“When he ‘went over for the first time’? Sawyer,” Stewart asked, picking up on that, “are you saying that Major Dillon went overseas more than once? Has he been over there again?”
“Yes, Sir. I presume so. The call I had—”
“Who was that from?”
“Sir, from a Captain Sessions in the Office of Management Analysis. The Captain said, Sir, that Major Dillon had just arrived from Pearl Harbor.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. See what you can turn up about the Corporal, will you?”
“Aye, aye, Sir. There’s a copy of their orders around here someplace.”
Five minutes later, Sergeant Sawyer returned to confirm that Corporal Robert F. Easterbrook was indeed a member of the team of combat correspondents Major Homer C. Dillon had taken to the Pacific for the invasion of Guadalcanal.
At 1015 Major Jake Dillon walked into the Public Affairs Division office and went up to the sergeant’s desk just inside the door. Dillon was wearing an impeccably tailored uniform, and still smelling faintly of the after-shave applied by the barber in the Willard Hotel.
The sergeant stood up.
“May I help the Major?”
“I guess I’m reporting for duty, Sergeant. My name is Dillon.”
The sergeant smiled. “Yes, Sir. We’ve been expecting you.” He flipped a lever on a wooden intercom box on his desk. “General, Major Dillon is here.”
“Splendid!” Stewart’s voice replied metallically. “Please ask the Major to come in.”
“If you’ll come with me, please, Major?” the sergeant said, then led Dillon deep into the office, finally stopping before the desk of Technical Sergeant Sawyer.
“Major Dillon to see the General,” he announced.
“Yes, Sir,” Sergeant Sawyer said, and then went to a door, held it open, and announced, “Major Dillon, Sir.”
Dillon stepped in. Brigadier General J. J. Stewart walked across the room to him, smiling, his hand extended.
“Welcome home, Major Dillon,” he said. “It’s good to see you back.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Dillon said. It was not quite the reception he had anticipated. He’d heard that Brigadier General J. J. Stewart had asked rather persistent questions about what he was doing for Fleming Pickering, and that the General had been bluntly told to butt out.
“They take care of you all right? Your quarters are satisfactory?”
“Sir,” Dillon said carefully, “I’m in the Willard.”
General Stewart remembered now that Metro-Magnum Studios, Major Dillon’s pre-war employers, maintained two suites in the Willard for the use of its executives and stars. He also remembered hearing that as a gesture of their support for The Boys In Uniform, Metro-Magnum had kept Dillon on their payroll. There was nothing wrong with that, of course, but it was a little unsettling to have a major on your staff who took home more money than the Commandant of The Marine Corps. And who didn’t live in a BOQ because there was a suite in the Willard Hotel available to him.
“Oh, yes,” General Stewart said. “I wish I’d remembered that. It would have saved me the trouble of having the red carpet, so to speak, rolled out for you at the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters.”
He smiled at Dillon. “Would you like some coffee, Dillon?”
“Yes, Sir, thank you very much.”
“And then I’d like to hear about Corporal Easterbrook.”
“I’d planned to talk to you about him, General.”
“Oh, really?”
“God only knows where his service records are, Sir. They’re lost somewhere. He can’t get paid.”
“Where is he, Dillon?” If the corporal needed money, General Stewart reasoned, he was no longer on Guadalcanal.
“On the West Coast, Sir.”
“San Diego?”
“Actually, Sir, he’s at my place, outside Los Angeles. I didn’t want to leave him at ’Diego without any money and records.”
“How did he get to the United States?”
“I brought him with me, Sir. He had taken some film…General, I’m not sure I should get into this.”
“I understand,” General Stewart said. “And I have been informed how valuable the corporal’s photography has been to some very important people. Specifically, there has been a letter to that effect from Secretary Knox.”
“Easterbrook is a good man, General,” Dillon said.
“That being so, Dillon, why is it that he’s only a corporal?”
Because he’s nineteen years old, still soaking wet behind the ears, and has been in The Corps about eight months.
