There came the sound of aircraft engines, a dull roar far off.
Fuck `em! What the fuck do I care if the whole Japanese Air Corps is headed for Guadalcanal?
He walked to the tree house. They'd left him the knotted rope, he found to his surprise. He used it to walk up the trunk.
Good morning, Steven," Patience Witherspoon said. She was sitting on the floor of the platform, wearing an expression that said she expected to be kicked.
Ian Bruce was leaning against the trunk.
"You heard the engines, Sergeant Koffler?"
"Fuck the engines, where the hell is everybody?"
"The men went to seek Lieutenant Reeves," Ian said. "The women have gone away from here."
"Gone where?"
"You would not know where they have gone," Ian said with irrefutable logic. "Away.
`Why?"
"If it has not gone well with Lieutenant Reeves, the Japanese will come looking for us. If they find this place, with the radio, they may believe there were no other white men. You will come with us to where the women are making a camp. We may be able to hide you."
"You think something fucked up, went wrong, don't you?"
"I think something has fucked up. Otherwise Lieutenant Reeves would have returned when he said he would return."
"Why wasn't I told?"
"Because I knew you would forbid it," Ian Bruce said.
"Lieutenant Reeves left you in charge; he told me I was to take your orders as if they had come from him."
"What are you doing up here, then?" Steve asked.
"Watching for the Japanese aircraft," Ian said. "We will need the binoculars."
"They're in my hut," Steve replied automatically.
"I will get them," Patience said, and quickly got to her feet and started down the knotted rope.
"If we're going to hide in the goddamned jungle," Steve asked, "why are we bothering with this shit, anyway?"
"Because," Ian Bruce said, again with irrefutable logic, "we do not know that Lieutenant Reeves is dead. We only believe he is. Until we know for sure, or until the Japanese come, we will do what he wishes us to do."
"Semper Fi, right?"
"I do not understand."
"Yeah, you do," Steve said.
"Is that English?"
"It's Marine," Steve said. "It means... you do what you're expected to do, I guess. Or try, anyway."
"I see," Ian Bruce said solemnly.
[Two]
USMC REPLACEMENT DEPOT
PARRIS ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA
2250 HOURS 7 SEPTEMBER 1942
Because he was on a routine check of the guard posts, the officer of the day happened to be at the main gate when the 1939 LaSalle convertible pulled up to the guard and stopped.
It had been a long and dull evening and showed little prospect of getting more interesting.
"Hold it a minute," the OD said to his jeep driver.
"Aye, aye, Sir," the driver said and stopped the jeep.
The OD got out and walked toward the LaSalle. The driver was apparently showing his orders to the guard, for the beam of the guard's flashlight illuminated the interior. The OD saw that the car held two lieutenants, neither of whom was wearing his cover.
But what the hell, it's almost eleven o'clock.
"Welcome to sand flea heaven," the OD said. "Reporting in?"
"Just visiting," McCoy replied.
He was a first lieutenant, the OD saw, not any older than he himself was. But he was wearing a double row of ribbons, including the Bronze Star and what looked like the Purple Heart with two clusters on it. The other one was a second lieutenant, and he too was wearing ribbons signifying that he had been wounded and decorated for valor.
Am I being a suspicious prick, or just doing my job? the OD wondered as he reached to take the orders from the guard.
The orders were obviously genuine. They were issued by Headquarters, USMC, and ordered First Lieutenant K. R.
McCoy to proceed by military or civilian road, rail, or air transportation, or at his election, by privately owned vehicle, to Philadelphia, Penna., Parris Island, S.C., and such other destinations as he deemed necessary in the carrying out of his mission for the USMC Office of Management Analysis.
What the hell is the Office of Management Analysis?
"Well, as I said," the OD said, smiling, "welcome to sand flea heaven."
"I know all about the sand fleas," McCoy said, smiling. "But how do I find the BOQ?"
"How do you know about the sand fleas and not the BOQ?" the OD asked, and immediately felt like a fool as the answer came to him: This guy was a Mustang. He had gone through Parris Island as an enlisted man before getting a commission.
He knew about sand fleas. But Marine boots do not know where bachelor officers rest their weary heads.
Follow the signs to the Officer's Club," the OD said. "Drive past it.
Look to your right. Two-story frame building on your right."
"Thank you," McCoy said.
The guard saluted. McCoy returned it. McCoy drove past the barrier.
"Interesting," the OD said to the guard. "Did you see the ribbons on those officers?"
"Yes, Sir. And one of them had a cane, too."
"I wonder what the hell the Office of Management Analysis is?" the OD asked, not expecting an answer.
"I'll tell you something else interesting, Sir," the guard said.
The sergeant major is looking for them. At least for Lieutenant McCoy. He passed the word through the sergeant of the guard we was to call him, no matter when he came aboard."
