Close Combat

by W. E. B Griffin

  But today, even before he got to San Diego, it started to miss. And when he tried to put the roof up at the Brig at the Recruit Depot—to keep the seats cool when he was inside getting good ol’ Machine Gun McCoy, that sonofabitch, turned loose—there was a grinding noise, then a screech, and then smoke. And there was the goddamned roof, stuck half up and half down.

  He couldn’t drive it that way. So he borrowed tools and dug in the back, behind the backseat, to disconnect the roof from the pump. When he was finishing that, hydraulic fluid squirted all over his shirt and trousers. They were probably ruined.

  Though Dillon did not remember Colonel Frazier as being nearly so accommodating when it had been Sergeant Dillon and Major Frazier in the 4th Marines, the Colonel had really come through. There were now, and for the duration of the war bond tour, two gunnery sergeants on temporary duty with the Los Angeles Detachment, Marine Corps Public Affairs Division; they had already done a fine job of providing Staff Sergeant McCoy with a few pointers about the kind of good behavior it was in his own best interests to display. Aside from a few minor scrapes on his face, where the force of the stream from the fire hose had skidded him across the cell floor, there wasn’t a mark on him.

  Frazier also arranged for a Marine Green 1941 Plymouth station wagon—normally assigned to Recruiting—to transport the two sergeants and the Hero of Bloody Ridge. That immediately proved useful. For McCoy crapped out in the back all the way to Los Angeles. But, as they followed him up the highway—with the goddamned Packard running on not more than five cylinders, backfiring like a water-cooled .50 caliber Browning, trailing a cloud of white smoke—it looked like the closing credits of Abbott & Costello Join the Marines.

  And then Dillon had to walk through the lobby of the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, looking like he’d pissed his pants, to arrange for a small suite (instead of the single already reserved) for McCoy and his new buddies.

  When he finally drove into his under-the-house, four-car garage, the only car there was the 1941 Ford Super Deluxe wood-sided station wagon he’d bought for Maria-Theresa and Alejandro to use. So as he went up the stairs, it was in the presumption that there wouldn’t be anyone else in the house besides servants.

  Except, of course, for the Easterbunny and the Nurse. Whatsername? Dawn.

  Oh, Christ! I never called that idiot Stewart!

  At the top of the stairs, when he stepped into the kitchen, he bellowed, “Alejandro!” And in a moment Alejandro appeared.

  “Señor Jake?”

  “If you can start the sonofabitch, start the Packard and have Maria-Theresa follow you in the Ford. Take it to the Packard place and tell them I want it fixed now.”

  “Señor Jake, is Saturday. Is half past six. They no open.”

  “Oh, shit. Do it anyway. Park the sonofabitch right in the middle of the lawn in front of the showroom, and leave the hood open.”

  “Señor Jake joke, yes?”

  “Señor Jake joke no. Do it, Alejandro.”

  “Sí, Señor.”

  Jake went into his bedroom, took his trousers off, sniffed them, saw how the stain had spread, uttered an obscenity, and threw them across the room.

  Then he sat down on the bed, dialing the long-distance operator with one hand and unbuttoning his shirt with the other.

  “Person to person, Brigadier General Stewart, Public Relations Division, Headquarters, U.S. Marine Corps, Washington, D.C.,” he said.

  He had all his shirt buttons open before the Eighth and I operator answered. He was working on his tie when he became aware that he was not alone in his bedroom.

  Veronica Wood was standing over him. One towel, wrapped around her head, covered all her hair. Another towel, wrapped around her torso, concealed her bosom and the juncture of her legs—or so she apparently believed.

  “You could have said ‘hello, baby’ or something,” she said.

  “I didn’t know you were here. I didn’t see a car, and Alejandro didn’t say anything.”

  “General Stewart’s office, Sergeant Klauber speaking, Sir.”

  “Major Dillon, Sergeant, returning the General’s call.”

  “One moment, Sir. I’ll see if the General is free.”

