"Lieutenant, there's something out here for you," the guard said, adding "Yes, Sir," and then hanging up. "He'll be right out." Ninety seconds later, a first lieutenant of the Army Signal Corps, a tall, muscular, heavyset Oriental, came through the door. His sleeves were rolled up and his tie was pulled down.
"Hey, Sergeant," he said in a thick Boston accent, "when did they turn you into an errand boy?"
"When they couldn't find Swifty, Lieutenant," the staff sergeant said.
"Swifty is probably out spreading goodwill, or maybe pollen, among the indigenous population," Lieutenant Hon said.
The staff sergeant and the guard laughed.
Lieutenant Hon took the tape, said "Thank you," and went back behind the steel door.
Lieutenant Hon passed through the second of the steel doors, closed and locked it behind him; and then, after setting it up for MAGIC, he fed the tape into his code machine. When it began to clatter, he read the message that came out;
FROM CINCPAC RADIO PEARL HARBOR
TO SWPOA RADIO BRISBANE
27SEP42 NUMBER 34
TOP SECRET-MAGIC
FOLLOWING NON LOG SERVICE MESSAGE FROM RICKABEE WASHINGTON FOR BANNING BRISBANE
X START X THREE OFFICER ONE ENLISTED SPECIAL DETACHMENT 14 AUGMENTATION TEAM DEPARTED SAN
DIEGO BY AIR WITH 800 POUNDS SPECIAL EQUIPMENT 0730 27SEPT42 X ADVISE ARRIVAL YOUR STATION
REGARDS FROM BRIG GEN PICKERING X BANNING X END
Lieutenant Pluto Hon wondered idly why Banning was getting three more officers. What will he do with them? he asked himself. And what's the 800 pounds of special equipment? At the same- time he was pleased to see the regards from Brigadier General Pickering.
General Pickering. He'd heard a rumor about that. He found it hard to understand how Pickering would get a commission in the Marines. Then he put all that from his mind.
Because it was a Service message, it didn't have to be logged in. instead, he put a match to it, and the tape, and watched them burn. Banning would certainly call within the next twenty-four hours. When he did, Hon could tell him then that he was getting three officers and a Marine.
The four men and their equipment would probably arrive on either the twenty-ninth or thirtieth. So he called the motor pool and ordered a staff car and a three-quarter-ton truck for those days. Next he decided to put them up at Water Lily Cottage for as long as they were in Brisbane. If Ellen Feller didn't like it-in that marvelous Army phrase-she could go fuck herself.
It did not enter his mind to inform Mrs. Feller herself about the message.
Even though he was a lowly lieutenant floating around in a sea of colonels and generals, all needing wheels, the motor pool gave him no trouble about the vehicles. Three weeks before, he was late for a bridge game with General MacArthur. When he arrived, he apologized, saying that the motor pool had been unable to give him transportation.
"Dick," the Supreme Commander said to Colonel Richard Sutherland, his aide-de-camp, "make sure that doesn't happen to Pluto again." Lieutenant Pluto Hon didn't think it would. As the man said, when you are a first-rate bridge player you fall their to a number of social advantages.
[Two]
U.S. ARMY AIR TRANSPORT COMMAND PASSENGER TERMINAL
BRISBANE, AUSTRALIA
1615 HOURS 29 SEPTEMBER 1942
It took some time for the SWPOA telephone operator to even admit to the existence of Lieutenant Hon Song Do; and it took another minute before Hon came on the line.
"Pluto, this is John Moore," Moore said into the phone. He was standing in the passenger terminal next to a counter. The telephone was on the counter.
"John Moore?" Pluto asked incredulously. "Johnny, my God' Where are you)"
"At the ATC passenger terminal."
"We heard you were hurt and sent back to the States-"
"Can You get us some wheels? We'll need a truck, or a jeep with trailer."
It came together in Pluto's mind. Johnny Moore was the Marine in the Special Detachment Augmentation Team that the message from Rickabee mentioned.
"I just checked an hour ago," Pluto said. "There was no plane due from Pearl."
"We went into Melbourne on a Navy P132Y," Moore replied. "The Army flew us up here on a C-46."
The PB2Y was the Consolidated Aircraft Coronado, a four engine amphibian Navy transport, while the C-46 was the Curtiss-Wright Commando, a twin-engine, thirty-six-passenger transport taken into the Army as the C-46 and by the Navy as the R5C.
I turned the vehicles loose," Pluto said. "Can you catch a cab to the cottage? Banning said to put you up there."
"We've got a bunch of stuff with us," Moore said, and then added, "Hold it a minute." There was a pause, and then Moore asked, "Where's Major Banning? Didn't he know we were coming?"
"He's probably at the club; we were going to have dinner there."
"Major Dillon says to tell you to ask him to meet us at the cottage."
Who the hell is Major Dillon?
"I'll get a truck started on its way over there and I'll go by the club and find Banning. Can you all get in the truck or should I come out there and get you?"
"Wait one," Moore said. And then came back on the line.
