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

McCoy's uniform was rain-soaked, and he needed a shave.

"Obeying orders," Captain Sessions said. "I know that's hard for you, but it's a cold cruel world, Killer."

"I asked you not to call me that," McCoy said. His eyes grew cold.

When his eyes get cold, Sessions thought, he doesn't look twenty-two years old; he looks like Rickabee.

"Sorry," Sessions said. "As I was saying, Lieutenant, we are obeying or-ders. General Pickering's orders to Colonel Rickabee, 'there's no point in having my apartment sitting empty. Put people in it while I'm gone,' or words to that effect. Colonel Rickabee's orders to me. 'Put McCoy in the General's apartment,' or words to that effect. And my orders to you, Lieutenant: 'Get out. Go In. Have a shave and a shower. Get your uniform pressed. The Colonel wants to see you at 0800 tomorrow.' Any questions, Mister McCoy?"

"The Colonel said to put me in there?" McCoy asked doubtfully.

"I am a Marine officer and a gentleman," Sessions replied. "You are not doubting my veracity, are you?"

"0800?" McCoy asked.

"If there's a change, I'll call you. Otherwise there will be a car here at 0730."

"OK. Thanks, Ed. For meeting me, and for... Jesus, I didn't ask. Did you get through to Ernie?"

"I would suggest you call her," Sessions said. "I can't imagine why, but she seemed a trifle miffed that you called me and not her."

"I'll call her," McCoy said, and started to open the door.

"You need some help with your bag, Lieutenant?" the driver asked.

"No. Stay there. There's no sense in you getting soaked, too," McCoy said. He turned to Sessions. "Say hello to Jeanne. How's the baby?"

"You will see for yourself when you come to dinner. Get a bath, a drink, and go to bed. You look beat."

"I am," McCoy said, opened the door, and ran toward the hotel entrance, carrying a battered canvas suitcase.

A doorman in an ornate uniform was somewhat frantically trying to get people in and out of the line of cars, but he stopped what he was doing when he saw the Marine lieutenant, carrying a bag, running toward the door.

"May I help you, Lieutenant?" he asked, discreetly blocking McCoy's passage. It was as much an act of kindness as a manifestation of snobbery. Full colonels could not afford the prices at the Foster Lafayette. It was his intention to ask if he had a reservation-he was sure he didn't-and then regretfully announce there were no rooms.

"I can manage, thank you."

"Have you a reservation, Sir?"

"Oh, do I ever," McCoy said, dodged around him, and continued toward the revolving door.

The doorman started after him, and then caught a signal from one of the bellmen. He interpreted it to mean, Let him go.

He stopped his pursuit and went to the bellman.

"That's Lieutenant McCoy," the bellman said. "He stays here some-times. In 802."

The doorman's eyebrows rose in question.

Suite 802 was the five-room apartment overlooking the White House, re-served for the duration of the war for Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR.

"He works for General Pickering," the bellman said. "And he's Lieuten-ant Pickering's best friend."

"Lieutenant Pickering?" the doorman asked.

"The only son, and the only grandson," the bellman said. "The heir ap-parent. Nice guy. Worked bells here one summer. Marine pilot. Just got back from Guadalcanal."

"The next time, I'll know," the doorman said. "Somebody should have said something."

"Welcome to Foster Hotels," the bellman said. "We hope your stay with us will be a joy."

The doorman chuckled and went back to helping people in and out of taxis and automobiles.

Lieutenant McCoy dropped his bag beside one of the marble pillars in the lobby and stepped up to the line waiting for attention at the desk.

A young woman in a calf-length silver fox coat, with matching hat atop her pageboy haircut, rose from one of the chairs in the lobby and walked toward him. She stood beside him. When it became evident that he was oblivious to her presence, she touched his arm. With a look of annoyance, he turned to face her.

"Hi, Marine!" she said. "Looking for a good time?"

A well-dressed, middle-aged woman in the line ahead of McCoy snapped her head back to look, in time to see the young woman part her silver fox coat with both hands, revealing a red T-shirt with the legend marines lettered in gold across her bosom.

"Jesus!" Lieutenant McCoy said.

"I'm just fine, thank you for asking. And how are you?"

"Sessions," McCoy said, having decided how Ernestine Sage happened to be waiting for him.

"Good old Ed, whom you did call," Ernie Sage said.

"I tried," McCoy said.

Ernestine Sage held up two hotel keys.

"I don't know if I should give you your choice of these, or throw them at you," she said.

"What are they?"

"Daddy's place, and Pick's father's," she said. "Ken, if you don't put your arms around me right now, I will throw them at you."

Instead, he reached out his hand and lightly touched her cheek with the balls of his fingers.

"Jesus Christ, I'm glad to see you!" he said, very softly.

"You bastard, I didn't know if you were alive or dead," she said, and threw herself into his arms. "My God, I love you so much!"

After a moment, as he gently stroked the back of her head, he said, his voice husky with emotion, "Me, too, baby."

Then, their arms still around each other, they walked to where he had dropped his bag by the marble pillar. He picked it up and they walked across the lobby to the bank of elevators.

[SIX]

The Bislig-Mati Highway (Route 7)

Davao Oriental Province

Mindanao, Commonwealth of the Philippines

0705 Hours 20 October 1942

The Intelligence Section of Headquarters, United States Forces in the Philip-pines had developed, through the interrogation of indigenous personnel, cer-tain information concerning enemy activity. Specifically, that each Tuesday morning a convoy of Japanese army vehicles, usually two one-and-one-half-ton trucks, plus a staff car and a pickup truck, departed the major Japanese base at Bislig, on Bislig Bay, on the Philippine Sea for Boston, on Cateel Bay, Baganga, and Caraga.

According to the best cartographic data available (the 1939 edition of Roads of Mindanao For Automobile Touring, published by the Shell Oil Com-pany), it was approximately 125 miles from Bislig to Caraga. The road was described by Shell as "partially improved"; and automobile tourists were cau-tioned that the roads were slippery when wet, and that caution should be ob-served to avoid stone damage to windshields when following other vehicles.

Indigenous personnel reported that the trucks were laden with various sup-plies, including gasoline, kerosene, and rations for the small detachments the Japanese had stationed at Boston, Baganga, and Caraga. Each truck was manned by a driver, an assistant driver, and a soldier who rode in the back. The staff car contained a driver, a sergeant, and an officer. And the pickup truck carried a driver, an assistant driver, and two to four soldiers riding in its bed.

This information was personally verified by the G-2, Captain James B. Weston, USMC, and his deputy, Lieutenant Percy Lewis Everly, who walked six hours down narrow paths from Headquarters, USFIP, to the road, watched the convoy pass, made a reconnaissance of the area to determine a suitable place for an attack, and then walked back to Headquarters, USFIP. The return journey, being mostly uphill, and because it was raining, took nine hours.

Among additional intelligence data gathered was that the staff car was a 1940 Buick Limited, seized by the Japanese, and that the pickup truck was a 1939 Dodge requisitioned by the U.S. Army in the opening days of the war and subsequently captured by the Japanese. The Dole Company insignia was still faintly visible beneath the olive-drab paint on the doors.