W E B Griffin - Corp 07 - Behind the Lines

by Behind The Lines(Lit)

  Dear Ernie:

  Ed Sessions is going to the States the day after tomorrow, and has promised to carry this with him. This will be the last letter for a while, as I've got a job to do someplace where there isn't mail service. That means you don't have to write, either, as I wouldn't get it anyhow.

  I can't tell you where I'm going, and I don't know when I'll be back. Please don't put Ed on the spot by trying to get him to tell you. I can't see the necessity for all the secrecy, but Ed is an intelligence type, and they're all a little hysterical about secrets. If they could, intelligence types would classify the telephone book TOP SECRET.

  I'll be taking that Episcopal cross, or whatever it's called, you sent here with Ed with me. And the people going with me are first rate Marines.

  Actually, I'm sort of looking forward to it. All those native girls in grass skirts and nothing else doing the hula hula, and eating roasted pigs with apples in their mouths, etcetera.

  I was thinking a while ago that I met you 20 November last year. That's just a little over a year, even if it seems like much longer. And I remembered that saying, "It's better to have loved and lost than not have loved at all."

  I guess what I'm trying to say is that if something goes wrong, not that I think it's going to, I really think I'm still ahead of the game. I never thought I would be lucky enough to get to know somebody like you, much less have you as my girl friend, and to even think that maybe you like me half as much as I like you.

  But, let's face it, things sometimes do go wrong. If that happens, what I want you to do is get on with your life. I'm really grateful we had our thirteen months. If it turns out that I do find myself sitting on a cloud playing a harp, that's the way the ball bounced, at least it will have happened doing something I'm good at, and that has to be done. A lot of people get killed doing stupid things like getting hit by a bus walking across a street.

  I know Pick will be around for you if something goes wrong, and to tell you the truth, if I had to pick a husband for you, he would be at the head of the list.

  Thanks for everything, Baby.

  Love,

  Ken

  He very carefully folded the letter in thirds, found an envelope, and wrote "K.R. McCoy, 1/LT USMCR" in the upper-left-hand corner, "Miss Ernestine Sage, Personal" in the center, inserted the letter, licked the adhesive flap with his tongue, and carefully sealed the envelope.

  He looked at the envelope, tapped it against his hand, and exhaled audibly. His eyes fell on the cupboard. He walked to it, opened it and took out a bottle of Famous Grouse, put it to his lips, and took a healthy swallow.

  Then he walked out of the dining room, across the living room, and down the corridor to Ed Sessions's room. There was a crack of light under the door. McCoy knocked, waited for a response, and then opened the door and went inside.

  Sessions, in pajamas, 'was about to get into bed. He saw the envelope in McCoy's hand.

  "For Ernie?"

  McCoy nodded and handed it to him.

  "Thanks, Ed."

  Sessions shrugged. "You all right, Ken?"

  "Yeah, sure," McCoy said, and then asked, "You want to go somewhere and get a drink?"

  "Don't tell me there's nothing here?"

  "I want to get out of here. I've been in that goddamned dining room since half past four this afternoon."

  The last thing in the world I want to do is go somewhere and get a drink; I was also in that goddamned dining room for hours. But he really wants some company.

  And this is the first time since I've known him that McCoy has ever asked me for something. 1 suspect it's one of the few times that Killer McCoy has ever asked anybody, except Ernie, to keep him company.

  "Having a drink, or three, is the best suggestion I've heard all day," Ed Sessions said. "Have we got wheels?"

  "There's a jeep outside."

  "Be right with you."

  "God is in his heaven, and all is right with the world," Ed Sessions said as he walked up to Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis, USN, at the bar of the SWPOA Company Grade Bachelor Officers' Quarters. "The U.S. Navy is nobly doing its duty, holding the bar in place with its elbows."

  "I didn't expect to see you two in here," Lewis said. He did not seem especially happy to see them.

  I think he's had more than a couple, Sessions decided.

  "We're slumming," Sessions said.

  "Actually, I was sort of looking for you," McCoy said.

  "Oh, were you?" Lewis asked, somewhat coldly. "And are you going to tell me why, Mr. McCoy?"

  The very careful pronunciation and exaggerated courtesy of the drunk, Sessions thought, the belligerent drunk. Christ, why did McCoy decide to come here?

  "Well, you're both a swabbie and an expert on submarines," McCoy said. "I wanted to-"

  He was interrupted by the barmaid.

  "Gentlemen?"

  "Have you got any scotch whiskey?"

  "You just got here, right? Otherwise you wouldn't ask."

  "Are you trying to tell me you don't have any scotch?"

  "In our last shipment from Class VI, there were three bottles. First they take care of the big brass. Then they take care of the field-grade brass. Then they take care of the sergeants. The only people they take care of after us is the corporals and privates, and they aren't authorized any kind of hard whiskey. So what we have is rum, gin, and brandy."

  "In that case, my friend and I will have a glass of ice water," McCoy said. "And while we're at it, give the sailor a glass of ice water, too."

