"I told him we could," Sessions said.
"Ken was just showing me a picture of his girl," Jean said, changing the subject. "Show her to Ed, Ken."
Sessions said that he thought Ernestine Sage was a lovely young woman.
Lieutenant Colonel Rickabee arrived almost exactly thirty minutes later. He was followed into the room by Jewel, who carried a silver tray of bacon-wrapped oysters. Jean Sessions left after making him a drink. She explained that she had to check the roast, and she closed the door after her.
"I was sorry to have to cheat you out of the rest of your recuperative leave, McCoy," Rickabee said. "I wouldn't have done it if it wasn't necessary."
"I understand, sir," McCoy said.
"The decision had just about been made to send you over to COI, after you'd had your leave," Rickabee said.
"Sir?"
"You've never heard of it?" Rickabee asked, but it was a statement rather than a question. "You ever hear of Colonel Wild Bill Donovan?"
"No, sir."
"He won the Medal of Honor in the First World War," Rickabee explained. "He was in the Army. More important, he's a friend of the President. COI stands for 'Coordinator of Information.' It's sort of a clearinghouse for intelligence information. A filter, in other words. They get everything the Office of Naval Intelligence comes up with, and the Army's G-2 comes up with, and the State Department, us, everybody… and they put it all together before giving it to the President. Get the idea?"
"Yes, sir," McCoy said.
"Donovan has authority to have service personnel assigned to him," Rickabee said, "and General Forrest got a call from the Commandant himself, who told him that when he got a levy against us to furnish officers to the COI, he was not to regard it as an opportunity to get rid of the deadwood. The Commandant feels that what Donovan is doing is worthwhile, and that it is in the best interest of the Corps to send him good people. Despite your somewhat childish behavior in the Philippines, you fell into that category."
McCoy did not reply. And Rickabee waited a long moment, staring at him hard in order to make him uncomfortable- without noticeable effect.
"Let me get that out of the way," Rickabee said finally, with steel in his voice. "You were sent there as a courier. Couriers do not grab BARs and go AWOL to the infantry. In a way, you were lucky you got hit. It's difficult to rack the ass of a wounded hero, McCoy, even when you know he's done something really dumb."
"Yes, sir," McCoy said, after a moment.
"Okay, that's the last word on that subject. You get the Purple Heart for getting hit. But no Silver Star, despite the recommendation."
He reached into his briefcase and handed McCoy an oblong box. McCoy opened it and saw inside the Purple Medal.
"Thank you, sir," McCoy said. He closed the box and looked at Rickabee.
Rickabee was unfolding a sheet of paper. Then he started reading from it: "… ignoring his wounds, and with complete disregard for his own personal safety, carried a grievously wounded officer to safety through an intensive enemy artillery barrage, and subsequently, gathered together eighteen Marines separated from their units by enemy action, and led them safely through enemy-occupied territory to American lines. His courage, devotion to duty, and… et cetera, et cetera…"
He folded the piece of paper and then dipped into his briefcase again, and came up with another oblong box.
"Bronze Star," Rickabee said, handing it to him. "If the Corps had told you to go play Errol Flynn, you would have got the Silver. And if you hadn't forgotten to duck, you probably wouldn't have got the Bronze. But, to reiterate, it's hard to rack the ass of a wounded hero, even when he deserves it."
McCoy opened the Bronze Star box, glanced inside, and then closed it.
"For the time being, McCoy, you are not to wear either of those medals," Rickabee said.
"Sir?"
"Something has come up which may keep you from going to COI," Rickabee said. "Which is why I was forced to cancel your recuperative leave."
McCoy looked at him curiously, but said nothing.
"You're up, Ed." Rickabee said to Captain Sessions.
"When you were in China, McCoy," Sessions began, "did you ever run into Major Evans Carlson?"
"No, sir," McCoy said. "But I've seen his name." And then memory returned. "And I read his books."
"You have?" Rickabee asked, surprised.
"Yes, sir," McCoy said. "Captain Banning had them. And a lot of other stuff that Carlson wrote. Letters, too."
