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

«Sorry to wake you,» Weston said with monumental insincerity.

The charge of quarters looked at his watch.

«You just got back in time to keep the shit from hitting the fan, Captain, « he said.

«And what does that mean?»

«Commander Bolemann told me to call him if you wasn't back at 0500. If you wasn't, he was going to call the state police. It's 0441.»

He picked up the telephone on the desk and gave the operator who answered a number. «Sir, Ulrich at the front desk? Captain Weston just came in, sir.» There was a pause, then Ulrich added: «Aye, aye, sir.»

He hung up and turned to Weston. «You're to go to the Commander's quarters, Captain,» he said. «Two oh one. Take the corridor to the right at the head of the stairs.»

Weston was halfway to the wide staircase when Ulrich called his name. He turned and saw that Ulrich was holding out his key and a stack of small yellow sheets of paper. To discourage guests from taking them out of the hotel, the keys were attached to enormous, heavy brass plates.

He turned, walked back to the desk, and took them.

There were eight small yellow sheets of paper, each a message for Captain Weston, each with a date-and-time stamp.

Lieutenant (j.g.) Hardison asks that you call her, Female Officers' Quarters, USN Hospital, Phila.

That one was date-and-time stamped 1540 5Mar43. Ten minutes after he had made his surreptitious early exit from the Greenbrier. He wondered why she didn't give a number, then remembered there was some sort of dedicated line between USNH Philadelphia and the Greenbrier. Commander Bolemann had told him that he could use it if he wanted to.

Lieutenant (j.g.) Hardison asks that you call her, Ward G-4, USN Hospital, Phila.

That one was date-and-time stamped 0039 6Mar43. Janice apparently tried to call him again as soon as she went off duty, in her sweet, naively trusting belief that at midnight he would certainly be in bed.

Alone

in bed. There were five more messages, indicating that Janice tried and failed to contact him five more times— one of which coincided with a time when he was engaged in carnal union with Mrs. Gregory F. Culhane in the San Carlos Hotel. Pensacola, Florida. The eighth message had originated within the Greenbrier Hotel:

Whenever

you float in, please call upon me in my quarters. Bolemann, Cmdr, MC USN.

The date-and-time stamp on that one indicated it had been left for him at just about the time he was leaving Pensacola.

Weston jammed the messages in his pocket and started up the wide staircase to the second floor of the Greenbrier.

«There may be joy in heaven when the prodigal returns,» Commander Bolemann, attired in a bathrobe, greeted him at the door of his suite, «but what I want to know, you bastard, is where the

hell

have you been?»

«I was in Pensacola, sir.»

«Pensacola?»

«Yes, sir.»

«Am I correct in presuming, Captain Weston, that you didn't ask my permission to leave the local area to go to Pensacola fucking Florida because you knew goddamned well I would have said 'no, no,

absolutely fucking no'

?»

«Yes, sir.»

«What the hell were you doing in Pensacola?»

«I had a letter from my MAG commander at Ewa to a friend of his there.»

«They have this thing called the U.S. mail.» Bolemann said. «You give them three cents, and they will deliver letters just about anywhere.»

«Yes, sir.»

«Well, I should not be surprised,» Bolemann said. «One must expect that someone who has not only suffered the severe emotional trauma that you have sustained over a prolonged period, but is trying so hard to conceal its effects, will suffer some sort of dementia.»

«No excuse, sir. But I'm not crazy.»

«That's not my diagnosis. That's Lieutenant Hardison's diagnosis.»

«She called you?»

«Oh, yes. Several times. She has visions of you wandering around in the hills of West Virginia, suffering from amnesia, or perhaps reliving your terrible experiences in the Philippines. For reasons that baffle me, she seems terribly—and I must say most unprofessionally—concerned with your well-being.»

«Oh, God!»

«Call her,» Bolemann said.

«Sir?»

Bolemann turned and made a «follow me» gesture to Weston. He sat down in an armchair—actually more or less crashed into it—and reached for the telephone on the table beside it.

«Commander Bolemann,» he said. «Get me Lieutenant Hardison at the Female Officers' Quarters, Naval Hospital, Philadelphia.»

Then he handed the handset to Captain Weston.

«Female Officers' Quarters.»

«Lieutenant Hardison, please.»

«Jim, where have you been? I've been out of my mind worrying about you!»

«Hi,» he said.

«Are you all right?»

«I'm fine, Janice, how about you?»

«Where were you?»

«Wheeling,» he said. Wheeling was the only town in West Virginia he could call to mind. He thought about Charlestown, but on second thought decided that was in South Carolina.

«Wheeling?»

«Wheeling, West Virginia.»

Dear God, let Wheeling be in West Virginia.

«What were you doing there?»

«Well, I wanted to get out of here for a little while, and then I had a little car trouble, so I took a hotel room.»

«Honey, I was so worried!»

«Honey» ? Christ, she called me «honey'.'

«I'm fine, honey.»

«I even called Dr. Bolemann,» Janice said.

«I know,» he said.

«Can you get away next weekend?» Janice asked. «I want to see you so badly.»

«Just a moment,» Jim said, and covered the microphone with his hand. «She wants to know if I can get away next weekend.»

Bolemann looked at him thoughtfully. «You really wouldn't want to hear my initial reaction to that,» he said, and motioned for Weston to give him the telephone.

«This is Dr. Bolemann, Janice,» he said. «I really don't think I could authorize Jim to drive all that way and back over the weekend. But I think there is a Greyhound bus he could take. If there is, could you meet him at the bus station?»

Janice apparently expressed her willingness to do that.

«Very well, then, we'll check into it and Jim will call you. Here he is.»

«Hi!»

«I'll meet you at the bus station.» Janice said. «I'll get a forty-eight-hour pass.»

«Fine.»

«Jim, I think I love you, too,» Janice said, and the phone went dead.

Weston put the phone in its cradle.

«You're a lousy liar,» Dr. Bolemann said. «If she wasn't in love with you, you'd never have gotten away with that car-trouble-in-Wheeling bullshit. I would be very distressed if you were just fucking around with that girl. She's as nice as they come.»

«I love her,» Weston said.

Bolemann nodded. «What are you plans for 0800?» he asked.

«I plan to be sound asleep,» Weston said. «I drove straight through from Pensacola.»

«Tell me, which do you like better, tennis or volleyball?»

«Sir?»

«You heard me. Answer the question.»

«Tennis, I suppose, sir.»

«Splendid. At 0755, Captain Weston, you will be at the volleyball courts, suitably attired to participate. You will

enthusiastically

participate until the noon hour, or until your ass is really dragging, whichever comes last. Do I make myself clear?»

«Aye, aye, sir.»

«Be there, Captain Weston,» Commander Bolemann said, and pointed to the door.

note 41

The White Room

The Office of Strategic Services

The National Institutes of Health Building

Washington, D.C.

0930 8 March 1943

Gunnery Sergeant Ernest W. Zimmerman, USMC, looked distinctly uncomfortable as he followed Lieutenant Colonel Edward J. Banning, USMC, and Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, down the fifth-floor corridor to the White Room. Like many enlisted men of the regular, prewar Marine Corps, he devoutly believed that the route to happiness in the Corps was to stay as far away as possible from officers you don't