"I've always thought you were a pretty bright fellow yourself, General," Haughton said. "Certainly bright enough to know that would not be in your best interests."

General Forrest glared icily at Haughton for a long moment. Finally he looked at Rickabee. "You're right, Rickabee," he said. "He is a Machiavellian sonofab.i.t.c.h. I like him."

The door banged open, and the waiter returned with an enormous tray heaped high with steaming lobsters.

Chapter Ten.

(One) Headquarters U.S. Marine Corps Parachute School Lakehurst Naval Air Station Lakehurst, New Jersey 8 April 1942 First Lieutenant R. B. Macklin, USMC, (Acting) Commanding Officer, USMC Parachute School, had a problem. He had been directed by TWX from Headquarters USMC to furnish by TWX the names of volunteers for a special mission. The volunteers must be enlisted men of his command who met certain criteria. He was to furnish these names within twenty-four hours.

That special mission was officially described as "immediate foreign service of undetermined length; of a cla.s.sified nature; and involving extraordinary hazards. Volunteers will be advised that the risk of loss of life will be high."

The criteria set forth in the TWX directed that "volunteers should be at least corporals but not higher in rank than staff sergeants; and have no physical limitations whatever.

"The ideal volunteer for this mission will be an unmarried sergeant with at least three years of service who has, in addition to demonstrated small-arms and other infantry skills, experience in a special skill such as radio communications, demolitions, rubber-boat handling, and parachuting.

"Especially desirable are volunteers with French and j.a.panese language fluency, oral or written. Individuals who are now performing, or in the past have performed, cryptographic duties are not eligible."

In compliance with his orders, Lieutenant Macklin had his First Sergeant gather together all the corporals, sergeants, and staff sergeants of his command in the brand-new service club, where, after warning them that the subject of the meeting was cla.s.sified and was not to be discussed outside the room where they had gathered, he read them the pertinent portions of the TWX.

There were twenty-one men present. Nineteen of them lined up before the First Sergeant, and he wrote their names down on a lined pad on his clipboard.

Viewed in one way, nineteen of twenty-one eligibles volunteering for an undefined mission where "the risk of loss of life will be high," could be interpreted as one more proof that young Marine noncoms were courageous, red-blooded American patriots, eager for an opportunity to serve their country, regardless of the risk to their very lives.

Viewed in another, more realistic, way, Lieutenant Macklin was very much afraid that if he forwarded the names of all nineteen, as he had been directed, questions would be asked as to why ninety percent of his junior noncoms were willing to take such a chance. It suggested, at the very least, that they didn't like their present a.s.signment and would take a h.e.l.l of a chance to get out of it.

And that would tend to reflect adversely on the professional reputation of First Lieutenant R. B. Macklin, USMC.

And of course, if he sent the names forward and only half of them wound up on orders, that would play havoc with the parachute training program. And if the program collapsed, that too would reflect adversely on his professional reputation.

Lieutenant Macklin was very concerned with his professional reputation, especially since Colonel Neville had jumped to his death before there had been time for him to write an efficiency report on Macklin. Macklin didn't even know who was going to write his efficiency report, now that Neville was dead.

But he did know that unless he handled this volunteer business the right way, he was in trouble.

He flipped through the stack of service records on his desk.

Every one but two of those ungrateful, disloyal sonsofb.i.t.c.hes volunteered! G.o.dd.a.m.n them! Willing to leave me in a lurch like this, making me look like some Captain Bligh with a mutiny on his hands! The ungrateful b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, after all I've done for them!

He wondered who the two loyal Marines were. He compared the names of the volunteers against the roster.

Staff Sergeant James P. c.u.mings, the mess sergeant, was one of those who had not volunteered. c.u.mings was in his middle thirties, a career Marine, married and with a flock of kids.

Nor had Corporal Stephen M. Koffler. He was the little sonofab.i.t.c.h who went AWOL and then turned out to be the first one to reach Colonel Neville's body on The Day That It Happened.

And then he had been painted as some sort of hero and given an unjustified promotion to corporal-just because he happened to be next out of the airplane when the Colonel jumped to his death.

He was practically useless around here, too. The first sergeant had him driving a truck.

Christ, you'd just know that the one sonofab.i.t.c.h you would like to get rid of would be the only one that doesn't want to go!

Lieutenant R. B. Macklin, USMC, tapped his pencil absently against his white china coffee cup as he thought the problem through.

The basic question, he thought, is what is best for the Corps?

While it's probably true that whatever these volunteers are needed for is important, I don't know that. What I do know is that parachutists are the wave of the future, and ergo, that the parachute school is very important, perhaps even critical, for future Marine operations in the Pacific and elsewhere. It follows logically from that that if I lose all, many, or even any of my middle-ranking noncommissioned officers to whatever it is they have volunteered for, I am setting parachute training back for however long it would take to train their replacements. I don V think I have the right to do that to the Marine Corps.

I do know that Corporal Stephen M. Koffler is not needed around here. Truckdrivers are a dime a dozen.

First Lieutenant R. B. Macklin made his decision. "First Sergeant!" he called.

