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

Brisbane, Australia

9 December 1942

Dear Ernie:

Ed Sessions is going to the States the day after tomorrow, and has promised to carry this with him. This will be the last letter for a while, as I've got a job to do someplace where there isn't mail service. That means you don't have to write, either, as I wouldn't get it anyhow.

I can't tell you where I'm going, and I don't know when I'll be back. Please don't put Ed on the spot by trying to get him to tell you. I can't see the necessity for all the secrecy, but Ed is an intelligence type, and they're all a little hysterical about secrets. If they could, intelligence types would classify the telephone book TOP SECRET.

I'll be taking that Episcopal cross, or whatever it's called, you sent here with Ed with me. And the people going with me are first rate Marines.

Actually, I'm sort of looking forward to it. All those native girls in grass skirts and nothing else doing the hula hula, and eating roasted pigs with apples in their mouths, etcetera.

I was thinking a while ago that I met you 20 November last year. That's just a little over a year, even if it seems like much longer. And I remembered that saying, "It's better to have loved and lost than not have loved at all."

I guess what I'm trying to say is that if something goes wrong, not that I think it's going to, I really think I'm still ahead of the game. I never thought I would be lucky enough to get to know somebody like you, much less have you as my girl friend, and to even think that maybe you like me half as much as I like you.

But, let's face it, things sometimes do go wrong. If that happens, what I want you to do is get on with your life. I'm really grateful we had our thirteen months. If it turns out that I do find myself sitting on a cloud playing a harp, that's the way the ball bounced, at least it will have happened doing something I'm good at, and that has to be done. A lot of people get killed doing stupid things like getting hit by a bus walking across a street.

I know Pick will be around for you if something goes wrong, and to tell you the truth, if I had to pick a husband for you, he would be at the head of the list.

Thanks for everything, Baby.

Love,

Ken

He very carefully folded the letter in thirds, found an envelope, and wrote "K.R. McCoy, 1/LT USMCR" in the upper-left-hand corner, "Miss Ernestine Sage, Personal" in the center, inserted the letter, licked the adhesive flap with his tongue, and carefully sealed the envelope.

He looked at the envelope, tapped it against his hand, and exhaled audibly. His eyes fell on the cupboard. He walked to it, opened it and took out a bottle of Famous Grouse, put it to his lips, and took a healthy swallow.

Then he walked out of the dining room, across the living room, and down the corridor to Ed Sessions's room. There was a crack of light under the door. McCoy knocked, waited for a response, and then opened the door and went inside.

Sessions, in pajamas, 'was about to get into bed. He saw the envelope in McCoy's hand.

"For Ernie?"

McCoy nodded and handed it to him.

"Thanks, Ed."

Sessions shrugged. "You all right, Ken?"

"Yeah, sure," McCoy said, and then asked, "You want to go somewhere and get a drink?"

"Don't tell me there's nothing here?"

"I want to get out of here. I've been in that goddamned dining room since half past four this afternoon."

The last thing in the world I want to do is go somewhere and get a drink; I was also in that goddamned dining room for hours. But he really wants some company.

And this is the first time since I've known him that McCoy has ever asked me for something. 1 suspect it's one of the few times that Killer McCoy has ever asked anybody, except Ernie, to keep him company.

"Having a drink, or three, is the best suggestion I've heard all day," Ed Sessions said. "Have we got wheels?"

"There's a jeep outside."

"Be right with you."

"God is in his heaven, and all is right with the world," Ed Sessions said as he walked up to Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis, USN, at the bar of the SWPOA Company Grade Bachelor Officers' Quarters. "The U.S. Navy is nobly doing its duty, holding the bar in place with its elbows."

"I didn't expect to see you two in here," Lewis said. He did not seem especially happy to see them.

I think he's had more than a couple, Sessions decided.

"We're slumming," Sessions said.

"Actually, I was sort of looking for you," McCoy said.

"Oh, were you?" Lewis asked, somewhat coldly. "And are you going to tell me why, Mr. McCoy?"

The very careful pronunciation and exaggerated courtesy of the drunk, Sessions thought, the belligerent drunk. Christ, why did McCoy decide to come here?

"Well, you're both a swabbie and an expert on submarines," McCoy said. "I wanted to-"

He was interrupted by the barmaid.

"Gentlemen?"

"Have you got any scotch whiskey?"

"You just got here, right? Otherwise you wouldn't ask."

"Are you trying to tell me you don't have any scotch?"

"In our last shipment from Class VI, there were three bottles. First they take care of the big brass. Then they take care of the field-grade brass. Then they take care of the sergeants. The only people they take care of after us is the corporals and privates, and they aren't authorized any kind of hard whiskey. So what we have is rum, gin, and brandy."

"In that case, my friend and I will have a glass of ice water," McCoy said. "And while we're at it, give the sailor a glass of ice water, too."

The barmaid's shrug indicated that the strange behavior of Yanks no lon-ger came as a surprise to her. She produced three glasses with ice in them, and a stainless-steel pitcher of water.

"Thank you," McCoy said, and produced a quart bottle of Famous Grouse from a cloth bag. "Say when," he ordered, as he began to pour into the first of the glasses.

When he had finished, and water was added, he raised his glass.

"To the United States Navy Submarine Corps, or whatever they call it."

"I'll drink to that," Sessions said.

"Are you two trying to be cute?" Lewis asked.

"No. Not at all," McCoy said.

Lewis took a sip of his scotch.

"You stole this from General Pickering, right?" he asked.

"He gave it to me," McCoy said. "His words were I 'was free to help myself to whatever I thought I needed.' Which is more or less what I wanted to talk to you about."

"You found me," Lewis said, with enough of an unpleasant tone in his voice to get through to McCoy. McCoy looked at him curiously.

"Well, I figured you know how things are on submarines, and I know how chickenshit the Navy is about taking booze aboard-"

"You want to take some of that with you?" Lewis interrupted. "Is that what you're after?"

"I was thinking that if I'd been in the boondocks as long as Fertig and his people, a stiff shot of good whiskey would probably taste pretty good."

"I don't think anyone is going to question anything you want to take aboard the Sunfish, Mr. McCoy."

"Or the plane from here to Espiritu Santo?"

"Or the plane. You are wrapped, through me, in the protective mantle of CINCPAC himself."

"I was thinking about a case."

"You want to take a case of scotch whiskey with you?"

"Why not?"

"Indeed, why not? May I suggest that you wrap it up? So it won't be so obvious that you consider yourself above complying with regulations?"

Sessions looked at McCoy and saw there was no smile on his face, and that his eyes had turned into ice. And then McCoy relaxed, as if he had just realized that Lewis was drunk and should not be held responsible.

"That's already been done," McCoy said. "In some of Koffler's plastic."

"Then I see no problem at all," Lewis said.

"Thanks," McCoy said.