Banning was a Marine officer—even worse, a Marine intelligence officer—and Marine intelligence officers were not supposed to become emotionally involved with White Russian women. It had not been his intention to become emotionally involved with her. He had met her, more or less, on duty. There had been an advertisement in the Shanghai Post: “Russian Lady Offers Instruction in Russian Conversation.” It had coincided with an unexpected bonus in his operating funds: two hundred dollars for Foreign Language Training.
There were supposed to be fifteen thousand White Russian refugee women in Shanghai. They made their living as best they could, some successfully and some reduced to making it on their backs. He had somewhat cynically suspected that the Russian Lady offering Russian Conversation was doing so only because she was too old, or too ugly, to make it on her back.
Milla had surprised him. She was a real beauty, and she was the first White Russian he’d met who was not at least a duchess. She was also devoutly religious, which meant that she was not going to become a whore unless it got down to that. Milla told him her father had operated, of all things, the Victor Phonograph store in St. Petersburg. They had come from Russia in 1921 with some American dollars, and it had been enough, with what jobs he had been able to find, to keep them while they waited for their names to work their way up the immigration waiting list for the United States.
And then he had died, and she hadn’t been able to make as much money as she had hoped, even working as a billing clerk in the Cathay Mansions Hotel and teaching Russian conversation. When he met her she was down to living in one room. The next step was to become somebody’s mistress. After that she’d have to turn into a whore. Becoming a whore would keep her from going to the States.
The first thing Banning had done was pay her the whole two hundred dollars up front. Then one thing had led to another, and they had gone to bed. Soon he had helped her get a larger place to live.
But the ground rules established between them were clear: It was a friendly business relationship and never could be anything more. When he went home, that would be the end of it. She understood that. She had lived up to her end of the bargain. And she would, he believed, stick to it.
Her powerful character, he sometimes thought, was one of the reasons he was afraid he was in love with her. And sometimes he wondered if she wasn’t playing him like a fish (she was also the most intelligent woman he had ever known) and nobly living up to her end of the bargain because she had figured that was the one way to get him to break it.
But what he nevertheless knew for sure was that if he married her, he could kiss his Marine career good-bye; and that he could not imagine life outside the Corps; and that he could not imagine life without Milla.
For the first time in his life, Ed Banning did not know what the hell to do.
Banning went by the orderly room of “D” Company, First Battalion and read through PFC Kenneth J. McCoy’s records slowly and thoroughly. He talked to his company commander, his platoon leader, his platoon sergeant, his section leader and his bunk mate.
The picture they painted of McCoy was the one reflected by his records. He had joined the Corps right out of high school (in fact, several months before; his high school diploma had come to him while he was at Parris Island and was entered into his record then), had served for three months with the Fleet Marine Force at San Diego, and then been shipped to the 4th Marines in Shanghai, where they’d made him an assistant gunner on a water-cooled .30-caliber Browning machine gun.
He had by and large kept out of trouble since arriving in China. And he got along all right with his corporal and his sergeant, who both described him as “a good man.”
But there were several things out of the ordinary: He didn’t have a Chinese girl, for one thing. But he had had a Chinese girl, so there didn’t seem to be reason to suspect he was queer. He didn’t have a buddy, either, which was unusual. But some men were by nature loners, himself included, and this McCoy seemed to be another of them. There was nothing wrong with that, it was just a little unusual.
What was most unusual, though, was his skill as a typist and his language ability. Banning was a little chagrined to discover that Dog Company had a natural linguist who could type seventy-five words a minute assigned to a machine gun. If he had known that, PFC McCoy would have found himself assigned to headquarters company. Skilled typists were in short supply, but not nearly as short supply as people who could read and write French and Italian and Chinese.
Banning decided that McCoy, more than likely with the connivance of his first and gunnery sergeants, had wanted these skills kept a secret. Gunnery sergeants were concerned with having good men on the machine guns and cared very little for the personnel problems of the chairwarmers at regimental headquarters. And McCoy himself was probably one of those kids who did not want to be a clerk.
