W.E.B. Griffin - The Corps 03 - Counterattack

"Yes, Sir."

"Once a Marine, always a Marine. Welcome back aboard, Major."

‘Thank you, Sir."

"When you get settled, call my aide. I want a long talk with you."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

Jake Dillon never again raised the question of his lack of qualifications to be a major. If the Deputy Commandant of the Corps thought he could hack it, who was he to ask questions?

In the Corps, you say, "Aye, aye, Sir," and do what you’re told to the best of your ability.

When Major Dillon reported two weeks later for duty at Headquarters USMC, he was assigned as Officer-in-Charge, Special Projects, Public Affairs Office.

The visit of the team of Life photojournalism to the Parachute School at Lakehurst Naval Air Station was a Special Project. And from the moment Major Jake Dillon met Lieutenant Colonel Franklin G. Neville, he knew in his bones that something or someone was going to fuck it up.

He couldn’t understand the feeling, but he trusted it. He anticipated no trouble with the people from Life. He knew a couple of them; and more important, he knew their bosses. And the story itself looked like a natural. Marines were always good copy, and parachutists were always good copy, and here he had both. The confirmation of that came when he called a guy he knew at Life and learned that unless something, else came along of greater importance, and providing that the pictures worked out, they were scheduling the Para-Marines as the cover story, two issues down the pike.

"Bill, do me a favor, forget you ever heard the phrase ‘Para-Marines.’ I don’t know why, but it pisses off a lot of the important brass."

The Managing Editor of Life chuckled.

"OK. So what do I call them?"

"Marine Parachutists, please."

"Marine Parachutists it is. You going to be at Lakehurst?"

"Sure."

"What I sort of have in mind, Jake, is a nice clean-cut kid hanging from a parachute. For the cover, I mean."

"You got him. I’ll have a dozen for you to choose from."

"Excuse me, Major," Lieutenant R. B. Macklin said to Major Homer J. Dillon, "may I have a word with you, Sir?"

Jake Dillon gave Lieutenant Macklin an impatient look, shrugged his shoulders, and jerked his thumb toward the door.

God only knows what this horse’s ass wants.

"This is far enough," Major Jake Dillon said to Lieutenant, R. B. Macklin, once they were out of earshot of the people from Life. "What’s on your mind?"

"Sir, I thought I had best bring you up to date on PFC Koffler."

"OK. What about him?"

"I have confined him to barracks. My adjutant is drawing up the court-martial charges. He believes that ‘conduct prejudicial to good order and discipline’ is the appropriate charge."

"What the hell are you talking about?" ,

"The Major is aware that Koffler .. . that Koffler said ‘Fuck(you’ to the gentleman from Life when he asked him what his name was?"

"I wasn’t, but so what?"

"Right there on the Landing Zone, as he stood over Colonel Neville’s body. I was there, Sir."

"I repeat, so what?"

"Well, Sir, we just can’t let something like that pass."

"Jesus H. Christ!" Jake Dillon flared. "Now listen to me, Macklin. What you’re going to do, Lieutenant, is tell your adjutant to take his goddamned court-martial charges out of his god-damned typewriter and put in a fresh sheet of paper. And on that sheet of paper, backdated to day before yesterday, he will type out an order promoting PFC Koffler to corporal."

"Sir, I don’t understand."

"That doesn’t surprise me at all, Lieutenant. Just do it. I want to see that kid here in thirty minutes. Showered and shaved, in a fresh uniform, with his parachute wings on his chest and corporal’s stripes on his sleeves. Those parachutists’ boots, too. I just talked to AP. They saw the picture of him that Life took, and they’re coming down here to interview him. And that Flying Sergeant who was flying the airplane. If AP’s coming, UP and INS won’t be far behind. Get the picture?"

"Sir, technically," Macklin said, uneasily but doggedly, "he’s not entitled to wear either boots or wings. We haven’t had the graduation ceremony. Colonel Neville delayed it for the Life people, and after . . . what happened ... I postponed it indefinitely."

"Parachute boots, wings, and corporal’s stripes, Lieutenant," Jake Dillon said icily. "Here. In thirty minutes."

"Aye, aye, Sir," Lieutenant Macklin said.

(Five)

"I think that’s about enough, fellas," Major Jake Dillon said, rising to his feet. "Sergeant Galloway and Corporal Koffler have had a rough day. I think we ought to let them go."

There were the expected mumbles of discontent from the press, but they started to fold up their notebooks and get to their feet. The interview was over.

Jake Dillon was pleased that he had thought about putting Sergeant Galloway in the press conference. Galloway had handled himself well, even better than Dillon had hoped for. And Corporal Koffler, bless his little heart, was dumber than dog shit; if Galloway hadn’t been there, that would have come out.

And the press seemed to have bought the story line that it was a tragic accident, something that just happened to a fine officer who was undergoing training with his men.

But Jake Dillon knew that when two or three are gathered together in the name of honest journalism, one of them will be a sonofabitch determined to find the maggots under the rock, even if he has to put them there himself. In this case, he wouldn’t have to look far.

Jake Dillon had formed his own unvarnished version of the truth vis-a-vis the tragic death of Lieutenant Colonel Franklin G. Neville, USMC, based on what he had heard from the jump-master, from Corporal Steve Koffler, and on his own previous observations of Lieutenant Colonel Franklin G. Neville.

Neville had been bitten by the publicity bug. When the guys from Life had shown very little interest in Neville himself, preferring instead to devote their attention to young enlisted men, it had really gotten to him. The whole thing was his idea, and nobody gave a damn.

And so he flipped. He was determined to have his picture in Life, and that meant he had to put himself in a position where the photographers could hot ignore him. And he figured out that would be when they were shooting the parachutists exiting the aircraft. If he was first man out the door, they would have to take his picture, and they couldn’t edit him out.

So he pushed out of the way the kid Koffler, who was supposed to be first man out, and jumped. And something went wrong. Instead of being in center frame, he found himself wrapped around the horizontal stabilizer. That either killed him straight off, or it left him unconscious. Either way, he couldn’t pull the D-ring on his emergency ‘chute.

Jake Dillon didn’t want that story to come out. It would hurt the widow, and would hurt the Corps.

"I would like a word with you, Sergeant, please," Jake Dillon called after Galloway as Galloway and Koffler left the room. "You and Corporal Koffler."

When he had them alone and out of earshot, he said, "OK. Where are you two headed?"

"Sir," Sergeant Galloway said, "I understand that General Mclnerney’s coming up here in the morning. I’ve been told to make myself available to him for that."

"I mean now, tonight. I know about the General."

"Well, Sir, I thought I would like to get off the base. Find a room somewhere."

"Good. Go now, and take Corporal Koffler with you. The one thing I don’t want you to do is talk to the press. Period. Under any circumstances. Consider that an order."

"Aye, aye, Sir," Charley Galloway said. A split second later, Steve parroted him.

"I’ve talked to General Mclnerney," Major Dillon went on. "Here’s what’s happening. Colonel Neville’s body is to be taken to the Brooklyn Navy Yard for an autopsy. Then it will be put in a casket and brought back here. After the inquiry tomorrow morning, you and Koffler will take it to Washington. You will travel with General Mclnerney and an honor guard of the parachutists. Colonel Neville will be buried in Arlington. You and Koffler will be pallbearers."