Behind the Lines

by W. E. B Griffin

  “That’s the knife you had in Shanghai, right?” Everly said.

  “So what?”

  “Just curious, is all,” Everly said.

  “Let me show you how this works,” McCoy said, picking up one of the carbines. “The safety and the magazine release are here on the trigger assembly. You flip the little lever horizontal to take it off safety. You push the button and the magazine falls out.” He demonstrated. “Fifteen shots. You shove it back in until it clicks. Then you work the action”—he demonstrated again—“and it’s ready to go.”

  “Pistol cartridges, huh?” Everly said scornfully, taking the weapon.

  “Hot pistol cartridges. They’d blow up a pistol.”

  “Will they kill anybody?”

  “Yeah,” McCoy said. “If you hit him, and he’s not five hundred yards away.”

  “You know that?” Everly asked dubiously.

  “I know that. They’re not a real rifle, but they’re a lot better than a pistol.”

  “Most people can’t shoot a pistol to save their ass,” Everly said.

  “That’s the whole idea,” McCoy said.

  “You’ve got ammo, I hope? We’re fucking near out of ammo, ours and Japanese. We’re making our own fucking bullets from curtain rods, and loading the cases with powder from Jap rounds. I’m down to thirteen rounds for this.” He shifted his Thompson on his shoulder.

  “There’s ammo for these, and a couple of hundred .45 ACP and .30-06 rounds. If we can get it off the sub.”

  “Grenades? We could really use some grenades.”

  “Not on this shipment,” McCoy said. “Maybe the next.”

  “Is there going to be another shipment? More submarines?”

  “In twenty-one days. If we can keep ourselves from getting killed before then,” McCoy said. He slit open a second parcel containing four U.S. Carbines, Caliber .30 M1, slung three of them around his shoulder, and started back to the beach.

  Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis, dragging two plastic-wrapped parcels behind him, came out of the water.

  “Good morning, Mr. McCoy,” he said. “I see the Marines have landed, and the situation is presumably well in hand?”

  “You weren’t supposed to come ashore,” McCoy said.

  “I knew how important it was to you that Captain Macklin join your beach party,” Lewis said. “And I could not, I found, just go sailing away without proving to you that I could paddle a rubber boat as well as you.”

  McCoy looked over his shoulder. Macklin was moving as quickly as he could through chest-deep water toward the beach. So far as McCoy could see, he was not towing anything behind him.

  And then he laughed. “Oh, Christ, look at that.”

  Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman, water streaming off his body, looking very distressed and annoyed, plodded heavily through the sand toward them, dragging four obviously heavy plastic-wrapped parcels. Behind him came the two sailors, each dragging two plastic-wrapped parcels.

  “Why didn’t you get out of the boat, the way I told you?” McCoy asked.

  “I couldn’t see how deep the water was, and I didn’t want to drown, for Christ’s sake. I can’t swim!” He recognized Everly. “Hey! What do you say, Everly? How they hanging?”

  “Can’t complain. McCoy told me they made you a gunny.”

  “Yeah. How about that? You going to lend a hand with this crap, or just stand there with your thumb up your ass?”

  “You may get stuck here,” McCoy said to Lewis. “The place is liable to be crawling with Japs anytime now. The Fertig guy—what’s his name, Everly?”

  “Weston, Sir,” Everly said. “Captain James Weston.”

  He called me “Sir,” McCoy realized, surprised. I’ll be damned.

  “... Captain Weston took out a four-man Jap patrol as we were coming ashore. Everly thinks other Japs will come looking for them.”

  “That would be best,” Everly said.

  “Best?” McCoy asked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Worst is that they did hear Mr. Weston’s Thompson and went off to tell somebody. Best would be if they didn’t hear the gunfire, but send a couple of people looking for the first patrol. Better would be we could find the truck they’re in—”

  “We don’t know there’s a truck,” McCoy interrupted.

  “—and take that out, hide the truck and the bodies in the bush someplace where they won’t be found for a couple of days. That would make it less likely that the Japs could find the stuff we’re going to stash here.”