"Major Dillon says he'll get wheels here to take him to the cottage, but we're going to need a truck."
"I'll have one there in twenty minutes," Pluto said. "God, boy, it's good to hear your voice. See you in a little while."
Lieutenant Hon tried to telephone Mrs. Ellen Feller to tell her there would be guests in Water Lily Cottage. But she was not in the office General Willoughby had provided for her in the SWPOA G-2 Section, and there was no answer at the cottage.
He did manage to reach Major Banning at the bar of the Officer's Club.
"Dillon? The only Dillon I know is a Hollywood press agent, and he's in the States running a war bond tour."
"I didn't speak to him, Sir. Just to Sergeant Moore."
"Well, he can't have been hurt as badly as we heard, otherwise they wouldn't have sent him back over here," Banning said. "You be waiting out front, Pluto, I'll be there in ten minutes."
At the time Lieutenant Hon was trying to reach her, Mrs. Ellen Feller was at the Officer's Class Six Store. She had charmed the sergeant in charge there to allow her to exchange the two bottles on her ration of "Spirits, Domestic" (the Army's term for gin, bourbon, or blended whiskey) to "Spirits, Foreign" (brandy, cognac, or similar). The sergeant didn't mind; there was a greater demand for bourbon than for cognac, and Mrs. Feller was one of his very few customers with a great pair of teats.
She went from the Class Six Store to the PX, where she obtained her weekly ration of Chesterfield cigarettes (twelve packs), Hershey bars (a dozen), and Lux bath soap (three bars).
Then she went back to where they were waiting for her in the Chevrolet staff car.
She'd had to beg a ride from the motor pool. Because that bastard Banning was in town, he'd claimed the Studebaker President sedan that was assigned to them, They dropped her off at Water Lily Cottage about ninety seconds before a staff car pulled into the driveway. When the car drove up, she was on the wide stairs leading to the porch of the large, open, single-floor house. When she saw it, she stopped, turned, and went back down.
A Marine major stepped out of the car.
"May I help you?"
"You're Ellen Feller, right?"
"That's correct. "
He put out his hand. "I'm Jake Dillon."
"And how may I help you, Major Dillon?"
"Well, we're going to be staying here for a while," he said. "I hope that won't be too much of an inconvenience."
"Staying here?" she parroted. "I don't think so. These are my quarters." There was somebody else in the car, getting out of it with difficulty. It was another Marine officer, this one a second lieutenant. The driver had to pull him to his feet.
Banning is obviously behind this. I'll be damned if I will permit that man to turn My quarters into a transient BOQ for every Mar
ine officer who passes through town.
"That's not the way I heard it," Jake Dillon said. There was neither sympathy nor kindness in his voice. He was tired from a practically nonstop flight halfway around the world, and his considerable experience with the opposite sex had permitted him to make an instant assessment of Mrs. Ellen Feller: She was a bitch.
"Oh? And how did you hear it?"
My God, that's Johnny Moore! What is he doing back here?
"Flem Pickering told me he's renting this place," Dillon said. "More to the point, he told me to use it while we're here."
She looked at him and flashed him a bitchy smile. "There must be some misunderstanding," she said. Then she walked to meet John Marston Moore. Moore was rounding the front of the staff car, supporting himself on a cane.
He smiled when he saw her. It was almost a smile of anticipation.
The last time she'd seen him was the day he'd gone off to Guadalcanal. She'd given him a farewell present in Water Lily Cottage that was as good for her as it had been for him.
She watched him closely, wondering if he blamed his going to Guadalcanal on her.
That expression on his face is not sarcastic, or angry. He remembers what we did here together. But my God, he looks awful! And he's even having trouble walking.
"You all right, Moore?" Jake asked. "Need some help?"
"I'm fine, Sir," he said. "Hello, Ellen."
"John, I'm so glad to see you!" She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a hug. "What are you doing here?"
"Is Major Banning around, Mrs. Feller?" Jake asked, shutting off any answer Moore might have made.
"I don't know," Ellen said. "I just came home. I don't think so. I don't see the car."
"I guess there's a phone in there?" Dillon asked.
"Yes, of course," Ellen said, smiling at him. "Come in and I'll show you."
"Can you handle the stairs, kid?" Dillon asked.
"I'm fine, Sir."
In a pig's ass you are. You look like hell
"Is there any booze in the house?" Dillon asked. "You want a drink, Moore?"
"I wouldn't mind a little nip."
"I just happened to buy some brandy," Ellen said. "I like to have it around the house."
They watched as Moore somewhat awkwardly negotiated the steps. And then they followed him into the house.
"Be it ever so plush," Moore said, settling himself on the couch and gesturing around at the luxurious furnishings, "there's no place like home." Ellen laughed dutifully.
"How many of you will there be, Major... Dillon, you said?"
"Two more."
"Things will be a little crowded, then," Ellen said. "But I'm sure we Can manage." Ellen went into the kitchen and put her packages on the sink. She was taking a glass from the cupboard when she heard the telephone being dialed.
"Admiral Soames-Haley, please," she heard Dillon say.
