The Corps II - CALL TO ARMS Read online

  He had then stood by the door and personally checked the names of the recruits off on a roster as they boarded the cars. When the last was aboard, he turned to Sergeant Zimmerman.

  "Let's you and me take a walk," he said. "Fucking train ain't going anywhere soon."

  It was more in the nature of an order than a suggestion, so Sergeant Zimmerman nodded his agreement, although he would have much preferred to get on the car and sit down and maybe put his feet up. The malaria had got to him, and while he no longer belonged in the hospital, he was still pretty weak.

  What Koznowski wanted to do, it immediately became apparent, was look at the young women passing through the station. Zimmerman had nothing against young women, or against looking at them, but if you were about to get on a train, it seemed futile. And he was tired.

  They had been standing just to the right of the gate to the platform on which the Congressional Limited of the Pennsylvania Railroad was boarding passengers for about twenty minutes when Koznowski jabbed Zimmerman, painfully, in the ribs with his elbow.

  "Look at that candy-ass, will you?" he said softly, contemptuously, barely moving his lips.

  A Marine officer, a second lieutenant, was approaching the gate to the Congressional Limited platform. He was very young, and there was a young woman hanging on to his right arm, a real looker, with her black hair cut in a pageboy.

  The customs of the Naval Service proscribed any public display of affection. The second lieutenant was obviously unaware of this proscription, or was ignoring it. The good-looking dame in the pageboy was hanging on to him like he was a life preserver, and the second lieutenant was looking in her eyes, oblivious to anything else.

  Zimmerman was uncomfortable. It was his experience that the less you had to do with officers, the better off you were. And what the hell, so he had a girl friend, so what? Good for him.

  Staff Sergeant Koznowski waited until the second lieutenant was almost on them, if oblivious to them.

  "Watch this," he said softly, his lips not moving. Then he raised his voice. "Ah-ten-hut!" he barked, and then saluted crisply. "Good morning, sir!"

  He succeeded in his intention, which was to shake up the candy-ass second lieutenant. First, the second lieutenant was rudely brought back to the world that existed outside the eyes of the good-looking dame in the black pageboy. Then, his right arm moved in Pavlovian reflex to return Staff Sergeant Koznowski's gesture of courtesy between members of the profession of arms, knocking the girl on his arm to one side and causing her to lose her purse.

  Staff Sergeant Koznowski coughed twice, very pleased with himself.

  But the second lieutenant did not then, as Staff Sergeant Koznowski firmly expected him to do, continue through the gate mustering what little dignity he had left, and possibly even growing red with embarrassment.

  "I'll be goddamned," the second lieutenant said, as he looked at Staff Sergeant Koznowski and Sergeant Zimmerman. And then he walked toward them.

  "Oh, shit!" Staff Sergeant Koznowski said softly, assuming the position of "attention."

  The second lieutenant had his hand extended.

  "Hello, Ernie," he said. "How the hell are you?"

  Sergeant Zimmerman shook the extended hand, but he was speechless.

  The good- looking dame in the black pageboy, having reclaimed her purse, walked up, a hesitant smile on her face.

  "Honey," the second lieutenant said, "this is Sergeant Ernie Zimmerman. I told you about him."

  There was a moment's look of confusion on her face, and then she remembered.

  "Of course," she said, and smiled at Zimmerman, offering her hand. "I'm Ernie, too, Ernie Sage. Ken's told me so much about you."

  "Yes, ma'am," Zimmerman said, uncomfortably.

  "Stand at ease, Sergeant," the second lieutenant said to Staff Sergeant Koznowski.

  The conductor called, "Bo-aard!"

  "You're on the train?" the second lieutenant asked.

  "Yes, sir," Zimmerman said.

  "Save me a seat," the second lieutenant said. "I'm going to be the last man aboard."

  The good- looking dame chuckled.

  "We had better get aboard, sir," Staff Sergeant Koznowski said.

  "Go ahead," the second lieutenant said.

  Staff Sergeant Koznowski saluted; the second lieutenant returned it. Then, with Zimmerman on his heels, Koznowski marched through the gate and to the train.

  "Where'd you get so chummy with the candy-ass, Zimmerman?" Koznowski asked, contemptuously.

