W.e.b. Griffin - The Corps II - CALL TO ARMS

"No, sir," McCoy said.

"Good," Rickabee said. "The chancre mechanics flip their lids if you've been eating."

"I had breakfast," McCoy said.

"Don't tell them," Rickabee said.

"I had a physical when I came back, sir," McCoy said. "That was just a week ago."

"You're about to have another," Rickabee said.

He bent over the desk again, shuffled the papers he had been looking at into a neat stack, and then put them into a manila envelope stamped with large red letters SECRET. He put the envelope into a file cabinet, then locked the cabinet with a heavy padlock.

"Wait here a moment, McCoy," Lieutenant Colonel Rickabee said. "I'll fetch Captain Sessions."

He went down the corridor and into an office. A moment later, Captain Sessions, USMC, appeared. He was a tall, well-set-up young officer, whose black' hair was cut in a crew cut. His brimmed officer's cap was perched on the back of his head, and he was slipping his arms into his blouse and overcoat. He had obviously removed the blouse and overcoat together.

"Hey, Killer," he said, smiling, revealing a healthy set of white teeth. "How was the leave?"

"As long as it lasted, it was fine, thanks," McCoy replied. Captain Sessions was about the only man in the Corps who could call McCoy "Killer" without offending him. Anyone else who did it seldom did it twice. It triggered in McCoy's eyes a coldness that kept it from happening again.

Captain Sessions was different. For one thing, he said it as a joke. For another, he had proved himself on several occasions to be McCoy's friend when that had been difficult. Perhaps most importantly, McCoy believed that if it had not been for Captain Sessions, he would still be a corporal somewhere-in a machine-gun section or a motor transport platoon. McCoy looked on Sessions as a friend. He didn't have many friends.

"Major Almond," Captain Sessions said as they went back down the stairs, referring to the Administrative Officer, "is looking forward to jumping your ass for reporting back in late. If he sees you before I see him, or Colonel Rickabee does, you tell him to see one of us."

"Yes, sir," McCoy said.

"With a little bit of luck, you'll be out of here before you run into him, and he won't learn that I made a fool of myself again. I really thought you were due back at oh-eight-hundred this morning."

"Yes, sir," McCoy repeated. He didn't understand the "you'll be out of here" business, but there was no time to ask. Captain Sessions was already at the foot of the stairs, reaching for the sergeant's clipboard to sign them out.

"The car's outside?" Sessions asked.

"No, sir," the sergeant said. "Major Almond took it, sir. He went over to the Lafayette Hotel, looking for Lieutenant McCoy."

"My car's in the parking lot, sir," McCoy said.

"Why not?" Sessions said, smiling. He turned to the sergeant. "When Major Almond returns, Sergeant, tell him that Lieutenant McCoy was not AWOL after all, and that I have him."

"Yes, sir," the sergeant said, then pushed the hidden switch that operated the door lock.

McCoy's car, a 1939 LaSalle convertible coupe, was covered with snow, and the windows were filmed with ice.

"I hope you can get this thing started," Captain Sessions said as he helped McCoy chip the ice loose with a key.

"It should start," McCoy said. "I just put a new battery in it."

"You didn't take it on leave?" Sessions asked.

"I went to New York City, sir," McCoy said. "You're better off without a car in New York."

"You didn't go home?" Sessions asked. He knew more about Second Lieutenant McCoy than anyone else in the Marine Corps, including the fact that he had a father and a sister in Norristown, Pennsylvania.

"No, sir," McCoy said.

Sessions found that interesting, but didn't pursue it.

The car cranked, but with difficulty.

"I hate Washington winters," McCoy said as he waited for the engine to warm up. "Freeze and thaw, freeze and thaw. Everything winds up frozen."

"You may shortly look back on Washington winters with fond remembrance," Captain Sessions said.

"Am I going somewhere, sir?"

"Right now you're going to the Bethesda Naval Hospital," Sessions said. "You know where that is?"

"Yes, sir."

The outpatient clinic at the hospital was crowded, but as soon as Sessions gave his name, the Navy yeoman at the desk summoned a chief corpsman, who took them to an X-ray room, supervised chest and torso and leg X rays, and then led them to an examining room where he ordered McCoy to remove his clothing. He weighed him, took his blood pressure, drew blood into three different vials; and then, startling McCoy, pulled off the bandage that covered his lower back with one quick and violent jerking motion.

"Jesus," McCoy said. "Next time, tell me, Chief!"

"You lost less hair the way I done it," the chief said, unrepentant, and then examined the wound.

"That's healing nicely," he said. "But there's still a little suppuration. Shrapnel?"

McCoy nodded.

"That's the first wound like that I seen since World War I," the chief said.

A younger man in a white medical smock came in the room. The silver railroad tracks of a Navy full lieutenant were on his' collar points.

"I'm sure there's a good reason for doing this examination this way," he said to Sessions.

"Yes, Lieutenant, there is," Sessions replied.

The Naval surgeon examined McCoy's medical records, and while he was listening to his chest, the chief corpsman fetched the X rays. The surgeon examined them, and then pushed and prodded the line of stitches on McCoy's lower back.

"Any pain? Any loss of movement?"

"I'm a little stiff sometimes, sir," McCoy said.

"You're lucky you're alive, Lieutenant," the surgeon said, matter-of-factly. Then he grunted and prodded McCoy's upper right thigh with his finger. "Where'd you get that? That's a small-arm puncture, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Not suffered at the same time as the damage to your back? It looks older."

"No, sir," McCoy said.

"Not very talkative, is he. Captain?" the surgeon said to Sessions. "I asked him where he got it."

"In Shanghai, sir," McCoy said.

"That's a Japanese twenty-five caliber wound?" the surgeon asked doubtfully.

"No, sir," McCoy said. "One of those little tiny Spanish automatics… either a twenty-five or maybe a twenty-two rimfire."

"A twenty-five?" the surgeon asked curiously, and then saw the look of impatience in Session's eyes. He backed down before it.

"That seems to have healed nicely," he said, cheerfully. "You don't have a history of malaria, do you, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir."

"Nor, according to this, of social disease," the surgeon said. "Have you been exposed to that, lately?"

"No, sir."

"Well, presuming they don't find anything when they do his blood, Captain, he should be fit for full duty in say, thirty days. I think he should build up to any really strenuous exercise, however. There's some muscle damage, and-"

"I understand," Sessions said. "Thank you, Doctor, for squeezing him in this way."

"My pleasure," the surgeon said. "You can get dressed, Lieutenant. It'll be a couple of minutes before the form can be typed up. I presume you want to take it with you?"

"If we can," Sessions said.

When they were alone in the treatment room, McCoy put his blouse back on and fastened his Sam Browne belt in place. Then he looked at Sessions.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" he asked.

"Well, from here we go to my place," Captain Sessions said. "Where my bride at this very moment is preparing a sumptuous feast to honor the returned warrior, and where there is a bottle of very good scotch she has been saving for a suitable occasion."

"In other words, you're not going to tell me?"