And then another question popped into his mind: Lieutenant McCoy? He did say “Lieutenant McCoy,” didn’t he? He damn sure did! Killer McCoy? Am I really going to get to meet the legendary Killer McCoy?
Discretion, however, overwhelmed his curiosity. Having just been told by the Gunny that he asked too many fucking questions about things that were none of his fucking business, he decided that it would be best to just ride along in silence.
Fifteen minutes later, he was more than a little surprised when the Gunny turned the pickup truck off the highway and through two large brick pillars. On each of these was a bronze sign reading, SAN DIEGO YACHT CLUB—PRIVATE—MEMBERS ONLY.
Three minutes after that, they stopped at the end of a pier.
“You carry his seabag onto the boat for him,” Gunny Zimmerman ordered the corporal, “and you come with me.”
They walked down the pier until they came to the stern of a large yacht, on whose tailboard was lettered in gold leaf, “LAST TIME, San Diego.”
The corporal went up a ladder carrying Moore’s bag and went aboard. Gunny Zimmerman touched Moore’s arm in a signal to stop.
What the hell is going on? This thing is at least fifty feet long. Without question, by any definition, a yacht.
A startlingly beautiful young woman wearing white shorts and a red T-shirt emblazoned with the insignia of the U.S. Marine Corps appeared at the stern rail. She had jet black hair cut in a page boy, and the baggy T-shirt seemed to do more to call attention to a very attractive figure than to conceal it.
“Hi!” she called down.
“The Lieutenant call, Miss Ernie?” Gunny Zimmerman asked.
“Yes, he did. And I told you the next time you called me ‘Miss Ernie’ I was going to throw you in the harbor,” she said. She looked at Moore. “Hi! Come aboard. I’ve been expecting you.”
“Go aboard. I’ll be back for you in the morning,” Gunny Zimmerman ordered.
“You want a beer, Zimmerman?” the girl asked.
“Got to get back, Miss Ernie,” Zimmerman said. “The Lieutenant said he might be a little late.”
“There, you did it again!” she said.
“Jesus Christ, Miss Ernie,” he said uncomfortably, “you’re the Lieutenant’s lady. ”
“Just don’t stand close to the edge of the dock, Zimmerman,” she said. “You’re warned.”
Zimmerman hid his face from the young woman. “You watch yourself with that lady, Moore,” he said, with more than a hint of menace.
And then he marched back up the pier to the truck.
As Moore walked to the ladder, the corporal came down it.
“Nice!” he said, as he walked past Moore.
The black-haired girl was waiting on the deck with her hand held out.
“I’m Ernie Sage,” she said. “As Zimmerman so discreetly put it, I’m Ken McCoy’s ‘lady.’ Welcome aboard.”
“How do you do?” Moore said, taking the offered hand. “I’m Sergeant Moore.”
“Have you got a first name?”
“John.”
“Would you like a beer, John? Or something stronger?”
“I’d love a beer. Thank you.”
As he followed her down the deck to the cabin, Moore observed that she was just as good looking from that perspective.
She opened a refrigerator door and took out a bottle of beer.
“Mexican,” she said. “Ken says it’s much better than the kind they make in ‘Diego. Would you like a glass?”
“The bottle’s fine, thank you,” he said.
“Where are you from?”
“Philadelphia,” he said.
“Oh, I’m from Jersey. Bernardsville. I’ve spent some time in Philly. I used to go with a guy—nothing serious—who was at U.P.”
“I went to the University of Pennsylvania,” he said.
“And then you joined the Corps?”
He nodded.
“Ken’s from Norristown,” she said. “But he’s only been back once since he joined the Corps.”
“Oh,” Moore said, aware that he was tongue-tied.
“I told Whatsisname, Zimmerman’s driver, the one he won’t let drive, to put your bag in a cabin—second door to the right when you go below—so if you’d like, when you finish your beer, you could have a shower.”
“I need one,” Moore said. “I’ve been traveling for forty-eight hours.”
“And you’ve been on The Lark,” she said with a smile. “Anyone who’s been on The Lark needs a long, hot shower.”
She smiled at him, and he smiled back. He had no idea who this young woman was, but he liked her.
