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

"I think it's sort of interesting."

"You 'think it's sort of interesting, Sir', " Macklin corrected him.

"Yes, Sir."

"I'll be with you shortly," Macklin snapped.

"I'll wait for you in the jeep, Captain," the sergeant said.

Except for his subtly disrespectful attitude, there was nothing he could find in the sergeant's behavior to put a finger on, but his behavior was definitely annoying. He was reminded of the behavior of Corporal McCoy in China, and after a moment he decided that was probably the explanation. McCoy was here, McCoy was an officer, and young enlisted men tended to emulate the behavior of their officers.

He hadn't seen McCoy. He hadn't seen anyone, or heard from anyone, since the Asiatic major dumped him at the BOQ shortly after his arrival. Walking home from the 0800 morning prayer service at St. John's Church that morning, he'd decided that if he didn't hear anything by 1700, he would tele-phone the OSS people here in Brisbane.

He rather enjoyed the worship service. The familiar hymns and the words of the Book of Common Prayer in a church not unlike his own St. Paul's were rather nice. Afterward, as he waited in line to shake the rector's hand, he chat-ted with a stocky, well-dressed gentleman with a large mustache, who asked him to join him and his family for Sunday dinner if he had no other plans.

He had no other plans, of course, except to return to the BOQ and wait for something to happen. But he did not think he should run the risk of being away from the BOQ should Major Brownlee suddenly appear. So he declined, telling the kind gentleman that he had duty.

But the encounter had tipped the scales in favoring of calling the OSS sta-tion in Brisbane. He had been furnished-and had memorized-their number for emergency purposes. He wasn't sure whether this was an emergency or not, but certainly the OSS would be interested to hear that he had not heard from anyone, most importantly from Major Brownlee, in seventy-two hours.

He checked his reflected image as well as he could in the dim mirror over the washbasin, tugged at the hem of his tunic, and then, carefully locking the door behind him, walked down the long, dark, and narrow corridor of the hotel, down the creaking stairs, across the sparsely furnished lobby, and outside.

The sergeant saw him coming, started the jeep's engine, and waited for him to get in-somewhat impatiently, Macklin thought. It was apparent the sergeant hadn't even considered stepping out of the jeep, saluting, and then waiting for the officer to be seated before getting behind the wheel.

"What is our destination, Sergeant?" he asked as Koffler backed the jeep away from its parking spot.

"We're going out to the cottage, Captain."

"And what is the 'cottage,' Sergeant?"

"Where the officers live, Captain."

If "the officers" live there, why am I living in the Company Grade BOQ?

When they arrived at the cottage, Macklin's first reaction was favorable. It could be something like the Country Club, he decided, a rather nice civilian facility requisitioned for the use of the OSS. That view was reinforced when the sergeant opened the door for him and motioned him inside, past an entrance hall, and into a large, comfortably furnished living room. Two young Marine officers-both second lieutenants-slid their rattan upholstered chairs closer to a coffee table, as a middle-aged woman in an apron-obviously some kind of servant-entered the room carrying a tray on which were a silver coffee set and a plate of pastries.

Both officers looked at him curiously, but neither rose to his feet.

"I am Captain Macklin. To see Colonel Stecker."

"Steve'll tell him you're here, Captain," one of the officers, a tall, good-looking blonde, said.

Steve is apparently this baby-faced sergeant who needs a refresher course in military courtesy. As do both of these young officers.

Macklin saw the Purple Heart ribbon among those on the blonde's tunic; the other second lieutenant's tunic carried the silver cords identifying an aide-de-camp to a general officer.

"Is General Pickering here?" Macklin asked.

"Why don't you sit down and have a cup of coffee and a doughnut?" the aide-de-camp said. "I'm sure Colonel Stecker will be ready for you in a minute or two."

"I asked you if General Stecker was here, Lieutenant," Macklin flared. "I am under orders to report to him."

Lieutenant George Hart looked at Macklin long enough for Macklin to re-alize he would not get an answer, and to consider his next options. He was not forced to make a decision.

"The Colonel will see you now, Captain," Sergeant Koffler announced. Macklin looked at him. He was standing by an open door. And then First Lieu-tenant Kenneth R. McCoy came through the door, in the act of stuffing an M1911 Al.45 Colt under his belt in the small of his back. He looked at Mack-lin, meeting his eyes.

"Captain Macklin," he said.

"McCoy," Macklin responded.

McCoy looked away.

"Anybody want to see how much a lot of gold actually weighs?" McCoy said to no one in particular.

"Yeah, I would," the tall lieutenant said.

"I await my master's call," the aide-de-camp said, "damn it."

"What can I use for wheels?" McCoy asked.

"You better take the Jaguar," the aide said. "The Boss is either going to the Palace to meet some admiral, or I'm going to go to the Palace to bring the Admiral here; and I know the Colonel's going to need his jeep."

"In here, please, Captain," a new voice said. Macklin followed the sound and saw a tall, muscular, tanned full colonel motioning him to enter the room McCoy had just left.

"Yes, Sir," Macklin said.

"Did they offer you some coffee, Captain? Would you like some?"

"That would be very nice, Sir."

"You better take somebody with you, Ken," the Colonel said. "That's a lot of gold. I'd hate to have to tell somebody we lost it in a stickup. And take the Jaguar, not a jeep."

"Gimpy's volunteered to ride shotgun, Colonel," McCoy said, nodding toward the tall second lieutenant.

"Any reason you can't go with them, George?" Stecker asked.

"I'm waiting to see what the Boss wants to do, Colonel."

"You go with them. If the General needs wheels, I'll drive him."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"Colonel, we're only going to take it from the bank to the dungeon, wrap it, and take it back to the bank," McCoy said.

"It is better to be safe than sorry," Stecker said with a smile. "Write that down, McCoy."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"OK, Captain," Stecker said. "Get yourself a cup of coffee, and then come in the library."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

As he poured coffee, Macklin understood why McCoy had referred to the tall second lieutenant as "Gimpy." He walked with a visible limp, and was apparently in some pain.

Typical of McCoy. To mock an officer who had suffered honorable wounds in combat. One more reason people like that should not be officers.

Carrying his coffee and a sweet roll in his hands, Macklin went into the library. Colonel Stecker was at the door.

"Take a seat, Captain Macklin," Stecker ordered, and then closed and locked the door behind them. Macklin sat down in an upholstered armchair near the desk. Stecker walked to the desk and rested his rump on it.

"I'm afraid there's been some bad news, Captain," he said. "The B-17 carrying Major Brownlee was forced to ditch at sea near Midway. There were no survivors."

Macklin felt a chill.

My God! If I had been fully recovered from my wounds, I would have been aboard that B-17!

"I'm very sorry to hear that, Sir. Major Brownlee was a fine gentleman, a fine Marine officer."

"So I have been led to believe."

"Officially, that places command of the Fertig mission in your hands," Stecker said.

My God!

"Colonel, may I inquire if the OSS has been notified of this terrible loss?"