W E B Griffin - Corp 06 - Close Combat

by Close Combat(Lit)

  And for another, so far the Raiders had done well. They'd staged a successful raid on Makin Island, and they'd done a splendid job on Guadalcanal.

  Viewed coldly and professionally, the parachutists' record was not nearly as impressive: After their very expensive training, there were no aircraft available to transport them (surprising Colonel Wilson not at all), and so they were committed as infantry to the Guadalcanal operation, charged with making an amphibious assault on a tiny island called Gavutu. They fought courageously, if not very efficiently; and the island fell. Later, Wilson heard credible scuttlebutt that their fire discipline was practically nonexistent. And the numbers seemed to confirm this: The parachute battalion was literally decimated in the first twenty-four hours. And after the invasion, they continued to suffer disproportionate losses.

  Macklin was with the parachutists in the invasion of Gavutu; but he went in as a supernumerary. Which meant that he was a spare officer; he'd be given a job only after an officer commanding a platoon, or whatever, was killed or wounded.

  Macklin never reached the beach. He managed to get himself shot in the calf and face and was evacuated.

  Colonel Wilson had been a Marine a long time. He'd been in France in the First War, and he'd passed the "peacetime years" in the Banana Wars in Latin America. He had enough experience with weaponry fired in anger to know that getting shot only meant that you were unlucky; there was no valor or heroism connected with it.

  According to his service record, Macklin was in the Army General Hospital in Melbourne, Australia, recovering from his wounds, when he was sent to the States to participate in a war bonds tour of the West Coast. That was where he was now.

  Colonel Wilson thought he remembered something about that last business. And a moment later a few details came up from the recesses of his mind: In a move that at the time didn't have Colonel Wilson's full and wholehearted approval, the Assistant Commandant of The Marine Corps arranged to have an ex-4th Marines sergeant commissioned as a major, for duty with Public Affairs. The Assistant Commandant's reasoning was that The Corps was going to need some good publicity, and that the way to do it was to bring in a professional. The man he was thinking of was then Vice President, Publicity, of Metro-Magnum Studios, Hollywood, California (who just happened to earn more money than the Commandant or, for that matter, than the President of the United States). And wasn't it fortuitous that he'd been a China Marine, and-Once a Marine, Always a Marine-was willing to come back into The Corps?

  Major Jake Dillon, Colonel Wilson was willing to admit, did not turn out to be the unmitigated disaster he feared. He'd led a crew of photographers and writers in the first wave of the invasion of Tulagi, for instance, and there was no question that they'd done their job well.

  Dillon was responsible for having Lieutenant Macklin sent home from Australia for the war bond tour.

  Why did Dillon do that? Colonel Wilson wondered.

  And then some other strange facts surfaced out of his memory: Dillon was somehow involved with the Office of Management Analysis. Colonel Wilson was not very familiar with that organization. But he knew it had nothing to do with Management Analysis, that it was directly under the Commandant, and that you were not supposed to ask questions about it, or about what it did.

  It didn't take a lot of brains to see what it did do.

  The Office of Management Analysis, anyhow, had a new commander, another commissioned civilian, Brigadier General Fleming Pickering. Pickering was put in over Lieutenant Colonel F. L. Rickabee, whose Marine career had been almost entirely in intelligence. And it was said that Pickering reported directly to the Secretary of the Navy. Or, depending on which scuttlebutt you heard, to Admiral Leahy, the President's Chief of Staff.

  There was surprisingly little scuttlebutt about what Dillon was doing for the Office of Management Analysis.

  Meanwhile, Colonel Wilson ran into newly promoted Colonel Rickabee at the Army-Navy Country Club, but carefully tactful questioning about his job and his new boss produced only the information that General Pickering shouldn't really be described as a commissioned civilian. He'd earned the Distinguished Service Cross as a Marine corporal in France about the time Sergeant (now Lieutenant Colonel) Jack (NMI) Stecker had won his Medal of Honor.

  At precisely 0830, the intercom box on Colonel Wilson's desk announced the arrival of Brigadier General J. J. Stewart.

  "Ask the General to come in, please," Colonel Wilson said, as he slid the Service Record of First Lieutenant R. B. Macklin into a desk drawer and stood up.

  He crossed the room and was almost at the door when General Stewart walked in.

  "Good morning, General," he said. "May I offer the General the General's regrets for not being able to be here. A previously scheduled conference at which his presence was mandatory..."

  "Please tell the General that I understand," General Stewart said. "There are simply not enough hours in the day, are there?"

  "No, Sir. There don't seem to be. May I offer the General some coffee? A piece of pastry?"

  "Very kind. Coffee. Black. Belay the pastry."

  "Aye, aye, Sir," Colonel Wilson said, then stepped to the door and told his sergeant to bring black coffee.

  General Stewart arranged himself comfortably on a couch against the wall.

  "How may I be of service, General?"

