Semper Fi

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Thanks,” McCoy said.

  “What the hell, a couple of old China Marines have to take care of each other, right?”

  “Absolutely,” McCoy said. “Thanks again.”

  When McCoy had gone, the lieutenant looked over the list of names of people to be transferred to Wake Island as soon as possible, erased Private Thomas J. McCoy’s name from it, and penciled in another. He had no doubt that Wake Island would fall. And besides, no matter where he was, there would be enough war left for Private McCoy. And for his brother. The Philippines were probably going to go under, too, if what happened this morning was any indication. Christ, Hawaii might fall.

  This would give them a chance to say hello. Or good-bye.

  When McCoy drove back to COMPACFLEET, he parked the borrowed truck where no one could see him get out of it, and then went in search of something to eat.

  The lieutenant commander found him in the cafeteria eating a bologna sandwich.

  “I just looked all over the goddamn BOQ for you,” he said. “That’s where I told you to go.”

  McCoy, his mouth full, held up the bologna sandwich.

  The lieutenant commander handed McCoy a briefcase and a pad of receipt forms. Then he took him to Ford Island, where a Catalina was being fueled by hand.

  The airbase was a shambles, and the dense cloud of black smoke rising from Battleship Row was visible for a long time after they had taken off.

  (Four)

  Headquarters, 4th Regiment, USMC

  Cavite Naval Base

  Manila Bay, Territory of the Philippines

  1300 Hours, 9 December 1941

  The 4th Marines was just about clear of the area when McCoy finally found it. They had apparently moved out in haste. There was a large pile of packaging material, rough-cut lumber, cardboard, and wood shavings, on what had been the neatly trimmed lawn in front of Regimental Headquarters.

  The buildings were deserted. Completely deserted, McCoy thought, until he was nearly run down by the colonel, trailed by the sergeant-major, as he turned a corner.

  They were in khakis, no field scarves, wearing web belts with .45s dangling from them, and tin hats. Both of them had ’03 Springfields slung over their shoulders.

  McCoy was in greens, with a leather-brimmed cap.

  The colonel’s eyebrows rose when he saw McCoy.

  “I know you. Who are you?” the colonel demanded.

  McCoy popped to attention.

  “Corporal McCoy, sir!” he barked.

  “Shit,” the sergeant-major said, and laughed out loud.

  “Lieutenant McCoy, sir,” McCoy said.

  “I’ll be damned,” the colonel said. “What the hell is going on, McCoy? Lieutenant?”

  “I just graduated from Platoon Leader’s Course, sir.”

  “And they assigned you back here?” the colonel asked, incredulously.

  “No, sir,” McCoy said. “I’m an officer courier. I just got in. I thought I’d…come by and say hello to Captain Banning.”

  “Jesus H. Christ!” the colonel said, and shook his head and marched out of the building.

  (Five)

  Santos Bay, Lingayen Gulf

  Luzon, Territory of the Philippines

  0515 Hours, 10 December 1941

  Captain Edward J. Banning lay behind a quickly erected sandbag barrier at the crest of the hill leading down to the beach.

  The day was going to be cloudless. Cloudless and probably hot.

  It was entirely likely that he would die here today, possibly even this morning. Behind a sandbag barrier on a hot, cloudless day.

  The beach was being defended by two companies of Marines. They had not had time (or material) to mine the approaches to the beach. They had four water-cooled .30-caliber Brownings, six air-cooled .30-caliber Brownings, and half a dozen mortars. Somewhere en route, allegedly, were two 75-mm cannon from a Doggie-officered, Philippine Scout Field Artillery Battery.

  A mile offshore were two dozen Japanese ships, half merchantmen converted to troop transports, half destroyers.

  At first light, they were supposed to have been attacked by Army Air Corps bombers. Banning was not surprised that they had not been. The Japs had wiped out the Air Corps in the Philippines after it had been conveniently lined up on airfields for them. It had occurred to some Air Corps general that since there was a chance of sabotage if the planes were in widely dispersed revetments, they could be more “economically” guarded if they were gathered together in rows.

