothers?” Banning parroted, and then laughed.

  “Is that funny?”

  Banning cocked his head and chuckled.

  “The day the Japanese came ashore in the Philippines,” he said, “I was on a bluff overlooking the beach. There’s a couple of companies of Marines, Fourth Marines, on the beach, with nothing but machine guns. The artillery we were supposed to have, and the bombers, just didn’t show up. There’s half a dozen Japanese destroyers and as many troop ships offshore. And just before the invasion started, a mustang second lieutenant, a kid named McCoy, joined me. He worked for me as a corporal in China, and he was in the Philippines as a courier. So he came running, like the cavalry, with a BAR and loaded down with magazines.” (The Browning Automatic Rifle is a fully automatic, caliber-.30-06 weapon, utilizing 20-round magazines.) “The Japanese started their landing barges for the beach, and the destroyers started to fire ranging rounds. And then McCoy, absolute horror in his voice, says ‘Oh, my God!’ and I looked at him to see what else could possibly be wrong. And he says, ‘My pants! My pants! They’re going to be ruined, and you wouldn’t believe what I paid for them. I bought them in Brooks Brothers!’”

  Toland laughed, and then asked, “What happened to him?”

  “They dropped a five-inch round on us a couple of minutes later, and the next thing I knew I was in the basement of a church. McCoy had carried me there.”

  “Well, when he gets back, the government will replace his pants, too,” Toland said.

  “He’s back,” Banning said. “He was a courier, and he got out.” He chuckled. “And he probably got off the plane with the form for the loss of his trousers already filled out. McCoy is a very bright young man.”

  “If he’s a friend of yours,” Toland said, “you could use part of your leave to go see him.”

  “That’s not possible,” Banning said, shortly.

  Toland’s eyebrows rose but he didn’t respond.

  “If you’re going to be here—and this is a request, Major—I really would like to talk to you some more about your feelings when you thought you were blind.”

  “Sure,” Banning said. “If you think it would be helpful.”

  “It would,” Toland said. “I’d be grateful.”

  Banning nodded.

  “There’s one final thing, Banning,” Toland said. “A little delicate. One of the reasons they give convalescent leave is because of the therapeutic value of sexual intercourse.”

  Banning’s eyebrows rose.

  “Seriously,” Toland said. “And while I am not prescribing a therapeutic visit to a whorehouse…”

  “I take the captain’s point,” Banning said.

  “Good,” Toland said.

  XV

  (One)

  Camp Elliott, California

  3 March 1942

  At the regular morning officer’s call, Colonel Carlson reported the arrival of the 240 carbines from the Army Ordnance Depot, and then turned toward McCoy and called his name.

  McCoy rose to his feet.

  “Sir?”

  “For those of you who haven’t had a chance to meet him,” Carlson said, “this is Lieutenant Ken McCoy. He’s fresh from Quantico, but don’t prejudge him by that. Before he went through Quantico, he was a noncom with the Fourth Marines in Shanghai.”

  McCoy was uncomfortable; and then he was made even more so by First Lieutenant Martin J. Burnes, who turned around to beam his approval of the attention McCoy was being paid by Colonel Carlson. But Carlson was not through.

  “I sent McCoy, rather than someone from S-Four, to get the carbines from the Army,” Carlson said, “because, of all the people around here, I thought he and Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman, another old China Marine, would do the best job of bringing back what I sent them to get—despite the roadblocks I was sure the Army would put in their path. I didn’t think they’d take either ‘no’ or ‘come back in two weeks’ for an answer. If it got down to it, I was sure that they were coming back with the carbines if they had to requisition them at midnight when the Army was asleep.”

  Carlson waited for the expected chuckles, and then went on: “There’s a moral in that, and for those who might miss it, I’ll spell it out: The right men for the job, no matter what the Table of Organization and Equipment says they should be doing. What everybody has to keep in mind is the mission. The rule is to do what has to be done in the most efficient way. Without regard to rank, gentlemen. An officer loses no prestige getting his hands dirty doing what has to be done, so long as what he’s doing helps the Raider mission.”

  McCoy sat down.

  “I’m not through with you, McCoy,” Colonel Carlson said. McCoy stood up again.

  “McCoy, if you had to make sure everybody in the battalion got a quick but thorough familiarization course in the carbine—say, firing a hundred rounds—how would you go about it?”

  The question momentarily floored McCoy, not because he didn’t have a good idea how it should be done, but because lieutenant colonels do not habitually ask second lieutenants for suggestions.

