W Griffin - The Corps I - Semper Fi

"Yes, sir," Pick said, annoyed that he was getting a lecture on top of everything else.

"In this case, the facts as I presented them to you seem to have misled you."

"Sir?"

"Your dad is indeed concerned about you, and he did in fact call me and ask me to look after you. But what he was concerned about was the possibility that some chairwarmer would review your records, see what you did as a civilian, and assign you appropriately. He said he didn't want you to spend your hitch in the Corps as a mess officer. Or a housing officer. And when I checked, that's exactly what those sonsofbitches had in mind for you. If I had not gone over there, Lieutenant, and had you assigned to me, you would have reported for duty this morning to the officers' club at the Barracks."

Pick's eyes widened.

"So, because your Dad and I are old buddies-we were corporals together at Belleau Wood-I am protecting your ass. I think you would make a lousy aide, too. You will be my junior aide only until such time as I decide what else the Corps can do with you."

"I seem to have made an ass of myself, sir," Pickering said.

"We sort of expect that from second lieutenants," General Mclnerney said, reasonably. "The only thing you really did wrong was underestimate your father. Did you really think he would try to grease the ways for you?"

"My father is married to my mother, sir," Pickering said.

"I take your point," General Mclnerney said. "I have the privilege of your mother's acquaintance."

"May I ask a question, sir?"

"Sure."

"Was my moving into the hotel a real blunder?"

"Not so far as I'm concerned," General Mclnerney said. "I understand your situation." _

"I was thinking of… my best friend, I suppose is the best way to decribe him. I sort of pressured him to move in with me."

"I see," Mclnerney said. "Another hotelier? Classmate at school?"

"No, sir. He was a China Marine, a corporal, before we went through the platoon leader's course."

Mclnerney thought that over a moment before he replied.

"I think it might be a good idea if he moved into the BOQ," he said. "There would certainly be curiosity. It could even turn into an Intelligence matter. Where would a second lieutenant, an ex-China Marine enlisted man, get the money to take a room in the Lafayette? It could be explained, of course, but the last thing a second lieutenant needs is to have it getting around that Intelligence is asking questions about his personal life."

"Thank you, sir," Pickering said. "I was afraid it might be something like that. May I ask another question?''

"Shoot."

"How long will I be assigned here? I mean, you said something about deciding what to do with me. How long will that take?"

"That depends on what you would like to do, and whether or not you're qualified to do it. Presumably, you learned at Quantico that leading a platoon of riflemen is not quite the fun and games the recruiter may have painted it."

"Yes, sir."

"Have you ever thought of going to flight school?" General Mclnerney asked.

"No, sir," Pickering confessed.

General Mclnerney was a little disappointed to hear that, but decided that Fleming Pickering's kid meant what he said: that he simply had not thought of going to flight school-not that he had considered the notion and discarded it because he didn't like the idea of flying.

"That's an option," General Mclnerney said. "But only if you could pass the flight physical. On your way out, have Sergeant Wallace set up an appointment for a flight physical. And then take the rest of the day off, son, and get yourself settled. I'm talking about your friend, too, of course."

"I'll check out of the hotel, too, of course," Pickering said.

"Don't do it on my account," General Mclnerney said. "So far as I'm concerned, I'd be delighted to have you in there, in case my wife and I wanted to make reservations for dinner.''

General Mclnerney stood up and offered his hand.

"Welcome aboard," he said. "You're your father's son, and that's intended as a compliment."

(One)

Room 26, Temporary Building T-2032

Washington, D.C.

0945 Hours, 1 December 1941

McCoy had seen quite a few office doors during his time in the Corps. Most of them had a sign announcing in some detail not only what function was being carried out behind the door, but by whom.

The door to room 26 didn't even have a room number. McCoy had to find it by counting upward from room number 2, which had a sign: OFFICER s HEAD.

He thought he'd gotten it wrong even then, for what he thought was room 26 had two sturdy locks on it-a storeroom, in other words, full of mimeograph paper and quart bottles of ink. But with no other option that he could think of, he knocked on it.

As soon as he knocked, however, he heard movement inside, then the sound of dead-bolt locks being operated, and a moment later the door opened just wide enough to reveal the face of a grim-looking man. He said nothing, but the expression on his face asked McCoy to state his business.

"I'm looking for room 26," McCoy said.

The man nodded, waiting for McCoy to go on.

"I was ordered to report to room 26," McCoy said.

"What's your name, please?" the man asked.

"McCoy."

"May I see your identification, please?" the man asked.

McCoy handed over his brand-new officer's identification card. The man looked at it carefully, then at McCoy's face, and then opened the door wide enough for McCoy to enter.

Inside was a small area, just enough for a desk. On the other side of the room there was another door, again with double dead-bolt locks.

When the man walked to the telephone on the desk, McCoy saw that he had a.45 Colt 1911A1 on his hip. On his tail, really, and not in a GI holster, but in sort of a skeleton holster through which the front part of the pistol stuck out.

If he was wearing a jacket, McCoy thought, you'd never know he had a pistol.

"I have Lieutenant McCoy here," the man said to the telephone. "He's not due in until 15 December."

There was a pause.

"Well, shit, I suppose everybody's been told but us. What does he get?"

There was obviously a reply, but McCoy couldn't hear it. The man put the telephone down, and then reached into his desk and came out with a clipboard and a small plastic card affixed to an alligator clip.

"Sign here, please," he said. "Just your signature. Not your rank."

McCoy signed his name.

The man handed him the plastic card.

"You use this until we get you your own," he said. "Pin it on your blouse jacket."

_McCoy looked at it before he pinned it on. It was a simple piece of plastic-covered cardboard. It said "VISITOR" and there was the insignia of the Navy Department. It was overprinted with purple stripes.

"That's good anywhere in the building," the man said. "Or almost everywhere. But it's not good for ONI [Office of Naval Intelligence]. Until you get your credentials, you'd better avoid going over to ONI."

"Okay," McCoy said, wondering what was going on.

The man stuck out his hand.

"I'm Sergeant Ruttman," he said. "We didn't expect you until the fifteenth."

"So I heard you say," McCoy said.

"You just went through that course at Quantico, right?"

"That's right," McCoy said.

"Pain in the ass?"

"Yes, it was," McCoy said.

"They want to send me," Sergeant Ruttman said. "But I've been putting off going. I figure if they really want me to take a commission, they can give it to me. I already know about chickenshit."

"Good luck," McCoy said, wondering if Ruttman was just running off at the mouth, or whether he was telling the truth.

Ruttman replaced the clipboard in his desk, and then took keys from his pocket and unlocked both of the locks in the door.