THE CORPS VI - CLOSE COMBAT

by W. E. B Griffin

  Banning had a very sharp, very clear picture of Milla, sweet goddamned Milla, who'd already survived so goddamned much... desperately hanging on to his hand as they were married in the Anglican Cathedral in Shanghai... seven hours before the goddamned Corps ordered him out of Shanghai for the Philippines, with no goddamned way to get her out.

  "Shit," Banning said softly, bitterly.

  McCoy looked at him.

  "Drink your martini. There's nothing you can do about anything."

  "Fuck you, Killer," Banning said.

  McCoy let that particular "Killer" pass unnoted. And Banning, meanwhile, picked up his martini and drained it, then held it over his head, signaling he wanted another.

  "So what brings you to the Big City, Lieutenant?" he asked, closing the subject of the former Baroness Milla Christiana Lendenkowitz, now Mrs. Edward F. Banning, present address unknown.

  "I've been down at the Armed Forces Induction Station," McCoy replied. "What about you?"

  "Rickabee ordered me to take a week off," Banning answered. "The week's over tomorrow."

  "That figures. I paddle the goddamned rubber boat into the jaws of danger, while the Major sits on his ass in the Port Moresby Aussie O Club bar. And the Major gets a week off."

  Does he mean that? Or is he pulling my leg?

  "Didn't Rickabee offer you time off?"

  McCoy smiled. "Rickabee suspected, correctly, that the goddamn Navy has been grabbing everybody who speaks Japanese and Chinese. He said if I could grab as many as I could for our side in a week or less, he'd call it duty and pay me travel and per diem. He knew my girl lives here."

  "I presume, then, Lieutenant, that you're on duty?"

  "Yeah," McCoy said, and gestured around the 21 Club. "Tough, huh?"

  "And then you go back to Washington?"

  "To Parris Island. They've got a dozen boots down there who are supposed to speak Chinese. You know what we need them for."

  Banning nodded: As soon as arrangements could be made, McCoy was to be sent to China-to Mongolia, specifically-where he'd set up a weather-reporting radio station. It was of course hoped that he'd find a way to keep the Japanese from finding it and shutting it down.

  Considering that no one was sure the Marines could hold on to Guadalcanal, it seemed pretty farfetched that the top-level planners were already considering the problems of long-range bombing of the Japanese home islands. But in one sense it was encouraging; somebody thought the war could be won.

  "When does that start?"

  "They don't confide in me," McCoy said. "Rickabee probably knows, but he won't tell me." He laughed.

  "What's funny?"

  "Do you know what an oxymoron is? Sessions just told me."

  Banning thought it over a moment. "Yeah, I think I do."

  "Rickabee had him in his office while he told me who to look for at Parris Island: Boots who would volunteer for this thing. 'The important thing to find there,' he said, 'is intelligence. I don't just want volunteers; I want smart volunteers.' And Sessions said, 'Colonel, that's an oxymoron.' I thought it meant sort of a supermoron or something. I didn't know what the hell he was talking about. But Rickabee was pissed and threw him out of his office. Sessions told me later that an oxymoron is something like 'military intelligence.' Anybody intelligent who volunteered for this thing would prove by volunteering that he was pretty stupid."

  Banning laughed.

  But you volunteered, didn't you, Killer? And you're not stupid. Or are you? What is the difference between valor and stupidity?

  Carolyn Howell met Ernestine Sage's eyes in the ladies'-room mirror.

  "I know about Mrs. Banning," she said.

  "I thought maybe you did," Ernie said as she repaired her lipstick. "According to my Marine, your Marine is a man of great integrity."

  "I met him in the library. He was researching the Shanghai Post to find out any scraps he could about what happened after the Japanese occupied the city."

  "You're a librarian?" Ernie interrupted.

  "Yes. I went back to work after my divorce," Carolyn replied absently. "And it just... happened... between us. I already knew about his having to leave his wife over there."

  "You didn't have to tell me that," Ernie said.

  "You didn't have to call yourself a camp follower," Carolyn said. "Why did you?"

  "Well, for one thing it's the truth," Ernie said. "He won't marry me. So I take what I can get. Whither he goest, there goeth I, as it says in the Good Book, more or less. Except that he doesn't often go someplace where I can follow him." She gave her head a little regretful shake. "I lived with him outside Camp Pendleton for a while."

  "Why won't he marry you?"

  "The Killer thinks he's going to get killed... or rather, that's his professional opinion. He has integrity, too, goddamn him; he doesn't want to leave a widow."

  "Have you two got plans for tonight?" Carolyn asked.

  "The office boy has a reputation for coming up with anything you want, for a price. I gave him twenty dollars and told him to find me some steaks. He couldn't get any steaks, but he came up with a rib roast. I am going to pretend I'm a housewife and make it for him."

  "I'll give you thirty dollars for it," Carolyn said. "And invite the two of you to join us for dinner in the bargain."

  "Deal," Ernie said. "And in the bargain, I will smile enchantingly at Gregory and charm him into letting me raid their wine cellar."

  [THREE]

  The Andrew Foster Hotel

  San Francisco, California

  1730 24 October 1942

  Mrs. Carolyn Ward McNamara was by nature a very fastidious woman. Consequently, she was at the moment a very annoyed one. Not only had she not bathed in seventy-two hours, or changed her clothing (except underwear, once) during that time, but her skin felt gritty from the coal ash that blew through the window of the passenger car on the final, St. Louis-San Francisco leg of her journey. The last time she combed her hair-as they were coming into San Francisco-she could literally hear the scraping noise the ash made against her comb.

  Before she actually entered Philadelphia's 30th Street Station (how long ago? it seems like weeks), she really had no idea how overloaded the railroads were. Even in the middle of the night, 30th Street Station was jammed. Still, she was able to buy a ticket to San Francisco, thank God!... even if she didn't have a seat for most of the way to Chicago. And the passenger car was old!-even older than the one that brought her from Chicago to here; it had probably been retired from service after the Civil War and resurrected for this one. Anyhow, she found a place at the rear of that ancient passenger car, behind the last seat, where she was able to crawl in and rest her back against the wall.

  During the trip, she subsisted on cheese and baloney sandwiches, orangeade, and an infrequent piece of fruit. She'd sell her soul right now for five ounces of scalloped veal, some new potatoes, and a green salad.

  At the station, she waited thirty minutes for a taxi, then had to share the cab with two people who apparently lived at opposite ends of San Francisco.

  And now she was finally arriving at the Andrew Foster, but God only knew what she was going to find there. If she managed to connect with Charley at all, he'd probably be in the same shape that she was: tired, dirty, and with no place to go.

  "Here we are, lady," the driver said as the cab pulled up in front of the hotel.

  Coming here, she realized at that moment, was not the smartest idea she ever had. But when she heard Charley's voice, and he told her he was on his way to San Francisco, it seemed like an inspiration. They would meet where they had parted, in San Francisco's most elegant hotel.

  The doorman opened the door (looking askance, Carolyn was sure, at the filthy lady with the coal ash in her hair). She glanced out. People were standing in line in front of the revolving door.

  Not only is there going to be no room at this inn, but what made you think they would obligingly provide a message-forwarding service for you and Charley?

&n
bsp; "Good afternoon, Madam," the doorman said. "Will Madam be checking in?"

  Not goddamn likely. But if I tell him that, what ad 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 a 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, Go
d, for bringing him back to me!