  "You ever hear of Killer McCoy, Koznowski?" Zimmerman asked.

  "Huh?" Staff Sergeant Koznowski asked, and then, "Who?"

  "Forget it," Zimmerman said.

  When they were on the train, and the train had rolled out of Pennsylvania Station and through the tunnel and was making its way across the wetlands between Jersey City and Newark, Staff Sergeant Koznowski jabbed Zimmerman in the ribs again.

  "Hey," he said. "There was a story going around about some real hardass in the Fourth Marines in Shanghai. That the 'Killer McCoy' you were asking about?"

  Zimmerman nodded.

  "Story was that he cut up three Italian marines, killed two of them."

  "Right."

  "And then he shot up a fucking bunch of Chinks," Koznowski said.

  Zimmerman nodded again.

  "True story?" Koznowski asked, now fascinated.

  "True story," Zimmerman said.

  "What's that got to do with that candy-ass second lieutenant?" Koznowski asked.

  "That's him," Zimmerman said.

  "Bullshit," Koznowski said flatly.

  "No bullshit," Zimmerman said. "That was Killer McCoy."

  "Bullshit," Koznowski said, "How the hell do you know?"

  "I was there when he shot the Chinks," Zimmerman said. "I shot a couple of them myself."

  Koznowski looked at him for a moment, and finally decided he had been told the truth.

  "I'll be goddamned," he said.

  (Three)

  Tony, the Sages' chauffeur, had parked the Bentley on Thirty-fourth Street, in a NO PARKING zone across from Pennsylvania Station in front of George's Bar Grill. Ten minutes after Ernestine Sage had gone into the station with Second Lieutenant Kenneth J. McCoy, a policeman walked up to the car, rapped on the window with his knuckles, and gestured with a jerk of his thumb for Tony to get moving.

  On the second trip around the block, they saw Ernestine Sage standing on the curb. Tony tapped the horn twice, quickly, and she saw the car and ran to it and got in.

  "Just so you won't feel left out," Ernie Sage said to Second Lieutenant Malcolm Pickering, "I will now put you on your airplane."

  "Where to, Miss Ernie?" Tony asked, cocking his head to one side in the front seat.

  "My apartment, please, Tony," Ernie Sage said, and turned to Pickering. "I'll make you a cup of coffee."

  "The Foster Park, Tony," Pickering ordered. "She makes a lousy cup of coffee."

  They were stopped in traffic. There was a chance for Tony to turn to look into the backseat. Ernestine Sage nodded her approval.

  Tony made the next right turn and pointed the Bentley uptown.

  "You're not going to work?" Pickering asked. When she shook her head no, he asked, "What happened to Nose to the Grindstone?"

  "When we get there," Ernie Sage said, "I will call in. I will say that I have just put my boyfriend-the-Marine on a train, that I am consequently in a lousy mood, and will be in later this afternoon."

  "Patriotism," Pickering said solemnly, "is the last refuge of the scoundrel."

  She laughed, and took his arm.

  "He's only going to Washington, Ernie," Pickering said.

  "He ever tell you about a Marine named Zimmerman?" Ernie asked. "When he was in China?"

  Pickering shook his head. "No."

  "The one who had a Chinese wife and a bunch of children?"

  "Yeah," Pickering said, remembering. "Why?"

  "He was in the station, by the gate," E
rnie said. "With another Marine. A sergeant. Another sergeant."

  "Really?"

  "They looked like Marines, Pick," she said. "I mean, they were Marines. And they saluted Ken and stood stiff… what do they call it?"

  "At attention," he furnished. "And?"

  "I can't really understand that he's really a Marine officer… or you either, for that matter."

  "I'm not so sure about me," Pickering said, "but you better get used to the idea that that's what Ken is. Hell, he's already been in the war, and it's hardly a month old."

  "He was shot before the war, when he was in China, with Zimmerman," she said. "He told me about it. It's not that I didn't believe him, but it wasn't real until just now, when I saw Zimmerman. It wasn't at all hard to imagine Zimmerman with a gun in his hands, shooting people."

  "The fact of the matter, Ernie, is that your boyfriend is one tough cookie. He may look like he's up for the weekend from Princeton, but he's not. What are you doing, having second thoughts about the great romance? Are you just a little afraid of him?"

