Battleground Read online

  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 omcer.’”

  “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?”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  “... before he puts you on the train,” Sessions concluded.

  “Yes, Sir,” Moore said.

  Sessions met his eyes.

  “Most of this will make sense when you get where you’re going and learn what’s required of you,” Sessions said. “Until you get there, you’re just going to have to take my word that it’s very important, and that the security of the operation is really of life-and-death importance ...”

  “Yes, Sir,” Moore said.

  “Damn,” Sessions said. “Security clearance! What about that? A lousy SECRET won’t do him any good.”

  “The Colonel had me get the full FBI report on Moore ...”

  “They gave it to you?” Sessions asked, surprised.

  “They owed us one,” Rutterman said. “And he reviewed it and granted him a TOP SECRET. What more he may have to have, he’ll have to get over there.”

  Sessions looked thoughtful for a moment, and then put out his hand.

  “Good luck, Sergeant Moore. God go with you.”

  Moore was made somewhat uneasy by the reference to God. It was not, he sensed with surprise, simply a manner of speech, a cliche. Sessions was actually invoking the good graces of the Deity.

  “Thank you, Sir,” he said.

  Rutterman had a light blue 1941 Ford Fordor, with Maryland license plates. But a shortwave radio antenna bolted to the trunk and stenciled signs on the dashboard (MAXIMUM PERMITTED SPEED 35 MPH; TIRE PRESSURE 32 PSI; and USE ONLY 87 OCTANE FUEL) made it rather clear that while the car had come out of a military motor pool, for some reason it was not supposed to look like a military vehicle.

  When they got to Union Station, Rutterman parked in a No Parking area and then took a cardboard sign reading NAVY DEPARTMENT—ON DUTY—OFFICIAL BUSINESS from under the seat and put it on the dashboard.

  “If you don’t think you’d lose control and wind up in New York or Boston, why don’t you buy a Club Car ticket and have a couple of drinks on the way?” Rutterman suggested. “Otherwise, you’re liable to have to stand up all the way to Philly.”

  “You reading my mind?” Moore asked.

  “And I do card tricks,” Rutterman said with a smile.

  Moore bought his ticket and then, bag in hand, headed for the gate.

  “You don’t have to do any more for me, Sergeant,” Moore said. “I can get on the train by myself.”

  “I want to be able to say I watched the train pull out with you on board,” Rutterman replied.

  A hand grabbed Moore’s arm, startling him.

  It was a sailor, wearing white web belt, holster and puttees, and with a Shore Patrol “SP” armband. Moore saw a second SP standing by the gate to Track Six.

  “Let me see your orders, Mac,” the Navy Shore Patrolman said.

  Moore took from the lower pocket of his blouse a quarter-inch thick of mimeograph paper Rutterman had given him on the way to the station and handed it over.

  “And your dog tags, Mac,” the SP said.

  “Slow day?” Sergeant Rutterman asked. “Or do you just like to lean on Marines?”

  “What’s your problem, Mac?” the SP asked, visibly surprised at what he obviously perceived to be a challenge to his authority.

  “My problem, Sailor, is that I don’t like you calling Marine sergeants ‘Mac’”

  “Then why don’t you show me your orders, Sergeant?” the SP said, as the other SP, slapping his billy club on the palm of his hand, came up to get in on the action.

  Rutterman reached in the breast pocket of his blouse and came out with a small leather folder. He held it open for the SP to read.

  Moore saw that whatever Rutterman had shown the SP, it produced an immediate change of attitude.

  “Sergeant,” the SP said, apologetically, almost humbly, “we’re just trying to do our job.”

  “Yeah, sure, you are,” Rutterman said, dryly. “Can we go now?”


  “Yeah, sure. Go ahead.”

  Rutterman jerked his head for Moore to pass through the gate.

  “Goddamned SPs,” he muttered.

  “What was that you showed him?” Moore asked.

  “You forget you saw that,” Rutterman said. “That’s not what you’re supposed to do with that.”

  “What was it?” Moore asked.

  “What was what, Sergeant?” Rutterman asked. “Didn’t Sessions tell you the way to get your ass in a crack around here is to ask questions you shouldn’t?”

  His voice was stern, but there was a smile in his eyes.

  “Right,” Moore said.

  Rutterman boarded the train with him, saw that he was settled in an armchair in the club car, and then offered him his hand.

  “I’ll give you a call tomorrow or the next day,” he said. “To tell you how the paperwork is moving.”

  “I’ll have to give you my number,” Moore said.

  “I’ve got your number,” Rutterman smiled, then shook his head. “Don’t forget to get off this thing in Philadelphia.”

  “I’ll try,” Moore said. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  “What for?” Rutterman replied, and then walked out of the club car.

  (Two)

  HEADQUARTERS, FIRST MARINE DIVISION

  WELLINGTON, NEW ZEALAND

  0815 HOURS 16 JUNE 1942

  On Sunday 14 June, when the first elements of the First Marine Division (Division Headquarters and the 5th Marines) landed at Wellington, New Zealand, from the United States, they found on hand to greet them not only the Advance Detachment, which had flown in earlier, but an officer courier from the United States, who had flown in more recently.