  The barmaid's shrug indicated that the strange behavior of Yanks no lon-ger came as a surprise to her. She produced three glasses with ice in them, and a stainless-steel pitcher of water.

  "Thank you," McCoy said, and produced a quart bottle of Famous Grouse from a cloth bag. "Say when," he ordered, as he began to pour into the first of the glasses.

  When he had finished, and water was added, he raised his glass.

  "To the United States Navy Submarine Corps, or whatever they call it."

  "I'll drink to that," Sessions said.

  "Are you two trying to be cute?" Lewis asked.

  "No. Not at all," McCoy said.

  Lewis took a sip of his scotch.

  "You stole this from General Pickering, right?" he asked.

  "He gave it to me," McCoy said. "His words were I 'was free to help myself to whatever I thought I needed.' Which is more or less what I wanted to talk to you about."

  "You found me," Lewis said, with enough of an unpleasant tone in his voice to get through to McCoy. McCoy looked at him curiously.

  "Well, I figured you know how things are on submarines, and I know how chickenshit the Navy is about taking booze aboard-"

  "You want to take some of that with you?" Lewis interrupted. "Is that what you're after?"

  "I was thinking that if I'd been in the boondocks as long as Fertig and his people, a stiff shot of good whiskey would probably taste pretty good."

  "I don't think anyone is going to question anything you want to take aboard the Sunfish, Mr. McCoy."

  "Or the plane from here to Espiritu Santo?"

  "Or the plane. You are wrapped, through me, in the protective mantle of CINCPAC himself."

  "I was thinking about a case."

  "You want to take a case of scotch whiskey with you?"

  "Why not?"

  "Indeed, why not? May I suggest that you wrap it up? So it won't be so obvious that you consider yourself above complying with regulations?"

  Sessions looked at McCoy and saw there was no smile on his face, and that his eyes had turned into ice. And then McCoy relaxed, as if he had just realized that Lewis was drunk and should not be held responsible.

  "That's already been done," McCoy said. "In some of Koffler's plastic."

  "Then I see no problem at all," Lewis said.

  "Thanks," McCoy said.

  "Would you like to tell me what's bothering you, Lewis?" Sessions asked.

  "It shows, does it?" Lewis replied.
"That something is bothering me?"

  "Has it to do with Macklin?"

  "What do you think? I think it's despicable, what you did to him. I never thought I would see a Naval officer so humiliated."

  "Am I missing something here?" McCoy asked.

  "McCoy doesn't know," Sessions said.

  "I don't know what?" McCoy asked.

  "Then I hastily offer my most humble and sincere apologies, Mr. McCoy," Lewis said. "Until just now I thought it was your idea."

  "What the hell are you talking about?" McCoy said, and the ice was back in his voice and eyes.

  "It was General Pickering's idea," Sessions said. "McCoy didn't know anything about it."

  "Oh, for Christ's sake!" McCoy said. "What didn't I know about, Ed?"

  "Hart showed up here, Mr. McCoy-"

  "Knock off that 'Mr. McCoy' shit," McCoy interrupted. "I don't think you're funny."

  "Five minutes after Captain Macklin and I got here, Ken," Lewis said, "Lieutenant Hart showed up here. He told Captain Macklin he had orders to stay with him until we were picked up to go to the terminal tomorrow morning, and that Captain Macklin couldn't leave the BOQ, or use the telephone, with-out Colonel Stecker's express permission."

  "Shit," McCoy said. "I was hoping the bastard would go over the hill."

  "I think Pickering was one step ahead of you on that," Sessions said. "Right after the meeting broke up and Lewis and Macklin left-and you went to take a leak-Pickering told Moore to relieve Hart in the dungeon; then he told Stecker to call Hart and tell him to go to the BOQ, sit on Macklin, and see that he was at the terminal at 0900 tomorrow."

  "You don't really think Bob Macklin would have purposely missed the plane, do you?" Lewis challenged Sessions.

  McCoy drained his drink, and made another one.

  "The bartender has just gone off duty," he said. "If you guys want any more, pour your own."

  "Because he's Annapolis, you mean?" Sessions replied. "Yes, I do. That sleazy bastard is capable of anything. Including missing a shipment," Sessions said.

  "I was sort of hoping he would," McCoy said matter-of-factly. "Christ knows, I don't want to take him with me. Actually I was counting on him figur-ing out some way to get out of going. I wrote my girl that I was taking good Marines with me."

  Sessions chuckled.

  "And once again the wise general officer outwits the junior officer," he said.

  "I don't suppose it would do any good if I said I think you two are giving Macklin the short end of the stick?" Lewis asked.

  "I trust him about half as far as I can throw him," McCoy said. "Picker-ing said he hopes I don't have to shoot him, but he didn't tell me I can't. Does that answer your question?"

  I wonder, Sessions thought, if Lewis is capable, drunk or sober, of fully understanding that; that both Pickering and McCoy were seriously discussing the benefits and drawbacks of eliminating, by shooting, an obstacle to the mis-sion who happens to be named Macklin.