  "For him," she said, and then corrected herself. "No. For me. Oh, God, Pick, I don't want to lose him!"

  "For the moment, Ernie, you can relax," Pickering said. "He's only going to Washington."

  "Yeah, but where does he go from Washington?" she replied.

  The Bentley turned right again onto Fifty-ninth Street, and halfway down the block pulled to the curb before a canvas marquee with THE FOSTER PARK HOTEL lettered on it.

  A tall, florid-faced doorman in a heavy overcoat festooned with gold braid scurried quickly across the sidewalk and opened the door.

  "Oh, good morning, Mr. Pickering," he said, as Pickering got out. "Nice to see you again, sir."

  "Nice to see you, too, Charley," Pickering said, shaking his hand, "but it's 'Lieutenant Pickering.' We second lieutenants are very fussy about that."

  "I was glad to hear your folks are all right," the doorman said. "And you're Miss Sage, right?"

  "Hello," Ernie Sage said.

  Pickering opened the front door of the Bentley.

  "No sense you hanging around, Tony," he said. "I'll catch a cab to the airlines terminal."

  "I don't mind, Mr. Pick," the chauffeur said.

  "You go ahead," Pickering insisted.

  The chauffeur leaned across the seat and offered his hand.

  "You take care of yourself, young fella," he said. "We want you back in one piece."

  "Thank you, Tony," Pickering said. "And keep your eye on Whatsername for me, will you?"

  The chauffeur chuckled, and then Pickering closed the door.

  When the bellman spun the revolving glass door, passing first Ernie Sage and then Pickering into the lobby of the Foster Park Hotel, an assistant manager was waiting for them.

  "Mr. Pickering, I'm Cannell, the assistant manager. How can I be of service?"

  "I've got to be at the airlines terminal at half-past ten," Pickering said. "Will you make sure there's a cab outside at quarter-past?"

  "Why don't we just run you out to the airport in the limousine, Mr. Pickering?"

  "Because the limousine is for paying guests," Pickering said. "A cab will do fine."

  Pickering took Ernie Sage's arm and steered her across the lobby of the luxury-class hotel to the coffee shop, and then to a red leather banquette in the rear.

  "Just coffee, please," Pickering ordered when a waitress appeared.

  His order was ignored. With the coffee came toast and biscuits and slices of melon and an array of preserves.

  The Foster Park Hotel was one of forty-one hotels in the Foster chain. Mr. Andrew Foster, the Chairman of the Board of the closely held Foster Hotels Corporation, who made his home in the penthouse atop the Andrew Foster Hotel in San Francisco, had one child, a daughter; and his daughter had one child, a son; and his name was Malcolm Pickering.

  "Oh, nice!" Ernie Sage said, pulling a slice of melon before her and picking up a spoon.

  "Amazing, isn't it," Pickering said, "what romance does for the appetite?"

  "Meaning what?" Sage asked.

  "Meaning that your mother went to your room last night to have a little between-us-girls tкte-а-tкte," Pickering said.

  "Oh, my God!" Ernie Sage said, and then challenged: "You're sure? How do you know?"

  "She told me," Pickering said. "As we watched you and Ken billing and cooing down by the duck pond."

  "Okay," Ernie Sage said. "So she knows. I don't care."

  "And if she tells Daddy?" Pickering asked.

  Ernie Sage thought that over.

  "She won't tell him," she announced. "She knows how he would react."

  "You being his precious little girl and such?"

  "She knows it would change nothing," Ernie Sage said. She spread strawberry preserve on a slice of toast and handed it to him. "My mother is a very level-headed woman."

  "Her tactic for the moment is to praise your boyfriend to the skies," Pickering said. "If that fails, she's considering poison."

  "Your goddamned Marine Corps may solve the problem for her," Ernie Sage said.

  "For the third time, Ernie, he's only going to Washington."

  "Yeah, and for the third time, where's your damned Marine Corps going to send him from Washington?"

  "I probably shouldn't tell you this, Ernie," Pickering said. "But I don't think there's much chance that the Corps is going to hand Ken a rifle and send him off to lead a platoon onto some exotic South Pacific beach."

