"I'm an old China Marine, too, Captain. In my last hitch I was the S-3 Operations Sergeant for the 4th."

"Were you?" Sessions asked, and now the suspicion in his voice was evident.

"Yes, Sir. The 4th was a good outfit. Good people. I had sort of a special buddy. Guy named Killer McCoy."

"You're moving into a mine field, Sergeant Major," Sessions said, softly. "Sometimes, playing auld lang syne is not the thing to do."

"Oh, I don't mean to... I wasn't trying to pump you for poop, Sir. Really. It was just that Killer and I had the same ideas about who was a good Marine officer and who wasn't."

"Which means?"

The Sergeant Major hesitated momentarily, and then met Sessions's eyes.

"I got three, four staff NCOs who could have taken care of Sergeant Moore for you, Sir. I sort of wanted to do it myself. You know, any friend of The Killer's..."

Sessions looked at the Sergeant Major for a long moment before he replied.

"That's very kind of you, Sergeant Major. I'm touched. Thank you."

"No s thanks necessary, Sir," the Sergeant Major said. "There's not many of us old China Marines left now. I figure we should try to take care of each other, right?"

"You didn't get this from me, Sergeant Major," Sessions said. "But the Killer made it out. He's with the 2nd Raider Battalion."

"I hadn't heard that. Thank you, Captain."

"What's the word on the courier plane?" Sessions said, obviously changing the subject.

"We better get out to the airport by say nine-fifteen, Sir."

Sergeant John Marston Moore had no idea what the conversation between the Sergeant Major and Captain Sessions was all about, but he understood that Captain Sessions had done something-probably in China, there was all that talk about Old China Marines-that had earned him the respect of the old Marine non-com. And he had the feeling that earning the Sergeant Major's approval didn't come easily.

He wondered about "The Killer." If he was the "special buddy" of the sergeant major and held in high regard by Captain Sessions, "The Killer" was obviously one hell of a Marine. Hash marks from his wrist to his shoulder, a breast covered with twenty, thirty years worth of campaign ribbons, barrel chested and leather skinned, with a gravel voice to match.

There was something really admirable about these professional warriors, Moore thought. They were latter day Centurions. Or maybe gladiators? Whatever they were, they weren't like ordinary men. For them, war was a way of life.

Captain Sessions looked at his watch.

"Well," he said. "Let's get the show on the road. It never hurts to be early."

"You're all packed, right?" the Sergeant Major asked Moore.

"All packed," Moore replied, stopping himself just in time from replying, "Yes, Sir."

"Go get your stuff then," the Sergeant Major said. "I'm parked right out in front."

"One late thought," Captain Sessions said. "There's always one late thought, too late to do anything about. Have you been paid? Have you got enough money to carry you, Moore? Enough for the train ticket between Washington and Philadelphia?"

"The train ticket between Washington and Philadelphia"? I'm actually leaving Parris Island and going home. Why is that so incredible?

"I haven't been paid, Sir," Moore said. "But I have money."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Go get your gear, Moore," Captain Sessions said.

Chapter Four.

(One)

MARINE CORPS AIR STATION.

PARRIS ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA.

0905 HOURS 16 JUNE 1942.

As the Sergeant Major drove them to the small airfield that served the Parris Island Recruit Depot, Sergeant John Marston Moore, USMCR, wondered what his father was going to say about his turning down an officer's commission and then going off to God only knows where in the Pacific. His father-to put it mildly-had not been pleased when he joined the Marine Corps in the first place; and he'd probably go into a righteous rage that he was not going to be an officer, at least not for the foreseeable future. To make matters worse, John couldn't even tell his father the reason why he'd made his choice.

All the same, there was no sense worrying about his father.... He'd learned not to worry about things he had no control over. And besides, no matter how used his father was to getting his own way, he could not bend the U.S. Marine Corps to his will.

Moore had flown only twice before in his life, both times during the family's last trip home from Japan: They'd left the ocean liner in San Francisco, and then they'd flown on from there via Chicago to New York. The flight from San Francisco to Chicago had been on Transcontinental & Western Airlines, and from Chicago to New York on Eastern. The airplanes had been essentially identical, large, twenty-odd-passenger Douglas DC-3s. Eastern had called theirs "Luxury Liners of the Great Silver Fleet."