Sergeant John Marston Moore, USMCR, came back in the cabin just as Second Lieutenant Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, entered it from the deck.
Lieutenant McCoy, who was in dress green uniform, looked not unlike other second lieutenants Moore had seen. That is, he was young—about my age, Moore thought—and trim, and immaculately shaven and dressed. But there was one significant difference. Above the silver marksmanship medals which all second lieutenants seemed to have—although McCoy seemed to have more of these, all EXPERT —he had five colored ribbons, representing medals. Moore had seen very few second lieutenants with any ribbons at all.
Moore didn’t know what all of them represented, but he did recognize two. One was the Pacific Theater of Operations Campaign Medal. McCoy’s had a tiny bronze star, signifying that he had participated in a campaign. And on top was the ribbon representing the Purple Heart. This second lieutenant had already been to the war in the Pacific and had been wounded.
Miss Ernestine Page kissed Lieutenant McCoy. It was a wifely demonstration of affection, Moore judged, although it had been made clear that whatever her relationship was with Lieutenant McCoy, she was not his legal spouse.
“I’m Ken McCoy, Moore,” he said. “I’m a friend of Captain Sessions. Ernie been taking good care of you?” He put out his hand. His grip was firm, and there was something about his eyes that made Moore decide that this was a good man.
“Yes, Sir, she has.”
“Let me get a beer, Baby, and get out of this uniform,” McCoy said. “Give Moore another one.”
“Aye, aye, Sir. Right away, Sir.”
McCoy patted her possessively on the buttocks.
“Be nice,” he said.
“I’m always nice,” Ernie Page said.
“How about eighty percent of the time?” McCoy said, and, carrying a bottle of beer, went below. By the time Moore had finished his second beer, McCoy reappeared, wearing shorts and a T-shirt. He looked even younger than he had before.
He caught Moore’s eye.
“Why don’t I loan you a pair of shorts and a T-shirt?” he asked.
“I don’t want to trouble you, Sir.”
“You’ll trouble me in your greens,” McCoy said. “Come on.”
He took two fresh bottles of beer from the refrigerator and led Moore below again. He sat on the double bed in the cabin as Moore changed out of his greens.
“Zimmerman tell you about Outshipment? The way those feather merchants handle difficult passengers like you?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And that we figured out how to—fuck them—get you on your way to Australia?”
“Yes, Sir,” Moore replied, and then took a chance. “Is that where I’m going, Sir, to Australia?”
“Sessions didn’t tell you? What the hell is the big secret? He told me you were going to Australia when he called and asked me to make sure you got on the plane.”
“No, Sir, he didn’t tell me.”
“OK. Well, keep your mouth shut, about where you’re going, and who told you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re going to Australia. You know the outfit?”
“My orders say ‘Special Detachment 14.’ I don’t know what that means, Sir.”
“Well, I guess that’s the reason for the secrecy. So I won’t go into that. But your new CO is one of the good guys.
His name is Major Ed Banning. I used to work for him in Shanghai. So did Captain Sessions. For that matter, so did Zimmerman. What he’s doing is very important, and the reason you’re travelling on a Six-A priority is that he needs someone, yesterday, who speaks Japanese.”
Moore nodded.
And then he put everything together.
“Lieutenant, are you the one they call ‘Killer McCoy’?”
The friendly smile that had been in McCoy’s eyes vanished. Moore did not like what he saw in them now.
“Where did you hear that?” McCoy asked, and his voice was as cold and menacing as his eyes.
Moore knew that it had been the wrong question to ask, and tried to frame a reply that would be placating. When he did not immediately reply, McCoy, now visibly angry, asked, “Did that fucking Zimmerman run off at the fucking mouth again?”
Moore didn’t reply instantly.
“I asked you a question,” McCoy snapped.
“No, Sir. I heard that at Quantico. There was a Master Gunnery Sergeant there ...”
“Name?” McCoy snapped.
“I don’t remember his name, Sir,” Moore said, and then remembered. “He said he was the S-3 Sergeant of the 4th Marines ...”
“Nickleman,” McCoy interrupted. “He always had a bad case of runaway mouth.”
