Authority:
Letter, Office of the Secretary of the Navy, Subject, “Establishment of U.S. Marine Corps Special Detachment 16.” 8 Apr 1942.
Verbal Order, BrigGen F.Pickering, USMCR 10 Feb 1943.
BY DIRECTION OF COLONEL WATERSON:
Official:
John Marston Moore
1st Lt John Marston Moore, USMCR
Adjutant
* * *
Staff Sergeant Krantz had seen the orders before. Five days earlier Staff Sergeant Koffler and his wife had passed through San Diego. Koffler looked as if he had left boot camp about that long ago, and his wife was an Aussie girl who looked as if she was going to be a mother in the next five days.
And now the gunny on the same orders had apparently shown up.
“You should have called me, Martino,” Sergeant Krantz said.
“It was midnight, Sergeant,” Martino said. “I figured you’d be in the sack.”
“Anytime you get something out of the ordinary like this, you call me. Understand?”
“You got it, Sarge.”
“You got him into the hospital okay?” Krantz asked.
“Hospital? No. He said he was going into ’Diego and see if he could find a poker game.”
“What?”
“I told him to check back at 0900 Monday, by then his tickets would probably be ready, and he could draw a partial pay, and I asked him if he wanted a ride to the Staff NCO quarters. And he said no, he was going to catch the bus, go into ’Diego, and see if he could find a poker game.”
“Jesus Christ, I don’t believe you,” Krantz said. “Didn’t you read the goddamned orders? This guy is either an escaped POW—which seems likely, since he doesn’t have his service records—or he was doing something behind the enemy’s lines.”
“So?”
Krantz walked to the wall of the office, took down a clipboard, and threw it to Corporal Martino. “You are supposed to read the goddamned thing every day. If you ever did, you would know people like that get special treatment. First, they go to the hospital, then they go to some rest hotel in West Virginia. Jesus, Martino!”
Staff Sergeant Krantz picked up the telephone and dialed a number from memory. “Sir, sorry to bother you at this hour, and on Sunday, but we have a little problem down here. I think you had better come down here, sir.”
Captain Roger Marshutz, an enormous man with a temper to match, arrived at the office ten minutes later. After hearing what had happened, he delivered a verbal chastisement to Corporal Martino that Martino would remember for a long time.
Then he set about solving the problem. He personally visited both the officer of the guard and the Shore Patrol Detachment duty officer and explained the predicament. Both officers were sympathetic and promised to do their very best to locate gunny Sergeant Zimmerman. He was not, of course, to be arrested. You don’t arrest somebody who just got out of a POW camp, or wherever the hell he had been, and throw him in the back of a jeep. Whoever found him was to politely inform Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman that a little problem had come up, and would he please come with them and help them to straighten it out?
Captain Marshutz waited around the office until 1330, in the vain hope that Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman would be located and delivered to him. Then he went to his quarters, with orders to summon him immediately when anything came up.
Staff Sergeant Krantz waited around the office until 1630, in the same vain hope. Then he went to his quarters. Before he left, he informed Corporal Martino that he didn’t give a good goddamn that he had previously promised Corporal Martino the day off, he would stay there for fucking ever, if necessary, until Gunnery Zimmerman was located.
Both Captain Marshutz and Staff Sergeant Krantz were back at the office at 0730 Monday morning. With a little bit of luck, they told themselves, Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman, in compliance with that idiot Martino’s instructions, just might show up at 0900 to pick up his tickets and partial pay.
Oh nine hundred came and passed. And so did 0930 and 1000. At 1025, just as Captain Marshutz was about to pick up the telephone and inform Lieutenant Colonel Oswald that they were having a little problem, and he thought he had better discuss it personally with the Colonel, Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman walked into the office, looked at Staff Sergeant Krantz, burped, and announced he had been told that by now he could pick up his tickets and draw a partial pay.
“Your name is Zimmerman, Gunny?” Captain Marshutz asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you mind telling me where you’ve been?”
“No, sir.”
“You don’t want to tell me?”
“Sir, the Captain asked if I would mind telling him.”
“So tell me.”
“Sir, I went downtown for a while, sir, and then I tried to get a hotel, but they wanted two dollars and fifty cents, so I told myself fuck that, sir, and come back out here and got a bunk in the transient Staff NCO quarters.”
“You’ve been in the Staff NCO quarters all this time?”
“Yes, sir. I told that fucking feather merchant in charge of quarters to wake me up so’s I could be here at 0900, and the fucker didn’t do it. If the Captain is pissed because I’m late, I respectfully ask the Captain to get that little shit in here and ask him didn’t I tell him to wake me up so’s I could be here on time.”
“I’ll take your word for it, Gunny,” Captain Marshutz said. “But there is a little problem.”
“Yes, sir?”
“There’s a special program for men like yourself, recently escaped POW’s…”
“Begging the Captain’s pardon, sir. I was never no POW.”
“But you were behind the enemy’s lines?”
“Yes, sir. Twice. First, on the ’Canal, with the Second Raiders, and the last time we was on Mindanao.”
