W E B Griffin - Corp 05 - Line of Fire

by Line Of Fire(Lit)

  "Zimmerman, Sir. Gunnery Sergeant Ernest W. Reporting in with one man."

  "My name is Dunn," the kid said. "I'm the OD. Welcome aboard. Now, where the hell did you come from?" He looked at the corporal. "Those the orders?"

  "Yes, Sir," the corporal said and handed them to him.

  He read them and then looked up. "MacNeil," he asked, where's the skipper?"

  "On the flight line, Sir. Him and the exec, both."

  "See if you can find him," Dunn ordered. "Or the exec. One or the other."

  "Aye, aye, Sir."

  "I don't understand your orders," Dunn said to Zimmerman. "A transfer from the 2nd Raider Battalion to an air group seems odd, even in The Marine Corps."

  "Yes, Sir," Zimmerman agreed.

  Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins, a tall, thin, sharp featured man in his thirties, appeared a few minutes later, trailed by Captain Charles M. Galloway. Both were wearing sweat-darkened cotton flying suits. Dawkins also wore a fore-and-aft cap and a Smith & Wesson.38 Special revolver in a shoulder holster, while Galloway had on a utility cap that looked three sizes too small for him, and a.45 Colt automatic hung from a web pistol belt.

  Zimmerman and McCoy popped to attention. Dawkins looked at them and smiled.

  Stand at ease, Gunny," he said, and then asked Dunn.

  "Where's MacNeil?"

  ""I sent him to look for you, Sir. These two just reported in." He handed Dawkins the orders.

  Dawkins read them and made very much the same observation Dunn had: "I don't understand this. A transfer from the 2nd Raider Battalion to the 21st MAG?" He handed the orders to Galloway and looked quizzically at Zimmerman.

  "It wasn't my idea, Colonel," Sergeant McCoy volunteered.

  "I didn't ask to come to no fucking air group!"

  "Shut your mouth!" Zimmerman said as Galloway opened his mouth to offer a similar suggestion.

  Colonel Dawkins coughed.

  "We've met, haven't we, Gunny?" Galloway said to Zimmerman.

  "Yes, Sir. I went down to fix your Brownings when you was at Ewa."

  "I thought that was you," Galloway said. "Oblensky at work, Colonel."

  "Oh?"

  "The gunny was good enough, in exchange for a portable generator, to make our Brownings work. I remember Oblensky saying at the time, `We need him more than the Raiders do."' "Oh," Dawkins said. "And was Sergeant Oblensky right, would you say, Captain Galloway?"

  "I think Sergeant Oblensky has managed to convince somebody that we need him, both of them, more than the Raiders, Sir."

  "Persuasive fellow, Sergeant Oblensky," Dawkins said. "I wondered what happened to that generator. One moment it was there, and the next, it had vanished into thin air."

  "On the other hand, Colonel, the gunny here, and his right hand man, I guess, did make those machine guns work."

  "That's a Jesuitical argument, Captain, that the end justifies the means," Dawkins said, trying without much success to keep a smile off his face. He turned to Sergeant McCoy. "Did I hear you say, Sergeant, that if things were left up to you, you would not be here in the fucking air group?" `No, Sir. I mean, I didn't ask for this, Sir." Well, we certainly don't want anyone in our fucking air group who doesn't want to be in our fucking air group, do we, Captain Galloway?"

  "No, Sir."

  "Since Sergeant Oblensky, Captain Galloway, is your man, I will leave the resolution of this situation in your very capable hands."

  "Aye, aye, Sir," Galloway said.

  "Might I suggest, however, that since the sergeant doesn't want to be in our fucking air group, he might be happier in the 1st Raider Battalion. Only the other day, Colonel Edson happened to mention in passing that he had certain personnel problems."

  "That thought ran through my mind, Sir," Captain Galloway said.

  "How about that, Sergeant?" Colonel Dawkins asked solicitously. "How you would like to go to the Raider Battalion here on Guadalcanal? The Fucking First, as they are fondly known."

  "I'd like that fine, Sir," Sergeant McCoy said happily. "I'm a fucking Raider." Colonel Dawkins was suddenly struck with another coughing fit. Motioning for Lieutenant Dunn to follow him, he quickly left the tent; and a moment later they were followed by Captain Galloway, similarly afflicted.

  Colonel Dawkins was first to regain control.

  "'I didn't ask to come to no fucking air group,"' he accurately mimicked Sergeant McCoy's indignant tone, "'I'm a fucking Raider."' That triggered additional laughter. Then there was just time for the three officers to hear, inside the tent, Sergeant Zimmerman's angry voice... "When I tell you to shut your fucking mouth, asshole, you shut your fucking mouth."... when another sound, the growling of a siren, filled the air.

  All three of them were still smiling, however, when they ran to the revetments and strapped themselves into their Wildcats.

  [Two]

  ROYAL AUSTRALIAN NAVY COASTWATCHER ESTABLISHMENT

  TOWNSVILLE, QUEENSLAND

  6 SEPTEMBER 1942 Staff

  Sergeant Allan Richardson, USMC, senior staff noncommissioned officer of USMC Special Detachment 14, did not at first recognize the single deplaning passenger of the U.S. Navy R4D as a field grade officer of the USMC.