"And Captain Banning suggested you read the books?" Sessions asked.
"Yes, sir, and the other stuff."
"What did you think?" Rickabee asked, innocently.
McCoy considered the question, and then decided to avoid it. "About what, sir?"
"Well, for example, what Major Carlson had to say about the Communist Chinese Army?" Rickabee asked.
McCoy didn't immediately reply. He was, Sessions sensed, trying to fathom why he was being asked.
"Just off the top of your head, Ken," Sessions said.
McCoy looked at him, and shrugged. "Out of school," McCoy said. "I think he went Chink."
"Excuse me?" Rickabee said.
"It happens," McCoy explained. "People spend a lot of time over there, China gets to them. That 'thousands of years of culture' crap. They start to think that we don't know what we're doing, and that the Chinks have everything figured out. Have had it figured out for a thousand years."
"How does that apply to what Carlson thinks of the Chinese Communists?" Rickabee asked.
"That's a big question," McCoy said.
"Have a shot at it," Rickabee ordered.
"There's two kinds of Chinese," McCoy said. "Ninety-eight percent of them don't give a damn for anything but staying alive and getting their rice bowl filled for that day. And the other two percent try to push the ninety-eight percent around for what they can get out of it."
"Isn't that pretty cynical?" Rickabee asked. "You don't think that, say, Sun Yat-sen or Chiang Kai-shek-or Mao Tse-tung- have the best interests of the Chinese at heart?"
"I didn't mean that all they're interested in is beating them out of their rice bowls," McCoy said. "I think most of them want the power. They like the power."
That's simplistic, of course, Sessions thought. But at the same time, it's a rather astute observation for a twenty-one-year-old with only a high school education.
"Then you don't see much difference between the Nationalists and the Communists?" Rickabee asked.
"Not much. Hell, Chiang Kai-shek was a Communist. He even went to military school in Russia."
I wonder how many of his brother officers in the Marine Corps know that? Rickabee thought. How many of the colonels, much less the second lieutenants?
"What about the Communist notion that there should be no privileges for officers?" Rickabee went on.
"They got that from the Russians," McCoy said. "Everybody over there is 'comrade.' Chiang Kai-shek's copying the Germans. The Germans were in China a long time, and the Germans think the way to run an army is to really separate the officers from the enlisted men, make the officers look really special, so nobody even thinks of disobeying an officer."
"And the Communists? From what I've heard, they almost elect their officers."
"I heard that, too," McCoy said. "We tried that, too, in the Civil War. It didn't work. You can't run an army if you're all the time trying to win a popularity contest."
Sessions chuckled. "And you don't think it works for the Chinese Communists, either?"
"You want to know what I think the only difference between the Chinese Nationalists and the Communists is?" McCoy asked. "I mean, in how they maintain discipline?"
"I really would," Sessions said.
"It's not what Carlson says," McCoy said. "Carlson thinks the Communists are… hell, like they got religion. That they think they're doing something noble."
"What is it, then?" Rickabee asked.
"Somebody gets an order in
the Nationalists and fails to carry it out, they form a firing squad, line up the regiment to watch, and execute him by the numbers. Some Communist doesn't do what the head comrade tells him to do, they take him behind a tree and shoot him in the ear. Same result. Do what you're told, or get shot."
"And the Japanese?"
"That's another ball game," McCoy said. "The Japs really believe their emperor is God. They do what they're told because otherwise they don't get to go to heaven. Anyway, the
Japs are different than the Chinese. Most of them can read, for one thing."
"Very interesting," Rickabee said. "You really are an interesting fellow, McCoy."
"You going to tell me why all the questions?" McCoy asked, after a moment.
Rickabee dipped into his briefcase again and came up with a manila envelope stiff with eight-by-ten inch photographs of the Roosevelt letter. He handed it to McCoy.
"Read that, McCoy," Rickabee said.
McCoy read the entire document, and then looked at Rickabee and Sessions.
"Jesus!" he said.
"If the question in your mind, McCoy," Rickabee said, "is whether the Marine Corps intends to implement that rather extraordinary proposal, the answer is yes."
