"Oh, yes, sir," the sergeant of the guard said. "But I thought you'd want to hear right away about PFC Tober. I sent him over to the dispensary."
"And the transient?"
"We have him restrained, sir. I was going to ask the captain's permission to keep him in the box until we can ship him out of here."
"The 'box,' Sergeant?" Commander Grotski asked, innocently.
"That's what we call our 'solitary detention facility,'" Captain Kamnik explained.
"Oh, I see," Grotski said. "And just out of idle curiosity, what's the name of the prisoner who broke the guard's nose?"
The sergeant of the guard looked at Captain Kamnik for permission to reply. Kamnik nodded.
"McCoy, sir," the sergeant of the guard said. "He's a mean sonofabitch, a general prisoner on his way to Portsmouth. He's gonna do five-to-ten. Assault on an officer and some other stuff."
"Curiosity overwhelms me," Commander Grotski said. "I would like to see this villain."
The sergeant of the guard looked distantly uncomfortable. He looked to Captain Kamnik for help and got none.
"Do you suppose you could bring him here, Sergeant?" Commander Grotski asked.
"Commander," the sergeant of the guard said, "you don't really want to see to this character, do you?"
"Oh, but I do. Go get him, Sergeant."
The sergeant of the guard again looked in vain for Captain Kamnik's help.
When he had gone, Commander Grotski asked, "Are you a betting man, Casimir?"
"Sometimes," Kamnik said.
"How about three will get you five that this McCoy will fall down the stairs on his way here?"
"It happens, Commander," Kamnik said. "I do my best to stop it, but sometimes it happens."
Five minutes later General Prisoner Thomas Michael McCoy was led into the brig commander's office. He was dressed in dungarees. A ten-inch-high letter "P" had been stenciled to the thighs of his trousers and onto the rear of his jacket. He was in handcuffs, and the handcuffs were chained to a thick leather belt around his waist. His ankles were encircled with heavy iron rings, and the rings were chained together, restricting his movement to a shuffle.
His hands were swollen, and red with iodine. There was more iodine on his face, on his mouth, and above his eyes. His face was swollen, and in a few hours both of his eyes would be dark.
They must have been really pissed at him, which was not surprising, since he broke a guard's nose, Commander Grotski thought. Otherwise the marks of his beating would not be so visible.
"What happened to your face?" Commander Grotski asked.
General Prisoner McCoy thought about his reply for a moment before he gave it.
"I fell down in the shower," he said.
"I fell down in the shower, sir," Grotski corrected him.
"I fell down in the shower, sir," McCoy dutifully parroted.
"That will be all, Sergeant," Commander Grotski said. "When we need you, we'll call for you."
The sergeant is worried that the moment he's out of the room, Grotski thought, McCoy will tell us that three, four, maybe five guards got him in the box and had at him with billy clubs, or saps, or whatever they thought would cause the most pain. That's against the Regulations for the Governance of the Naval Service.
"You really fell down in the shower, McCoy?" Grotski asked, when the sergeant of the guard had gone, closing the door after him.
"Yes, sir," McCoy said, after thinking it over.
"Tough guy, are you?" Grotski asked.
McCoy didn't answer.
"I asked you a question, McCoy," Grotski said.
"I guess I'm as tough as most," McCoy said, and remembered finally to add, "sir."
"You don't know what tough is, you dumb Mick sonofabitch," Grotski said. "And you're the dumbest sonofabitch I've seen in a long time. You don't even know what you're facing, do you? It hasn't penetrated that thick Mick head of yours, has it? You're really so dumb you think you can take on Portsmouth, don't you?"
McCoy didn't reply.
"That sergeant isn't even very good at what he did," Grotski said. "He's nowhere near good enough to get himself assigned to Portsmouth. At Portsmouth, he would be a rookie. When they beat you at Portsmouth, they got it down to a fine art. No marks. It just hurts. And how long are you going to be in Portsmouth, McCoy?"
"They gave me five-to-ten, sir," McCoy said.
"Let me tell you how it works. The first time you look cockeyed at somebody at Portsmouth, you dumb Mick, they'll give you a working over that'll make the one you just had feel like your mother kissed you. And then they'll add six months on your sentence for 'silent insolence.' And every time you look cockeyed at a guard there, you'll get another working over, and another six months, until one of two things happens. You won't look cockeyed at anyone, or you will fall down the stairs and break your neck. Then they'll bury you in the prison cemetery. You don't really understand that, do you?"
"I'm going to keep my nose clean, sir," McCoy said.
"Bullshit! You're not smart enough to keep your nose clean," Grotski said, nastily.
He let that sink in.
