W E B Griffin - Corp 03 - Counterattack

by Counterattack(Lit)

  The Colonel was two weeks later summoned to the office of the Deputy Commandant, USMC, who tossed his Memoran-dum for the Record at him.

  "I know you and Colonel Limell don't get along," the Deputy Commandant said. "I think that's why he sent this to me-to make you look like a fool. Can you really justify giving this ex-sergeant a captain's commission, or did you lose your marbles out in Hollywood?"

  The Colonel made his points. Though he wasn't sure how well they were being received, he did see the Deputy Commandant's eyes widen when he told him how much money Jake Dillon was paid (it was more than twice as much as the Major General Commandant got); and he took some small comfort that he was neither interrupted nor dismissed.

  When he was finished, the Deputy Commandant looked at the Colonel thoughtfully for a very long thirty seconds. Then he grunted and reached for his telephone.

  "Colonel Limell, about this Hollywood press agent, the one who was a sergeant with the 4th Marines? Offer him a majority."

  Then, surprising the Colonel yet again, Jake Dillon was not overwhelmed with gratitude when he was offered a Marine Ma-jority.

  "I'm not qualified to be a major. Jesus Christ! I was thinking about maybe a staff sergeant. Maybe even a gunnery sergeant. But a major? No way."

  The Colonel argued unsuccessfully for thirty minutes that the greatest contribution Jake Dillon could make to the Corps was as a public-relations officer, and that to do that well, he had to carry the rank of a field-grade officer on his collar points. The best he was able to do was to get Jake to agree to come to Wash-ington and talk it over.

  "I'll put you up, Jake."

  "That's nice, but we keep a suite in the Willard," Jake said. "I'll stay there. I'll catch a plane this afternoon, and call you when I get there."

  Jake called two days later, at three in the afternoon, as soon as he got into the studio's suite in the Willard. The Colonel, who had a certain sense of public relations himself, immediately called the Deputy Commandant.

  "Sir, Mr. Dillon is in Washington."

  "That's the press-agent sergeant?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "I want to talk to him."

  "Yes, Sir, I thought you might want to. Sir, I understand you're taking the retreat ceremony at Eighth and Eye today?"

  "Splendid," the Deputy Commandant said, taking the Colo-nel's meaning. "I'll have my aide arrange two seats for you in the reviewing stand."

  The Formal Retreat Ceremony (the lowering of the colors at sunset) is held at the Marine Barracks at Eighth and Eye Streets, Southeast, in the District of Columbia. The Marine Band, in dress blues, plays the Marine Hymn, while impeccably uni-formed Marines march with incredible precision past the re-viewing stand. The ceremony has brought tears to the eyes of thousands of pacifists and cynics.

  Its effect on a former 4th Marines sergeant was predictable: When the Color Guard marched past, Jake Dillon was standing at attention with his hand on his heart. And tears formed in his eyes.

  When the ceremony was over, and the Marine Band was marching off the field to the tic-tic of drum sticks on drum rims, a first lieutenant in dress blues walked up to him.

  "Sir, the Deputy Commandant would like a word with you."

  "Dillon?" the Deputy Commandant of the U.S. Marine Corps, in his dress blues, said to former Sergeant Dillon, offering him his hand.

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Once a Marine, always a Marine. Welcome back aboard, Major."

  `Thank you, Sir."

  "When you get settled, call my aide. I want a long talk with you."

  "Aye, aye, Sir."

  Jake Dillon never again raised the question of his lack of qual-ifications to be a major. If the Deputy Commandant of the Corps thought he could hack it, who was he to ask questions?

  In the Corps, you say, "Aye, aye, Sir," and do what you're told to the best of your ability.

  When Major Dillon reported two weeks later for duty at Headquarters USMC, he was assigned as Officer-in-Charge, Special Projects, Public Affairs Office.

  The visit of the team of Life photojournalism to the Parachute School at Lakehurst Naval Air Station was a Special Project. And from the moment Major Jake Dillon met Lieutenant Colo-nel Franklin G. Neville, he knew in his bones that something or someone was going to fuck it up.

  He couldn't understand the feeling, but he trusted it. He antic-ipated no trouble with the people from Life. He knew a couple of them; and more important, he knew their bosses. And the story itself looked like a natural. Marines were always good copy, and parachutists were always good copy, and here he had both. The confirmation of that came when he called a guy he knew at Life and learned that unless something, else came along of greater importance, and providing that the pictures worked out, they were scheduling the Para-Marines as the cover story, two issues down the pike.

  "Bill, do me a favor, forget you ever heard the phrase `Para-Marines.' I don't know why, but it pisses off a lot of the impor-tant brass."

  The Managing Editor of Life chuckled.

  "OK. So what do I call them?"

  "Marine Parachutists, please."

  "Marine Parachutists it is. You going to be at Lakehurst?"

  "Sure."

  "What I sort of have in mind, Jake, is a nice clean-cut kid hanging from a parachute. For the cover, I mean."

