The Corps II - CALL TO ARMS

by W. E. B Griffin

  "What about the other thing, his being a Communist?"

  "He didn't talk politics," McCoy said. "And I could hardly ask him."

  "So what happens now?"

  "I call Captain Sessions and tell him," McCoy said.

  "I mean, to you?"

  "In a couple of days, maybe a week, I think they'll transfer me," McCoy said.

  He turned off the highway through the gates of the San Diego Yacht Club and drove to the water's edge.

  A Pontiac coupe with Missouri license plates was parked with its nose against the Pier Four sign. There was a Marine officer, in greens, sitting behind the wheel, and Ernie could see the back of Dorothy Burnes's head.

  "Oh, good," Ernie said. "They're here."

  " 'Oh, good,'" Ken McCoy parroted, "who's here?"

  Oh, my God! I should have told him before we got here!

  "We have houseguests," Ernie said, as she opened the door of the LaSalle and got out.

  The door of the Pontiac opened and Dorothy Burnes, grunting, pushed herself out of the car. She smiled warmly and gratefully at Ernie. Her husband got. out from behind the wheel, looking a little uneasy.

  Then he saluted. Ernie wondered why he had done that, and then realized he was returning Ken's salute. And then she understood why. There were silver bars on Martin J. Burnes's epaulets; he outranked Ken, and Ken had saluted him.

  "Well, I see you found each other all right," Ernie said. She turned and saw Ken walking up. "This is Ken," she said. "Ken, this is Marty Burnes."

  "How do you do, sir," Ken McCoy said formally. Ernie did not like the look on Ken McCoy's face.

  "And this is Dorothy," Ernie plunged ahead.

  "Hi," Dorothy said.

  "Dorothy and I are old pals, and she's having a hard time finding a place to stay, so they'll be staying with us for a couple of days."

  "I hope we're not going to put you out too much," Marty Burnes said to McCoy.

  "It's her boat," Ken said simply.

  Oh, God! He doesn't like this at all. Why not? What's wrong with him? He could easily be in Marty Burnes's place. And then she understood. He's not here as just one more lieutenant; he's going to spy on that Colonel Whatsisname, and he's afraid that the Burneses being on the boat will get in the way of that. And, damnit, maybe he's right.

  "Well, let's go aboard," Ernie said, trying to be bright and cheerful. "Dorothy and I have spent the afternoon making hors d'oeuvres."

  "And then there'll be steaks," Dorothy chimed in.

  "And I'm sure you both could use a drink," Ernie said. She stole a glance at Ken. His eyes were cold. But not angry, she thought. Disappointed, resigned, as if he had expected her to do something dumb like this.

  McCoy forced a polite smile on his face.

  "I could use a drink," he said. "After you, Lieutenant."

  "Can't we forget the Marine Corps?" Ernie said. "Just for an hour or two? What I mean is can't you two use your names?"

  "Sure," Marty Burnes said. He smiled and put out his hand to McCoy. "I'm Marty."

  McCoy took the hand and forced another brief smile. "Ken," he said.

  "You two unload the cars," Ernie ordered. "By the time you're finished, we'll have drinks made."

  When the drinks were made, Ernie proposed a toast. "I think, for the Burneses, that this is the proverbial any old port in a storm," she said. "Welcome aboard, Burneses."

  McCoy chuckled and raised his glass, and this time his smile was genuine.

  "Welcome aboard," he said.

  He sat slumped in the largest of the four upholstered chairs in the cabin. He was still in dungarees with his rough-side-out field shoes stretched out in front of him. And for the first time (probably because Marty Burnes was in a green uniform, she thought) she noticed how incongruous a Marine dressed that way looked in the plush cabin.

  Ernie and Dorothy passed the tray of hors d'oeuvres. McCoy helped himself to several chunks of cheddar, and then gulped down his drink.

  "Now that I am refueled," he said, "I think I'll scrape off some of the barnacles."

  He went down the passageway to the master cabin.

  In a minute, they could hear the shower start, and a moment after that, faintly, the sound of McCoy singing.

  Thank God, he's over the mad.

