“We’re all going to El Supremo’s office?” Moore asked. “But you only asked about Pluto.”
“It is an old military tactic, Lieutenant, known as Getting the Camel’s Nose Under the Tent,” General Pickering said. “General MacArthur knows all about it. He’ll understand.”
[TWO]
USMC Public Relations Office
U.S. Post Office Building
Los Angeles, California
0845 Hours 24 October 1942
When he saw Major Homer C. Dillon, USMCR, walk into the outer office and speak to one of the sergeants, the mind of First Lieutenant Richard B. Macklin, USMC, took something like an abrupt lurch. Dillon was almost certainly asking for him. And the Major inspired decidedly mixed emotions in him.
Macklin, a tall, not quite handsome officer, whose tunic was adorned with parachutist’s wings and two rows of ribbons, the most senior of which was the Purple Heart Medal with one oak leaf cluster, had encountered Dillon twice before. Their initial meeting was at the Parachute School at the old Navy Dirigible Base in Lakewood, N.J., before he was ordered to the Pacific. And they met again six weeks previously, in the U.S. Army 4th General Hospital in Melbourne, Australia. Macklin was then recuperating from the wounds he’d received during the invasion of Gavutu. That very day Dillon sent him to the States to participate in the First War Bond Tour (an inspired act on Dillon’s part, Macklin had to admit).
Still, Macklin was of several minds about Dillon himself. For one thing, Lieutenant Macklin was an Annapolis graduate, a career Marine officer, and Major Dillon was not. Consequently, he wasn’t entirely sure of the wisdom of directly commissioning a former China Marine sergeant as a major simply because the sergeant had become a press agent for a Hollywood studio after leaving The Corps. At the same time, it could be argued that The Corps needed the expertise of such a man. Such, anyhow, had been the opinion of the Assistant Commandant, who had arranged for Dillon’s commissioning. Brigadier General J. J. Stewart, head of Marine Corps Public Relations, had been good enough to pass this information on to Macklin, and Macklin was grateful to have learned it.
Lieutenant Macklin was also not at all sure how Major Dillon felt about him. Both at Lakewood and at the 4th General Hospital, he sensed that Dillon did not wholly approve of him. It was of course likely that ex-Sergeant Dillon was a little uncomfortable with major’s leaves on his shoulders, especially in the presence of a regular officer of a lesser rank.
And then, too, Lieutenant Macklin was more than a little disappointed when General Stewart telephoned to tell him that, in addition to his other duties, Major Dillon would be “taking responsibility” for the Second War Bond Tour, and that for the time being at least Dillon would be operating out of Los Angeles. Macklin had thought—indeed, he’d been told—that he would be running the Second War Bond Tour. He wondered if this—it was in effect a kind of demotion—would affect his chances for promotion. God knows, that was overdue.
On the other hand, problems had already arisen in taking what Macklin had come to think of as “Tour Two” out of the starting gate. These problems were certainly not his fault; but if they got out of hand, they would almost certainly reflect adversely on him. Dillon’s presence would at least take him out of the line of fire. If anything went bad, Dillon, as the senior officer, would obviously be responsible.
Macklin rose from behind his desk and walked somewhat stiffly to the door. His leg was still giving him a little trouble. When he had to be on his feet for any length of time, he supported himself with a cane.
“Good morning, Sir,” Macklin called. “It’s good to see you, again, Sir.”
Dillon crossed the room to him.
“How are you, Macklin? How’s your leg?” Dillon asked, offering his hand.
“Coming along just fine, Sir. A little stiff. Thank you for asking. Sir, General Stewart has been trying to get in touch with you. He asks that you call him immediately.”
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“He said it was good news, Sir. About Easterbrook.”
Well, that is good news, Dillon thought. Stewart is telling me he finally got Personnel off their ass and they’ve come up with a set of records for the Easterbunny. That means I can get him paid and get leave orders cut for him, and let him go home.
