THE CORPS VI - CLOSE COMBAT

by W. E. B Griffin

  "Carolyn, I love you."

  Nobody's here. You feel safe in saying so, right?

  "I know, my darling."

  "Aren't we... aren't we supposed to kiss each other? Are you sore at me or something?"

  "Charley, you don't want be close to me right now, much less kiss me. I haven't been out of these clothes for three days."

  "I don't give a damn," he said simply.

  "Charley, I desperately need a bath."

  "Not for me, you don't."

  "For me, I do."

  "Jesus!"

  "Charley, give me ten minutes, please."

  He had somehow managed to move very close to her. She didn't remember him doing it. But all of a sudden, there he was, with his hands on her upper arms.

  "I have to kiss you," he said matter-of-factly. "I can't wait ten minutes."

  He kissed her, but not the Johnny Weismuller "You-Jane-Me-Tarzan" squeezing-the-breath-out-of-her kiss she expected. He slowly moved his head to hers and, barely touching her, very gently kissed her forehead, and her eyebrows, and her cheeks, and even her nose. And then he found her lips.

  By then, her knees seemed to have lost all their strength. She was sort of sagging against him.

  "Oh, God, Charley," she said when he took his lips away.

  "What I thought about," he said, "was taking your clothes off and then taking a shower with you. Like the last time. Remember?"

  "What are you waiting for, Charley?" Carolyn asked.

  [FOUR]

  The Lobby Bar

  The Andrew Foster Hotel

  San Francisco, California

  1735 Hours 24 October 1942

  Lieutenants Pickering and Dunn shouldered their way through the crowd at the bar and finally caught the attention of the bartender.

  "Gentlemen?" the bartender asked, then took a good look at Lieutenant Dunn. "Lieutenant, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to see your ID card."

  "He's with me," Pick said.

  "And I better have a look at yours, too," the bartender said. "They're really on us about serving minors."

  Identity cards were produced.

  "I'm sorry about that," the bartender said. "What can I fix you?"

  "No problem," Pick said. "Famous Grouse and water. A lot of the former, just a little of the latter. Twice."

  "Sir, I'm sorry, we're out of Famous Grouse."

  "There's a couple of bottles in the cabinet under the cash register," Pick said.

  The bartender stared at him for two or three beats, smiled uneasily, and walked down the bar for a quick word with a second bartender. He was a gray-haired man with a manner that said he'd been standing behind that bar from at least the time when the first was in kindergarten. He glanced up the bar, then quickly walked to Pickering and Dunn, pausing en route to take a quart bottle of Famous Grouse from the cabinet under the cash register.

  "He didn't know who you were, Pick," he said, smiling. "And you were asking for the Boss's private stock."

  "It looks as if the boss is making a lot of money," Pick said, indicating the crowd at the bar. "I thought he might be in here, checking the house."

  "You just missed him," the bartender said. "But I'll tell you who is in here, and was asking about you." ,

  "Female and attractive, I hope?" Bill Dunn asked.

  "Paul, this is Bill Dunn," Pickering said. "Bill, Paul taught me everything I know about mixing drinks. And washing glasses. Are you aware that I am one of the world's best glass polishers?"

  The two shook hands.

  "No, he's not. He's a lousy glass polisher," Paul said. "But I did make him memorize the Bartender's Guide."

  "Tell me about the attractive female who's been asking about him," Dunn said.

  "Over there," Paul said, chuckling and nodding his head toward a table in the corner of the room. It was occupied by two attractive women and six attentive Naval officers, all of whom wore wings of gold.

  The taller of the two women at that moment waved, then stood up. Her hair was dark, and red.

  "She is not what she appears to be, Bill," Pick said. "Or, phrased another way, she does not deliver what she appears to be offering."

  The bartender chuckled. "Don't tell me you struck out with her, Pick? That's hard to believe."

  "She ruined my batting average, if you have to know. And God knows, I gave it the old school try."

  "What's her name?" Dunn asked as the redhead made her way to the bar.

  "Alexandra, after the Virgin Princess of Constantinople," Pick said.

  "Pick," Alexandra said, giving him her cheek to kiss. "I heard you were in town. You could have called me."

  "Just passing through," Pick said.

  "I'm Bill Dunn."

  "Hello," Alexandra said, and looked at him closely.

  "Bill, this is Alexandra Spears, as in spears through the heart."

  "That's not kind, Pick," Alexandra said.

  "Alexandra, do you believe in love at first sight?" Bill Dunn asked.

  "Does your mother know you're out, little boy?" Alexandra replied.

  "Watch it, Alex," Pick said. "He's a friend of mine."

  "Sorry," Alexandra said. "We were talking about why you didn't call me."

  "I told you. We're just passing through town. And obviously, you're not hurting for company. If I thought you were sitting at home, all alone, just waiting for the phone to ring, I might have called. Did you pick up those sailors in here, or bring them with you?"