John Marston Moore knew he would never forget that trip. He still had a flood of memories from it. He even remembered the name stenciled on the Eastern airplane's nose; it was The City of Baltimore. He also recalled watching his father take his mother's hand, bow his head, and mouth a prayer as the TWA airplane started down the runway in San Francisco. He hadn't forgotten, either, the justification his father put forth for the extra expense of flying: "The Lord is a hard taskmaster," he would intone in his most virtuous voice, "who wants all that I can give Him. 'Missions' needs me in Philadelphia as soon as I can reach there. I've already spent a great deal of time at sea on the voyage from Yokohama, and that has kept me out of touch with 'Missions' for weeks, If I take the train, I'll be traveling another five days, while it will only take thirty-six hours by airplane. Obviously, taking the plane is the clear will of the Lord."

By then, John Marston Moore had long since decided that the Reverend Doctor John Wesley Moore was a pious hypocrite. A number of arguments supported this judgment. His father, for example, had delayed their departure from Japan for nearly three weeks, so they could return to the United States in first class aboard the Pacific Princess, the flagship of the Pacific & Far East Shipping Corporation fleet. The alternative would have been to travel on one of the Transpacific freighters which made their comfortable but spartan passenger accommodations available to missionaries and their families at reduced rates.

"Your Uncle Bill would insist," the Reverend Doctor Moore told John Marston Moore and his sisters. "He would know how much I need the rest."

Uncle Bill-William Dawson Marston IV-was president of the family business, Dawson & Marston Paper Merchants.

Dawson & Marston had been in business in Philadelphia since 1781, on Cherry Street, near the Schuylkill River. If John Marston Moore had been a betting man, he would have laid five to one that the first time Uncle Bill heard about the first-class cabins on the Pacific Princess was when the bill arrived for payment at Dawson & Marston.

John knew no one in the world who could muster the audacity to ask his father the obvious question: "You could have flown alone at one third the cost, and then the family could have followed by train... why didn't you do that?" If someone by chance had dared to ask him such a thing, his father would have replied-with a perfectly straight face, believing every word that poured from his lips-that it was clearly his Christian duty to be with his family and protect them from the well-known hazards of a transcontinental journey.

The Reverend Doctor Moore's concept of his clear Christian duty to his family had also been behind their twelve-room house in Denenchofu; the chauffeured Packard; the semiannual vacations in first-rate hotels in Australia and New Zealand; the monthly crates of canned goods that arrived from Boston; and everything else that made their life saving infidel souls for the Lord in far off Japan far more comfortable than any of their co-religionists in America would have imagined.

It was not as if he was living high on the hog on funds intended to educate and convert Asiatic heathens... he did not misappropriate funds; he'd never dream of defrauding "Missions." He was in fact on the whole a very good man. Still, though the salary and living allowance he was paid by "Missions" was not at all generous, the Reverend Doctor Moore didn't complain about his stipend, neither did he make any attempt to live on it. John long ago concluded that most of what "Missions" paid his father went to feed the. servants.

Though it was only peripherally connected with most other functions of the Methodist Episcopal Church, "Missions" was more formally known as "The William Barton Harris Methodist Episcopal Special Missions to the Unchurched Foundation." It was founded in 1866 by a grant from Captain James D. Harris of Philadelphia.

Harris Shipping predated the American Revolution and was prosperous before the Civil War. But the war had swelled its coffers beyond anyone's imagination. On Captain Harris's death, the foundation received his entire estate, his wife having died the year before he did; and they'd lost their only son, William Barton Harris, in the Civil War.

The stated purpose of Missions was "to bring the Gospel of Jesus Christ and the Hope of Eternal Life to those who would not normally receive the blessing, such as Merchant Seamen, heathen Asiatics, the natives of the Caribbean Islands, and the former slaves now residing in those same islands."

While it was to be guided by the principles of Methodism, and it was "to be hoped that principal officers will be Methodist Episcopal Clergy and that the Foundation will be supported by the ever increasing generosity of Methodists," it was not to "become part of, or subject to the direction of, any local or national Methodist Episcopal organization." A key phrase of the bequest went on to state, "if at any time it becomes evident that the Foundation cannot continue its Christian mission, as specified herein, its assets will be liquidated and conveyed to the Philadelphia Free Public Library."