(Two) First Sergeant George J. Hammersmith, having determined that Corporal Koffler had not been given a pa.s.s and that he was not in his barracks, looked for him first in the slop chute, and finally located him in the service club.

The service club was a new building that had been put up in a remarkably short time not far from the huge dirigible hangar. It was a large building, two stories tall in the center, and with one-floor wings on either side. It had been furnished with upholstered chairs and couches, tables, magazine racks, and pool and Ping-Pong tables. Somewhere down the pike there was supposed to be a snack bar and a small stage for USO shows and for a band, for dances.

With the exception of Corporal Koffler and two hostesses in gray uniforms, it was now empty. Lieutenant Macklin thought that parachutist trainees had more important things to do in their off-duty hours than loll around on their a.s.ses, and had placed the service club off limits to trainees except on weekends.

The permanent party did not patronize the club very much. There was a club, with hard liquor, for noncommissioned officers, and a slop chute, beer only, for corporals and down. Furthermore, the permanent party was well aware that the First Sergeant and other senior noncoms held the belief that only candy-a.s.ses would go someplace where you couldn't get anything to drink or do anything more than smile at the hostesses.

Corporal Koffler was sitting in an upholstered armchair, a can of peanuts at his side, reading the Newark Evening News, on which there was a banner headline: BATAAN FALLS; WAIN-WRIGHT'S FORCES WITHDRAW TO FORTRESS CORREGIDOR.

That news had been on the radio all day, and it had bothered George Hammersmith. He had a lot of buddies with the 4th Marines, and the last he'd heard, they'd taken a real whipping. And he'd done his time in the Far East. There was no way that Corregidor could hold out for long. The fortress had been built on an island in Manila Bay to protect Manila; and Manila was already in the hands of the j.a.panese.

That little s.h.i.t probably doesn't have the faintest f.u.c.king idea where the Philippines are, much less Corregidor. Sonofab.i.t.c.h probably never even looked at the front page, just turned right to "Blondie and Dagwood" in the comic section.

First Sergeant Hammersmith restrained a surprisingly strong urge to knock the paper out of Koffler's hands, but at the last moment he just put his fingers on it and jerked it, to get Koffler's attention.

"Jesus!" Koffler said. He was, Hammersmith saw, surprised but not afraid. So far as he knew, there was nothing wrong with Koffler except that Macklin had a hard-on for him. He had never explained why, and Hammersmith had never asked.

"Got a minute, Koffler?"

"Sure."

"You was at the formation when they asked for volunteers, wasn't you?"

"I was there."

"I was sort of wondering why you didn't volunteer."

Because I'm not a f.u.c.king fool, that's why. "Volunteers will be advised that the risk of loss of life will be high." I learned my lesson about volunteering when I volunteered for jump duty. So I didn't volunteer for whatever the f.u.c.k this new thing is.

"I didn't think I was qualified," Steve said.

"Why not?"

"They want people with special skills. I don't have any. I don't speak j.a.panese or French, or anything."

"You're a Marine parachutist," Hammersmith said.

"I just made corporal," Steve said. "I ain't been in the Corps a year."

"You're yellow, is that it?"

"I'm not yellow."

"You didn't volunteer."

"That don't mean I'm yellow; that just means I don't want to volunteer."

"What's Lieutenant Macklin got on you?"

"I don't know."

"He doesn't like you."

"Maybe because they promoted me."

"Maybe. But I do know he doesn't like you. He thinks you're a worthless s.h.i.t."

"I didn't know that."

"I don't like you, either," Hammersmith said. "You're supposed to be a Marine, and you're yellow."

"I'm not yellow."

"You were given a chance to volunteer for an important a.s.signment, and you didn't. In my book that makes you yellow."

"They said 'volunteer.'"

"And you didn't."

"What do you want from me, Sergeant?"

"I don't want anything from you."

"Then I don't understand what this is all about."

"Just a little chat between Marines," First Sergeant Hammersmith said, "is all."

"You want me to volunteer, that's what this is all about."

"If I made you volunteer, then you wouldn't be a volunteer, would you?" Hammersmith asked. "Don't do nothing you don't want to do. But you know what I would do if I was you?"

"No."

"If I was in an outfit where my company commander thought I was a worthless s.h.i.t, and my first sergeant thought I was yellow, I would start thinking about finding myself a new home."

(Three) San Diego, California 17 April 1942 Major Edward J. Banning, USMC, arrived in San Diego carrying all of his worldly possessions in two canvas Valv-Paks.

That fact-that he had with him all he owned-had occurred to him on the Lark, the train on which he had made the last leg of his trip from Los Angeles. He had flown from Washington to Los Angeles.

He had once had a good many personal possessions, ranging from books and phonograph records to furniture, dress uniforms, civilian clothing, a brand-new Pontiac automobile, and a wife.

