"Get yourself a couple of hours of sleep, Lieutenant," the lieutenant commander said. "And then report back here."
"Aye, aye, sir."
The lieutenant commander looked at him strangely.
"You got a wife, anything like that, Lieutenant," he said. "You might want to write a letter."
McCoy's eyebrows rose quizzically.
"You're going on to Cavite," he said. "With a little bit of luck, you might get there before the Japs do."
"The Japs hit Cavite, too?"
"And everything else in the Philippines," the lieutenant commander said. "But what I meant is 'before the Japs land in the Philippines.' "
"Is that what's going to happen?" McCoy asked.
The lieutenant commander nodded. Then he shrugged.
"There was a Secret Operational Immediate [the highest-priority communication] a couple of hours ago," the lieutenant commander said. "A Japanese invasion fleet was spotted headed for the Lingayen Gulf. Why the hell it was classified Secret, I don't know. The Japs must know where they are and where they're headed."
"And you think that once I get there, I'm stuck?" McCoy asked.
"I didn't say that," the lieutenant commander said. "But if I was going to fly into Cavite on a Catalina, I'd write my wife, or whatever, a letter."
"Thank you," McCoy said.
McCoy didn't even consider writing his sister. If anything happened to him, she would find out when they sent the insurance check to her kids. Briefly, the notion of writing Pick entered his mind, but he dismissed it. He wouldn't know what the hell to say. And he thought, for a moment, of writing Ernie. Just for the hell of it, I thought you would like to know I love you.
Then he saw that for what it was, a damned-fool idea, and went looking for Tommy. It wouldn't be exactly what he had had in mind when he'd thought about seeing Tommy at Pearl Harbor. Tommy didn't even know he was an officer. He'd planned to surprise him with that, to see what he did when he saw him with the lieutenant's bars.
He got back in the borrowed pickup and drove to the Marine Barracks.
One of the barracks buildings had been set on fire, but the fire was out. There were bullet marks all over, and in the middle of the drill field was a huge unidentifiable, fire-scarred chunk of metal.
There weren't very many people around. A few noncoms, and some other people. But no troops. Nobody seemed to be running around looking for something to do.
He found the headquarters building and went inside. There was a guard in field gear and steel helmet at the door. He saluted. And there was a first lieutenant and a PFC in the personnel office. The lieutenant spotted him before the PFC, who belatedly jumped to his feet.
"Reporting in, Lieutenant?" the lieutenant asked.
"Passing through, sir," McCoy said. For a moment, he thought about dazzling the lieutenant with his special agent credentials, and then decided that wouldn't be right.
"What can I do for you?"
"My brother's assigned to the First Defense Battalion," McCoy said. "I've been wondering about him."
"No doubt," the lieutenant said. He handed McCoy a yellow lined pad.
"This is the first casualty report," he said. "My clerk's about to type it up. All the names on there are confirmed casualties, or KIA, but that's not saying all the casualties are on the list."
"Thank you, sir," McCoy said. He quickly scanned the names. Tommy's name wasn't on it.
"Well, he's not on it," McCoy said. "He's a private. McCoy, Thomas J."
The lieutenant started to consult a list, and then remembered just seeing that name. He consulted another list at the head of which he had penciled, "Cut orders transferring Wake Island."
One of the names on the list of those to be shipped out (as soon as transport could be found) as reinforcements for the small Marine force under Major James Devereux on Wake Island was McCoy, Thomas J.
"He's in the beach defense force," he said. "I don't know where the hell to tell you to look for him."
"I don't have the time, anyway," McCoy said.
"You said you were passing through?"
"On my way to Manila," McCoy explained.
"To the Fourth Marines?"
McCoy nodded. There was no point in telling this guy he was a courier.
"You're going to have a hell of a time finding transport," the lieutenant said.
"Maybe, with a little bit of luck, I won't be able to," McCoy said.
"I did a hitch with the Second Battalion until '39. As an enlisted man. Good outfit."
"I used to be on a water-cooled.30 in Dog Company, First Battalion," McCoy said.
"Look," the lieutenant said. "They're not going to ship you out of here for a couple of days, at least. The odds are, your brother will be back in here. If he gets in, I'll pass the word you're here and send him over to the transient BOQ."
"Thanks," McCoy said.
"What the hell, a couple of old China Marines have to take care of each other, right?"
"Absolutely," McCoy said. "Thanks again."
When McCoy had gone, the lieutenant looked over the list of names of people to be transferred to Wake Island as soon as possible, erased Private Thomas J. McCoy's name from it, and penciled in another. He had no doubt that Wake Island would fall. And besides, no matter where he was, there would be enough war left for Private McCoy. And for his brother. The Philippines were probably going to go under, too, if what happened this morning was any indication. Christ, Hawaii might fall.
This would give them a chance to say hello. Or good-bye.
When McCoy drove back to COMPACFLEET, he parked the borrowed truck where no one could see him get out of it, and then went in search of something to eat.
The lieutenant commander found him in the cafeteria eating a bologna sandwich.
"I just looked all over the goddamn BOQ for you," he said. "That's where I told you to go."
McCoy, his mouth full, held up the bologna sandwich.
The lieutenant commander handed McCoy a briefcase and a pad of receipt forms. Then he took him to Ford Island, where a Catalina was being fueled by hand.
The airbase was a shambles, and the dense cloud of black smoke rising from Battleship Row was visible for a long time after they had taken off.
(Four)
Headquarters, 4th Regiment, USMC
Cavite Naval Base
Manila Bay, Territory of the Philippines
1300 Hours, 9 December 1941
The 4th Marines was just about clear of the area when McCoy finally found it. They had apparently moved out in haste. There was a large pile of packaging material, rough-cut lumber, cardboard, and wood shavings, on what had been the neatly trimmed lawn in front of Regimental Headquarters.
The buildings were deserted. Completely deserted, McCoy thought, until he was nearly run down by the colonel, trailed by the sergeant-major, as he turned a comer.
They were in khakis, no field scarves, wearing web belts with.45s dangling from them, and tin hats. Both of them had '03 Springfields slung over their shoulders.
McCoy was in greens, with a leather-brimmed cap.
The colonel's eyebrows rose when he saw McCoy.
"I know you. Who are you?" the colonel demanded.
McCoy popped to attention.
"Corporal McCoy, sir!" he barked.
"Shit," the sergeant-major said, and laughed out loud.
"Lieutenant McCoy, sir," McCoy said.
"I'll be damned," the colonel said. "What the hell is going on, McCoy? Lieutenant?'''
"I just graduated from Platoon Leader's Course, sir."
"And they assigned you back here?" the colonel asked, incredulously.
"No, sir," McCoy said. "I'm an officer courier. I just got in. I thought I'd… come by and say hello to Captain Banning."
"Jesus H. Christ!" the colonel said, and shook his head and marched out of the building.