"Two bars," Pickering said. "One in the living room, and another one, a wet bar, on the patio."
"I think that's just the sort of thing Jack had in mind," Stecker said.
Chapter Nine
(One)
Headquarters, 2nd Joint Training Force
Camp Elliott, California
O815 Hours, 9 January 1942
Captain Jack NMI (No Middle Initial) Stecker, USMCR, was a large man, tall and erect. His uniform was perfectly tailored and sharply creased. It bore the insignia of his grade, the double silver bars of a captain, both on the epaulets of the blouse and on his shirt collar. His high-topped dress shoes were highly polished. But there were no ribbons pinned to the breast of the blouse. For what he considered good reason, Captain Stecker had put his ribbons in one of the bellows pockets of his blouse.
Captain Stecker was quite surprised that the technical sergeant functioning as Colonel Lewis T. Harris's sergeant major apparently had no idea who he was. Equally surprising was that he could not recall having ever seen the technical sergeant before.
The technical sergeant wore the diagonal hash marks of sixteen years of satisfactory enlisted service on the sleeve of his blouse. Captain Jack NMI Stecker had worn a Marine
uniform since 1917. It bordered on the incredible that they had never run into each other before someplace. The Marine Corps, between major wars, was a small outfit. By the time someone had put in a couple hitches, he knew practically everybody else in the Corps.
There was supposed to be an exception to every rule, Stecker decided, and this was apparently it.
"The colonel will see you now, sir," the technical sergeant said.
"Thank you, Sergeant," Stecker said, and rose up out of his chair. He tugged on the skirt of his blouse and walked to the door with a red sign on it, lettered, "LEWIS T. HARRIS, COL, USMC, COMMANDING."
He rapped his knuckles on the jamb of Colonel Harris's door.
"Come!" Colonel Harris ordered.
Stecker marched into the office, stopped three feet from the desk, came to attention; and, looking six inches over Colonel Harris's head, barked, "Sir, Captain Stecker reporting for duty, sir."
Colonel Lewis T. Harris, a stocky, bald-headed, barrel-chested officer, looked up at Stecker without smiling. Then he stood up, walked to his office door and closed it, and returned to his desk.
"Well, you old sonofabitch, how the hell are you?" Colonel Harris asked.
"Very well, thank you, sir," Captain Stecker said.
"I'm always right, Jack," Colonel Harris said. "Some people don't understand that, but I hope this proves that to you."
"Sir?"
"If you had taken a commission when I wanted you to, you'd be sitting here with a chicken pinned to your collar, and I'd be reporting to you."
For the first time, Stecker met Colonel Harris's eyes.
"I'm still a little uncomfortable with the railroad tracks," he said.
"Shit!" Colonel Harris said. "Where the hell are your ribbons, Jack?"
"In my pocket," Stecker said.
"I figured," Colonel Harris said. "The Medal's something to be ashamed of, like some bare-teated dame in a hula skirt tattooed on your arm?"
"It makes people uncomfortable," Stecker said.
"Suit yourself, Jack, you can stand there at attention like some second lieutenant fresh out of Quantico, or you can sit down over there while I pour you a drink."
Stecker walked to the small couch and sat down.
"I didn't know how to handle this, Lew," he said. "So I did it by the book."
"And that's why you didn't call when you got in last night, right?" Colonel Harris said. "And spent the night on a cot in a BOQ, instead of with Marge and me?"
Captain Stecker did not reply. Colonel Harris went to a metal wall locker and took a bottle of scotch and two glasses from a shelf. He handed the glasses to Stecker and then poured an inch and a half of scotch in each glass.
He took one of the glasses and touched it against Stecker's.
"I'm glad to see you, Jack," he said. "Personally and professionally."
"Thank you," Stecker said. He started to add something, stopped, and then went on: "I was about to say, 'like old times,' but it's not, is it?"
"It never is," Harris said.
They solemnly sipped at the whiskey.
"I don't know how to handle this, Jack," Harris said. "I'm sorry about your boy."
"Thank you," Stecker said.
"He passed through here on his way to Pearl," Harris said. "He looked like a fine young man."
"He was," Stecker said. "Sixteenth in his class."
"I didn't hear how it happened," Harris said. "Just that it had."
"He was in the Marine detachment on the Arizona,'' Stecker said. "I understand they got at least one of the Marine-manned antiaircraft cannon into operation before she went down. I hope Jack at least got a chance to shoot back."
"How's Elly?" Colonel Harris said.
Stecker shrugged. There was no way to put the reaction of his wife to the loss of their oldest son into words.
"And the other boy? Richard? He's in the class of 'forty-two at West Point, right?"
"He was supposed to be," Stacker said.
"Supposed to be?" Hams asked.
"They commissioned them early," Stecker said. "Dick reported to Pensacola today. Or he reports tomorrow. For aviation training."
"You don't sound pleased."
