W E B Griffin - Corp 09 - Under Fire

by Under Fire(Lit)

  Which was not, Hart realized, the same thing as saying Baker Company was prepared to go to war under the com-mand of Captain George S. Hart. It looked like that was going to happen.

  Hart had just finished tucking his shirt into his trousers, and making sure the shirt placket was precisely aligned with his belt and fly, when there was a discreet knock on the glass pane of his door.

  "Captain? You in there, sir?"

  Hart recognized the I&I's voice.

  "Come in, Peterson," Hart called.

  "Good evening, sir," First Lieutenant Paul T. Peterson, USMC, USNA `46, a slim, good-looking twenty-five-year-old, said as he came through the door.

  Hart could see that the platoon sergeants were forming the men on the glossy varnished floor.

  "How goes it, Paul?" Hart asked.

  "I don't know," Peterson said, turning from closing the door. "This Korea thing..."

  "Yeah," Hart said.

  "What do you think?" Peterson asked.

  "I think we're going to get involved over there," Hart said.

  "You hear anything, sir?"

  Hart shook his head, "no."

  But the White House-Jesus Christ, The White House!! !- was looking for Killer McCoy, and the Killer hadn't come by St. Louis with his wife as he said he was going to.

  The Killer, the last I heard before he called and said he was coming to St. Louis, was stationed in Tokyo. As an in-telligence officer.

  And now the White House is looking for him!

  Korea is right next door to Japan, and if anything is go-ing to happen over there, the Killer will have a damned good idea of what and when. And probably why.

  Hart was a cop, a good cop, a good detective, and he had heard from his father, also a cop, and now believed that good cops developed a special kind of intuition.

  He intuited that there was going to be a war in Korea, despite what the President had said about it being a "police action," and that meant that Company B, 55th Marines, was going to be called to active duty.

  "Neither have I," Peterson said. He looked at Hart. "Do you think there's anything we should be doing?"

  Jesus Christ, you're supposed to be the professional Ma-rine. Why ask me?

  "I've been giving it some thought, Paul," Hart said. "Yeah, there is. And I'm not sure you're going to like what I've decided to do."

  "Sir?" Peterson asked, at exactly the same moment as there was another knock on the glass of the door.

  "We're ready, skipper," First Sergeant Andrew Mulligan called.

  "Right," Hart called, and started toward the door.

  The moment he came through the door, Mulligan bel-lowed, `Ten-hut on deck," and Company B, 55th Marines, lined up by platoons, popped to attention. Lieutenant Pe-terson stood in the open door.

  Hart, trailed by Mulligan, marched across the varnished floor until he was in the center of the formation. He did a left face, so that he was facing the executive officer, First Lieutenant William J. Barnes, who had been a technical sergeant in World War II, and commissioned after he had joined the organized reserve.

  Hart barked: "Report!"

  Lieutenant Barnes did an about-face and barked, "Re-port!"

  The platoon leaders, standing in front of their platoons, did an about-face and barked, "Report!"

  The platoon sergeants saluted their platoon leaders, and reported, in unison, "All present or accounted for, sir!"

  The platoon leaders did another about-face, saluted Lieutenant Barnes, and announced, in unison, "All present or accounted for, sir."

  Lieutenant Barnes did an about-face and saluted Captain Hart.

  "Sir, the company is formed. All present or accounted for, sir."

  Hart returned the salute.

  "Parade Rest!" he ordered.

  The company assumed the position of Parade Rest, standing erectly, feet twelve inches apart, their hands folded stiffly in the small of their backs.

  The entire little ballet, Captain Hart judged, had been performed perfectly, even by the kids who hadn't earned the right to wear the Marine Corps globe and anchor by go-ing through boot camp.

  Hart looked at his men, starting at the left and working his way slowly across the ranks and files.

  Oh, to hell with it!

  "Stand at ease," he ordered.

  That was not the next step in the prescribed ballet, and he saw questioning looks on a lot of faces.

  "You did that pretty well," he said. "Only two of you looked like cows on ice, and you know who you were."

  Fifty men decided the skipper had detected a sloppy movement on their part, and vowed to do better the next time.

  "There will be a change from the published training schedule," Hart announced. "Based on my belief that there are several things always true about the Marine Corps, first that there is always a change in the training schedule, usu-ally unexplained."

  He got the laughter he expected.

  "The second truth is that every Marine is a rifleman."

  His tone was serious, and he knew he had their attention. "The third truth, and you may find this hard to believe, is that company commanders are sometimes wrong. I really hope I'm wrong now, and I want to tell you that I don't know a thing more about the possible mobilization of the Marine Reserve-of Baker Company-than you do."

  There was absolute silence in the room as they waited for him to go on.