McCoy's surprise and confusion registered, for just a moment, on his face.
"Unless, of course, the Commandant is able to go to the President with proof that the source of those extraordinary suggestions is unbalanced, or a Communist," Rickabee added, dryly. "The source, of course, being Evans Carlson and not the President's son. I don't know about that-about the unbalanced thing or the Communist thing-but I think there's probably more to it than simply an overenthusiastic appreciation of the way the Chinese do things."
"I'm almost afraid to ask, but why are you showing me all this stuff?" McCoy asked.
"It has been proposed to the Commandant that the one way to find out what Colonel Carlson is really up to is to arrange to have someone assigned to his Raider Battalion who would then be able to make frequent, and if I have to say so, absolutely secret reports, to confirm or refute the allegations that he is unbalanced, or a Communist, or both."
"Named McCoy," McCoy said.
"The lesser of two evils, McCoy," Rickabee said. "Either intelligence-which I hope means you-does it, or somebody else will. There's a number of people close to the Commandant who have already made up their minds about Carlson, and whoever they arranged to have sent would go out there looking for proof that he is what they are convinced he is."
"So I guess I go," McCoy said.
"There are those in the Marine Corps, McCoy," Rickabee said dryly, "who do not share your high opinion of Second Lieutenant McCoy; who in fact think this is entirely too much responsibility for a lowly lieutenant. What happens next is that a colonel named Wesley is coming to dinner. He will examine you with none of what I've been talking about entering into the conversation. He will then go home, call a general officer, and tell him that it would be absurd to entrust you with a job like this. Meanwhile, General Forrest, who is one of your admirers, will be telling the same general officer that you are clearly the man for the job. What I think will happen is that the general will want to have a look at you himself and make up his mind then."
"Sir, is there any way I can get out of this?"
"You may not hear drums and bugles in the background, McCoy," Rickabee said, "but if you will give this a little thought, I think you'll see that it's of great importance to the Corps. I don't want to rub salt in your wound, but it's a lot more important than what you were doing in the Philippines."
(Three)
Temporary Building T-2032
The Mall
Washington, D.C.
1230 Hours, 7 January 1942
McCoy's encounter with Colonel Wesley was not what he really expected. The meeting was clearly not Wesley's idea; he had simply been ordered to have a look at the kid. Thus at dinner Wesley practically ignored him; what few questions he asked were brief and obviously intended to confirm what he had decided about McCoy before he met him.
Despite what Rickabee had said about the importance to the Corps of checking on Carlson, McCoy didn't want the job. Even the COI seemed like a better assignment. With a little bit of luck, McCoy decided, Colonel Wesley would be able to convince the unnamed general officer that McCoy was not the man for it.
He was a mustang second lieutenant. The brass would not entrust to a mustang second lieutenant a task they considered very important to the Corps.
But just before he went to sleep in a bedroom overlooking the snow-covered golf course, he had another, more practical, thought. He could get away with spying on this gone-Chink lieutenant colonel for the same reasons Colonel Wesley didn't think he could carry it off: because he was a mustang second lieutenant. Wesley would send some Palace Guard type out there, some Annapolis first lieutenant or captain. If Colonel Carlson was up to something he shouldn't be, he sure wouldn't do it with an Annapolis type around. Carlson would not be suspicious of a mustang second lieutenant; but if he hadn't really gone off the deep end, he would wonder why an Annapolis-type captain was so willing to go along with his Chinese bullshit.
In the morning, Captain Sessions told him to stick around the house until he was summoned, and then Sessions drove to work.
He tried to keep out of the way, but Mrs. Sessions found him reading old National Geographic magazines in the living room, and she wanted to talk. The conversation turned to Ernie Sage and ended with him calling her on the phone, so Mrs. Sessions could talk to her.
They had no sooner hung up than the phone rang again. It was Captain Sessions. He told McCoy to meet him outside Building T-2032 at half-past twelve.
When he got there, five minutes early, Captain Sessions was waiting for him. He was wearing civilian clothing.
"Would it be all right if we used your car again, Killer?" Sessions asked.
