W.E.B. Griffin - The Corps IV - Battleground

"Come on, Rutterman," Sessions said with a smile. "What's going on?"

"The Colonel wants you right now," Rutterman said. "He even sent his car. I'll take care of Sergeant Moore from here."

"Brief me on that," Sessions said, and then, "Excuse me. Moore, this is Sergeant Harry Rutterman."

Rutterman gave Moore a broad smile, and then- unintentionally, Moore decided-he crushed his hand in an iron handshake.

"Welcome to Never-Never Land, Sergeant," he said.

"OK, Rutterman," Sessions said. "Enough!"

"Yes, Sir," Rutterman said. "As of this morning, Private Moore was transferred to Baker Company, Headquarters Battalion, here. Then, recognizing the enormous contribution to the Corps he is about to make, they promoted him to Sergeant. Then they transferred him to Marine Barracks, Navy Yard, Philadelphia. I checked the travel times. He has forty-eight hours to get here from Parris Island, and twenty-four to get to Philadelphia after he leaves here. When his orders get to Philadelphia, he'll have seven days to get to San Diego. I got him an airplane ticket from New York to Los Angeles, which will put him there in about thirty-six hours. He has to take the train from Los Angeles to 'Diego. So I didn't put him on leave. I mean, why? What's important is that he gets on the plane in 'Diego on the twenty-first, right? This way, he won't get charged any leave time."

"I don't think I want to hear about this," Sessions said.

"It's all according to regulations, Captain," Sergeant Rutterman said, sounding slightly indignant.

"The trouble is, Sergeant, that you read things in regulations that no one else can see," Sessions said. "But he has a seat on the courier from San Diego on the twenty-first, right? That's all locked in?"

"As well as it can be, Sir. You know what happens, sometimes. An unexpected senior officer shows up wanting a seat..."

"What's his priority?" Sessions interrupted.

"Six As," Sergeant Rutterman had replied. "The Colonel had to make a couple of phone calls himself, but he got it."

Sergeant John Marston Moore wondered what in the world they were talking about.

"What else can we do?"

"Odd that you should ask, Sir-"

"If you're about to suggest that out of an overwhelming sense of duty, you would be willing to take the Sergeant out there yourself, to make sure he doesn't get bumped out of his seat by 'an unexpected senior officer...' "

"That thought..."

"No, Goddamn it," Sessions said, but was unable to contain a smile. "We must have somebody already out there who can get him through Outshipment despite your 'unexpected senior officer.'"

"I'll think of someone, Sir," Rutterman said.

"Don't be downcast, Rutterman," Sessions said. "It was a good try. One of your better ones."

"Thank you, Sir," Rutterman said.

Sessions turned to Moore.

"I don't suppose you understood much of that, did you, Moore?"

"No, Sir. I'm afraid..."

"Sergeant Rutterman will make it all clear, beyond any possibility of misinterpretation... Right, Rutterman?"

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"... before he puts you on the train," Sessions concluded.

"Yes, Sir," Moore said.

Sessions met his eyes.

"Most of this will make sense when you get where you're going and learn what's required of you," Sessions said. "Until you get there, you're just going to have to take my word that it's very important, and that the security of the operation is really of life-and-death importance..."

"Yes, Sir," Moore said.

"Damn," Sessions said. "Security clearance! What about that? A lousy SECRET won't do him any good."

"The Colonel had me get the full FBI report on Moore..."

"They gave it to you?" Sessions asked, surprised.

"They owed us one," Rutterman said. "And he reviewed it and granted him a TOP SECRET. What more he may have to have, he'll have to get over there."

Sessions looked thoughtful for a moment, and then put out his hand.

"Good luck, Sergeant Moore. God go with you."

Moore was made somewhat uneasy by the reference to God. It was not, he sensed with surprise, simply a manner of speech, a cliche. Sessions was actually invoking the good graces of the Deity.

"Thank you, Sir," he said.

Rutterman had a light blue 1941 Ford Fordor, with Maryland license plates. But a shortwave radio antenna bolted to the trunk and stenciled signs on the dashboard

(MAXIMUM PERMITTED SPEED 35 MPH; TIRE PRESSURE 32 PSI; and USE ONLY 87 OCTANE FUEL) made it rather clear that while the car had come out of a military motor pool, for some reason it was not supposed to look like a military vehicle. When they got to Union Station, Rutterman parked in a No Parking area and then took a cardboard sign reading NAVY DEPARTMENT-ON DUTY-OFFICIAL BUSINESS from under the seat and put it on the dashboard.

"If you don't think you'd lose control and wind up in New York or Boston, why don't you buy a Club Car ticket and have a couple of drinks on the way?" Rutterman suggested. "Otherwise, you're liable to have to stand up all the way to Philly."

"You reading my mind?" Moore asked.

"And I do card tricks," Rutterman said with a smile.

Moore bought his ticket and then, bag in hand, headed for the gate.

"You don't have to do any more for me, Sergeant," Moore said. "I can get on the train by myself."

"I want to be able to say I watched the train pull out with you on board," Rutterman replied.

A hand grabbed Moore's arm, startling him.

It was a sailor, wearing white web belt, holster and puttees, and with a Shore Patrol "SP" armband. Moore saw a second SP standing by the gate to Track Six.

"Let me see your orders, Mac," the Navy Shore Patrolman said.

Moore took from the lower pocket of his blouse a quarter-inch thick of mimeograph paper Rutterman had given him on the way to the station and handed it over.

"And your dog tags, Mac," the SP said.

"Slow day?" Sergeant Rutterman asked. "Or do you just like to lean on Marines?"

"What's your problem, Mac?" the SP asked, visibly surprised at what he obviously perceived to be a challenge to his authority.

"My problem, Sailor, is that I don't like you calling Marine sergeants 'Mac'"

"Then why don't you show me your orders, Sergeant?" the

SP said, as the other SP, slapping his billy club on the palm

of his hand, came up to get in on the action.

Rutterman reached in the breast pocket of his blouse and came out with a small leather folder. He held it open for the SP to read.

Moore saw that whatever Rutterman had shown the SP, it produced an immediate change of attitude.

"Sergeant," the SP said, apologetically, almost humbly, "we're just trying to do our job."

"Yeah, sure, you are," Rutterman said, dryly. "Can we go now?"

"Yeah, sure. Go ahead."

Rutterman jerked his head for Moore to pass through the gate.

"Goddamned SPs," he muttered.

"What was that you showed him?" Moore asked.

"You forget you saw that," Rutterman said. "That's not what you're supposed to do with that."

"What was it?" Moore asked.

"What was what, Sergeant?" Rutterman asked. "Didn't Sessions tell you the way to get your ass in a crack around here is to ask questions you shouldn't?"

His voice was stern, but there was a smile in his eyes.

"Right," Moore said.

Rutterman boarded the train with him, saw that he was settled in an armchair in the club car, and then offered him his hand.

"I'll give you a call tomorrow or the next day," he said. "To tell you how the paperwork is moving."

"I'll have to give you my number," Moore said.

"I've got your number," Rutterman smiled, then shook his head. "Don't forget to get off this thing in Philadelphia."

"I'll try," Moore said. "Thank you, Sergeant."

"What for?" Rutterman replied, and then walked out of the club car.