  They had been all lined up for the Japs when they came in.

  There would be no bombers to attack the Japanese invasion force, and the Japanese landing force would not be repelled by two companies of Marines and a handful of .30-caliber machine guns.

  These two companies of the 4th Marines would die here today, in a futile defense of an indefensible beach.

  And the rest of the regiment would die on other indefensible beaches.

  He was resigned to it.

  That’s what he had been drawing all his pay for, for all those years, so he would be available for a situation like this.

  He heard movement behind him and turned to see what it was, and had trouble believing what he saw.

  It was Corporal “Killer” McCoy, without headgear, wearing a khaki shirt and green trousers, staggering under the load of a BAR (Browning Automatic Rifle, Caliber .30–06) and what looked like twenty or more magazines for it.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Banning asked.

  With what looked like his last ounce of energy, McCoy set the BAR down carefully on the sandbags and then collapsed on his back, breathing heavily, still festooned with bandoliers of twenty-round magazines for the BAR.

  It was only then that Banning saw the small gold bars pinned to McCoy’s collar.

  “I found the BAR and the Ammo at a checkpoint,” McCoy breathed, still flat on his back. “Whoever was manning the checkpoint took off.”

  “What are you doing here?” Banning asked. “And wearing an officer’s shirt?”

  “I thought you knew,” McCoy said. “I went to the Platoon Leader’s Course.”

  “No, I didn’t know,” Banning said. “But what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I came in as a courier,” McCoy said. “Now that I am here, I guess I’m doing what you’re doing.”

  He rolled onto his stomach and raised his head high enough to see over the sandbags.

  “Jesus Christ, they’re just sitting out there! Isn’t there any artillery?”

  “There’s supposed to be, but there’s not,” Banning said. “There was also supposed to be bombers.”

  “Shit, we’re going to get clobbered!”

  “Did somebody order you up here, McCoy?” Banning asked.

  “No,” McCoy said simply. “But I figured this is where I belonged.”

  “Where are you supposed to be?”

  “They told me to hang around the Navy Comm Center, in case there was a way to get me out of here. But that’s not going to happen.”

  “You’ve got orders ordering you out of the Philippines?” Banning asked. McCoy nodded. “You goddamned fool! I’d give my left nut for orders like that.”

  McCoy looked at him curiously.

  Perhaps even contemptuously, Banning thought.

  “Get your ass out of here, McCoy,” Banning said.

  McCoy didn’t respond. Instead he picked up Banning’s binoculars and peered over the sandbags through them.

  “Too late,” he said. “They’re putting boats over the side.”

  He handed Banning the binoculars.

  Banning was looking through them when the tin cans started firing the preassault barrage. The first rounds were long, landing two, three hundred yards inland. The second rounds were short, setting up plumes of water fifty yards offshore.

  The third rounds would be on target, he thought, as he saw the Japanese landing barges start for the beach.

  The first rounds of the “fire for effect”
barrage landed on the defense positions close to the beach.

  The fucking Japs knew what they were doing!

  When the first of the landing barges was five hundred yards off shore, maybe six hundred yards from where they were, McCoy brought it under fire.

  The noise of the BAR going off so close to Banning’s ear was painful as well as startling. He turned to look at McCoy. McCoy was firing, as he was supposed to, short three-, four-, five-round bursts, aimed bursts, giving the piece time to cool a little as he fired.

  He’s probably hitting what he’s shooting at. But it’s like trying to stamp out ants. There’s just too many of them. And in a minute, some clever Jap is going to call in a couple of rounds on us. And that will be the end of us.

  Captain Edward J. Banning’s assessment of the tactical situation proved to be correct and precise. Two minutes later, the first round landed on their position, so close to him that the shock of the concussion caused him to lose control of his sphincter muscle. He didn’t hear the sound of the round explode, although he heard it whistle on the way in.

