THE CORPS VI - CLOSE COMBAT

by W. E. B Griffin

  The bellman considered that a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and stepped out of the way.

  Macklin parked the station wagon and carefully locked it. And then, with Lieutenant Easterbrook at his side, he walked into the lobby.

  "How would I find Cottage B?" he inquired of the doorman.

  "May I ask whom you wish to see, Sir?"

  "Major Homer Dillon, USMC."

  "There must be some mistake, Sir. There is no Major Dillon in Cottage B."

  "How about a Lieutenant Pickering?" Macklin snapped.

  "One moment, Sir," the doorman said. "I'll see if Lieutenant Pickering is in. May I have your name, please?"

  "Macklin," Macklin said. "Lieutenant R. B. Macklin."

  The doorman picked up a telephone and dialed a number.

  "Excuse me," he said to whoever answered. "There is a Lieutenant Mackeral at the door who wishes to see Lieutenant Pickering. May I pass him through?"

  "He called you 'Mackeral,' " Lieutenant Easterbrook observed, chuckling... quite unnecessarily.

  "Turn right at the reception desk, Lieutenant," the doorman said, pointing. "And then your first left. Cottage B is the second cottage."

  "Thank you very much," Lieutenant Macklin said, somewhat icily. "Follow me, Easterbrook."

  There was just time for Lieutenant Macklin to be introduced to Lieutenants Dunn and Pickering when Captain Charles M. Galloway and Mrs. Carolyn Ward Spencer walked into the cottage. They were trailed by a bellman carrying luggage.

  "The temporary arrangements," Pick said, pointing to the door to the Palm Room, "are that you and Charley are in there. If you'd rather, we could find you some other..."

  "This is marvelous," Carolyn said. "Thank you, Pick. I keep saying that, but you keep doing things..."

  "Enjoy it while you can," Pick said. "I no longer have to polish the Skipper's apple; me or Dunn. We are all now Instructor Pilots."

  "I heard about that," Charley said. "I think it makes sense."

  "I can't believe you're saying that. You like the idea of being an IP?"

  "He's not going to be an IP is why," Carolyn said. "Somebody blew a trumpet, and he's going back over there."

  "How did you work that, Skipper?" Dunn asked.

  "Clean living, Mr. Dunn," Galloway said. "You ought to try it sometime. Works miracles."

  Clean living indeed, Lieutenant Macklin thought. What the Captain is up to with this woman is defined as illicit cohabitation. It's conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentlemen, de facto and de jure.

  "Any chance we can go with you, Skipper?" Pick asked.

  "No," Galloway said. "I asked, and the answer is no. Somebody decided clowns like you two are worth their weight in gold. But thanks, Pick. I wish it was otherwise."

  "This must be the place," a female voice announced from the doorway. "I can smell Marines in rut."

  That's Veronica Wood! Lieutenant Macklin realized in surprise. Did she actually say what I think I heard?

  Veronica crossed the room and kissed Lieutenant Easterbrook wetly, then moved to Jake Dillon and kissed him with a little more enthusiasm.

  "Bobby gets kissed first," Veronica said, "because he's prettier than you are, even if you are my fianc‚."

  "Jesus," Jake said.

  What did she say? "Fianc‚"? Macklin thought.

  Veronica glanced around the room and noticed Carolyn for the first time. She walked to her and kissed her. "The East Coast President of the Marine Corps Camp Followers. When was the last time?"

  "The Hotel Willard, in Washington," Carolyn said.

  "Right!" Veronica said, and then accused: "You promised to write, and you never did."

  "I thought you were just being polite," Carolyn said.

  "Don't be silly. We have to stick together. You going on the tour?"

  "No, she is not," Jake Dillon said. "Which brings us to that. Enjoy tonight, children, because tomorrow it's all over. Tomorrow at 0900, we will all gather at the Hollywood Roosevelt, luggage all packed and ready to be loaded aboard the bus...."

  "Bus?" Pick asked. "What bus?"

  "The Greyhound Bus we have chartered to carry everybody on the tour," Dillon said, "on which, regrettably, there is no room for anyone else."

  "You better find one more seat, Jake," Veronica said. "Or there will be two empty seats on your bus."

  "Oh, Jesus," Jake said, but it was a surrender.

  I can't believe this! Macklin thought. He's actually going to permit this woman to come on the tour-this, to use her own words, camp follower. There will be questions about her, questions that cannot avoid bringing embarrassment to The Corps.

  "Jake, if it would pose prob-" Carolyn said, and was interrupted by Veronica.

  "No problems, right, Jake?"

  "No problems, Carolyn," Jake said. "But I don't know what the hell we're going to do about hotel rooms...."

  "No problem," Veronica said. "I will stay in your room, and Charley and Carolyn will stay in mine."

  "Yeah," Jake said. "That'd work."

  She is absolutely shameless! Macklin thought. The both of them are absolutely shameless! If any of this comes out, how am I going to look? If there is a scandal, and that seems entirely possible, my promotion will go down the toilet.

