Call to Arms

by W. E. B Griffin

  “As much as I could stomach,” Colonel Wesley said.

  “That ‘leaders’ and ‘fighters’ business,” Lieutenant Colonel Rickabee said, “has appeared before. That’s pure Carlson. So is the business about everybody being treated equally, officers, noncoms, and privates. He got all that from the Chinese Eighth Route Army…and the term ‘column,’ too, meaning ‘battalion.’ That’s pure Chinese Red Army.”

  “Well then, let’s get right to that,” Wesley said. “Did he get himself infected by them when he was with them? Is he a Communist?”

  Rickabee sipped at his bourbon, and then took a sip of water before replying.

  “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “He’s been investigated. When he applied to get his commission back, the FBI investigated him, and came up with nothing we didn’t already know.”

  “You’ve seen the FBI reports?” Wesley asked.

  “Of course not,” Rickabee said, dryly. “FBI reports are confidential and never shown to outsiders. What agencies requesting an investigation get is a synopsis of what the FBI thinks it found out.”

  He clearly meant, Wesley decided, that he had indeed seen the FBI reports on Lieutenant Colonel Evans Carlson, USMCR.

  “What’s your personal opinion of him?” Wesley said.

  “I think he’s a good Marine gone off the deep end,” Rickabee said. “That he’s a zealot, quite eccentric, perhaps even unbalanced. He might have gotten Roosevelt to sign this, but the Major General Commandant will know he was behind it.”

  Wesley grunted his agreement.

  “But on the other hand,” Rickabee said after taking a sip of his drink, “they said very much the same things about Jesus Christ, you will recall. ‘What’s happened to that nice Nazarene carpenter? Why is he attacking the established order?’”

  “I don’t think that’s funny, Colonel,” Wesley said, coldly.

  “It wasn’t intended to be, Colonel. There is even the parallel between Christ being able to talk to his heavenly, all-powerful father….”

  What could have been a faint smile crossed Wesley’s lips.

  “And what about Roosevelt…the son, I mean?” he asked.

  “Everything I know about him is positive. He’s smarter than hell, hard working, everything a good reserve officer should be. After seeing this, I would suggest that he’s fallen in with evil companions…an evil companion.”

  “You know him, personally?”

  Rickabee nodded. “Not well. Great big guy. Getting bald. Has to wear glasses. Nice guy, from the little I know him. What I would like to know is why they gave Carlson his commission back.”

  “Isn’t that obvious, Colonel?” Colonel Wesley replied, sarcastically. “He came highly recommended. He has the Navy Cross. And, as they say, ‘friends in high places.’”

  “A little backbone then would have kept this from happening,” Rickabee said, and raised the sheets of paper.

  “He made that decision,” Wesley said.

  “That was the big mistake,” Rickabee said, undaunted.

  “You say your mind, Colonel, don’t you?” Colonel Wesley said, coldly.

  “That’s what I’m paid for,” Rickabee said. “I would prefer to be at Camp Elliott myself. Believe it or not, I’m qualified to command an infantry battalion.”

  “Obviously, the Corps feels that what you’re doing now is of greater importance,” Colonel Wesley said.

  “What does the Corps want me to do about this?” Rickabee asked, holding up the sheaf of paper again. “How does my run-him-over-with-a-truck suggestion sound?”

  “As if you don’t understand the seriousness of the problem,” Wesley said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be joking.”

  “You seem to be very sure that I was joking,” Rickabee said.

  Colonel Thomas C. Wesley was furious with himself when he realized that he did not in fact know for sure that Rickabee was being flip. He met Rickabee’s eyes for a long moment, and learned nothing.

  “What I was hoping—” he said, finally.

  “Was that I could give you proof positive,” Rickabee interrupted him, “proof that He could take to at least Frank Knox, and/or to the White House, that Evans Carlson is in fact a Communist and/or certifiably out of his mind. I can’t do that, Colonel. I can’t even manufacture any evidence to that effect. It wouldn’t stand up in the light.”

  “But you do see the problem,” Wesley said.

  “Would you like to hear how I see it?” Rickabee asked.

