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

"Not here, Ken," Sessions said. "At my place."

McCoy nodded.

"Colonel and Mrs. Rickabee will be there," Sessions said.

McCoy's eyebrows rose at that, but he didn't say anything.

(Two)

Chevy Chase, Maryland

"The second house from the end, Ken," Captain Sessions said. "Pull into the driveway."

McCoy was surprised at the size of the house, and at the quality of the neighborhood. The houses were large, and the lots were spacious; it was not where he would have expected a Marine captain to live.

"Well, thank God that's home," Sessions said when McCoy had turned into the driveway. "Jeannie's getting a little large to have to drive me to work."

McCoy had no idea what he was talking about, but the mystery was quickly cleared up when Jean Sessions, a dark-haired, pleasant-looking young woman, came out of the kitchen door and walked over to the car. She was pregnant.

She kissed her husband, and then pointed at a 1942 Mercury convertible coupe.

"Guess what the Good Fairy finally fixed," she said. "He brought it back five minutes ago."

"I saw," Sessions said, dryly. " 'All things come to him who waits,' I suppose."

Jean Sessions went around to the driver's side as McCoy got out. She put her hands on McCoy's arms, and kissed his cheek, and then looked intently at him.

"How are you, Ken?" she asked.

It was more than a ritual remark, McCoy sensed. She was really interested.

"I'm fine, thanks," Ken said.

"You look fine," she said. "I'm so glad to see you."

She took his arm and led him to the kitchen. There was the smell of roasting beef, and a large, fat black woman in a maid's uniform was bent over a wide table wrapping small pieces of bacon around oysters.

"This is Jewel, Ken," Jean said, "whose hors d'oeuvres are legendary. And this is Lieutenant McCoy."

"You must be somebody special, Lieutenant," Jewel said, with a smile. "I heard all about you."

McCoy smiled, slightly uncomfortably, back at her.

"Colonel Rickabee called and said you were to call him when you got here," Jean Sessions said to her husband. "So you do that, and I'll fix Ken a drink."

She led him into the house to a tile-floored room, whose wall of French doors opened on a white expanse that after a moment he recognized to be a golf course.

"This is a nice house," Ken said.

"I think it is," Jean said. "It was our wedding present."

She handed him a glass dark with scotch.

"How was the leave?" she asked.

"As long as it lasted, it was fine," he said.

"I heard about that," Jean said. "You were cheated out of most of it, weren't you?"

"I made the mistake of telling them where they could find me," he said.

"How'd the physical go?" she asked. "You going to be all right?"

"It's fine," he said. "The only time it hurts is when they change the bandage. Most of the time it itches."

"Curiosity overwhelms me," Jean said. "Ed says you've got a girl. Tell me all about her."

The answer didn't come easily to McCoy's lips.

"She's nice," he said finally. "She writes advertising."

He thought: Ernie would like Mrs. Sessions, and probably vice versa.

Jean Sessions cocked her head and waited for amplification.

"For toothpaste and stuff like that," McCoy went on. "I met her through a guy I went through Quantico with."

"What does she look like?" Jean asked.

McCoy produced a picture. The picture surprised Jean Sessions. Not that McCoy had found a pretty girl like the one hanging on to his arm in the picture, but that he'd found one who wore an expensive full-length Persian lamb coat, and who had posed with McCoy in front of the Foster Park Hotel on Central Park South.

"She's very pretty, Ken," Jean said.

"Yeah," McCoy said. "She is."

"The colonel will be here in half an hour," Captain Ed Sessions announced from the doorway.

"So soon?" Jean asked.

"He wants to talk to Ken before his wife gets here," Sessions said. "And he asked if we could set a place for Colonel Wesley."

McCoy saw that surprised Jean Sessions.

"Certainly," she said. "It's a big roast."

"I told him we could," Sessions said.

"Ken was just showing me a picture of his girl," Jean said, changing the subject. "Show her to Ed, Ken."

Sessions said that he thought Ernestine Sage was a lovely young woman.

Lieutenant Colonel Rickabee arrived almost exactly thirty minutes later. He was followed into the room by Jewel, who carried a silver tray of bacon-wrapped oysters. Jean Sessions left after making him a drink. She explained that she had to check the roast, and she closed the door after her.

"I was sorry to have to cheat you out of the rest of your recuperative leave, McCoy," Rickabee said. "I wouldn't have done it if it wasn't necessary."

"I understand, sir," McCoy said.

"The decision had just about been made to send you over to COI, after you'd had your leave," Rickabee said.

"Sir?"

"You've never heard of it?" Rickabee asked, but it was a statement rather than a question. "You ever hear of Colonel Wild Bill Donovan?"

"No, sir."

"He won the Medal of Honor in the First World War," Rickabee explained. "He was in the Army. More important, he's a friend of the President. COI stands for 'Coordinator of Information.' It's sort of a clearinghouse for intelligence information. A filter, in other words. They get everything the Office of Naval Intelligence comes up with, and the Army's G-2 comes up with, and the State Department, us, everybody… and they put it all together before giving it to the President. Get the idea?"

"Yes, sir," McCoy said.

"Donovan has authority to have service personnel assigned to him," Rickabee said, "and General Forrest got a call from the Commandant himself, who told him that when he got a levy against us to furnish officers to the COI, he was not to regard it as an opportunity to get rid of the deadwood. The Commandant feels that what Donovan is doing is worthwhile, and that it is in the best interest of the Corps to send him good people. Despite your somewhat childish behavior in the Philippines, you fell into that category."

McCoy did not reply. And Rickabee waited a long moment, staring at him hard in order to make him uncomfortable- without noticeable effect.

"Let me get that out of the way," Rickabee said finally, with steel in his voice. "You were sent there as a courier. Couriers do not grab BARs and go AWOL to the infantry. In a way, you were lucky you got hit. It's difficult to rack the ass of a wounded hero, McCoy, even when you know he's done something really dumb."

"Yes, sir," McCoy said, after a moment.

"Okay, that's the last word on that subject. You get the Purple Heart for getting hit. But no Silver Star, despite the recommendation."

He reached into his briefcase and handed McCoy an oblong box. McCoy opened it and saw inside the Purple Medal.

"Thank you, sir," McCoy said. He closed the box and looked at Rickabee.

Rickabee was unfolding a sheet of paper. Then he started reading from it: "… ignoring his wounds, and with complete disregard for his own personal safety, carried a grievously wounded officer to safety through an intensive enemy artillery barrage, and subsequently, gathered together eighteen Marines separated from their units by enemy action, and led them safely through enemy-occupied territory to American lines. His courage, devotion to duty, and… et cetera, et cetera…"

He folded the piece of paper and then dipped into his briefcase again, and came up with another oblong box.

"Bronze Star," Rickabee said, handing it to him. "If the Corps had told you to go play Errol Flynn, you would have got the Silver. And if you hadn't forgotten to duck, you probably wouldn't have got the Bronze. But, to reiterate, it's hard to rack the ass of a wounded hero, even when he deserves it."