Close Combat

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Good afternoon, Madam,” the doorman said. “Will Madam be checking in?”

  Not goddamn likely. But if I tell him that, what do I do?

  “Yes, thank you.”

  She saw a Marine captain waiting in line for the revolving door, and her heart jumped. And then she saw he was shorter than Charley, and older, and not an aviator.

  A bellman appeared and took her luggage. Mustering all the dignity she could, Carolyn marched after him. He passed through a swinging door next to the revolving door. But when she tried to follow him, another bellman smiled and waved his hand to tell her that was not permitted and pointed at the revolving door.

  What the hell is the difference? But you’re certainly in no position to make a scene over it.

  She took her place in line and eventually made it into the lobby. Which was jammed. Just about all the chairs were occupied, and mountains of luggage were stacked everywhere.

  She found the REGISTRATION sign…and the line, of course—actually, two of them—of those waiting for the attention of the formally dressed desk clerks. As she worked her way up to the desk, she kept hearing what she expected: “I’m sorry, there’s absolutely nothing, and I can’t tell you when there will be a vacancy.”

  Finally, it was her turn.

  “May I help you, Madam?”

  For half a second she was tempted to try to brazen it out: to announce that she had a reservation, then to act highly indignant when he couldn’t find it.

  But that won’t work. It’s not the most original idea in the world anyway. And I certainly wouldn’t be the first person in the world to try it.

  “Are there any messages for me? My name is Mrs. Carolyn McNamara?”

  “If you’ll check with our concierge, Madam? He would have messages.”

  He pointed out the concierge’s desk, before which, naturally, there was a line of people.

  “Thank you,” Carolyn said, and walked over to the end of that line.

  “May I help you, Madam?” the concierge asked five minutes later. The man looked and sounded vastly overworked.

  “I’m Mrs. Carolyn McNamara. Are there any messages for me? Or for Captain Charles Galloway of the Marine Corps?”

  “I will check, Madam,” he said.

  He consulted a leather-bound folder.

  “There seems to be a message, Madam,” he said. “But I’m not sure if it’s from Captain Galloway, or for the Captain.”

  Oh, thank God!

  “I’ll take it, whatever it is.”

  “Madam, as you can understand, I couldn’t give you a message intended for Captain Galloway. But if Madam will have a seat, I’ll look into this as quickly as I can.”

  He gestured rather grandly to a setting of chairs and couches around a coffee table. One of the chairs was not occupied.

  She walked to the chair and sat down, then let her eyes quickly sweep the lobby. She saw at least a dozen Marine officers. None of these was Captain Charles M. Galloway.

  She glanced back at the concierge. He was simultaneously talking on the telephone and dealing with a highly excited female.

  He’ll forget me.

  Carolyn did not like to smoke in public. She was raised to consider this unladylike.

  To hell with it, she decided. I’ll have a cigarette and then I’ll go back to the concierge and threaten to throw a scene unless he gives me Charley’s message.

  She took a Chesterfield from her purse and lit it.

  Two young Marine officers came into her sight. Both of them were aviators (although she wondered about the smaller of the two; if he was nineteen, she was fifty). As she looked at them, they gazed at her, shrugged at each other, and marched toward her.

  Oh, God, that’s all I need, two Marine Aviators trying to pick me up!

  “Mrs. McNamara?” the taller of them said.

  How does he know my name?

  “Yes.”

  “I knew it,” the one who looked like a high school kid said in a southern accent you could cut with a knife. “The family resemblance is remarkable!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Ma’am, I am Lieutenant William C. Dunn. I had the privilege of serving with your nephew, Lieutenant Jim Ward.”

  “What?”

  “Ma’am, may I introduce Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering?”

  “How do you do, Mrs. McNamara?” Lieutenant Pickering asked politely.

  Carolyn ignored him.

  “You know Jimmy?”

  “Yes, Ma’am, I was with him when he had his unfortunate accident.”

  “That was on Guadalcanal! You were on Guadalcanal?”

  A bellman appeared carrying a tray with a glass of champagne on it.

