W E B Griffin - Corp 05 - Line of Fire

by Line Of Fire(Lit)

  "Bullshit," Dillon said. "They have civilians in uniform who could do as well as I can. I'm a Marine. Or I like to think I am."

  "Yours not to reason why, old sod," Feldt said, "yours but to ride into the sodding valley of the pracks."

  "Flacks," Dillon corrected him automatically.

  "Flacks, pracks, flicks, pricks, whatever," Feldt said cheerfully. "You about ready to eat?"

  "I'm a prick of a flack, who used to be a flack for the flicks," Dillon heard himself say.

  Jesus, I'm drunk!

  "Actually, old sod, I would say you're a prickless prack," Feldt said. And then he laughed. It was the first time Dillon could remember hearing him laugh.

  The steak was not a New York Strip, charred on the outside and pink in the middle. It was thin, fried to death, and (to put a good face on it) chewy. But it covered the plate.

  And it was the first fresh meat Jake had in his mouth for six weeks. He ate all of it with relish.

  "Jesus, that was good!"

  "Another, old sod?" Feldt asked.

  "No, thanks."

  "You haven't told us what you're doing here, Jake," Banning said.

  "Well, I'm on my way home. I thought maybe you'd want me to call your wife-" Dillon stopped abruptly.

  Too late, Dillon remembered that Mrs. Edward F. Banning did not get out of Shanghai before the Japanese came. She was a White Russian refugee whom Banning had married just before the Fourth Marines were transferred from Shanghai to the Philippines.

  You're an asshole, Dillon, and don't blame it on the booze.

  "-Shit! Ed, I'm sorry!" he went on, regret in his voice. "That just slipped out."

  "Forget it," Banning said evenly.

  "Or get you something in the States," Dillon went on somewhat lamely.

  "Send us Pickering back," Feldt said. "If you want to do something useful."

  "Amen," Banning said, as if anxious to get off the subject of Mrs. Edward F. Banning. "The minute he left, the assholes in MacArthur's headquarters held a party, and then they started working on us."

  "That figures," Dillon said. "I'll make a point to see him, talk to him."

  "I don't think it will do any good," Banning said.

  "I don't know. It sodding well can't do any sodding harm," Feldt said. "That would be a service, old sod."

  "Consider it done," Dillon said. "He still works for Frank Knox. Hot radios from the Secretary of the Navy often work miracles. Is there anything in particular?"

  "Ask him to get that sodding asshole Willoughby off our back," Feldt said.

  Newly promoted Brigadier General Charles A. Willoughby, USA, was MacArthur's intelligence officer. He was one of the "Bataan Gang," i.e., the men who escaped by PT Boat with MacArthur from the Philippines.

  "Since he is the theater intelligence officer," Banning said, "Willoughby feels that all intelligence activities should come under him. In his shoes I would probably feel the same way.

  But it really isn't Willoughby who's the problem so much as the people he has working for him."

  "Willoughby," Feldt insisted, "is a sodding asshole, and so are the people working for him."

  "They want us to route our intelligence through SWPOA," Banning said. (MacArthur's official title was Supreme Commander, South West Pacific Ocean Areas.) "So Willoughby can look important," Feldt said.

  `Do you?" `Yes and no," Banning said. "When possible, the Coast watchers communicate with CINCPAC Radio directly. We monitor everything, of course. So if our people can't get through to them, we relay to CINCPAC. If that happens, we send a copy to SWPOA." (CINCPAC: Commander in Chief, Pacific, the Navy's headquarters at Pearl Harbor.) "Willoughby wants our people to communicate with SWPOA, and he'll pass it on to CINCPAC," Feldt said. "We have been ignoring the asshole, of course."

  "So far successfully," Banning said. "But, oh how we miss Captain Pickering. He could get Willoughby off our back."

  "Speaking of `our people,"' Dillon said, remembering the two boys on Buka. It was one thing, he thought, to have your ass in the line of fire in a line company on Guadalcanal-having your ass in the line of fire was what being a Marine was really all about-and something entirely different to be one of two Marines on an enemy-held island with no chance of being relieved.

  "Good lads," Feldt said. "Every time I want to say something unpleasant about you sodding Marines, I remind myself there is an exception to the rule."

  "So far they're all right, Jake," Banning said. "All right being defined as the Japs haven't caught them yet. Buka, right now, is probably the most important station."

  "How are they?" Dillon asked. When neither Feldt nor Banning immediately replied, he went on: "I'm headed for the Fourth General Hospital. Barbara's there. She'll ask me about Joe."

  "Lie to her," Feldt said. "That would be kindest." Lieutenant (J.G.)

  Barbara T. Cotter, NNCR, was engaged to First Lieutenant Joseph L.

  Howard, USMCR, who Was now on Buka with Sergeant Steven M. Koffler.

  "Why are you going to the Fourth General?" Banning asked.

  "I have four wounded heroes; I need two more. I'm going to hold an audition at the hospital to fill the cast. Don't change the subject. Tell me about Joe and Koffler. I don't want to lie to Barbara."

