W E B Griffin - Corp 06 - Close Combat

by Close Combat(Lit)

  "Some place in the hills," he said. "Muku Muku. They gave me a map."

  "What the hell is Muku Muku?" Sergeant Hart asked.

  "Beats the shit out of me, Sergeant. It's where I was told to take you."

  "There it is," the corporal said. "There's a sign."

  Sergeant Hart looked where he pointed. A bronze sign reading "Muku Muku" was set into one of the brick pillars supporting a steel gate.

  The corporal drove the Plymouth five or six hundred yards down a narrow macadam road lined with exotic vegetation. The road suddenly widened and became a paved area in front of a large, sprawling house.

  That's a mansion, Sergeant George Hart thought, not a house. Must be Pickering's. There's no other logical explanation.

  "What the hell is this?" Easterbrook asked.

  "It must be our transient barracks," Hart replied.

  Fleming Pickering opened the passenger door and put out his hand.

  "Welcome home, George," he said.

  "Thank you, Sir," Hart said. "I didn't expect to see you here, General."

  "I didn't expect to be here," Pickering replied. "Get yourself cleaned up, have a drink, and I'll explain it all to you." He leaned over the front seat and offered his hand to Easterbrook.

  "I'm General Pickering," he said. "You're Easterbrook, right?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Those pictures you took, and the motion picture film you shot, were just what I needed. Come on in the house, and I'll try to show you my gratitude."

  When Fleming Pickering knocked on the door, Sergeant Hart and Corporal Easterbrook were sitting in a large room furnished with two double beds. They were showered and shaved and wearing new skivvies. A moment later Pickering walked in, a freshly pressed uniform over his arm.

  "This is Easterbrook's," he said, handing it to him. "Yours will be along in minute, George."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "You don't have a drink?" Pickering said. "I thought the refrigerator would need restocking by now."

  He slid open a closet door. Behind it was a small refrigerator, full of beer and soft drinks.

  "And there's whiskey in that cabinet," he said, pointing. "If you'd rather."

  "I'll have a beer, please, Sir," Hart said, and walked to him.

  Pickering opened a beer, then walked to Easterbrook and handed it to him.

  "Son, why don't you put on a shirt and trousers, that's all you'll need, and then go down and sit with McCoy on the patio. I need a word with Sergeant Hart."

  "Yes, Sir," Easterbrook replied, and hastily put on a khaki shirt and pants. Pickering made himself a drink of scotch, and waited until Easterbrook was gone before he spoke.

  "You were just paid a pretty good compliment, George," Pickering said. "McCoy said of you, quote, 'He's a good Marine, General.' "

  "I'm flattered," Hart said. "If only half the things they say about him are true, he's a hell of a Marine."

  "I'm on my way to Australia, George. Tomorrow morning. In a day or two, they'll find you a seat on a plane to the States. Show your orders in San Francisco and tell them to route you via St. Louis on your way to Washington. Take a week to see your folks, and then go to Washington. Then pack your bags again. I don't think I'll be coming back there any time soon-that may change, of course-but I'd like to have you with me in Australia."

  "Aye, aye, Sir," Hart said, and then: "May I ask a question, Sir?"

  "Certainly."

  "Wouldn't it make more sense if I went to Australia from here?"

  "It would, but I didn't want to ask you to do that. I mean, after a man gets tossed out of a rubber boat..."

  "McCoy told you about that?"

  "... in the surf off an enemy-held island, he's entitled to a leave. I can do without you for two or three weeks, George."

  "Easterbrook deserves to go home. Major Dillon and McCoy have things to do in the States. I don't. I'll go with you, Sir, if that would be all right."

  "Strange, I thought that would be your reaction," Pickering said. "And I can use you, George."

  There was a knock at the door, and a white-jacketed black man walked in with a freshly pressed set of new khakis.

  "Finish your beer," Pickering said. "And then come down to the patio."

  "Aye, aye, Sir."

  Corporal Robert F. Easterbrook, carrying a bottle of beer, slid open a plate-glass door and walked uneasily onto the patio.

  "They take care of you all right at the Marine Barracks, Easterbrook?" Lieutenant McCoy asked.

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Pull up a chair, take a load off," Major Dillon said, smiling, trying to be as charming as he could.

  He thought: Well, now that I've got you off Guadalcanal, what the hell am I going to do with you?

  Chapter Five

  [ONE]

  Pan American Airlines Terminal

  San Francisco, California

  0700 Hours 16 October 1942

  Almost all the passengers on Pan American Flight 203 from Hawaii were in uniform, Army, Navy, and Marine. And all the uniforms were in far better shape than his, Major Edward Banning noted. He was sure, too, that no one on the airplane was traveling without a military priority. But it was a civilian airliner, and Pan American provided the amenities it offered before the war.

  The food was first class, served by neatly uniformed stewards. It was preceded by hors d'oeuvres and a cocktail, accompanied by wine, and trailed by a cognac. Banning had three post-dinner cognacs, knowing they would put him to sleep, which was the best way he knew to pass a long flight.