  "He does that, too," Dorothy Burnes said, nodding fondly at her husband.

  Ernie made Marty Burnes another drink.

  When the sound of the shower stopped and McCoy did not appear in a reasonable time, she excused herself and went to their cabin.

  If there's going to be a fight, I might as well get it over with.

  She got to the cabin as Ken, naked, lay back on the bed with the telephone in his hand.

  He looked at her but said nothing, and he did not react to the way she raised her eyebrows approvingly at his nakedness.

  "Collect for anyone, operator, from Lieutenant McCoy to Liberty seven, oh nine five six in Washington, D.C. I'll hold."

  "Ken, she had no place to stay. He was going to send her home," Ernie said.

  He held the telephone away from his head as if to explain why he couldn't talk to her, and then he put it back. Although she knew that it was not his intention, Ernie chose to interpret the gesture as an invitation to lie down beside him and listen to the conversation. For a moment he stiffened, and she was afraid he would roll away from her, or get up. But then he relaxed.

  "Liberty seven, oh nine five six," a none-too-friendly male voice came on the line.

  "I have a collect call for anyone from a Lieutenant McCoy," the operator said. "Will you accept charges?"

  "We'll accept," the male voice said.

  "Go ahead, sir," the operator said. "Your party is on the line."

  "How are you, Sergeant?" McCoy said to the telephone. "Is Captain Sessions around?"

  "I'll buzz for him. I know he wants to talk to you. How's things in the boondocks?"

  "I'm looking for a sergeant who knows how to take a 'Seventeen A-Four apart," McCoy said.

  The sergeant chuckled, and then another voice came on the line.

  "Captain Sessions."

  "Lieutenant McCoy is on the line, sir," the sergeant said.

  "Oh, good. Ken?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I was about to call you. I was going to wait until I was sure you were home. What's on your mind?"

  "Colonel Carlson looked me up today," McCoy said. "I was on the machine-gun range, and he found me there."

  "And?"

  "He checked to see if I really speak Cantonese, and then pumped me for what he could get."

  "What did he get?"

  "He wanted to know what I thought of the Mao Tse-tung tribe of slopeheads," McCoy said. "So I told him what he wanted to hear."

  "Anything about the Raiders?"

  " 'Raiders'? Is that what they're going to call them?"

  "Yeah, it looks that way. The Commandant is going to order the formation as of four February, of the Second Separate Battalion, there at Elliott. The same day, a reinforced company-about two hundred fifty people-is going to be transferred from the First Separate Battalion at Quantico to the Second at Elliott. Our friend Zimmerman, who is now a gunnery sergeant, will be one of them. On nineteen February, the Second will be redesignated as the Second Raider Battalion. That's one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you, to tell you that."

  "Maybe you better not spread this around, sir," McCoy said. "But I think he's got a good idea."

  "He talked to you about it?"

  "Yes, sir. And what he said made sense."

  "Did he say anything about you joining up? The reason I ask, is that unless you can get into the Second Battalion out there, Colonel Rickabee's going to transfer you back to Quantico, assign you to the First Separate Battalion, and then send you back out to Carlson when they transfer the company from the First Battalion out there."

  "He gave me the usual bullshit about comparing me against other volunteers, but I would be damned surprised if he didn't have me t
ransferred."

  "Good. Then we'll leave it that way. If you're wrong, if he doesn't pick you… any suggestion that he questioned your neatly doctored service record?"

  "No, sir."

  "If he doesn't pick you, we'll worry about that then."

  "Captain, can I talk to you man to man?"

  "Of course not, said the officer to the officer who saved his life," Sessions said. "What's on your mind, Ken?"

  "I don't like this job," McCoy said. "I feel like a real slimy sonofabitch, spying on Colonel Carlson. I like him. He's a good officer, and I think the commandos are a good idea."

  "Raiders," Sessions corrected him automatically, and then fell silent.

  "I went too far, huh?" McCoy said, after a long moment.

  "No, no," Sessions said. "I was trying to frame my reply. I think I know how you feel, Ken. The only thing I can really say is that it has to be done, and you're the fellow to do it. I don't think anyone is going to be happy if you find out he is either unbalanced or a Communist."

