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

And then, without looking at Banning again, Stecker quickly walked out of the Quonset hut. Banning found himself alone with his new command; they were now looking at him almost with fascination.

That was a hell of a nice thing for Jack Stecker to do,Banning thought.

"Well, Sergeant Richardson," he said, "now that we have wheels, we can get bedding. Take half the men and the truck and go get it."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"And when you’ve finished, take the mattresses here back where you got them."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"Try not to get caught," Banning said.

"Yes, Sir."

"I want to talk to each of you alone," Banning said, after Richardson and the men he took were gone. "I’ll start with you, Sergeant. The rest of you wait outside."

The first man, the other staff sergeant, a thirty-year-old named Hazleton, was a disappointment. By the time he finished talking with him, Banning was sure he had volunteered for a mission "where the risk of loss of life will be high" because he was unwelcome where he was. That he had, in other words, been "volunteered" by his first sergeant or company commander. For all of his last hitch before the war, he had been the assistant NCO club manager at Quantico. Rather obviously, he had been swept out of that soft berth when the brass was desperately looking for noncoms to train the swelling Corps.

And at 2ndJoint Training Force, where the broom had swept him, Hazleton had been found unable to cut the mustard. When the TWX soliciting volunteers had arrived, his company commander had decided it was a good, and easy, way to get rid of him.

Banning was not surprised. That was the way things went. No company commander wanted to lose his best men. Lieutenant Colonel Rickabee had warned Banning that was going to happen, and he had made provision to deal with it. The staff sergeant’s name would be TWXed to Rickabee, and shortly afterward there would be a TWX from Headquarters USMC, transferring the staff sergeant out of Special Detachment 14.

Banning wondered how many of the others would be like the staff sergeant. With one exception, however, none were. To Banning’s surprise, the others were just what he had hoped to get. They were bright-in some cases, very bright-young noncoms who were either looking for excitement or a chance for rapid promotion, or both.

Unfortunately, none of them spoke Japanese, although four of them had apparently managed to utter enough Japanese-sounding noises to convince their first sergeants that they did. That wasn’t surprising either. Japanese linguists were in very short supply. Officers who had them would fight losing them as hard as possible. Nevertheless, Rickabee had promised to pry loose as many as he could (maybe four), and send them directly to Melbourne.

The last man Banning interviewed, the only corporal who had so far arrived, was the second disappointment. Corporal Stephen Koffler had come to Special Detachment 14 from the Marine Corps Parachute School at Lakehurst Naval Air Station. It didn’t take more than a couple of minutes for Banning to extract from him the admission that he had "been volunteered." The kid’s first sergeant had made what could kindly be called a pointed suggestion that he volunteer.

"Why do you think he did that, Koffler?"

"I don’t know, Sir. So far as I know, I didn’t do nothing wrong. But right from the first, Lieutenant Macklin seemed to have it in for me."

"What was that name? Who ‘had it in’ for you?"

"Lieutenant Macklin, Sir."

"Tall, thin officer? An Annapolis graduate?"

"Yes, Sir. Lieutenant R. B. Macklin. He told us he went to Annapolis. And he said that he had learned about the Japs from when he was in China."

I’ll be damned. So that’s where that sonofabitch wound up! Doesn’t sound like him. You could hurt yourself jumping out of airplanes. But maybe that pimple on the ass of the Corps was "volunteered" for parachute duty by somebody else who found out what a despicable prick he is, and hoped his parachute wouldn’t open.

"I believe I know the gentleman," Banning said. "Tell me, Koffler, what were you doing at the Parachute School? Some kind of an instructor?"

Even if this kid is no Corporal Killer McCoy, if he’s rubbed Macklin the wrong way, he probably has a number of splendid traits of character I just haven’t noticed so far. "The enemies of my enemies are my friends."

"No, Sir. They had me driving a truck."

"I don’t suppose you can type, can you, Koffler?"

There was a discernible pause before Corporal Koffler reluctantly said, "Yes, Sir. I can type."

"You sound like you’re ashamed of it."

"Sir, I don’t want to be a fucking clerk-typist."

"Corporal Koffler," Banning said sternly, suppressing a smile, "in case you haven’t heard this before, the Marine Corps is not at all interested in what you would like, or not like, to do. Where did you learn to type?"

That question obviously made Corporal Koffler just as uncomfortable as he’d been when he was asked if he could type at all.

"Where did you learn to type, Corporal? More important, how fast a typist are you?"

"About forty words a minute, Sir," Koffler said. "I got a book out of the library."

"A typing book, you mean? You taught yourself how to type?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Why?"

"I needed to know how to type to pass the FCC exam. You have to copy twenty words a minute to get your ticket, and I couldn’t write that fast."

"You’re a radio operator?" Banning asked, pleased.

"No, Sir. I’m a draftsman."

"A draftsman?" Banning asked, confused.

"Yes, Sir. That’s why I volunteered for parachuting."

"Excuse me?"

"Sir, they wanted to keep me at Parris Island as a draftsman, painting signs. The only way I could get out of it was to volunteer for parachute training."

"In other words, Corporal Koffler," Banning said, now keeping a straight face only with a massive effort, "it could be fairly said that you concealed your skill as a radio operator from the personnel people . . ."

"I didn’t conceal it, Sir," Koffler said. "They didn’t ask me, and I didn’t tell them."

"And then, since the personnel people were unaware of your very valuable skill as a radio operator, they elected to classify you as a draftsman?"

"That’s about it, Sir."

"And then you volunteered for the Para-Marines because you didn’t want to be a draftsman, and then you volunteered for the 14thSpecial Detachment because you didn’t want to be a Para-Marine?"

Koffler looked stricken.

"It wasn’t exactly that way, Sir."

"Then you tell me exactly how it was."

There was a knock at the door of the Quonset hut. "Come!" Banning said, and Lieutenant Joe Howard entered the hut.

"Major Stecker got off all right, Sir. I’ve got the keys to his car for you."

"Stick around, Lieutenant. I’ll be with you in a minute," Banning said. "Corporal Koffler and I are just about finished. Go on, Corporal."

"I don’t know what to say, Sir," Steve Koffler said unhappily. Banning glowered at him for a moment.

"I will spell it out for you, Koffler. This is the end of the line for you. There’s no place else you can volunteer for so you can get out of doing things you don’t like to do. From here on in, you are going to do what the Marine Corps wants you to do. You are herewith appointed the detachment clerk of the 14thSpecial Detachment, U.S. Marine Corps. And if there are any signs to be painted around here, you will paint them. Am I getting through to you?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Any questions?"

"No, Sir."

"Then report to Sergeant Richardson, tell him I have appointed you detachment clerk, and tell him I said he should see about getting you a typewriter. Do you understand all that?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I don’t want to hear that you are even thinking of volunteering for anything else, Koffler!"