  "But I have the feeling we're going to be called. I don't know where we'll go, or what we'll do, but we're the Ma-rine Corps reserve, and the reserve gets called in time of war. I hope we're not in a war in Korea, but we may be, and it is clearly our duty to prepare for that." He paused.

  "Every Marine is a rifleman. My drill instructor taught me that when I went through boot camp at Parris Island. And during the war, I saw how right he was, how important it is to the Corps. So the one thing 1 know we can do to prepare for being mobilized is to make sure that every Ma-rine in Baker Company is not only a rifleman, but the best rifleman he can be." He paused again.

  "The training schedule is therefore changed to rifle marksmanship. In the first hour of training tonight, you will draw your piece from the armory, clean it, inspect it, make sure it's as right as it can be. The following three hours will be devoted to dry firing, et cetera. I have arranged for us to use the St. Louis Police Department fir-ing range. It's only a hundred yards, but it'll have to do. There will be a special drill next Saturday. You will report here, draw your weapons, and be taken by truck to the range. Those who will be working at your civilian jobs on Saturday, give your name to your platoon sergeant, and ei-ther your platoon leader will, or I will, call your employer and explain the importance of this." He looked again at the faces of his men. Well, I've done it. Peterson will shit a brick. There will be no deviations from the prescribed training schedule without prior permission from battalion.

  Special drill sessions will not be held without prior per-mission from battalion.

  Ammunition will not be drawn from sealed armory stocks without prior permission from battalion.

  The use of civilian and/or local governmental firing ranges is forbidden unless specifically directed by HQ USMC.

  "Company, ten-hut!"

  Baker Company snapped to attention.

  "I will see the officers and senior noncoms in my office immediately following the formation," Captain Hart or-dered his executive officer. "Dismiss the company for training."

  "Aye, aye, sir," Lieutenant Barnes said, and saluted.

  Captain Hart returned the salute, did an about-face movement, and marched across the varnished wood to his office.

  Lieutenant Peterson was standing just inside the office.

  "Questions, Lieutenant?"

  "The colonel's going to shit a brick," Lieutenant Peter-son said.

  "I suppose he will," Captain Hart said. "Sometimes you have to do what you think is right even if it gives the entire Marine Corps diarrhea."

  "Yes, sir," Lieutenant Peterson said. "Sir, permission to speak?"
>
  "Granted."

  "You didn't specify a time for the special drill on Satur-day. May I suggest the company report at 0430? That will give us time to get to the range by first light."

  "Make it so, Lieutenant."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  [THREE]

  SUITE 401

  THE CORONADO BEACH HOTEL

  SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

  1030 10 JULY 1950

  Captain Kenneth R. McCoy sprang to his feet and opened the door of the suite.

  "Good morning, gentlemen," he said to the two Marine brigadier generals and their aides-de-camp, both captains. "General Pickering expects you. Will you come in, please?"

  "How are you, McCoy?" Brigadier General Clyde W. Dawkins said, extending his hand. "It's good to see you."

  Captain McCoy had never seen either captain before, but Captain Arthur McGowan, Dawkins's aide, had heard about the legendary Captain "Killer" McCoy and looked at him curiously.

  He doesn't look, McGowan thought, like either a legend or somebody known as "the Killer."

  "Thank you, sir," McCoy said. "It's good to see you, sir."

  Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, came into the sitting room from one of the bedrooms that offered a view of the Pacific and had long ago been converted to a bar, holding a mug of coffee in his hand.

  "I was going to say, `Christ, Dawk, you didn't have to come here,'" he said, "But I think I'd better make that, `Good morning, gentlemen.'"

  Dawkins chuckled.

  He nodded at the officer beside him.

  "I just now found out you two don't know each other; I thought you'd met on the `Canal. General Fleming Picker-ing, General Edward A. Craig."

  Craig offered his hand to Pickering.

  "I think you left the `Canal-" Craig began.

  "Was ordered off," Pickering interjected.

  "-before I got there," Craig finished. "But I know who you are, General, and I'm glad to finally get to meet you."

  "General, I tried to tell General Dawkins that whenever he could find a few minutes for me, I would be in his of-fice."

  "Craig and I had to go to the Navy base, coming here was easier all around, and I don't think I could have given you an uninterrupted five minutes in my office," Dawkins said. "Things are a little hectic out there."

  "I can imagine."

  "Craig has been named CG of the 1st Provisional Ma-rine Brigade," Dawkins said. "Which sails for Kobe, Japan, on the twelfth."

  Colonel Edward J. Banning, USMC, and Marine Gun-ner Ernest W. Zimmerman came into the room.

  "I didn't know you were here, too, Ed," Dawkins said.

  "Good morning, General," Banning said. "It's good to see you."

  "Ed Banning I know," Craig said. "Fourth Marines. Hello, Ed."

  "Good morning, General," Banning replied, and added, "Mr. Zimmerman and Captain McCoy are old China Marines, too."

