THE CORPS VI - CLOSE COMBAT

by W. E. B Griffin

  "Moore?" Pickering asked.

  Moore shrugged, looked thoughtful for a moment, then made a gesture with his fist balled, thumb up.

  "Absolute agreement?" Pickering challenged.

  "We talked about it last night," Moore said. "It fits in with the most logical scenario on Guadalcanal."

  "Which is?" Pickering asked.

  Hart noticed that the relationship between the three of them had subtly changed, as if they had changed from uniforms into casual clothes. It was not a couple of junior officers talking to a general-they had even stopped using the terms "Sir" and "General"-but rather three equals dealing with a subject as dispassionately as biologists discussing mysterious lesions on a frog.

  "They're obviously having more trouble moving through the mountains than they thought they would," Moore went on, "especially their artillery. If they had moved it as easily as they thought they could-were ordered to-the attack would have started. But to make it official that they hadn't would mean a loss of face all around-for Maruyama for having failed, for Hyakutake for having issued an order that has not been obeyed. Et cetera."

  "You're saying there won't be an attack?"

  "No. They'll attack," Pluto said. "If it's a six-man squad with one mortar. But the attack is not on schedule. And from that I think we can safely infer that when launched it will not be in the strength they anticipated. And I think it will be very uncoordinated...."

  "When?"

  "Today," Moore said firmly.

  "Tomorrow," Pluto said, equally firmly.

  "And that's what I tell El Supremo?" Pickering asked.

  "It's our best shot," Pluto said.

  "OK," Pickering said. "Now, how long will it take you to get Hart up to speed on the machine?"

  "Not long. He can already type. Not as long as it will take to get him into an officer's uniform, and through the paper shuffling at SWPOA."

  "Can I help with that?" Pickering asked.

  "Yes, Sir. A word in General Sutherland's ear..."

  "No," Pickering said, and smiled at him. "You're a major now, Major. You see what you can do. If you have trouble, then I'll go to Sutherland."

  "I'm not a major yet," Pluto said. "It'll take days for the paperwork to get here from Washington."

  It took a long time for Pickering to reply.

  "How long will it take to get an officer's uniform for Hart?" he asked finally.

  "There's an officer's sales store," Moore replied. "No time at all."

  "Come with me, please, Major," Pickering said, and motioned the others to come along.

  He went to a telephone and dialed a number.

  "Colonel Huff, this is General Pickering," he said when there was an answer. "Would you put me through to the Supreme Commander, please?"

  There was a slight pause.

  "Good morning, General," Pickering said. "Sir, I would like to ask a personal favor."

  There was another slight pause.

  "Sir, I have just received word that Pluto Hon's long-overdue promotion has come through. I know he would be honored, and I would regard it as a personal favor, if you would pin his new insignia on."

  Another pause, slightly longer.

  "Thank you very much, Sir. I very much appreciate your kindness."

  He hung up. He turned to Pluto Hon.

  "Do you think anyone would dare ask you for the paperwork after El Supremo has pinned the brass on you himself?"

  "No, Sir."

  "Get the right insignia for you and Moore, get a uniform for George. And when you have all that, come back here and get me."

  "We're all going to El Supremo's office?" Moore asked. "But you only asked about Pluto."

  "It is an old military tactic, Lieutenant, known as Getting the Camel's Nose Under the Tent," General Pickering said. "General MacArthur knows all about it. He'll understand."

  [TWO]

  USMC Public Relations Office

  U.S. Post Office Building

  Los Angeles, California

  0845 Hours 24 October 1942

  When he saw Major Homer C. Dillon, USMCR, walk into the outer office and speak to one of the sergeants, the mind of First Lieutenant Richard B. Macklin, USMC, took something like an abrupt lurch. Dillon was almost certainly asking for him. And the Major inspired decidedly mixed emotions in him.

  Macklin, a tall, not quite handsome officer, whose tunic was adorned with parachutist's wings and two rows of ribbons, the most senior of which was the Purple Heart Medal with one oak leaf cluster, had encountered Dillon twice before. Their initial meeting was at the Parachute School at the old Navy Dirigible Base in Lakewood, N.J., before he was ordered to the Pacific. And they met again six weeks previously, in the U.S. Army 4th General Hospital in Melbourne, Australia. Macklin was then recuperating from the wounds he'd received during the invasion of Gavutu. That very day Dillon sent him to the States to participate in the First War Bond Tour (an inspired act on Dillon's part, Macklin had to admit).

  Still, Macklin was of several minds about Dillon himself. For one thing, Lieutenant Macklin was an Annapolis graduate, a career Marine officer, and Major Dillon was not. Consequently, he wasn't entirely sure of the wisdom of directly commissioning a former China Marine sergeant as a major simply because the sergeant had become a press agent for a Hollywood studio after leaving The Corps. At the same time, it could be argued that The Corps needed the expertise of such a man. Such, anyhow, had been the opinion of the Assistant Commandant, who had arranged for Dillon's commissioning. Brigadier General J. J. Stewart, head of Marine Corps Public Relations, had been good enough to pass this information on to Macklin, and Macklin was grateful to have learned it.