“In the Philippines?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you escaped from the Philippines?”
“Begging the Captain’s pardon, sir. Not escaped. They sent us in on a submarine, and then they sent the submarine back and it brung us out. What was the name of that fucking pigboat? The Sunfish. That’s what it was, the Sunfish.”
“Well, welcome home, Gunny.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“As I was saying before, Gunny, there’s a special program for men like yourself….”
“Yes, sir.”
“First, we run you through the hospital, to make sure you’re shipshape, physically, and then you go to a hotel in West Virginia—all expenses paid, of course—for a month.”
“No, sir.”
“‘No, sir’?”
“Sir, begging the Captain’s pardon, the General told me the first thing I do is go to Washington and check in with Major Banning.”
“Well, perhaps ‘the General’ wasn’t aware of this program, Gunny. It’s relatively recent.”
“With all respect, sir, ‘An order received will be obeyed unless countermanded by an officer of senior grade.’ The General told me to go to Washington and check in with Major Banning. Them’s my orders, sir. With all respect, sir.”
Christ, he memorized that.
“Sir, I got Major Banning’s number, if the Captain would like to check with him,” Gunny Zimmerman offered.
“Perhaps that would be a good idea,” Captain Marshutz said.
“Sir, Liberty Three, twenty-nine zero eight,” Zimmerman said. “That’s in Washington, D.C.”
He memorized that, too.
A minute later, Staff Sergeant Krantz handed Captain Marshutz the telephone. “It’s ringing, sir,” he said.
The telephone was answered on the second ring.
“Liberty 3-2908.”
“With whom am I speaking, please?”
“Will you tell me who you wish to speak to, please?”
“Major Banning,” Captain Marshutz said, a hint of exasperation in his voice. He added “please” as a latecoming afterthought.
“Sir, there is no one
of that name at this number.”
“Gunny, they say they don’t have a Major Banning.”
“Bullshit!” Gunny Zimmerman said. “I never forget no numbers. With respect, sir, you got the right number?”
“What is it again, Gunny?”
“Sir, Liberty Three, twenty-nine zero eight,” Zimmerman said.
“Is this Liberty 3-2908?”
“Yes, it is. Who’s calling, please?”
“There is no Major Banning at this number?”
“That is correct.”
Captain Marshutz looked at Zimmerman and shook his head.
“Sir, tell them the call is from me,” Zimmerman said.
“Would Major Banning be there if he knew it was Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman calling?” Captain Marshutz asked very politely, which was his manner when his temper was on the verge of eruption.
“Are you Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman?”
“Sir, if that don’t work, ask for Captain McCoy,” Zimmerman said.
“Have you a Captain McCoy?” Marshutz asked.
“Captain Kenneth R. McCoy,” Zimmerman amplified.
“Captain Kenneth R. McCoy,” Marshutz parroted.
“Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman is calling for either Major Banning or Captain McCoy. Is that correct?”
“That is absolutely correct.”
“Hold on, please.”
There was the sound of another telephone ringing, just once, and then another voice came on the line.
“Yes?”
“With whom am I speaking, please?” Captain Marshutz asked politely.
“Whom do you wish to speak to?”
“Either a Major Banning or a Captain McCoy.”
“With regard to what? Who are you, please?”
“My name is Captain Roger Marshutz, USMC,” Marshutz said, as he sensed his temper going from simmer to boil. “I’m calling with regard to a goddamned gunnery sergeant named Zimmerman. Does that satisfy your goddamned curiosity?”
“It helps a great deal, as a matter of fact. I’m always happy to chat on the telephone with a fellow Marine, even one who uses language unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. But, pray tell me, how can I help you, Captain?”
“With whom am I speaking?”
“My name is Rickabee, Captain. Brigadier General Rickabee, USMC.”
Oh, shit!
“Sir, I was asked to call this number, by Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman, Ernest W….”
“Is there some sort of problem with the gunny? Where are you?”
“Marine Barracks, San Diego, sir.”
“And he’s there, with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Put him on the phone, please. I want his side of the story first.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Marshutz handed the phone to Zimmerman. “General Rickabee wishes to speak to you.”
“I’ll be goddamned! General!” Zimmerman said to himself, then spoke into the telephone. “Sir, the General told me to call Major Banning if I ran into trouble. Sorry to bother you, sir.”
“What sort of trouble are you in, Gunny?”
“Sir, they want to put me in the fucking hospital and then send me to some fucking hotel someplace. I told them I couldn’t do that.”
“Welcome home, Zimmerman. When did you get in?”
“Sir, about 2300 Saturday.”
“Put the Captain back on, will you, please?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Zimmerman handed the telephone back to Captain Marshutz.
“Yes, sir, General?”
“It is my desire, Captain, that you (a) have Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman on the next available airplane to Washington; (b) telephone the number he gave you after he has actually taken off, prepared to give me his ETA in Washington.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“As far as this rest hotel business is concerned, Gunny Zimmerman considers himself to be taking a rest whenever no one is actually shooting at him. He’s one hell of Marine, and we’ll take care of entertaining him here.”