  "Major, Sir," Pick said. "Are there any more logistical problems to be solved? Or can we start thinking about how to enjoy our last night of freedom?"

  "Just as long as you understand, Pick, that this is your last night of freedom, and that from now on you behave, that's all I have."

  "In that case, I think the condemned man will start drinking his last meal," Pick said.

  "Lieutenant," Lieutenant Easterbrook asked, "would it be all right if I used the phone? I'd sort of like to call somebody."

  "Somebody named Dawn, no doubt," Veronica said. "Well, we now know how Bobby plans to spend the night, don't we?"

  Lieutenant Easterbrook blushed, but no one seemed to notice.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  [ONE]

  Cryptographic Section

  Supreme Headquarters, South West Pacific Ocean Area

  Brisbane, Australia

  1145 Hours 8 November 1942

  Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, was in a particularly sour mood. He was just about finished decrypting a MAGIC intercept from Pearl Harbor. The bitch of it was that he was not very good at operating the cryptographic machine, and this meant that it took him a long, painstaking hour and a half to decode an intercept in which a verbose Japanese admiral was exhorting his underlings to do good-at great length... and this obviously had about as much bearing on the conduct of the war as the price of shoe polish in Peoria, Illinois.

  General Pickering was aware that he had no one to blame for his present unhappiness but himself: To begin with, General Pickering of the Horse Marines had grandly ordered the people in Pearl Harbor to send him "anything and everything." General Pickering of the Horse Marines would decide what was and what was not important. Next, even though such training had been regularly offered by Major Hong Song Do, General Pickering the prevaricator had successfully escaped on-the-job practice training in the efficient use of the cryptographic machine. If General Pickering the prevaricator had accepted such training, he would an hour ago have been been finished with decrypting the current MAGIC, analyzing the current MAGIC, and shredding the ten pages of verbose Japanese bullshit and putting it in the burn bag. And finally, General Pickering the idiot had learned as a corporal that the one thing you don't do in The Marine Corps is volunteer for anything. Even so, he had volunteered to come to the dungeon. The fact that it still seemed the decent thing to do did not alter the fact that he was in fact spending this lovely Sunday morning in a goddamned steel cell, three floors underground, with water running down the goddamned walls.

  The telephone rang.

  "Yes?" he snarled into the receiver.

  "General Pickering?"

  "Speaking," he snapped.

  "Sir, this is Sergeant Widakovic
h."

  Who the hell is Sergeant Widakovich? Oh, yeah, that enormous Polish Military Policeman. He looks like he could pull a plow. His hands are so big they make that tommy gun I've never seen him without look like something you 'd buy for a kid in Woolworth 's.

  "What can I do for you, Sergeant?"

  "General, I'm sorry to bother you..."

  Perfectly all right, Sergeant. The sound of the human voice has a certain appeal. I was beginning to think I'd be here alone for the rest of my life.

  He looked at his watch.

  Oh Christ, it's quarter to twelve. Hart's going to relieve me at noon. Please don't tell me, Sergeant, that Hart called and will be late.

  "What's up, Sergeant?"

  "Sir, there's an officer out here. A Marine lieutenant colonel..."

  That must be that idiot who relieved the other idiot CINCPAC sent here as liaison officer. Obviously. When The Corps has a supply of idiot lieutenant colonels on hand they don't know what to do with, they make them liaison officers. What the hell does he want? I told him I was not to be disturbed when I was down here.

  "... He's been waiting over an hour, Sir."

  Good, let the sonofabitch wait.

  "... and I thought I should tell you, Sir."

  "Thank you, Sergeant."

  "His name is Stecker, Sir."

  "Say again, Sergeant?"

  "It's a Lieutenant Colonel Stecker, Sir."

  "I'll be right there, Sergeant. Thank you."

  Pickering waited impatiently while the steel door leading to the anteroom of the Cryptographic Section was opened. That required unlocking two locks, then removing the bars these held in place. Finally the door creaked open.

  "General," Lieutenant Colonel Jack (NMI) Stecker, USMCR, said, "I didn't want to disturb-"

  "Jesus Christ, Jack, am I glad to see you!"

  He stepped around the guard's counter and shook Stecker's hand, then wrapped an arm around his shoulder.

  "When did you get in? What are you doing here?"

  "Last night-" Stecker began.

  "Come on back with me," Pickering broke in. "If CINCPAC comes on line, and there's no instant reply, they start pissing their pants."

  "Sir," Sergeant Widakovich asked, "are you taking the Colonel in there with you? Sir, he's not on the list."

  "If anybody says anything, Sergeant, you tell them you did everything short of turning that Thompson on me, and I still took him back."

  "Yes, Sir, General," Sergeant Widakovich said, smiling.

  "General. I can wait," Stecker said uneasily. "I have nothing but time."

  "Come on in the dungeon, Jack," Pickering said, then took his arm and led him down the interior corridor to the MAGIC room. He unlocked the door and gestured for Stecker to go in. He followed him in, then closed and locked the door.