“I’ll call him later in the morning. And I’ve got some good news, too. Veronica Wood has graciously agreed to lend her presence to this war bond tour.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“You better get a press release out on it right away…check with Mort Cooperman at Metro-Magnum, he’s got their still-photo lab running off a hundred eight-by-ten glossies to send out with them. I told him to use the shot of her in the negligee where you can see her nipples.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” Lieutenant Macklin said. He was familiar with the photograph Dillon referred to. On the one hand, in his opinion, it bordered upon the lewd and lascivious; but on the other, he felt sure that newspapers across the country would print it.
“So bring me up to speed,” Dillon said. “What have you got laid on so far?”
“I have the tentative schedule in my desk. Sir,” Macklin said. “There are, I’m afraid, two problems.”
“Which are?”
“There are six Guadalcanal aces assigned to the tour, Sir, as you know. Three of them are here. I’ve put them up in the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. They gave us a very attractive rate, Major.”
“They like to get their hotel in the newspapers, too, Macklin. They should have comped the whole damned tour.”
“Yes, Sir,” Macklin said.
I never thought about that, he thought. This is going to be a learning experience for me.
“Well, they are putting me up, Sir, free of charge.”
“What about the other three pilots?”
Macklin walked stiffly to his desk and came out with a sheet of paper, which he handed to Dillon. It was the radio message from General Stewart ordering Captain Charles M. Galloway and Lieutenants William C. Dunn and Malcolm S. Pickering to participate in the tour.
“These officers are in San Francisco, Sir,” Macklin said. “They reported in by telephone. And when I told them what was on the agenda—coming to Los Angeles—and that the question of whether they could have a leave before the tour starts hadn’t been resolved, they said—”
“‘They’?” Dillon interrupted. “Who did you talk to?”
“The Captain, Sir. Galloway. He said they all had diarrhea and weren’t in any condition to come to Los Angeles. Sir, I don’t mean to impugn the Captain’s word, but I really wonder if all three of them could be so incapacitated simultaneously.”
“Have you got a telephone number for them?”
“Yes, Sir. They’re staying at the Andrew Foster Hotel.”
“Well, maybe the Andrew Foster is comping them, Lieutenant. I’ll deal with that. Anything else?”
“Yes, Sir. There is a major problem with Sergeant Machine Gun McCoy.”
“What kind of a problem?”
“He’s in the Brig at San Diego, Major. He apparently got drunk and tore up a brothel.”
“Christ, they’re going to give him the Medal of Honor!”
“And assaulted an officer, Sir.”
“Do they know about the medal?”
“Yes, Sir. Captain Jellner, the San Diego Public Affairs Officer, has told them about that. It didn’t seem to change their intention to bring him before a General Court-Martial.”
“OK. That’s my first order of business. I’ll go down there right now. Call Jellner and tell him I’m on my way.”
“Aye, aye, Sir. And, Sir, I requested Captain Galloway to check in with me every morning at zero nine hundred. What should I say to him?”
“Tell him I said I don’t want any of them drinking anything but Pepto-Bismol, and that I will be in touch.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” Lieutenant Macklin said.
“I’ll call you later,” Dillon said.
“Si
r, would it be appropriate for me to call Miss Wood and express our gratitude to her?”
“I’ll take care of that, Lieutenant,” Dillon said. “Thanks, anyway.”
[THREE]
Office of the Commanding General
USMC Recruit Training Depot
San Diego, California
1215 Hours 24 October 1942
Brigadier General J. L. Underwood, USMC, looked up from his desk when he heard a knock at his open office door.
“You wanted to see me, Sir?” his deputy, Colonel Daniel M. Frazier, USMC, asked.
“Come in, Dan,” General Underwood said, “and close the door.”
Colonel Frazier did as he was ordered, then looked at General Underwood.
“What’s up, Boss?”
“We are about to be honored with the visit of a feather-merchant major from Headquarters Public Affairs. He wants to discuss ‘the ramifications of the Sergeant McCoy affair.’”
“Uh-oh.”
“I think it would be a good thing if you sat in on this.”
“Yes, Sir. He’s coming now?”
“He’s on his way.”
“Has the General had cause to rethink his decision vis-à-vis Sergeant McCoy?”
