Major Hon Song Do, a very large man—tall, muscular, and heavyset—was sitting sprawled on a couch in the living room when General Pickering and Lieutenants McCoy and Hart walked in.
“Welcome home, Ken,” he said. He had a thick Boston accent.
He came off the couch with surprising grace for his bulk and offered his hand. His left hand, McCoy noticed, held a briefcase, from which a chain led to his wrist.
“Thank you, Sir,” McCoy said.
“Now that you have paid due and appropriate homage to my new and exalted rank, you may revert to calling me ‘Pluto,’ ” Hon said.
“I didn’t know Army field-grade officers got up at this time of the morning,” McCoy said.
“I haven’t been to bed,” Pluto said, and then looked at Pickering. “When you have a moment, Sir?”
“I could have come to the dungeon,” Pickering said.
They both looked at McCoy.
Whatever is in Pluto’s briefcase is none of my business.
“Why don’t you show Ken where he’ll be sleeping?” Pickering said to Hart.
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
Lieutenant Colonel Jack (NMI) Stecker was sitting in one of the wicker armchairs in the bedroom when McCoy came out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist.
“You do get around, Lieutenant, don’t you?” Stecker said, smiling. “You’re living proof that if you join The Corps, you really will see the world.”
“Good morning, Sir.”
“How are you, Ken?” Stecker asked, offering his hand without rising out of the chair. “The General said you had some trouble with shots?”
“They gave me one in the tail. I have no idea what it was.”
“You all right? Fever? Sweaty? Sick to your stomach?”
“Just a sore tail,” McCoy said, touched at Stecker’s concern. “The bath made it better.”
It’s been a long time, McCoy had thought as he soaked in the large, old-fashioned tub, since I’ve had a bath—as opposed to a shower. Here he had no choice. The showerhead was at the end of a long, flexible cable. The moment he lifted it from its cradle and turned it on, it developed a powerful leak, spraying water on the ceiling and over the top of the shower curtain. He quickly turned it off, gave in to the inevitable, and took a bath.
Stecker nodded, then pointed to a table set against the wall. McCoy saw there a silver coffee service and a napkin-covered tray.
“I see you live pretty well around here,” Stecker said.
“I’m a nice guy. I’m entitled,” McCoy said.
“I’m having a little trouble believing how well,” Stecker said. “Under the napkin, your choice of breakfast rolls. And there’s real cream in that pitcher. And if you want, for example, ham and eggs—fresh eggs—all you have to do is push that doorbell and someone will come and ask you if you want them over easy or sunny-side up.”
“Colonel,” McCoy said, smiling. “This is what they call ‘the lap of luxury.’ You’d be surprised how easy it is to get used to.”
Stecker chuckled.
“You want some breakfast, Ken?”
“I’d like some coffee,” McCoy said, then walked to the table and poured two cups of coffee, carrying one of them to Stecker.
“The General said something about you setting up for the First Division coming here from the ‘Canal?” McCoy asked, but it was a statement.
“That’s what I’m here for,” Stecker said. “But since the division’s movement here is still classified, there’s not really much I can do. And since the Army’s handling the major logistics, quarters and rations, I really don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to be doing.”
“He also told me you were setting up my little operation,” McCoy said.
“He’s decided I’m some sort of an expert on guerrilla operations, which I am not. But what I have been doing is coming up with the supplies—medicine, small arms, and ammo—I think you should take with you. But it’s your show, McCoy. I’m just trying to make myself useful. If you don’t like what I’m suggesting, or you want something else...”
“Colonel, I know less about guerrilla operations than anybody I know. My expertise here is in paddling rubber boats, which is a lot harder than it looks.”
“Hart told me,” Stecker said, laughing, and then growing serious. “I wanted to talk to you about that. About how we pack the stuff you’ll be taking with you.”
“In small packages, nothing that can’t be handled by one man,” McCoy said. “Getting the stuff off the submarine into a rubber boat is tough, and then getting it out of the boat and onto land is harder. Ideally, small, waterproof packages that can be handled by one man, and that float.”