When he was convinced he had learned all he could about PFC Kenneth J. McCoy from his service records and those around him, Captain Banning went to the infirmary to see the accused face-to-face.
McCoy’s medical records showed that he had been admitted to the dispensary at 2310 hours 2 January 1941 suffering cuts and abrasions and a penetrating wound of the upper right thigh possibly caused by a small-caliber bullet. A surgical procedure at 0930 hours 3 January 1941 had removed a lead-and-brass object, tentatively identified as a .25-caliber bullet, from the thigh. The prognosis was complete recovery, with return to full duty status in ten to fifteen days.
Captain Banning found PFC McCoy in a two-bed infirmary room. He was sitting in a chair by the window, using the windowsill as a desk while he worked the crossword puzzle in the Shanghai Post. An issue cane was hanging from the windowsill.
“As you were!” Banning barked, when McCoy saw him and started to rise. “Keep your seat!”
Banning could not remember ever having seen McCoy before, which was not that unusual. There were a number of young privates and PFCs in the 4th Marines who looked very much like PFC McCoy.
Captain Banning introduced himself and told McCoy he had been appointed his defense counsel. Then he made sure that McCoy understood his predicament. He told it as he saw it, that he didn’t think there was any chance that McCoy would be found guilty of first-degree murder, which required serious elements such as previous intent, but that it was very likely that he would be found guilty of what was known as a “lesser included offense.”
There was no question that there were two dead Italian marines or that McCoy had killed them. Neither was there any question that they had been killed with his knife. Banning then explained that while authority might—and did—look away at the illegal carrying of a concealed deadly weapon so long as nothing happened, when something did happen, the offense could no longer be ignored.
There were two lesser included offenses, Banning continued: “Manslaughter,” which was the illegal taking of human life, and “Negligent Homicide,” which meant killing somebody by carelessness.
“I haven’t discussed this with Major DeLaney, who will serve as prosecutor, McCoy,” Captain Banning said. “Because I wanted to talk to you first. But this possibility exists: When you come to trial, you have the option of pleading guilty to a lesser included offense. I feel reasonably sure that Major DeLaney would have no objection if you pleaded guilty to manslaughter, and perhaps I could persuade him to accept a plea of guilty to involuntary manslaughter.”
PFC McCoy did not respond.
“If you did plead guilty to either of the lesser included offenses,” Banning said, “the court-martial board would then decide on the punishment. No matter what they decided, the sentence would be reviewed both by the colonel and by General Butler, both of whom have the authority to reduce it.”
“Sir, it was self-defense,” McCoy said.
“Let me try to explain this to you,” Banning said. “You would be better off if you had knifed two American Marines. But you killed two Italian marines, and they have to do something about it. The Italian Consul General and the Italian marine co
lonel are going to be at your court-martial. They want to be able to report that the U.S. Marine who killed two of their marines was found guilty and will be punished. Am I getting through to you?”
“Sir, it was self-defense,” McCoy repeated doggedly.
“You don’t have any witnesses,” Banning said.
“There was the rickshaw boy and twenty, thirty Chinese that saw it.”
“How do you plan to find them?” Banning asked.
McCoy shrugged his shoulders. “Ask around, I suppose.”
There was no sense arguing with him, Banning decided. He just didn’t understand the situation.
“Let me tell you what I think is going to happen,” he said. “I think I can get Major DeLaney to accept a plea of guilty to a charge of manslaughter. You will be sentenced, and you might as well understand this, the sentence will be stiff. Maybe twenty years to life.”
“Jesus Christ!” McCoy said.
“That will satisfy the Italians,” Banning said. “You understand that’s necessary?”
McCoy gave him a cold look but said nothing.
“The sentence is then subject to review by the colonel,” Banning said. “He will take his time reviewing it, I think, to let things cool off a little. Then, he will decide that you’re not really guilty of manslaughter, but of the lesser included offense of involuntary manslaughter, and he will reduce the punishment accordingly.”
