26 August 1942
It is a tradition within the submarine service for the crew to stand to on deck as the boat eases up to its wharf on return from a patrol. In keeping with this tradition, then were standing on the deck of the Nautilus. In fact, the deck was crowded; for in addition to the crew, the Marine Raiders who'd been "passengers" on the boat were on the deck, too.
The Raiders would have failed an inspection at Parris Island (or anywhere else in the Marine Corps). And they would have brought tears to the eyes of the gunnery sergeant of a Marine detachment aboard a battleship, a cruiser, or an aircraft carrier.
They were not at attention, for one thing. For another, no two of them seemed to be wearing the same uniform. Some were in dungarees, some in dyed-black khaki, some wore a mixture of both uniforms, and some wore parts of uniforms scrounged from the Nautilus's crew. Some wore steel helmets, some fore-and-aft caps, and some were hatless.
There was a Navy band on the wharf, and it played "Anchors Aweigh" and the "Marines' Hymn," and the Raiders watched with their arms folded on their chests, wearing what were either smiles of pleasure or amused tolerance.
The Pearl Harbor brass came aboard after that. And on their heels corpsmen started to offload the stretcher cases and ambulatory wounded. A line of ambulances, their doors already open, waited on the wharf behind the gray staff cars of the brass and the buses that would carry the Raiders.
Lieutenant W. B. McCracken, Medical Corps, USNR, was wearing, proudly, dyed-black trousers and an unbuttoned Marine Corps dungaree jacket-as if to leave no question that he had been the doc of Baker Company, survivor of the Makin Raid, as opposed to your typical natty, run-of-the-mill chancre mechanic. McCracken walked up to Second Lieutenant Kenneth J. McCoy, USMC, grabbed his dungaree jacket, and looped a casualty tag string through a button hole.
"Go get in an ambulance, Killer," he said.
"I don't need it," McCoy said.
It was neither bravado nor modesty. He had not, in his mind, been wounded. A wound was an incapacitating hole in the body, usually accompanied by great pain. He had been zinged twice, lightly zinged. The first time had been right after they'd started moving down the island. A Japanese sniper in a coconut tree had almost got him, or almost missed. A slug had whipped through his trousers, six inches above his knee, grazed his leg, and kept going. It had scared hell out of him, but it hadn't even knocked him down.
Almost immediately, he had seen another muzzle flash and fired four shots from his Garand into the coconut tree. The Jap's rifle had then come tumbling down, and a moment later the sniper followed it-at least to the length of the rope he'd used to tie himself up there.
After that McCoy had pulled his pants leg up, then opened his first aid packet and put a compress on the hole, which was a groove about as wide as his pinky finger and about as long as a bandage. And then he'd really forgotten about it. Or rather, the wound hadn't been painful until that night, when he'd waded into the surf and the salt water had gotten to it and made it sting like hell.
And he had been zinged again the next morning, when he'd led a squad down the island to see what the Japs were up to. He had been looking around what had been a concrete-block wall when a Japanese machine gun had opened up on them. A slug had hit the blocks about two feet from him, and a chunk of concrete had clipped him on the forehead; It had left a jagged tear about three inches long, and it had given him a hell of a headache, but it hadn't even bled very much. And it was not a real wound.
The doc on the Nautilus had put a couple of fresh bandages, hardly more than Band-Aids, on him; and until now, that had been the end of it. He had spent the return trip trying to come up with a casualty list: who had been killed; who was missing from the fucked-up landing and the even more fucked-up withdrawal from the beach; and who, if anybody, was still unaccounted for. He hadn't thought of much else after it had become apparent to him that they had left as many as eight people on the beach.
"Hot showers," Doc McCracken said, pushing him toward the gangplank, "sheets, mattresses, good chow, and firm-breasted sweet-smelling nurses. Trust me, Killer."
Doc McCracken was smiling at him.
"What the hell," McCoy said. "Why not?"
It took about two hours before he had gone through the drill and was in a room in the Naval hospital with something to eat. A couple of doctors had painfully removed the scabs and dug around in mere as if they hoped to find gold. Then they'd given him a complete physical. And of course the paper pushers were there, filling in their forms.
McCoy was just finishing his second shower-simply because it was there, all that limitless fresh hot water-and putting on a robe over his pajamas, and getting ready to lie on his bed and read Life magazine, when Colonel Carlson pushed open the door and walked into the room. He was still in mussed and soiled dungarees. McCoy supposed he'd come to the hospital to check on the wounded. The real wounded.
"Go on with what you were doing," Carlson said, as McCoy started to straighten up to attention. "Go on, get on the bed. It's permitted. Then tell me how you feel."
"I don't think I really belong here, Colonel," McCoy said, climbing onto the bed.
"Clean sheets and a hot meal," Carlson said, smiling.
"That's what the doc said, sir," McCoy said.
"I'm about to go out to Camp Catlin," Colonel Carlson said. "I thought I'd drop by and say 'so long.'"
"Sir?"
Carlson dipped into the cavernous pocket of his dungaree jacket and came out with a sheet of teletype paper, which he handed to McCoy.