"I don't know if I am or not," Stecker said. "Elly's afraid of airplanes."
"Hell, so am I," Harris said.
Stecker looked at him and smiled. "The only thing in the world you're afraid of is your wife," he said.
"And airplanes," Harris said. "I went to Pensacola in 'thirty, when I came back from Haiti. I did fine until they actually put me in the front seat of an airplane and told me to drive. I broke out in a cold sweat and was so scared I couldn't find my ass with both hands. Once I tilted the wings, I really didn't know which way was up. Somewhere in my jacket is a remark that says 'this officer is wholly unsuited for aviation duty.'"
"I didn't know you tried it," Stecker said.
"I was afraid when I went," Harris said. "I knew I was no Charles Lindbergh. But I was a brand-new captain with three kids, and I needed the flight pay. If your boy can't hack it, Jack, he'll find out in a hurry. Nothing to be embarrassed about if he can't. Some people are meant to soar like birds, and others, like you and me, to muck around in the mud."
Stecker chuckled.
"You know Evans Carlson, Jack?" Colonel Harris asked.
The question was asked lightly, but Stecker sensed that Harris was not playing auld lang syne.
"Sure," Stecker replied.
"China?" Harris pursued.
"I was on the rifle team with him," Stecker said.
"I forgot about that," Harris said. "You're one of those who thinks the Garand's the answer to a maiden's prayer."
The U.S. Rifle, Caliber.30, Ml, a self-loading weapon fed by an eight-round en bloc clip, was invented by John C. Garand, a civilian employee of the Springfield Arsenal. It was adopted as standard for the U.S. military in 1937 to replace the U.S. Rifle, Caliber.30, M1903, the Springfield, a bolt-operated rifle with an integral five-shot magazine.
"I don't know about a 'maiden's prayer,'" Stecker said. "But it's a fine weapon. It's a better weapon than the Springfield."
"I'm surprised to hear you say that," Harris said.
"You ever fire it?" Stecker asked.
"Familiarization," Harris said. "I had trouble keeping it on the target. I rarely got close to the black." (The eight, nine, and ten scoring rings of the standard rifle target are printed in black; the "bull's-eye.")
"I was on the troop test at Benning," Stecker said. (The U.S. Army Infantry Center was at Fort Benning, Georgia.) "And I had an issue piece out of the box. I had no trouble making expert with it. More important, neither did twelve kids fresh from Parris Island."
Harris grunted. A less
er man, he thought, would have quickly detected his disapproval of the Garand rifle and deferred, as is appropriate for a captain, to the judgment of a colonel. But Jack NMI Stecker, until recently Master Gunnery Sergeant Stecker, was not a lesser man. He spoke his mind.
"I've got one," Stecker went on, "that was worked over by an Army ordnance sergeant at Benning. It shoots into an inch and a half at two hundred yards."
"I've got a Springfield that'll do that," Harris argued.
"Your Springfield won't put eight shots in the black at three hundred yards as fast as you can pull the trigger," Stecker said.
"You're like a reformed drunk, Jack," Harris said. "Nothing worse than a reformed drunk. They have seen the goddamn light."
"Sorry," Stecker said.
"Maybe I'm wrong," Harris said. "I've been wrong before."
"The last time was May 13, 1937, right?" Stecker said.
Harris laughed, heartily, deep in his chest. "Moot point, anyway," he said. "This war'll be over long before the goddamned Army gets around to giving your wonderful Garand to the Corps."
"Probably," Stecker agreed, chuckling. The Marine Corps received all of its small arms through the Ordnance Corps of the U.S. Army. It was accepted as a fact of life that the Army supplied the Corps only after its own needs, real and perceived, were satisfied.
"We were talking about Evans Carlson," Harris said. "You get along with him all right, Jack?"
"Isn't that a moot point? I heard he resigned a couple of years ago. Actually, what I heard is that he was asked to resign. I heard he went Asiatic and annoyed some very important people."
"I don't know about that, but he's back. He applied for a reserve commission as a major, and they gave it to him. And then they promoted him. He knows some very important people."
"I hadn't heard that," Stecker said, thoughtfully. "Well, hell, why not? He's a good Marine. And here I sit wearing captain's bars."
"You didn't answer my question, Jack," Colonel Harris said.
"Do I get along with him? Sure. Is he here?"
Colonel Harris did not reply to the question directly.
"From this point, what I tell you is between us girls, Jack. I don't want it repeated."
"Yes, sir," Stecker said.
"Within the next couple of weeks, maybe the next month, the Corps is going to establish two separate battalions. One of them here. The one here will be commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Carlson."
"What do you mean, separate battalions? To do what?"
"Commando battalions," Harris said.
"I'm lost," Stecker confessed.
"A reserve captain wrote the Commandant a letter," Harris said, "in which he recommended the establishment of Marine units to do what the English Commandos do. Raids by sea on hostile shores."