Of all the things he'd owned in Shanghai six months before, only one was left, a Model 1911A1 Colt .45 pistol; and that, technically, was the property of the U.S. Government. The 4th Marines were now on Corregidor. Banning sometimes mused wryly that in one of the lateral tunnels off the Main Malinta tunnel under the rock, there was probably, in some filing cabinet, an official record that the pistol had been issued to him and never turned in. The record-if not Major Ed Banning or the 4th Marines-would more than likely survive the war. And his estate would receive a form letter from the Marine Corps demanding payment.

His household goods had been stored in a G.o.down in Shanghai "for later shipment." It was entirely credible to think that some j.a.panese officer was now occupying his apartment, sitting on his chairs, eating supper off his plates on his carved teak table, listening to his Benny Goodman records on his phonograph, and riding around Shanghai in his Pontiac.

He did not like to think about Mrs. Edward J. (Ludmilla) Banning. Milla was a White Russian, a refugee from the Bolshevik Revolution. He had gone to Milla for j.a.panese and Russian language instruction, taken her as his mistress, and fallen in love with her. He had married her just before he flew out of Shanghai with the advance party when the 4th Marines were ordered to the Philippines.

There were a number of scenarios about what had happened to Milla after the j.a.panese came to Shanghai, and none of them were pleasant. They ranged from her being shot out of hand to being placed in a brothel for j.a.panese enlisted men.

It was also possible that Milla, who was a truly beautiful woman, might have elected to survive the j.a.panese occupation by becoming the mistress of a j.a.panese officer. Practically speaking, that would be a better thing for Milla than getting herself shot, or becoming a seminal sewer in a j.a.panese Army comfort house.

Ed Banning believed in G.o.d, but he rarely prayed to Him. Yet he prayed often and pa.s.sionately that G.o.d would take mercy on Milla.

He was profoundly ashamed that he could no longer remember the details of Milla's face, the color of her eyes, the softness of her skin; she was fading away in his mind's eye. Very likely this was because he had taken another woman into his bed and, for as long as the affair had lasted, into his life. He was profoundly ashamed about that, too. No matter how hard he tried to rationalize it away, in the end it was a betrayal of the vow he had made in the Anglican Cathedral in Shanghai to cleave himself only to Milla until death should them part.

He had met Carolyn Spencer Howell in the New York Public Library. He had been sent to the Navy Hospital in Brooklyn, ostensibly for a detailed medical examination relating to his lost and then recovered sight. But he was actually there for a psychiatric examination. During his time in Brooklyn he was free-indeed, encouraged-to get off the base and go into Manhattan. (There'd also been strong hints that female companionship wouldn't hurt, either.) Carolyn was a librarian at the big public library on 42nd Street in Manhattan. He went to her to ask for copies of the Shanghai Post covering the months between the time he had left Milla in Shanghai and the start of the war. He also wanted whatever she had on Nansen Pa.s.sports. As a stateless person, Milla had been issued what was known as a Nansen Pa.s.sport. He had a faint, desperate hope that perhaps the j.a.panese would recognize it, and that she could leave Shanghai somehow for a neutral country. Because Banning had given her all the cash he could lay his hands on, just over three thousand dollars, Milla didn't lack for the resources she'd need to get away. Would that do her any good? Probably not, he realized in his darkest moments.

He did not set out to pursue Carolyn as a romantic conquest. It just happened. Carolyn was a tall, graceful divorcee. Her husband of fifteen years, whom Banning now thought of as a colossal fool, had, as she put it, "turned her in for a later model, without wrinkles."

They met outside the library in a small restaurant on 43rd Street, where he'd gone for lunch. And they wound up in her bed in her apartment. Banning and Carolyn were very good in bed together, and not only because being there ended long periods of celibacy for each of them. They both had a lot of important things they needed to share with someone who was sensitive enough to listen and understand. He told her about Milla, for instance, and she told him about her fool of a husband.

It was nice while it lasted, but now it was over. He could see in her eyes that she knew he was lying when he said good-bye to her and told her he would write. And she actually seemed to understand, which made him feel even more like a miserable sonofab.i.t.c.h.

Since Carolyn knew about Milla from the beginning, they managed to convince themselves for a while that they were nothing more than two sophisticated adults who enjoyed companionship with the other, in bed and out of it. They both told themselves that it was a temporary arrangement, with no possibility of a lasting emotional involvement-much less some kind of future with a vine-covered cottage by the side of the road. They thought of themselves as friends with bed privileges, and nothing more.

But it became more than that. Otherwise, why would a sophisticated, mature woman be unable to keep from hugging her friend so tightly, not quite able to hold back her sobs, while a Marine major tried, not successfully, to keep his eyes from watering?

The bottom line seemed to be that he was in love with two women, and he was in no position to do anything for either of them.

Major Jack NMI Stecker, USMC, was waiting on the platform when Major Ed Banning threw his Valv-Paks down from the club car. There was nothing fragile in the bags except a small framed photograph of Carolyn Howell she had slipped into his luggage. He had found it while rooting for clean socks when the plane had been grounded for the night in St. Louis.

They shook hands.

"How'd you know I'd be on the train?" Banning asked.

"Colonel Rickabee called and told me what plane you were on. And I knew you couldn't get a plane further than L.A. And I didn't think you would take the bus."