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

An officer in the company CP was standing there, a young, skinny first lieutenant with a steel pot on his head, a web belt with a pistol holster hanging from it around his waist, and a Thompson.45 ACP submachine gun slung from his shoulder.

"This is Sergeant Everly, Lieutenant," the first sergeant said.

"Major Paulson tells me you speak pretty good Spanish, Sergeant," the Lieutenant said.

Who the hell is Major Paulson? Oh, the little guy with the bad rash, running sores all over him. With pilot's wings. We spent two days last week on Bataan looking for parts for some kind of generator. We didn't find any; I could have told him we wouldn't before we left The Rock.

"Yes, Sir."

"We really need those generator parts you and Major Paulson were look-ing for," the Lieutenant said. "Do you feel up to having another look?"

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"My name is Weston, Sergeant," the Lieutenant said, putting out his hand.

"Yes, Sir," Everly said, shaking it.

"You need anything to take with you?"

"No, Sir," Everly said.

He had with him all he would need. He had his Springfield Model 1903.30-06 Caliber rifle, with six extra five-round stripper clips; his Model 1911 Al.45 ACP Caliber Colt pistol, and an extra magazine with seven car-tridges; two canteens of water; his compass; his first-aid pack; and a small rucksack slung over his shoulder which held two shorts, two skivvy shirts, two pairs of socks, a shirt and a pair of pants, a razor with three decent blades and one brand-new blade, two packages of Chesterfield cigarettes, and a Zippo lighter that wouldn't work until he could find a gas tank to dip it into for fuel.

And the click-open knife the sergeant from the Pennsylvania had tried to kill him with. At the court-martial, the sergeant testified that the knife intro-duced into evidence didn't belong to him, that Everly had come after him with it. When Everly was acquitted, the knife was "returned" to him. The first thing he wanted to do was throw it away; but then he decided maybe he could sell it to someone for a couple of bucks-it was a high-quality knife. But then he realized that he didn't want to sell it, either. So he just kept it hidden in his footlocker in rolled-up skivvy shirts. Later, when he was work-ing for Captain Banning, he started carrying it with him in his pocket, or slipped into the top of his boondockers. He never used it, not even to clean his fingernails, but he kept it sharpened. And every once in a while, he oiled it and made sure that when he slid the button, it flipped open, the way it was supposed to.

"Then why don't we get started?" Lieutenant Weston said.

"Aye, aye, Sir."

The first sergeant didn't say a word; he just looked at Everly.

That old bastard is too smart to believe in The Aid, Everly thought. He knows everybody on The Rock is fucked. And he knows men, and he knows me. Which means he knows I wouldn't be carrying my rucksack unless I was think-ing about not coming back. What does that make me in his eyes? A fucking coward and disgrace to The Marine Corps? Or a lucky bastard who's being given the chance to do something he wishes he could do himself?

Everly nodded at the first sergeant.

"Take care of yourself, Everly," the first sergeant said.

Everly nodded again, and then followed Lieutenant Weston out of the CP.

[ONE]

Mariveles-Morong Highway, Luzon

Commonwealth of the Philippines

1425 Hours 1 April 1942

No vehicles were available for assignment to a lowly lieutenant and his ser-geant at the motor pool at Mariveles, at the tip of the Bataan Peninsula.

"You'll have to hitchhike," the Army captain in charge said. "But that's not as bad as it sounds. There's a lot of traffic. Where are you headed?"

"Orion," Lieutenant Weston said. Orion was one of four small towns on the Manila Bay side of the Bataan Peninsula.

"When you leave the compound, turn right," the Captain said. "It's about thirty-five miles. What do you expect to find in Orion?"

"Generator parts."

"Good luck," the Captain said, his tone clearly saying that two Marines had little chance of finding anything in Orion.

"Thank you, Sir," Weston said, and saluted. Everly followed suit, and then courteously waited for Weston to leave the small, frame motor pool office first.

During the short trip from Corregidor on the requisitioned thirty-five-foot Chris-Craft cabin cruiser, there'd been a pleasant breeze; but by the time they'd walked from the Mariveles pier to the motor pool, their backs and arm-pits were dark with sweat.

At the gate of the compound, a guard shack was manned by two enlisted Army Military Policemen and a captain wearing the crossed rifles of Infantry. He carefully examined the pass (actually a memorandum form, the stockpiled supplies on Corregidor having included six months' supply of printed forms), and, Weston thought, suspiciously.

"Where are you headed, Lieutenant?" he asked.

"Morong, Sir," Weston replied.

The Captain's eyebrows rose questioningly; it was clear he wanted an ex-planation.

"There was word that some stuff was cached this side of Morong when they evacuated Subic Bay," Weston said. "We thought the generator parts we're looking for could be there."

He was uncomfortable lying, and he took a quick look at the Old Breed Sergeant from the 4th Marines to see if he had any reaction to his change of destination; Sergeant Everly had heard him tell the motor officer they were headed for Orion. Morong, a small port on the South China Sea, was on the opposite side of the Bataan Peninsula.

Everly's face was expressionless.

"You've got coordinates?" the Captain asked.

Weston forced himself to smile.

" 'Two hundred paces due east from an overturned and burned ton-and-a-half,' " he said, " 'three point seven miles from Morong.' "

"There's more than one burned and overturned ton-and-a-half truck on that road," the Captain said.

"Ours not to reason why," Weston said with a smile. "Ours but to..."

"Happy hunting," the Captain said, waving them through the gate.

There was no traffic headed toward Subic Bay. Weston started walking along the side of the road, remembering when he used to hitchhike in high school and college; he could never understand then-or now-why hitchhik-ers walked along the road.

There's no way you could walk even a couple miles to where you're headed, so why walk at all? Just wait for a ride.

Everly walked behind him, keeping up with him easily, despite all the equipment he was carrying. Weston decided he would at least walk out of sight of Mariveles before talking to the sergeant. And then when they were out of sight, he decided he would walk a little farther.

He intended to order the sergeant to go back to The Rock, carrying a mean-ingless message to Major Paulson.

He had just about decided they had gone far enough-being defined as far enough away from Mariveles that if the sergeant became suspicious and said something to the MPs at the gate, he would have twenty minutes or so to find a side road and disappear down it-when the sergeant reported a truck was ap-proaching.

It was a flatbed Ford, driven by an Army corporal. The name of a Manila furniture dealer could still be read under a hastily applied coat of olive-drab paint.

A PFC riding in the cab stepped out and gave Weston his seat, and then climbed in back with Everly. The truck was loaded with bales of empty sand-bags, and the driver told him he was headed for a Philippine artillery battalion, then asked him where he was headed.

"I'm looking for a burned and rolled-over ton-and-a-half," Weston re-plied. "There's supposed to be some stuff cached nearby."

"I was up here this morning," the driver said. "There's a bunch of trucks turned over and burned. How are you going to know which one?"