  "I do. I've had a chance to think about this a lot. It looks to me that a lot of the brass want to stick it to Carlson because he's got a direct line to the President."

  "There's some of that, sure," Sessions said. "But I also think that if he actually goes off the deep end, he could do the Corps a lot of damage. More damage, Ken, than I think you can fully appreciate."

  "Aye, aye, sir," McCoy said.

  "Excuse me, Ken?" Sessions asked.

  "That means I understand the order and will carry it out," McCoy said. "Didn't you ever hear that before, Captain, sir?"

  "Don't be a wiseass, you're only a second lieutenant," Sessions said, and then his voice grew serious. "For what it's worth, Ken, I think what you're doing has to be done."

  "I knew that," McCoy said. "It's the main reason I'm doing it."

  "I just had another patriotic, flag-waving, hurrah-for-the-Corps thought," Sessions said. "You want to hear it?"

  "Sure."

  "When they get both of the Raider battalions up to strength and trained, Ken, I don't think there will be fifty people in them, officer or enlisted, who have ever heard the sound of a shot fired in anger. Even though nobody will know about it, with your doctored service record, you'll be one of the most experienced officers around. Certainly the most experienced lieutenant. The only test that counts for an officer is how he behaves when people are shooting at him. And you've passed that test twice, Killer, and with flying colors."

  "Shit," McCoy said.

  "No shit, Ken. I'm a living witness to how well you conduct yourself under stress. If you do nothing else with the Raiders, you'll probably be able to keep some of the kids alive."

  Ernie had moved on the bed, so that she could rest her head on McCoy's shoulder while she listened to the conversation. Now she raised her head so that she could see Ken's eyes.

  He shrugged his shoulders, as if embarrassed by what Captain Sessions had said.

  "You said you had a couple of things to tell me," McCoy said.

  "Oh, yeah. I'm glad you reminded me. One of them was about Zimmerman."

  "He doesn't know what I'm doing out here, does he?"

  "No, and don't tell him," Sessions said. "Let him think it's because you both speak Chinese, or because Carlson likes China Marines."

  "Yes, sir," McCoy said. "What else?"

  "You didn't happen to see Captain Banning, did you?"

  "Captain Banning? Our Captain Banning?"

  "Banning was evacuated from Corregidor by submarine. He passed through Diego today on his way here. There was a chance he might have bumped into you. I had to ask. The worst possible case would have been for him to greet you like a long-lost brother within Carlson's hearing. Even worse, to have him thank you for saving his life. That would have blown your new service record out of the water, and told Carlson that he's being watched."

  "I didn't see him," McCoy said. "What's going to happen to him?"

  "Well, for one thing, he's going to be told that he never heard of you in his life, and aside from that, I can't tell you."

  "Can you give him my regards?"

  "Sure, Ken," Sessions said.

  "I guess that's about it," McCoy said.

  "How's your love life, Ken?" Sessions asked.

  "None of your business."

  "I was just going to say to give her my regards."

  McCoy didn't reply.

  "You better check in every day from now on, either with me or Colonel Rickabee."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  McCoy sat up, taking Ernie with him, and put the phone back in its cradle on the bulkhead behind him.

  "He knows about us?" Ernie asked. McCoy nodded. "What did you tell him?"

  McCoy smiled. "That you're the best piece of ass I ever had in my life," he said, and then put his arms up to defend himself from the blows he was sure would follow.

  They did not. Ernie waited for him to put his arms down, and then said, "Well, I'm glad you told him the truth."

  Then she got out of the bed and went back to the main cabin.

  McCoy put on a pair of khaki trousers and a T-shirt, then went out and made himself another drink.

  "I understand," Lieutenant Marty Burnes said, "that you're in a heavy-weapons company."

  "That's right," McCoy said. "What do they have you doing?"

  "At the moment I'm assigned to S-Three," Burnes said.

  "At the moment?" McCoy asked.

  "You've heard about the Raiders?" Burnes asked.