  "You got him. I'll have a dozen for you to choose from."

  "Excuse me, Major," Lieutenant R. B. Macklin said to Major Homer J. Dillon, "may I have a word with you, Sir?"

  Jake Dillon gave Lieutenant Macklin an impatient look, shrugged his shoulders, and jerked his thumb toward the door.

  God only knows what this horse's ass wants.

  "This is far enough," Major Jake Dillon said to Lieutenant, R. B. Macklin, once they were out of earshot of the people from Life. "What's on your mind?"

  "Sir, I thought I had best bring you up to date on PFC Koffler."

  "OK. What about him?"

  "I have confined him to barracks. My adjutant is drawing up the court-martial charges. He believes that `conduct prejudicial to good order and discipline' is the appropriate charge."

  "What the hell are you talking about?" ,

  "The Major is aware that Koffler... that Koffler said `Fuck( you' to the gentleman from Life when he asked him what his name was?"

  "I wasn't, but so what?"

  "Right there on the Landing Zone, as he stood over Colonel Neville's body. I was there, Sir."

  "I repeat, so what?"

  "Well, Sir, we just can't let something like that pass."

  "Jesus H. Christ!" Jake Dillon flared. "Now listen to me, Macklin. What you're going to do, Lieutenant, is tell your adju-tant to take his goddamned court-martial charges out of his god-damned typewriter and put in a fresh sheet of paper. And on that sheet of paper, backdated to day before yesterday, he will type out an order promoting PFC Koffler to corporal."

  "Sir, I don't understand."

  "That doesn't surprise me at all, Lieutenant. Just do it. I want to see that kid here in thirty minutes. Showered and shaved, in a fresh uniform, with his parachute wings on his chest and cor-poral's stripes on his sleeves. Those parachutists' boots, too. I just talked to AP. They saw the picture of him that Life took, and they're coming down here to interview him. And that Flying Sergeant who was flying the airplane. If AP's coming, UP and INS won't be far behind. Get the picture?"

  "Sir, technically," Macklin said, uneasily but doggedly, "he's not entitled to wear either boots or wings. We haven't had the graduation ceremony. Colonel Neville delayed it for the Life people, and after... what happened... I postponed it indefi-nitely."

  "Parachute boots, wings, and corporal's stripes, Lieutenant," Jake Dillon said icily. "Here. In thirty minutes."

  "Aye, aye, Sir," Lieutenant Macklin said.

  (Five)

  "I think that's about enough, fellas," Major Jake Dillon said, rising to his feet. "Sergeant Galloway and Corporal Koffler have had a rough day. I think we ought to let them go."

&nb
sp; There were the expected mumbles of discontent from the press, but they started to fold up their notebooks and get to their feet. The interview was over.

  Jake Dillon was pleased that he had thought about putting Sergeant Galloway in the press conference. Galloway had han-dled himself well, even better than Dillon had hoped for. And Corporal Koffler, bless his little heart, was dumber than dog shit; if Galloway hadn't been there, that would have come out.

  And the press seemed to have bought the story line that it was a tragic accident, something that just happened to a fine offi-cer who was undergoing training with his men.

  But Jake Dillon knew that when two or three are gathered together in the name of honest journalism, one of them will be a sonofabitch determined to find the maggots under the rock, even if he has to put them there himself. In this case, he wouldn't have to look far.

  Jake Dillon had formed his own unvarnished version of the truth vis-a-vis the tragic death of Lieutenant Colonel Franklin G. Neville, USMC, based on what he had heard from the jump-master, from Corporal Steve Koffler, and on his own previous observations of Lieutenant Colonel Franklin G. Neville.

  Neville had been bitten by the publicity bug. When the guys from Life had shown very little interest in Neville himself, pre-ferring instead to devote their attention to young enlisted men, it had really gotten to him. The whole thing was his idea, and nobody gave a damn.

  And so he flipped. He was determined to have his picture in Life, and that meant he had to put himself in a position where the photographers could hot ignore him. And he figured out that would be when they were shooting the parachutists exiting the aircraft. If he was first man out the door, they would have to take his picture, and they couldn't edit him out.

  So he pushed out of the way the kid Koffler, who was sup-posed to be first man out, and jumped. And something went wrong. Instead of being in center frame, he found himself wrapped around the horizontal stabilizer. That either killed him straight off, or it left him unconscious. Either way, he couldn't pull the D-ring on his emergency `chute.

  Jake Dillon didn't want that story to come out. It would hurt the widow, and would hurt the Corps.

  "I would like a word with you, Sergeant, please," Jake Dillon called after Galloway as Galloway and Koffler left the room. "You and Corporal Koffler."

  When he had them alone and out of earshot, he said, "OK. Where are you two headed?"

  "Sir," Sergeant Galloway said, "I understand that General Mclnerney's coming up here in the morning. I've been told to make myself available to him for that."

  "I mean now, tonight. I know about the General."

  "Well, Sir, I thought I would like to get off the base. Find a room somewhere."

