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

Macklin offered his hand. Sessions pretended not to see it.

But he saw it, Brownlee thought, concerned. Sessions refused to shake Macklin's hand. And since we reported to Management Analysis, he hasn't said one word to him that was not absolutely necessary. I wonder what that's all about? Resentment that we're going in on what these people thought was their mission ? That doesn't sound likely. But there's something.

[FOUR]

Headquarters, Marine Air Group 21

Marine Airfield

Ewa, Oahu Island, Territory of Hawaii

22 November 1942

Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins, USMC, noticed the staff car parked at the wooden Base Operations building when he passed over the field on the downwind leg of his approach. Dawkins, a tanned, wiry man of thirty-five, who was a career Marine out of Annapolis, commanded MAG-21.

"Now what?" he asked rhetorically, somewhat disgustedly, and aloud, and then turned most of his attention to putting the Grumman F4F-4 Wildcat fighter onto the ground.

He took a closer look at the staff car as he taxied past Base Ops. It was a nearly new Buick Special sedan, and thus was engaged in the transportation of not only a brass hat but a senior brass hat. There were only a couple of Buicks in the hands of Marines in Hawaii, and they were-rank hath its privileges- reserved for general officers.

Dawkins searched his mind but could come up with no reason why a gen-eral officer would show up at Ewa on Sunday, unless he was either the bearer of bad tidings or really enraged about something and wished to make his dis-pleasure known personally and immediately to the Commanding Officer of MAG-21.

Dawkins taxied the Wildcat to a sandbag revetment, turned it around so it could be pushed backward into the revetment after refueling, shut it down, and then turned to the paperwork. It had been a test flight, following 100-hour maintenance, and he had found several items that needed either investigation or repair.

He was aware that someone had climbed onto the wingroot, but didn't look up.

"I didn't know they let worn-out old men like you play with hot airplanes like this," a male voice said, causing him to look up into the face of a large-boned, ruddy-faced man in his forties. Without realizing he was doing it-truly a Pavlovian reflex-Dawkins raised his right hand to his eyelid in a salute and simultaneously tried to stand up.

The uniform of the man standing on Dawkins's wing was adorned with both the golden wings of a Naval Aviator and the silver stars-one on each epaulet and one on each collar point-of a brigadier general.

"I think you have to take the harness off before you can do that," Briga-dier Genera] D. G. Mclnerney, USMC, said innocently, as he sort of patted Dawkins's shoulder.

"Yes, Sir," Dawkins said, chagrined. "Thank you very much, Sir."

General Mclnerney jumped off the wing, then waited until Dawkins un-strapped himself and climbed out of the cockpit. As Dawkins joined him, he extended his hand.

"Good to see you, Sir," Dawkins said. "I thought you were in Washing-ton."

"I got in a couple of hours ago," Mclnerney said. "How's things, Dawk?"

"There's a lot more creature comforts around here," he said. The last time they were in each other's company, they'd been in a tent at a paved-with-pierced-steel-planking airstrip called "Fighter One" on the island of Guadal-canal in the Solomons.

"Do you know General Forrest, Dawk?"

"I know who he is, Sir."

"ACofS Intelligence," Mclnerney said. "An old friend. He knew I was coming here, and asked me to do would I could about this."

He dipped into the pocket of his tunic again and handed Dawkins a flimsy carbon copy of an internal USMC memorandum:

TELEPHONE MEMORANDUM

CLASSIFICATION: NONE

DATE AND TIME: 1625 16 Nov 1942

FROM: Commandant, USMC

TO: Maj Gen Forrest

SUBJECT: Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman, Ernest

SYNOPSIS:

The Commandant has received from SecNav personally SecNav's desire that Gunnery Sergeant Ernest Zimmerman, Serial Number Unknown, USMC, presently assigned VMF-229 be immediately transferred to USMC Special Detachment 16, with duty station Brisbane, Australia.

The Secretary desires that Sergeant Zimmerman's travel to Brisbane be by the most expeditious means, and that he be advised by Special Channel Communication of Sergeant Zimmerman's estimated time of arrival in Brisbane. The Secretary further desires that the Commanding Officer, USMC Special Detachment 16, be similarly advised, also by Special Channel Communication.

(3) The Commandant desires that Maj Gen Forrest personally accomplish the foregoing as a matter of the highest priority.

"What I would like to do at any time within the next fifteen minutes, Dawk," General Mclnerney said, "is send a message to General Forrest, tell-ing him that Gunny Zimmerman is on his way to Brisbane."

Dawkins looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Sir, he's not here."

"Where is he?"

"I think he's on Guadalcanal."

"You think he's on Guadalcanal?"

"Sir, he didn't leave the 'Canal when the ground personnel got on the ship."

"Why not?"

"I think Captain Galloway is carrying him as being on temporary duty with the 2nd Raider Battalion."

"You don't know?"

"Big Steve had him-Zimmerman's a Browning expert-transferred from the Raiders to VMF-229 when they were having weapons trouble. When the Squadron was relieved, Zimmerman went back to the Raiders."

"Without orders?"

"I believe it was on Galloway's verbal orders, Sir, with official orders to follow when that became possible."

"Where did you say Galloway is?"

"At Muku-Muku, Sir."

"Where's that?" General Mclnerney asked, and then, before Dawkins could reply, went on. "You know where to find it?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Get in the car, Colonel," General Mclnerney ordered. "Curiosity over-whelms me."

A silver-haired, elderly, dignified black man in a crisp white steward's coat walked out onto the flagstone patio of the sprawling mansion on the coast. Five hundred yards down the steep, lush slope, large waves crashed onto a wide white sand beach.

Three people were on the patio, stretched comfortably out on upholstered rattan chaise lounges under a green awning. One was a statuesque, Slavic-appearing blond woman in her forties. Makeup-less, pale-skinned, she had her blond hair piled upward on her head. She was wearing a loose-fitting, gaudily flowered dress, called a "muumuu." Her feet were in woven leather sandals.

One of the men, a good-looking, slim, deeply tanned and brown-haired young man of twenty-six, was wearing swimming trunks and a loose-fitting shirt quite as loud as the lady's muumuu. The other, a large, nearly bald, barrel-chested man in his forties, was wearing stiffly starched Marine khakis, the col-lar unbuttoned. The collar points held the gold and brown bar of a master gunner, and there were gold Naval Aviator's wings on his chest.

"Captain Galloway," the steward said. "Colonel Dawkins is here to see you. With another gentleman, a general."

"Denny," Charley Galloway said, "I've had a bad week. Do not pull my leg."

The steward raised his right hand, palm outward, to shoulder height as if swearing that he was telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

"God, Denny, let them in!" Galloway said, rising to his feet. "It wouldn't hurt to bow or something."

Smiling, the steward bowed with great dignity.

"Not to me, not to me, at the General!"

"Your wish is my command," Denny said.

"My God," the woman said anguished. "Look at me!"

Twenty seconds later, Brigadier General D. G. Mclnerney and Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins walked onto the patio. The master gunner came to a position very much like attention.

"Good afternoon, Sir," Galloway said.