W.E.B. Griffin - The Corps VII - Behind the Lines

"Shit," he repeated, now more amused than annoyed, and reached for the fourth telephone, which was pushed far out of the way. This was the one listed in the official and public telephone books for the Office of Management Anal-ysis. It rarely rang. Hardly anyone in the Marine Corps-for that matter, hardly anyone at all-had ever heard of the Office of Management Analysis. Those people who knew what the Office of Management Analysis was really doing and had business with it had one or more of the unlisted numbers.

Thinking that this call was almost certainly a wrong number, or was from some feather merchant raising money for the Red Cross or some other worthy purpose, Sergeant Casey nevertheless answered the phone courteously and in the prescribed manner.

"Management Analysis, Sergeant Casey speaking, Sir."

"I have a collect call for anyone," an operator's somewhat nasal voice announced, "from Lieutenant McCoy in Kansas City. Will you accept the charges?"

The question gave Sergeant Casey pause. He had no doubt that Lieutenant McCoy was Management Analysis's Lieutenant McCoy; but the last he'd heard, McCoy was somewhere in the Pacific, so what was this Kansas City business? And the immediate problem was that he was calling collect. So far as Sergeant Casey could recall, no one had ever called collect before; it might not be authorized.

What the hell, he decided. I'll say yes, and let McCoy straighten it out with the officers if he's not supposed to call collect.

"We'll accept charges, operator."

"Go ahead, please," the operator said.

"Who's this?"

"Sergeant Casey, Sir."

"Can you get Major Banning on the line?"

"He's not here."

"What about Captain Sessions?"

"Hold one, Lieutenant," Casey said, and considered that problem. The Management Analysis line was not tied in with any of the other telephones. He could not transfer the call by pushing a button. He solved that problem by call-ing one of the other lines, which was immediately picked up upstairs.

"Liberty 7-2033," a voice he recognized as belonging to Gunnery Ser-geant Wentzel said. What Sergeant Casey thought of as "the real phones" were answered by stating the number. That way, if the incoming call was a misdial, no information about who the misdialer had really reached got out.

"Gunny, Sergeant Casey. Is Captain Sessions around?"

"What do you want with him?"

"I got a collect call for him from Lieutenant McCoy on the Management Analysis line."

"I don't think you're supposed to accept collect calls on that line."

"I already did."

"He's here, put it through."

"This number don't switch."

"Oh, shit!" Gunny Wentzel said, and the line went dead.

Almost immediately thereafter, Casey heard someone rushing down the stairs, obviously taking them two and three at a time. A tall, lithely muscular, not quite handsome officer in his early thirties came through the door. He was in his shirtsleeves.

Casey handed him the telephone.

"Ken? What did you do, forget the number? Where are you?"

"In Kansas City. Fuel stop. We're on a B-25. They're going to drop us off at Anacostia-"

"Who's we?"

"Dillon and me," McCoy went on. "The pilot said we should be there in about four hours."

"I'll meet you," Sessions said.

"That's not why I called," McCoy said. "I need a favor."

"Name it."

"Could you call somebody for me?"

"Ernie? You mean you haven't called her?"

Ernie was Miss Ernestine Sage, whom Sessions-and his wife-knew and liked very much. She was not simply an attractive, charming, well-educated young woman, but she had the courage of her convictions: Specifically, she had decided, despite the enormous gulf in background between them, that Ken McCoy was the man in her life, and if that meant publicly living in sin with him because he wouldn't marry her, then so be it.

As for McCoy, though he was far from hostile to marriage, or especially to marrying Ernie Sage, he had nevertheless decided-not without reason, Ses-sions thought, considering what he had done so far in the war, and what the future almost certainly held for him-that the odds against his surviving the war unscathed or alive were so overwhelming that marriage, not to mention the siring of children, would be gross injustice to a bride and potential mother.

"I didn't know when I could get east until now," McCoy said, somewhat lamely. "And now I can't get her on the phone."

"That's kind of you, Killer," Sessions said sarcastically. "I'm sure she was mildly interested in whether or not you're still alive."

"Tell her I tried to call her, and that I'll try again when I get to Washing-ton."

"Anything else?"

"I'll need someplace to stay. Would you get me a BOQ?" (Bachelor Offi-cers' Quarters.)

"OK. Anything else?"

"I've got an envelope for the Colonel from the General."

"I'll take it at the airport and see that he gets it. You have a tail number on the aircraft?"

"Two dash forty-three eighty-nine. It's an Air Corps B-25 out of Los An-geles."

"I'll be there," Sessions said. "Welcome home, Kil... Ken."

"Thank you," McCoy said, and the phone went dead in Sessions's ear.

Sessions put the handset back in its cradle.

"Thank you," he said to the sergeant.

"That was Lieutenant McCoy, and he's back already?"

"Maybe this time they'll let him stay a little longer," Sessions said.

"I guess everything went all right over there?"

"What do you know about 'everything,' Sergeant?" Sessions said, not en-tirely pleasantly.

"You hear things, Sir."

"You're not supposed to be listening," Sessions said. "But yes. Every-thing went well."

"Good," Sergeant Casey said.

"You didn't get that from me," Sessions said.

"Get what from you, Sir?"

"You can be replaced, Sergeant. By a woman."

"Sir?"

"They're talking about having lady Marines. You haven't heard?"

"No shit?"

"Scout's honor," Sessions said, and held up his hand, three fingers ex-tended, as a Boy Scout does when giving his word of honor.

"Women in The Corps?"

"Women in The Corps," Sessions said firmly.

"Jesus Christ!"

"My sentiments exactly, Sergeant," Sessions said.

Then he turned and went up the stairs to report to Colonel Rickabee that Lieutenant McCoy would be at the Anacostia Naval Air Station in approxi-mately four hours.

"J. Walter Thompson. Good afternoon."

"Miss Ernestine Sage, please."

"Miss Sage's office."

"Miss Sage, please."

"May I ask who's calling?"

"Captain Edward Sessions."

"Oh, my!" the woman's voice said. "Captain, she's in a meeting."

"Could you ask her to call me in Washington when she's free, please? She has the number."

"Just a moment, please," Sessions heard her say, and then faintly, as if she had covered the microphone with her hand and was speaking into an inter-com system: "Miss Sage, Captain Sessions is on the line. Can you take the call?"

"Ed?" Ernie Sage's voice came over the line. "I was about to call you."

"Why?"

"Why do you think? I haven't heard from you-know-who."

"I've heard from you-know-who. Just now. He'll be in Washington in four hours."

"Is he all right?"

"Sounded fine."

"The bastard called you and not me."

"He said he tried."

"Where in Washington is he going to be in four hours?"

"He asked me to get him a BOQ."

"Damn him!"

"Where would you like him to be in four hours?"

"You know where."

"Your wish, Fair Lady, is my command. Have you got enough time?"

"I can catch the noon Congressional Limited if I run from here to Pennsyl-vania Station. Thank you, Ed."

[FIVE]

The Foster Lafayette Hotel

Washington, D.C.

1625 Hours 19 October 1942

"What are we doing here?" Lieutenant Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, asked, looking out the rain-streaked windows of the Marine-green Ford as it pulled up last in a long line of cars before the marquee of the hotel.