  "Good. Go now, and take Corporal Koffler with you. The one thing I don't want you to do is talk to the press. Period. Under any circumstances. Consider that an order."

  "Aye, aye, Sir," Charley Galloway said. A split second later, Steve parroted him.

  "I've talked to General Mclnerney," Major Dillon went on. "Here's what's happening. Colonel Neville's body is to be taken to the Brooklyn Navy Yard for an autopsy. Then it will be put in a casket and brought back here. After the inquiry tomorrow morning, you and Koffler will take it to Washington. You will travel with General Mclnerney and an honor guard of the para-chutists. Colonel Neville will be buried in Arlington. You and Koffler will be pallbearers."

  "Yes, Sir," Sergeant Galloway said.

  Jake Dillon thought he could bleed the story for a little more, with pictures of the honor guard and the flag-draped casket. And if they were still burying people in Arlington with the horse-drawn artillery caisson, maybe a shot of that and the firing squad, too. With a little bit of luck, he could get a two-, three- minute film sequence tied together for the newsreels. But that was none of Galloway's or Koffler's business, so he didn't men-tion it.

  "I don't care where you guys go, or what you do. But I will have your ass if you either talk to the press or get shit-faced and make asses of yourselves. Do I have to make it plainer than that?"

  "No, Sir," they said, together.

  Jake Dillon put his hand in his pocket.

  "You need some money, either of you?"

  "No, Sir," they replied.

  "OK. I want you back here at seven in the morning."

  "Get in the backseat," Technical Sergeant Charles Galloway ordered Corporal Stephen Koffler as they approached the Mer-cury station wagon.

  Galloway got in the front beside Mrs. Caroline Ward McNamara.

  "Now what?" Aunt Caroline said, touching Charley's hand.

  "I'm sorry you had to wait like this," Charley said. "Caroline, this is Corporal Steve Koffler. Koffler, this is Mrs. McNamara."

  "Hello," Aunt Caroline said, looking at Steve. "I repeat, now what?"

  "I have been ordered to keep an eye on Corporal Koffler over-night, and to bring him back here at 0700 in the morning."

  "Oh," Aunt Caroline said.

  "We are going to find a hotel room-rooms-someplace," Charley said. "I wondered how that would fit in with your plans."

  "Well, it's already dark, and I hate to drive at night, with the snow and all. Maybe I should think about getting a hotel room myself. Where's Jim and the other lieutenant?"

  "I understand Major Dillon sent for them. Maybe it would be better if we got off the base before he's finished with them. I'm a little afraid that Major Dillon will tell one of them to keep an eye on me and Koffler."

  "Oh, I see what you mean," Aunt Caroline said. She started the engine and headed for the gate.

  "Just how close an eye do you have to keep on the corporal?" Aunt Caroline asked.

  "I think an adjacent room would be close enough."

  "Adjacent but not adjoining, you mean?" Aunt Caroline said.

  "Exactly."

  "Excuse me, Sergeant?" Corporal Koffler said.

  "What, Koffler?"

  "Sergeant, I live in East Orange. Do you suppose it would be all right if I went home?"

  "You live where?"

  "East Orange. It's right next to Newark."

  "Oh, really?" Aunt Caroline said. "Maybe you could find a hotel in Newark for yourself, and Corporal Koffler could spend the night with his family."

  "The Essex House Hotel's in Newark," Steve offered help-fully. "I never stayed there, but I hear it's real nice. You both probably could get rooms there."

  "Now there's a thought," Aunt Caroline said innocently.

  "But I'm supposed to keep an eye on him," Charley Galloway said. "If he went home alone, and Major Dillon or Lieutenant Ward or Lieutenant Schneider ever heard about it, we'd all be in trouble."

  "Well, we don't have to tell them, do we?" Steve asked shrewdly.

  "No, I guess we wouldn't really have to," Charley Galloway said. "Could I trust you to stay out of trouble, Koffler, and be waiting for me at, say, 0530, outside your house in the morn-ing?"

  "It's an apartment house," Steve said. "Sure, you could trust me, Sergeant. I'd really like to see my girl, Sergeant."

  "You'd better be careful about that, Koffler. Women have been known to suffer uncontrollable sexual frenzies at the mere sight of a Marine in uniform. That could lead to trouble."

  Aunt Caroline giggled, and Charley Galloway yelped in pain, as if someone had dug fingernails into the soft flesh of his upper thigh.

  "My girl won't get me in trouble, Sergeant," Steve said.

  "OK. Then we'll do it. You give Mrs. McNamara directions to your house."

  On the outskirts of Newark, Aunt Caroline pulled into a gaso-line station. As the attendant filled the tank and she visited the rest room, Charley Galloway saw a rack of newspapers.

  "I'll be damned," he said, and went to the rack and bought two copies of the Newark Evening News.

  He walked back to the station wagon and handed one to Steve Koffler.

  "You're a famous man now, Koffler," he said. "Try not to let it go to your head."