The rumor, Uncle Bill had once told John Marston Moore, was that "The Captain" had not seen eye to eye with his Bishop and was not about to give him control of his money. But whatever the truth, "Missions" had evolved into an organization with three major arms: The Seaman's Mission provided services to merchant seamen from Boston to Charleston-primarily cheap, clean YMCA-like accommodations and other related socio-religious services; the Caribbean Mission operated schools and social services in the Caribbean; and the Asiatic Mission performed a similar function in the Orient.

Each arm was headed by a Methodist clergyman, while, another served as Superintendent; and two of the seven trustees were also Methodist clerics. The other five trustees were a Presbyterian Minister; an Episcopal priest; and three laymen. From the beginning, one of these had either been a Marston or someone married to a Marston. Uncle Bill had succeeded his father as a Missions Trustee.

Philadelphia Methodist and social circles showed very little surprise when the son-in-law of William D. Marston III, a long time Missions trustee, was married and ordained during the same week that he joined Missions; neither was there much surprise when years later the now Reverend Doctor John Wesley Moore, brother-in-law of Missions trustee William D. Marston IV, was named to head the Asiatic Mission.

But Philadelphia Methodist and social circles would have been surprised, John Marston Moore knew, if it ever became generally known how well the Reverend Doctor John Wesley Moore lived while serving the Lord. His father, of course, was ready with an explanation for it-if that ever became necessary: Though he was perfectly willing to live a life of austerity, indeed poverty, while in the Service of the Lord, not only had his beloved wife and adored children not been so moved to serve the Lord, but the Lord, in his infinite wisdom, had moved his brother-in-law, that fine Christian gentleman, to extraordinary generosity toward his sister and nieces and nephews.

John Marston Moore wondered now and again just how much of Dawson & Marston Paper Merchants, founded AD 1781, his parents actually owned. And for that matter, he had questions about the amounts involved in the trust funds that had been set up for him and his sisters by grandparents on both sides of the family. But the few times he'd asked, he was told that he need not just now concern himself with that sort of thing. "The Lord has done very well, so far, wouldn't you agree, John, providing for your needs?"

If John Marston Moore didn't know his father as well as he did, he would never have believed it possible for anyone to be such a good man-perhaps even close to a saintly man-and still be a pious hypocrite. But the younger Moore had pages of illustrations in his own personal book of memories demonstrating the truth of that hypothesis.

One evening, for instance, while his father was literally warming in his hand a snifter of Remy Martin cognac at the Union League Club, John Marston Moore had been forbidden to live in a fraternity house at the University of Pennsylvania, because it was common knowledge that the fraternity houses were awash with intoxicants. As the only son of a Man of God of Some Position, he had to be quite careful of appearances.

The airplane parked in front of the wood frame, single-story Operations Building at the airfield was much smaller than the Douglas DC-3s of TWA and Eastern. Captain Sessions identified it for him as a Beech Aircraft D-18. The legend MARINES was painted on the fuselage.

There were more than a dozen would-be passengers already in the wooden operations building hoping to get one of the eight seats on the airplane. Since three of these men were officers senior to Captain Sessions, Moore wondered if that meant they would have to travel to Washington as he had come to Parris Island, by train.

But he quickly found out that the seats on the Beech were assigned not by rank but by priority. It did not surprise him, however, that Captain Sessions had a priority: The first two names called out to board the plane were Sessions and Moore.

As they filed out to the plane, one of the pilots handed each of them a brown bag containing a baloney sandwich and an apple. The pilots were both Marine sergeants; Moore found that very interesting. He thought that only officers were permitted to fly.

If there were sergeants who did things like fly airplanes, perhaps there were other things a sergeant-Sergeant John Marston Moore, for example-could do besides screaming obscenities at boots or conducting close order drill. That made him feel a good deal better about having given up-at least for the time being-his promised officer's commission.

Once they found seats, Moore saw that compared to the plushness of the planes he was used to, the D-18 was rather crudely finished inside. But that didn't bother him. The very idea of flying from South Carolina to Washington on a military airplane was exciting. He tried to muster what savoir faire he could to conceal this from Captain Sessions.