"My name is Dillon. I'm a major in The U.S. Marine Corps."
Rear Admiral Keith Soames-Haley, RAN, Ellen knew, had been a shipping-business friend of Fleming Pickering's before the war. Now he was high up in the hierarchy of the Australian Navy. So Dillon's words to the Admiral did not bother her initially:
"Admiral, my name is Jake Dillon. I'm just in from the States. I have a letter for you from our mutual friend, Flem Pickering.
"Yes, that's right, Sir. It's General Pickering now. He's pretty much recovered. But knowing what he's like, they're reluctant to let him out of the hospital until he is absolutely fit.
"No, Sir. If you don't mind, General Pickering asked me to deliver the letter personally, Sir, and he hoped that you could give me thirty minutes of your time.
"I understand, Sir. Tomorrow morning would be fine. I'll be at your office at half past eight. Thank you, Admiral. Goodbye, Sir."
But then Ellen had questions: Why does Fleming Pickering need to use this man Dillon to send a letter to Admiral Soames-Haley? If he wanted to send Soames-Haley a letter, he could have just mailed it. Or sent it via officer courier. And why did Dillon want half an hour of Soames-Haley's time? Not to discuss Pickering's physical condition. What in the world is going on here?
She put three glasses and one of the brandy bottles onto a tray and carried it into the living room. The brandy was from Argentina, of all places, but surprisingly good.
She heard a door close, and then the unmistakable sound of Jake Dillon voiding his bladder. She put the tray on the table in front of the couch and sat down beside John Marston Moore.
"I'm so glad to see you," she said in almost a whisper.
"What's going on?"
He shrugged.
She leaned toward him and kissed him, first on the cheek and then on the mouth. When she did that, she gave him just a little touch of her tongue. But when he tried to pull her closer, she pulled away, gestured toward the sound of the voiding water, and whispered, "Not now. Behave."
All the same, she let her hand run up his leg. She'd concluded that whatever was going on, having Moore on her side was a good idea.
"When did you become an officer?" she asked. Her hand was still on his leg.
"A couple of weeks ago," he said.
"I'm surprised that they sent you back-because of the cane, I mean."
He shrugged again.
Damn, he's not going to tell me anything. Not without a little encouragement, anyway.
She stood up and opened the bottle of Argentinian brandy, poured a good half inch of it into a snifter, and handed it to Moore.
He drank it hungrily, surprising her.
"That was medicinal," he said. "Now I'll have a social one if you don't mind."
"Are you in pain?"
"No," he lied. "It was a long ride in those airplanes," he said. "I'll be all right."
"Poor baby," she said, and poured more brandy into his glass.
When Jake Dillon came into the room, she was sitting with her legs modestly crossed in an armchair across from the couch.
"Help yourself, if you don't mind, Major," she said.
"Thank you," he said, and poured a healthy snort into his snifter.
"How's the leg?" he asked Moore.
"Legs, plural," Moore said. "I'm damned glad to get off them." As he spoke they heard the sound of tires on the gravel of the driveway. After that, a car door slammed, and then they heard feet crossing the porch.
Banning saw Dillon before Dillon saw him.
"I thought you were supposed to be selling war bonds," he said, and then he saw Moore. "I will be double dammed!
Moore! Lieutenant Moore. How are you, John?" Banning walked quickly to the couch and held out his hand.
"I'm doing just fine, Sir," Moore said. "It's good to see you, Sir. Hey, Pluto!"
Dillon waited until Hon had shaken Moore's hand, and then he said, "He is not fine. He can barely stagger around with a cane. "
"Then why is he here?" Banning asked.
"Because he told Brigadier General Pickering that he wanted to come, and Brigadier General Pickering said, `Good boy."
"What the hell is this all about, Jake?"
"Why don't we wait until the other two get here, and we can get it all over at once?"
"Who's the other two?"
"Your friend Killer McCoy and a sergeant named Hart."
Ellen Feller was acquainted with Ken McCoy. And she was not happy to learn that he was on his way.
Oh, my God! I thought I'd seen the last of Ken McCoy for a while. Forever. When I woke up this morning, everything was going just fine. I've even got Willoughby just about convinced that the G-2 of S WPOA needs his own Intercept Analysis section, and that I'm obviously the person to run it. But then Moore, and now McCoy! It never rains but it pours!
During the last days that the Marines were in China, Corporal Kenneth R. McCoy was a member of the detachment of the Fourth Marines dispatched to escort the personnel and baggage of the Christian & Missionary Alliance Mission from Nanking to their evacuation ship in Tientsin.
It turned out that Corporal McCoy was a very unusual Marine enlisted man. For one thing, Mrs. Ellen Feller found that Corporal McCoy was really very sexy. For another, she was all too aware that he could be very dangerous. This was especially apparent when he discovered that the luggage of the Rev. and Mrs. Glen T. Feller contained a considerable quantity of jade artifacts and jewelry. The export from China of such artifacts was forbidden.
W E B Griffin - Corp 05 - Line of Fire Page 41