  “It’s Saturday. I let him go,” Veronica said. “What’s that smell?”

  “Brake fluid, hydraulic fluid, I don’t know what that stuff is. And how was your day?”

  “What did you do, roll around in it? Don’t ask about my day.”

  “OK, I won’t.”

  “General Stewart.”

  “Major Dillon, Sir,” Jake said.

  “Major Dillon, Sir,” Veronica parroted, then giggled, and saluted. This action caused the towel around her body to rise even higher, and then to slip loose. She adjusted the towel, an action that Jake found to be quite pleasurable.

  “Dillon, I have been trying to get in touch with you all day.”

  “Sir, I was in San Diego. There was a problem there that had to be resolved.”

  “Sir, I was in San Diego,” Veronica parroted.

  “What sort of a problem?”

  Oh, shit, I don’t want to get into that.

  “It’s a solved problem, General. I spoke with General Underwood and Colonel Frazier. They not only gave me a couple of gunnery sergeants, but a station wagon as well, for as long as the tour lasts.”

  “Well, that was certainly nice of General Underwood,” General Stewart said.

  “I think the General has a good appreciation of the importance of the war bond tour,” Jake said.

  “I think the General has a good appreciation of the importance of the war bond tour,” Veronica parroted, then sat down on the bed beside Major Dillon and inserted her tongue in his ear.

  “The reason I’ve been trying so hard to get in touch with you, Dillon, is that I have some good news.”

  I’ve been called back to work for Pickering, I hope?

  “Yes, Sir?”

  Miss Veronica Wood groped Major Homer C. Dillon, USMCR. He pushed her hand away.

  “I had a very good conversation with the Assistant Commandant about your man Easterbrook,” General Stewart said.

  “Sir, did you manage to get his records straightened out?”

  “Yes, of course,” General Stewart said, a hint of pique in his voice. “I told you I’d handle that.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Major Dillon said.

  “Yes, Sir,” Miss Veronica Wood said. She stood up and walked in front of Jake Dillon, removing the towel from her hair as she did. She swung her head back and forth, and her long blond hair swept this way and that. Sweetly.

  “The Assistant Commandant was aware, of course, that Easterbrook’s splendid work has come to the attention of the Secretary of the Navy,” General Stewart said.

  What the hell is he talking about? Oh, yeah! The Easterbunny’s 16mm film and still pictures Ed Banning took to Washington with him. Knox probably said, “Nice pictures, Banning.” And Banning probably said, “They were taken by a young corporal, Sir,” passing the credit where it was due.

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “That letter reflected well on the shop, Dillon. It made us all look good.”

  What the fuck is this idiot talking about?

  “Yes, Sir,” Major Dillon said.

  “And I told him that I had just arranged to have his lost-in-combat records reconstructed, which would reflect his promotion to staff sergeant early on in the Guadalcanal campaign.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  Miss Wood untucked the towel that more or less covered her body and held it by its corners. She lowered a corner, briefly, enough to expose her left breast. And then she quickly gathered it back over her and winked at Major Dillon.

  “Get off the phone, Jake,” Miss Wood said.

  “And the Assistant Commandant then asked me, Jake, if I had considered the question of decorating Easterbrook and commissioning him…”

  Jesus Christ, he’s nineteen years old!

  “…and I said the thought
had occurred to me, but that I hadn’t really thought it through.”

  Miss Wood raised the towel over her head and let it fall across her face. And then, her hands locked behind her neck, she demonstrated the dance technique known as “bump and grind.”

  “Get off the phone, Jake!” she called plaintively from beneath the towel.

  “He’s a little young, General,” Dillon said.

  “I made that point myself, Dillon,” General Stewart said.

  “Who’s a little young? Are you talking about Bobby?” Miss Wood inquired, pulling the towel off her head so she could see.

  “The Assistant Commandant said he could think of no greater recommendation for commissioning a second lieutenant than his earning staff sergeant’s stripes on the battlefield, and taking over from officers who had fallen in battle.”

