The Corps IV - Battleground

by W. E. B Griffin

"How about eighty percent of the time?" McCoy said, and, carrying a bottle of beer, went below. By the time Moore had finished his second beer, McCoy reappeared, wearing shorts and a T-shirt. He looked even younger than he had before.

  He caught Moore's eye.

  "Why don't I loan you a pair of shorts and a T-shirt?" he asked.

  "I don't want to trouble you, Sir."

  "You'll trouble me in your greens," McCoy said. "Come on."

  He took two fresh bottles of beer from the refrigerator and led Moore below again. He sat on the double bed in the cabin as Moore changed out of his greens.

  "Zimmerman tell you about Outshipment? The way those feather merchants handle difficult passengers like you?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "And that we figured out how to-fuck them-get you on your way to Australia?"

  "Yes, Sir," Moore replied, and then took a chance. "Is that where I'm going, Sir, to Australia?"

  "Sessions didn't tell you? What the hell is the big secret? He told me you were going to Australia when he called and asked me to make sure you got on the plane."

  "No, Sir, he didn't tell me."

  "OK. Well, keep your mouth shut, about where you're going, and who told you."

  "Yes, sir."

  "You're going to Australia. You know the outfit?"

  "My orders say 'Special Detachment 14.' I don't know what that means, Sir."

  "Well, I guess that's the reason for the secrecy. So I won't go into that. But your new CO is one of the good guys. His name is Major Ed Banning. I used to work for him in Shanghai. So did Captain Sessions. For that matter, so did Zimmerman. What he's doing is very important, and the reason you're travelling on a Six-A priority is that he needs someone, yesterday, who speaks Japanese."

  Moore nodded.

  And then he put everything together.

  "Lieutenant, are you the one they call 'Killer McCoy'?"

  The friendly smile that had been in McCoy's eyes vanished. Moore did not like what he saw in them now.

  "Where did you hear that?" McCoy asked, and his voice was as cold and menacing as his eyes.

  Moore knew that it had been the wrong question to ask, and tried to frame a reply that would be placating. When he did not immediately reply, McCoy, now visibly angry, asked, "Did that fucking Zimmerman run off at the fucking mouth again?"

  Moore didn't reply instantly.

  "I asked you a question," McCoy snapped.

  "No, Sir. I heard that at Quantico. There was a Master Gunnery Sergeant there..."

  "Name?" McCoy snapped.

  "I don't remember his name, Sir," Moore said, and then remembered. "He said he was the S-3 Sergeant of the 4th Marines..."

  "Nickleman," McCoy interrupted. "He always had a bad case of runaway mouth."

  "... and he was talking about the 4th Marines, and Shanghai, with Captain Sessions."

  McCoy stared at him for a long moment. Gradually, the cold fury in his eyes died, and blood returned to his lips.

  "I'm sorry, Sir, if..." Moore began.

  McCoy waved his hand to shut him off.

  "To answer your question, Sergeant," McCoy said. "There are some people who call me 'Killer,' including people who should know better, like Mike Nickleman and Captain Sessions. I don't like it a goddamn bit. But you didn't know, so don't worry about it."

  Moore's mouth ran away with him. "Why do they call you that, Sir?"

  The ice came instantly back into McCoy's eyes, and his lips drew tight and bloodless again. He looked at Moore for a long moment, and then shrugged.

  "OK. Let me set that straight. I had to kill some people in China. I didn't want to. I had to. It just happened that way. Some Italians, the Italian equivalent of Marines. Three of them. And about a month later, when Sessions and Zimmerman and I were fucking around in the boondocks, trying to find out what the Japs were up to, we had to kill some Chinese. They were supposed to be bandits, but what they were was working for the Kempae Tai-Japanese secret police. There was about twenty of them got killed. The word got back to Shanghai and some wiseass-I still don't know who-in the 4th heard about it. He didn't know what we were really doing up there, just that we got in a fight with Chinese bandits, so what he did was have a sign painted, 'Welcome Back, Killer' and hung it in the club. The name stuck. It makes me sound like a fucking lunatic, like I go around getting my rocks off knifing and shooting people."

  "I'm sorry, Sir, that..."

  McCoy held up his hand to cut him off again, and then, switching to Japanese, which startled Moore, said, "I'd be damned surprised, Moore, if you haven't figured out you're now in the Intelligence business, that we both are. Rule One in the Intelligence business, and I'm surprised Captain Sessions didn't tell you this, is to disappear into the wallpaper. The one thing you can't afford, in other words, is to have people point you out and say, 'there he is, Killer McCoy, who killed all those people.' Understand?"

  "Yes, Sir," Moore replied in Japanese. "I understand."

  McCoy looked at him appraisingly for a moment before he went on. "Well, we know that you speak Japanese, don't we? And damned well. Where'd you learn that?"

  The subject of Killer McCoy, Moore understood, was closed.

  The truth of the story is that he is called "Killer" because, very simply, he has killed people. Three Italians, probably by himself, and "about twenty" Chinese with Captain Sessions and Gunny Zimmerman. It would be hard to believe if I hadn't seen his eyes. I would hate to have Killer McCoy angry with me. Or, hell, just be in his way.