PRIORITY
HEADQUARTERS USMC WASH DC 8AUG42
COMMANDING OFFICER
2ND RAIDER BN
FLEET MARINE FORCE PACIFIC
YOU WILL ON RECEIPT ISSUE APPROPRIATE ORDERS DETACHING SECOND LIEUTENANT KENNETH J. MCCOY USMCR FROM COMPANY B 2ND RAIDER BN AND TRANSFERRING HIM TO HEADQUARTERS USMC.
TRAVEL FROM HAWAII TO WASHINGTON BY AIR IS DIRECTED PRIORTTY AA2. BY DIRECTION
STANLEY F. WATT COLONEL USMC OFFICE OF THE ASSISTANT CHIEF OF STAFF FOR PERSONNEL
McCoy looked at Carlson.
"Well, you'll be in here for forty-eight hours," Carlson said. "That'll give us time to get your gear from Catlin to you."
"I guess they really need linguists, sir," McCoy said.
"Certainly, they do. Linguists are valuable people, McCoy. There's far too few of them-you did notice that TWX was dated 8 August-for the Corps to risk losing one of them storming some unimportant beach."
Their eyes met.
"When you get to Washington, McCoy, say hello to Colonel Rickabee for me."
McCoy saw that Carlson was smiling.
"You've known all along, then, sir?"
"Not everyone in the Corps thinks I'm a crazy Communist, McCoy," Carlson said. "I've still got a few friends left who try to let me know what's going on."
"Oh, shit!" McCoy said.
"Nothing for you to be embarrassed about, McCoy,"
Carlson said. "You're a Marine officer. A good Marine officer. And good Marine officers do what they're told to do, to the best of their ability."
He stepped to the bed and put out his hand.
"Take care of yourself, son," he said. "I was glad you were along on this operation."
And then be turned and walked out of the room.
(Three)
Navy Air Station Pensacola, Florida 29 August 1942
Second Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering's first response to the knock at the penthouse door was to simply ignore it. Either it would go away or Dick Stecker would get up and answer it.
It was Saturday morning, and they had drunk their Friday supper.
They were finished at Pensacola. Orders would be cut on Monday, 31 August, certifying that Second Lieutenants Pickering and Stecker were rated as fully qualified in F4F-3 aircraft, and placing them on a ten-day-delay-en-route leave to whenever the bell the Marine Corps was sending them.
It was occasion to celebrate, and they had celebrated unt
il the wee hours.
the knocking became more persistent, and Pickering finally gave in. Wrapping a sheet around his middle, calling out "Keep your pants on!" he walked to the door and jerked it open.
It was Captain James L. Carstairs, USMC, Captain Mustache, in his usual impeccable uniform.
"Good morning, sir," Pickering said.
"May I come in?" Captain Carstairs asked. "You alone?"
"I'm alone," Pickering said. "But... Captain Carstairs, Stecker has a guest."
"The one with her hair piled two feet over her head?" Captain Carstairs said. "And the enormous bazooms?"
"Uh..."
"We saw you last night," Captain Carstairs said. "I rather doubt that in your condition you saw us, but we saw you."
"I saw you, sir," Pickering said. "I didn't know you had seen us."
"You should have come over and said hello," Captain Carstairs said. "I had the feeling Mrs. Culhane rather wished you would."
Pickering looked at him in surprise, and blurted what popped into his mind.
"Is that why you're here? To tell me that?"
"Unfortunately, no," Captain Carstairs said, and handed Pickering a yellow Western Union envelope.
"What's this?"
"Keep in mind the other possibility," Carstairs said. "The word is they left a lot of people on the beach."
Pickering ripped the envelope open.
GOVERNMENT
WASHINGTON DC
5PM AUGUST 28 1942
SECOND LIEUTENANT M. S. PICKERING, USMCR
NAVY AIR STATION PENSACOLA FLORIDA
THE SECRETARY OF THE NAVY REGRETS TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR FRIEND SECOND LIEUTENANT KENNETH J. MCCOY USMCR 2ND RAIDER BATTAUON WAS WOUNDED IN ACTION AGAINST THE JAPANESE ON MAKIN ISLAND 17 AUGUST 1942. HE HAS BEEN REMOVED TO A NAVAL HOSPITAL AND IS EXPECTED TO FULLY RECOVER. FURTHER DETAILS WILL BE FURNISHED AS AVAILABLE, FRANK KNOX JR SECRETARY OF THE NAVY
"There's another word in the lexicon," Captain Carstairs said, "one they did not use. The adjective 'seriously,' as in 'seriously wounded.' And they included the phrase 'fully recover.'"
"Yeah," Pickering said, and then looked at Carstairs. "Thank you."
"My curiosity is aroused," Carstairs said. "Doesn't he have a family?"
"Not one he gives much of a damn about," Pickering said. "He's got a brother, but he's in the Raiders, too."
"He came through it, that's what counts," Carstairs said. "That's all that counts."
"Oh, Christ!" Pickering said, having just then thought of it. "Ernie!"
