And then, without looking at Banning again, Stecker quickly walked out of the Quonset hut. Banning found himself alone with his new command; they were now looking at him almost with fascination.
That was a hell of a nice thing for Jack Stecker to do,Banning thought.
"Well, Sergeant Richardson," he said, "now that we have wheels, we can get bedding. Take half the men and the truck and go get it."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
"And when you’ve finished, take the mattresses here back where you got them."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
"Try not to get caught," Banning said.
"Yes, Sir."
"I want to talk to each of you alone," Banning said, after Richardson and the men he took were gone. "I’ll start with you, Sergeant. The rest of you wait outside."
The first man, the other staff sergeant, a thirty-year-old named Hazleton, was a disappointment. By the time he finished talking with him, Banning was sure he had volunteered for a mission "where the risk of loss of life will be high" because he was unwelcome where he was. That he had, in other words, been "volunteered" by his first sergeant or company commander. For all of his last hitch before the war, he had been the assistant NCO club manager at Quantico. Rather obviously, he had been swept out of that soft berth when the brass was desperately looking for noncoms to train the swelling Corps.
And at 2ndJoint Training Force, where the broom had swept him, Hazleton had been found unable to cut the mustard. When the TWX soliciting volunteers had arrived, his company commander had decided it was a good, and easy, way to get rid of him.
Banning was not surprised. That was the way things went. No company commander wanted to lose his best men. Lieutenant Colonel Rickabee had warned Banning that was going to happen, and he had made provision to deal with it. The staff sergeant’s name would be TWXed to Rickabee, and shortly afterward there would be a TWX from Headquarters USMC, transferring the staff sergeant out of Special Detachment 14.
Banning wondered how many of the others would be like the staff sergeant. With one exception, however, none were. To Banning’s surprise, the others were just what he had hoped to get. They were bright-in some cases, very bright-young noncoms who were either looking for excitement or a chance for rapid promotion, or both.
Unfortunately, none of them spoke Japanese, although four of them had apparently managed to utter enough Japanese-sounding noises to convince their first sergeants that they did. That wasn’t surprising either. Japanese linguists were in very short supply. Officers who had them would fight losing them as hard as possible. Nevertheless, Rickabee had promised to pry loose as many as he could (maybe four), and send them directly to Melbourne.
The last man Banning interviewed, the only corporal who had so far arrived, was the second disappointment. Corporal Stephen Koffler had come to Special Detachment 14 from the Marine Corps Parachute School at Lakehurst Naval Air Station. It didn’t take more than a couple of minutes for Banning to extract from him the admission that he had "been volunteered." The kid’s first sergeant had made what could kindly be called a pointed suggestion that he volunteer.
"Why do you think he did that, Koffler?"
"I don’t know, Sir. So far as I know, I didn’t do nothing wrong. But right from the first, Lieutenant Macklin seemed to have it in for me."
"What was that name? Who ‘had it in’ for you?"
"Lieutenant Macklin, Sir."
"Tall, thin officer? An Annapolis graduate?"
"Yes, Sir. Lieutenant R. B. Macklin. He told us he went to Annapolis. And he said that he had learned about the Japs from when he was in China."
I’ll be damned. So that’s where that sonofabitch wound up! Doesn’t sound like him. You could hurt yourself jumping out of airplanes. But maybe that pimple on the ass of the Corps was "volunteered" for parachute duty by somebody else who found out what a despicable prick he is, and hoped his parachute wouldn’t open.
"I believe I know the gentleman," Banning said. "Tell me, Koffler, what were you doing at the Parachute School? Some kind of an instructor?"
Even if this kid is no Corporal Killer McCoy, if he’s rubbed Macklin the wrong way, he probably has a number of splendid traits of character I just haven’t noticed so far. "The enemies of my enemies are my friends."
"No, Sir. They had me driving a truck."
"I don’t suppose you can type, can you, Koffler?"
There was a discernible pause before Corporal Koffler reluctantly said, "Yes, Sir. I can type."
"You sound like you’re ashamed of it."
"Sir, I don’t want to be a fucking clerk-typist."
"Corporal Koffler," Banning said sternly, suppressing a smile, "in case you haven’t heard this before, the Marine Corps is not at all interested in what you would like, or not like, to do. Where did you learn to type?"
That question obviously made Corporal Koffler just as uncomfortable as he’d been when he was asked if he could type at all.
"Where did you learn to type, Corporal? More important, how fast a typist are you?"
"About forty words a minute, Sir," Koffler said. "I got a book out of the library."
"A typing book, you mean? You taught yourself how to type?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Why?"
"I needed to know how to type to pass the FCC exam. You have to copy twenty words a minute to get your ticket, and I couldn’t write that fast."
"You’re a radio operator?" Banning asked, pleased.