  “Mrs. McNamara?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Compliments of the management, Madam,” the bellman said. “We hope you enjoy your stay with us.”

  Without thinking, Carolyn took the champagne.

  She looked at the young lieutenant.

  “If you were on Guadalcanal…did you know Captain Charles Galloway?”

  “Ma’am, I had the privilege of serving as Captain Galloway’s executive officer,” Dunn said.

  “Do you know where he is?” Carolyn asked.

  “At the moment, no, Ma’am, I do not. I regret to say.”

  A middle-aged man wearing a gray frock coat and striped pants walked up to them; he was obviously an assistant manager, or some other senior hotel functionary.

  “Mrs. McNamara, we’re ready for you. Whenever you’re finished with your champagne, of course.”

  “By all means, drink the champagne, Mrs. McNamara,” Lieutenant Pickering said. “Never waste champagne, I always say.”

  She glowered at him.

  “You don’t know where he is, either, I suppose?”

  “No, but I’ll bet he does,” Pick replied, nodding at the assistant manager.

  Carolyn stood up.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Finish your champagne,” Pick said.

  “I don’t want any damned champagne, thank you very much!”

  “It’s been a pleasure, Ma’am,” Dunn said. “We hope to have the pleasure of your company soon again.”

  “Yeah,” Carolyn said. “Right.”

  “This way, Madam,” the man in the gray frock coat said.

  He led her toward the bank of elevators, but ignored one that was waiting. Instead he put a key in what appeared to be an ordinary door. He opened it and gestured for her to precede him inside. She stepped through the door and realized it was a small elevator.

  The man in the frock coat reached into the elevator, pushed a button (the only one Carolyn could see), then closed the door. As he did, an interior door closed automatically, and the elevator began to rise.

  When the door opened, Captain Charles M. Galloway was standing in what looked like somebody’s living room. He was wearing a perfectly fitting, perfectly pressed uniform; his gold wings were gleaming on his chest.

  God, he’s so good-looking!

  God, and I look like the wrath of God!

  And what’s going on? What is this place?

  “What is this place, Charley?”

  “Pickering’s mother’s apartment. It’s ours for as long as we need it.”

  “Pickering’s mother? What are you talking about?”

  “You remember the first time we were here? We had dinner with Mr. Foster and his daughter?”

  “The one who had a son who was an aviator? Wanted to know about his training?”

  “Right. Pickering. You just met him in the lobby, right?”

  “What was that all about?”

  “They went down to meet you while I came here. We were shooting pool in the Old Man’s apartment.”

  “You were shooting pool in what old man’s apartment?”

  “Mr. Foster’s.”

  And then Charley slipped his fingers inside his collar, reaching for something.

  What the hell is he doing? />
  He removed his fingers from his collar, impatiently pulled his necktie down, jerked his collar open, reached inside, and came out with some kind of chain.

  “I’ve got it,” he said.

  Oh, my God! My Episcopal Serviceman’s Cross. He actually wore it!

  “So I see,” she said.

  Thank you, God, for bringing him back to me!

  “Carolyn, I love you.”

  Nobody’s here. You feel safe in saying so, right?

  “I know, my darling.”

  “Aren’t we…aren’t we supposed to kiss each other? Are you sore at me or something?”

  “Charley, you don’t want be close to me right now, much less kiss me. I haven’t been out of these clothes for three days.”

  “I don’t give a damn,” he said simply.

  “Charley, I desperately need a bath.”

  “Not for me, you don’t.”

  “For me, I do.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Charley, give me ten minutes, please.”

  He had somehow managed to move very close to her. She didn’t remember him doing it. But all of a sudden, there he was, with his hands on her upper arms.

  “I have to kiss you,” he said matter-of-factly. “I can’t wait ten minutes.”

  He kissed her, but not the Johnny Weismuller “You-Jane-Me-Tarzan” squeezing-the-breath-out-of-her kiss she expected. He slowly moved his head to hers and, barely touching her, very gently kissed her forehead, and her eyebrows, and her cheeks, and even her nose. And then he found her lips.