"You wouldn't even know what to do, would you, you stupid sonofabitch, if I told you I can get you out of Portsmouth?"
McCoy looked at him uncomprehendingly.
Finally, he said, "Sir?"
"If I was in your shoes, you miserable asshole, and somebody told me he could get me out of Portsmouth, I would get on my knees and ask him what I had to do, and pray to the Blessed Virgin that he would believe me when I said I would do it."
McCoy looked at him, his eyes widening.
And then he dropped to his knees. He tried to raise his hands together before him in an attitude of prayer, but his handcuffed wrists were chained to the leather belt around his waist, and he could move them only slightly above his waist.
"You tell me what I have to do, sir, and I'll do it. I swear on my mother's grave!"
"And now you pray, you miserable bastard," Grotski ordered. "And out loud!"
McCoy looked at him, frightened and confused.
"What do I pray?"
"Say your Hail Marys, you pimple on the ass of the Marine Corps," Grotski ordered icily.
"Hail Mary, full of grace," McCoy began, "the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen."
Grotski looked at Captain Kamnik, then nodded his head in an order for him to leave the room.
He closed the door to the office after them.
"He's pretty good at that, Casimir," he said. "Do you think maybe he was an altar boy, too?"
"Jesus!" Kamnik said, and then spotted the sergeant of the guard. "Wait outside please, Sergeant," he ordered.
When he looked at Grotski, Grotski was grinning broadly.
"Now what?"
"It's what is known as psychological warfare," he said. "I'll let him keep it up a while until I'm sure he is in the right state of mind, and then I'll offer him a chance to redeem himself."
"How?" Kamnik ordered.
"You ever hear of a Lieutenant Colonel Carlson?" he asked.
Kamnik shook his head. "No."
"Well, he's apparently on the general's shitlist, too. Some kind of a nut. He's being given some kind of commando outfit. The general said when I got McCoy out of here, he thought it would be nice if McCoy volunteered for it. I had the feeling he wouldn't be all that unhappy if McCoy got himself blown away as one of Carlson's commandos."
"And you think he'll volunteer?"
"I'm not going to let him off his knees until he does," Commander Grotski said.
Chapter Fourteen
(One)
The San Diego Yacht Club
1400 Hours, 28 February 1942
The Yellow Cab dropped Second Lieutenant Kenneth J. McCoy, USMCR, wearing dungarees, at the end of Pier Four at the yacht club. The driver was not accustomed to carrying
dungaree-clad Marines-for that matter Marines period-to the yacht club. And he watched curiously as McCoy walked down the pier and finally crossed the gangplank onto the Last Time. Then he shrugged his shoulders and drove off.
McCoy slid open the varnished teak door to the lounge and stepped inside.
Ernie Sage and Dorothy Burnes were there, listening to the radio. Dorothy was sitting uncomfortably in one of the armchairs, draped in a tentlike cotton dress. Ernie Sage, wearing very brief shorts and a T-shirt, jumped up from one of the couches when she saw him.
"What are you doing home so early?" she asked as she crossed the room to him. She grabbed his ears, pulled his face to hers, and kissed him wetly and noisily on the mouth. "Not that I'm not glad to see you, as you can see."
Dorothy laughed.
"They gave me the afternoon off," McCoy said.
"You should have called me, I would have come for you," Ernie said. She put her arm around him and pressed against him, confirming his suspicion that there was nothing but Ernie under the T-shirt.
"It was quicker catching the bus," he said.
"And how did you get here?"
"In a cab."
"And what did that cost?"
"Buck and a half, with the tip."
"Mr. Moneybags," Ernie said.
Ernie's attitude toward money-she was a real cheapskate- was another of the things about her that continually surprised him. With the exception, maybe, of Pick Pickering, she was the richest person he had ever known, but she was really tight about some things, like his taking a taxicab. It really bothered her.
He reached down and pinched her tail under the shorts, confirming that there was nothing but her under there, either.
She yelped in mock protest and jumped away from him.
"You want something to eat? A beer? A drink? Anything?"
"I thought you would never ask," McCoy said. "About anything."
"You better watch him." Dorothy laughed. "You would be amazed the kind of trouble that sort of thing can get you into."
"How goes it, Dorothy?" McCoy asked.
"How do you think?" Dorothy replied, patting her stomach. "I'm beginning to think it has to be triplets."
"Well?" Ernie asked.
"Well, what?"
"You want something to eat? Or to drink?"
"That wasn't the original offer," McCoy said.
"It must be something the Corps puts in their food," Dorothy laughed.
"Well?" Ernie pursued.
"What I need now is a shower," McCoy said, and started across the lounge to the passageway to the cabins.
"Why did they give you the afternoon off?" Ernie said. "I thought you were supposed to get transferred today?"