  "I'm fairly fluent, Sir. I lived in Japan for a while," Moore replied in Japanese.

  "There's damned few people in the Corps who speak Japanese," McCoy said, "for that matter, anything but English. On the other hand, about one Jap-or at least, one Japanese officer-in three or four speaks English. You'd be surprised how important that is."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Well, what happens now is that in the morning, Zimmerman will go to Outshipment at the Seaplane base. When he finds out they're making up the manifest for the Pearl Harbor flight, he'll send his driver out here to pick you up. So you'll have to be dressed and ready after, say, seven o'clock in the morning. Standing by. You show up with your orders and they'll have to put you on the plane."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Any questions?"

  "No, Sir."

  "Not even about the boat? Or Ernie?" McCoy asked, wryly.

  "They're both... very nice... Sir."

  "Yes, they are," McCoy chuckled.

  As if on cue, Ernestine Sage appeared at the door.

  "Dorothy and Marty just came home," she said. "He brought abalone. Unless you two would rather stay here and tell some more dirty stories in Japanese."

  McCoy switched to English. "Ernie thinks that whenever people speak Japanese around here they're talking dirty," he said. "Not true, of course. I'm perfectly willing to say in English that she has a marvelous ass and spectacular boobs."

  "You bastard!" she said, but Moore saw that it was said with affection.

  Dorothy and Marty turned out to be a First Lieutenant and his wife, who was heavy with child. The lieutenant's tunic had no campaign medals above his marksmanship badges. And although first lieutenants outrank second lieutenants, it was immediately apparent not only that McCoy gave the orders on board the Last Time, but that the lieutenant was just about as impressed with Lieutenant McCoy as Sergeant Moore was.

  "I didn't mean to disturb you..." the lieutenant said.

  "No problem," McCoy said. "Ground rules: This is Sergeant Moore. John. You didn't see him here. You don't ask him where he came from, or where he's going. But feel free to talk about the Raiders. He's cleared for at least TOP SECRET. Moore, this is Marty Burnes and his wife, Dorothy."

  Lieutenant Burnes crossed the cabin to Moore and gave him his hand.

  "How are you, Moore?"

  "How do you do, Sir?"

  "Hello," Mrs. Burnes said.

  "Hello."

  "Is he going to have to call you
two 'Sir' all night?" Ernie Sage asked.

  "Whatever he's comfortable with," McCoy said.

  "I think we can dispense with the customs of the service, tonight," Lieutenant Burnes said to Moore.

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Hell, he's as bad as Zimmerman," Ernie laughed. "You better not start calling me 'Miss Ernie,' John."

  "No, Ma'am," Moore said, but he said it as a joke, and they all laughed.

  "I filled the car with gas, Ken," Marty Burnes said.

  "You didn't have to do that," McCoy replied.

  "Well, hell,-we used it."

  "Otherwise I would probably have had Little Martin, or Little Mary," Dorothy said, patting her swollen belly, "on the bus on the way to the Maternity Clinic."

  "What did the doctor say?" Ernie Sage asked.

  "Three weeks," Dorothy said.

  "Your mother called," Ernie said. "I told her where you were. You better go call her. She's concerned."

  Dorothy heaved herself with effort to her feet and went to a telephone at the far end of the cabin.

  "Ken and Ernie took us in," Burnes said to John Moore. "We couldn't find a place to stay, and Dorothy wanted to have the baby here. If it wasn't for Ken and Ernie, Dorothy would have had to go back to Kansas City."

  "Ernie took you in," McCoy corrected him. "This is her boat."

  "Go to hell!" Ernie said, and then looked at Moore. "The boat belongs to a friend of a friend of my mother's. And since we're being such a stickler about the facts, my mother pretends that I am not living in sin with Ken. But, romantic fool that I am, I pretend that this is our first home, Ken's and mine, our barnacle-covered little boat by the side of the bay."

  Moore smiled at her.

  "Tell him about the Raiders," McCoy said.

  Burnes looked at him in surprise.

  "He's going to meet a friend of mine where he's going," McCoy explained. "He'll be curious."

  "Then why don't you tell him about the Raiders?" Ernie challenged.

  "Because I am only a second lieutenant. Everybody knows that second lieutenants can't find their ass with both hands. Isn't that so, Sergeant Moore?"

  "Yes, Sir. We were taught that at Parris Island," Moore said.

  "I'm almost glad you're not staying here longer," Ernie Sage said. "I think you and Ken would be dangerous if you had time to get your act together."

  "Give the sergeant a beer, Dear," McCoy said, sweetly, "while Lieutenant Burnes tells him all about the Raiders."

  "Aye, aye, Sir," Ernie Sage said. "Right away, Sir."

