The Corps II - CALL TO ARMS

by W. E. B Griffin

  Bayler spent the afternoon of December 20 collecting official documents (including casualty lists) from Cunningham and Devereux, and then personal messages from the Marines of the garrison, for delivery, when it could be arranged, to their families.

  The next morning, Ensign Murphy lifted the Catalina from the Wake lagoon and pointed the nose toward Pearl Harbor, eight hours and 1,225 miles distant. The Catalina was the last American aircraft to visit Wake Island until the war was over.

  At Pearl Harbor, mechanics swarmed over the Catalina to ready it for another flight. Three hours after it landed, it was airborne again with another flight crew, this time bound for the Philippines, where the Japanese were approaching Manila, and demolition at the Cavite U.S. Navy Base had already begun.

  The Catalina remained in the Philippines only long enough to drop off its passengers-a Navy petty officer who was a Japanese linguist, and an Army Ordnance Corps major, a demolitions expert-and its mail bags. It loaded aboard the outgoing cargo, mail bags, and its Pearl Harbor-bound passengers while it was taking on fuel. These were a U.S. Foreign Service officer, an Army colonel of Artillery, and a Marine Corps second lieutenant.

  Manila Bay was choppy, and the Catalina smashed heavily into unyielding water several times before the pilot was finally able to get it into the air. When they'd reached cruising altitude, he went back into the fuselage to see if any damage had been done to the aircraft-in particular to the floats-and to the passengers. He found the Army colonel and the Foreign Service officer doing what they could to bandage the Marine Corps second lieutenant.

  Although it had not been visible under the lieutenant's uniform when he boarded the Catalina, his body was bandaged. The bone-jarring bounces of the Catalina as it had taken off had ripped loose four or five of the two dozen or so stitches holding an eight-inch gash in the young Marine officer's side together. There was some bleeding, and he was obviously in pain, but he refused, rather abruptly, the pilot's offer of a syringe of morphine.

  They rigged a sort of bed for him out of life preservers and blankets, but that was all that could be done for him until the seaplane reached Pearl Harbor.

  An hour out of Pearl, the young Marine went forward to the cockpit. The pilot was surprised to see him.

  "Feeling better?" he asked.

  The young Marine nodded.

  "In a couple of minutes, I'll radio ahead, and they'll have medics meet us," the pilot said.

  "I thought maybe you'd do that," the young Marine said. "That's why I came up here. Don't."

  "Why not?"

  "Because, unless I get put in a hospital, my orders will carry me to Washington," he said. "I can get myself rebandaged there."

  "You may not make it to Washington, in your shape."

  "Then in San Francisco, or Diego, wherever they land me. Do me a favor, just don't say anything."

  "Suit yourself," the pilot said, after a moment's thought.

  "Thank you," the young Marine officer said, and he went back into the fuselage.

  Curious, the pilot took his flight manifest out and looked at it. It gave no identification beyond, "McCoy, Kenneth J. 2nd Lt USMCR," but then the pilot noticed that Second Lieutenant McCoy was listed first on the manifest. Passengers were listed in order of their travel priority, which meant that McCoy had a higher priority than even the Foreign Service big shot.

  The pilot was curious about that, and said so to the copilot.

  "He's a courier," he said. "Didn't you see the briefcase?"

  The pilot shook his head. "No."

  "He had it when he came on board, chained-actually handcuffed-to his wrist."

  "I didn't notice," the pilot said.

  "And when he took off his jacket, he had a.45 stuck in his belt, and a knife strapped to his arm."

  "I wonder what's in the briefcase?" the pilot said.

  "I don't know," the copilot replied, adding, "but I don't think I'd want to try to take it away from him."

  (Two)

  The Willard Hotel

  Washington, D.C.

  1215 Hours, 26 December 1941

  "Peacock Alley," which ran through the Willard Hotel from Fourteenth Street to Pennsylvania Avenue, was where, since before the Civil War, the elegant ladies of the nation's capital (and, some said, the more expensive courtesans) and their elegant gentlemen had strutted… like peacocks.

  It was ornately decorated, still with Victorian elegance, and along the alley were small alcoves, furnished with tables and chairs where conversations could be held in private. The cynics said that more politicians had been bought and sold in the alcoves of Peacock Alley than in all the smoke-filled rooms in the United States combined.