“The General has decided to give the sonofabitch a fair trial and then hang him,” General Underwood said. “I figure he’ll get twenty years. I’m going to let him contemplate his next twenty years from his cell at Portsmouth…for about six months. And then I’m going to have a change of heart and restore him to duty as a private. I figure what he did at Guadalcanal earned him that much. But The Corps cannot tolerate staff sergeants calling officers what…what he called that MP lieutenant. Not to mention all those people he put in the hospital.”
“Yes, Sir,” Colonel Frazier said.
There was a knock at the door.
“Yes?”
“Major Dillon to see the General, Sir,” a voice called.
“Show the Major in, please,” General Underwood called, and then added softly, as if to himself, “and I don’t need some feather-merchant public affairs puke to tell me about the good of The Corps.”
Major Jake Dillon marched into General Underwood’s office, stopped exactly eight inches from the desk, came to rigid attention, stared over General Underwood’s head, and barked, “Sir, Major Dillon, Homer C.”
General Underwood examined Major Dillon carefully, and reluctantly came to the decision that, public relations feather merchant or not, he looked like a Marine. Nevertheless, to set the stage properly, he kept him standing there at attention for sixty seconds—which seemed much longer—before saying, softly, “You may stand at ease, Major.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” Dillon said, and assumed the position of parade rest. Instead of standing rigidly with his arms at his side, thumbs on the seam of his trousers, feet together, he was now standing rigidly with his feet precisely twelve inches apart and with his hands crossed precisely over the small of his back. He continued to stare over General Underwood’s head.
“I understand you wish to discuss the matter of Staff Sergeant McCoy?” General Underwood said quietly, with ice in his voice.
“The General is correct, Sir. Yes, Sir.”
“And I am to presume you are speaking for the Director of Public Affairs? He sent you here?”
“No, Sir. If the Major gave the General that impression, Sir, it was inadvertent, Sir.”
“Excuse me, Major,” Colonel Frazier said. “Have we met?”
“Yes, Sir. The Major has had the privilege of knowing the Colonel.”
“Where would that have been, Major?”
“Sir, in Shanghai, China, Sir. When the Colonel was S-4 of the 4th Marines, Sir.”
“Goddamn it, of course! Jake Dillon.”
“You know this officer, Colonel Frazier?” General Underwood asked.
“Yes, Sir. In ’38 and ’39 he had the heavy-weapons section under Master Gunnery Sergeant Jack (NMI) Stecker.”
“Jack (NMI) Stecker has the Medal,” General Underwood said.
“Now Captain Stecker,” Colonel Frazier said.
“He made major,” General Underwood corrected him. “I can’t imagine Jack (NMI) Stecker even using the term ‘motherfucker,’ much less screaming it at an officer.”
“Begging the General’s pardon,” Dillon said. “It is now Lieutenant Colonel Stecker.”
“Well, I hadn’t heard that,” Colonel Frazier said. “Are you sure?”
“Sir, yes, Sir. I saw Colonel Stecker a few days ago, Sir.”
“On Guadalcanal?” General Underwood said.
“Sir, yes, Sir. Colonel Stecker commands Second of the Fifth, Sir.”
“Dillon, I said ‘at ease,’ not ‘parade rest,’” General Underwood said.
“Aye, aye, Sir. Sorry, Sir,” Dillon said, and allowed the stiffness to go out of his body.
“Are things as bad over there as we hear, Dillon?” General Underwood said.
“They’re pretty goddamn bad, General. The goddamned Navy sailed off with all the heavy artillery and most of the rations still aboard ship. For the first couple of weeks, we were eating Jap rations; we didn’t have any of our own.”
“You were there, I gather, Dillon?” General Underwood asked.
“Yes, Sir. I went into Tulagi with Jack (NMI) Stecker’s battalion.”
General Underwood and Major Dillon were now looking at each other.
“This was easier, frankly, when I thought you were a goddamn feather merchant,” General Underwood said.
“Jake, are you really here to try to talk us into letting this sonofabitch go?” Colonel Frazier asked. “Do you know what all he did?”
“Yes, Sir, I read the reports. But on the other hand, Sir, I heard what he did on Bloody Ridge. He’s one hell of a Marine, Colonel.”