“Yes, sir.”
The line went dead.
Marshutz looked at Zimmerman. “Curiosity overwhelms me, Gunny,” he said. “Just who is General Rickabee?”
“Sir, with respect, I don’t think the Captain has the fucking need to know.”
“You’re probably fucking right,” Captain Marshutz said, and turned to Staff Sergeant Krantz. “Karl, get the gunny on the next flight out of here. I don’t care who gets bumped to get him a seat.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“And the minute he’s airborne, call that number he gave…”
“Sir, Liberty Three, twenty-nine zero eight,” Zimmerman said.
“…and give them the ETA.”
[TWO]
Main Gate
U.S. Naval Air Station
Pensacola, Florida
1215 6 March 1943
The galling thing about this chickenshit little sonofabitch, Captain James B. Weston, USMCR, thought as he sat fuming in the Buick waiting for the duty officer to show up after he was summoned by the main gate guard, is that he’s a Marine, not a sailor. You’d think a Marine would cut a fellow Marine a little slack.
The whole trip had not gone well, beginning with the reason he was making it in the first place: Lieutenant (j.g.) Janice Hardison, NC, USNR, had told him, firmly, that she had the duty, midnight to eight, Friday and Saturday, and that he should not come up to Philadelphia because there wouldn’t be time for them to do anything if he did.
So he had driven down, leaving the Greenbrier as early as he could on Friday afternoon, and driving through the night. During the journey, he had been stopped twice for speeding. One of these, early that morning in Georgia, had seen him forking over fifty-five dollars to a justice of the peace roused from his bed by the deputy sheriff who had arrested him.
He had arrived in Pensacola a few minutes before seven, and had decided the smart thing to do would be to get a room at the San Carlos Hotel before driving out to the air station. There would, of course, be a telephone in the room, over which he could conveniently contact Major Avery R. Williamson, USMCR.
He had to practically beg the manager to give him a room, and the only thing left was a two-room suite at $32.50 a night, a luxury he needed like a hole in the head. And then, a little later when he got on the telephone, the air station operator refused to put him through to Major Williamson’s quarters, saying that he would have to telephone Major Williamson’s office, which, since it was Saturday, might be open after 0800.
So then he stretched out on the bed to wait for 0800, and wakened at 1200, whereupon he had called again, requested Major Williamson’s office number, and listened as the number rang and rang and rang and no one answered.
The thing to do, obviously, was go out to the goddamned air station and run down Major Williamson by whatever means proved to be necessary. Seeing Major Williamson was important.
He got as far as the main gate, expecting to get waved through after a crisp salute from the guard. But instead he was waved to a halt by a five-foot-two, 120-pound Marine PFC, who asked him what his business was at the Pensacola Naval Air Station.
“I’m just visiting,” Weston had told him.
The PFC had then asked him for his identification card and his pass, or orders.
He had only his ID card.
Weston more or less patiently explained that he was on temporary duty at the Greenbrier Hotel, which was serving as a rest and recuperation facility for personnel returning from overseas, and didn’t have a pass because it was the policy at the Greenbrier that passes were not needed to leave the place on weekends.
Clearly convinced that he had at the minimum apprehended an AWOL officer, and perhaps even a Japanese spy intent upon infiltrating the air base to blow up the aircraft on the flight lines, the Marine PFC showed Weston where he should park the car until the duty officer arrived. Then he stood in the door of the guard shack, his eyes never leaving We
ston for more than five seconds. Should Weston attempt to drive off, he was obviously prepared to take any necessary action, like shooting him with his .45.
The duty officer, a lieutenant (j.g.) who was not wearing the golden wings of a Naval Aviator, appeared ten minutes later. He eyed Weston warily, while Weston repeated his tale about being at the Greenbrier, and not needing a pass because no passes were required.
“Sir, it’s my understanding that the Greenbrier Hotel has been taken over as sort of a hospital for personnel who have escaped, or have otherwise been returned from POW status.”
“That’s correct.”
“You were a POW?” the j.g. asked.
“Yes,” Weston said, deciding that this was not the time to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing else. “Lieutenant, if you don’t believe me, you can call the Greenbrier. I’m sure they will tell you I am who I’m telling you I am.”
And if he calls the Greenbrier, and I can’t get Commander Bolemann on the line, he is going to be told that while I am who I say I am, the No Pass Required rule is for the “Local Area Only” and does not include Pensacola, Florida.
“Sir, what are you doing at Pensacola?”
“I’m carrying a message to Major Avery R. Williamson,” Weston replied, “from a mutual friend.”
The way things are going, he’ll ask to see the message, and I will really be fucked up. Colonel Dawkins said I was to personally give it to Major Williamson and to make sure nobody else sees it. So I will obey the Colonel, which means I will have to tell this clown, “Ooops, I seem to have misplaced the message.”
* * *
MAG-21, Ewa
FPO San Francisco
13 Feb 43
Major Avery R. Williamson
Pensacola NAS, Florida
Dear Dick:
In Danger's Path Page 24