"Him? Not the OD? Or the General's aide?"
"Him, Sir."
"Well, in that case, Corporal, I would suggest you get on the horn to the sergeant major. Hell hath no fury, as you might have heard."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
"Does this place fill you with fond memories?" McCoy asked as they drove through the Main Post, an area of brick buildings looking not unlike the campus of a small college.
"I would rather go back to Guadalcanal than go through here again," Moore said.
"How's your legs?"
"I won't mind lying down."
"Well, you wanted to come."
"And I'm grateful that you brought me. I was going stir crazy in the hospital."
"I think what you need, pal, is a piece of ass. I also think you're out of luck here."
"Says he, the Croesus of Carnal Wealth," Moore replied.
"What?"
"Says he, who doesn't have that problem."
"What Ernie and I have is something special," McCoy said coldly.
"Hell, I realized that the first time I saw you two looking at each other in San Diego," Moore said. "My reaction then, and now, is profound admiration, coupled with enormous jealousy."
"Your lady really did a job on you, huh?"
"When I got her letter, in Melbourne, I was fantasizing about getting to be an officer and marching into the Bellvue Stratford in my officer's uniform with her on my arm.... `Dear John,' the letter said."
"Hell, your name is John," McCoy said. "And you have your officer's uniform, three sets of khakis, anyway...
And thank you for that, too. I wouldn't have known where to go to buy them."
"Horstmann Uniform has been selling uniforms to The Corps since Christ was a corporal," McCoy said. "And as I was saying, your Dear John letter lady is not the only female in the world."
"So I keep telling myself," Moore said.
"Well, there's the club, and it looks like it's still open. Would you like a drink?"
"I'll pass, thank you," Moore said. "But go ahead if you want to." "I've got a couple of pints in my bag," McCoy said. "I didn't really want to go in there anyway." A moment later he said, "That must be it." Moore looked up and saw a two-story frame building.
McCoy drove around behind it and parked the car. Since he'd packed Moore's two spare khaki uniforms in his own bag, there was only one to carry.
A corporal was on duty
in the lobby of the Bachelor Officer's Quarters.
McCoy told him they were transients and needed rooms; and the corporal gave them a register to sign, then handed each of them a key.
"End of the corridor to the right, Sir. Number twelve."
"Thank you," McCoy said and walked up the stairs.
Halfway down the corridor he swore bitterly: "Shit! Sonofabitch! " Moore saw the source of his anger. A neatly lettered sign was thumbtacked to one of the doors. It read, RESERVED FOR KILLER McCoy.
He walked quickly to the sign and ripped it down. He started to put his key to the lock in the door, but it opened before he could reach it.
"Well, if it isn't Lieutenant McCoy," a man wearing the three stripes up, three lozenges down insignia of a sergeant major said, standing at rigid attention. "May the sergeant major say, Sir, the Lieutenant looks just fine?"
"That fucking sign isn't funny, goddamn you!" McCoy flared. "What the hell is the matter with you, anyway?" The sergeant major was not as taken aback as Moore expected him to be. He seemed more hurt and disappointed than alarmed by McCoy's intense and genuine anger.
"Aw, come on, Ken," he said.
McCoy glowered at him for a moment and finally said, "I don't know why the hell I'm surprised. You never did have the brains to pour piss out of a boot. How the hell are you, you old bastard?"
"No complaints, Ken," the sergeant major said with obvious affection in his voice, taking McCoy's hand.
And then he saw Moore, and a moment after that, there was recognition in his eyes.
"I believe I know this gentleman, too, don't I?"
"I don't think so," McCoy said. "Moore, this is Sergeant Major Teddy Osgood. We were in the Fourth Marines together."
"Yeah, sure," Moore said. "I remember you now, Sergeant Major. When I left here-"
"Oh?" McCoy asked, curious.
"Captain Sessions came down here and pulled me out of boot camp," Moore explained. "The sergeant major... how do I say it?"
"Handled the administrative details," the sergeant major furnished.
"I remember you telling Captain Sessions that you had known the Killer-OooPs!-Lieutenant McCoy in China."
"If you think that was funny, you asshole, it wasn't," McCoy said.
But he was not, Moore saw, furious anymore.
"I see neither one of you paid attention when you went through here. Is that three Purple Hearts, Ken?"
"Two of them are bullshit," McCoy said. "Moore took some mortar shrapnel on Guadalcanal. He needs to lie down."
"This is a field-grade officer's suite, all kinds of places to lay down," Osgood said. "Would you like a drink, Lieutenant?"
"Yes, thank you, I would," Moore said.
"Get in bed, I'll make the drinks," McCoy said.
"That Captain said you was with the 2nd Raider Battalion," Osgood said to McCoy.
"I was."
