“What did the gorilla say to him, Gunny?”
“Mr. Easterbrook ate McCoy a new asshole, Mr. Pickering.”
“What did you say?”
“Would you believe McCoy crying, Mr. Pickering?”
“No,” Pick said. “I would indeed find that very hard to believe.” A thought occurred to him, which he turned into a kind of accusation: “Was he drunk? He’s supposed to have two beers and two drinks a day, and not a goddamned drop more.”
“Stone sober. But he bawled like a baby. He said that he thought Mr. Easterbrook was dead, and that Mr. Easterbrook was the bravest man he’s ever seen.”
“Easterbrook?” Pick asked incredulously.
“Did you know that Mr. Easterbrook was with the Raiders on Bloody Ridge?”
“I knew he spent a lot of time with the Raiders,” Pick replied, remembering the Easterbunny eating in VMF-229’s mess—tired, dirty, and scared shitless. And remembering how he’d felt sorry for him and asked where he’d been.
“Well, it looks like he was on Bloody Ridge when McCoy did whatever he did to get the Medal, and McCoy seen him try to carry some wounded officer down the hill. Saw him fall; thought he was killed. McCoy said that when Mr. Easterbrook stood up to carry this officer, he had to know he was going to get his ass killed, the way the Japs were laying in fire. But he did it anyway, trying to get this officer to a Corpsman.”
“Jesus H. Christ!”
“And Mr. Easterbrook told McCoy that he seen what McCoy done…. I guess he left his position when he wasn’t supposed to when he killed all them Japanese…. And Mr. Easterbrook told him if he’d had a weapon, he would have killed him himself.”
“How did this all come out?” Pick asked, sensing that what he was hearing was the truth.
“We was bringing McCoy up in the elevator from the press conference. And when the door opened, there was Mr. Easterbrook. And McCoy called him a feather merchant, and…I guess Mr. Easterbrook had a couple of drinks and decided he’d had enough of McCoy’s shit. And he really went after him.” The gunny paused, and then added, with admiration in his voice, “He really ate him a new asshole. Called him everything in the book…starting with asshole.”
“And this reduced McCoy to tears?”
“Yes, Sir. Not by the elevator. When we got him back to the room. He really wants to apologize, Mr. Pickering. I think maybe it would be a good idea.”
“Where is our weeping hero?”
“In the room, Sir.”
“Give me fifteen minutes, Gunny, and then bring him down.”
“Aye, aye, Sir. Thank you, Mr. Pickering.”
[TWO]
When First Lieutenant William C. Dunn, USMCR, unlocked the door to the John Charles Fremont Suite of the Foster Washingtonian Hotel and waved Miss Roberta Daiman inside, it was with the reasonable expectation that First Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, being an officer and a gentleman, would have retired for the evening, leaving the sitting room free for whatever purposes Lieutenant Dunn might have vis-à-vis Miss Daiman.
Instead, he found—for all practical purposes—a crowd. Lieutenants Pickering and Easterbrook, the gorilla, and the gorilla’s keepers were all there. The Easterbunny, who looked wan and pale, was being fed a Prairie Oyster—at least to judge by the horrible grimace on his face, and by the materials on the table: the eggshells, the tomato juice, and the Tabasco and Worcestershire sauce bottles.*
“Easterbunny, damn you!” Lieutenant Dunn said. “What the hell have you been up to?”
“Speak kindly to our boy,” Pickering said. “Or you will offend Sergeant McCoy, and he will pull your arms off…with my blessing.”
“Just what the hell is going on around here?” Dunn asked.
“We have been trying to think of some way to impress upon Mr. Easterbrook’s detachment of would-be combat correspondents that they are singularly fortunate in having an officer of his proven valor to lead them.”
“You bet your fucking ass,” Staff Sergeant McCoy said.
“I didn’t think anyone would be here,” Lieutenant Dunn said to Miss Daiman.
Pickering went on. “We have also concluded that there would be no cries of outrage from the Raiders if Lieutenant Easterbrook were to sew a Raider Patch on his uniform. After all, he was on Bloody Ridge with them.”
“He’s as much entitled to that fucking patch as any fucking Raider,” Staff Sergeant McCoy agreed.
“What, exactly, is the problem with the combat correspondents?” Dunn asked.
“They seem to have formed the notion—or at least Mr. Easterbrook feels they have formed the notion—that he is a feather merchant.”
“Feather merchant, my ass,” Sergeant McCoy interjected. “This little fucker is the bravest man I ever seen. I thought he was dead!”
“What did you say, Sergeant?” Miss Daiman asked.
“Excuse him, Miss, please,” the Master Gunnery Sergeant said. “Watch your goddamn language, McCoy!”
“What did you say, Sergeant?” Miss Daiman asked again.