  "Tell me more about that," she said sarcastically.

  "It's true. He's an intelligence officer," Pickering said. "He speaks and reads Chinese and Japanese. That's why they sent him to Quantico to officer candidate school. And that's why they're not going to hand him a rifle and tell him to go forth and do heroic things. There are very few Marines who speak Chinese or Japanese, much less both, and they are far too valuable to send off to get shot up."

  "That's how come he got wounded in the Philippines, right?" she challenged.

  "He wasn't supposed to be where he was when he was hit," Pickering said.

  "You know that wound is still… what's the word? He's still bleeding."

  "Suppurating," Pickering furnished. "They'll take care of him, Ernie. Really."

  "I got that speech, too," she said. "They give you a thirty-day convalescent leave, not chargeable against your regular leave. And then ten days later, they call you up, and say, 'Come back, otherwise we lose the war.'"

  "On the other hand, there is an adequate supply of people like myself," Pickering said, "who are-in the hoary Naval Service phraseology-available to be 'put in harm's way.'"

  She looked at him for a moment, her face serious.

  "You're afraid, aren't you, Pick?" she asked. When he didn't reply, she went on. "Did I make you mad by asking?"

  "Shitless, Ernie," Pickering said. "In the quaint cant of the Marine Corps, I am scared shitless. Not only do I have a very active imagination, but I have been associated with your boyfriend long enough to understand from him that there is very little similarity between war movies and the real thing."

  She reached across the table and took his hand.

  "Oh, Pick!" she said sympathetically.

  "I have volunteered for flight training," he went on, "not with any noble motive of sweeping the dirty Jap from the sky, but because, cold-bloodedly, I have decided it will be a shade safer than being a platoon leader. And because, presuming no one will see that I have been wetting my pants in the airplane, it will keep me out of the war, with any luck, for six months, maybe longer. Just about all the guys in our class in Quantico are getting ready to go overseas. Some of them have already gone."

  "Then why the hell did you enlist?" she asked.

  "Daddy was a Marine," he said, dryly. "Could I disappoint Daddy?"

  She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

  "You're a nice guy, Pick," she said.

  "I can't imagine why I told you this," he said.

  "I'm gl
ad… proud… you did," Ernie Sage said.

  "Wasted effort," he said. "I should have saved it for some female who would be moved to inspire the coward in the time-honored way."

  "You sonofabitch," Ernie Sage said, chuckling. And she freed her hand. But only after she had kissed his knuckles tenderly.

  (Four)

  When the Congressional Limited stopped at Newark, Second Lieutenant Kenneth J. McCoy, USMCR, got off and walked up to the platform to the two cars immediately behind the locomotive.

  The doors to the cars had not been opened, and he had some trouble figuring out how to open them himself before he could get on.

  The moment he stepped into the car itself, one of the corporals saw him, jumped to his feet, and bellowed, "Attention on deck!"

  "As you were," McCoy said quickly. Fifty-odd curious faces were looking at him.

  "Who's in charge?" McCoy asked.

  "Staff Sergeant Koznowski, sir," the corporal said. "He's up in front."

  It had been Lieutenant McCoy's intention to find the man in charge and "borrow" Ernie Zimmerman, to take him back to the dining car and buy him breakfast, or at least a cup of coffee. His motive was primarily personal; Ernie Zimmerman was an old buddy whom he had last seen in Peking. But there was, he realized, something official about it. He knew where the Corps could put Zimmerman to work, doing something more important than he was now, escorting boots to Parris Island: Zimmerman spoke Chinese.

  But before he had made his way down the aisle of the first car, the Congressional Limited began to roll out of the station, and McCoy knew he would be stuck in these coaches until the train stopped again.

  Zimmerman saw him passing between the cars, and by the time McCoy had entered the second car, the boots were standing up. Or most of them. There were half a dozen, McCoy saw, who were confused by the order, "Attention on deck!" and were looking around in some confusion.

  "As you were!" McCoy said loudly, and smiled when he saw that that command, too, was not yet imbedded in the minds of the boots.

  A fleeting thought ran through his mind: He, too, had taken this train on his way to boot camp at Parris Island, but by himself, not with a hundred others to keep him company.