The Corps I - Semper Fi

by W. E. B Griffin

  Later, McCoy and Zimmerman went to the European servants' quarters to make sure none of the drivers had shacked up in town. Afterward, Zimmerman asked matter-of-factly, "Sessions find out you're fucking the missionary lady?"

  He had not been "fucking the missionary lady." It had started out that way, but it wasn't that way now. McCoy couldn't bring himself to admit he was in love, but it was more than an unexpected piece of ass, more than "fucking the missionary lady." And she had called him "my darling," and had meant it. And he had meant it, too, when she made him say it back.

  "Yeah," McCoy said.

  "And?"

  "And what?"

  "What's he going to do about it?"

  "He's not going to do anything about it," McCoy said. "He's all right."

  "You're lucky," Zimmerman said. "If that bastard Macklin finds out, McCoy, you 're going to find yourself up on charges.''

  "One good way for him to find out, Ernie, is for you to keep talking about it."

  "You better watch your ass, McCoy," Zimmerman said.

  "Yeah," McCoy said. "I will."

  Jesus Christ, what a fucking mess!

  He turned the light back on and reached for the crossword puzzles from the Shanghai Post. He did three of them before he fell asleep sitting up. Then, carefully, so as not to rouse himself fully, he turned the light off, slipped under the sheet, and felt himself drifting off again.

  When he felt her mouth on him, he thought he was having a wet dream-and that surprised him, considering all the fucking they had done. And then he realized that he wasn't

  dreaming.

  "I thought that might wake you up, my darling," Ellen

  Feller said softly.

  "What about your husband?"

  "What about him? As you so obscenely put it," she said, "fuck him."

  "You mean he knows?"

  "I mean he sleeps in a separate bed, and when I left him, he was asleep."

  "I had a hard time getting to sleep," McCoy said, "thinking about you."

  "I'm glad," she said. She moved up next to him and put her face in his neck. "I would have come sooner," she said, "but he insisted on talking."

  "About what?"

  "That his being detained by the Japanese was a good thing, that it will probably make it easier to get the crates on the ship. Without having them inspected, I mean."

  The thought saddened him. In nine days she would leave, and that would be the last he would ever see of her.

  "You'd better set your alarm clock," she said practically. "I don't want to fall asleep in here."

  He set the alarm clock, but it was unnecessary. They were wide awake at half-past four. Neither of them had slept for more than twenty minutes all through the night.

  (Two)

  Huimin, Shantung Province

  27 May 1941

  It took them another nine days to reach Huimin, nine days without an opportunity for McCoy and Ellen to be together.

  The days on the way to Huimin were pretty much alike. They would start out early and drive slowly and steadily until they found a place where they could buy lunch. Failing that they stopped by the side of the road and picnicked on rice balls, egg rolls, and fried chicken from the hoods and running boards of the trucks and cars.

  The road meandered around endless rice paddies. The inclines and declines were shallow, but the curves were often sharp, thus making more than twenty miles an hour impossible. Sometimes there was nothing at all on the road to the horizon, and sometimes the road was packed with Chinese, walking alone or with their families or behind ox-drawn carts. The Chinese were usually deaf to the sound of a horn. So when the road was narrow, as it most often was, it was necessary to crawl along in low gear until the road widened enough to let them pass the oxcarts. But sometimes at the blast of the horn, the slowly plodding pedestrians would jump to the side of the road and glower as the convoy passed.

  When they had to picnic by the side of the road, McCoy tried to stop when there was no one else on the road. But most of the time, in spite of McCoy's intentions, they were surrounded by hordes of Chinese within five minutes. Some stared in frank curiosity, and others begged for the scraps.

  Or for rides. And that was impossible, of course. If they allowed Chinese in the backs of the trucks, the beds would be stripped bare within a mile.

  At Ssuyango, T'anch'eng, and Weifang, McCoy spent the hours of darkness trying to find out whether various Japanese units had indeed received German field artillery pieces. And at T'anch'eng, he somewhat reluctantly took Lieutenant Sessions with him.