Sergeant McCoy pointed his finger at Lieutenant Easterbrook. “That’s the bravest man I ever seen,” he said. He made a sound that could have been a sob. And then, finding his voice, he passionately announced, “He deserves this goddamn medal, not me.”
“Do you really mean that, Sergeant McCoy?” Miss Daiman asked innocently.
“You bet your sweet ass I mean it.”
“Excuse me,” Lieutenant Easterbrook said, pushing himself off the couch, “I’m going to be sick again.”
[THREE]
ASSOCIATED PRESS SEATTLE 34224
PRIORITY FOR NATIONAL WIRE
SLUG MEDAL OF HONOR WINNER “MACHINE GUN” MCCOY IDENTIFIES “REAL HERO OF BLOODY RIDGE”
BY ROBERTA DAIMAN, STAFF REPORTER, THE SEATTLE TIMES
SEATTLE, WASH NOV. 13—STAFF SERGEANT THOMAS J. MCCOY USMCR WHOSE VALOR FIGHTING AS A MARINE RAIDER ON GUADALCANAL’S BLOODY RIDGE EARNED HIM BOTH THE SOBRIQUET “MACHINE GUN MCCOY” AND THE MEDAL OF HONOR FROM THE HANDS OF PRESIDENT FRANKLIN D. ROOSEVELT POINTED A FINGER AT A BOYISH MARINE SECOND LIEUTENANT AND PROCLAIMED HIM TO BE THE BRAVEST MAN ON BLOODY RIDGE.
“HE DESERVES THIS (THE MEDAL OF HONOR) MORE THAN I DO” SERGEANT MCCOY SAID OF NINETEEN YEAR OLD 2ND LT ROBERT F. EASTERBROOK, OF CONNER, MO. EASTERBROOK, THEN AN ENLISTED MARINE COMBAT CORRESPONDENT, WAS WITH MCCOY ON “BLOODY RIDGE” DURING THE ENGAGEMENT WHICH SAW MCCOY EARN THE NATION’S HIGHEST AWARD FOR VALOR.
TEARS FILLING HIS EYES, MCCOY WENT ON TO DESCRIBE HOW EASTERBROOK, WITH COMPLETE DISREGARD OF HIS OWN SAFETY, ATTEMPTED TO CARRY A BADLY WOUNDED MARINE OFFICER TO SAFETY THROUGH A HAIL OF JAPANESE SMALL ARMS AND MORTAR FIRE.
“I THOUGHT HE WAS DEAD,” MCCOY SAID. “I DON’T KNOW HOW ANYONE COULD HAVE LIVED THROUGH THAT. WHEN HE STOOD UP, WITH LIEUTENANT DONALDSON SLUNG OVER HIS SHOULDER, I KNEW THEY WERE BOTH AS GOOD AS DEAD.”
MARINE FIRST LIEUTENANT ARTHUR M. DONALDSON DIED OF WOUNDS RECEIVED DURING THE BATTLE, STRUCK A THIRD TIME BY ENEMY FIRE AS EASTERBROOK TRIED TO CARRY HIM TO SAFETY.
THE STORY CAME OUT IN SEATTLE AS THE TWO MARINE VETERANS OF GUADALCANAL WERE PREPARING TO BRING TO A CLOSE THE SECOND WAR BOND TOUR. UNTIL TODAY, MCCOY HAD BELIEVED EASTERBROOK TO BE DEAD, AND HAD NOT RECOGNIZED THE SLIGHT MARINE OFFICER ACCOMPANYING THE TOUR IN A PUBLIC RELATIONS CAPACITY AS THE COMBAT CORRESPONDENT WHO HAD BEEN WILLING TO LAY DOWN HIS LIFE FOR A FELLOW MARINE ON GUADALCANAL.
THIS REPORTER ASKED MARINE LIEUTENANT WILLIAM C. DUNN, A GUADALCANAL DOUBLE ACE AND HOLDER OF THE NAVY CROSS, THE NATION’S SECOND HIGHEST DECORATION FOR VALOR, WHO IS ALSO ON THE WAR BOND TOUR, HOW EASTERBROOK’S EXPLOITS COULD HAVE GONE UNNOTICED.
“MOST HEROISM GOES UNNOTICED,” DUNN REPLIED. “FOR EVERY MARINE YOU SEE WITH A MEDAL, THERE ARE A DOZEN MARINES WHO DID AT LEAST AS MUCH WHEN NO ONE WAS AROUND TO SEE THEM DO IT. EVERYONE WHO WAS ON BLOODY RIDGE DESERVED A MEDAL.”