Goddamn it. He’s also been on the ’Canal since we landed. And doing the work of the others, the ones who were killed and wounded. He is no longer a kid.
“It was my intention, General, to recommend that he be promoted,” Dillon said. “He’s been doing the work of the two lieutenants I lost over there.”
“We can…what is it they say?…get his lost records reconstructed here. I’ll speak to the G-1 myself.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“And while we’re doing that, Dillon, I don’t see why we can’t see that he is promoted. To sergeant, certainly. If you think it’s justified, to staff sergeant.”
Why the hell not? He’s been doing staff sergeant’s work, lieutenant’s work. And if you’re a major, Dillon, you’re in no position to say that anybody who’s gone through what the Easterbunny has doesn’t deserve a couple of more stripes.
“Easterbrook has certainly earned the right to be a staff sergeant, Sir.”
“I’ve got a very good sergeant here in the shop, Dillon. He’ll know how to arrange it.”
“Sir, I think that’s a very good idea. Thank you.”
“And now we get to you, Dillon, now that you’re back with us. But, I have to ask, are you back with us? Or will there be more…temporary duty?”
“I don’t think so, Sir. That was a special situation.”
“Well, then, let me bring you up to date on what has happened since you’ve been gone. For one thing, the war bond tour was a great success. I think it will be a continuing function. Not only do the tours sell war bonds, but they are good for civilian morale and for recruitment. I have heard some very interesting figures about how many people show up at Marine Recruiting Stations immediately after a war bond presentation.”
“I’m glad to hear that worked out, General,” Dillon said.
“We are already forming the second tour. This one will feature Marine aces, plus some other heroes, from Guadalcanal. Sergeant Machine Gun McCoy, for example. You’re familiar with him?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“It’s just about firmed up—not for release, of course—that McCoy is going to be given the Medal of Honor.”
“From what I’ve heard about what he did at Bloody Ridge, I think that’s justified.”
“There was an officer on the first tour, wounded with the parachutists during the first wave to hit Gavutu,” General Stewart went on. “A chap by the name of Macklin. First Lieutenant R. B. Macklin. Ring a bell?”
“Yes, Sir. If it’s the same man, I sent him home for the tour when he was in the hospital in Australia.”
Who else would it be but that sonofabitch? I cast him for the role of hero because I needed a handsome hero—even though I knew the story about the lieutenant with only a minor shrapnel wound to his leg who had to be pried from a piling at Gavutu…screaming hysterically for a corpsman. I knew it had to be Macklin.
“I’m sure it’s him, then. Good-looking chap. He was very effective on the tour, and I talked G-1 into letting us have him permanently.”
“Sir?”
“I arranged with G-1—with the same fellow, by the way, who will help us see Easterbrook get his promotion—to have Macklin assigned to us for the war bond tours.”
“I see.”
“And there has been one other development while you were away. The Assistant Commandant was very pleased…very pleased…with the performance of your
people on Guadalcanal. The picture of the Marine parachutist on Gavutu—the one firing the BAR with the blood running down his chest—”
“Easterbrook took that picture, General,” Dillon interrupted.
“Yes,” General Stewart said. “Of course! I should have remembered! Well, anyway, that was on the front page of every important newspaper in the country.”
“Life, too,” Dillon interjected.
General Stewart did not like to be interrupted; it was evident in his tone of voice as he went on: “Yes, Life, too. And since the concept of combat correspondents obviously worked so well, the Assistant Commandant decided to formalize. Do you know Colonel Denig, by any chance?”
Dillon shook his head, no.
“Well, we’ll have to arrange for you to meet. Splendid officer. Anyway, Denig is recruiting suitable people to be combat correspondents, officer and enlisted. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer has offered to give them training in motion picture photography; various newspapers will do the same thing, et cetera, et cetera. The operation, for the time being, will be located on the West Coast.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Dillon said.