“Koffler’s working on something that may help. You know what plastic is?”
McCoy shook his head, no.
“I was surprised to hear that Koffler’s out of the hospital. He’s back on duty?”
“Back on duty and married.”
“I heard about him getting married,” McCoy replied. “The last time I saw him, he looked like death warmed over. And not old enough to even think about getting married.”
“He’s the youngest staff sergeant I ever saw,” Stecker said. “General Pickering promoted him so he’d be eligible to get married. Anyway, his wife has been giving him lots of tender, loving care. Howard’s still pretty weak. Apparently, the medicine they give to kill intestinal, and blood, parasites is some kind of poison. Poisons, plural. It hit Howard harder than it hit Koffler.”
“Howard had a nurse girlfriend,” McCoy said, making it a question.
“He still does, according to Major Hon. But they decided not to get married, because the minute they do, she gets shipped home.”
“Why?”
“Some regulation. It’s apparently designed to keep innocent Marines from the clutches of lonely nurses. But speaking of Mrs. Koffler ... you’re having dinner with them.”
“What?”
“She wants to show her appreciation to you and Hart for getting him off Buka.”
“I’ll pass, thank you, Colonel.”
“Is there any reason you couldn’t go tonight? I know the General has nothing for you to do then. And he told me he thought a home-cooked meal would be good for you.”
“That sounds like an order.”
“The General feels sorry for her.”
McCoy’s eyebrows rose in question.
“You don’t know the story?”
McCoy shook his head, no.
“According to the General, Koffler got her ... in the family way the night before they dropped him on Buka,” Stecker said. “That happened to be the night they had a memorial service for her husband, who was killed in Africa.”
McCoy’s eyebrows rose again, but he said nothing, waiting for Stecker to go on.
“They kicked her out of the Royal Navy...”
“Royal Australian Navy,” McCoy corrected him, thinking out loud.
“... when they learned she was pregnant. And her family has ... Ken, her father wouldn’t even come to the wedding. They’ve just about kicked her out of the family. That’s pretty vicious. She’s a nice girl, and the General likes her.”
“Let the General have dinner with her.”
“He already has.”
“I wasn’t the only one on the Buka Operation. Hart was there. God, Pick Pickering was flying the airplane that picked us up. He and Charley Galloway.”
“Young Pickering is somewhere in the States. Galloway is in Hawaii. Hart and you are here, and the General thinks a good home-cooked Aussie meal would do all of you some good.”
“What? Roast kangaroo?”
“I knew you would be delighted,” Stecker said.
“What were you saying about Koffler and... what did you say?”
“Plastic.”
“What is it?”
“Have you seen the airtight, waterproof stuff they’re packaging equipment in lately?”
McCoy shook his head helplessly.
“That aluminum-backed tar paper?”
“No. Not that. Plastic. Hart will tell you all about it over dinner. It’ll give you something to talk about.”
[FOUR]
Apartment 3C
The Amhurst Apartments
Brisbane, Australia
1915 Hours 14 November 1942
Despite a map General Pickering had drawn for him, it took McCoy a long time to find the Amhurst Apartments, a four-story brick building overlooking the harbor. They were driving the Studebaker President.
“Not bad for a nineteen-year-old staff sergeant,” McCoy said to Second Lieutenant George F. Hart, USMCR, as they climbed the stairs to the third floor.
“Jealous?”
“Yeah, I guess I am,” McCoy said.
“Just for the record,” Hart said as McCoy reached out to punch the doorbell, “I was devoutly hoping you’d be able to talk us out of this.”
“Just smile and be nice,” McCoy replied.
The doorbell, when pushed, caused a clang. A moment later, the door was opened by Staff Sergeant Stephen M. Koffler, USMCR. Sergeant Koffler was five feet seven inches tall, weighed approximately 130 pounds, and looked two years younger than his nineteen years.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, clearly having rehearsed his opening remarks, “please come in.”