  “Or find the truck and take it five miles, ten miles from here,” McCoy said thoughtfully.

  “Even better,” Everly agreed.

  “What’s wrong with your ankle?” McCoy asked.

  “I fell out of a tree and sprained it,” Everly said.

  “Then how are we going to find the truck?”

  “I could get a tree limb, and make a crutch or something.”

  “You tell me where you think this truck is, Everly, and I’ll find the fucker,” Gunny Zimmerman said matter-of-factly.

  “You’re going to have to go with him, Everly,” McCoy said. “There’s no way around it. We’ll get the stuff into the jungle and wait here for you.”

  “Zimmerman, are those little rifles any good?” Everly asked.

  “For what we’re going to use them for,” Zimmerman said.

  “Well, you better give me one, then. All I have is thirteen rounds for the Thompson. Unless ... Where’s that .45 ammo, McCoy?”

  “I don’t know where it is right now.”

  “Then hand me one of them little rifles. We don’t have much time.”

  “There is, of course,” McCoy said, looking at Lewis, “one other option.”

  “You want me to go with them? Why not?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” McCoy said, and then, pointing out to sea, went on. “Captain Weston is almost at the Sunfish. I could radio them to get the hell out of here the second he’s aboard and ... Maybe that’s what I should do.”

  “The U.S. Navy has gone to considerable expense and effort, Mr. McCoy, to place that vessel where she lies,” Lewis said. “I don’t think anyone aboard would want to leave until they unload the cargo, or a Jap destroyer appears.”

  McCoy looked at him thoughtfully.

  “Whichever comes first,” Lewis added.

  “You really are liable to get stuck here with us,” McCoy said. “You understand that?”

  “I had that unpleasant thought shortly after I got in the rubber boat,” Lewis said. “Shall I pass the Sunfish the word to start unloading cargo?”

  “The radio’s right inside the bushes, over there,” McCoy said, pointing.

  Captain Robert B. Macklin waded the final steps ashore and then threw himself flat on the sand, as if exhausted.

  “He hurt, or what?” Everly asked, concerned.

  “Fuck him, let him lie there,” McCoy said.

  “We have to get those boats back into the water,” Lewis said, and then bellowed “Macklin!” in a surprisingly loud voice.

  Macklin raised his head to look at him, then moved his arms in a helpless gesture.

  “Get your ass moving, Macklin, start helping us get the boats back through the surf, or I’ll shoot you myself!” Lieutenant Lewis called.

  Captain Macklin continued to make gestures implying helpless exhaustion until Lieutenant Lewis took one of the carbines from Lieutenant McCoy, chambered a round, and put the weapon to his shoulder. Then, his strength having miraculously returned, Captain Macklin scurried down the beach, grabbed the line on a rubber boat, and started to drag the boat toward the water.

  Lieutenant Everly’s eyes grew wide, but he said nothing.

  “Were you really going to shoot him?” McCoy asked, a smile on his face.

  “I don’t know,” Lewis said wonderingly. “Fortunately for both of us, neither did he.” He then had a second thought. “Why don’t we just let him paddle out to the Sunfish and go aboard?”
r />   “He stays,” McCoy said firmly.

  Lewis nodded, turned away, and trotted toward the radio.

  “Who’s he, McCoy?” Everly asked.

  “He’s a dog robber for an admiral at Pearl Harbor.”

  “I meant the asshole on the beach.”

  “It’s a long story, Everly. I’ll tell you later,” he said.

  [FOUR]

  United States Submarine Sunfish

  126° 48” East Longitude 7° 35” West Latitude

  Philippine Sea

  0527 Hours 24 December 1942

  “Skipper?” Lieutenant Amos P. Youngman, USN, asked, leaving the second part of the interrogatory—“Do you see that?”—unsaid.

  “I see it,” Lieutenant Commander Warren T. Houser, USN, replied.

  Both Commander, Houser and Lieutenant Youngman were on the crowded conning-tower bridge of the Sunfish, binoculars to their eyes, alternately watching the rubber boats close to shore and scanning the skies and horizon for signs of Japanese activity.