  But he explained what he thought should be done.

  Carlson considered McCoy’s suggestions for a moment, and then asked: “What about an armorer?”

  “Gunny Zimmerman, sir, until he can train somebody to take over,” McCoy said.

  “Okay, Lieutenant, do it.” He then addressed the other officers. “McCoy was in the heavy weapons with the Fourth Marines in China. Until somebody better equipped comes along, he’s our new-and-special-weapons training officer; and until armorers can be trained, Sergeant Zimmerman will handle that.”

  McCoy sat down again, now convinced that Carlson was through with him. He was pleased with what had happened. He agreed that Carlson was making it official that the Raiders were to assign the best-qualified man to the job no matter what his billet was, and it was sort of flattering to have his recommendations about how to set up a familiarization program accepted without change.

  “What do I have to do, McCoy? To keep you on your feet? Put a grenade on your chair?” Carlson said, amused rather than angry.

  “Sorry, sir,” McCoy said, jumping to his feet in embarrassment.

  “We have another problem that McCoy is going to help us solve. Man’s third-oldest weapon, the first two being the rock and the stick, is the knife. From what I’ve noticed, most of our people think that the primary function of a knife is to open beer cans. But actually, in the hands of somebody who knows what he’s doing, a knife is a very efficient tool to kill people. For one thing, it doesn’t make any noise when it’s used. There are a lot of self-appointed experts in knife fighting around. The problem with them is that by and large they are theoreticians rather than practitioners. Very few of them have ever used a knife to take a life.”

  McCoy sensed what was coming, and winced.

  “In addition to that, people being trained in the lethal use of a knife seem to sense that their instructors don’t really know much more about using a knife on another individual than they do; and consequently, they don’t pay a lot of attention to what the instructor’s saying.”

  There were more agreeable chuckles, and Carlson waited for them to subside before he went on.

  “When McCoy was in Shanghai, they called him ‘Killer,’” Carlson said. “And with just cause. One night he was ambushed by four Italian Marines who wanted to rearrange his facial features and turn him into a soprano. They picked on the wrong guy. He had a knife, and before that little discussion was over, two of the Italian Marines were dead, and one other was seriously wounded.”

  There was silence in the room now, and all faces were turned to McCoy. Marty Burnes’s face mirrored his amazement.

  “McCoy was trained in knife fighting by a real expert,” Carlson went on. “Captain Bruce Fairbair
n of the Shanghai Municipal Police. Fairbairn designed a fighting knife—called, for some reason, the Fairbairn. McCoy carries his up his left sleeve strapped hilt down to his wrist so he can get at it in a hurry. Maybe, if you ask him very nicely, he’ll show it to you. But in any event, we’re going to teach our people how to use a knife for something besides opening beer cans, and I announce herewith the appointment of Lieutenant ‘Killer’ McCoy as instructor in knife fighting…in addition to his other duties, of course.”

  Lieutenant Marty Burnes applauded, and after a moment’s hesitation, the others joined in.

  When it had died down, Carlson said, “Now you can sit down, Killer.”

  When the officer’s call was over, McCoy ran after Colonel Carlson, who was walking with Captain Roosevelt toward battalion headquarters.

  “Sir, may I see you a moment?”

  “Sure, Killer,” Carlson said. “But first, why don’t you show Captain Roosevelt your fighting knife?”

  “Sir, I’m not carrying a knife,” McCoy said.

  “If I had the reputation for being a world-class knife fighter, Killer,” Carlson said, “I don’t think anyone would ever catch me without my knife.”

  “Sir,” McCoy blurted, “I’m not a knife fighter.”

  “Ab esse ad posse valet elatio, McCoy,” Carlson said.

  “Sir?”

  “That means, in a very rough rendering, that the facts stand for themselves,” Carlson said.

  “Well, the facts are that I’m not a knife fighter,” McCoy said, firmly.

  Carlson switched to Cantonese.

  “I know that, and you know that,” he said. “But it is true that you did have to kill those Italians with a knife, and that they called you ‘Killer’ in Shanghai. That story will be all over the battalion by noon. And when you start to teach knife fighting, you will have a very attentive audience.”

  “Sir,” McCoy replied in Cantonese, “I don’t know how to teach knife fighting. I only saw Captain Fairbairn once, at a regimental review. He doesn’t know I exist, and he certainly never taught me anything.”

  “He did write a very good book on the subject,” Carlson said. “I happen to have a copy of it. I’ll get it to you in plenty of time for you to read it and adapt it to your purposes before your first class.”