Griffin W.E.B. - The Corps 08 - In Dangers Path

Lieutenant Lewis had been assigned to accompany them on the submarine— carrying with him his admiral's authority—and at the very last minute had decided to stay on Mindanao with McCoy and the others.

«Jesus!» Captain McCoy said, then turned from the bubble to a stocky, barrel-chested, ruddy-faced man who had planted himself precisely on the centerline of the fuselage floor. «That's the general, all right, Ernie. I wonder where the hell we're going now.»

Ernest W. Zimmerman, who was twenty-six but looked older, grunted. The man—the boy—beside Gunny Zimmerman looked very much as if he should be in high school and was, in fact, just a few weeks past his nineteenth birthday. But he was also, in fact, Staff Sergeant Stephen M. Koffler, USMC.

«McCoy,» he asked, in a still-boyish voice. «You think maybe the General's got a letter for me?» Mrs. Daphne Koffler, Sergeant Koffler's Australian wife, was in the terminal days of her first pregnancy.

«We're back in the world, asshole,» Gunny Zimmerman said. «You better get back in the habit of calling the Killer 'Captain' and 'Sir.' «

«I don't know, Koffler,» Captain McCoy said. «I wouldn't get my hopes up.» There was a jolt as one of the lowered wheels encountered the sand of the beach, followed a moment later by a second jolt. The roar of the engines increased as the pilot taxied the Catalina onto the shore.

The port in the fuselage opened and Captain Howell C. Mitchell, MC, USN, stepped through it. He glanced at the four men who were standing, then turned his attention to the patients on litters.

«Doctor, would you rather we got out of the way, or got off?» McCoy asked.

«I think it would be better if you got off,» Mitchell said.

«Aye, aye, sir,» McCoy said, and, jerked his thumb toward the port in the fuselage, ordering the others to leave the plane.

Doctor Mitchell made the same judgment about the young Marine captain he had made about Brigadier General Pickering. This man was used to giving orders. And having them obeyed.

Koffler went through the port first, followed by Zimmerman, Lewis, and finally McCoy.

When McCoy stepped down from the plane, General Pickering had his arm around Lieutenant Lewis's shoulder and was pumping his hand.

Captain McCoy saluted.

The salute was returned with a casual wave in the direction of General Pickering's forehead, which quickly changed into an arm reaching for McCoy. The General hugged the young captain enthusiastically. To judge by the looks on their faces, few of the medical personnel had ever seen such behavior before on the part of a general. «Goddamn, I'm glad to see you guys,» Pickering said, «and I've got something for you, Ken.»

Pickering walked quickly to his jeep, opened a battered leather briefcase, and withdrew from it a heavy envelope, large enough to hold several business-size envelopes inside. He walked back to McCoy and handed it to him.

McCoy looked at it.

The return address was «Office of Management Analysis, HQ USMC, Washington, D.C.»

It was addressed to General Pickering, at Supreme Headquarters, South West Pacific Ocean Area. And it had two messages stamped in red ink: by hand officer courier only; and addressee only.

McCoy looked at General Pickering. Smiling, Pickering gestured for him to open the envelope. It was not sealed. It contained two smaller envelopes. These bore a printed return address on the back:

Miss Ernestine Sage Rocky Fields Farm Bernardsville, N.J.

Without really realizing what he was doing, Captain McCoy raised one of the envelopes to his nose and sniffed.

Oh, God, I can smell her

!

Captain McCoy closed his eyes, which had suddenly watered. When he opened them, he saw Staff Sergeant Koffler looking at him as if someone had stolen his little rubber ducky.

If there had been a letter from Daphne for him

, McCoy thought,

the general would already have given it to him

.

With a massive effort, Captain McCoy managed to push down the lump in his throat. «Thank you, sir,» he said. «I'll read these later. General, what's the word on Mrs. Koffler?»

«She's fine, Koffler,» General Pickering said, looking at him. «I told Pluto to bring her to meet the plane tomorrow. And he has had standing orders to let me know immediately if the baby decides to arrive.»

Koffler nodded but didn't seem to be able to speak.

It got worse.

A Corpsman chief came up and tugged on McCoy's sleeve.

McCoy gave him a look that would have withered a lesser man.

«Captain, one of the ladies wants to talk to you,» the Corpsman chief said.

«Very well,» McCoy said, sounding crisply nautical, and followed the chief to a stretcher being carried by two Corpsmen.

It held a skeletal, silver-haired woman. Her eyes were sunken and her skin translucent, so that her veins showed blue. A bony hand rose from beneath the Navy blanket and reached out toward McCoy. It took him a moment to realize she wanted him to lean over so her bony hand could touch him. «God bless, thank you, God bless,» the woman said faintly. «Thank you. God bless you.»

McCoy gently touched the hand on his face, and then it was beyond his ability to maintain the dignity expected of a Marine officer.

His eyes closed, and tears ran down his cheeks. His chest heaved and hurt as he tried and failed to control his sobs.

Next he became aware of an arm around his shoulder.

He opened his eyes.

«I just happen to have a couple of bottles of Famous Grouse in my hut,» General Pickering said. «I don't suppose you'd really be interested, would you?»

«Shit!» McCoy said.

He looked around. The ambulances were moving off the beach.

He remembered what he had just said.

«Sorry, sir.»

«Let's go have a drink. Several drinks,» General Pickering said, and gently pushed McCoy in the direction of his jeep.

note 10

Flag Officers' Quarters #4

U.S. Navy Base (Forward) Espiritu Santo

New Hebrides, Southern Pacific Ocean

2245 8 February

Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, knocked at the door of one of the three small bedrooms in the Quonset hut he had been assigned.

«Yeah, come in,» Captain Kenneth R. McCoy called, and Pickering pushed the door open.

McCoy was lying on the steel cot in his underwear, propped up against the wall with a pillow. He had a thin black cigar in his mouth, and there was a bottle of Famous Grouse scotch whisky on the small bedside table beside him.

He was reading Ernie Sage's letters.

The instant McCoy saw Pickering, he started to jump to his feet.

«Stay where you are, Ken,» Pickering said quickly.

McCoy nevertheless rose to his feet.

«Do you have another glass?» Pickering asked.

«Yes, sir,» McCoy said, stuffed Ernie Sage's letters under his pillow, then walked to a chest of drawers and picked up a glass.

«I was in before,» Pickering said. «You were out.» It was a question.

«I was checking on Koffler and the gunny,» McCoy said, handing the glass to Pickering.

«And?» Pickering asked, as he walked to the bedside table and poured an inch and a half of Famous Grouse into the glass.

«The gunny's playing poker with some chiefs,» McCoy said, and smiled. «Who were in the process of learning that all Marines aren't as dumb as they think we are.»

«Zimmerman's a good poker player?» Pickering asked.

«There was a lot of poker playing in Shanghai in the old days,» McCoy said. «The second time Zimmerman lost his pay, Mae Su—his wife, I guess you should call her—taught him how to play. The Chinese are great poker players.»

«Yes, I know,» Pickering said. «It was an expensive lesson for me to learn when I was a young man.»