  “Of course,” Wesley said, impatiently.

  “The Corps is in a no-win situation,” Rickabee said. “When this document reaches His desk, He’s going to have to approve it, at least on a trial basis. Carlson’s Eighth Communist Route Army, also known as the Marine Commandos or Rangers or whatever, will have to be employed. That will result in one of two things: They will get wiped out on the beach of some Pacific island, and He will find Himself explaining why He approved such a nutty idea, resulting in such a terrible waste of young American life. Or, Carlson’s private army will do what Carlson says it will do, which, by the way, is very likely to happen. Carlson has proved that he’s a skilled, courageous officer. If Carlson succeeds—and to repeat, he damned well may—the Commandant will find himself turning the Corps into the U.S. Commandos, with at least full Colonel Carlson—and possibly General Carlson—at his side while the rules are written.”

  “It could mean the end of the Corps,” Wesley said.

  “Yes, it could,” Rickabee said. “After the war, when there was no need for Commandos, or for more than a few of them, the Marine Corps could become an Army regiment. A lot of people would like to see that happen.”

  “If you were charged with stopping this, Rickabee,” Colonel Wesley asked, “how would you go about it?”

  “Is that what this little chat is all about, Colonel? He sent you here to order me to stop it?”

  “I said nothing of the kind,” Wesley said quickly. “Just answer the question, please.”

  “I would look for proof positive that Carlson is crazy or a Communist, or both,” Rickabee said. “That’s the only chance I see to scuttle this.”

  “And, how would you do that?”

  “I would put someone close to him, telling him what to look for, and to make sure he had witnesses…unimpeachable witnesses.”

  “A spy, you mean.”

  “An undercover operative,” Rickabee said.

  “Have you such a man available?” Wesley asked.

  “Not off the top of my head,” Rickabee said, then changed his mind. “I might. He’s a bright young shavetail—”

  Wesley interrupted him. “I don’t want to know the details,” he said. “Not yet.”

  “Then where are we?” Rickabee said.

  “I want you to think this through,” Wesley said. “Come up with a plan, including the name of the man you intend to employ, and a synopsis of his background. When you have that, as soon as you have it, call me.”

  “Yes, sir,” Rickabee said. He motioned to someone standing in Peacock Alley to come to the table.

  “What are you doing?” Colonel Wesley asked, confused.

  A good-looking young man in a camel’s hair sports coat and gray flannel trousers came to the table.

  “Colonel Wesley, Lieutenant Frame,” Rickabee said.

  “How do you do, sir?” Lieutenant Frame asked politely.

  “Lieutenant,” Colonel Wesley said.

  “Bill, take this to the office and have it photographed,” Rickabee ordered, handing Frame the sheaf of carbon copies. “Stick around until you have the negatives, then bring this back here. I have just accepted Colonel Wesley’s kind invitation to lunch, and we’ll be in the dining room.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Lieutenant Frame said. He looked at Colonel Wesley, said, “It was a pleasure to meet you, sir,” and then walked down Peacock Alley toward Fourteenth Street.

  “And what’s his reason for being in mufti?” Colonel Wesley asked. He was annoyed th
at Rickabee had, without asking, turned the carbon of Captain James Roosevelt’s proposal for Marine Commandos over to Frame to be photographed.

  “He’d look a little strange following a civilian around in uniform, don’t you think, Colonel?” Rickabee replied, smiling.

  “And that’s necessary? His following you around?”

  “That was the general’s idea, Colonel,” Rickabee said, and stood up. “Shall we have our lunch? He won’t be long, and I’ve got a busy afternoon.”

  From Colonel Wesley’s silence during lunch, Lieutenant Colonel Rickabee decided that Wesley was displeased with him. He had probably been a little too flip for the colonel, failed to display the proper respect for a senior member of the Palace Guard. But there was nothing that could be done about that now.

  He was wrong. When Colonel Wesley returned to Headquarters, USMC, and to the office of Major General Lesterby, he told Lesterby that Rickabee might just be the answer to “the Carlson problem.”

  “He had a specific suggestion?”