  Although Sergeant Richardson was himself grossly out of the prescribed uniform-he was wearing khaki trousers, an open-necked woolen shirt, a Royal Australian Navy duffel coat, and a battered USMC campaign hat-he had been conditioned by nine years in the prewar Corps to expect Marine officers, especially field-grade Marine officers, to look like officers.

  The character who stepped off the airplane was wearing soiled and torn utilities, boondockers, no cover, and he was carrying what looked to Richardson's experienced eye like a U.S. Navy Medical Corps insulated container for fresh human blood. A web belt hung cowboy-style around his waist, and two ammunition pouches and a.45 in a leather holster were suspended from it.

  Richardson stared at the insulated containers until he was positive-red crosses in white squares were still visible under a thin coat of green paint-that the containers had almost certainly been stolen. By then the character was almost at Richardson's Studebaker President automobile. When Richardson looked at him, he saw for the first time that not only was USMC stenciled on the breast of the filthy utilities, but that a major's golden oakleaf was pinned to each collar point.

  At that point Richardson did what all his time in the prewar Corps had conditioned him to do: He quickly rose from behind the wheel, came to attention, and saluted crisply.

  "Good afternoon, Sir!"

  "Thank Christ, a Marine," Major Jake Dillon, USMCR said with a vague gesture in the direction of his forehead that could only kindly be called a return of Sergeant Richardson's salute.

  Dillon, a muscular, trim, tanned man in his middle thirties, opened the rear door of the Studebaker, carefully placed the ex-fresh human blood container on the seat, and closed the door.

  "How may I help the Major, Sir?" Richardson asked.

  "I'm here to see Major Banning," Dillon said as he walked around to the passenger side of the car and got in.

  "Who, Sir?" Richardson had heard Dillon clearly. Indeed, Major Ed Banning himself was the one who sent him to the airport when they heard the R4D overhead. But as a general operating principle, the personnel of USMC Special Detachment 14 denied any knowledge of the detachment or its personnel.

  "It's all right, Sergeant. My name is Dillon. I'm a friend of Major Banning's." When he detected a certain hesitancy on Sergeant Richardson's part, Dillon added: "For Christ's sake, do I look like a Japanese spy?"

  "No, Sir," Richardson said, chuckling. "And you don't look like a candy-ass from MacArthur's headquarters, either. The Major really hates it when they show up here." Dillon smiled.

  "I'll bet," he said. "I'll also bet that you would be able to put your hands on a cold beer to save the life of an old China Marine, wouldn't you?"

  "I don't have any with me in the car, Major, but I'll drive like hell to where you can get one."
r />   "Bless you, my son," Dillon said, making the sign of the cross.

  "That wasn't the regular courier plane, was it?" Richardson asked a minute or so later as he headed for the Coastwatcher Establishment. But it was really a statement rather than a question.

  No, that was a medical evacuation plane from Guadalcanal', headed for Melbourne. I asked them to drop me off."

  "No cold beer on Guadalcanal?"

  "No cold beer, and not much of anything else, either," Dillon said. "The goddamn Navy sailed off with most of our rations still on the transports. We've been living on what we took away from the Japs."

  "Yeah, we heard about that," Richardson said.

  When Major Edward F. Banning, USMC, Commanding Officer of USMC Special Detachment 14, glanced into the unit's combined mess hall and club, he saw Major Dillon sprawled in a chair at the table reserved for the unit's half dozen officers. He was working on his second bottle of beer.

  Sergeant Richardson, smiling, holding a bottle of beer, was leaning against the wall.

  When Banning walked into the room, Richardson pushed himself off the wall and looked a little uncomfortable.

  "I'm afraid to ask what you've got in the blood container, Jake," Banning said.

  "There was film in it," Dillon replied. "Richardson put it in your refrigerator for me."

  "What kind of film?"

  "Still and 16mm. Eyemo."

  "That's not what I meant."

  "Of heroic Marines battling the evil forces of the Empire of Japan. With a cast of thousands. Produced and directed by yours truly. Being rushed to your neighborhood newsreel theater. "

  "You may find it hard to believe, looking at him, Sergeant

  Richardson," Banning said, "but this scruffy, unwashed, unshaven officer was once famous for being the best-turned-out Marine sergeant in the Fourth Marines."

  "Don't give me a hard time, Banning," Dillon said.

  "We was just talking about the Fourth, Sir," Richardson said. "We know people, but we wasn't there at the same time."

  "How are you, Jake?" Banning asked, walking to him and shaking hands.

  "You look like hell."

  "I was hungry, dirty, and thirsty. Now I'm just hungry and dirty, thanks to Sergeant Richardson."

  "Well, I'll feed you, but I won't give you a bath."

  "You got something I can wear until I get to Melbourne? My stuff is there."

  "Sure. Utilities? Or something fancier?"

  "Utilities would be fine," Dillon said.

  "See what you can do, Richardson, will you?" Banning ordered. "Major Dillon will be staying in my quarters."