  "I'd forgotten what a sonofabitch you can be, Pick," she replied. "But to answer your question, Bitsy and I just stopped in for a drink on our way to Jack and Marjorie's, and they offered to buy us a drink."

  "Bitsy is the blonde offering false hope to the swabbie?"

  "Bitsy is Bitsy Thomas, Pick. You know her."

  He shook his head, no.

  "We were about to leave, as a matter of fact. Why don't you come with us? I know Jack and Marjorie would love to see you."

  "I'll pass, thank you," Pick said.

  "I'd like to go," Bill Dunn said.

  "No, you wouldn't," Pick said.

  "Yes, I would," Bill Dunn replied. "I think I'm in love."

  "You're not old enough to be in love," Alexandra said, looking hard at him again. "Oh, come on, Pick. It'll be fun."

  "Please, Sir," Bill Dunn said.

  "How are we going to get Whatsername..."

  "Bitsy," Alexandra furnished.

  "... away from the Navy?"

  "I told you, they only bought us a drink," Alexandra said.

  "They apparently feel there's more to it than that," Pick said. "The Navy is throwing menacing looks over here. And there are six of them, and only two of us."

  "I'll go over and tell them we're in love," Bill Dunn said. "They're supposed to be gentlemen; they'll understand."

  "No, you won't!" Alexandra said. "What you're going to do, sonny boy, is go to the garage and wait for us. Then I will leave, and when Bitsy sees that I'm gone, she'll get the message. And when she leaves, then Pick can."

  "You're pretty good at this sort of thing, aren't you?" Pick asked.

  "I'd really like to, Sir," Bill Dunn said, making it a plaintive request.

  "Oh, Christ!"

  "I don't know how well you know this guy," Alexandra said to Bill Dunn, "but he really is not a very nice person."

  "Run along, Lieutenant," Pick said. "I suppose we must do what we can to keep up the morale of the home front."

  "Yes, Sir," Bill Dunn said.

  When he was out of earshot, Alexandra looked at Pickering.

  "Pick, that's just a boy. You don't mean to tell me that the Marines are really going to send him off to the war?"

  "You want a straight answer, Alex? Or are you just idly curious?"

  "I want a straight answer."

  "He is just a boy. I would be surprised if he's ever... had a woman. In the biblical sense. But yes, war is war, and The Corps will inevitably, sooner or later-almost certainly sooner-send him to the w
ar."

  "Is he really a pilot? For that matter, are you?"

  "Yes, he is. We are. And I'm sure, when the time comes, that Billy Dunn will do his best."

  "He's so young," Alexandra said. "He looks so... vulnerable."

  "Do me a favor, Alex, and don't play around with his emotions."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You know damned well what I mean. The way you played around with me."

  "Screw you, Pick," Alexandra said. "You got what you deserved. I'll see you in the garage."

  She walked out of the bar. Two minutes later Bitsy Thomas left the six Naval Aviators at the table and left the bar. The Naval Aviators stared unpleasantly at Pickering for a minute or two until he finished his drink and left the bar.

  [FIVE]

  "Edgewater"

  Malibu, California

  1830 Hours 24 October 1942

  Major Homer C. Dillon, USMCR, was not in a very good mood as he turned off the coast highway onto the access road between the highway and the houses that lined the beach. For one thing, the goddamned car was acting up.

  You 'd think if you paid nearly four thousand dollars for the sonofabitch and it wasn't even a year old, that you could expect to drive the sonofabitch back and forth to San Diego with all eight cylinders firing and the goddamned roof mechanism working.

  Dillon drove a yellow 1942 Packard 120 Victoria-the big-engine and long-wheel-base Packard with a special convertible body by Darrin. The Darrin body meant some pretty details: At the window line, for instance, the doors had a little dip in them, so you could rest your elbow there. All this cost a full thousand, maybe twelve hundred, dollars more than the ordinary "big" Packard convertible. And initially he was very pleased with it.

  But today, even before he got to San Diego, it started to miss. And when he tried to put the roof up at the Brig at the Recruit Depot-to keep the seats cool when he was inside getting good ol' Machine Gun McCoy, that sonofabitch, turned loose-there was a grinding noise, then a screech, and then smoke. And there was the goddamned roof, stuck half up and half down.

  He couldn't drive it that way. So he borrowed tools and dug in the back, behind the backseat, to disconnect the roof from the pump. When he was finishing that, hydraulic fluid squirted all over his shirt and trousers. They were probably ruined.

  Though Dillon did not remember Colonel Frazier as being nearly so accommodating when it had been Sergeant Dillon and Major Frazier in the 4th Marines, the Colonel had really come through. There were now, and for the duration of the war bond tour, two gunnery sergeants on temporary duty with the Los Angeles Detachment, Marine Corps Public Affairs Division; they had already done a fine job of providing Staff Sergeant McCoy with a few pointers about the kind of good behavior it was in his own best interests to display. Aside from a few minor scrapes on his face, where the force of the stream from the fire hose had skidded him across the cell floor, there wasn't a mark on him.