  A passenger in the first rubber boat was returning to the Sunfish from the beach—a passenger wearing an old-fashioned, broad-brimmed campaign hat, what looked like dirty white pajamas, and a full, blond beard.

  “McCoy said he would try to send a senior officer out,” Commander Houser said. “That must be him.”

  Lieutenant Youngman turned to the Chief of the Boat, who was scanning the horizon through binoculars.

  “Chief, make sure we bring that man safely aboard,” he ordered.

  “Aye, aye, Sir,” Chief Buchanan said.

  Chief Bosun’s Mate Buchanan turned, trained his binoculars toward shore, looked a moment, and then handed the binoculars to a sailor standing in the center of the people crowding the bridge.

  Then, moving with surprising agility for someone of his bulk, he disappeared down the hatch in the deck of the conning tower, and a moment later emerged on the deck of the submarine.

  By the time the rubber boat reached the Sunfish, Chief Buchanan had tied a half-inch line securely around his waist and placed the end into the hands of three sailors on the deck. He had also made a loop in a second length of half-inch line, handed the end to the sailors, and was swinging the looped end in his hand, not unlike a cowboy about to lasso a calf for branding.

  “Put the line around that gentleman,” he bellowed as he made his way down the slippery, curved hull of the Sunfish.

  He tossed the line to the two sailors in the rubber boat. Their attempt to grab it failed, and Chief Buchanan, using language not customarily heard in Sunday schools, offered an unkind opinion vis-à-vis the legitimacy of their births.

  He retrieved the line and tossed it again. This time the sailor in the aft of the rubber boat managed to snag it.

  “Just put that over your head, Sir,” he called encouragingly. “And under your arms, and we’ll have you aboard in no time.”

  Captain James B. Weston did as ordered, then lifted himself very unsteadily to his feet and jumped onto the curved hull. He lost his footing, fell flat on his face, and started to slide down the hull into the water.

  “Haul away!” Chief Buchanan bellowed.

  Captain Weston’s descent became an ascent; he was dragged up the hull to the deck, where Chief Buchanan and one of the sailors jerked him to his feet.

  “Right this way, Sir, if you please,” Chief Buchanan said. From some long-dormant corner of Weston’s memory, Naval protocol suddenly came to life and could not be denied. He shrugged free of Chief Buchanan’s arm, faced aft, and saluted.

  “Permission to come aboard, Sir?”

  Chief Buchanan tried to place his hand on Weston’s arm to guide him to the port in the conning tower. Weston, his right hand and arm still raised in salute, pushed him away with his left.

  “Permission granted!” a voice called.

  Weston followed the sound of the voice and saw a Naval officer’s face high on the conning tower. His salute was returned. Weston lowered his arm.

  “Escort the gentleman to the wardroom,” Commander Houser ordered.

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  Weston allowed himself to be led down the deck, and then through a hatch in the conning tower. He found himself in a hot, crowded world of dials and pipes, smelling of oil and sweat, with sailors in work clothing and officers in khaki staring at him with undisguised curiosity.

  He was led aft, and then Chief Buchanan pushed aside a green curtain and motioned him inside.

  “Someone will be with you shortly, Sir,” Chief Buchanan said. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got to get back topside.”

  “Thank you,” Weston said politely.

  He walked into the small compartment and turned around. The curtain was back in place, and the Chief gone.

  Weston sat down at the small table. On the chair beside him was a copy of The Saturday Evening Post. He picked it up.

  The curtain parted, and a sailor stepped inside.

  “Fresh coffee, Sir,” he said. “If there’s anything else, just push the button.”

  He set a tray before Weston. It held a cup and saucer, a silver coffeepot, a pitcher of something like cream, and a bowl of sugar cubes. A small plate held a half-dozen chocolate-chip cookies.

  Weston pushed at the cookies with his index finger, then picked one up and took a small bite.

  “Are you hungry, Sir?” the sailor asked. “Can I fix you something?”

  Weston looked at him without replying.

  “Anything from an egg sandwich to steak and eggs, Sir,” the sailor said.