  "They are on the edge of starvation," Feldt said. "They are almost certainly infested with a wide variety of intestinal parasites. The odds are ten to one they have malaria, and probably two or three other tropical diseases. They have no medicine.

  For that matter they don't even have salt. They are already two weeks past the last date they could possibly be expected to escape detection by the Japanese."

  "Jesus!" Dillon said.

  "Tell Barbara that if you like," Feldt said in a level voice.

  "What about getting them out?"

  "Out of the sodding question, old sod," Feldt said.

  "Well, what the hell are you going to do when they are caught?" Dillon asked angrily. "You just said-Banning just said-that Buka is, right now, the most important station."

  "When Buka goes down, Jake," Banning said, "we will start parachuting in replacement teams. The moment we're sure it's down, we start dropping people. Giving Willoughby his due, he has promised us a B-17 within two hours when we ask for one."

  "A B-17? Why a B-17?"

  "Because when we jumped Joe and Koffler in there-Christ, two Jap fighter bases are on Buka-we used an unarmed transport. It was shot down. Fortunately, after Joe and Koffler jumped.

  "And nothing can be done?"

  "I don't know. We haven't given it much thought," Feldt said, thickly sarcastic. "But perhaps someone of your vast expertise in these areas has a solution we haven't been able to come up, with ourselves."

  "Eric, I'm sorry you took that the wrong way," Dillon said.

  Feldt didn't reply; but a moment later he stood up and leaned over to refresh Dillon's glass of scotch.

  "What makes you think you ran get a replacement team on the ground?"

  Dillon asked after a long silence.

  "The operative word is `teams,' plural," Banning replied.

  "We have six, ready to go. We will jump them in one at a time until one becomes operational. And then we'll have other teams standing by to go in when the operating team goes down."

  "Jesus Christ!" Dillon said.

  "If we're not able to inform CINCPAC and Guadalcanal when the Japanese bombers take off from Rabaul and the bases near it, our fighters on Henderson Field and on carriers will not be in the air in time to deflect them. That would see a lot of dead Marines," Banning said. "Viewed professionally, the mathematics make sense. It is better to suffer a couple of dozen losses to save a couple of hundred, a couple of thousand, lives.

  The only trouble is that I-Eric and I-know the kids whose lives we're going to expend for the common good. That makes it a little difficult, personally." Dillon raised his eyes to Banning's.

  "So tell Barbara the truth, Jake. Tell her that we continue to hear from Joe at least o
nce a day, and that so far as we know he's all right."

  "Speaking of the truth, old sod," Feldt said, "Banning told me a wild tale. He claims you've dipped that miniature wick of yours into most of the famous honey pots in Hollywood." The subject of Buka was closed, and Jake knew that he could not reopen it.

  "I cannot tell a lie, Commander Feldt," Dillon said. "The story's true."

  [Three]

  UNITED STATES NAVAL HOSPITAL

  PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

  0930 HOURS 6 SEPTEMBER 1942

  "May I help you, Lieutenant?" Lieutenant (J.G.) Joanne McConnell, NNC, asked.

  "We're looking for Sergeant Moore, John M.," McCoy said.

  "They told us he was on this ward."

  "He is, but-this isn't my idea-the rule is no visitors on the ward before noon."

  "This is official business," McCoy said.

  "Nice try," Lieutenant McConnell said. "But I don't think Commander Jensen would buy it. Maybe you, but not the lady.

  Commander Jensen runs a tight ship."

  "Who's he?"

  "She. She's supervisory nurse in this building." McCoy took a wallet-sized leather folder from his pocket, opened it, and held it out for Lieutenant McConnell to see.

  It held a badge that incorporated the seal of the Department of the Navy, an identification card with McCoy's picture on it, and the statement that the bearer was a Special Agent of the Office of Naval Intelligence.

  "If the Commander shows up, you can tell her I showed you that and asked you where I can find Sergeant Moore, and that you told me."

  "I never saw one of those before," Lieutenant McConnell said. "I hope he's not in some kind of trouble?"

  "No. As a matter of fact, I'm about to make him an officer and a gentleman."

  "He's a really nice kid," the nurse said.

  "What shape is he in?"

  "He still has to walk with a cane, but he's going to be all right."

  "Why isn't he on recuperative leave?"

  "He is. He was gone for a couple of days, but then he came back. He has family in Philadelphia, but-I didn't ask why he came back."

  "Where is he?"

  "Six-sixteen, second door from the end of the corridor on the left." "Is he in there alone?"

  "The scuttlebutt is that there was a telephone call from some captain in the office of the Secretary of the Navy ordering him a private room. It is one of the reasons he is not one of Commander Jensen's favorite people."

  "Real chickenshit bitch, huh?" McCoy said.

  "Ken!" Ernie Sage said.

  "You said that, Lieutenant," Lieutenant McConnell said, smiling, "I didn't"

  Sergeant John Marston Moore, USMCR, wearing a T-shirt and hospital pajama pants, was in bed when McCoy pushed open the door and walked in.

  The top of the bed was raised to a nearly vertical position.

