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

"Sir?" McCoy blurted, not sure he had heard correctly.

"I said, we're going to lie," General Lesterby said. "If we can get away with it, we're going to deny this meeting ever took place. If we are faced with someone's knowing the meeting was held, we are going to announce we don't remember who was here, and none of us is going to remember what was said by anyone."

McCoy didn't know what to say.

"And we are now asking you, McCoy, without giving you any reasons to do so, to similarly violate the code of truthfulness incumbent upon anyone privileged to wear the uniform of a Marine officer," General Lesterby said, looking right into his eyes.

When McCoy didn't reply, Lesterby went on: "As perverse as it sounds-as it is-I am asking for your word as a Marine officer to lie. If you are unable to do that, that will be the end of this meeting. You will return to your duties under General Forrest and Colonel Rickabee, neither of whom, obviously, is going to hold it against you for living up to a code of behavior you have sworn to uphold."

McCoy didn't reply.

"Well, Sessions," General Forrest said, "you're right about that, anyway. You can't tell what he's thinking by looking at him."

"Yes, sir," McCoy said.

"'Yes, sir,' meaning what?" General Lesterby asked.

"You have my word, sir, that… I'll lie, sir."

"And now I want to know, Lieutenant McCoy-and I want you to tell me the first thing that comes to your mind-why you are willing to do so."

"Colonel Rickabee and Captain Sessions, sir," McCoy said. "They're in on this. I'll go with them." General Lesterby looked at McCoy for a moment. "Okay," he said. "You're in. I really hope you don't later have cause-that none of us later has cause-to regret that decision."

McCoy glanced at Captain Session. He saw that Sessions had just nodded approvingly at him.

"I presume Colonel Rickabee has filled you in at some length, McCoy, about what this is all about?"

"Yes, sir," McCoy said.

"Just so there's no question in anyone's mind, we are all talking about a brother Marine officer, Lieutenant Colonel Evans F. Carlson, who is about to be given command of a Marine Raider battalion. We are all aware that Colonel Carlson was awarded the Navy Cross for valor in Nicaragua, and that he was formerly executive officer of the Marine detachment assigned to protect the President of the United States at Warm Springs, Georgia. We are all aware, further, that he is a close friend of the President's son, Captain James Roosevelt. Because we believe that Colonel Carlson's activities in the future may cause grievous harm to the Corps, we see it as our distasteful duty to send someone-specifically, Lieutenant McCoy here-to spy on him. This action is of questionable legality, and it is without question morally reprehensible. Nevertheless, we are proceeding because we are agreed, all of us, that the situation makes it necessary." He looked around the room and then at General Forrest. "General Forrest?"

"Sir?" Forrest replied, confused.

"Is that your understanding of what is taking place?"

Forrest came to attention. "Yes, sir."

"Colonel Wesley?"

"Yes, sir," Wesley mumbled, barely audibly.

"A little louder, Wesley, if you please," General Lesterby said. "If you are not in agreement with us, now's the time to say so."

"Yes, sir!" Colonel Wesley said, loudly.

"Rickabee?"

"Yes, sir."

"Captain Sessions?"

"Yes, sir."

General Lesterby looked at McCoy. "I understand, son," he said, "that you're very unhappy with this assignment. That speaks well for you."

Then he walked out of the room.

(One)

Pensacola, Florida

0500 Hours, 7 January 1942

Pick Pickering pulled the Cadillac convertible up before the San Carlos Hotel in Pensacola at a quarter to five in the morning. The car was filthy, covered with road grime, and Pickering himself was tired, unshaven, dirty, and starved.

From Atlanta, it had been a two-hour drive down U.S. 85 to Columbus, Georgia. Pickering saw a sign reading COLUMBUS, HOME OF THE INFANTRY, which explained why the streets of Columbus were crowded with soldiers; he was close to the Army Infantry Center at Fort Benning.

He crossed a bridge and found himself in Alabama. There he found a small town apparently dedicated to satisfying the lusts of Benning's military population. Its businesses seemed limited to saloons, dance halls, hock shops, and tourist cabins.

The next 250 miles were down a narrow, bumpy macadam road through a series of small Alabama towns and then across the border to Florida. Twenty miles inside Florida he came to U.S. 90 and turned right to Pensacola, a 125-mile, two-and-a-half-hour drive.

He had grown hungry about the time he'd passed through Columbus, Georgia, and had told himself he would stop and get something to eat, if only a hamburger, at the first place that looked even half decent. But he had found nothing open, decent or otherwise, between Columbus and Pensacola. He dined on Cokes and packages of peanut butter crackers bought at widely spaced gas stations where he took on gas.

He was grateful to find the open gas stations, and he filled up every time he came upon one. This was not the place to run out of gas.

When he opened the door of the Cadillac at the hotel, he was surprised at how cold it was. This was supposed to be sunny Florida, but it was foggy and chilly, and the palm trees on the street in front of the San Carlos Hotel looked forlorn.

The desk clerk was a surly young man in a soiled jacket and shirt who said he didn't know nothing about no reservation. When pressed, the desk clerk did discover a note saying the manager was to be notified when a Mr. Pickering showed up.

"I'm here," Pick said. "You want to notify him?"

"Don't come in until eight-thirty, Mr. Davis don't," the desk clerk informed him. "Don't none of the assistant managers come in till seven."

"Is there a restaurant?" Pick asked.

"Coffee shop," the desk clerk said, indicating the direction with a nod of his head.

"Thank you for all your courtesy," Pick said.

"My pleasure," the desk clerk said.

Pickering crossed the lobby and pushed open the door to the coffee shop.

It was crowded, which surprised him, for five o'clock in the morning, until he realized that nearly all the male customers were in uniform-officer's uniforms, Marine and Navy. They are beginning their day, Pick thought, as I am ending mine.

He found a table in a corner and sat down.

A couple of the officers glanced at him-with, he sensed, disapproval.

He needed a shave, he realized. But that was impossible without a room with a wash basin.

He studied the menu until a waitress appeared, and then ordered orange juice, milk, coffee, biscuits, ham, three eggs, and home fries; and a newspaper, if she had one.

The newspaper was delivered by a Marine captain in a crisp uniform.

"Keep your seat, Lieutenant," he said, as Pickering-in a Quantico Pavlovian reaction-started to stand up, "that way as few people as possible will notice a Marine officer in a mussed uniform needing a shave."

"I've been driving all night, Captain," Pick said.

"Then you should have cleaned up, Lieutenant, before you came in here, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes, sir. No excuse, sir," Pickering said.

"Reporting in, are you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then we shall probably have the opportunity to continue this embarrassing conversation in other surroundings," the captain said. Then he walked off.

Pickering, grossly embarrassed, stared at the tableware. As he pretended rapt fascination with the newspaper, he became aware that the people in the coffee shop were leaving. He reasoned out why: Officers gathered here for breakfast before going out to the base. The duty day was about to begin, and they were leaving.