  By then, her knees seemed to have lost all their strength. She was sort of sagging against him.

  “Oh, God, Charley,” she said when he took his lips away.

  “What I thought about,” he said, “was taking your clothes off and then taking a shower with you. Like the last time. Remember?”

  “What are you waiting for, Charley?” Carolyn asked.

  [FOUR]

  The Lobby Bar

  The Andrew Foster Hotel

  San Francisco, California

  1735 Hours 24 October 1942

  Lieutenants Pickering and Dunn shouldered their way through the crowd at the bar and finally caught the attention of the bartender.

  “Gentlemen?” the bartender asked, then took a good look at Lieutenant Dunn. “Lieutenant, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to see your ID card.”

  “He’s with me,” Pick said.

  “And I better have a look at yours, too,” the bartender said. “They’re really on us about serving minors.”

  Identity cards were produced.

  “I’m sorry about that,” the bartender said. “What can I fix you?”

  “No problem,” Pick said. “Famous Grouse and water. A lot of the former, just a little of the latter. Twice.”

  “Sir, I’m sorry, we’re out of Famous Grouse.”

  “There’s a couple of bottles in the cabinet under the cash register,” Pick said.

  The bartender stared at him for two or three beats, smiled uneasily, and walked down the bar for a quick word with a second bartender. He was a gray-haired man with a manner that said he’d been standing behind that bar from at least the time when the first was in kindergarten. He glanced up the bar, then quickly walked to Pickering and Dunn, pausing en route to take a quart bottle of Famous Grouse from the cabinet under the cash register.

  “He didn’t know who you were, Pick,” he said, smiling. “And you were asking for the Boss’s private stock.”

  “It looks as if the boss is making a lot of money,” Pick said, indicating the crowd at the bar. “I thought he might be in here, checking the house.”

  “You just missed him,” the bartender said. “But I’ll tell you who is in here, and was asking about you.”

  “Female and attractive, I hope?” Bill Dunn asked.

  “Paul, this is Bill Dunn,” Pickering said. “Bill, Paul taught me everything I know about mixing drinks. And washing glasses. Are you aware that I am one of the world’s best glass polishers?”

  The two shook hands.

  “No, he’s not. He’s a lousy glass polisher,” Paul said. “But I did make him memorize the Bartender’s Guide.”

  “Tell me about the attractive female who’s been asking about him,” Dunn said.

  “Over there,” Paul said, chuckling and nodding his head toward a table in the corner of the room. It was occupied by two attractive women and six attentive Naval officers, all of whom wore wings of gold.

  The taller of the two women at that moment waved, then stood up. Her hair was dark, and red.

  “She is not what she appears to be, Bill,” Pick said. “Or, phrased another way, she does not deliver what she appears to be offering.”

  The bartender chuckled. “Don’t tell me you struck out with her, Pick? That’s hard to believe.”

  “She ruined my batting average, if you have to know. And God knows, I gave it the old school try.”

  “What’s her name?” Dunn asked as the redhead made her way to the bar.

  “Alexandra, after the Virgin Princess of Constantinople,” Pick said.

  “Pick,” Alexandra said, giving him her cheek to kiss. “I heard you were in town. You could have called me.”

  “Just passing through,” Pick said.

  “I’m Bill Dunn.”

  “Hello,” Alexandra said, and looked at him closely.

  “Bill, this is Alexandra Spears, as in spears through the heart.”

  “That’s not kind, Pick,” Alexandra said.

  “Alexandra, do you believe in love at first sight?” Bill Dunn asked.

  “Does your mother know you’re out, little boy?” Alexandra replied.

  “Watch it, Alex,” Pick said. “He’s a friend of mine.”

  “Sorry,” Alexandra said. “We were talking about why you didn’t call me.”

  “I told you. We’re just passing through town. And obviously, you’re not hurting for company. If I thought you were sitting at home, all alone, just waiting for the phone to ring, I might have called. Did you pick up those sailors in here, or bring them with you?”