  It’s true, he thought, surprised, just before he passed out, you don’t hear the one that gets you.

  Banning awoke in great pain, and in the dark, and he couldn’t move his right arm. He sensed, rather than saw, that he was no longer on the crest overlooking the beach. Then he felt his body and learned that he was bandaged. He was chilled with panic at the thought that he was blind, but after a moment, he could make out vague shapes.

  He lay immobile, wondering where he was and what he was expected to do. And then there was light.

  One of the vague shapes moved to him and put a matter-of-fact hand on his neck to feel for a heartbeat.

  “McCoy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where the hell are we?”

  “In the basement of some church,” McCoy said.

  “You brought me here?”

  “The sonsofbitches dropped one right on us,” McCoy said, without emotion. “I don’t know what the hell happened to the BAR, but it was time we got the hell out of there.”

  “Did you get hit?”

  “I took a little shrapnel in the side,” he said. “They just pulled it out.”

  “Where are the Japanese?” Banning asked.

  “Christ only knows,” McCoy said. “They went by here like shit through a goose.”

  “We’re behind their lines?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This may sound like a dumb question, but what kind of shape am I in?”

  “We got you pretty well doped up.” McCoy said. “The Filipino—she’s a nurse, the one that took the shrapnel out of me—says you shouldn’t be moved for a couple of days.”

  “Then what happens?” Banning asked.

  “They say we probably can’t make it back through the Jap lines. So when you can move, they’re going to take us up in the mountains, and maybe off this island onto another one. Mindo something.”

  “Mindinao,” Banning furnished.

  “That’s right.”

  “What happened to the Marines on the beach?”

  “They were gone before we got hit,” McCoy said.

  God forgive me, I have absolutely no heroic regrets that I did not die with the regiment. I’m goddamned glad I’m alive, and that’s all there is to it.

  “Do you think you could make it through the Japanese lines?” Banning said.

  “You can’t go anywhere for a while,” McCoy replied.

  “That’s not what I asked,” Banning said.

  “What the hell is the point?” McCoy asked. “I think I’d much rather go in the hills for a while and see how I could fuck them up. If I go back, they’ll just give me a platoon, and the same thing will happen to me as happened to those poor bastards on the beach yesterday.”

  “The point, Lieutenant McCoy, is that you are a Marine officer, and Marine officers obey their orders. You have two that currently affect you. The first is to leave the Philippines.”

  McCoy chuckled.

  “Who’s going to enforce that one? They’d have to come get me.”

  “I am,” Banning said. “This is an order. You will make your way through Japanese lines and report to the proper authorities so that you may comply with your basic orders to leave the Philippines.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?” McCoy asked, genuinely surprised.

  “You bet your ass, I’m serious, Lieutenant. You better get it through your head that you’ll fight this war the way the Corps tells you to fight it, not the way you think would be nicest.”

  “And what happens to you?”

  “I am in compliance with my orders. I was ordered to resist the Japanese invasion. I’ll continue to do that, as soon as I am physically able.”

  “This sounds like one of those dumb lectures at Quantico,” McCoy said.

  “Maybe you should have paid closer attention to those dumb lectures,” Banning said.

  “Shit,” McCoy said.

  “Has it ever occurred to you, goddamn you, that you can do a hell of a lot more for this war as an intelligence officer than you could running around in the boondocks ambushing an odd Jap here and there?”

  “So could you, Captain.”

  “But I can’t move, and you can.”

  McCoy, several minutes later, asked once more: “You really think I should go back and try to get back to the States?”

  “Yes, goddamnit, I do.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” McCoy said. “As soon as it gets dark, I’ll go.”

  (Six)

  Quarters 3201

  U.S. Marine Corps Base, Quantico, Virginia

  14 December 1941

  Elly Stecker knew what was happening when she saw Doris Means at her door with her husband, but she pretended she didn’t. Even after she saw the staff car parked behind the Means’s Lincoln on the street.