"I was," he said. "And tomorrow they're sending me to Northern California." He saw the look on her face, and quickly added, "Just for a couple of days."
Then he entered the passageway to avoid further explanation.
Ernie was in their cabin when he came naked out of the bathroom. She had a plate in one hand and a bottle of Schlitz in the other.
"Sardines on saltines," she said. "And Schlitz. And I could be talked into anything, too, if that was a bona fide offer."
And then she looked at him, and her face colored, and she laughed, deep in her throat.
"And I see it was," she said.
"You do that to me," he said. "I think it's something you put in the sardines."
"I wish I knew what it was," she said as she put the tray and the beer down on the bedside table. "We could give the formula to my father on a royalty basis and get rich."
She pushed the shorts down off her hips and then pulled the T-shirt over her head.
"Oh, baby," McCoy said huskily as she walked to him and put her arms around him.
"Are you going to tell me what you're going to do in Northern California?" Ernie asked, her face against his chest.
"I've got to call," he said. "You can listen."
"Before, or after?"
"After," he said.
"You don't know how lucky you are you gave the right answer," Ernie said as she pulled him backward onto the bed.
"Colonel Rickabee." The voice came over the telephone flat and metallic.
"Sir, I'm sorry, I asked for Captain Sessions," McCoy said.
"What's the matter, McCoy?" Rickabee replied. "You don't like me?"
Ernie, who was lying half on top of McCoy, giggled, and then she moved higher up so that she could hear better.
When there was no reply from McCoy, Colonel Rickabee said, "What is it exactly that you feel you can tell Sessions and can't tell me?"
"Nothing, sir," McCoy said.
"Good!" Rickabee said, gently sarcastic.
"I went over to the Second Raider Battalion today, sir."
"How did it go?"
"It went smoothly, sir. I was further assigned to Baker Company, as a platoon leader, but that's not what they're going to have me doing."
"What happened, McCoy? Take it from the beginning. Tell me about the red flags, and the a cappella choir singing the Internationale.''
"Nothing like that, sir," McCoy said, chuckling.
"Did you see Colonel Carlson?"
"Yes, sir."
"And Captain Roosevelt?"
"Yes, sir."
"Was either of them howling at the moon?"
Ernie giggled so loudly that Rickabee heard her.
"Is there someone with you?" he asked, now deadly serious. "I presume you are using a secure line?"
"The line is secure, sir," McCoy said.
"Okay, once again. Take it from the beginning."
"The adjutant was waiting for me when I showed up to take the reveille formation, sir. He said he had my orders transferring me to the Raiders, and there was no sense complaining about them, because the battalion commander had already gone to the Second Joint Training Force personnel officer trying to keep me."
"Another of many ways Colonel Carlson is endearing himself to the rest of the Corps," Rickabee said dryly, "is by kidnapping their best people. Go on."
"So they sent me over to the Second Raider Battalion in a truck," McCoy said. "And I reported to the adjutant. And he sent me in to report to Colonel Carlson."
"Roosevelt?"
"I didn't see him until later, sir."
"Go on."
"Colonel, it was just like my reporting in to the Third Battalion," McCoy said. "Colonel Carlson shook my hand and welcomed me aboard. Told me I was joining the best outfit in the Corps, and that it was a great opportunity for me, a great challenge... the usual bullshit."
"I hope Carlson didn't sense your cynicism," Rickabee said. "You are supposed to be bright-eyed and eager, McCoy."
"Colonel, he makes sense," McCoy said. "I wasn't making fun of him. What I was trying to say was that it was like reporting in anywhere else."
"As opposed to what?"
"I read that letter, sir, the one Roosevelt wrote, where he wanted to have 'leaders' and 'fighters' and the rest of that Red Army stuff."
"And there was none of that?" Rickabee asked.
"Not what I expected, sir."
"Explain."
"First, he talked about what the Raiders were supposed to do. I mean, the raid business, shaking the Japs up by hitting them where they didn't expect to get hit. The Commando business. And then he said that the mission was so important that the Corps had given him top priority for personnel and equipment, and that meant the personnel-"
"Let me interrupt," Rickabee said. "Do you think he believes the Corps thinks the Raider mission is so important that he has carte blanche?"
"Sir?"
"That he can have anything, do anything, he wants?"
"He sure sounded like he did. But on the other hand, you could hardly expect him to say anything else."
Rickabee snorted. "Go on."
McCoy mimed wanting a cigarette. Ernie leaned across him to the bedside table and picked up his Lucky Strike package and Zippo. In the process, she r
ubbed her breast across his face. McCoy wondered if it had been an accident, and realized, pleased with the realization, that it had not been.
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