“... and he was talking about the 4th Marines, and Shanghai, with Captain Sessions.”
McCoy stared at him for a long moment. Gradually, the cold fury in his eyes died, and blood returned to his lips.
“I’m sorry, Sir, if ...” Moore began.
McCoy waved his hand to shut him off.
“To answer your question, Sergeant,” McCoy said. “There are some people who call me ‘Killer,’ including people who should know better, like Mike Nickleman and Captain Sessions. I don’t like it a goddamn bit. But you didn’t know, so don’t worry about it.”
Moore’s mouth ran away with him. “Why do they call you that, Sir?”
The ice came instantly back into McCoy’s eyes, and his lips drew tight and bloodless again. He looked at Moore for a long moment, and then shrugged.
“OK. Let me set that straight. I had to kill some people in China. I didn’t want to. I had to. It just happened that way. Some Italians, the Italian equivalent of Marines. Three of them. And about a month later, when Sessions and Zimmerman and I were fucking around in the boondocks, trying to find out what the Japs were up to, we had to kill some Chinese. They were supposed to be bandits, but what they were was working for the Kempae Tai—Japanese secret police. There was about twenty of them got killed. The word got back to Shanghai and some wiseass—I still don’t know who—in the 4th heard about it. He didn’t know what we were really doing up there, just that we got in a fight with Chinese bandits, so what he did was have a sign painted, ‘Welcome Back, Killer’ and hung it in the club. The name stuck. It makes me sound like a fucking lunatic, like I go around getting my rocks off knifing and shooting people.”
“I’m sorry, Sir, that ...”
McCoy held up his hand to cut him off again, and then, switching to Japanese, which startled Moore, said, “I’d be damned surprised, Moore, if you haven’t figured out you’re now in the Intelligence business, that we both are. Rule One in the Intelligence business, and I’m surprised Captain Sessions didn’t tell you this, is to disappear into the wallpaper. The one thing you can’t afford, in other words, is to have people point you out and say, ‘there he is, Killer McCoy, who killed all those people.’ Understand?”
“Yes, Sir,” Moore replied in Japanese. “I understand.”
McCoy looked at him appraisingly for a moment before he went on. “Well, we know that you speak Japanese, don’t we? And damned well. Where’d you learn that?”
The subject of Killer McCoy, Moore understood, was closed.
The truth of the story is that he is called “Killer” because, very simply, he has killed people. Three Italians, probably by himself, and “about twenty” Chinese with Captain Sessions and Gunny Zimmerman. It would be hard to believe if I hadn’t seen his eyes. I would hate to have Killer McCoy angry with me. Or, hell, just be in his way.
“I’m fairly fluent, Sir. I lived in Japan for a while,” Moore replied in Japanese.
“There’s damned few people in the Corps who speak Japanese,” McCoy said, “for that matter, anything but English. On the other hand, about one Jap—or at least, one Japanese officer—in three or four speaks English. You’d be surprised how important that is.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Well, what happens now is that in the morning, Zimmerman will go to Outshipment at the Seaplane base. When he finds out they’re making up the manifest for the Pearl Harbor flight, he’ll send his driver out here to pick you up. So you’ll have to be dressed and ready after, say, seven o‘clock in the morning. Standing by. You show up with your orders and they’ll have to put you on the plane.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Any questions?”
“No, Sir.”
“Not even about the boat? Or Ernie?” McCoy asked, wryly.
“They’re both ... very nice ... Sir.”
“Yes, they are,” McCoy chuckled.
As if on cue, Ernestine Sage appeared at the door.
“Dorothy and Marty just came home,” she said. “He brought abalone. Unless you two would rather stay here and tell some more dirty stories in Japanese.”
McCoy switched to English. “Ernie thinks that whenever people speak Japanese around here they’re talking dirty,” he said. “Not true, of course. I’m perfectly willing to say in English that she has a marvelous ass and spectacular boobs.”
“You bastard!” she said, but Moore saw that it was said with affection.