  For breakfast, there were ham and eggs, light, buttery rolls, along with freshly brewed coffee; he wasn't about to complain when the yolks of the eggs were cooked hard.

  We all have to be prepared to make sacrifices for the war effort, he thought, smiling to himself. He was pleased with his wit-until it occurred to him he still might be feeling the effects from the night before of the pair of double bourbons, the bottle of wine, and the cognacs.

  After breakfast, the steward handed him a little package containing a comb; a toothbrush and toothpaste; a safety razor; shaving cream; and even a tiny bottle of Mennen after-shave. Armed with all that, he went back to the washroom and tried to repair the havoc that days of neglect had done to his appearance.

  Brushing his teeth made his mouth feel a great deal better, and a fresh shave was pleasant. But the face that looked back at him in the mirror did not show a neatly turned out Marine officer. It showed a man with bloodshot eyes-not completely due, he decided, to all the drinks he let himself have last night. His skin was an unhealthy color. And he was wearing a shirt that smelled of harsh Australian soap mixed with the chemicals of the Pearl Harbor photo lab.

  I need a shower, eight hours in a bed, and then some clean uniforms. I wonder how long it will take them in San Francisco to get me a seat on an airplane. Maybe enough time to go to an officers' sales store and get at least a couple of new shirts. Maybe even enough to get some sleep.

  The United States Customs Service was still functioning normally, randomly looking inside bags. And the Shore Patrol was in place, maintaining high disciplinary standards among transient Navy Department personnel. There was even an SP officer, wearing the stripes of a full lieutenant along with an SP brassard and a white pistol belt.

  The Shore Patrol officer walked purposefully over to Banning.

  What is this? "Major, the shape of your uniform, and the length of your hair is a disgrace to the U.S. Naval Service generally, and The Marine Corps specifically. You will have to come with me!"

  "Major Banning?" the Lieutenant asked.

  "My name is Banning."

  "Will you come with me, please, Sir?"

  "I'm not through Customs."

  "I wouldn't worry about that, Sir. Would you come with me, please? Can I help you carry anything?"

  "Where are we going?"

  "To the airport, Sir. There's a plane waiting for you."

  "I just got off an airplane!"

  "Right this w
ay, please, Major," the Shore Patrol lieutenant said, already starting to lead the way to a Navy gray Plymouth sedan with a chrome siren on the fender and SHORE PATROL lettered on its doors.

  The Army Air Corps major saluted as Banning got out of the Plymouth.

  "Major Banning, we're ready anytime you are," he said.

  "Is there a head, a men's room, anyplace convenient?"

  "Right inside, Major, I'll show you," the Major said. "Major, we have a seven-place aircraft..."

  "What kind of an aircraft?"

  "A B-25, Sir. General Kellso's personal aircraft. Would you have any objection if we took some people with us?"

  "Wouldn't that be up to you?" Banning said. "Or General Kellso? You said it was his airplane."

  "Right now, it's the Secretary of the Navy's, Major, with the mission of taking you to Washington."

  "Load it up, Major. Where did you say the bathroom is?"

  "Right over there."

  The rest room was chrome and tile and spotless. It even smelled clean.

  Banning entered a stall and closed the door and sat down.

  There was a copy of Life magazine in a rack on the back of the door. A picture of Admiral William D. Leahy, in whites, was on the cover.

  Banning took it from the rack.

  In the shape my digestive tract is in, I may be here all day. The human body is not designed to fly halfway around the world in airplanes.

  He started to flip through the magazine.

  There was a picture of an Army sergeant kissing his bride, a Canadian Women's Army Corps corporal.

  There was a Westinghouse advertisement, proudly announcing that it had won an Army-Navy E for Excellence award for producing four thousand carloads of war materials a month-enough to fill a freight train thirty-seven miles long.

  How come none of it seems to have reached Guadalcanal?

  There was a series of photographs of Army officers in an English castle. The censor had obliterated from the photographs anything that could identify the castle. The American officers all looked well fed.

  And their trousers, unlike yours, Banning, are all neatly pressed.

  There was an advertisement from Budweiser, announcing what they were doing for the war effort-from baby foods to peanut butter to flashlights, carpet, and twine. Beer wasn't mentioned.

  There was a series of photographs recording Wendell Willkie's travels to Egypt. He was described as the "leader of President Roosevelt's Friendly Opposition."

  Another series of photographs showed the aircraft carrier USS Yorktown's final moments in the Battle of Midway. Another showed the Army Air Corps in the Aleutian Islands. Another, a nice-looking woman named Love, who was married to an Air Corps light colonel. She was about to head up an organization of women pilots who would ferry airplanes from the factories. Another, a huge new British four-engine bomber called the Lancaster; the monster could carry eight tons of bombs.

