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

"There's also Meal Vouchers," the staff sergeant said. "I'll tell you about them. You are supposed to be able to exchange them for a meal in restaurants. The thing is, most restaurants, except bad ones, don't want to be run over with servicemen eating cheap meals that they don't get paid for for a month, so they either don't honor these things, or they give you a cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee and call it dinner. So if I was you, I would save enough from that flying hundred they just gave you to eat whatever and wherever you want. Then in 'Diego, or Pearl Harbor, or when you get where you're going, you turn in the meal tickets and say you couldn't find anyplace that would honor them. They'll pay you. It's a buck thirty-five a day. Still with me?"

"Yeah, thanks for the tip."

"OK. Now finally, and this is important. You've got a six-A priority. The only way you can be legally beat out of your seat on the airplane is by somebody who also has a six-A priority and outranks you. Since they pass out very few six-As, that's not going to be a problem. If some colonel happens to do that to you, you get his name and telephone Outshipment in 'Diego, the number's on your orders, and tell them what happened, including the name of the officer who bumped you. In that case, no problem."

"I understand," Moore said.

"But what's liable to happen," the staff sergeant went on, "is that you're going to bump some captain or some major- or maybe even some colonel or important civilian-who doesn't have a six-A, and he's not going to like that worth a shit, and will try to pull rank on you. If you let that happen, your ass is in a crack. You understand?"

"What am I supposed to say to him?"

"You tell him to call Outshipment in 'Diego, and get their permission to bump you. Otherwise, 'with respect, Sir, I can't miss my plane.' Got it?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Somebody pretty high up in the Corps wants to get you where you're going in a hurry, Sergeant, otherwise you wouldn't have a six-A. And they are going to get very pissed off if you hand the six-A to somebody who didn't rate it on their own."

"OK," Moore said.

"Well, that's it," the staff sergeant said. "Good luck, Moore."

"Thank you," Moore said, shaking his hand.

"Oh, shit. I just remembered: You're entitled to a couple of bus and subway tokens. We'll have to go back by the office, but what the hell, why pay for a bus if you can get the Corps to pay, right?"

"I've got a car."

"Oh, shit! I knew there would be something!"

"Something wrong?"

"You want the Corps to store it for you, you'll be here all goddamned day."

"It's my father's car."

At breakfast, Moore had been surprised at his father's reaction to his mother's suggestion-"Dear, couldn't John use the Buick to drive down there?" He would never have bothered to ask for it himself, for the negative response would have been certain.

"I suppose," the Reverend Doctor Moore had said, after a moment's hesitation, "that would be the thing to do."

There was not even the ritual speech about driving slowly and carefully, which always preceded his-rare-sessions behind the wheel of his father's car. It was a 1940 Buick Limited, which had a new kind of transmission that eliminated the clutch pedal and little switches on the steering wheel that flashed the stop and parking lights in the direction you intended to turn. His father was ordinarily reluctant to entrust such a precision machine into the hands of his rash and reckless-as he considered it-son.

And yet, to his astonishment, his father hadn't even put up a ritual show of resistance.

As he put his mind to that, it occurred to Moore that this was not the first time his father had behaved oddly since he had come home from Parris Island. For instance, there had hardly been any questions about why he was going overseas now as a sergeant, rather than to Quantico for officer training.

His father was probably concerned that he was going to be killed in the Orient, Moore decided, and was going out of his way to be kind and obliging. But he sensed there was something else, too; he had no idea what.

"Jesus, you had me worried for a minute," the sergeant said, and then offered his hand again, and repeated, "Good luck, Moore."

Moore had not been able to get his father's car onto the base. It was parked just outside.

And he had to show his orders to the Marine Guard at the gate as he left. He remembered at the last moment that his orders now were the ones the staff sergeant had just given him, not the ones Tech Sergeant Rutterman had given him only a couple of days before.

He took them from the smaller manila envelope and handed them to the guard, who scanned them quickly.

"OK, Sergeant," he said. "If you have to go, that's the way."

Moore smiled at him, but didn't know what he meant. As he walked to the car, he read the orders for the first time.

Marine Barracks U.S. Naval Station Philadelphia, Penna

16. June 1942

Letter Orders:

To Sergeant John M. Moore, 673456, USMCR

1. You are detached this date from Headquarters Company, Marine Barracks, Phila. Pa.,

and assigned 14th Special Detachment, USMC,PPO 2454 3, San Francisco, Cal.

2. You will proceed by government and/or civilian rail, air and sea transportation via

USMC Barracks San Diego, Cal., and Pearl Harbor, T.H. Air Transportation is directed

where possible, with Priority AAAAAA authorized by TWX Hq USMC dated 15 June 1942,

Subject: "Movement of Moore, Sgt John M. " to final destination.

3. USMC Barracks San Diego, Cal., and Pearl Harbor, T. H., and all other Naval facilities

are directed to report via most expeditious means to Hq USMC ATTN: GHV3:12 the date and

time of your arrival and departure while enroute. Once travel commences, any delay in

movement which will exceed 12 (twelve ) hours will be reported to Hq USMC ATTN: GHV3 :13

by URGENT radio message.

By Direction:

Jasper J. Malone

Lieut. Colonel, USMC

He realized that he knew nothing more now than he had been told by Captain Sessions at Parris Island. He didn't know what Special Detachment 14 was; where it was; or what he would be doing there when he got there. The only thing he knew for sure was that the Corps was going to a hell of a lot of trouble to get him there as quickly as possible.

It was disturbing.

Disturbing, shit! Its frightening.

He looked at his watch. It was quarter to four. All of his business at the Marine Barracks had taken far less time than he had expected, and planned for. It would take him ten minutes to drive down Broad Street to the Union League, where he was to meet Uncle Bill for dinner. That meant he would arrive two hours and five minutes early.

And two hours and five minutes was not enough time to find a movie and watch through the whole thing. It was enough time to take the car home and ride back downtown on the train. That would make the car available to his father when he returned from the Missions office.

Alternatively, he could make profitable use of the time... the Reverend Moore believed that profitable use of one's time was a virtue and thus the waste of one's time was a non-virtue, and consequently sinful... by making a farewell visit to the Franklin Institute or the Philadelphia Museum of Fine Art.

Or he could go to the Trocadero Burlesque Theater, which was within walking distance of the Union League Club. There, while munching caramel-covered popcorn, he could watch an Easy Woman take her clothing off... perhaps as many as four Easy Women in the nearly two hours he had. That was about as close as he was going to get to a naked woman in the foreseeable future.

It was also possible-unlikely, but possible-that he might encounter a real Easy Woman in the Tenderloin, as the area was known... a woman in a short skirt and tight sweater who would leer at him and entice him to a cheap hotel as her contribution to the war effort.