“Good evening, Sergeant Koffler,” McCoy said, and thrust a brown paper bag at him. It contained a bottle of Famous Grouse scotch.
“How are you, Steve?” Hart said, and thrust a somewhat larger brown paper bag at him. It contained two bottles of “a damned nice Aussie Cabernet Sauvignon,” as General Pickering said when he intercepted the two of them leaving Water Lily Cottage and handed them both bags.
“Welcome,” Mrs. Daphne Koffler said from behind her husband. “Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for having us,” McCoy said.
Even in her flat shoes, Mrs. Koffler was an inch taller than her husband. She had hazel eyes and peaches-and-cream skin. She wore her light-brown hair done up in a bun at her neck, and she wore only a light lipstick as makeup.
“We wanted—I especially wanted—to thank you for what you did for Steve. For the both of us.”
“For the three of us,” Koffler chimed in. His wife blushed.
McCoy found himself looking at Mrs. Koffler’s belly. To his embarrassment, she was just starting to show.
“That’s not necessary,” McCoy said.
“If you hadn’t gone into Buka, he’d probably be dead,” Daphne Koffler said. “And God only knows what would have happened to me and the baby.”
Christ, she sounds like Ernie. Says exactly what’s on her mind. And looks you right in the eye when she says it.
“We’re Marines, Mrs. Koffler,” McCoy said. “We go where we’re sent. Steve was sent to Buka, and Hart and I were sent in to get him out. No thanks are necessary.”
“Indulge me,” she said. “Let me say ‘Thank you.’ ”
“OK. You’re welcome. Now can we change the subject? Hart told me we’re going to have roast kangaroo. Is that true?”
“No, of course it’s not. We’re having steak. Pluto brought some from the officers’ mess.”
McCoy was momentarily taken aback by the casual reference to Major Hon Song Do, and then he remembered Koffler’s pregnant wife was in contact with Pluto, as an assistant to Commander Feldt, long before he was.
“Why don’t we have a drink?” Staff Sergeant Koffler said.
McCoy saw that Mrs. Koffler looked a little uneasy.
She knows what’s going to happen, McCoy thought. The Boy Sergeant is going to get plastered.
I wonder how they got together? Christ, she’s older than he is. More sophisticated. What the hell did she see in him?
What the hell does Ernie see in me?
I know two things for sure. Whatever the reason she let him ... went to bed with him the night before he went to Buka, it’s not because she’s a slut. This is a nice girl. And her look just now when he offered the drink was of concern for him. She loves him.
Why am I surprised? Because he looks likes a high-school cheerleader?
The drinks Staff Sergeant Koffler provided for his guests were about twice as strong as they should have been.
“Koffler, would you break this one into two? Or three?” McCoy asked. “I would like to be sober when I eat.”
Mrs. Koffler looked at McCoy with appreciation. Staff Sergeant Koffler looked at him in embarrassment, as if he had committed a terrible social blunder.
“Koffler, I just got here,” McCoy said. “It was a long trip. And Colonel Stecker had me running all day. I can’t handle much liquor when I’m tired.”
“I was out stealing plastic from the Army all day,” Koffler said.
“What’s plastic?” McCoy asked.
“I don’t know what the hell it’s made of, but the Army is wrapping stuff in it. It’s waterproof and airtight. Just what you need for the stuff you’re going to take into the Philippines.”
He went into the kitchen, carrying McCoy’s glass. Jesus Christ, I don’t know how this Fertig operation is classified, but it’s at least SECRET, and probably TOP SECRET. It should not be casually introduced into conversation.
Well, I doubt if Mrs. Koffler will spread it among the girls over coffee. I’ll have a word with him later about talking too much. If he’s sober enough later to listen.
Koffler returned with the drink.
“I hope this is better,” he said, and turned to Hart. “Can I... make yours weaker, Lieutenant?”