  And spread out before him on the food tray was the balsawood framework of a model airplane wing, to which Moore was attaching tissue paper covering.

  He looked up with curiosity, then annoyance, and finally surprised recognition as the Marine officer and the girl walked into the room.

  "Jesus!" he said.

  "And the Virgin Mary," McCoy said. "I thought I told you to remember to duck, asshole."

  "Ken!" Ernie said, and then, "Hello, John, how are you?"

  "Surprised," Moore said. He looked at McCoy and went on, "I read in the papers about the Makin Island raid. I thought you would have been in on that."

  "He was," Ernie said. "And almost got himself killed."

  "No, I didn't," McCoy said.

  Ernie walked to the bed and handed Moore a package. He removed the covering. It was a box of Fanny Farmer Chocolates; its cover didn't fit very well.

  "Well, thanks," Moore said a little uncomfortably.

  "I told you he wouldn't want candy," McCoy said.

  "Don't be silly. I love chocolate," Moore lied, and quickly opened the box to prove it.

  A pint flask of scotch lay on top of the chocolates. His face lit up.

  "I hate people who are always right," Ernie said.

  "He's a Marine. Marines always know what's important."

  "God!" Ernie replied.

  "Speaking of Marines," Moore said. "General Pickering. What's that all about?"

  "He told me he called you," McCoy said.

  "He called, but all he did was ask how I was, and if he could do anything for me. He didn't even tell me he was a general. I saw that in the newspaper. And he didn't tell me you were coming, either."

  "Well, he's now a brigadier general; he's our boss; and just as soon as we finish the paperwork, he will have an aide-decamp named Lieutenant Moore." Moore didn't seem especially surprised.

  "I wondered what they were going to do with me," he said.

  "Now you know," McCoy said. "As soon as you get out of here, you go to Washington."

  "I can leave here today," Moore said.

  "You're entitled to thirty days' recuperative leave," McCoy said. "You want to tell me about that?"

  "What do you mean, tell you about it?"

  "Why aren't you out chasing skirts, getting drunk?"

  "I can't chase too well using a cane. And when I get drunk, I fall down a lot."

  "I mean, what the hell are you doing here making model airplanes?" McCoy pursued.

  "Ken, that's none of your business!" Ernie snapped.

  Moore looked at McCoy for a full thirty seconds, and then shrugged his shoulders.

  "Going home was a disaster," he said. "For reasons I'd rather not get into. Before I went over there, I was... involved with a woman.

  Unfortunately she was a married woman. More unfortunately, she went back to her husband. So that leaves what? There's a couple of bars outside the gate here where you can go and have a couple of drinks without being treated like a freak-"

  "What do you mean, a freak?" Ernie asked.

  "Wounded guys are still a novelty," Moore said. "I am uncomfortable in the role of wounded hero... because I know goddamn well I'm no hero."

  "You got the Bronze Star," McCoy said evenly.

  `Not for doing anything heroic," Moore said, and then closed off further discussion of the subject by going on, "so I drink in local bars at night and make model airplanes during the day. Or is that against Marine Regulations?"

  "I have to make him wear his ribbons, too," Ernie said. "I'll tell you what you're going to do today, John. You're going to put on your uniform and spend the day with us. I don't care if either one of you like it or not, I want to be the girl who has two wounded heroes on her arm." McCoy saw Moore's eyes light up at the suggestion.

  "You're going to be here all day?" Moore asked.

  "Ken has to go to Parris Island tomorrow," Ernie said.

  `I don't suppose I could go with you, could I?" Moore asked.

  The door burst open.

  Commander Elizabeth H. Jensen, NNC, a short, plump woman in her thirties, marched into the room. She folded her arms across her amply filled stiff white uniform bosom, glowered at McCoy, and announced, "I would like to know exactly what you think you are doing in here!"

  "We are about to have a drink to begin the day, Commander," McCoy said, taking his credentials from his pocket and holding them up before Commander Jensen's eyes, "but aside from that, what else we're doing in here is none of your business. If I need you, however, I'll send for you."

  [Four]

  UNITED STATES ARMY 4TH GENERAL HOSPITAL

  MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA

  7 SEPTEMBER 1942

  Now shorn, shaved, and dressed in a splendidly tailored officer's green elastique uniform, Major Jake Dillon sat with his hand wrapped around a glass of scotch at a small table in the Officer's Club. Two young and quite attractive members of the Navy Nurse Corps sat on either side of him.

  He had flown in this morning from Townsville on a Royal Australian Air Force airplane that Commander Feldt arranged.

  One of the nurses was Lieutenant (J.G.) Joann
e Miller, NNCR, a tall, slim nurse-anesthesiologist who wore her fine blond hair in a bun. The other was Lieutenant (J.G.) Barbara T. Cotter, NNCR, a psychiatric nurse. She was also a blonde, but her hair was shorter. She was also not quite as tall as Lieutenant Miller, and a bit heavier-but by no means unpleasantly so. The two were part of a very small group of Navy nurses-with-special-training temporarily assigned to the Army Hospital. They were roommates and had become friends.