“To what?”
“‘To what, sir,’” Banning corrected him.
“To what, sir?” McCoy repeated, dutifully.
“The maximum punishment for involuntary manslaughter is five years.”
“I’ve heard about Mare Island and Portsmouth,” McCoy said, grim faced.
He had not appended “sir” as military courtesy required, but Banning did not correct him. It was Banning’s personal opinion that the Naval Prisons at Mare Island, California, and Portsmouth, New Hampshire, where the brutality under Marine guards was legendary, were a disgrace to the Marine Corps.
“The next step in the process,” Banning went on, “is the review of the sentence by General Butler. I think it’s very possible that General Butler would reduce the sentence even further, say to one year’s confinement. And then, by the time you got to the states, the Navy Department would review the sentence still again, and I’m sure that they would pay attention both to your previous service and to the letters recommending clemency that your company and battalion commanders tell me they will write in your behalf. Your sentence could then be reduced again to time already served.”
“In other words, sir,” McCoy said, with a “sir” that bordered on silent insubordination, “I could count on being a busted Marine looking for a new home?”
“For Christ’s sake, McCoy, you killed two people! You can’t expect to get off scot-free!”
“Sir,” PFC McCoy said, “no disrespect intended, but they gave me the court-martial manual to read, and in there it says I can have the defense counsel of my choice.”
Banning felt his temper rise. The sonofabitch was a guardhouse lawyer on top of everything else.
“That is your right,” he said, stiffly. “Who would you like to have defend you?”
“My company commander, sir.”
“You can’t have him, because he is your company commander. Neither can you have your platoon leader.”
“Then Lieutenant Kaye, sir, the assistant supply officer.”
With a massive effort, Captain Banning kept his temper under control.
“McCoy,” he said. “I’m going to give you twenty-four hours to think this over. I want you to carefully consider your position.”
“Yes, sir,” PFC McCoy said.
(Three)
On the way to his office from the infirmary, Captain Banning’s anger rose. Among other things, he was going to look like a goddamned fool in front of the colonel when he had to go to him and tell him this knife-wielding PFC had refused his services as defense counsel. It was of course the kid’s right, but Banning could not remember ever hearing of anything like this happening.
And PFC McCoy was not doing himself any good. If he went to trial and pleaded not guilty, he was digging his own grave. He was not being tried for stabbing the two Italians, but to make the point to the other Marines that they couldn’t go around killing people.
If he went along with that, in three months he would be a free man at San Diego or Quantico, with only the loss of a stripe to show for having killed two men.
If he annoyed the court-martial board, they would very likely conclude that he was somebody who needed to be taught a lesson and sock him with a heavy sentence. If the colonel was annoyed, he would find nothing wrong with the sentence when it was reviewed. And if General Butler smelled that McCoy was a troublemaker, he wouldn’t find anything wrong with the sentence, either.
PFC McCoy stood a very good chance of finding himself locked up in the Portsmouth Naval Prison for thirty years to life.
Captain Banning’s rage lasted through lunch. And then he considered the situation from McCoy’s point of view. The kid actually believed—since it was the truth—that he had acted in self-defense. It was therefore his own duty, Banning decided, to at least pursue that as far as it would go.
To prove self-defense he would need witnesses. The only witnesses right now were two Italian marines. They were prepared to testify that they were minding their own business when McCoy drew a knife on them, whereupon one of their number drew a pistol in self-defense.
When he went back to his office after lunch, Banning told his clerk to see if he could get a car from the motor pool. He had to go into town.
Banning hoped to find Bruce Fairbairn at the headquarters of the Shanghai Municipal Police. He knew him, and could explain the problem to him. But when he got to police headquarters, Fairbairn was not available, and neither was Chief Inspector Thwaite, who was the only other Shanghai Police officer he knew well enough to speak to with complete frankness.
He wound up talking to a Detective Sergeant Chatworth.