ALL THE GUADALCANAL HEROES CONFESSED THEY WERE HAPPY THE WAR BOND TOUR IS ABOUT OVER. MCCOY WILL REJOIN HIS
MARINE RAIDER BATTALION IN THE PACIFIC. EASTERBROOK, “THE BRAVEST MAN ON BLOODY RIDGE” IS IN THE PROCESS OF TRAINING A DETACHMENT OF COMBAT CORRESPONDENTS IN LOS ANGELES. HE WILL LEAD THEM OVERSEAS WHEN THEIR TRAINING IS COMPLETED. WITH THE EXCEPTION OF CAPTAIN CHARLES M. GALLOWAY, WHO IS RETURNING TO THE FIGHTER SQUADRON HE COMMANDED ON GUADALCANAL, THE MARINE ACES ARE BEING ASSIGNED TO VARIOUS TRAINING BASES IN THE UNITED STATES TO TRAIN THE NEXT GENERATION OF FIGHER PILOTS.
END END END
CAPTION, PIC ONE ACCOMPANYING: (L-R) MEDAL OF HONOR WINNER STAFF SERGEANT THOMAS J. MCCOY USMCR AND THE MAN HE DECLARES WAS THE “BRAVEST MAN ON BLOODY RIDGE,” 2ND LT ROBERT F. EASTERBROOK, USMC, (PHOTO BY ROBERTA DAIMAN, SEATTLE TIMES)
CAPTION, PIC TWO ACCOMPANYING: MEDAL OF HONOR WINNER STAFF SERGEANT THOMAS J. “MACHINE GUN” MCCOY USMC (LEFT) AND NAVY CROSS WINNER 1ST LT WILLIAM C. DUNN, USMCR, FLANK 2ND LT ROBERT F. EASTERBROOK, USMCR, THE MARINE COMBAT CORRESPONDENT MCCOY SAYS WAS “THE BRAVEST MAN ON BLOODY RIDGE.” (PHOTO BY ROBERTA DAIMAN, SEATTLE TIMES)
[FOUR]
* * *
TOP SECRET
EYES ONLY-THE SECRETARY OF THE NAVY
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
ORIGINAL TO BE DESTROYED AFTER
ENCRYPTION AND TRANSMITTAL TO
SECNAV
Brisbane, Australia
Saturday 14 November 1942
Dear Frank:
Word just reached here that the battleships Washington and South Dakota have sunk the Japanese battleship Kirishima, even though the South Dakota apparently was pretty badly hit in the process. I’d like to think that Admiral Dan Callahan somehow knows about this. I was pretty upset when I heard he was killed the day before. Revenge is sweet.
The more I get into this Fertig in the Philippines business—specifically, the more I have learned from Lt Col Jack NMI Stecker about the efficacy of a well run guerrilla operation—the more I become convinced that it’s worth a good deal of effort and expense.
Where it stands right now is that a young Marine officer, Lieutenant Kenneth McCoy, whom they call ‘Killer,’ by the way, just arrived here. He has already made the Makin Island Marine Raider operation, and went ashore on Buka from another submarine when we replaced the Marines there. He is as expert in rubber boat operations as they come, in other words. He sees no problem in getting ashore from a submarine off Mindanao.
He and Stecker have come up with a list of matériel they feel should go to Fertig, essentially, and in this order, gold, radios, medicine and small arms and ammunition. Because of the small stature of the average Filipino, both feel that the US Carbine is the proper weapon. I have the radios and the carbines and ammunition for them, and have been promised an array of medicines whenever I want them. I have also been promised a submarine, probably the USS Narwahl, which is a cargo submarine. The promise came from CINCPAC himself, who shares my belief that any guerrilla operation in the Philippines should be supported on strategic, tactical and moral grounds.
I only need two things more: I need $250,000 in gold. Actually, what I need is a cable transfer of that much money to the Bank of Australia, who will give me the gold. The sooner the better.
The second thing I need is for you to goose the Marine Corps personnel people. They still haven’t transferred Lt Col Stecker to me. Colonel Rickabee reports that he’s been getting a very cold shoulder about this, although no explanation has been given, and your normally incredibly able Captain Haughton hasn’t been able to get them off their upholstered chairs, either. I need Stecker for this. He’s an expert in guerrilla operations, and this is certainly more important than what the Corps wants him to do vis á vis setting up prophylactic facilities and amateur theatricals. McCoy going ashore alone would not be nearly as effective as the two of them going together.
I earnestly solicit your immediate action in this regard.
Best regards,
Fleming Pickering, Brigadier General, USMCR
TOP SECRET
* * *
[FIVE]
The Peabody Hotel
Memphis, Tennessee
1725 Hours 17 November 1942
“This is a first for me,” First Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering said to First Lieutenant William C. Dunn, after the bellman who had led them to the small suite had left. “I have been in many, many hotels, and I have seen some strange things in their lobbies; but I have never before seen ducks.”
“It is an old southern custom. We call it ‘ducks in the lobby.’”