"A reserve captain wrote the Commandant?" Stecker asked, incredulously.
"And the Commandant has decided to go along," Harris said.
Stecker didn't reply, but there was wonderment and disbelief all over his face.
"The captain who wrote the letter has friends in high places," Harris said.
"He must," Stecker said.
"His name is Roosevelt," Colonel Harris said.
"Captain Roosevelt," Stecker said, suddenly understanding.
"You know him?"
"I saw him a couple of times at Quantico," Stecker said. "I don't know him."
"Captain James Roosevelt will be the executive officer of the Second Separate Battalion, under Lieutenant Colonel Carlson, when it is activated," Harris said.
Stacker's eyebrow rose but he said nothing.
"I have been directed to do whatever can be done to grease the ways for Colonel Carlson and his separate battalion. He will have the authority to recruit for his battalion anywhere within the Corps. And simultaneously he will be able to transfer out from his battalion anybody he doesn't want. He will have the authority to equip and arm his battalion as he sees fit, and funds will be provided to purchase whatever he wants that can't be found in the warehouse. If there is a conflict between Carlson's battalion and some other unit for equipment, or the use of training facilities, Carlson will get what he thinks he needs. You getting the picture, Jack?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good, because as of this minute, it's your job to take care of Colonel Carlson and his separate battalion for me."
"I had hoped to get a company," Stecker said
"No way, Jack," Harris said. "Even without Carlson, there would be no company for you. We have company commanders. We're damned short of people like you. Once you get Carlson formed and trained and he's gone from here, I've got a spot from you in S-Three. If you handle Carlson right, there'll probably be a major's leaf to go with it."
"And if not?"
""Carlson has to be handled right, period," Colonel Harris said. "Or you and me will both be doing things we won't like."
Stecker frowned thoughtfully. Finally he said, "Aye, aye, sir."
"There's more, Jack," Colonel Harris said. "And if this goes outside the walls of this room, we're both in trouble."
"I understand," Stecker said.
"Carlson not only wants to have a commando outfit, he has some very strange ideas about how it should be run."
"That I don't understand," Stacker said. "How do you mean, 'run'?"
"Well, for one thing, the original proposal would do away with the rank structure. Instead of officers and noncoms and privates, there would be 'leaders' and 'fighters.' There would be no officers' mess. Everybody would 'cooperate.'"
"You're serious," Stecker said, after a moment. "That's crazy."
"Odd that you should use that word," Harris said, dryly. "There are some very important people who think that Carlson is crazy."
"You mean really crazy, don't you?"
Harris nodded. "And the same people think that he may have been turned into a Communist," he added.
"Then why are they giving him a battalion?"
"Because the President of the United States has got a commando bee up his ass, and he thinks Carlson is the man to come up with American commandos," Harris said.
He waited for that to sink in, and then went on: "The Commandant is worried about three things, Jack. First and foremost, that Carlson has gone off the deep end, and after he's picked the cream of the crop for his Raiders, he'll get a bunch of them wiped out on some crazy operation. Or worse: that he'll be successful on a mission, and the entire Corps will be converted to the U.S. Commandos."
"What's wrong with that?" Stecker asked, thoughtfully. "We do what I understand the commandos do, invest hostile enemy shores."
"The British Commandos have neither aviation nor artillery," Harris said. "If the Marine Corps is turned into the U.S. Commandos, there would be no need for the Corps to have either aviation or artillery either. And after the war, Jack? What would the Corps become? A regiment, maybe two, of Commandos."
"I hadn't thought about that," Stecker admitted.
"The Commandant has had this commando idea shoved down his throat," Harris said. "And like the good Marine he is, he has said 'aye, aye, sir,' and will do his best to carry out his orders. There are some other people, close to the Commandant, who are not so sure they should go along with it."
"I don't understand that," Stecker said. "What do you mean, not go along with it?"
"There's some interesting scuttlebutt that Intelligence is going to get an officer assigned to Carlson with the job of coming up with proof that he is a Communist, or crazy, or preferably both. Proof that they could hand the Commandant, proof that he could take to the President."
"Jesus!"
"Jack," Harris said carefully. "If something out of the ordinary, something you believe would be really harmful to the Corps, comes to your attention when you are dealing with Colonel Carlson, I expect you to bring it to my attention. But don't misunderstand me. I want you to do the best job you can in supporting him."
Stecker met his eyes. After a moment, he said, almost sadly, "Aye, a
ye, sir."
(Two)
The USS Pickerel
178 Degrees 35 Minutes West Longitude
21 Degrees 20 Minutes North Latitude
0405 Hours, 14 January 1942
Captain Edward J. Banning, USMC, awake in his bunk in the captain's cabin of the Pickerel, knew that it was a few minutes after 0400. He had heard the sounds of the watch changing, and that happened at precisely 0400.
W E B Griffin - Corp 02 - Call to Arms Page 18