“Homer,” General Stewart chided, “whatever ideas the Assistant Commandant might have are good ideas, don’t you agree?”
Well, he was the one who hung these major’s leaves on me. That wasn’t such a good idea. And what is this “Homer” crap? Are we now pals, General?
“Absolutely,” Dillon said.
“Now that you’re back with us, Homer, what I’ve been thinking about for you is sending you back to California to take charge of the whole thing—the war bond tours and the training of combat correspondents at the Hollywood studios. It seems to me to be right down your alley. How does that strike you?”
We’re both supposed to be Marines. You outrank the hell out of me. You’re supposed to say “do this” and I’m supposed to say “aye, aye, Sir.” What is this “how does that strike you?” crap?
“Wherever you think I’d be of the most use to The Corps, Sir,” Dillon said.
“Good man!” General Stewart said. “Now is there any reason why you couldn’t get right on this? Any reason I don’t know and you can’t talk about?”
Well, for one thing, General, when it comes to getting a new set of records for the Easterbunny, I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you. I think I’ll stick around and make sure that’s done.
“I think it would be best, Sir,” Dillon said, “if I made myself available here for the next two or three days.”
“Certainly. I understand fully. Whenever you feel comfortable going back out there, you just call Sergeant Sawyer about transportation. This is important. I don’t see any reason why we can’t get you a high enough priority to fly out there.”
“That’s very kind of you, Sir.”
“Macklin is temporarily set up in the Post Office Building in Los Angeles. I’ll have my sergeant send a telegram telling him you’re coming.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Well, I don’t want to give you the impression, Homer, that I’m running you off,” General Stewart said. “But just take a look at this desk!”
“Thank you very much for your time, General,” Dillon said formally, and then stood up and came to attention. “By your leave, Sir?”
“That will be all, thank you, Major Dillon,” General Stewart replied, as formally.
VIII
[ONE]
U.S. Naval Hospital
Pearl Harbor, T.H.
1015 Hours 20 October 1942
“So far as I can tell, gentlemen,” Lieutenant Commander Warren W. Warbasse, Medical Corps, USNR, said, “you are all far healthier than you look, or frankly should be.”
“Doctor, I don’t know about these two, but in my case that is obviously due to the fact that I am pure in heart,” First Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, said solemnly. “I did not run around the tropical islands chasing bare-breasted maidens in grass skirts.”
Dr. Warbasse smiled. He was thirty-five or so, tall and curly haired, with a mildly aesthetic look. Despite this last, he had instincts that were solidly down to earth. These told him that the young officer was well on his way to being plastered. He wondered how he managed to find the liquor; the three of them had been brought by station wagon directly to the hospital from the seaplane base at Pearl.
It was a standard procedure for those returning from Guadalcanal. The percentage of returnees with malaria was mind-boggling.
“I’d like to keep you in that pure state, Lieutenant,” Dr. Warbasse said. “Have they told you where you’re going from here?”
“Ewa, Commander,” Captain Charles M. Galloway, USMCR, said. “The squadron has been ordered there for refitting.”
“The other squadron officers will follow?” Dr. Warbasse asked.
“Sir,” First Lieutenant William C. Dunn said, a little thickly. “You are looking at the officers of VMF-229. Our noble skipper, his devoted executive, and this disgrace to The Marine Corps.”
My God, that’s all the officers out of the squadron? Three out of how many? Twenty, anyway, probably twenty-five.
“Have you been at the sauce, too, Captain?” Dr. Warbasse asked. “Or can I talk sensibly with you?”
“I didn’t even know they had any until he breathed on me in there,” Galloway said.
“Ordinarily, I would order you into the hospital for a couple of days’ bed rest,” Dr. Warbasse said. “But since you’re going to Ewa, maybe I could waive that, if I had some assurance that these two wouldn’t try to drink the islands dry.”
“I’ll keep an eye on them, Doctor,” Galloway said.
“I hope so,” Dr. Warbasse said. “It would really be a shame to have to scrape you off a tree, or shovel you out of a Honolulu gutter, after all you have gone through.”