  “Yes, please,” Weston said.

  “Which, Sir? The sandwich or the steak and eggs.”

  “Could I have both?”

  “Absolutely,” the sailor said, and left.

  Weston took another bite of the chocolate-chip cookie, and then thrust the whole thing in his mouth and chewed it very slowly.

  He poured coffee into the cup, then sniffed it, then took a sip. It was so hot, it burned his lips. He added cream and a lump of sugar and stirred, then took another sip.

  He put another chocolate-chip cookie in his mouth all at once, and then dipped a third into the coffee with cream and sugar.

  The curtain opened again as Weston mopped up the juice from the steak with a piece of toast.

  It was the officer who had given him permission to come aboard. Weston now saw the golden oak leaves of a lieutenant commander on his collar points and started to rise, as officers of the Naval Service do in the presence of a superior officer.

  “Keep your seat,” the lieutenant commander said. “Cookie take care of you all right? Is there anything else we can get you?”

  Weston shook his head, no, and then said, “Thank you.”

  “I’m Warren Houser. I’m the skipper.”

  “Captain Weston, Sir,” Weston said. “No—Lieutenant Weston, Sir.”

  “Which is it, Mr. Weston?” Houser said gently, smiling, offering his hand.

  “Captain, U.S. Forces in the Philippines, Sir. First Lieutenant, USMC.”

  “Welcome aboard the Sunfish, Captain.”

  “Thank you, Sir. What’s happening now, Sir?”

  “We’re discharging cargo.”

  “Captain, if the Japs don’t know you’re here, they will shortly. A Jap patrol was on the beach just before the first rubber boat landed. I killed them, but someone’s going to wonder where they are, and probably right about now.”

  “Well, we’ve come a long way with this stuff, and we’d like to discharge it. I understand you’ve had a supply problem.”

  “We haven’t had any supplies at all,” Weston said simply.

  “So we heard,” Captain Houser said, and then changed the subject. “As soon as we’re finished here, we’re going to Espíritu Santo.”

  “Where, Sir?”

  “It’s an island. Sort of a forward base. From there, I expect you’ll be flown to Australia.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “If you don’t want anything else to
eat, may I suggest a shower and a shave? And we’ll find some khakis for you. I want to get back to the bridge, so if you’ll excuse me, we’ll continue our conversation once we’re under way. My officers are pretty damned curious.”

  “I think I’ll keep the beard,” Weston said. “Lieutenant McCoy said I wasn’t to shave it off until General Pickering saw it.”

  “From what I’ve seen of him, it would behoove you to do what Lieutenant McCoy told you.”

  “May I have another cup of coffee? I seem to have drunk all...”

  “You can have anything on the Sunfish, Captain Weston,” Lieutenant Commander Houser said, and rang for the mess-man.

  [FIVE]

  Approximately 30 miles south of Boston

  Davao Oriental Province

  Mindanao, Commonwealth of the Philippines

  0745 Hours 24 December 1942

  Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis, USN, and First Lieutenant Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, were standing just inside the vegetation on the shore. McCoy was holding a carbine, the butt resting on his hip. Lewis had a carbine slung from his shoulder.

  The Sunfish lay about two hundred yards offshore, her 4.2 cannon and antiaircraft machine guns manned, her colors now hanging limply from the conning-tower mast. She had surfaced just over two hours before.

  After McCoy made the decision—feeling the weight of it lying heavily on his shoulders—to take the chance that Everly and Zimmerman. could find the Japanese truck—if in fact there was a truck—and get rid of it, there was hectic activity.

  Four additional rubber boats were inflated and launched, and manned by sailors—there was no shortage of volunteers from among the Sunfish’s crew. They began to ferry plastic-wrapped parcels ashore.

  After the first two boats were manhandled back into the water—the surf had diminished since daybreak—they were paddled back to the submarine. The next four boats from the Sunfish didn’t reach the beach. Their plastic-wrapped parcels were put over the side, and one of the two paddlers went into the water with them. The remaining paddlers paddled the now empty boats back to the Sunfish.