"Yes, sir, of course." McCoy said.
When they were in the car, McCoy looked at Sessions for directions.
"Take the Fourteenth Street Bridge," Sessions ordered.
Twenty- five minutes later, they turned off a slippery macadam road and drove through a stand of pine trees, and then between snow-covered fields to a fieldstone farmhouse on top of a hill. As they approached the house, McCoy saw that it was larger than it appeared from a distance. And when, at Sessions's orders, he drove around to the rear, he saw four cars: a Buick, a Ford, and two 1941 Plymouth sedans, all painted in Marine green.
"It figures, I suppose," Sessions said dryly, "that the junior member of this little gathering has the fanciest set of wheels."
McCoy wasn't sure whether Sessions was just cracking wise, or whether there was an implied reprimand; second lieutenants should not drive luxury convertibles. He had bought the LaSalle in Philadelphia when he had been ordered home from the 4th Marines in Shanghai. He had made a bunch of money in China, most of it playing poker, and he had paid cash money for the car. He'd bought it immediately on his return, as a corporal, before he had had any idea the Corps wanted to make him an officer.
He parked the LaSalle beside the staff cars, and they walked to the rear door of the farmhouse. A first lieutenant, wearing the insignia of an aide-de-camp, opened the door as they reached it.
"Good afternoon, sir," he said to Sessions, giving McCoy a curious look. "The general is in the living room. Through the door, straight ahead, last door on the left."
"Thank you," Sessions said, and added, "I’ve been here before."
In the corridor leading from the kitchen, they came across a row of Marine overcoats and caps hanging from wooden pegs. They added theirs to the row.
Then Sessions signaled for McCoy to knock on a closed sliding door.
"Yes?" a voice from inside called.
"Captain Sessions, sir," Sessions called softly.
"Come in, Ed," the voice called. McCoy slid the door open. Then Sessions walked into the room and McCoy followed him. There was five officers there: a major genera
l and a brigadier general, neither of whom McCoy recognized; Colonel Wesley; Lieutenant Colonel Rickabee, in civilian clothing; and a captain wearing aide-de-camp's insignia. There was also an enlisted Marine wearing a starched white waiter's jacket.
The brigadier general shook Session's hand, and then offered his hand to McCoy.
"Hello, McCoy," he said. "Good to see you again."
McCoy was surprised. So far as he could remember, he had never seen the brigadier general before. And then he remembered that he had. Once before, in Philadelphia, after he had just returned from China, they had had him at the Philadelphia Navy Yard, draining his brain of everything he could recall about China and the Japanese Army. Two then in civilian
clothing had come into the third-floor room where he was "interviewed." One of them, he realized, had been this brigadier general. And with that knowledge, he could put a name to him: He was Brigadier General Horace W. T. Forrest, Assistant Chief of Staff for Intelligence, USMC.
"Thank you, sir," McCoy said. What did Rickabee mean when he said Forrest was "one of my admirers"?
"I don't believe you know General Lesterby?" General Forrest said, gesturing to the major general.
"No, sir," McCoy said. He looked at General Lesterby and saw that the general was examining him closely, as if surprised at what he was seeing.
Then General Lesterby offered his hand.
"How are you, Lieutenant?" he said.
"How do you do, sir?" McCoy said.
"And you've met Colonel Wesley," General Forrest said.
"Yes, sir," McCoy said.
Wesley nodded, and there was a suggestion of a smile, but he did not offer his hand.
"Tommy," General Lesterby said, "make one more round for all of us. And two of whatever they're having for Captain Sessions and Lieutenant McCoy. And that will be all for now."
"Aye, aye, sir," the orderly said.
"And I think you should go keep General Forrest's aide company, Bill," General Lesterby said.
"Aye, aye, sir," General Lesterby's aide-de-camp said quickly. McCoy saw that he was surprised, and even annoyed, at being banished. But he quickly recovered.
"Captain Sessions, what's your pleasure, sir?"
"Bourbon, please," Sessions said. "Neat."
The Corps II - CALL TO ARMS Page 9