  “And you’re thinking of recommending Sergeant Easterbrook for a commission, General?”

  “What about Bobby?” Miss Wood asked, letting the towel fall to the floor, then moving to sit, stark naked, beside Dillon on the bed.

  “It’s a fait accompli, Dillon! You just get that young man to San Diego as soon as you can. By the time you reach there, everything will be laid on. He’ll be walked through the commissioning process.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And then we’ll assign him to train the combat correspondents. The elusive round peg in the round hole, right, Dillon? Who better to train them than someone like Easterbrook?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Dillon said.

  “And it should make a fine public affairs press release, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes, Sir. I’ll write it myself.”

  Marine Corps eats loco weed; goes bananas in spades.

  “My other phone has been ringing, Dillon. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. Good-bye, Sir.”

  He hung up.

  “That was about Bobby, wasn’t it?” Veronica asked.

  “‘Bobby’? I didn’t know you knew his name.”

  “I wanted to talk to you about him,” she said. “Or, specifically, about Florence Nightingale.”

  “Dawn Morris, you mean?”

  “What has Bobby got that that bitch wants?”

  “A friend who promised her a screen test,” Dillon said.

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Not at all. Easterbrook was pretty sick…sick and shaken up…when I got him here. I asked Harry to send a nurse…”

  “Harry who?”

  “Harald Barthelmy, M.D.…over here to take care of him. The bastard dressed up his receptionist in a nurse suit and tried to palm her off on me. I was going to throw her out and then kick Harry’s ass; but I saw the way the kid looked at her. And I thought, what the hell, why not? It was in a good cause.”

  “You sicked that slut on that nice kid? Jesus Christ, Jake! He’s nice. He’s sweet!”

  “She’s not so bad. And she’s been good for Easterbrook.”

  “He told me about Guadalcanal,” Veronica said.

  “Did he?”

  That’s surprising.

  “Yeah. Whatsername went into town—in my studio car, by the way—and we were alone and started to talk. Florence Nightingale has him drinking gin and orange juice. And he got a little tight, more than a little tight, and told me about it. Including the part about his not knowing he was coming home until you pulled him on the airplane.”

  “He was pretty close to the edge,” Jake said. “I didn’t see it, a friend of mine did. Where is he now?”

  “Sound asleep on the balcony,” Veronica said, gesturing toward the drapes over the sliding door. “I lowered the awning and put a blanket on him.”

  “They’re going to make an officer out of him.”

  “An officer? Jesus, he’s just a kid!”

  “Right.”

  “Was that your idea?”

  “No, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we’re both in The Marine Corps. All you get to do in The Marine Corps is say ‘aye, aye, Sir.’”

  “They really say that, Jake, ‘aye, aye’? It sounds like bad dialogue from a DeMille sailboat epic.”

  Dillon laughed. “They really say it. I really say it.”

  “You were really kissing the ass of whoever you were talking to on the phone. Who was that?”

  “One of the idiots who wants to put a bar on the kid’s shoulders.”

  “So what happens to Florence Nightingale? How long is that going to go on? I think he thinks he’s in love with her.”

  “Tony Weil called me. They’re getting stage nineteen set up for some Technicolor tests. He said he needs some bodies for that, and if I send her over on Monday, he’ll give her dialogue and put her in costume, get her somebody decent to play against, and direct it himself. After that, I can send her back to Dr. Harry. I’ll think of some story to tell the kid, to let him down easy. I’ve got to send him to San Diego Monday anyway. She just won’t be here when he gets back. She had to see her sick grandmother in Dubuque, or something.”

  “Tony’s actually going to direct her a test?” Veronica asked.

  Dillon nodded. “He’ll also cut it for me. Do it right.”

  “Tony’s all right. Not like some unnamed overrated hysterical Hungarian fags we have on the lot. That was nice of him.”

  “He owes me a couple of favors. But he is a nice guy.”

  “So are you,” Veronica Wood said, reaching out to touch his face. “A nice guy.” He looked into her eyes for a moment. “Speaking of costumes: Does the one I’m wearing give you any ideas?”