"Who's Ernie?"
"His girl friend," Pick said. "I'll have to tell her."
"Why?" Carstairs said, practically. "If he's not seriously hurt, he'll write her and tell her. Why worry her?"
"Because she would want to know," Pick flared. "Jesus Christ!"
"Keep your cool, Pickering," Carstairs said. "Think it over. What would be gained?"
"Yeah," Pick said. "This is not the first telegram from the Secretary of the Navy-" He stopped. "I am about to have a drink. Would you like one?"
"I thought you would never ask," Captain Carstairs said.
Pick made drinks, and then told Captain Mustache about the first telegram from the Secretary of the Navy about Ken McCoy when he had been in the Philippines, the one that said he was "missing in action and presumed dead." They made enough noise to raise Dick Stecker and his guest from their bed.
They had another couple of drinks, and then ordered room service breakfast, and in the end Pick decided he would not call Ernie, not now. It made more sense to wait and see what happened. There was no sense getting Ernie all upset when there was nothing at all that she could do.
Captain Mustache stayed with them. He even got a little smashed, and it had all the beginnings of a good party. Now that they were about to be certified as fully qualified brother Naval aviators, it was fitting and proper for him to associate with two lowly second lieutenants as social equals.
Sometime during the evening, Captain Mustache told him that he had just about given up on Martha Sayre Culhane. It had become clear to him that she was just not interested.
Pickering recalled that the next morning (now Sunday) when some other sonofabitch was knocking at the door.
As Pick staggered to open it, he remembered telling Captain Mustache that he knew just how he felt. And then Captain Mustache had said something else: He thought it wasn't absolutely hopeless for Pick, and that it was a shame Pick was about to ship out.
Pick jerked the door open. It was Captain Mustache again.
"Why didn't you just crap out on the couch?" Pick asked, somewhat snappishly.
"I took the brunette in the glasses home, remember?" Captain Mustache said, and then added, demonstrating, "You've got another one," and handed him a yellow Western Union envelope.
"Oh, shit, now what?" Pick asked.
The second telegram, to his relief and confusion, appeared to be identical to the first. He was afraid that it would be one expressing the condolences of the Secretary of the Navy.
"What the hell is this?" he asked. "A duplicate? In case I didn't get the first one?"
"I don't know," Carstairs answered. And then they saw that the two telegrams were not identical. The second said McCoy had been wounded on August 18; the first had said August 17.
"I guess he got shot twice," Carstairs said, "and the paperwork just got caught up."
"I'm going to have to call Ernie," Pick said, firmly. "She has a right to know."
"Can I have a hair of the dog?" Captain Mustache asked.
"Make me one, will you? I think I'm going to need it."
It took Ernie so long to answer her phone that he was afraid she wasn't at her apartment, but finally, she came on the line.
"What is it?" she snapped.
"This is Pick, Ernie," he said.
"What do you want at this time of the morning?" she snapped.
"I've got a little bad news," Pick said, gently.
"About what?" she asked, now with concern in her voice.
"About Ken," Pick said. "Ernie, did you read in the paper or hear on the radio about the Marine Raiders and Makin Island?"
"Yes," she said. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about Ken," Pick said.
"Just a minute," Ernie said, and went off the line. And stayed off.
"Hello?" Pick said, finally.
"Hello, yourself," Ken McCoy's voice came over the wire. "You have a lousy sense of timing, asshole. Did I ever tell you that?"
"When did you get back?"
"I got into Washington about ten last night," McCoy said. "And I caught the four A.M. train into New York. I've been here about an hour and a half. Get the picture?"
"Sorry to have bothered you, sir," Pick said, and hung up.
Captain Mustache handed him a drink. Pick looked at it and set it down.
"Our twice-wounded hero is in New York," he said. "I don't know how the hell he worked that, but I'm not really surprised."
"Well, there's our excuse to celebrate again," Carstairs said.
"No," Pick said.
"No?" Carstairs asked.
"Actually, I think I'll go to church," Pick said.
"Well, sure," Carstairs said, uncomfortably, forcing a smile.
(Four)
Navy Air Station Chapel Pensacola, Florida 30 August 1942
Chaplain (Lieutenant Commander) J. Bartwell Kaine, USNR, who until three months before had been rector of the Incarnation Episcopal Church of Baltimore, Maryland, was pleased to see the two Marine second lieutenants at his morning prayer service.
It had been his experience since coming to Pensacola that few, too few, of the officer aviation students attended worship services of any kind, and that those who did went to the nondenominational Protestant services at 1100. He was interested in keeping, so to speak, Episcopalian personnel within the fold, and there was no question in his practiced eye that the two handsome young Marines in the rear pew were
Episcopal. They knew the service well enough to recite the prayers and doxology from memory, and they knew when and how to kneel.
Chaplain Kaine made a special effort, when the service was over, to speak to them, to let them know they were more than welcome, and to invite them to participate in the activities of what he referred to as "the air station Episcopal community."
W E B Griffin - Corp 02 - Call to Arms Page 42