Dorothy and Marty turned out to be a First Lieutenant and his wife, who was heavy with child. The lieutenant’s tunic had no campaign medals above his marksmanship badges. And although first lieutenants outrank second lieutenants, it was immediately apparent not only that McCoy gave the orders on board the Last Time, but that the lieutenant was just about as impressed with Lieutenant McCoy as Sergeant Moore was.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you ...” the lieutenant said.
“No problem,” McCoy said. “Ground rules: This is Sergeant Moore. John. You didn’t see him here. You don’t ask him where he came from, or where he’s going. But feel free to talk about the Raiders. He’s cleared for at least Top SECRET. Moore, this is Marty Burnes and his wife, Dorothy.”
Lieutenant Burnes crossed the cabin to Moore and gave him his hand.
“How are you, Moore?”
“How do you do, Sir?”
“Hello,” Mrs. Burnes said.
“Hello.”
“Is he going to have to call you two ‘Sir’ all night?” Ernie Sage asked.
“Whatever he’s comfortable with,” McCoy said.
“I think we can dispense with the customs of the service, tonight,” Lieutenant Burnes said to Moore.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Hell, he’s as bad as Zimmerman,” Ernie laughed. “You better not start calling me ‘Miss Ernie,’ John.”
“No, Ma‘am,” Moore said, but he said it as a joke, and they all laughed.
“I filled the car with gas, Ken,” Marty Burnes said.
“You didn’t have to do that,” McCoy replied.
“Well, hell, we used it.”
“Otherwise I would probably have had Little Martin, or Little Mary,” Dorothy said, patting her swollen belly, “on the bus on the way to the Maternity Clinic.”
“What did the doctor say?” Ernie Sage asked.
“Three weeks,” Dorothy said.
“Your mother called,” Ernie said. “I told her where you were. You better go call her. She’s concerned.”
Dorothy heaved herself with effort to her feet and went to a telephone at the far end of the cabin.
“Ken and Ernie took us in,” Burnes said to John Moore. “We couldn’t find a place to stay, and Dorothy want
ed to have the baby here. If it wasn’t for Ken and Ernie, Dorothy would have had to go back to Kansas City.”
“Ernie took you in,” McCoy corrected him. “This is her boat.”
“Go to hell!” Ernie said, and then looked at Moore. “The boat belongs to a friend of a friend of my mother’s. And since we’re being such a stickler about the facts, my mother pretends that I am not living in sin with Ken. But, romantic fool that I am, I pretend that this is our first home, Ken’s and mine, our barnacle-covered little boat by the side of the bay.”
Moore smiled at her.
“Tell him about the Raiders,” McCoy said.
Burnes looked at him in surprise.
“He’s going to meet a friend of mine where he’s going,” McCoy explained. “He’ll be curious.”
“Then why don’t you tell him about the Raiders?” Ernie challenged.
“Because I am only a second lieutenant. Everybody knows that second lieutenants can’t find their ass with both hands. Isn’t that so, Sergeant Moore?”
“Yes, Sir. We were taught that at Parris Island,” Moore said.
“I’m almost glad you’re not staying here longer,” Ernie Sage said. “I think you and Ken would be dangerous if you had time to get your act together.”
“Give the sergeant a beer, Dear,” McCoy said, sweetly, “while Lieutenant Burnes tells him all about the Raiders.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” Ernie Sage said. “Right away, Sir.”
(Two)
U.S. NAVY BASE
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
0815 HOURS 25 JUNE 1942
Sergeant John Marston Moore, USMCR, was the fifth person to board the seaplane, a U.S. Navy Martin PBM-1. Boarding was supposed to be in order of priority, in which case Moore would have been first. But among those ordered to proceed via air to Pearl Harbor, Territory of Hawaii, by government air transport were a Vice Admiral of the U.S. Navy and a Brigadier General, USMC, whose priorities guaranteed them a seat.
Rank hath its privileges and the admiral and the general and their aides-de-camp were boarded first. Moore stepped inside the fuselage of what had been designed as a Patrol Bomber. A sailor in undress blues, with the insignia of an Aviation Motor Machinist’s Mate First Class sewn to his sleeve, showed him where to stow his bag and where to strap himself in for the take-off. He found himself seated next to the admiral.
Battleground Page 18