“I’ll keep my eye on them, Commander,” Galloway repeated.
“OK. You’re free to go.”
“Commander, do you happen to know where I could find Commander Kocharski?” Galloway asked.
“Who is that?” Pickering asked. “The Polish chaplain?”
“Shut up, Pick. You are not amusing,” Galloway said.
“The nurse?” Dr. Warbasse asked.
“The nurse?” Pickering asked delightedly. “And who is going to keep an eye on our keeper while he’s off chasing a nurse, I wonder.”
“One more word, Pick, and you’re in here for as long as they’ll keep you,” Galloway said, not quite succeeding in restraining a smile. He looked at Dr. Warbasse. “She’s an old friend of mine.”
“Commander Kocharski is the chief surgical nurse,” Dr. Warbasse said. “Seven C.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Galloway said. “Out, you two!”
Commander Warbasse’s curiosity got the best of him. “I’d like a word, Captain.”
“You two better be here when I come out,” Galloway said, then closed the door after them and turned to face Dr. Warbasse.
“Did I hear him correctly? You’re all that’s left of VFM-229?”
“All the officers, yes, Sir.”
“Welcome home, Captain,” Dr. Warbasse said. “One more thing, there’s been some scuttlebutt that they’re sending the Guadalcanal Marine and Navy aces home for a war bond tour, after they’ve gone through here. Is that who I’m looking at? Those boys are aces?”
Galloway hesitated a moment before deciding that the doctor had not meant anything out of line, that he probably thought of every serviceman who passed his way as a “boy.” But there was still a little ice in his voice when he finally replied.
“I don’t know anything about a war bond tour, Doctor, but the blond boy, who is my executive officer, is a double ace. The other boy, the boy with the big mouth, has eight kills.”
“And you, Captain? Or am I being offensive?”
“Six,” Galloway said. “Is that all, Doctor?”
“Except to repeat, welcome home, yes, that’s all.”
“Is this important, Capt
ain?” the nurse in Ward 7C’s glass-walled office asked. “Commander Kocharski has been in the operating room all morning. She’s taking a nap, and I really hate to disturb her.”
“Please tell her it’s Charley Galloway,” Galloway said.
“I think I’m in love with you, Lieutenant,” Lieutenant Dunn said. “What did you say your name was?”
“Shut up, Bill!” Galloway snapped.
“Just a moment, please,” the nurse said.
A minute later, a large woman in her forties appeared in the office. She wore no makeup, her pale-blond hair was cut very short, and she was in a fresh set of surgical whites.
“Hello, Charley,” she said, very softly.
“Hiya, Flo,” Galloway said.
“My God, I hope this isn’t what I think it is.”
“That ugly friend of yours was last seen boarding a transport for Pearl via Noumea,” Galloway said. “He asked me to say hello.”
With astonishing speed for her bulk, Lieutenant Commander Kocharski moved across the office to Captain Galloway. She wrapped her arms around him, then put her face on his chest and sobbed.
“Oh, Charley, thank God!” she said. “The sonofabitch never writes, and I’ve been nearly out of my mind.”
The other nurse looked at Lieutenant William C. Dunn to see his reaction to this. Dunn winked at her, and she snapped her head away.
“He’s all right, Flo,” Galloway said, somewhat awkwardly patting Commander Kocharski on the back. “And he’ll be stationed here. We’re refitting at Ewa.”
Commander Kocharski regained control of her emotions.
“Jesus Christ, look at me!” she said, wiping the tears from her cheeks.
“You look good, Flo,” Galloway said.
Commander Kocharski looked at Dunn.
“I know who you are,” she announced. “You’re Billy Dunn. Steve wrote me about you. He said even if you look like a high school cheerleader, you’re the best pilot he ever saw.”
The nurse lieutenant looked at Dunn just in time to hear Commander Kocharski add, “Carol, he’s shot down eight Japs.”
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