Chatworth sat at an old wooden desk covered with papers. As Banning approached, he shuffled angrily through them, searching for something he had apparently mislaid.
Banning introduced himself and told him what he had come for.
“Right,” Chatworth said, looking at Banning with a screwed-up face. He seemed surprised to hear Banning’s story. “You Yanks always seem to have to wear white,” he said after a moment while searching through his pocket for a near-empty package of vile Chinese cigarettes. “Fag?” he offered, holding one out.
“Thanks, no,” Banning said.
“I mean, Christ,” he went on, lighting up. “Don’t you have any loyalty towards your own? For the sake of Italians? Really!” He inhaled deep, savoring it. Then blew out. “And besides, I know the boy. McCoy is a good one. Protect him. You don’t find his class all that often.”
“That may be.” Banning shrugged, stiffening. He did not like Chatworth very much. “But Italian pride has been badly hurt. They’ve gone to the foreign service boys at the consulate. One thing has led to the other. And the consequence is that there is nothing we can do but court-martial PFC McCoy.
“And then on top of that,” Banning continued, “McCoy is being difficult. He thinks he did it all in self-defense; and he simply refuses to understand that without witnesses, he can’t possibly get away with that plea.”
“So?” Chatworth said, beginning to understand.
“And so, Sergeant, I’m desperate. Could you people possibly help us and see if you can find some Chinese who (a) saw the fight and (b) would be willing to testify in McCoy’s behalf at his court-martial?”
Rather abruptly, Detective Sergeant Chatworth turned his attention back to his papers.
“I’ll look into the matter,” he said, dropping the now-dead cigarette on the floor and snuffing it out with his heel. “And I’ll be in touch with you in due course.”
Banning saw that Chatworth did not like
him any more than he liked Chatworth. And Banning also realized that Chatworth knew even better than he did that there was virtually no chance of finding a Chinese who would be willing to testify that he had seen the fight between the Big Noses. And it would matter to the Chinese not at all that the U.S. Marine Big Nose had clearly been the aggrieved party. Detective Sergeant Chatworth had abruptly dismissed him because he was wasting Detective Sergeant Chatworth’s valuable time.
Banning did not go back to the office. He went to the apartment. Milla was there, giving a Chinese woman hell because she had not ironed several of Banning’s shirts to what Milla thought were Marine sartorial standards. She was acting wifely, and that upset him, too, and he got drunk.
And he told Milla about McCoy.
She was sympathetic. To him. She felt sorry for him that he had a problem with McCoy.
Later she consoled him in bed, which was usually enough to make him happy as hell. But not this time.
As he watched her get dressed to go to work, he tormented himself with fantasies of other men watching her naked, as she was now. And touching her naked flesh, as he had just done…which was sure as hell going to happen if he didn’t marry her and get himself booted out of the Corps.
After she left, he hit the whiskey again, and ended up with some drunken ideas. He could go to trial and try to play on the sympathy of the court-martial board, paint PFC McCoy as a saint in uniform who was the innocent party in this whole mess. He could try to convince the court-martial that the reason PFC McCoy went around with a Fairbairn dagger in his sleeve was that he collected butterflies. He’d throw the fucking knife at them and pin their wings. The poor fucking Wops had fallen onto the blade of the knife when they slipped on a banana peel.
(Four)
At eight-fifteen the next morning, as Captain Banning drank his third Coca-Cola of the day in a vain attempt to extinguish the fire in his stomach, his clerk came into his office with the first batch of the day’s official correspondence from the message center.
Among the items which required his initials was a communication from Headquarters, United States Marine Corps: A promotion board having been convened to consider candidates for promotion to the grade of corporal had reached the end of its deliberations. There were thirty names on the list and there were twelve vacancies within the Marine Corps for corporals. Therefore, commanding officers of the first twelve names on the list were herewith directed to issue promotion orders for the individuals concerned. As additional vacancies occurred, authority would be granted to promote individuals on the list numbers 13 through 30.
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