  "I've got sort of an unusual personnel request, Colonel," General Stewart said. "I am certainly the last one to try to tell you how I think you should run your shop, or effect personnel allocation decisions, but this is a really unusual circumstance...."

  "If the General will give me some specifics, I assure you we'll do our very best to accommodate you."

  "The officer in question is a young lieutenant named Macklin, Colonel. He was wounded with the first wave landing at Gavutu."

  I wonder who shot him. Our side or theirs?

  "Yes, Sir?"

  "Parachutist," General Stewart said. "He was evacuated to Australia. Fortunately, his wound-wounds, there were two-were not serious. He was selected-"

  General Stewart interrupted himself as the coffee was delivered.

  "The General was saying?"

  "Oh, yes. Are you familiar, by any chance, with the name-or, for that matter, with the man-Major Homer C. Dillon?"

  "By reputation, Sir. I've never actually..."

  "Interesting man, Colonel. He was Vice President of Metro-Magnum Studios in Hollywood. I don't like to think of the pay cut he took to come back in The Corps. Anyway, Major Dillon was in Australia, in the hospital, and met Lieutenant Macklin. It didn't take him long to have him shipped home to participate in the war bond tour on the West Coast."

  "I see."

  "It was a splendid choice. Lieutenant Macklin is a splendid-looking officer. Looks like a recruiting poster. First-class public speaker. Makes The Corps look good, really good, if you understand me."

  There is no reason, I suppose, why a lying asshole has to look like a lying asshole.

  "I take your point, Sir."

  "Well, the war bond tour, that war bond tour, is about over. We're bringing some other people back from the Pacific. This time for a national tour. Machine Gun McCoy, among others." "Excuse me, Sir?"

  "Sergeant Thomas McCoy, of the 2nd Raiders. Distinguished himself on Bloody Ridge. They call him 'Machine Gun' McCoy."

  "I see."

  "And some of the pilots from Henderson Field, we're trying to get all the aces."

  "I see, Sir. I'm sure the tour will be successful."

  "A lot of that will depend on how well the tour is organized and carried out," General Stewart said, significantly.

  "Yes, Sir," Colonel Wilson agreed.

  "Which brings us to Lieutenant Macklin," General Stewart said. "With the exception of a slight limp, he is now fully recovered from his wounds..."

  "I'm glad to hear that, General."

  "... and is obviously up for reassignment."

  After a moment, Colonel Wilson became aware that General Ste
wart was waiting for a reply from him.

  "I don't believe any assignment has yet been made for Lieutenant Macklin," he said.

  But I will do my best to find a rock to hide him under.

  "What I was going to suggest, Colonel... what, to put a point on it, I am requesting, is that Macklin be assigned to my shop."

  What's this "shop" crap? You sound like you're making dog kennels.

  "I see."

  "My thinking, Colonel, is that nothing succeeds like success. And Macklin, having completed a very, very successful war bond tour, is just the man to set up and run the next one. And then, of course, there is sort of a built-in bonus: Our heroes, Machine Gun McCoy and the flyboys, would be introduced to the public by a Marine officer who is himself a wounded hero."

  "General, I think that's a splendid idea," Colonel Wilson said. "I'll have his orders cut by sixteen hundred hours."

  I was wrong. This has been a gift from heaven. I get rid of Macklin in a job where he can't hurt The Corps; and the General here thinks I am a splendid fellow.

  "Well, I frankly thought I would have to sell you more on the idea, Colonel."

  "General, if I may say so, a good idea is a good idea. Is there anything else I can try to do for you?"

  General Stewart looked a little uncomfortable.

  "There are two things," he said, finally. "Both a little delicate."

  "Please go on, Sir."

  "I certainly don't mean to suggest that you're not up to the line in your operation..."

  But?

  "... but, maybe a piece of paper got lost or something. Lieutenant Macklin is long overdue for promotion."

  With what Chesty Puller had to say about the sonofabitch, the only reason he wasn't asked for his resignation from The Corps is that there's a war on.

  "I'll look into that myself, General, and personally bring it to the attention of the G-l."

  "I couldn't ask for more than that, could I? Thank you, Colonel."

  "No thanks necessary, Sir," Wilson said. "You said there were two things?"

  "And-to repeat-both a little delicate," General Stewart said.

  "Perhaps I can help, Sir."

  "I mentioned Major Dillon," General Stewart said.

  "Yes, Sir?"

  "I don't know if you know this or not, Colonel, but Major Dillon has been placed on temporary duty with the Office of Management Analysis."

  "The Office of Management Analysis, Sir?"

  "Don't be embarrassed. I had to ask a lot of questions before I found anyone who even knows it exists," General Stewart said. "But I think it can be safely said that it deals with classified matters."

  "I see," Colonel Wilson said solemnly.

  "The thing is, Colonel, I'm carrying Major Dillon on my manning table. So long as he is on temporary duty, I can't replace him. You understand?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Do you think you could have him transferred, taken off my man-ning table?"