  Thomas C. Wesley, a tall, fifty-year-old, portly, ruddy-faced full colonel of Marines, got out of a 1941 Chevrolet staff car on Pennsylvania Avenue and entered the building. He removed his overcoat and hat and put them in care of the cloakroom. He tugged at the skirt of his blouse and checked the position of his Sam Browne leather belt, and then walked slowly down Peacock Alley all the way to the stairs leading down into the lobby, obviously looking for someone. When he didn't find him, he stationed himself halfway along the corridor and waited.

  At just about the same time, a tall, thin, somehow unhealthy-looking man entered the Willard from Fourteenth Street. He was wearing a gray snap-brim felt hat, which he removed (exposing his balding head) as he came through the revolving door. He headed across the old and battered, but still elegant, lobby toward Peacock Alley shrugging awkwardly out of his gray topcoat. By the time he saw Colonel Wesley, he had it draped none too neatly over his left arm.

  Colonel Wesley nodded stiffly, perhaps even disapprovingly, when he saw the tall, thin, unhealthy-looking man in the badly fitting blue pinstripe suit.

  "Rickabee," he said.

  "Colonel," Rickabee said, then looked around Peacock Alley until he found an empty table and two chairs in one of the alcoves and made a gesture toward it. Lieutenant Colonel F. L. Rickabee was carried on the Table of Organization of Headquarters, USMC, as "special assistant to the Public Affairs Officer," although his real duties had nothing to do with public relations.

  Colonel Wesley marched to the alcove and sat down, leaving to Rickabee the other chair, which faced the wall. Rickabee moved the chair so that he, too, could look out into Peacock Alley.

  "It's been some time, Rickabee, hasn't it?" Colonel Wesley said, and then, before Rickabee had a chance to reply, said what was actually on his mind: "Are you people exempt from the uniform requirements?"

  "It's left to General Forrest's discretion, sir, who wears the uniform and who doesn't. The general feels I'm more effective in mufti."

  Brigadier General Horace W. T. Forrest, USMC, was Assistant Chief of Staff, Intelligence, USMC.

  "General Forrest explained the situation to you?" Colonel Wesley asked.

  "He said that you and General Lesterby had been handed a very delicate problem by the Major General Commandant, and that I was to do what I could to help. How can we help you, sir?"

  "He thought you might be interested in this," Colonel Wesley said, taking an envelope from his lower blouse pocket and handing it to Rickabee.

  There was no question in Lieutenant Colonel Rickabee's mind who "He" was. Colonel Thomas C. Wesley was one of a handful of officers at the absolute upper echelon of the Marine Corps. They were somewhat derisively known as "the Palace Guard," because of their reputation for doing the bidding of, and protecting from all enemies, foreign and domestic, the Commandant of the U.S. Marine Corps.

  "Captain James Roosevelt has been good enough to offer some suggestions on how he believes the Marine Corps should organize its own version of a Communist Route Army," Colonel Wesley said dryly.

  "I thought he was working for Colonel Wild Bill Donovan," Rickabee said.

  "Not any longer," Wesley said. "He now works for Lieutenant Colonel Evans Carlson."

  Rickabee took from the envelope a thin sheath of carbon sheets. They were the fifth or
sixth carbon, he concluded. They were just barely readable.

  A waiter appeared.

  "Nothing for me, thank you," Colonel Wesley said.

  "I'll have a Jack Daniel's," Lieutenant Colonel Rickabee said. "No ice, and water on the side."

  He sensed Colonel Wesley's disapproval.

  "The way I handle drinking on duty, Colonel," Rickabee said, "is that for the first twenty-four consecutive hours I have the duty, I don't touch alcohol. After that…"

  "Do what you like, Rickabee," Colonel Wesley said.

  Rickabee returned to reading, very carefully, the sheath of carbon copies Wesley had given him. Finally, he finished and looked at Wesley.

  "Very interesting," he said. "Where did you get this?"

  "I'm not at liberty to say," Wesley said.