  "What is this place?"

  "Don't ask, Jack," Pickering said. "How about some coffee? I just made a fresh pot."

  "Thank you," Stecker said. When he saw the crypto machine, which Pickering, in violation of his own rules, had not covered up, curiosity overwhelmed him. "What the hell is that thing?"

  "Don't ask, Jack," Pickering said. He took the heavy canvas cover from its hook on the wall and spread it over the machine.

  "Sorry," Stecker said.

  "We can talk about anything else," Pickering said. "Tell me about Dick, for instance."

  "They've got him up, out of bed. In sort of a man-sized baby walker," Stecker said. "Some new theory that the sooner they start moving around, the better." He met Pickering's eyes. "I think he's in a good deal of pain, but he won't take anything but aspirin."

  "He wrote you?"

  "I saw him. I came here the long way around, via Pearl Harbor."

  "So you saw Elly, too?"

  "Yes, indeed. That's what I'm doing here. I wanted to thank you for all you've done-"

  "Don't be an ass," Pickering said, cutting him off. "Elly's comfortable? I haven't had a chance to check myself."

  "Yes, of course, she's comfortable. That apartment you got for her!"

  "And she's met Patricia?"

  "Yes, indeed. That's another reason I came down here looking for you." He reached in the bellows pocket of his jacket and handed Pickering an envelope. "From Patricia."

  "Thank you," Pickering said. He glanced at the envelope and put it in his pocket. "So what are you doing here? When did you get in?"

  "I got in last night. I'm sort of stationed here. I'm the first member of the advance party, but they're not calling it that yet."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Arrange things, here and in New Zealand, to take care of the Division when it's relieved and comes here for rest and refitting. They took my battalion away from me."

  That sounds, Pickering thought, as if he was relieved for cause. I don't believe that, but I'm damned sure not going to ask.

  "So why didn't you call me when you got in?"

  "I had to get a BOQ, look up the Marine liaison officer."

  "You wasted your effort getting a BOQ," Pickering said. "You just moved in with me. I have a little house. Four bedrooms, and only two of us-"

  He was interrupted by a deep, ugly, bell-like sound. Someone was beating on the steel door, which caused it to vibrate like a drum.

  "What the hell?" Stecker exclaimed.

  "My replacement has arrived," Pickering said. He walked over to the door, then unlocked and opened it.

  Second Lieutenant George F. Hart, USMCR, came in. His uniform was adorned with the insignia of an aide-de-camp.

  Why does this surprise me? Stecker wondered. Pickering is a General. Generals have aides-de-camp.

  "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you, George," Pickering said. "Did you meet Colonel Stecker when you were on Guadalcanal?"

  "No, Sir."

  "Jack, this is George Hart."

  "How are you, Hart?" Stecker asked.

  "How do you do, Sir?" Hart replied. A moment later, he surprised Stecker by starting to take off his blouse. A moment after that, he surprised Stecker again, for he could now see that Hart was wearing a snub-nosed revolver in a shoulder holster. And a moment later, he surprised Stecker a third time when he slipped out of the holster and offered it to Pickering.

  "I always feel like Edward G. Robinson in a grade-B movie when I wear that," Pickering said.

  "But on the other hand, people can't tell you are wearing it. A.45 is pretty obvious," Hart said. "It's up to you."

  "I think I'll stick with the.45, George. That makes me feel like Alan Ladd. Or John Wayne."

  "Suit yourself," Hart said.

  Pickering went to the table on which sat the mysterious machine now covered with canvas, opened a drawer, and took out a Colt Model 1911 Al.45 pistol. He removed the clip, checked to see that there was no cartridge in the action, and replaced the clip. He then put the pistol under the waistband of his trousers, in the small of his back. He sensed Stecker's eyes on him, and looked at him.

  "George and I have a deal," he said. "I am allowed to go out and play by myself, but only if I am armed to the teeth. If you think it's a little odd for a general to be ordered around by a second lieutenant, you have to remember Colonel Fritz Rickabee.... You know Fritz don't you, Jack?" He didn't wait for an answer. "The truth is that we really work for him, and this gun nonsense is his idea. And both of us are afraid of him, right, George?"

  "The Colonel is a formidable man, Sir."

  "I know Rickabee," Stecker said. "I agree, he's formidable."

  "OK, George. I'll save you a piece of the wedding cake," Pickering said. "Or maybe the party will still be going when Moore relieves you."

  "I forgot to tell you. Commander Feldt is at the Cottage, he and some other RAN types. I told him you insisted that he stay there."

  "Good man," Pickering said, and again sensed Stecker's curiosity. "Staff Sergeant Koffler is getting married at two. He's the radio operator Killer McCoy and company took off Buka. I am giving the bride away. Afterward, I
may very well have more to drink than is good for me."

  "That seems like a splendid idea," Stecker said.

  [TWO]

  Saint Bartholomew's Church

  Brisbane, Australia