"No, Sir. I’m a draftsman."
"A draftsman?" Banning asked, confused.
"Yes, Sir. That’s why I volunteered for parachuting."
"Excuse me?"
"Sir, they wanted to keep me at Parris Island as a draftsman, painting signs. The only way I could get out of it was to volunteer for parachute training."
"In other words, Corporal Koffler," Banning said, now keeping a straight face only with a massive effort, "it could be fairly said that you concealed your skill as a radio operator from the personnel people . . ."
"I didn’t conceal it, Sir," Koffler said. "They didn’t ask me, and I didn’t tell them."
"And then, since the personnel people were unaware of your very valuable skill as a radio operator, they elected to classify you as a draftsman?"
"That’s about it, Sir."
"And then you volunteered for the Para-Marines because you didn’t want to be a draftsman, and then you volunteered for the 14thSpecial Detachment because you didn’t want to be a Para-Marine?"
Koffler looked stricken.
"It wasn’t exactly that way, Sir."
"Then you tell me exactly how it was."
There was a knock at the door of the Quonset hut. "Come!" Banning said, and Lieutenant Joe Howard entered the hut.
"Major Stecker got off all right, Sir. I’ve got the keys to his car for you."
"Stick around, Lieutenant. I’ll be with you in a minute," Banning said. "Corporal Koffler and I are just about finished. Go on, Corporal."
"I don’t know what to say, Sir," Steve Koffler said unhappily. Banning glowered at him for a moment.
"I will spell it out for you, Koffler. This is the end of the line for you. There’s no place else you can volunteer for so you can get out of doing things you don’t like to do. From here on in, you are going to do what the Marine Corps wants you to do. You are herewith appointed the detachment clerk of the 14thSpecial Detachment, U.S. Marine Corps. And if there are any signs to be painted around here, you will paint them. Am I getting through to you?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Any questions?"
"No, Sir."
"Then report to Sergeant Richardson, tell him I have appointed you detachment clerk, and tell him I said he should see about getting you a typewriter. Do you understand all that?"
"Yes, Sir."
"I don’t want to hear that you are even thinking of volunteering for anything else, Koffler!"
"No, Sir."
"That will be all, Corporal," Banning sa
id solemnly.
"Aye, aye, Sir. Thank you, Sir," Steve Koffler said, did an about-face, and marched to the door of the hut. When the door had closed, Banning pushed himself back on the legs of his folding chair and laughed.
"Oh, God," he said, finally.
"What was that all about, Sir?" Howard asked, smiling.
"I’d forgotten what fun it is sometimes to be a unit commander," Banning said. "That’s a good kid; but, my God, how wet behind the ears! Anyway, I need a clerk, and he can type. He can also paint signs. The square peg in the square hole."
"He really isn’t what you think of when somebody says, ‘Para-Marine Corporal,’ is he?"
"Until I started talking to him and somebody said, ‘Corporal,’ I usually thought of one I had in the 4th. I used to send him snooping around the Japanese for weeks at a time and never thought a thing about it. I’m not sure that kid could be trusted to go downtown in ‘Diego and get back by himself."
"He might surprise you, Sir. He is wearing parachutist’s wings. He had the balls to jump out of an airplane. I’m not sure I would."
Banning’s smile vanished as he looked at Howard.
"Talking about balls, Lieutenant. The 14thSpecial Detachment is accepting company-grade volunteers."
"Are you asking me to volunteer, Sir?"
"No. I’m just telling you I need a couple of lieutenants. Whether you would care to volunteer is up to you."
"Sir, there’s something about me I don’t think you know," Joe Howard said.
"Major Stecker told me all about that. We’re old friends, and we both think you’re wrong about what happened at Pearl Harbor."
"Sir, with respect, you weren’t there."
"For Christ’s sake, Howard, anybody with the brains to pour piss out of his boots gets scared when shells start falling. Or sick to his stomach when he sees somebody blown up, torn up, whatever. What the hell made you think you would be different?"
"Sir-"
"You have two options, Lieutenant. Of your own free will, you volunteer for this outfit, or a week from now you’ll report to New River, North Carolina, where you’ll be given a company in the 2ndBattalion, 5thMarines."
Howard’s face worked for a moment. He did not need Banning to remind him of his options. He had been thinking of them carefully. And since getting Barbara’s letter this morning, he had been thinking of little else.
"Actually, Sir, there’s a third option. Colonel Carlson said he would like to have me in the 2ndRaider Battalion."
"That’s right, you’ve been working with them, haven’t you? You tell Colonel Carlson about this low opinion you have of yourself?"
"Yes, Sir. I mean, I told him about what happened to me at Pearl."
"And he still wants you?"
"Yes, Sir. He said ... just about the same thing that you and Major Stecker said, Sir."