  Sessions skillfully sandbagged him into that. He came to McCoy's room after supper, while McCoy was dressing: black cotton peasant shirt, trousers, and rubber shoes, and a black handkerchief over his head. It was less a disguise than a solution to the problem of crawling through feces-fertilized rice paddies. A complete suit cost less than a dollar. He wore one and carried two more tightly rolled and tied with string that he looped and fastened around his neck.

  When he came out of a rice paddy smelling like the bottom of a latrine pit, he would strip and put on a fresh costume. It didn't help much, but it was better than running around soaked in shit.

  During the stopover at Ssuyango, McCoy made a deal with a merchant: five gallons of gasoline for eight sets of cotton jackets and trousers. When Sessions came to his room at T'anch'eng, he still had three left, not counting the one he was wearing.

  Sessions was politely curious about exactly what McCoy intended to do, and McCoy told him. It wasn't that much of a big deal. All he was going to do was make his way down the dikes between the rice paddies until he was close to the Japanese compound. Then he would slip into the water and make his way close enough to the compound to photograph the artillery park and motor pool. Then he would make his way out of the rice paddie, change clothes, and come back.

  "How do you keep the camera dry?" Sessions asked.

  "Wrap it in a couple of rubbers," McCoy said.

  Sessions laughed appreciatively.

  "Do you go armed?"

  "I have a knife I take with me," McCoy told him. "But the worst thing I could do is kill a Jap.

  Sessions nodded his understanding. Then he said, "Tell me the truth, McCoy. There's no reason I couldn't go, is there? If you were willing to take me, I mean."

  "Christ, Lieutenant, you don't want to go."

  "Yes, I do, McCoy," Sessions had said. "If you'll take me, I'll go."

  Then he walked to the bed and picked up the peasant suit.

  "I'd like to have a picture of me in one of these," he said. "It would impress the hell out of my wife."

  He looked at McCoy and smiled.

  "I really would like to go with you, McCoy," he said. It was still a request.

  "Officers are supposed to be in charge," McCoy said. "That wouldn't work."

  "You don't have to worry about that," Sessions said. "You're the expert, and I know it. It's your show. I'd just like to tag along."

  "Once you get your shoes in a rice paddy, they'll be ruined," McCoy said. It was his last argument.

  "Okay," Sessions said. "So I wear old shoes."

  So he took Sessions with him. It went as he thought it would, and the only trouble they had was close to the Jap compound. Sessions panicked a little when he hadn't heard McCoy for a couple of minutes and came looking for him, calling his name in a stage whisper.

  They didn't find any German PAK38s, but neither did they get caught. And McCoy was by then convinced that the PAK38s existed only in the imagination of chairwarming sonsofbitches in Washington, bastards who didn't have to crawl around through rice paddies or fields fertilized with human shit.

  Sessions was so excited by his adventure that when they got back to the Christian Missionary Alliance Mission, he insisted on talking about it until it was way too late to even think of getting together with Ellen for a quickie before breakfast.

  After it was light, they killed the roll of film in the camera by taking pictures of each ot
her dressed up like Chinamen.

  McCoy hoped that the pictures of Sessions dressed up that way might get the guy off the hook in Washington. They might decide to forget that the Japs had caught him if they saw that he had at least tried to do what they'd sent him to do.

  The next night, however, McCoy refused to take Sessions with him when he went to see what he could find near the mission at Weifang. It was a different setup there, the Japs ran perimeter patrols, and he didn't want to run the risk of the both of them getting caught. Sessions didn't argue. Which made McCoy feel a little guilty, because the real reason he didn't want to take Sessions along was that he slowed McCoy down. If Sessions wasn't along, maybe he could get back to the mission in time for Ellen to come to his room.

  That hadn't done any good. When he got back, Sessions was waiting for him. Sessions kept him talking (even though there hadn't been any German cannon at Weifang, either) until it was too late to do anything with Ellen. It was really a royal pain in the ass doing nothing with her during the day but hold hands on the front seat for a moment, or touch legs under a table, or something like that. Or he would catch her looking at him.