  Craig shook Zimmerman's hand, then glanced at his watch.

  "We are pressed for time," Craig said. "So if there's some place these fellows can wait... "

  He nodded at McCoy, Zimmerman, and the aides-de-camp.

  "Why don't you go in the bar?" Pickering said, nodding at the door to the room. "There's coffee. McCoy, you stay."

  "Aye, aye, sir," McCoy said.

  Captain McGowan and General Craig's aide were sur-prised, and possibly a little annoyed, that they were being excused, and Captain McCoy was not, but they and Zim-merman went into the bar and closed the door.

  "I'm the self-invited guest, General," Craig said. "When Dawkins told me he was coming to see you, I invited my-self."

  "You're welcome, of course," Pickering said.

  "I don't think I have to convince you of the value of intel-ligence, General," Craig said. "I have practically none about Korea. If the price of getting some is bad manners..."

  "Ken's got some pretty detailed knowledge of the North Korean order of battle," Pickering said, nodding at McCoy. "With the caveat that you don't ask him where he got it, and if you can give him an hour between now and 1830, when we get on a plane for Tokyo, he could brief you."

  "I'll find the hour," Craig said. "Thank you."

  "You're going to Tokyo, General?" Dawkins asked.

  His real question, Pickering understood, is "What are you going to do in Tokyo? " and after a moment, he decided to answer it.

  "What you hear in this room stays in this room, Okay?" he said.

  "Agreed," Craig said.

  "Yes, sir," Dawkins said.

  "The President is unhappy that we were so badly sur-prised by what's happening over there," Pickering began. "And he's afraid that he's not going to get the whole pic-ture from MacArthur. He called an old buddy of his, an Army National Guard major general, Ralph Howe, to ac-tive duty, to go over there and see for himself what's hap-pened, and will happen. Then, because I'm acquainted with MacArthur, he did the same thing with me."

  Craig nodded.

  "May I ask what you're doing at Camp Pendleton?"

  "That's Ed Banning's idea, and like most of his ideas, a good one. Howe and I will be reporting directly to the Presi-dent. If we use the normal communication channels, the odds are that our messages would be in the hands of the brass at least half an hour before they were in the President's hands. If, on the other hand, we communicate with your comm center here, with Banning getting the messages, no one would see them but Banning. We haven't worked out the details yet, but I'm sure Ed can find a secure channel from here to Washington."

  "That shouldn't be a problem," Dawkins said. "If necessary, we can set up a secure radio-teletype link between here and the White House Signal Agency."

  "I have to say this, Dawk," Pickering said. "I don't want one of your commo sergeants making copies of our traffic for you."

  "Yes, sir," Dawkins said.

  "McCoy, Zimmerman, and I are going to Japan tonight," Pickering said. "I'm going to see General MacArthur. Mc-Coy and Zimmerman are going to Korea."

  "Why?" Craig asked McCoy.

  "We want to interrogate prisoners, sir," McCoy said. "And see what else we can find out."

  "What are you going to do about an interpreter?"

  "Sir, I speak Korean, and Mr. Zimmerman speaks Chi-nese."

  "At least two kinds of Chinese, General," Ed Banning said. "And Japanese. As does McCoy. McCoy also speaks Russian and-"

  "I could really use officers with those skills," Craig said, and looked at Pickering. "I suppose that's out of the ques-tion?"

  "I'm afraid so," Pickering said.

  "How about access to what they learn?"

  "With the caveat that it's not for-what do the newspa-per people say, `attribution'?-and doesn't go any fur-ther than you think it really has to, I can see no reason why Ed Banning can't filter out what he thinks would be useful to you from our traffic, and give it to you and Dawkins."

  "Thank you," Craig said.

  Dawkins looked at his wristwatch.

  "Ed, it's that time. They expect us at the port."

  Craig nodded.

  "If you don't need Captain McCoy right now," Craig, said, "he could ride along with us, and I could pick his brain in the car."

  "Sure," Pickering said, and then saw the look on Mc-Coy's face.

  "Something I don't know about, Ken?" he asked.

  "Sir, Zimmerman and I were going to go out to Pendleton and scrounge utilities, 782 gear, (Field equipment-for example, web belts, harnesses, canteens, helmets, etc) and weapons," Mc-Coy said.

  "I think we can fix that," General Craig said.

  He walked to the door of the bar and opened it.

  "Charley," he said to his aide, "I can't imagine a Marine gunner needing help from a captain scrounging anything, but you never know. Get a car and take Mr. Zimmerman out to Pendleton and help him get whatever he thinks he needs."

  "Aye, aye, sir," Craig's aide-de-camp said.

  "And you better go with him," General Dawkins said to Captain McGowan. "We'll link up somewhere later." />
  Zimmerman looked at McCoy.