  He looked thoughtful a moment. “Beats me.”

  “You bastard!” she said.

  “If you vant to geddin in my pants, sveetheart,” Dillon said, in a thick and very credible mimicry of the director with whom Miss Wood was currently experiencing artistic differences, “you shouldn’t ought to talk to me like dat.”

  “You three-star bastard!” Veronica said delightedly, and pushed him back on the bed. Then she shrieked and looked at her fingers. “What the hell is that sticky crap?”

  “It comes out of the plumbing that makes the roof of the car go up and down.”

  “Well, I don’t want it on me,” Veronica said. “Go take a bath.”

  He went into the bathroom, into the stall shower, and turned the water on. Veronica stepped in beside him.

  “What the hell,” she said. “I was already in costume.”

  [SIX]

  Apartment 7B

  The Bay View Apartments

  Russian Hill, San Francisco, California

  1145 Hours 24 October 1942

  “I’m a little embarrassed,” Miss Bitsy Thomas said to First Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR. “I’ve never known Alex to behave like that before.”

  She was referring to Miss Alexandra Spears. Two minutes before, Miss Spears announced that Miss Thomas and Lieutenant Pickering would have to amuse themselves, then led First Lieutenant William C. Dunn into her bedroom.

  “Neither have I,” Pick said. “Perhaps it is love at first sight.”

  “She had a lot to drink,” Bitsy said loyally.

  “I’ve noticed that women who want to do something they think is a little out of the ordinary tend to take a belt or two,” Pick said. “It gives them an excuse.”

  “That’s a dirty shot,” Bitsy said.

  “In vino veritas,” Pick said. “Speaking of which, can I fix you another?”

  “I think I’ve had enough, thank you.”

  “There is no such thing as ‘enough,’” he said. “It goes directly from ‘not enough’ to ‘too much.’”

  “Have it your way. Too much.”

  Pick started to make himself a drink at Alexandra’s bar.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Bitsy asked.

  “You can ask,” he said.

  “Do you always drink this much? You’ve really been socking it away.”

  “O
nly when I can get it.”

  “I’ve got another question, but I’m afraid to ask it.”

  “Ask it. I didn’t promise to answer your questions.”

  “Is it because you’re going overseas?” Bitsy asked. “Oh, God, that came out wrong. I didn’t mean to suggest you’re afraid.”

  “If I was going overseas, I would be afraid.”

  “You’re not going overseas?”

  Pick took a sip of his drink, then met her eyes before replying. “I just got back.”

  “You did? Where were you?”

  “VMF-229, on the ’Canal.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “I flew fighters, Wildcats, F4F4s, on Guadalcanal.”

  There was doubt in her eyes.

  “That’s kind of hard to believe, Pick.”

  “It’s even harder to believe when you’re there,” he said.

  After a pause, she said, shocked, “My God, I believe you!”

  “All’s well that ends well, to coin a phrase.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know. First they’re putting us on display. And after that, who knows?”

  “What do you mean, ‘on display’?”

  “There’s a war bond tour,” Pick said, a bitter tone in his voice. “We are going to build up civilian morale and encourage people to buy war bonds.”

  Bitsy considered this a moment, then walked over to him.

  “I have the prerogative of changing my mind,” she said. “I’m a female.” She took his glass from his hand and took a sip. “That’s good. Would you make me one?”

  He was pouring the drink when, thoughtfully, Bitsy asked, “You said ‘we.’ You don’t mean that…”

  She pointed toward the bedroom. Faintly but unmistakably, the sounds of carnal delight were issuing from it. She became aware of them and blushed.

  “Put another record on,” Pick said.

  She did so.

  “He was over there, too?” she pursued when she walked back to him.

  “They’re going to pin the Navy Cross on him in a couple of days,” he said. “Little Billy in there is a double ace. Three kills at Midway, seven on the ’Canal. He was my squadron executive officer.”