  "I will bring that to the attention of the G-l, Sir. And if anything can be done, I'm sure the General will see that it is."

  "Splendid!" General Stewart said as he stood up and put out his hand. "Colonel, I really appreciate your cooperation."

  "Anything for the good of the Corps, Sir."

  "Indeed! Thank you, Colonel. And if there's ever any way in which Public Affairs can be of service..."

  "That's very good of you, Sir. I almost certainly will take you up on that."

  [THREE]

  Anacostia Naval Air Station

  Washington, D.C.

  2055 Hours 16 October 1942

  As the B-25 was taxiing from the runway to the Transient Aircraft Ramp, the pilot came out of the cockpit and walked back to Banning, who was seated in the front of the fuselage, in a surprisingly comfortable airline-type seat.

  "A car's going to meet you where we park," he said.

  "Thank you," Banning said.

  He had a headache. His mouth was dry. He'd been sleeping fitfully until his ears popped painfully as they made their descent and approach.

  They'd stopped at St. Louis for fuel. And he had a fried-egg sand-wich and a cup of coffee there. The mayonnaise and the slice of raw onion on the sandwich had given him heartburn.

  He belched painfully.

  It was raining, steadily, and a chilling wind was blowing across the field. And there was no car in sight. He'd just about decided that the pilot had the wrong information, or that the plane was parked in the wrong place, when a 1940 Buick convertible sedan rolled up. The Buick was preceded by a pickup truck painted in a checkerboard pattern and flying a checkered flag.

  The rear door of the Buick opened.

  "Will the Major please get in so the Captain will not get drowned?" a voice called.

  Banning quickly stepped into the backseat and put out his hand.

  "How are you, Ed?" he said. "Good to see you."

  "Take us to the hotel, Jerry," Captain Edward Sessions, USMC, ordered, and then turned to Banning. "It's good to see you, Sir," he said. He was a tall, not quite handsome twenty-seven-year-old in a trench coat. A plastic rain cover was fastened over the cover of his billed cap.

  "I didn't want to get my best uniform soaked," he went on. "There's a good chance I will be in the very presence of the Secretary of the Navy himself.

  "We will be."

  "Tonight?" Banning asked, surprised.

  "Very possibly. The Colonel's at the hotel; that's where we're going. He should know by the time we get there."

  "What hotel?"

  "The Foster Lafayette," Sessions said. "Your hotel, Sir. By order of General Pickering. He sent a radio from Pearl Harbor." He made a gesture with his hand. "The car, too. He said we were to give you the keys."

  "Jesus," Banning said.

  "And this, I thought, would give you a laugh," Sessions said, and thrust a newspaper at Banning. "There's a light back here somewhere.... Ah, there it is."

  A pair of lights came on, providing just enough illumination to read the newspaper. It was The Washington Star.

  "What am I looking at?"

  Sessions pointed at a photograph of a Marine officer in dress blues. He was standing at a microphone mounted on a lectern on a stage somewhere.

  There was a headline over the photograph:

  PACIFIC HEROES COMPLETE WAR BOND TOUR;

  'BACK TO THE JOB WE HAVE TO DO' SAYS

  PURPLE HEART HERO OF GUADALCANAL.

  "So?" Banning asked.

  "Take a good look at the hero," Session said. "Macklin! I'll be damned." "I thought that would amuse you," Sessions said. "Nauseate me is the word you're looking for," Banning said. And then something else caught his eye.

  NAVY SECRETARY KNOX 'EXPECTS

  GUADALCANAL CAN BE HELD'

  By Charles E. Whaley

  Washington Oct 16 - Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox, at a press conference this afternoon, responded with guarded optimism to the question, by this reporter, "Can Guadalcanal be held?"

  "I certainly hope so," the Secretary said. "I expect so. I don't want to make any predictions, but every man out there, ashore or afloat, will give a good account of himself."

  The response called to mind the classic phrase, "England expects every man to do his duty," but could not be interpreted as more than a hope on Knox's part.

  One highly placed and knowledgeable military expert has, on condition of anonymity, told this reporter that the "odds that we can stay on Guadalcanal are no better than fifty-fifty." He cited the great difficulty of supplying the twenty-odd thousand Marines on the island, which is not only far from U.S. Bases, but very close to Japanese bases from which air and naval attacks can be launched on both the troops and on the vessels and aircraft attempting to provide them with war materiel.

  "What are you reading?"

  "Some expert, who doesn't want his name mentioned, told the Star it's fifty-fifty whether we can stay on Guadalcanal."

  "You think he's wrong?"

  "It's pretty bad over
there, Ed," Banning said. "I don't even think it's fifty-fifty. The night before we left, they were shelling Henderson Field with fourteen-inch battleship cannon. Nobody can stand up under that for long."

  "Is that what you're going to tell Secretary Knox?"

  "I'm going to tell him what Vandegrift thinks."