  “I’d forgotten what a sonofabitch you can be, Pick,” she replied. “But to answer your question, Bitsy and I just stopped in for a drink on our way to Jack and Marjorie’s, and they offered to buy us a drink.”

  “Bitsy is the blonde offering false hope to the swabbie?”

  “Bitsy is Bitsy Thomas, Pick. You know her.”

  He shook his head, no.

  “We were about to leave, as a matter of fact. Why don’t you come with us? I know Jack and Marjorie would love to see you.”

  “I’ll pass, thank you,” Pick said.

  “I’d like to go,” Bill Dunn said.

  “No, you wouldn’t,” Pick said.

  “Yes, I would,” Bill Dunn replied. “I think I’m in love.”

  “You’re not old enough to be in love,” Alexandra said, looking hard at him again. “Oh, come on, Pick. It’ll be fun.”

  “Please, Sir,” Bill Dunn said.

  “How are we going to get Whatsername…”

  “Bitsy,” Alexandra furnished.

  “…away from the Navy?”

  “I told you, they only bought us a drink,” Alexandra said.

  “They apparently feel there’s more to it than that,” Pick said. “The Navy is throwing menacing looks over here. And there are six of them, and only two of us.”

  “I’ll go over and tell them we’re in love,” Bill Dunn said. “They’re supposed to be gentlemen; they’ll understand.”

  “No, you won’t!” Alexandra said. “What you’re going to do, sonny boy, is go to the garage and wait for us. Then I will leave, and when Bitsy sees that I’m gone, she’ll get the message. And when she leaves, then Pick can.”

  “You’re pretty good at this sort of thing, aren’t you?” Pick asked.

  “I’d really like to, Sir,” Bill Dunn said, making it a plaintive request.

  “Oh, Christ!” />
  “I don’t know how well you know this guy,” Alexandra said to Bill Dunn, “but he really is not a very nice person.”

  “Run along, Lieutenant,” Pick said. “I suppose we must do what we can to keep up the morale of the home front.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Bill Dunn said.

  When he was out of earshot, Alexandra looked at Pickering.

  “Pick, that’s just a boy. You don’t mean to tell me that the Marines are really going to send him off to the war?”

  “You want a straight answer, Alex? Or are you just idly curious?”

  “I want a straight answer.”

  “He is just a boy. I would be surprised if he’s ever…had a woman. In the biblical sense. But yes, war is war, and The Corps will inevitably, sooner or later—almost certainly sooner—send him to the war.”

  “Is he really a pilot? For that matter, are you?”

  “Yes, he is. We are. And I’m sure, when the time comes, that Billy Dunn will do his best.”

  “He’s so young,” Alexandra said. “He looks so…vulnerable.”

  “Do me a favor, Alex, and don’t play around with his emotions.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know damned well what I mean. The way you played around with me.”

  “Screw you, Pick,” Alexandra said. “You got what you deserved. I’ll see you in the garage.”

  She walked out of the bar. Two minutes later Bitsy Thomas left the six Naval Aviators at the table and left the bar. The Naval Aviators stared unpleasantly at Pickering for a minute or two until he finished his drink and left the bar.

  [FIVE]

  “Edgewater”

  Malibu, California

  1830 Hours 24 October 1942

  Major Homer C. Dillon, USMCR, was not in a very good mood as he turned off the coast highway onto the access road between the highway and the houses that lined the beach. For one thing, the goddamned car was acting up.

  You’d think if you paid nearly four thousand dollars for the sonofabitch and it wasn’t even a year old, that you could expect to drive the sonofabitch back and forth to San Diego with all eight cylinders firing and the goddamned roof mechanism working.

  Dillon drove a yellow 1942 Packard 120 Victoria—the big-engine and long-wheel-base Packard with a special convertible body by Darrin. The Darrin body meant some pretty details: At the window line, for instance, the doors had a little dip in them, so you could rest your elbow there. All this cost a full thousand, maybe twelve hundred, dollars more than the ordinary “big” Packard convertible. And initially he was very pleased with it.