W.E.B. Griffin - Retreat, Hell!

"No, it's not. I can't ever remember getting a cold beer when we were in the perimeter. Or, for that matter, a warm one."

Preston looked at him in bafflement for a long moment. Finally, he asked, "Sir, is there any particular reason the captain is pulling the sergeant's chain?"

"Oddly enough, Preston, there is."

"What's that, sir?"

"It can't go any further than this hootch," Dunwood said.

"Yes, sir."

"I've been thinking of volunteering myself," Dunwood said.

"For what, sir?"

"What I have been thinking is that sooner or later, they're going to send us back to the 5th Marines, and I don't really want to go back."

"I've been wondering how long this detail will last," Preston said.

"And I really don't want to go back to the 5th Marines," Dunwood went on. "Where one of two things would happen. They'd bring the company back up to strength, run us through some kind of training cycle, and put us back on the line. It would be the perimeter all over again. Or the war will be over, and they'll bring the company back up to strength, run us through a longer train­ing cycle, and it would be Camp Pendleton all over again."

"Yeah," Preston said. "I've been thinking about that, too. So what are you thinking of volunteering for?"

"The CIA 7," Dunwood said.

"How would you do that?"

"I don't really know. What I do know is that Major McCoy and Gunner Zimmerman are Marines—good ones, they were both Marine Raiders—and they're in the CIA. And we work for General Pickering, who's a Marine. I don't know how it works, but I'm really thinking seriously about asking Major McCoy what he thinks."

Sergeant Preston looked at him for a long time, expressionless, before he fi­nally asked, "Sir, is there any way I could get in on that?"

"I'm not pulling your chain now, Preston. I'm serious about this."

"I sort of like this operation," Preston said.

"Major McCoy—I just told you—said he took two KIA and three WIA. To which his reaction was, send a replacement crew. You like that?"

"I'm not saying this is fun, sir. Don't get me wrong. But I know what we're doing here is important. I suppose when we were running around the perime­ter saving the Army's ass, that was important, too. But if I'm going to get blown away, I'd rather it was because I fucked up, not because I was trying to un-fuck-up what some stranger's fucked up. You know what I mean?"

"Yes, I do," Dunwood said.

"What I really like about this operation is that the major and Gunner Zim­merman get things done. And they tell you what to do and don't stand over your shoulder making sure you do it. Shit, when the gunner left here after we found that lady's crispy corpse, all he said was, 'Take over, Captain Dunwood.' "

" 'Crispy corpse'? Jesus Christ, Preston! Show a little respect!"

"I wasn't being disrespectful, sir. That's what it was. When we put them bod­ies in the shelter halves, they was crisp. Like a barbecued pig."

"You know what I thought when the gunner left me in charge?" Dunwood asked, as much of himself as Preston. "I was happy, proud, like a second lieu­tenant getting his first platoon. And then I thought I must be crazy. I'm not a real Marine. I'm a weekend warrior, a goddamned car salesman—where do you think Major McCoy got Car Salesman as my call sign? Gunner Zimmerman is fat and German, and he's Fat Kraut, and I'm Car Salesman, because that's all I really am, a car salesman that got called up—"

"You're a Marine, sir, a goddamned good one," Preston interrupted. "Don't tell me different. I was in the perimeter with you from day fucking one until they pulled us out."

"What I was about to say," Dunwood went on after a moment, "was that the proof of that was that here I was, a captain, taking orders from a master gun­ner, and it didn't bother me at all. And then I realized I liked being here, doing what we're doing, a hell of a lot more than I ever liked selling cars."

"How the hell do you think I feel?" Preston asked. "Christ, sir, I was on re­cruiting duty. One minute telling some pimply-faced high school kid that once he gets to put on dress blues, he won't be able to handle all the pussy that'll be coming his way, and the next minute telling his mother that Sonny Boy not only will have a chance to further his education in the crotch, but will receive, just about every day, moral counseling from a clergyman of his choice of faith."

Dunwood laughed out loud.

"Are you suggesting, Sergeant Preston, that when I raise the question of CIA service to Major McCoy, I should mention your name?"

Preston considered that for a long moment.

"No, sir," he said finally. "I don't want you to do that."

"Change your mind, all of a sudden?"

"If the rest of the guys heard I did that, they'd all be pissed. I can't think of a one of them that really wants to go back to the 5th Marines. What I'll do, if you tell me what Major McCoy tells you, and it looks at least possible, is go see him myself."

Dunwood didn't reply.

"Or . . ." Preston had a second thought. "How much time do we have be­fore the major gets back and you talk to him?"

"I have no idea when he'll be back. Or Gunner Zimmerman."

"I can ask the guys, who wants to go back to the crotch, and who wants to stay here . . . and get in the CIA official. And then everybody who wants the CIA can go see the major together."

"All right," Dunwood said. "I'll let you know what Major McCoy says."

"What about me going as replacement crew on the boat?"

"Take someone with you—another Marine. The rest Koreans. If Major McCoy or Gunner Zimmerman says you can go on the Wind of Good Fortune, it's okay with me. But get that grease off your face and get out of the pajamas before you go. You better take a replacement radio, too."

"Aye, aye, sir," Staff Sergeant Preston said.

[TWO]

Office of the Chief, Awards Branch

Office of the Chief of Naval Operations

Washington, D.C.

164O 19 October 195O

The duty day at CNO/CAB ended at 1600, but when Commander John T. Davis, USN/went to the office door of Captain Archie M. Young, USN, the chief, and/found him still hard at work at his desk, he was not at all surprised.

There were gold aviator's wings on Captain Young's breast, and submariner's gold dolphins on Commander Davis's breast. They pinned them on each day— as they had every right to do—even though Commander Davis had left the silent service four years before, and Captain Young had last sat in a cockpit eight years before.

Both had "busted the physical" and been disqualified for further service in the air/beneath the sea. Captain Young had told his career counselor in the Bureau of Personnel that he would really rather find anything else useful to do around the Navy than be a grounded aviator at a Naval air station or aboard a carrier, and Commander Davis had told his career counselor that he would rather do anything but stand on a wharf somewhere and watch a boat head out on patrol.

Neither wanted a berth in the surface Navy, either. That didn't leave much— unless they wanted to go back to school and get a law degree, or something along that line—but supply and personnel. They had each given personnel a shot, and to their surprise learned that it was really not as boring as they thought it would be—actually, sometimes it was a hell of a challenge—and that they were very good at their new specialty.

Today, Commander Davis thought, was one of those times when it ap­peared there was going to be a hell of a challenge.

Captain Young raised his eyes from his desk and took off his glasses.

"What have you got, Jack, that has kept you from rushing home to a cold martini?"