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"That involves me? You said something about Diego," Banning asked.

"The Commandant told me-this was during the eighteen-hour period General Forrest thought he was being retired in disgrace, and there was nobody to deal with but me-that the worst thing you can do to a commander is let him know his superiors question his ability. If necessary, the Commandant is prepared to go to California and apologize to Carlson and assure him of his personal confidence in him. But he hopes that Carlson doesn't know we sent an officer out there to spy on him, and that an apology won't be necessary."

"Apologies being beneath the dignity of the Commandant?" Banning asked, sarcastically. "You don't suppose he could be worried that President Roosevelt will find out about this half-cocked spying operation?"

Rickabee hesitated a moment before he replied. "I'm sure he is," he said finally. "And the damage to the Corps if that happens is something I don't even like to think about. If the President found out, the Commandant would have to go. And that would be bad for the Corps, for all the reasons that come quickly to mind."

Banning grunted.

"But having granted that, Ed, no, I don't think apologizing would bother the Commandant at all. But making the apology would be an admission that there was doubt in Carlson's loyalty and ability-doubt high enough within the Corps to have the Commandant personally involved. What the Commandant wants to know is whether Carlson knows, or strongly suspects, what's been going on. That's where you come in."

"How?"

"The forward element of the First Raider Battalion will leave Quantico one April for Diego, and sail for Hawaii as soon as shipping can be found for them. The Second Battalion, Evans Carlson's, is supposed to complete their training at Camp Elliott on Fifteen April. There will be an inspection of the Second Raider Battalion by officers from Headquarters, USMC. You will be part of that delegation, charged, as an experienced regimental S-Two, with having a look at Carlson's intelligence section. Not, if I have to say it, as somebody assigned to us. You'll prepare the usual report, which will make its normal passage through channels. You will also be prepared, immediately on your return, to tell the Commandant personally whether or not you think Carlson suspects anything."

"Lovely job," Banning said, dryly.

"Check with McCoy, of course. And there's somebody else out there you probably should talk to. You remember Master Gunnery Sergeant Stecker?"

"Did a hitch with the Fourth? Has the Medal of Honor?"

"He's a captain, now, in Diego. At Second Joint Training Force headquarters. He works for Colonel Lou Harris, and Harris has had him greasing Carlson's ways. If approached discreetly, you might ask him if Carlson has smelled a rat."

"I don't know if he would talk to me. He's a starchy sonofabitch."

"He's a good Marine," Rickabee said. "Use your judgment, Ed."

"I get the picture, sir," Banning said. "When do I go?"

"Your leave is over two April," Rickabee said. "I've got orders for you. You are assigned to the office of the Inspector General, Headquarters, USMC, on that date, and to the inspection team for the Second Raiders. They will have left Washington one April. You've got a rail priority, and Sergeant Gregg-you remember him?"

Banning shook his head. "No." "Gregg got you a compartment on the Twentieth-Century Limited to Chicago, and then on whatever they call that train with the observation cars-"

"I know what you mean," Banning said. "I can't think of the name."

"Well, anyway, after you cruise through the Rockies in luxury to Los Angeles, you take a train called the Lark to San Diego. The inspection team will return to Washington by air. You'll travel with them."

"Aye, aye, sir." Banning said.

"By the time you get to Washington, have your mind made up," Rickabee said. "The Commandant has a tough call to make, and he'll have to make it pretty much on what you decide."

Banning grunted, and nodded his head thoughtfully.

"I knew the good life was too good to last," he said.

Chapter Eighteen

(One)

Company B, 2nd Raider Battalion

Camp Elliott, California

26 March 1942

The then of Baker Company were spread out on both sides of the dirt road-hardly more than a pad)-in the hills above Camp Elliott when the jeep drove up. The platoon leader and Gunnery Sergeant Esposito were standing up. And a few of the then were sitting up, but most of them were flat on their backs, still breathing heavily. Gunny Esposito had elected to have them pass the last five minutes before the break at double-time. After forty-five minutes of marching at quick time with full field gear, including a basic load of ammo, five minutes of double-time feels like five hours.

The jeep was driven by the company clerk. Unlike the stereotype of most company clerks, Baker Company's company clerk looked like the fullback he had been on the Marion (Ohio) High School "Tigers" before he had enlisted in the Corps three days after Pearl Harbor. You had to have a "C" average to remain eligible for varsity football, and since Rocky Rockham wasn't too comfortable with geometry or English, the coach had suggested that if he wanted to play football, he better take something he could do well in, something that would bring his grade average up, like typing.

At Parris Island the personnel clerk had asked Rocky Rockham if he had any skills, like typing. And Rocky told him that he could type pretty good, forty-five words a minute. Naturally the personnel clerk hadn't believed him, and made him take a test. Rocky Rockham didn't look like somebody who could type, but he passed the test, and he left Parris Island for the Joint Training Force at Diego as a clerk/typist.

Rocky quickly realized that telling the personnel clerk that he could type had been a mistake. He had joined the Corps to kill Japanese, to pay the buckteethed bastards back for Pearl Harbor and Wake Island, not to sit at a fucking typewriter in a fucking office, filling out fucking requisition forms.

At the reveille formation one day, there had been a call for volunteers to serve in something called the 2nd Separate Battalion. The first sergeant told them the 2nd Separate Battalion was going overseas as soon as they finished their training. So Rocky volunteered. That was what he wanted, getting overseas, and out from behind the typewriter.

"Well, lad," the first sergeant of Baker Company said, smiling at him the day he reported aboard, "I'm damned glad to see you. You can really type forty-five words a minute?"

A minute after that, not smiling, the first sergeant of Baker Company pointed out to PFC Rockham that he was in the Marine Corps, and the Marine Corps didn't give a flying fuck what he wanted to do. He would do what the Corps told him to do, and if he was smart, he would do it wearing a fucking smile. He was now Baker Company's company clerk, and that was fucking if.

When Rocky wrote home that he had been made a corporal, he didn't add that he was the company clerk of Baker Company, 2nd Raider Battalion, USMC; just that he was in the Raiders and hoped to soon be killing Japs.

Rocky stopped the jeep, and walked over to the lieutenant who was taking the march for the Old Man. He saluted and delivered his message.

"Go get him, Gunny," the lieutenant ordered.

Gunny Esposito turned around.

"McCoy!" he bellowed. "Up here! On the double!"

PFC Thomas M. McCoy, still breathing heavily, still red-faced, pushed himself off the ground and trotted to where Gunny Esposito stood with the lieutenant and Rocky Rock-ham.

"Throw your gear in the vee-hicle," Gunny Esposito said, "and go with Corporal Rockham."

"Where'm I going, Gunny?"

"In the vee-hicle with Corporal Rockham," Gunny Esposito explained.