"I don't mind telling you, Jake, that when you smoothed things over between Veronica and Janos Kazar, I felt my decision to keep you on as a member of the Metro-Magnum family was absolutely justified.... The way those two were at each other's throats, it was costing us more money than I like to think about...."
"Veronica is a sensitive artist, Jim. I really don't think Janos fully appreciates that."
Hearing her name, Veronica made another attempt to place her ear against the headset. Jake stood and walked away from her.
"Jake, I certainly don't want to argue the point, but calling him a Hungarian cocksucker at the top of her lungs in the commissary didn't make him look fondly at her. He's sensitive, too."
"Who is that? Are you talking about me?" Veronica asked.
She caught up with Jake, and he gave in. He held the receiver an inch from his ear so she could hear.
"Well, Jim, I think that's all water under the dam. I talked to Veronica today, and she tells me that they're going to wind up the looping tomorrow."
"So I understand," he said. "But let me continue. My point is that my judgment in keeping you on salary was justified by what you did for Metro-Magnum when you made peace between Veronica and Janos. And now this!"
Now this what? What the fuck is he talking about?
"She photographs like Bergman," Mr. Maxwell went on. "And her speaking voice. I wouldn't want that you should repeat this, but I ran the test again for Shirley, for her opinion..."
Shirley was Mrs. James Allwood Maxwell, a long-legged blonde who was almost a foot taller than her husband.
"... and Shirley said, about her voice, I mean, that it would even make Janos horny."
This can't be what I think he's talking about.
"Well, we all respect Shirley's judgment, Jim."
"So I thank you, my friend, on behalf of the entire Metro-Magnum family, for Dawn Morris."
"I thought that you would appreciate the same things I saw in her, Jim."
"We have major plans for her, Jake. Major plans. She's our answer to Lauren Bacall."
"I'm pleased it turned out well, Jim."
" 'Well' is a gross understatement," Mr. Maxwell said. "And Mort Cooperman had a splendid idea, Jake. And I'm sure it will please you. We can get some instant publicity out of it, and so can you. By you I mean the Marines. Mort wants to send her on the war bond tour with you. I told him I thought you would be pleased."
"Delighted."
"Good. Mort will be in touch. Such a pleasure hearing your voice, Jake."
"Good to talk to you, Jim."
The line went dead.
"I'll be a sonofabitch," Jake said.
"Why not, Jake?"
"It happens. Some people change when they're on film."
"That's not what I meant, Jake, and, goddamn it, you know it!"
"Oh," Jake Dillon said. "That."
"Yeah, that. Why not?"
"In addition to two thousand other reasons, I'm in the Marine Corps; I won't be around."
"Fuck the two thousand reasons. I know what you're thinking, and they're bullshit. And you won't be in the Marine Corps forever."
"Once a Marine, always a Marine. Haven't you ever heard that?"
"Goddamn you, Jake," Veronica said, her voice breaking.
"You think you could wait until the goddamn war is over?"
She met his eyes.
"What is that, a proposal? Can I consider myself proposed to?"
"If it makes you feel better."
"Is it, or isn't it?"
"Yeah, I guess it is."
"You're not just saying that?"
"No."
"You're supposed to drop on your knees when you propose."
"You've been watching too many movies. People don't do that."
"You will, or I'll know you're just bullshitting me."
Major Jake Dillon looked at her for a moment, then shrugged and dropped to one knee.
"This OK?" he asked.
"Honey, that's fine," Veronica Wood said.
Chapter Thirteen
[ONE]
Headquarters
First Marine Division
Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands
1115 Hours 2 November 1942
When Lieutenant Colonel Jack (NMI) Stecker, USMCR, walked into Division Headquarters, he was wearing frayed, sweat- and oil-stained utilities and a pair of boondockers covered with mud and mildew.
He was armed with a U.S. Rifle, Caliber.30-06, Ml, commonly known as the Garand. He carried it slung over his shoulder, with two eight-round, en bloc clips attached to its leather strap.
Early on in the battle for Guadalcanal, when then Major Stecker put a pair of bullets from his Garand into the heads of two Japanese soldiers (and did it firing offhand, with only two shots, at a distance that was later measured as 190 yards), he cast considerable doubt upon the widely held, near-sacred belief among Marines that the U.S. Rifle, Caliber.30-06, Ml903 Springfield was the finest rifle in the world.
He also wore a shoulder holster, which held a Colt M1911A1 pistol. These were originally issued to Second Lieutenant Richard J. Stecker, USMCR. When Colonel Stecker went to visit his son a few minutes before he was evacuated by air, he found them lying under Lieutenant Stecker's cot in the hospital.