  "Aye, aye, Sir," Richardson said. "You want to give me that.45, Major, I'll get it cleaned for you." Dillon hesitated, then stood up and unfastened his pistol belt.

  "Bless you again, my son," he said.

  "Anytime, Major," Sergeant Richardson said with a smile and then left.

  Dillon looked at Banning.

  "I think I better go have that bath now, while I'm still on my feet."

  "You sick, Jake, or just tired?"

  "I hope to Christ I'm just tired. What you can catch on that fucking island starts with crabs and lice and gets worse.

  They've got bugs nobody ever heard of, not to mention malaria."

  "If you want a bath, " Banning said, as he led Dillon, still clutching his beer bottle, from the mess hall, "I'll ask Feldt. All I have is a shower."

  "Shower's fine. How is Commander Charming?"

  "He might even be glad to see you, as a matter of fact," Banning said. "You didn't show up here in a dress uniform, taking notes, and telling him how to run things."

  "Speak of the devil," Dillon said as he saw Commander Feldt coming down the corridor. He raised his voice slightly.

  "Well, there's the pride of the Royal Australian Navy."

  "Hello, Dillon," Feldt said, offering his hand. There was even the suggestion of a smile on his face. "How are you"" It was not the reception Dillon expected. He wouldn't have been surprised if Feldt completely ignored him, and even less surprised if Feldt was grossly insulting and colorfully profane.

  "Can't complain," Dillon said.

  "You look like something the sodding cat dragged in." Commander Feldt then disappeared.

  Three minutes later, in Banning's room, he surprised Dillon again. The shower curtain parted and a hand holding a bottle of scotch appeared.

  Have a taste of this, Dillon," Feldt said. "It might not kill the sodding worms, but it'll give them a sodding headache."

  "Bless you, my son," Dillon said.

  "Sod you, Dillon," Feldt said, but there was unmistakable friendliness and warmth in his voice.

  When Dillon came out of the shower, Feldt was sprawled on Banning's bed, holding the bottle of scotch on his stomach.

  Banning was sitting on his desk.

  "So how are things on Guadalcanal?" Feldt asked.

  I am probably, Dillon realized, the first man he-or Banning, for that matter-has talked to who has been on the island.

  "What I really can't figure is why the Japs haven't gotten their act together and thrown us off," Dillon said.

  Feldt grunted.

  "Are those stories true about the Navy sailing away with the heavy artillery, et cetera, or are you sodding Marines just crying in your sodding beer again?".

  "They're true," Dillon said. He walked naked to the bed, took the bottle from Feldt, and drank a swallow from the neck.

  "If it wasn't for the food the Japs left behind, the First Marine Division would be starving. And if it wasn't for the engineer equipment the Japs left behind, Henderson Field simply wouldn't exist. The fucking Navy sailed off with almost all of our engineer equipment still aboard the transports." Feldt looked at him a moment and then swung his feet off the bed.

  "Cover your sodding ugly nakedness, Dillon," he said. "I asked one of the lads to fix you a steak."

  "Thank you," Dillon said.

  "Just for the record, you have the ugliest, not to mention the smallest-I will not dignify it by calling it a `penis'-pisser I have ever seen on a full-grown man."

  "Sod you, Eric," Dillon said.

  But for some inexplicable reason, I am glad to see you.

  "What are you doing here, anyway?"

  "Flacking," Dillon said as he pulled an undershirt over his head.

  "What in the sweet name of Jesus is `flacking'?"

  "I am a flack," Dillon replied. "What flacks do is `flack,' hence `flacking."

  "What is this demented sodding compatriot of yours rambling about, Banning."

  "I'm a press agent, Eric," Dillon said. "My contribution to the war effort will be to encourage red-blooded American youth to rush to the Marine recruiter and shame their families, friends, and neighbors into buying war bonds. That's what flacks do."

  "I don't think he's trying to pull my sodding leg, Banning, but I haven't the faintest sodding idea what he's talking about."

  "Neither do I," Banning said.

  "I'm on my way home with six wounded heroes, two of whom I have yet to cast," Dillon explained as he pulled utility trousers on. "Said wounded heroes will be put on display all over America, with a suitable background of flags and stirring patriotic airs."

  "You don't sound very enthusiastic about it, Jake," Banning said.

  "I almost got out of it," Dillon said. "I almost had Vandergrift in a corner." Major General Alexander Archer Vandergrift, USMC, was Commanding General, First Marine Division.

  "You almost had Vandergrift in a corner?" Banning asked incredulously.

  "I went and asked him if I could have a company," Dillon replied and then stopped. The alcohol is getting to me, he thought. I'm running off at the mouth.

  "And?" Banning pursued.

  "He said, `Thanks very much, but captains command companies and you're a major." And I said, `I would be happy to take a bust to captain, or for that matter back to the ranks." And?" He said he would think about it, and I really think he did.

  B
ut then we got a fucking radio from Headquarters, USMC.

  The Assistant Commandant is personally interested in this fucking wounded-hero war bond tour, it seems, and he wanted to know what was holding it up. And that blew me out of the fucking water."

  "It's important, Jake," Banning said, more because he felt sorry for Dillon than because he believed in the importance of war bond tours.