"That's an option," General Mclnerney said. "But only if you could pass the flight physical. On your way out, have Sergeant Wallace set up an appointment for a flight physical. And then take the rest of the day off, son, and get yourself settled. I'm talking about your friend, too, of course."
"I'll check out of the hotel, too, of course," Pickering said.
"Don't do it on my account," General Mclnerney said. "So far as I'm concerned, I'd be delighted to have you in there, in case my wife and I wanted to make reservations for dinner.''
General Mclnerney stood up and offered his hand.
"Welcome aboard," he said. "You're your father's son, and that's intended as a compliment."
Chapter Fourteen
(One)
Room 26, Temporary Building T-2032
Washington, D.C.
0945 Hours, 1 December 1941
McCoy had seen quite a few office doors during his time in the Corps. Most of them had a sign announcing in some detail not only what function was being carried out behind the door, but by whom.
The door to room 26 didn't even have a room number. McCoy had to find it by counting upward from room number 2, which had a sign: OFFICER s HEAD.
He thought he'd gotten it wrong even then, for what he thought was room 26 had two sturdy locks on it-a storeroom, in other words, full of mimeograph paper and quart bottles of ink. But with no other option that he could think of, he knocked on it.
As soon as he knocked, however, he heard movement inside, then the sound of dead-bolt locks being operated, and a moment later the door opened just wide enough to reveal the face of a grim-looking man. He said nothing, but the expression on his face asked McCoy to state his business.
"I'm looking for room 26," McCoy said.
The man nodded, waiting for McCoy to go on.
"I was ordered to report to room 26," McCoy said.
"What's your name, please?" the man asked.
"McCoy."
"May I see your identification, please?" the man asked.
McCoy handed over his brand-new officer's identification card. The man looked at it carefully, then at McCoy's face, and then opened the door wide enough for McCoy to enter.
Inside was a small area, just enough for a desk. On the other side of the room there was another door, again with double dead-bolt locks.
When the man walked to the telephone on the desk, McCoy saw that he had a.45 Colt 1911A1 on his hip. On his tail, really, and not in a GI holster, but in sort of a skeleton holster through which the front part of the pistol stuck out.
If he was wearing a jacket, McCoy thought, you'd never know he had a pistol.
"I have Lieutenant McCoy here," the man said to the telephone. "He's not due in until 15 December."
There was a pause.
"Well, shit, I suppose everybody's been told but us. What does he get?"
There was obviously a reply, but McCoy couldn't hear it. The man put the telephone down, and then reached into his desk and came out with a clipboard and a small plastic card affixed to an alligator clip.
"Sign here, please," he said. "Just your signature. Not your rank."
McCoy signed his name.
The man handed him the plastic card.
"You use this until we get you your own," he said. "Pin it on your blouse jacket."
_McCoy looked at it before he pinned it on. It was a simple piece of plastic-covered cardboard. It said "VISITOR" and there was the insignia of the Navy Department. It was overprinted with purple stripes.
"That's good anywhere in the building," the man said. "Or almost everywhere. But it's not good for ONI [Office of Naval Intelligence]. Until you get your credentials, you'd better avoid going over to ONI."
"Okay," McCoy said, wondering what was going on.
The man stuck out his hand.
"I'm Sergeant Ruttman," he said. "We didn't expect you until the fifteenth."
"So I heard you say," McCoy said.
"You just went through that course at Quantico, right?"
"That's right," McCoy said.
"Pain in the ass?"
"Yes, it was," McCoy said.
"They want to send me," Sergeant Ruttman said. "But I've been putting off going. I figure if they really want me to take a commission, they can give it to me. I already know about chickenshit."
"Good luck," McCoy said, wondering if Ruttman was just running off at the mouth, or whether he was telling the truth.
Ruttman replaced the clipboard in his desk, and then took keys from his pocket and unlocked both of the locks in the door.
"Follow me," he said.
Beyond the door was a strange assortment of machinery. There were typewriters and other standard office equipment. But there were also cameras; what McCoy guessed was a blueprint machine; a large photograph print dryer, a stainless-steel-drum affair larger than a desk; and a good deal of other equipment that looked expensive and complicated. McCoy couldn't even guess the purpose of some of it.
The equipment was being manned by a strange-looking assortment of people, all in civilian clothes, and all of them armed. Most of them had standard web belts and issue flapped holsters for the.45 191lAls they carried, but some carried the pistols the way Ruttman carried his, and others were armed with snub-nosed Smith & Wesson revolvers. "What is this place, Sergeant?"
"The thing you're going to have to keep in mind, Lieutenant, is that it's just like boot camp at Parris Island. If they think you should know something, they'll tell you. Otherwise it's none of your business."