  "Has it occurred to you, Ken, that there are people who aren't like you, people who are afraid?" Lewis said, his tone of voice now conciliatory and reasonable.

  "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" McCoy said.

  "I'm trying to suggest that Bob Macklin is afraid of what's liable to hap-pen on this mission. He's trying hard to get himself under control, and if he hasn't, that's not really his fault. Some people seem to be born with courage, but some people aren't."

  "And you don't think I'm scared? Just between you and me, I'm scared shitless about this mission," McCoy said, and then, his voice turning incredu-lous, "Did you really think I think it's a lot of fun?"

  "You don't act as if you're afraid."

  "An officer's first duty is to take care of his men. Don't tell me it's any different on a submarine."

  "Meaning what?" Lewis challenged.

  "If I look scared, then Zimmerman and Koffler get scared, OK? The one thing I can't afford is to have Zimmerman and Koffler thinking they're in the deep shit because their officer is pissing his pants." He looked at Lewis for a moment, and then warmed to his subject. "Or are you trying to tell me the officers on a submarine don't break their asses to make sure the white hats don't see how scared they are?"

  "What makes you so sure submarine officers are frightened?"

  "They're either scared or mentally retarded," McCoy said. "Don't bull-shit me, Lewis. I've been on two of the goddamned things. The worst part of the Makin raid was getting there and back, in that steel underwater coffin. And the worst part of the Buka Operation was getting there in a submarine. When I saw the Gooney-bird coming in to take us off of Buka, the first thing I thought was, 'Thank Christ, I don't have to get back in that fucking submarine.' "

  "Some of them aren't frightened," Lewis argued.

  "OK. In any group of ten officers, you can count on two being stupid. You can also count on those two getting you in trouble. But you were scared. You're too smart not to have been scared," McCoy said. "But you were obvi-ously a good enough officer to keep the white hats from seeing it. Otherwise, they would have thrown your ass out of the submarines."

  "The point Mr. McCoy is making, Lieutenant Lewis," Sessions said, "is that what he has against Captain Macklin is not that Captain Macklin has far less then the normal issue of testicles, but that Captain Macklin considers his first duty is to take care of Captain Macklin, and fuck anybody else."

  "That's a pretty harsh judgment, wouldn't you say?"

  "I associate myself fully, Lieutenant Lewis, with Mr. McCoy's somewhat obscene, but right on the fucking money, assessment of Captain Macklin. I've seen the sonofabitch at work."

  "What would you two say if I told you that I never spent a minute in a submarine that I wasn't afraid?" Lewis asked, and was immediately horrified to hear what he had blurted.

  Neither McCoy nor Sessions seemed surprised to hear the confession.

  "Did you let the white hats see it?" McCoy asked.

  "I hope not," Lewis said.

  "Take it from me, you didn't. If you had, the other officers would have seen to it that you never went down in one again."

  Jesus Christ, Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis, USN, thought. Can he be right?

  "May I ask a question, gentlemen?" Sessions asked. "What the hell are we arguing about?"

  "Who knows?" McCoy said. "Who cares? Slide the bottle over here, will you?"

  [THREE]

  Office of the Director

  Office of Strategic Services

  National Institutes of Health Building

  Washington, D.C.

  0930 Hours 13 December 1942

  What could have been a smile crossed the lips of L. Stanford Morrissette, Dep-uty Director, Special Projects, Office of Strategic Services, as he read the mes-sage contained in the manila folder with TOP SECRET stamped across it.

  "One moment, please, Colonel, if you don't mind," he said to Colonel F. L. Rickabee, Deputy Chief, USMC Office of Management Analysis, "I be-lieve this should be brought to the attention of the Director."

  "My time is your time, Mr. Morrissette," Rickabee said.

  Morrissette picked up the receiver of a red telephone-one of three tele-phones on his desk-and dialed 0.

  "Mo, Bill," he said. "Colonel Rickabee, of the Marine Corps, is in my office with something I thought you'd like to see. Can you spare us a minute?"

  The reply of the Director was obviously in the affirmative, for Morrissette stood up as he replaced the red handset in its cradle and gestured toward the door.

  "He's right down the corridor, Colonel," he said. "I think I should warn you the Director thinks the savages of yore, who killed messengers delivering bad news, had the right idea."

  "In my line of work, you get used to that," Rickabee said.

  Morrissette opened Colonel William J. Donovan's door without knocking and waved Rickabee in ahead of him.

  "Colonel Donovan," he said. "I believe you know Colonel Rickabee?"

  "Yes, of course," Donovan said, rising behin
d his desk and putting out his hand. "I see the chickens, Fritz. Well deserved, and long overdue."

  "Thank you, Sir."

  "What have you got for me?"

  "This, Sir. Captain Haughton, Secretary Knox's assistant, hand-carried this to me this morning, with instructions to make it available to you."