  I'll bet not one of them ever gets sent to New Guinea or the Solomons. Or at least not until after the Japanese have reoccupied Guadalcanal and captured all of New Guinea.

  What really caught his attention was the Armour & Company full-page advertisement, showing in color what the "typical" soldier, sailor, and Marine was being fed this week: roast chicken, frankfurters, barbecued spareribs, baked corned beef, Swiss steak, baked fish, and roast beef. Servicemen could have second helpings of anything on the menus, it claimed.

  Jesus H. Christ! If there 'd been ten pounds of roast chicken or roast beef on Guadalcanal, the war against the Japs would have been called off while the Marines fought over it.

  Surprising him, his bowels moved. He put Life back in the rack on the door, looked again at Admiral Leahy's photograph, and had one final unkind thought: The Chief of Staff to the Commander-in-Chief needs a haircut himself; it's hanging over his collar in the back. And I have seen better pressed white uniforms on ensigns.

  "Sorry to keep you waiting," Banning said as he washed his hands and saw the Air Corps Major's reflection in the mirror over the sink.

  "It's your airplane, Major," the Air Corps Major said. "Take your time."

  [TWO]

  Office of the Assistant Chief of Staff G-l

  Headquarters, United States Marine Corps

  Eighth and I Streets, NW

  Washington, D.C.

  0825 Hours 16 October 1942

  Colonel David M. Wilson, USMC, Deputy Assistant Chief of Staff G-l for Officer Personnel, had no idea what Brigadier General J. J. Stewart, USMC, Director, Public Affairs Office, Headquarters USMC, had in mind vis-a-vis First Lieutenant R, B. Macklin, USMC, but he suspected he wasn't going to like it.

  General Stewart had requested an appointment with the Assistant Chief of Staff, Personnel, himself, but the General had regrettably been unable to fit him into his busy schedule.

  "You deal with him, Dave. Find out who this Lieutenant Macklin is, and see what Stewart thinks we should do for him. I'll back you up whatever you decide. Just keep him away from me."

  Colonel Wilson was a good Marine officer. Even when given an order he'd rather not receive, he said, "Aye, aye, Sir," and carried it out to the best of his ability.

  He obtained Lieutenant Macklin's service record and studied it carefully. What he saw failed to impress him. Macklin was a career Marine out of Annapolis. Though Colonel Wilson was himself an Annapolis graduate, he was prepared to admit-if not proclaim-that Annapolis had delivered its fair share of mediocre to poor people into the officer corps.

  He quickly came to the conclusion that Macklin was one of these.

  Macklin had been with the 4th Marines in Shanghai before the war. He came out of that assignment with a truly devastating efficiency report.

  One entry caught Wilson's particular notice: "Lieutenant Macklin," it said, was "prone to submit official reports that not only omitted pertinent facts that might tend to reflect adversely upon himself, but to present other material clearly designed to magnify his own contributions to the accomplishment of an assigned mission."

  In other words, he was a liar.

  Even worse: "Lieutenant Macklin," the report went on to say, "could not be honestly recommended for the command of a company or larger tactical unit."

  Politely calling him a liar would have kept him from getting a command anyway, but his rating officer apparently wanted to drive a wooden stake through his heart by spelling it out.

  And that could not be passed off as simply bad blood between Macklin and his rating officer. For the reviewing officer clearly agreed with the rating officer: "The undersigned concurs in this evaluation of this officer." And it wasn't just any reviewing officer, either. It was Lewis B. "Chesty" Puller, then a major, now a lieutenant colonel on Guadalcanal.

  Colonel Wilson had served several times with Chesty Puller and held him in the highest possible regard.

  After Macklin came home from Shanghai, The Corps sent him to Quantico, as a training officer at the Officer Candidate School. He got out of that by volunteering to become a parachutist.

  It was Colonel Wilson's considered (if more or less private) opinion that Marine parachutists ranked high on the list of The Corps' really dumb mistakes in recent years. While there might well be some merit to "The Theory of Vertical Envelopment" (as the Army called it), it made no sense at all to apply that theory to The Marine Corps.

  For one thing, nothing he'd seen suggested that parachute operations would have any application at all in the war The Marine Corps was going to have to fight in the Pacific. A minimum of 120 R4D aircraft would be required to drop a single battalion of troops. In Colonel Wilson's opinion, it would be a long time before The Corps would get that many R4Ds at all, much less that many for a single battalion. In his view, it was a bit more likely that he himself would be lifted bodily into heaven to sit at the right hand of God.

  For another, Colonel Wilson (along with a number of other thoughtful senior Marine officers) had serious philosophical questions about the formation of Marine parachutis
ts: Since The Corps itself was already an elite organization, creating a parachutist elite within the elite was just short of madness.

  He was not a fan of that other elite-within-the-elite, either: the Marine Raiders. But the parachutists and the Raiders were horses of different colors. For one thing, the order to form the Raiders came directly from President Roosevelt himself; and there was nothing anyone in The Corps could do about it, not even the Commandant. ,