“I’ll just go slow,” Hart said.
“Tell me about plastic,” McCoy said.
“Well, it looks like a cross between oilcloth and cellophane,” Koffler said. “The first time I saw it was when Pluto got the cryptomachine you’re going to take with you from the Army—”
“How many other people know about the Philippine Operation?” McCoy interrupted, a tone of annoyance, or exasperation, in his voice.
“I’m not going to discuss this with the ladies during morning tea, if that’s what’s concerning you, Lieutenant McCoy,” Daphne Koffler said.
McCoy, embarrassed, raised both hands in a gesture of surrender.
“That wasn’t...”
“Steve thinks he’s in the company of friends,” Daphne went on firmly, again reminding McCoy of Ernie, “who have the appropriate security clearances. And while his wife no longer has the appropriate clearances, he believes she can nevertheless be trusted to keep her mouth shut.”
McCoy looked at her but didn’t reply.
“Especially since Steve wants very desperately to go with you,” she added.
What did she say? He “wants desperately to go”?
“I don’t think that’s likely,” McCoy said.
“You must know, Lieutenant,” Daphne said, “that my husband is a rather determined man.”
“You need a radio operator,” Koffler argued. “So far the General hasn’t come up with anybody. And Pluto already showed me how to operate the crypto machine.”
“For Christ’s sake, why would you want to go with us?” McCoy asked.
The question obviously discomfited Koffler.
“You just got off of Buka. You just got out of the hospital,” McCoy said, warming to his subject. “You just got married, for Christ’s sake!”
“That’s why,” Koffler said softly.
“What?”
“I have obligations now. Daphne. And... a family.”
“And so you want to go running around in the Philippines, hiding from the Japs?”
“I want to be an officer,” Koffler. said.
McCoy looked at him long enough to see that he was serious, then breathed, “Oh, Jesus!”
“Lieutenant Moore was a sergeant when he came here,” Koffler said reasonably. “He went to Guadalcanal, came back, and they made him an officer.”
“Moore is a college graduate; he’s a Japanese linguist, a cryptographer; and he
’s twenty-three years old.”
Koffler didn’t choose to hear the reply.
“Lieutenant Hart came here as a sergeant,” he went on. “He went to Buka with you; and when you came back, they made him a lieutenant,” he argued.
“Hart is older than Moore,” McCoy replied. “Before he came in The Corps, he was a detective. They made him an officer because it makes things easier for the General, not because...” The absurdity of Koffler’s reasoning, and the determined look on his boyish face, triggered something close to hilarity in McCoy’s mind. “... not because he fell heroically out of his little rubber boat trying to paddle ashore on Buka Island.”
“How did you get your commission?” Koffler asked. It was a challenge.
“I went to Officer Candidate School at Quantico, as a matter of fact. With General Pickering’s son, incidentally. We spent six months busting our asses—excuse the language, Mrs. Koffler—to get that damned gold bar.”
Koffler now looked hurt and embarrassed.
“You want to be an officer, apply for OCS,” McCoy said reasonably. “I’m sure the General would recommend you for it. Hell, Koffler, I’ll write you a letter of recommendation myself.”
“I already looked into that. I can’t even apply until I’m twenty-one, for Christ’s sake.”
“Is that what the regulation says?” McCoy asked.
“Nobody asked me how old I was when I jumped onto Buka,” Koffler said.
McCoy could think of no reply to make, and made none.
“Oh, hell,” Koffler said, as if finally accepting the logic of McCoy’s argument. “But I still want to go with you.”
Not if I have anything to say about it, McCoy thought.
“Koffler, give yourself a chance to get your health back. Enjoy your family. Remember that sacred Marine Corps saying, ‘Never volunteer for anything.’ ”
“You volunteered to get Howard and me off Buka,” Koffler argued.
“Jesus Christ, you don’t know when to quit, do you?” McCoy snapped. “For Christ’s sake, Koffler, drop it!”
Behind the Lines Page 24