He turned his attention from McCoy to the drawer of a desk. He took a loose-leaf notebook from it and two blank forms, one of them a card with purple stripes like his "VISITOR" badge, and the other a Navy identification card of some sort.
"Before I fuck things up," he called out, raising his voice, "has anybody made out any of these and not logged them in the book?"
There was no response to the inquiry, and he put both identification cards in a typewriter and typed briefly and rapidly on them.
"I need an officer to sign these!" he called out again, and one of the civilians, a slight, tall man, walked to the desk.
Despite the Smith & Wesson.38 snub-nose revolver on his hip, he looked like a clerk. He waited until Ruttman finished typing, and then took the card from him and scrawled his name on it. Then he looked at McCoy.
"You're McCoy?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Not that I'm not glad to see you, but you weren't due to report in until the fifteenth."
"I reported in early, sir."
"You'll regret that," the officer said. " 'Abandon hope, all ye who enter here!' "
He walked back where he had come from. McCoy saw that he was making notations on a large map. Next to the map were aerial photographs and a stack of teletype paper liberally stamped "SECRET" in large letters.
"You want to sign this, Lieutenant?" Sergeant Ruttman asked.
There was space for two signatures on the identification: the holder and the issuing officer. The tall skinny civilian had already signed it. According to the card, he was Lieutenant Colonel F.L. Rickabee, USMC. He sure as Christ didn't look like any lieutenant colonel McCoy had ever seen before. He didn't even look much like a Marine.
"Just your signature, again," Ruttman said. "No rank."
"You didn't give me back my ID card," McCoy said.
"You don't get it back," Ruttman said, and then apparently had doubts. He raised his voice. "Does he get his ID card back?"
"No," the tall thin man who looked like a clerk called back. "Not anymore. They changed the policy."
As if McCoy hadn't heard the exchange, Ruttman said, "You don't get it back, Lieutenant."
The tall skinny clerk-type had another thought and turned from his map and SECRET teletype messages.
"How long is it going to take to get him his credentials?"
"I'm just about to take his picture," Ruttman said.
"Today, you mean? He'll get his credential
s today?"
"He'll have them by lunchtime," Ruttman said, confidently.
"Okay," the clerk-type said, and returned his attention to the map.
Based on the total absence of military courtesy (Ruttman had not once said "sir," much less "aye, aye, sir," to him, and the clerk-type hadn't seemed to care) McCoy decided that the clerk-type was not Lieutenant Colonel F.L. Rickabee, USMC. It was common practice for junior officers to sign senior officers' names to routine forms, sometimes initialing the signature and sometimes not. He went further with his theory: The tall skinny clerk was probably a warrant officer. Warrant officers were old-time noncoms, generally with some special skill. They wore officer's uniforms, could go to the Officers' Club, and were entitled to a salute, but the most senior chief warrant officer ranked below the most junior second lieutenant. And a warrant officer, particularly a new one, would probably not get all excited if an old-time noncom like Ruttman didn't treat him as if he was a lieutenant or a captain.
Ruttman stood McCoy against a backdrop, at which was pointed a Speed Graphic four-by-five-inch plate camera-
"Take off your blouse and your field scarf, and the bars," Ruttman ordered, "and put this on."
He handed McCoy a soiled, well-worn, striped necktie.
McCoy looked at him in disbelief.
"The way I'll shoot this," Ruttman explained, "that shirt'll look just like an Arrow."
He took McCoy's picture twice, "to make sure I get it," then led him to a table where he inked his fingers. He put his thumb print on both of the ID cards, and then took another full set on a standard fingerprint card.
Ruttman handed him a towel and bottle of alcohol to clean his hands, and then said, "That's it, here, Lieutenant. Now you go see Major Almond. He's in the last office down the passageway."
There was no sign hanging on Major J.J. Almond's door, either; but aside from that, he was what McCoy expected a Marine major to be. He was a short man, but muscular, and so erect he seemed taller than he was. And he was in uniform. His desk was shipshape, and two flags were on poles behind his desk, the Marine flag and the national colors.
And to the left of Major Almond's desk was a door with another sign: LT. COL. F.L. RICKABEE, USMC, COMMANDING. It was clear to McCoy now that he'd just gone through some sort of administrative service office where they made out ID cards and did that sort of thing, and that he was now about to face his new commanding officer.
"Let me say, McCoy," Major J.J. Almond said, "that I appreciate your appearance. You look and conduct yourself as a Marine officer should. As you may have noticed, there is a lamentable tendency around here to let things slip. Because of what we do here, we can't run this place like a line company. But we go too far, I think, far too often. I am going to rely on you, Lieutenant, to both set an example for the men and to correct, on the spot, whomever you see failing to live up to the standards of the Corps."
"Aye, aye, sir," McCoy said.
"Now, before we get started, you reported in early."
"Yes, sir."