Certain minor disciplinary and logistical problems within the First Marine Division resulted from Colonel Stecker's carrying of the Garand and his wearing of the shoulder holster. These problems were in no way due to any action or behavior of the Colonel. They just kind of grew like topsy:
As it happened, Marine regulations proscribed shoulder holsters, except for those engaged in special operations, such as tank crewmen and aviators. Naturally, no superior officer was about to challenge Colonel Stecker's right to wear one. Most senior officers, including his regimental commander, had a pretty good idea how he came by it and why he was wearing it. And this wasn't Quantico, anyway, this was Guadalcanal, and what difference did it make?
As for the Garand, no one, of course, was going to question the right of a battalion commander to arm himself with any weapon that struck his fancy. And this would have been true even for those battalion commanders who did not win the Medal of Honor in France in World War I.
But there is a tendency in the military, just as in civilian life, to emulate those we hold in high regard. Imitation is indeed the most sincere form of flattery. Colonel Stecker not only enjoyed a reputation as one hell of a Marine, but he very much looked the part: He was personally imposing-tall, erect, and muscular.
If Colonel Stecker felt that the way to go about armed was with a Garand and a.45 in a shoulder holster, then a large number of majors, captains, lieutenants, sergeants major, and gunnery sergeants (those, in other words, who believed with some reason they could get away with it) clearly felt that this was a practice to be emulated.
Though extra shoulder holsters were not available to the Division's tankers (much to their regret), the Cactus Air Force did in fact have access to a goodly supply of them. And for the proper price, they were in a position to meet the perceived demand. A barter commerce was already well established between Henderson Field and Espiritu Santo (and other rear-area bases). Japanese flags (many, to be honest, of local manufac-' ture) and other artifacts were sent to the rear via R4D or other supply aircraft, while various items (many of which had a tendency to gurgle) were sent forward in payment thereof. It was not at all difficult to add shoulder holsters to the list of rear-area goods that could be exchanged for souvenirs of the battlefield.
In exchange for a bona fide (as opposed to locally manufactured) Japanese flag or other genuine artifact of war, the Marines of the Air Group would provide shoulder holsters to their comrades-in-arms of the First Marine Division.
Until the Army came to Guadalcanal, laying one's hands on a Garand posed a much greater problem. But the Army came equipped with Garands.
Mysteriously, almost immediately upon the Army's arrival, these weapons seemed to vanish from th
e possession of the men they'd been issued to. And after the Army became engaged in military actions, virtually no Garands were recovered from the various scenes of battle and returned to Army control.
By then, of course, the value of the Garand was apparent to all hands: Among other demonstrable advantages, for instance, it fired eight shots as fast as you could pull the trigger. On the other hand, a Springfield held only five rounds, and you had to work the bolt mechanism to fire one. Thus, when he happened to notice a Garand in the hands of one of his riflemen, it is perhaps not surprising that even the saltiest second lieutenant (the kind of officer who devoutly believed in the sacredness of regulations) did not point an accusing finger, shout "that weapon is stolen!", and take steps to return it to its proper owner.
The more senior officers, meanwhile, seemed to be so overwhelmed by the press of their duties that they were unable to devote time to investigating reports of theft of small arms from the U.S. Army. This understandable negligence did, however, lead to occasional differences of opinion between the Army and the Marines. Indeed, when one Marine colonel informed an Army captain that Marines never lost their rifles and that the Marine Corps could not be held responsible for the Army's lax training in that area, the Army captain was seen to leave the regimental headquarters in a highly aroused state of indignation.
"The General will see you now, Colonel," Major General Archer A. Vandegrift's sergeant major said to Colonel Stecker.
Lieutenant Colonel Stecker nodded his thanks to the sergeant major for holding open for him the piece of canvas that was General Vandegrift's office door and stepped inside.
"Good morning, Sir."
"Good morning," Vandegrift said.
Vandegrift was not alone in his office. There was another colonel there; he stood up when he saw Stecker and smiled.
His was a familiar face to Stecker, but he was a newcomer to Guadalcanal. That was evident by his brand-new utilities and boondockers, and by the unmarred paint on his steel helmet. And because he was wearing a spotless set of web gear, complete to suspenders.
"You two know each other, don't you?" Vandegrift asked, but it was more of a statement than a question.
"Yes, Sir," they said, almost in unison.
"I worked for the Colonel at Quantico," Jack Stecker said. "When he was in Marine Corps Schools."
"That seems like a long time ago, doesn't it, Jack?" Lieutenant Colonel G. H. Newberry said.
"Yes, Sir," Stecker said.
"Newberry will be taking over your battalion, Colonel," General Vandegrift said.
There was a just-perceptible hesitation before Stecker replied, "Aye, aye, Sir."
Well, what the hell did I expect? I never expected to command a battalion in the first place. Battalions go to career officers, not people who have an "R" for reserve after USMC in their signature block.