  “Is Jack home, Elly?” Doris asked.

  “Jack!” Elly called brightly. “It’s Colonel and Mrs. Means!” Then she turned and said, “Excuse me. Please come in.”

  Jack came to the door to the living room in his shirt sleeves.

  He seemed to know, too, right off, Elly thought. But he didn’t say anything out of the ordinary.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said.

  “We’ve got a telegram, Jack,” Colonel Means said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Colonel Means took it from the crown of his cap and extended it to Stecker.

  “Would you read it, please, sir?”

  Means cleared his throat.

  “The Secretary of the Navy deeply regrets to inform you that your son, Ensign Jack NMI Stecker, Jr., USN, was killed in action aboard the U.S.S. Arizona at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, 7 December 1941. Frank Knox, Jr. Secretary of the Navy.”

  Captain Jack NMI Stecker, USMCR, stood there at attention a moment, rigidly; then his body seemed to tremble, and then the sobs got away from him. Making a noise much like a wail, he fled into his living room.

  “Jesus Christ, Elly,” Colonel Means said. “I’m sorry.”

  (Seven)

  The Madison Suite, the Lafayette Hotel

  Washington, D.C.

  2215 Hours, 17 January 1942

  McCoy pushed open the door and threw his suitcase in ahead of him.

  “Pick? You here?”

  There was no response. He went to Pick’s bedroom and pushed the door open. The bed was made.

  He shrugged and went to the bar and poured two inches of Scotch in a glass and drank it down. And then poured another two inches into the glass. He was so fucking tired he could barely stand, which meant he would not be able to get to sleep. He didn’t know why the hell it was, but that’s the way it was.

  They’d sent him out of the Philippines on a submarine. The sub had gone to Pearl. Stopping only for fuel, he had flown directly from Pearl, via San Francisco, here. His clothes had not come off for sixty hours. And he was so fucking tired he hadn’t gone to see Ellen Feller, although he was
convinced that was the only way he was going to get Miss Rich Bitch out of his mind.

  “Welcome home,” Ernie Sage said.

  She was standing in the door to his bedroom, wearing a bathrobe.

  Jesus Christ, she’s beautiful!

  “What are you doing here?”

  “You can’t get a hotel room in Washington,” she said. “Pick’s letting me stay here.”

  “Oh,” he said.

  “When did you come back?”

  “About an hour ago,” he said.

  “Is it as bad as they say?”

  “It’s pretty fucking bad, lady, I’ll tell you that.”

  “I was worried about you,” she said. Then she raised her eyes to his: “Goddamn you, we thought you were dead!”

  “No,” he said. “Why did you think that?”

  “Because there was a cable that said, ‘Missing and presumed dead,’ that’s why.”

  “I was behind the lines for a while,” he said. “They must have sent another cable when I got to Corregidor.”

  “And you think that makes it right? Goddamn you, Ken!”

  “Why should you give a damn, one way or the other?”

  “Because I love you, goddamn you!”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said.

  “You’ll get used to it in time,” she said.

  “I said, you don’t know what you’re saying,” McCoy said.

  She ignored it. “What happens to you now?” she asked.

  “I’ll get sent back out there, sooner or later.”

  “So we have between now and sooner or later,” she said. “That’s better than nothing.”

  “Will you knock that off?”

  “Meaning ‘stop’?”

  “You got it.”

  “You didn’t feel a thing? I was just a piece of ass? One more cherry to hang on the wall?”

  “Goddamnit, don’t talk like that.”

  “I want to put my arms around you,” she said.

  “You wouldn’t want to do that, I smell like a horse.”

  “Just as long as you don’t smell of perfume,” she said. “That I couldn’t handle.”

  “I thought of you,” he said. “I couldn’t get you out of my mind.”

  “Me either,” she said. “Then what the hell are we waiting for?”