But just after the pilots walked down the narrow aisle to the cockpit and sat down to start the engines, curiosity overwhelmed him, and he turned to Captain Sessions.

"Sir, I thought all pilots were officers."

"Just most of them," Sessions replied. "In the Army," he went on, "they all are. But both the Navy and the Marine Corps have enlisted pilots; oddly enough, they're called 'Flying Sergeants.' Don't worry, Moore, I personally would rather be flown around by a Flying Sergeant than by some kid fresh out of Pensacola."

After the airplane took off, it flew right over the Recruit Depot. Moore could see the small arms ranges, and even platoons of boots marching around on the parade ground. The thought ran through his mind that it was conceivable that he was looking down at his old platoon.

The flight to the Anacostia Naval Air Station just outside Washington was much too short for Moore's liking. The day was clear, and there was something very nice indeed about being able to look down at the lush spring country. It didn't bother him at all that the sandwiches were dry, the apple mushy, and the coffee in the thermos jug lukewarm.

Technical Sergeant Harry Rutterman was waiting for them when the airplane landed. As they got out of the airplane, he came up to them and saluted Captain Sessions, who smiled as he returned it.

"Nice flight, Sir?"

"Why do I suspect that your meeting me has nothing to do with your all-around admiration for me as an officer and human being?" Sessions replied.

"The Captain, Sir, has for some reason a suspicious nature where I am concerned."

"Come on, Rutterman," Sessions said with a smile. "What's going on?"

"The Colonel wants you right now," Rutterman said. "He even sent his car. I'll take care of Sergeant Moore from here."

"Brief me on that," Sessions said, and then, "Excuse me. Moore, this is Sergeant Harry Rutterman."

Rutterman gave Moore a broad smile, and then- unintentionally, Moore decided-he crushed his hand in an iron handshake.

"Welcome to Never-Never Land, Sergeant," he said.

"OK, Rutterman," Sessions said. "Enough!"

"Yes, Sir," Rutterman said. "As of this morning, Private Moore was transferred to Baker Company, Headquarters Battalion, here. Then, recognizing the enormous contribution to the Corps he is about to make, they promoted him to Sergeant. Then they transferred him to Marine Barracks, Navy Yard, Philadelphia. I checked the travel times. He has forty-eight hours to get here from Parris Island, and twenty-four to get to Philadelphia after he leaves here. When his orders get to Philadelphia, he'll have seven days to get to San Diego. I got him an airplane ticket from New York to Los Angeles, which will put him there in about thirty-six hours. He has to take the train from Los Angeles to 'Diego. So I didn't put him on leave. I mean, why? What's important is that he gets on the plane in 'Diego on the twenty-first, right? This way, he won't get charged any leave time."

"I don't think I want to hear about this," Sessions said.

"It's all according to regulations, Captain," Sergeant Rutterman said, sounding slightly indignant.

"The trouble is, Sergeant, that you read things in regulations that no one else can see," Sessions said. "But he has a seat on the courier from San Diego on the twenty-first, right? That's all locked in?"

"As well as it can be, Sir. You know what happens, sometimes. An unexpected senior officer shows up wanting a seat..."

"What's his priority?" Sessions interrupted.

"Six As," Sergeant Rutterman had replied. "The Colonel had to make a couple of phone calls himself, but he got it."

Sergeant John Marston Moore wondered what in the world they were talking about.

"What else can we do?"

"Odd that you should ask, Sir-"

"If you're about to suggest that out of an overwhelming sense of duty, you would be willing to take the Sergeant out there yourself, to make sure he doesn't get bumped out of his seat by 'an unexpected senior officer...' "

"That thought..."

"No, Goddamn it," Sessions said, but was unable to contain a smile. "We must have somebody already out there who can get him through Outshipment despite your 'unexpected senior officer.'"

"I'll think of someone, Sir," Rutterman said.

"Don't be downcast, Rutterman," Sessions said. "It was a good try. One of your better ones."

"Thank you, Sir," Rutterman said.

Sessions turned to Moore.

"I don't suppose you understood much of that, did you, Moore?"

"No, Sir. I'm afraid..."

"Sergeant Rutterman will make it all clear, beyond any possibility of misinterpretation... Right, Rutterman?"