  Lieutenant Macklin was also not at all sure how Major Dillon felt about him. Both at Lakewood and at the 4th General Hospital, he sensed that Dillon did not wholly approve of him. It was of course likely that ex-Sergeant Dillon was a little uncomfortable with major's leaves on his shoulders, especially in the presence of a regular officer of a lesser rank.

  And then, too, Lieutenant Macklin was more than a little disappointed when General Stewart telephoned to tell him that, in addition to his other duties, Major Dillon would be "taking responsibility" for the Second War Bond Tour, and that for the time being at least Dillon would be operating out of Los Angeles. Macklin had thought-indeed, he'd been told-that he would be running the Second War Bond Tour. He wondered if this-it was in effect a kind of demotion-would affect his chances for promotion. God knows, that was overdue.

  On the other hand, problems had already arisen in taking what Macklin had come to think of as "Tour Two" out of the starting gate. These problems were certainly not his fault; but if they got out of hand, they would almost certainly reflect adversely on him. Dillon's presence would at least take him out of the line of fire. If anything went bad, Dillon, as the senior officer, would obviously be responsible.

  Macklin rose from behind his desk and walked somewhat stiffly to the door. His leg was still giving him a little trouble. When he had to be on his feet for any length of time, he supported himself with a cane.

  "Good morning, Sir," Macklin called. "It's good to see you, again, Sir."

  Dillon crossed the room to him.

  "How are you, Macklin? How's your leg?" Dillon asked, offering his hand.

  "Coming along just fine, Sir. A little stiff. Thank you for asking. Sir, General Stewart has been trying to get in touch with you. He asks that you call him immediately."

  "Did he say what he wanted?"

  "He said it was good news, Sir. About Easterbrook."

  Well, that is good news, Dillon thought. Stewart is telling me he finally got Personnel off their ass and they've come up with a set of records for the Easterbunny. That means I can get him paid and get leave orders cut for him, and let him go home.

  "I'll call him later in the morning. And I've got some good news, too. Veronica Wood has graciously agreed to lend her presence to this war bond tour."

  "That's wonderful!"


  "You better get a press release out on it right away... check with Mort Cooperman at Metro-Magnum, he's got their still-photo lab running off a hundred eight-by-ten glossies to send out with them. I told him to use the shot of her in the negligee where you can see her nipples."

  "Aye, aye, Sir," Lieutenant Macklin said. He was familiar with the photograph Dillon referred to. On the one hand, in his opinion, it bordered upon the lewd and lascivious; but on the other, he felt sure that newspapers across the country would print it.

  "So bring me up to speed," Dillon said. "What have you got laid on so far?"

  "I have the tentative schedule in my desk, Sir," Macklin said. "There are, I'm afraid, two problems."

  "Which are?"

  "There are six Guadalcanal aces assigned to the tour, Sir, as you know. Three of them are here. I've put them up in the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. They gave us a very attractive rate, Major."

  "They like to get their hotel in the newspapers, too, Macklin. They should have comped the whole damned tour."

  "Yes, Sir," Macklin said.

  I never thought about that, he thought. This is going to be a learning experience for me.

  "Well, they are putting me up, Sir, free of charge."

  "What about the other three pilots?"

  Macklin walked stiffly to his desk and came out with a sheet of paper, which he handed to Dillon. It was the radio message from General Stewart ordering Captain Charles M. Galloway and Lieutenants William C. Dunn and Malcolm S. Pickering to participate in the tour.

  "These officers are in San Francisco, Sir," Macklin said. "They reported in by telephone. And when I told them what was on the agenda-coming to Los Angeles-and that the question of whether they could have a leave before the tour starts hadn't been resolved, they said-"

  " 'They'?" Dillon interrupted. "Who did you talk to?"

  "The Captain, Sir. Galloway. He said they all had diarrhea and weren't in any condition to come to Los Angeles. Sir, I don't mean to impugn the Captain's word, but I really wonder if all three of them could be so incapacitated simultaneously."

  "Have you got a telephone number for them?"

  "Yes, Sir. They're staying at the Andrew Foster Hotel."

  "Well, maybe the Andrew Foster is comping them, Lieutenant. I'll deal with that. Anything else?"

  "Yes, Sir. There is a major problem with Sergeant Machine Gun McCoy."

  "What kind of a problem?"

  "He's in the Brig at San Diego, Major. He apparently got drunk and tore up a brothel."

  "Christ, they're going to give him the Medal of Honor!"

  "And assaulted an officer, Sir."

  "Do they know about the medal?"

  "Yes, Sir. Captain Jellner, the San Diego Public Affairs Officer, has told them about that. It didn't seem to change their intention to bring him before a General Court-Martial."

  "OK. That's my first order of business. I'll go down there right now. Call Jellner and tell him I'm on my way."