"Well, make up your mind, Howard. If you don’t want in here, I’ve got to find somebody else."
"Sir, I’d like to go with you, if that would be all right. But I’ve already told Colonel Carlson I’d volunteer for the Raiders."
"Don’t worry about that. I’ll handle Colonel Carlson. You’re in. Your first job is to teach our new detachment clerk to fill out the appropriate forms to send a TWX to Washington. As soon as he knows how, send one. Here’s the address. The message is to transfer Staff Sergeant Hazleton out and you in."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
"You may first have to get Corporal Koffler a typewriter," Banning said.
"Yes, Sir. I thought about that. I know where I can get one. Actually, two, an office Underwood and a Royal portable. And some other stuff we’re going to need."
"Aren’t they going to miss you where you’re working?"
"No, Sir. Major Stecker arranged with 2ndTraining Force for me to work for you for a week. By the time the week is over, I suppose I’ll have orders transferring me here."
"Did Major Stecker tell you what they’re going to have us doing?"
"No, Sir. I don’t think he knows."
"I’d like to tell you, but I don’t think I’d better until we get you officially transferred."
"I understand, Sir."
"We won’t be able to tell the men what we’re going to do, or even where we’re going, until we get there. That may be a problem."
There was no question in Howard’s mind where they were going. They were going to the Pacific. Anywhere in the Pacific would be closer to Barbara than New River, N.C.
"I understand, Sir."
"OK, Howard. Go get our new detachment clerk a typewriter. As a wise old Marine once told me, the Marine Corps floats on a sea of paper."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
(Six)
TOP SECRET
Eyes Only-The Secretary of the Navy
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
ORIGINAL TO BE DESTROYED AFTER ENCRYPTION AND TRANSMITTAL TO SECNAVY
Melbourne, Australia
Tuesday, 21 April 1942
Dear Frank:
I suspect that you have been expecting more frequent reports than you have been getting. This is my second, and it was exactly a month ago that I sent the first. So, feeling much like a boy at boarding school explaining why his essay has not been turned in when expected, let me offer the following in extenuation:
Your radio of 1 April, in addition to relieving me of my enormous concern that I was not providing what you hoped to get, also told me that it is going to take 7-9 days for these reports to reach you, if they have to travel from here to Hawaii by sea for encryption and radio transmission from there. I see no solution to shortening this time frame, other than hoping that some sort of scheduled air courier service between here and Pearl Harbor will be established. Encryption here, for radio transmission via either Navy or MacA.’s facilities, would mean using their codes and cryptographers, and the problems with that are self-evident.
The only way I see to do it is the way I am preparing this report, all at once, to be turned over to an officer bound for Pearl. This one is being given to Lt. Col. H. B. Newcombe, U.S. Army Air Corps, who has been here visiting General Brett, and is returning to the United States. He is flying as far as Pearl on a converted B-17A Brett has placed into service as a long-range transport.
Let me go off tangentially on that: The service range of the newer B-17s is 925 miles. That is to say, they can strike a target 925 miles from their base and return to their takeoff field. That limitation is going to have a serious effect on their employment here, where there are few targets within a 925-mile range of our bases.
The B-17A on which this will travel has had auxiliary fuel tanks installed; these significantly add to its range, but eliminate its bomb-carrying capacity. This one, which everyone calls the "Swoose," never even had a tail turret; and it was built up from parts salvaged off the B-17s lost in the early assaults on the Philippines. The Air Corps phrase for this is "cannibalization, " and it applies to much that we are doing here.
In addition to the difficulty of transmission, the week-to-nine-day transmission time seems to me to render useless any "early warning" value my reports might have. By the time my reports reach Washington, you will have already learned through other channels most of what I have to say.
So what these letters are going to be, essentially, are after-action reports, narrating what has happened here from my perspective, together with what few thoughts I feel comfortable offering about the future.
MacA. and his wife and son are still occupying the suite immediately below this one in the Menzies Hotel. That I am upstairs doesn’t seem to bother the Generalissimo, in fact quite the contrary seems true; but it does greatly annoy what has become known as "The Bataan Gang," that is, those people who were with him in the Philippines.
I have resisted pointed suggestions from Sutherland, Huff, and several others that I vacate these premises in order to make them available to the more deserving (and, of course, senior) members of the MacA. entourage. I have been difficult about this, for two major r
easons. First, being where I am, close to MacA., permits me to do what I believe you want me to do. Second, giving in to the suggestion (in the case of Huff, an order: "I have arranged other quarters for you, Captain Pickering.") that I move out would grant the point that I am subject to their orders. I don’t think that the Special Representative of the Secretary of the Navy should make himself subordinate even to MacA. himself, and certainly not to members of his staff.
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