"From what I've been hearing, Jack," Colonel Newberry said, "you've done a hell of a job with it."
You didn't have to say that. Why am I surprised that you're a gentleman, trying to make this easier for me? I always thought you were a pretty good officer. As a matter of fact, the only thing I don't like about you is that you 're taking my battalion away from me.
"I've had some pretty fine Marines to work with, Colonel."
"My experience is that Marines reflect their officers," General Vandegrift said. "Good or bad."
That was nice of him, too.
"I want you to turn it over to Newberry as soon as possible, Colonel," Vandegrift said.
"Aye, aye, Sir. I'd like a day or two, Sir, if that's possible."
Vandegrift looked at his wristwatch. "Would you settle for thirty hours? There's a PBY scheduled to leave Henderson at seventeen hundred tomorrow. I want you on it."
"Aye, aye, Sir," Stecker said. "We ought to be able to do it in that time."
"Newberry," Vandegrift said, "I'd like a word with Colonel Stecker, if you don't mind."
"Aye, aye, Sir. By your leave, Sir," Newberry said, and then added, "I'll wait for you outside, Jack."
"All right," Stecker said.
Newberry left. Vandegrift waved Stecker into a folding chair.
"OK, Jack," he said. "What is it that you know about Newberry that I don't? He came highly recommended."
"Sir, to the best of my knowledge, Colonel Newberry is a fine officer. I'd be very surprised if he didn't do a fine job with Second of the Fifth."
"You looked pretty damned unhappy a minute ago," Vandegrift said. "All that was was having to give up your battalion?"
"Yes, Sir."
"The Corps doesn't give people battalions until they die or retire, Jack. At least, not anymore. You ought to know that."
"Yes, Sir."
"Or had you hoped to turn it over to your exec? What's his name?"
"Young, Sir," Stecker replied automatically, and then went on without thinking. "No, Sir, Young's not ready for a battalion yet. He just made major."
"Good company commanders do not necessarily make good battalion commanders, is that what you're saying?"
"You need experience, Sir, seeing how a battalion is run. Give Young a couple more months..." He stopped. "General, I don't know what made me start crying in my soup. I apologize, Sir."
"You looked just like that, Jack, like you were going to cry in your soup."
"I'm sorry, Sir. By your leave?"
"I'll tell you when, Colonel. Please keep your seat."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
"I'll tell you why you're crying in your soup, Jack. You're worn out, that's why."
"I'm fine, Sir. Is that why I was relieved?"
"There's two kinds of relief, Colonel. You are not being relieved because you weren't doing the job, or even because you're tired... but, frankly, being tired entered into it. You have been relieved because Newberry-through no fault of his own-has never heard a shot fired in anger, and it's time he was given the opportunity. And because The Corps has other places where you can be useful. By taking you out of there now, The Corps is going to wind up with two qualified battalion commanders, Newberry and Young. They will teach each other; Young will show Newberry how to function under fire, and Newberry will show Young how to run a battalion... what is expected of him as a field-grade officer."
"Yes, Sir."
"We're going to need a lot of battalion commanders. The last thing I heard, there may be as many as six Marine divisions."
"Six, Sir?" Stecker was surprised. Even in World War I, there had only been one Marine division.
"I wouldn't be surprised if it went higher than six. We're going to have to have that many battalion commanders. That means we're going to have to train them."
"Yes, Sir. Is that what I'll be doing?"
"I'd bet on it, before we're through. But that's not what's on the agenda for you right now. You probably won't like this, but you're the best man I can think of for the job."
"As the captain said to the second lieutenant when he appointed him VD control officer."
Vandegrift looked at Stecker in surprise and with a hint of annoyance. But then he chuckled.
"At least you don't look as if you're going to weep all over the place anymore," he said, "and now that I think about it, this will almost certainly involve protecting our people from social diseases."
"Sir?"
"We're winding down here, Jack, and probably just in time. The Division is exhausted. Malaria is just about out of control. We haven't been able to feed them properly, and we have demanded physical exertion from them unlike anything I've ever seen before."
"Yes, Sir," Stecker agreed.
"The Army's sending more troops here. I think we can probably call the island secure before they take over, but maybe not. In any event, the Division is going to have to be refitted and brought back to something resembling health. That means Australia and New Zealand. I'm sending you there as the advance party... we're not calling it that, yet, but that's what it is."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
"I don't hav
e to tell you what's needed. Just get it ready."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
"Fleming Pickering is there," Vandegrift said. "I never asked you how you felt about him being a general officer. You were his sergeant in France, weren't you?"
"No, Sir. We were there at the same time, but he was never one of my corporals."
"And you worked for him here, when he was filling in for Colonel Goetke, didn't you?"
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