  "A little," McCoy replied. He was aware that Ernie had picked up on the conversation and was watching them.

  "Well, I've applied, and I think I'm going to be accepted," Burnes said. "I talked to Captain Roosevelt-the President's son?-and he said I would probably qualify."

  "It's a very good way to get your ass blown away," McCoy said.

  "Ken!" Ernie said.

  "Sorry," McCoy said. "I shouldn't have said that."

  Chapter Thirteen

  {One)

  Saufley Field

  Pensacola Navy Air Station 20 February 1942

  There was no doubt in the mind of Lieutenant Junior Grade Allen W. Minter, USNR, that Second Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, had a good deal more time in aircraft cockpits than his record showed; or, off the record, than he was willing to admit.

  That made Pickering a liar. Not only a liar, but a good liar. Of course it was possible to put that more kindly, to say that he was a good role player. One could possibly maintain-or at least imagine-that Pickering was playing the role of someone who knew nothing about flying or aircraft, but who was eager to learn, and was a very quick learner.

  From the moment Minter first took him out to the flight line, Pickering asked both the natural and the dumb questions Minter expected of a student whose flight records had "NONE" written in the "PREVIOUS FLYING EXPERIENCE" block. And he appeared to listen with rapt attention-as if he was hearing it all for the first time-while Minter pointed out the parts of the N3N Yellow Peril and explained their function.

  And Minter was perfectly willing to accept that Pickering was learning for the first time that the thing that sat upright at the back of the Yellow Peril was the vertical stabilizer, and that the back part of it moved when the rudder pedals were pressed; that in the sea of air it served the same function that the rudder of a boat served in the water.

  And Pickering seemed absolutely fascinated to learn that while the altimeter did indeed indicate the height of the aircraft above sea level, it did so seven seconds late. In other words, because it took some time for the change in air pressure to work upon the membrane of the barometric altimeter, the altimeter reported what the altitude had been seven seconds ago, not what it was at the moment.

  It was only when he took Pickering up for the first time that Minter began to smell a rat.

  Instructor pilots were given some latitude in teaching their students. Lieutenant Minter did not believe the way to turn an eager young man into a pilot was t
o take him up and scare the shit out of him, and/or make him sick to his stomach.

  He believed that it was best to start out very simply, to show the student that a very slight rearward pressure on the stick would cause the nose of the Yellow Peril to rise, and that a very slight downward pressure would put the Yellow Peril in a nose-down attitude.

  As the student understood and become familiar with one movement, he could be taught another. Eventually, he would reach the point where he would understand what coordinated control movement was necessary to make the aircraft perform any maneuver it was capable of.

  Slow and easy was better, in Lieutenant Minter's professional judgment, than throwing things at a student too fast and scaring hell out of him. He would have the hell scared out of him soon enough.

  On the first flight, Minter demonstrated climbing and descending, and then gentle turns to the left and right, pointing out to his new student that what one tried for was to make the turn without either gaining or losing altitude. In order to do that, one tried to keep one's eye on the vertical speed indicator, which indicated (faster than the altimeter responded) the deviation, and the rate of deviation (in thousands of feet per minute, up or down) from the altitude where the aircraft started when its needle was in the center of the instrument.

  As he was demonstrating, Minter cautioned Pickering that not much movement of the controls was required to move the airplane around, and that most student pilots tended to overcontrol, to move the controls farther and more violently than was necessary.

  And then when Minter turned the controls over to Pickering and told him to go up, and then down, the first thing he thought was that he had a student who paid attention to what he was told. He did not overcontrol. And he had a gentle, sure touch on the joystick and rudder pedals.

  The first time Pickering tried to make a 360-degree turn to the right, for instance, the needle on the vertical speed indicator didn't even flicker. And when he came out of the turn and straightened up, he wasn't more than two degrees off the course he had been on before he began to make the turn. The whole maneuver was smooth as silk.

  Much too smooth for somebody trying it for the first time. Q.E.D., Pickering knew how to fly. Ergo, Pickering was a liar, for he had told the U.S. Navy that his PREVIOUS FLIGHT