"You were on the Makin Island raid?" McCoy nodded.
"And now?"
"I'm doing more or less what Captain Sessions does," McCoy said.
"Yeah, I figured that. When the TWX came in saying you was coming, the G-2 shit a brick. What the hell do you people do, anyway?" McCoy didn't immediately reply. He dug in his bag, fished out a pint of scotch, poured some in a glass, and handed it to Moore, who by then had crawled onto one of the beds.
"The name is the Office of Management Analysis," he said finally. "We're sort of in the supply business."
"Yeah, sure you are. That's why every time we get some boot who speaks Japanese, who has civilian experience as a radio operator, or who's lived over there, we notify you, right? So they can pass out rations, right?"
"Right," McCoy said.
"Well, I got a dozen, thirteen people, lined up for you to talk to tomorrow, three who speak Japanese... what do you call them?"
"Linguists," McCoy said.
"... half a dozen amateur radio operators, and a couple of guys who are going to cryptography school."
"Great," McCoy said. "Everything laid on for me, us, to talk to them?"
"You tell me when and where and I'll have them there."
"You got someplace?"
"Yeah. I'll take care of it," Osgood said. "I'll send a car for you in the morning. You have to make your manners with the G-2, I guess?"
"I suppose we'll have to," McCoy said.
"There's another guy, Ken. He don't speak Jap, and he's no radio operator, but he's interesting."
"Why interesting?"
"Well, for one thing, he used to be a cop. Actually a vice squad detective. Saint Louis."
"A vice squad detective?" Moore asked, laughing.
"Maybe he could do something to solve your problem, Lieutenant," McCoy said, and then added, "I don't understand, Teddy."
"He went after one of his DIs, was going to break his arm."
"Sounds like my kind of guy," Moore said.
Osgood looked at him and smiled. "The word is that the DI, an assistant DI, is a real asshole."
"And this guy broke his arm?" McCoy asked.
"No. The platoon DI saw what he was up to and stopped him. He said the guy really knows how to use a knife. If he had wanted to cut the DI, kill him, he would be dead, the DI said.
But all he wanted to do was break his arm. I guess he figured he could get away with that."
"They court-martial him?"
"No. For what? The DI said, `Try to kill me." The guy was just obeying orders. The platoon DI came to me and explained the situation, and I transferred the guy to another platoon."
"Is this guy a sleaze, Teddy?" McCoy asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what does he look like, what does he act like?"
"I don't know. I never actually seen him. His platoon DI's a friend of mine, and he must have sort of liked this guy or he wouldn't have come to me about him."
"Or, like you said, the assistant DI is an asshole and he figured he deserved a broken arm. I want to see him, Teddy. Can you arrange that?"
"No problem," Osgood said. "I'll have him there with the others."
"You want another one of these?" McCoy asked, extending the pint of scotch to Moore. He suspected, correctly, that Moore was both exhausted by their trip and in pain.
"Please," Moore said, taking the bottle.
"What about now?" McCoy said. "Let's see how he reacts to getting up in the middle of the night."
"You're serious, aren't you?" Osgood asked.
"Yeah, I'm serious," McCoy said. He looked at Moore.
"After I talked to your new boss, I talked to Captain Sessions.
He said I should also ask about getting your new boss an orderly, or a driver, but really somebody to pick up the papers he leaves lying around when he's not supposed to."
"Oh," Moore said.
"He also used the word `bodyguard' but said we shouldn't say it around your boss."
"Yeah," Moore said, understanding.
"Why not?" Sergeant Major Osgood said. "Everybody knows people in the supply business need bodyguards. Who is your boss, anyway?"
"None of your fucking business," McCoy said. "Since you asked." The sergeant major chuckled. He went to the bedside table, pulled open a drawer, took out a mimeographed telephone directory, found the number he was looking for, and dialed it.
"This is the sergeant major," he said "Roll Private Hart, George F., out of the sack. Have him standing by in full field gear in five minutes. I'll send a vehicle for him."
Private Hart was not surprised when the lights in the squad bay came on in the middle of the night. That happened all the time. Nor was he particularly surprised when the drill instructor marched down the aisle between the rows of double bunks, his heels crashing against the wooden, washed-nearly-white flooring, and stopped at his bunk.
At least I'm out of the sack and at attention, he thought, taking some small solace from the situation.
It was not the first time since he had been transferred to his new platoon that he'd been singled
out for what was euphemistically called "extra training." This most often consisted of an order to get dressed and take a couple of double-time laps around the barracks area with his rifle held over his head. But a couple of times they woke him at two in the morning to practice "basic elements of field fortification." That meant digging a man-sized hole with his entrenching tool and filling it up again. Then they let him shower and get back in the sack.
W E B Griffin - Corp 05 - Line of Fire Page 20