  "You think he's actually going to submit it?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "And apparently you don't think that General Vogel is going to call him in for a little chat and point out that it's just a touch pushy for a reserve captain to tell him, much less the Commandant, how the Corps should be run?"

  "I believe the letter will be forwarded to the Commandant," Wesley said. "I'm interested in your reaction to it."

  "You are, or He is? Does He know you're showing this to me?"

  Colonel Wesley nodded his head, signifying, Rickabee decided, that Wesley was running an errand.

  "I would really like to know where you got this, where He got it," Rickabee said.

  "I can assure you, Colonel," Wesley said, "that it is authentic."

  "I'd still like to know how it came into His hands," Rickabee insisted. "That could be very important."

  "The document was typed, from a handwritten draft, by a clerk, a corporal, who thought the sergeant major should see it. He made six, instead of five carbons. The sergeant major sent it on to… sent it on here."

  "To you or to Him?" Rickabee asked.

  "To Him," Wesley said.

  The waiter, an elderly black man, delivered Rickabee's bourbon on a silver tray.

  "I believe I will have one," Colonel Wesley said. "The same, with ice… This is obviously a very delicate situation," he continued, when the waiter had gone.

  "Well, there's one way to handle it," Rickabee said. "I know several people at San Diego who would be happy to run Carlson over with a truck. Better yet, a tank."

  Wesley was not amused; it showed on his face.

  "Then you think that Colonel Carlson has a hand in this?" he asked.

  "That seems pretty obvious," Rickabee said. "Have you read his reports, Colonel? Or his books?"

  "As much as I could stomach," Colonel Wesley said.

  "That 'leaders' and 'fighters' business," Lieutenant Colonel Rickabee said, "has appeared before. That's pure Carlson. So is the business about everybody being treated equally, officers, noncoms, and privates. He got all that from the Chinese Eighth Route Army… and the term 'column,' too, meaning 'battalion.' That's pure Chinese Red Army."

  "Well then, let's get right to that," Wesley said. "Did he get himself infected by them when he was with them? Is he a Communist?"

  Rickabee sipped at his bourbon, and then took a sip of water before replying.

  "No, I don't think so," he said. "He's been investigated. When he applied to get his commission back, the FBI investigated him, and came up with nothing we didn't already know."

  "You've seen the FBI reports?" Wesley asked. "Of course not," Rickabee said, dryly. "FBI reports are confidential and never shown to outsiders. What agencies requesting an investigation get is a synopsis of what the FBI thinks it found out."

  He clearly meant, Wesley decided, that he had indeed seen the FBI reports on Lieutenant Colonel Evans Carlson, USMCR.

  "What's your personal opinion of him?" Wesley said.

  "I think he's a good Marine gone off the deep end," Rickabee said. "That he's a zealot, quite eccentric, perhaps even unbalanced. He might have gotten Roosevelt to sign this, but the Major General Commandant will know he was behind it."

  Wesley grunted his agreement.

  "But on the other hand," Rickabee said after taking a sip of his drink, "they said very much the same things about Jesus Christ, you will recall. 'What's happened to that nice Nazarene carpenter? Why is he attacking the established order?'"

  "I don't think that's funny, Colonel," Wesley said, coldly.

  "It wasn't intended to be, Colonel. There is even the parallel between Christ being able to talk to his heavenly, all-powerful father…"

  What could have been a faint smile crossed Wesley's lips. "And what about Roosevelt… the son, I mean?" he asked.

  "Everything I know about him is positive. He's smarter than hell, hard working, everything a good reserve officer should be. After seeing this, I would suggest that he's fallen in with evil companions… an evil companion." "You know him, personally?"

  Rickabee nodded. "Not well. Great big guy. Getting bald. Has to wear glasses. Nice guy, from the little I know him. What I would like to know is why they gave Carlson his commission back."

  "Isn't that obvious, Colonel?" Colonel Wesley replied, sarcastically. "He came highly recommended. He has the Navy Cross. And, as they say, 'friends in high places.'"

  "A little backbone then would have kept this from happening," Rickabee said, and raised the sheets of paper.

  "He made that decision," Wesley said.

  "That was the big mistake," Rickabee said, undaunted.

  "You say your mind, Colonel, don't you?" Colonel Wesley said, coldly.