  Frazier also arranged for a Marine Green 1941 Plymouth station wagon-normally assigned to Recruiting-to transport the two sergeants and the Hero of Bloody Ridge. That immediately proved useful. For McCoy crapped out in the back all the way to Los Angeles. But, as they followed him up the highway-with the goddamned Packard running on not more than five cylinders, backfiring like a water-cooled.50 caliber Browning, trailing a cloud of white smoke-it looked like the closing credits of Abbott and Costello Join the Marines.

  And then he had to walk through the lobby of the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, looking like he'd pissed his pants, to arrange for a small suite (instead of the single already reserved) for McCoy and his new buddies.

  When he finally drove into his under-the-house, four-car garage, the only car there was the 1941 Ford Super Deluxe wood-sided station wagon he'd bought for Maria-Theresa and Alejandro to use. So as he went up the stairs, it was in the presumption that there wouldn't be anyone else in the house besides servants.

  Except, of course, for the Easterbunny and the Nurse. Whatsername? Dawn.

  Oh, Christ! I never called that idiot Stewart!

  At the top of the stairs, when he stepped into the kitchen, he bellowed, "Alejandro!" And in a moment Alejandro appeared.

  " Se¤or Jake?"

  "If you can start the sonofabitch, start the Packard and have Maria-Theresa follow you in the Ford. Take it to the Packard place and tell them I want it fixed now."

  " Senor Jake, is Saturday. Is half past six. They no open."

  "Oh, shit. Do it anyway. Park the sonofabitch right in the middle of the lawn in front of the showroom, and leave the hood open."

  " Se¤or Jake joke, yes?"

  " Se¤or Jake joke no. Do it, Alejandro."

  "Si, Se¤or."

  Jake went into his bedroom, took his trousers off, sniffed them, saw how the stain had spread, uttered an obscenity, and threw them across the room.

  Then he sat down on the bed, dialing the long-distance operator with one hand and unbuttoning his shirt with the other.

  "Person to person, Brigadier General Stewart, Public Relations Division, Headquarters, U.S. Marine Corps, Washington, D.C.," he said.

  He had all his shirt buttons open before the Eighth and I operator answered. He was working on his tie when he became aware that he was not alone in his bedroom.

  Veronica Wood was standing over him. One towel, wrapped around her head, covered all her hair. Another towel, wrapped around her torso, concealed her bosom and the juncture of her legs-or so she apparently believed.

  "You could have said 'hello, baby' or something," she said.

  "I didn't know you were here. I didn't see a car, and Alejandro didn't say anything."

  "General Stewart's office, Sergeant Klauber speaking, Sir."

  "Major Dillon, Sergeant, returning the General's call."

  "One moment, Sir. I'll see if the General is free."

  "It's Saturday. I let him go," Veronica said. "What's that smell?"

  "Brake fluid, hydraulic fluid, I don't know what that stuff is. And how was your day?"

  "What did you do, roll around in it? Don't ask about my day."

  "OK, I won't."

  "General Stewart."

  "Major Dillon, Sir," Jake said.

  "Major Dillon, Sir," Veronica parroted, then giggled, and saluted. This action caused the towel around her body to rise even higher, and then to slip loose. She adjusted the towel, an action that Jake found to be quite pleasurable.

  "Dillon, I have been trying to get in touch with you all day."

  "Sir, I was in San Diego. There was a problem there that had to be resolved."

  "Sir, I was in San Diego," Veronica parroted.

  "What sort of a problem?"

  Oh, shit, I don't want to get into that.

  "It's a solved problem, General. I spoke with General Underwood and Colonel Frazier. They not only gave me a couple of gunnery sergeants, but a station wagon as well, for as long as the tour lasts."

  "Well, that was certainly nice of General Underwood," General Stewart said.

  "I think the General has a good appreciation of the importance of the war bond tour," Jake said.

  "I think the General has a good appreciation of the importance of the war bond tour," Veronica parroted, then sat down on the bed beside Major Dillon and inserted her tongue in his ear.

  "The reason I've been trying so hard to get in touch with you, Dillon, is that I have some good news."

  I've been called back to work for Pickering, I hope?

  "Yes, Sir?"

  Miss Veronica Wood groped Major Homer C. Dillon, USMCR. He pushed her hand away.

  "I had a very good conversation with the Assistant Commandant about your man Easterbrook," General Stewart said.

  "Sir, did you manage to get his records straightened out?"

  "Yes, of course," General Stewart said, a hint of pique in his voice. "I told you I'd handle that."

  "Yes, Sir," Major Dillon said.

  "Yes, Sir," Miss Veronica Wood said. She stood up and wal
ked in front, of Jake Dillon, removing the towel from her hair as she did. She swung her head back and forth, and her long blond hair swept this way and that. Sweetly.