  "Aye, aye, Sir. And, Sir, I requested Captain Galloway to check in with me every morning at zero nine hundred. What should I say to him?"

  "Tell him I said I don't want any of them drinking anything but Pepto-Bismol, and that I will be in touch."

  "Aye, aye, Sir," Lieutenant Macklin said.

  "I'll call you later," Dillon said.

  "Sir, would it be appropriate for me to call Miss Wood and express our gratitude to her?"

  "I'll take care of that, Lieutenant," Dillon said. "Thanks, anyway."

  [THREE]

  Office of the Commanding General

  USMC Recruit Training Depot

  San Diego, California

  1215 Hours 24 October 1942

  Brigadier General J. L. Underwood, USMC, looked up from his desk when he heard a knock at his open office door.

  "You wanted to see me, Sir?" Colonel Daniel M. Frazier, USMC, his deputy, asked.

  "Come in, Dan," General Underwood said, "and close the door."

  Colonel Frazier did as he was ordered, then looked at General Underwood.

  "What's up, Boss?"

  "We are about to be honored with the visit of a feather-merchant major from Headquarters Public Affairs. He wants to discuss 'the ramifications of the Sergeant McCoy affair.' "

  "Uh-oh."

  "I think it would be a good thing if you sat in on this."

  "Yes, Sir. He's coming now?"

  "He's on his way."

  "Has the General had cause to rethink his decision vis-a-vis Sergeant McCoy?"

  "The General has decided to give the sonofabitch a fair trial and then hang him," General Underwood said. "I figure he'll get twenty years. I'm going to let him contemplate his next twenty years from his cell at Portsmouth... for about six months. And then I'm going to have a change of heart and restore him to duty as a private. I figure what he did at Guadalcanal earned him that much. But The Corps cannot tolerate staff sergeants calling officers what... what he called that MP lieutenant. Not to mention all those people he put in the hospital."

  "Yes, Sir," Colonel Frazier said.

  There was a knock at the door.

  "Yes?"

  "Major Dillon to see the General, Sir," a voice called.

  "Show the Major in, please," General Underwood called, and then added softly, as if to himself, "and I don't need some feather-merchant public affairs puke to tell me about the good of The Corps."

  Major Jake Dillon marched into General Underwood's office, stopped exactly eight inches from the desk, came to rigid attention, stared over General Underwood's head, and barked, "Sir, Major Dillon, Homer C."

  General Underwood examined Major Dillon carefully, and reluctantly came to the decision that, public relations feather merchant or not, he looked like a Marine. Nevertheless, to set the stage properly, he kept him standing there at attention for sixty seconds-which seemed much longer-before saying, softly, "You may stand at ease, Major."

  "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir," Dillon said, and assumed the position of parade rest. Instead of standing rigidly with his arms at his side, thumbs on the seam of his trousers, feet together, he was now standing rigidly with his feet precisely twelve inches apart and with his hands crossed precisely over the small of his back. He continued to stare over General Underwood's head.

  "I understand you wish to discuss the matter of Staff Sergeant McCoy?" General Underwood said quietly, with ice in his voice.

  "The General is correct, Sir. Yes, Sir."

  "And I am to presume you are speaking for the Director of Public Affairs? He sent you here?"

  "No, Sir. If the Major gave the General that impression, Sir, it was inadvertent, Sir."

  "Excuse me, Major," Colonel Frazier said. "Have we met?"

  "Yes, Sir. The Major has had the privilege of knowing the Colonel."

  "Where would that have been, Major?"

  "Sir, in Shanghai, China, Sir. When the Colonel was S-4 of the 4th Marines, Sir."

  "Goddamn it, of course! Jake Dillon."

  "You know this officer, Colonel Frazier?" General Underwood asked.

  "Yes, Sir. In '38 and '39 he had the heavy-weapons section under Master Gunnery Sergeant Jack (NMI) Stecker."

  "Jack (NMI) Stecker has the Medal," General Underwood said.

  "Now Captain Stecker," Colonel Frazier said.

  "He made major," General Underwood corrected him. "I can't imagine Jack (NMI) Stecker even using the term 'motherfucker,' much less screaming it at an officer."

  "Begging the General's pardon," Dillon said. "It is now Lieutenant Colonel Stecker."

  "Well, I hadn't heard that," Colonel Frazier said. "Are you sure?"

  "Sir, yes, Sir. I saw Colonel Stecker a few days ago, Sir."

  "On Guadalcanal?" General Underwood said.

  "Sir, yes, Sir. Colonel Stecker commands Second of the Fifth, Sir."

  "Dillon, I said 'at ease,' not 'parade rest,' " General Underwood said.

  "Aye, aye, Sir. Sorry, Sir," Dillon said, and allowed the stiffness to go out of h
is body.

  "Are things as bad over there as we hear, Dillon?" General Underwood said.

  "They're pretty goddamn bad, General. The goddamned Navy sailed off with all the heavy artillery and most of the rations still aboard ship. For the first couple of weeks, we were eating Jap rations; we didn't have any of our own."