  (Two)

  U.S. NAVY BASE

  SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

  0815 HOURS 25 JUNE 1942

  Sergeant John Marston Moore, USMCR, was the fifth person to board the seaplane, a U.S. Navy Martin PBM-1. Boarding was supposed to be in order of priority, in which case Moore would have been first. But among those ordered to proceed via air to Pearl Harbor, Territory of Hawaii, by government air transport were a Vice Admiral of the U.S. Navy and a Brigadier General, USMC, whose priorities guaranteed them a seat.

  Rank hath its privileges and the admiral and the general and their aides-de-camp were boarded first. Moore stepped inside the fuselage of what had been designed as a Patrol Bomber. A sailor in undress blues, with the insignia of an Aviation Motor Machinist's Mate First Class sewn to his sleeve, showed him where to stow his bag and where to strap himself in for the take-off. He found himself seated next to the admiral.

  "Good morning, Son," the admiral said.

  "Good morning, Sir," Moore replied.

  "First flight?"

  "No, Sir."

  "Then you can reassure me," the admiral said. "I am not wholly convinced that something this big is really meant to fly."

  I will be damned. He really went out of his way to be nice to me.

  The sailor, a red-haired man in his late twenties who was obviously the crew chief, waited until all the passengers had come aboard and then passed out yellow, inflatable life preservers, first giving simple instructions about using them, and then checking the passengers to see that they had each put them on correctly.

  Then he climbed a ladder in the front of the fuselage. A moment later, the airplane shuddered as first one and then the second of its engines started. The plane immediately began to move, but with a curious motion that made Moore wonder for a moment if he was going to get seasick.

  Next, one at a time, the engines roared and then slowed to idle. Then they both revved together, and the seaplane began to pick up speed. The noise of the engines was deafening, and the noise was compounded by a series of metallic crashes as the hull encountered swells. Then suddenly there was only the sound of the engines, and the crashing of the hull against the water was gone.

  Through the window on the far side of the cabin, Moore saw that the float-there was one on each side-which had kept the wing from dipping into the water was retractable. As he watched, it moved upward and outward until it formed the tip of the wing.

  He turned in his seat and looked through the window behind him. They were already out over the Pacific. Some ships were visible, and the wakes of small boats; and then, suddenly, there was nothing outside the window but an impenetrable gray haze.

  "I am solemnly assured by my Naval Aviator friends," the admiral said, "that the young men who drive these things are extensively trained in navigation."

  They looked at each other and smiled.

  Moore put his head back against the metal wall of the fuselage.

  He had really had a good time the night before, he thought. And not only because Ernie Sage and Lieutenant McCoy had gone really out of their way to make him comfortable. More than that, they had made it sort of a party for him.

  And what he'd heard about the Marine Raiders had been fascinating. With obvious pride in what he was doing, Lieutenant Burnes had explained that they were sort of American Commandos whose mission it was to make surprise landings-raids, hence the name-on Japanese-held islands. The idea was not to capture the islands, but to blow up enemy installations and supplies, and then leave. That, Burnes said, would force the Japanese to station troops wherever they had supply depots or airfields so they could protect them from the Raiders, troops that otherwise could have been used to invade New Guinea or even Australia.

  As he went on, Burnes had mentioned on more than one occasion the 2nd Raider Battalion Commander, Major Evans Carlson, and Carlson's executive officer, Captain James Roosevelt, who was the son of the President. Every time the names of these two came up, his voice dropped to nearly reverential tones.

  It was also pretty clear that Burnes was very impressed with the legendary Killer McCoy, who had taken out three Italian Marines with a knife, and then killed the Chinese bandits, and who had been wounded in the Philippines. So, Moore admitted, was he.

  Moore could also see that Lieutenant McCoy wasn't quite so boyishly enthusiastic about the Raiders as Burnes was. McCoy never said so directly, and his face was in no way easy to read; but Moore sensed that as far as McCoy was concerned, the Raiders might as well be a gang of ten-year-old boys playing war games. At the same time, it was more than pretty clear to Moore that Burnes had no idea McCoy was involved with Intelligence. He wondered what McCoy was doing that had an Intelligence connection, but obviously he couldn't ask.

  In fact there was no sense wondering what kind of Intelligence work McCoy was doing, or what he himself would be doing once he got to Australia. The only thing he knew about Intelligence was what he had learned watching spy movies, and McCoy was certainly not going to tell him what Intelligence was like in the real world.

  But it had really made him feel good to see how Lieutenant McCoy and Ernie and Lieutenant Burnes and his wife had behaved to each other.

  It would, he thought before he dozed off, be that way with Barbara when he came back. He would be an officer then, and maybe they could all get together and have a welcome home party.

  (Three)

  HEADQUARTERS

  MARINE AIR GROUP
TWENTY-ONE (MAG-21)

  EWA, OAHU ISLAND, TERRITORY OF HAWAII

  1105 HOURS 27 JUNE 1942

  "The Colonel will see you now, Sir," the staff sergeant said.

  Captain Charles M. Galloway, USMCR, hoisted himself out of a battered, upholstered armchair whose cushions had long ago lost their resiliency, nodded at the sergeant, walked to the commanding officer's door, and rapped on the jamb with his knuckles.