“He’s a goddamn animal who belongs in Portsmouth!” General Underwood said angrily.
Dillon and Colonel Frazier both looked at him.
“Sir, the word is already out that they’re going to give him the Medal of Honor,” Dillon said. “If it comes out why he—”
“That’s enough, Dillon,” General Underwood said sharply.
“Yes, Sir.”
General Underwood stood up.
“I can’t waste any more time on this individual,” General Underwood said. “You deal with it, Frazier. If Dillon has any reasonable proposals to make, that you feel you can go along with, I will support any decision you make. That will be all, gentlemen. Thank you.”
Colonel Frazier stood up. Both he and Major Dillon came to attention.
“By your leave, Sir?” Colonel Frazier asked.
General Underwood, his eyes on his desk, made an impatient gesture of dismissal. Colonel Frazier and Major Dillon made precise about-face movements and marched out of his office.
“The General said if you had ‘any reasonable proposals,’ Jake,” Colonel Frazier said. They were now in his office, drinking coffee to which sour-mash bourbon had been added.
“Sir, the first thing we have to keep in mind is that some people, who are a lot more senior than you and me, think this war bond tour business is good for The Corps.”
“Do you?”
Dillon met his eyes.
“I really don’t know. They told me to do it. I’m saying ‘aye, aye, Sir,’ and giving it my best shot.”
“OK. We’ll go with that, for the sake of argument: The war bond tour is good for The Corps.”
“If we go with that, Colonel, then we have to go with the idea that putting a major, me, in charge, with a lieutenant and half a dozen sergeants to help, is a justified use of Marines. Plus, of course, the heroes. They could be doing other things, too.”
“I’m listening, Jake,” Colonel Frazier said.
“If we go with that, and if it means that instead of The Corps looking foolish for giving the Medal to somebody who turns out to be an asshole, The Corps looks good for giving the Medal to a guy who killed thirty, forty Japs al
l by himself, then it seems to me that The Corps would be justified in assigning two more Marines to the tour…that would mean for about a month.”
“Two more Marines, Jake? Who are you talking about?”
“I don’t have any names, but I’ll bet you wouldn’t have to look hard around the Recruit Depot to find two gunnery sergeants who are larger and tougher than Staff Sergeant McCoy.”
“And what would these two gunnies do, Jake?”
“Well, I think that by now, as long as he’s been in the Brig, Sergeant McCoy must be pretty dirty. The two gunnies would probably start off by giving Sergeant McCoy a bath. With a fire hose. That would probably put him in a good frame of mind. Then they could talk to him about how important it is to him and The Corps for him to behave himself. And if he ever felt he needed some exercise, they could give it to him.”
Colonel Frazier looked at Major Dillon for a long moment. Then he pushed a lever on his intercom.
“Sergeant Major,” he announced, “I’m sending a Major Dillon to see you. He will tell you what he wants. I don’t know what that is, and I don’t want to know. But you will give him whatever he asks for. Do you understand?”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” a metallic voice replied.
“Thank you, Colonel,” Jake said.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Major Dillon,” Colonel Frazier said. “But I’m sure you’ll be able to work it out with the Sergeant Major. He’s in the third office down the hall to the right.”
[FOUR]
Water Lily Cottage
Brisbane, Australia
1615 Hours 23 October 1942
When he heard the crunch of tires on the driveway, Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, was drinking coffee. Not five minutes earlier, he almost took a stiff drink. But now that Ellen was arriving, he knew he’d made the right decision in not doing that.
He checked himself in the mirror, tugging at the skirt of his blouse, then adjusting his necktie to a precise location he decided would please the Commandant of The Marine Corps himself.
He was wearing his ribbons, too. There was an impressive display of them—the Navy Cross, the Silver Star, the Legion of Merit, the Navy & Marine Corps Medal, the Purple Heart with three oak leaf clusters, the World War I Victory Medal, the Legion d’Honneur in the grade of Chevalier, and the Croix de Guerre. And they were neatly arrayed above what Pickering thought of as the “I-Was-There” ribbons: for service in France in World War I, for service since World War II started, and the Pacific Theatre of Operations ribbon.
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