  “Yes, sir, that he arrange to have Carlson run over with a truck.”

  “You think he was serious?”

  “Sir, I don’t know.”

  “It may come down to that, Tom.”

  (Three)

  The Brooklyn Navy Yard

  Brooklyn, New York

  0400 Hours, 6 January 1942

  Two noncommissioned officers of the United States Marine Corps, Staff Sergeant C. (for Casimir) J. Koznowski and Sergeant Ernst W. “Ernie” Zimmerman, stood on the cobble-stone street before an old brick barracks, shifting their feet and slapping their gloved hands against the cold. Koznowski was twenty-seven, tall, and slim. Zimmerman was stocky, muscular, round faced, and twenty-three. There were two “hash marks”—red embroidered diagonal bars each signifying the satisfactory completion of four years’ service—on the sleeve of Koznowski’s overcoat, and one hash mark on Zimmerman’s.

  Sergeant Zimmerman’s face was pale, and his uniform seemed just a hair too large for him. Sergeant Zimmerman had two days before been released from the St. Albans Naval Hospital where he had been treated for malaria. He had been certified as fit for limited service and was being transferred to Parris Island for duty in his military specialty of motor transport sergeant.

  Two corporals came around the corner of the brick barracks building, and when they saw Koznowski and Zimmerman, broke into a trot to join them.

  “Where the fuck have you two been?” Staff Sergeant Koznowski demanded. It was not really a question, but rather an expression of disapproval, and no answer was expected or given.

  “Go get ’em,” Staff Sergeant Koznowski said to one of the corporals, and threw a clipboard at the other.

  Both corporals ran into the building. There was the blast of a whistle, and lights were on, and the sound of muffled shouts.

  Less than a minute later, encouraged by curt shouts of “Move it! Move it! Move it!” the first of 106 young men began to pour out of the building. They were in civilian clothing. The day before, or two days before, they had been civilians. They were now recruits of the United States Marine Corps. And they were about to be transported, under the command of Staff Sergeant Koznowski, Sergeant Zimmerman, and the two corporals, to the United States Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, South Carolina, for basic training.

  One of the corporals stood on the street. He grabbed the first four men to reach him by the shoulders and placed them one behind the other. Then he got the others to form ranks on them, sometimes by pointing, sometimes by shoving them into place.

  Finally, they were all lined up in four ranks.

  “Ah-ten-hut!” the corporal with the clipboard barked.

  One hundred and five of the 106 young men stood as stiff as they knew how. The 106th young man continued to try to tie the laces of his right shoe.

  Staff Sergeant Koznowski walked quickly to him, standing before him until the shoe was tied and the young man stood erect.

  “Got it all tied now?” Koznowski asked.

  “Uh-huh,” the young man replied. He was now wearing a nervous smile.

  “When you are in ranks, and someone calls ‘ah-ten-hut,’ you come to attention right then,” Koznowski said. “Not when it’s convenient for you. You think you can remember that?”

  “My shoe—”

  “I asked, can you remember that?” Koznowski snapped.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “And you never, never, never say ‘yeah, sure’ to a sergeant,” Koznowski said.

  The young man was clever enough to sense that whatever he said next was going to be the wrong thing, so he said nothing.

  “Take off the shoe,” Koznowski said, conversationally.

  The young man looked at him in disbelief.

  “Take off the fucking shoe!” Koznowski shouted, his face two inches from the young man’s face, spraying him with spittle.

  The young man did as he was ordered, and finally stood up again, holding the shoe in his hand.

  “Call the roll, Corporal,” Staff Sergeant Koznowski ordered.

  “Listen up, you people,” the corporal with the clipboard said. “I will call off your last name, and you will respond with your first.”

  The roll was called.

  The corporal turned and saluted. “The recruit draft is formed, sir,” he reported.

  Koznowski returned the salute, and then barked, “At ease.”

  Next he delivered a short speech. He told them that there was clear proof that God did not love him, for he had been assigned the unpleasant task of moving their miserable asses from the Brooklyn Navy Yard to Parris Island, South Carolina, where an attempt would be made to turn their miserable asses into something resembling Marines.