  He decided to take Sessions with him to look at a motorized infantry regiment, the 403rd, near Huimin, because it was the last chance they would have on this trip. If there were some of these German cannons at Huimin, Sessions might as well be able to say he found them. Otherwise-having gotten himself caught by the Japanese-he was going to come off this big-time secret mission looking like an asshole. The pictures of him dressed up like a Chinaman weren't going to impress the big shots as much as his report that he had been caught.

  McCoy was beginning to see that Sessions wasn't that much of your typical Headquarters, USMC, sonofabitch. What was really wrong with him was that he didn't know what he was doing. And he could hardly be blamed for that. They didn't teach "How to Spy on the Japs" at the Officer School in Quantico. It was a really dumb fucking thing for the Corps to do, sending him over here the way they had; but to be fair, that was the Corps' fault, not his.

  And at Huimin, they found PAK38s. The 403rd Motorized Infantry Regiment (Separate) of His Imperial Majesty's Imperial Fucking Army had eight of them. And the eight had the wrong canvas covers. So they'd taken covers from the Model 94s and put them over the PAK38s.

  They didn't fit. The muzzle of the PAK38s, with its distinctive and unmistakable muzzle brake, stuck three feet outside the two small canvas covers. And with the Model 94s parked right beside them-looking very small compared to the PAK38s-there was absolutely no question about what they were.

  McCoy shot two thirty-six-exposure rolls of 35-mm black and white film in the Leica, and then a twenty-exposure roll of Kodacolor, although he suspected that one wouldn't turn out. Kodacolor had a tendency to fuck up when you used it at first light-McCoy had no idea why.

  Sessions was naturally all excited, and had a hard time keeping himself under control. But he didn't order McCoy, he asked him whether it would be a good idea to send somebody-maybe him, maybe Zimmerman-right off to Tientsin with the film. Or to take the whole convoy to Tientsin instead of making the other stops.

  And Sessions just accepted it when McCoy told him that if he or Zimmerman took off alone with the film, the Kempei-Tai, who had been following them around since they crossed the Yangtze River, would figure there was something special up, and that would be the last time he or Zimmerman would ever be seen.

  "Chinese bandits, Lieutenant," McCoy said. "Since there really aren't any, the Japs have organized their own."

  "And similarly, taking the whole convoy to Tientsin right away would make them think something was out of the ordinary?"

  "Yes, it would," McCoy said. "They probably would leave the whole thing alone, but you couldn't be sure. If we do what we told them we're going to do…"

  "That would be best, obviously," Sessions concluded the sentence for him.

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  And it will give us another night on the road, maybe more if I get lucky and one of the trucks breaks down. And maybe that will mean maybe more than one other night with Ellen. Christ knows, I've done all the crawling through rice paddies I'm going to do on this trip.

  He had no such luck. They spent the next night in a Christian Missionary Alliance mission, where he was given a small room to share with Sergeant Zimmerman. Since he was in a different building from the officers and missionaries, there was just nothing he could do about getting together with Ellen.

  He wondered if he might get lucky in Tientsin. He hoped so. It would probably be the last time in his life he would ever have a woman like that.

  It was about two hundred miles from Huimin to Tientsin. About halfway there, there was another ferry. This one crossed a branch of the Yun Ho River. It wasn't much of a river, maybe two hundred yards across, and the ferry was built to fit. He thought for a minute that he and Ellen were going to get to cross first, which meant they would be alone for a little while. There probably was no place where they could screw- except maybe the backseat of the Studebaker. But he would have willingly settled for that.

  At the last minute, though, Sessions decided to go too, and climbed in the backseat. And then, as McCoy was about to drive down the bank onto the ferry, Sessions had another officer inspiration.

  "Sergeant Zimmerman!" he called. "Would you come with us, please?"

  A moment later, he leaned forward.

  "I don't think it's a good idea for us to be all alone over there," he said, significantly. "Do you?"

  "No, sir," McCoy said. "I guess not."

  What does he think is going to happen over there? I shouldn't have told him about the Chinese/Japanese bandits. If I hadn't, he would have stayed behind, and I could have had fifteen, twenty minutes alone with Ellen.

  When Ellen turned to smile at Ernie Zimmerman as he moved into the back beside Sessions, she caught McCoy's hand in both of hers, and held it for a moment in her lap. He could feel the heat of her belly.