“With a ‘d,’ right?”
“Don’t be obscene, Mr. Pickering. And if you are reaching for the phone to order booze, forget it.”
“Why?”
“Because this is the South, Mr. Pickering. We do not corrupt our youth—such as yourself—by giving them whiskey.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I am not kidding.”
“Well, as soon as I find out if my car has arrived. I will ask for a bellman. I’ll bet the bellman has an idea how we can circumvent that perverted Southern custom.”
“Why don’t we wait until we report in? We can buy booze on the base, I’m sure,” Dunn said.
“Why don’t we just go out there in the morning?”
“Because if we report in today, anytime before midnight, it is a day of duty, and we don’t lose a day of leave.”
“Why don’t we go out there in the morning and say we reported in last night and there was nobody there to properly receive us?” Pick asked.
“That would be a case of an officer knowingly uttering a statement he knows to be false.”
“So what?”
“Pick, you better understand, you’ve never been in a squadron under anybody but Charley Galloway. There are a number of squadron commanders who are real pricks….”
“And it will be our luck to get one, right?”
“Right. And I won’t be the exec, either. Just one more airplane jockey. So, until we find out how much of a prick our new squadron commander is going to be, be smart, keep your mouth shut, and your eyes and ears open.”
“OK. Now can I ask if my car is here?”
“Yes, you may,” Dunn said grandly.
The car had been delivered; it would be at the front door in five minutes.
“I have just had another unpleasant, if realistic, thought,” Dunn said. “Our new skipper maybe won’t permit us to live here.”
“Fuck him,” Pick said. “Wave your Navy Cross in his face.”
“Pick, you weren’t listening. You’re going to have to change your whole attitude, or you’re going to get us both in trouble. Maybe you don’t give a damn, but I don’t want to get sent back to P’Cola to fly Yellow Perils.”
“I surrender. I am now on my good behavior. Note the glow of my halo.”
“Just make sure it keeps glowing,” Dunn said. “Let’s go.”
There was a staff sergeant on duty at the headquarters of Marine Air Group 59. He told them that the Major was out inspecting the flight line.
“What for?” Pick asked.
“Sir,” the sergeant replied, looking askance at the question from the young, new pilot, obviously fresh from P’Cola, “the SOP says the Officer of the Day will inspect the flight line every two hours during off-duty hours, Sir.”
“Right,” Pickering said.
“Your name is Dunn, you said, Lieutenant?” the sergeant asked. And then, before Dunn could reply, he asked another question. “Sir, isn’t that the Navy Cross? Are you that Mr. Dunn, Sir?”
“That’s him, Sergeant. We call him ‘Modest Bill.’ He always wears his medals—”
“Shut up, Pick,” Dunn said, and it was in the voice of command.
“—when trying to make a favorable first impression on his new squadron commander,” Pick finished.
“I told you to shut up, Mr. Pickering.”
Pick shrugged, but said nothing else.
“This is for you, Mr. Dunn,” the sergeant said, and handed him a large manila envelope.
Dunn tore i
t open and read the single sheet of Teletype paper it contained.
“Well,” he said, “I’m all right with the new skipper, but your ass, Mr. Pickering, is in a crack.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What are you talking about, Sir?, if you please, Mr. Pickering.”
“What do you mean, Sir?”
“Stick this in your ear, Mr. Pickering,” Dunn said, handing him the Teletype. “And then call me ‘Sir.’ Get in the habit of calling me Sir, as a matter of fact.”
* * *
ROUTINE CONFIDENTIAL
HEADQUARTERS USMC WASH DC 1535
13 NOV 42
COMMANDING OFFICER MAG-59
MEMPHIS NAVAL AIR STATION TENN
1. FOLLOWING EXTRACTS GENERAL ORDER 205 HQ USMC DATED 10 NOV 42 QUOTED FOR INFORMATION AND APPROPRIATE ACTION.
17. 1/LT WILLIAM C. DUNN, USMCR, HQ MAG-59 IS PROMOTED CAPTAIN, USMCR, WITH DATE OF RANK 1 NOV 42.
18. CAPT WILLIAM C. DUNN, USMCR, DETACHED HQ MAG-59 ATTACHED VMF-262, MAG-69, MEMPHIS NAVAL AIR STATION, TENN, FOR DUTY AS COMMANDING OFFICER.
171. 1/LT MALCOM S. PICKERING, USMCR, DETACHED HQ MAG-59 ATTACHED VMF-262, MAG-59, MEMPHIS AIR STATION, TENN, FOR DUTY.
BY DIRECTION OF THE COMMANDANT
VORHEES, LT COL. USMC
* * *
“I’ll be goddamned, Sir,” Lieutenant Pickering said.
“Better, Mr. Pickering, better,” Captain Dunn said.
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