  Before they could leave the Navy Yard, Staff Sergeant Koznowski announced, four things had to be done. First, they would be fed. After which they would run, not walk, back to the barracks. Second, their blankets, sheets, pillow cases, and mattress covers would have to be turned in. Third, the barracks and the head which they had managed to turn into a fucking pig sty in a remarkably short time would have to be returned to the immaculate state in which they had found it. Finally, they would have to wash and shave and do whatever else they could to make themselves as presentable as possible for the walk between the buses at the entrance to Pennsylvania Station and the train itself.

  It was going to be humiliating enough, Staff Sergeant Koznowski said, for himself and Sergeant Zimmerman and Corporals Hayworth and Cohn to be seen shepherding so many assholes around without the assholes looking like they had just crawled out of the fucking sewer.

  They had, he informed them, precisely twenty-eight minutes and twenty seconds to accomplish breakfast and get back here.

  “Are there any questions?” Staff Sergeant Koznowski asked.

  A tall, rather thin young man in the rear rank had raised his hand above his shoulders.

  Koznowski looked at him. “Anyone tell you to put your hand up? You want permission to leave the room so you can take a piss?”

  “Sergeant,” the tall thin young man said, nervously, “you asked if there were questions.”

  “I didn’t mean it,” Staff Sergeant Koznowski said, pleased with himself. “Sergeant Zimmerman, take over.”

  With that, Staff Sergeant Koznowski marched off in the direction of the mess hall, leaving Sergeant Zimmerman in charge.

  Like many—perhaps most—Marines, Zimmerman was ambivalent about the hoary Marine Corps tradition of shitting all over recruits until they had passed through either the Parris Island or San Diego Recruit Depots. He understood the philosophy, which was to break a man down and then rebuild him as a Marine; and he knew that it worked. It had turned him into a Marine. But he was personally uncomfortable with shitting on people; he could not have been a drill instructor himself, and he had been made uncomfortable when he had learned that he would be taking a draft of recruits to Parris Island.

  When Koznowski had turned the corner, Zimmerma
n said, “Finish buttoning your clothes.”

  The young man holding his shoe in his hand looked at him questioningly. Zimmerman shook his head no.

  When they had time to tuck their trousers in their pants and button their jackets and overcoats, Zimmerman called them to attention and marched them to the mess hall.

  He watched the line until the young man with his shoe tucked under his arm passed through it, and then told him he could now put his shoe on. Then he had his own breakfast.

  Afterward, he walked back to the barracks as the recruits ran past him. And there he supervised the turning in of the bed clothes and the cleaning of the barracks. He did not find it necessary to jump anybody’s ass while doing so.

  When Staff Sergeant Koznowski returned from the staff NCO mess he found the draft of recruits lined up on the street before the barracks waiting to be loaded onto the chartered buses for the trip into Manhattan and Pennsylvania Station.

  II

  (One)

  Rocky Fields Farm

  Bernardsville, New Jersey

  0605 Hours, 6 January 1942

  Second Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, stood in the bay window of the breakfast room, holding a cup and saucer in his hand. Pickering was a tall, erect young man of twenty-two, ruggedly handsome, with sharp features, and eyes that appeared experienced beyond his years. In his superbly tailored uniform, he looked, Elaine (Mrs. Ernest) Sage thought, like an advertisement in Town & Country magazine. Or a Marine Corps recruiting poster.

  Elaine Sage was a striking, trim, silver-haired woman in her middle forties. She was wearing a pleated plaid skirt, a simple white blouse, and a pink sweater. There was an antique gold watch hanging from a gold chain around her neck, and a three-carat emerald-cut diamond engagement ring next to her wedding ring. She crossed the room to Pickering, surprising but not startling him, and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Good morning, Pick,” she said, and then she put her arm around his waist and leaned her head against his arm.

  It was a motherly gesture. Elaine Sage had known “Pick” Pickering all his life; she had been at Sarah Lawrence with his mother; and she had taken the Twentieth-Century Limited to California and waited in Doctor’s Hospital with his father for Patricia Foster Pickering to deliver her first and only child.