  On the other side of the river, he drove the Studebaker far enough up the road to make room for the convoy to reform behind it as they came off the ferry.

  And then Lieutenant Sessions did something very nice.

  "McCoy, you stay here in the car with Mrs. Feller. Sergeant Zimmerman and I will walk back to the river to wait for the others."

  "Aye, aye, sir," McCoy said.

  He took Ellen's hand as soon as they were out of the car. She held it in both of hers and drew it against her breast.

  McCoy watched the rearview mirror very carefully until Sessions and Zimmerman had disappeared around a bend. Then he turned to her and put his arms around her.

  "What are we going to do?" Ellen asked against his ear.

  "I don't know," he said. "At least I got to put my arms around you."

  She kissed him, first tenderly, then lasciviously, and then she put her mouth to his ear as she applied her fingers to the buttons of his fly.

  "I know what to do," she said. "Just make sure they don't suddenly come walking back."

  After a moment, she sat up to let him reach down and open her dress. Then he slipped his hand behind her, unclasped her brassiere, and freed her breasts.

  And then, all of a sudden, the hair on the back of his neck began to curl, and he felt a really weird sensation-of chill and excitement at once.

  He was being a goddamned fool, he told himself. He was just scared that the two of them would be caught together doing what they were doing.

  And with a strange certainty, he knew that wasn't it at all.

  He lifted himself high enough on the seat to look in the backseat. Zimmerman's Thompson was on the floorboard. That left Zimmerman and Sessions with nothing but Zimmerman's pistol.

  "What are you doing?" Ellen asked, taking her mouth off him.

  "There's a Thompson in the backseat," McCoy said. "You grab it and run after me."

  He pushed his thing back in his pants and took his Thompson from the floorboard.

  "What's the ma
tter?" Ellen asked.

  "Goddamnit, just do what I tell you!" he snapped, and sprang out of the car. As he trotted down the road, he chambered a cartridge in the Thompson. ' I'm going to race the hell down there and find the two of them sitting on a bench waiting for the ferry. And they are both going to think I've lost my fucking mind.

  But they weren't sitting on a bench when he trotted around the bend.

  They were up against a steep bank, and there were twenty, twenty-five Chinese, dressed as coolies, crowding them.

  The convoy would be broken in pieces in only one place between Huimin and Tientsin. The only place, therefore, where it could credibly be reported that Chinese bandits had attacked it. And the Japanese had damned well figured that out.

  And they had handed the Japs the opportunity on a silver platter. Sessions and Zimmerman were isolated and practically unarmed. After the 'bandits' finished with them, they would have come to the car.

  Zimmerman had the flap on his.45 holster open, but hadn't drawn it.

  "Take the fucking thing out, for Christ's sake," McCoy called out.

  The Chinese looked over their shoulders at him. Several of them took several steps in his direction. Several others moved toward Zimmerman and Sessions.

  McCoy was holding the Thompson by the pistol grip, the butt resting against the pit of his elbow, the muzzle elevated. He realized that he was reluctant to aim it at the mob.

  Goddamnit, I'm scared! If I aim it at them, the shit will hit the fan!

  He pulled the trigger. The submachine gun slammed against his arm, three, four, five times, as if somebody was punching him. He could smell the burned powder, and he saw the flashes coming from the slits in the Cutts Compensator on the muzzle.

  Everybody froze for a moment, and then the Chinese who had been advancing on Zimmerman and Sessions started to run toward them. After that the shit did hit the fan. Pistols were drawn from wherever they had been concealed. McCoy saw that at least two of the pistols were Broomhandled Model 98 Mausers, which fire 9-mm cartridges full automatic.

  McCoy put the Thompson to his shoulder, aimed very carefully, and tapped the trigger. The Thompson fired three times, and one of the Chinese with a Broomhandle Mauser went down with a look of surprise on his face. McCoy found another Chinese with a Broomhandle and touched the trigger again. This time the Thompson barked only twice, a dull blam-blam, and the second Chinese dropped like someone who'd been slugged in the stomach with a baseball bat.