  "That's what I'm paid for," Rickabee said. "I would prefer to be at Camp Elliott myself. Believe it or not, I'm qualified to command an infantry battalion."

  "Obviously, the Corps feels that what you're doing now is of greater importance," Colonel Wesley said.

  "What does the Corps want me to do about this?" Rickabee asked, holding up the sheaf of paper again. "How does my run-him-over-with-a-truck suggestion sound?"

  "As if you don't understand the seriousness of the problem," Wesley said. "Otherwise you wouldn't be joking."

  "You seem to be very sure that I was joking," Rickabee said.

  Colonel Thomas C. Wesley was furious with himself when he realized that he did not in fact know for sure that Rickabee was being flip. He met Rickabee's eyes for a long moment, and learned nothing.

  "What I was hoping-" he said, finally.

  "Was that I could give you proof positive," Rickabee interrupted him, "proof that He could take to at least Frank Knox, and/or to the White House, that Evans Carlson is in fact a Communist and/or certifiably out of his mind. I can't do that, Colonel. I can't even manufacture any evidence to that effect. It wouldn't stand up in the light."

  "But you do see the problem," Wesley said.

  "Would you like to hear how I see it?" Rickabee asked.

  "Of course," Wesley said, impatiently.

  "The Corps is in a no-win situation," Rickabee said. "When this document reaches His desk, He's going to have to approve it, at least on a trial basis. Carlson's Eighth Communist Route Army, also known as the Marine Commandos or Rangers or whatever, will have to be employed. That will result in one of two things: They will get wiped out on the beach of some Pacific island, and He will find Himself explaining why He approved such a nutty idea, resulting in such a terrible waste of young American life. Or, Carlson's private army will do what Carlson says it will do, which, by the way, is very likely to happen. Carlson has proved that he's a skilled, courageous officer. If Carlson succeeds-and to repeat, he damned well may-the Commandant will find himself turning the Corps into the U.S. Commandos, with at least full Colonel Carlson-and possibly General Carlson-at his side while the rules are written."

  "It could mean the end of the Corps," Wesley said.

  "Yes, it could," Rickabee said. "After the war, when there was no need for Commandos, or for more than a few of them, the Marine Corps could become an Army regiment. A lot of. people would like to see that happen."

  "If you we
re charged with stopping this, Rickabee," Colonel Wesley asked, "how would you go about it?"

  "Is that what this little chat is all about, Colonel? He sent you here to order me to stop it?"

  "I said nothing of the kind," Wesley said quickly. "Just answer the question, please."

  "I would look for proof positive that Carlson is crazy or a Communist, or both," Rickabee said. "That's the only chance I see to scuttle this."

  "And, how would you do that?"

  "I would put someone close to him, telling him what to look for, and to make sure he had witnesses… unimpeachable witnesses."

  "A spy, you mean."

  "An undercover operative," Rickabee said.

  "Have you such a man available?" Wesley asked.

  "Not off the top of my head," Rickabee said, then changed his mind. "I might. He's a bright young shavetail-"

  Wesley interrupted him. "I don't want to know the details," he said. "Not yet."

  "Then where are we?" Rickabee said.

  "I want you to think this through," Wesley said. "Come up with a plan, including the name of the man you intend to employ, and a synopsis of his background. When you have that, as soon as you have it, call me."

  "Yes, sir," Rickabee said. He motioned to someone standing in Peacock Alley to come to the table.

  "What are you doing?" Colonel Wesley asked, confused.

  A good- looking young man in a camel's hair sports coat and gray flannel trousers came to the table.

  "Colonel Wesley, Lieutenant Frame," Rickabee said.

  "How do you do, sir?" Lieutenant Frame asked politely.

  "Lieutenant," Colonel Wesley said.

  "Bill, take this to the office and have it photographed," Rickabee ordered, handing Frame the sheaf of carbon copies. "Stick around until you have the negatives, then bring this back here. I have just accepted Colonel Wesley's kind invitation to lunch, and we'll be in the dining room."

  "Aye, aye, sir," Lieutenant Frame said. He looked at Colonel Wesley, said, "It was a pleasure to meet you, sir," and then walked down Peacock Alley toward Fourteenth Street.