"You are entitled to a fourteen-day leave. If it is your intention to apply for that leave now that you have reported aboard, I would like to know that now."
"No, sir."
"You're in the BOQ at the Barracks, I presume?"
"No, sir."
"Where are you?"
"In a hotel, sir."
"I don't want to go through this, McCoy, pulling one fact after another from you."
"I'm in the Hotel Lafayette, sir. Sharing a room with another officer, sir. Lieutenant Malcolm Pickering, sir."
"Well, that is fortuitous," Major Almond announced. "It is the policy of this command that both officer and enlisted personnel live off the base. You will draw pay in lieu of quarters. Will that pay be enough to pay for your hotel room?"
"Yes, sir."
"What's your room number?" Almond asked. "And I'll need the hotel telephone number."
"I don't know the phone number, sir," McCoy said. "We're living in the maid's room of the bridal suite, sir."
Major Almond smiled and nodded approvingly.
"Very enterprising," he said. "I wondered how you could afford to live in the Lafayette."
He reached into his desk drawer and came out with a three-inch-thick manila folder. He saw his name lettered on it, and that it was stamped "SECRET-COMPLETE BACKGROUND INVESTIGATION
"This is the report of the FBI's investigation of you, Lieutenant," he said. "It is classified SECRET, and you are not authorized access to it. I show it to you to show how carefully they have gone into your background." McCoy had no idea what was going on. Major Almond then handed him a printed form. "In normal circumstances, the procedure would have been for you to complete this form before the FBI did its complete background check. But the circumstances have not been normal. Time was important. The FBI had to, so to speak, start from scratch using existing records. So what has happened is that I have had our clerks prepare your background statement using existing records and the FBI report. Are you following me, Lieutenant?"
"Yes, sir," McCoy said. "I think so, sir." ' "The standing operating procedure requires that your completed background statement be in the files," Major Almond said. "Now, while I am sure that the FBI has done their usual thorough job, I am nearly as sure that they have missed something. What I want you to do is take your background statement to the desk over there and go over it with great care. If there is anything on it that is not absolutely correct, I want you to mark it. We will then discuss it. More important, I want you to pay particular attention to omissions, particularly of a nonflattering nature." "Sir?"
"I want you to make sure that all the blemishes on your record are visible," Major Almond said. "The next step in the administrative procedure is to evaluate your record and judge whether or not you are qualified to be granted a top secret, and other, security clearances. If it came out later that there are blemishes which do not appear on the record, that would cause trouble, do you understand?" "Yes, sir."
"The sergeant will give you a lined pad and pencils," Major Almond said. "Make your notations on the lined pad, not on the form."
"Aye, aye, sir," McCoy said.
"Work steadily, but carefully," Major Almond said. "Time is of the essence."
"Aye, aye, sir."
McCoy wondered if they had found out that he'd been under charges in Shanghai about the Italian marines, and whether or not he should tell them if they weren't. The charges had been dropped. Did that mean they didn't count? Was getting charged with murder a "blemish" if they dropped the charges?
He sat down at the desk and looked at the form.
It was immediately apparent that they knew more about him than he knew himself. He didn't know his mother's date of birth, or his father's, but they were in the blocks on the form. And so were Anne-Marie's and Tommy's, and even Anne-Marie's husband's.
(Two)
An hour later, he had worked his way through the six-page form to a section headed, "Arrests, Detentions, Indictments, Charges, et cetera."
They knew about the charges in China. (Not Prosecuted, initial facts in error.) And they knew about the old man signing the warrant for his arrest (Nol prossed on condition enlistment, USMC.) And they knew about speeding tickets, reckless driving, and even two charges of malicious mischief and being found in possession of a Daisy Red Ryder BB Gun in violation of the city ordinances of Norristown, Pa. (Nol prossed. BB Gun confiscated. Released in custody of parents.) It was absolutely incredible how much they knew about I him. He wondered what was going to happen when whoever previewed his records came to the business about the Marines in China. Was that going to keep him from getting a security clearance?
The door opened and the tall skinny clerk-type walked in.
Without knocking, McCoy saw. In the same moment Major Almond rose to his feet. He is about to get his ass eaten out. The clerk-type walked toward the door of Lieutenant Colonel F.L. Rickabee and put his hand on the knob. For all intents and purposes he lo
oked as if he was going to barge in there, too, without knocking. Then he stopped, turned to McCoy, and smiled.
"Come on in, McCoy," he said. "Whatever that is, it'll wait." Then he looked at Major Almond. "What the hell is that?" he demanded.
"Sir, it's Lieutenant McCoy's background statement."
"Isn't that a waste of his time?" Rickabee demanded sharply. "And ours? When I read the FBI report I had the feeling they knew everything there is to know about him."
W E B Griffin - Corp 01 - Semper Fi Page 36
