Call to Arms

Chapter Eleven

(One)

Machine Gun Range #2 Camp Elliott, California 1030 Hours, 19 January 1942

The pickup truck was a prewar Chevrolet. It had a glossy paint job, and on each door a representation of the Marine Corps insignia was painted above the neatly painted letters "USMC" It even had chrome hubcaps.

The pickup trucks issued currently (and for several months before the war started) were painted with a flat Marine-green paint; and none of these had chrome hubcaps or the Marine emblem on the door. They did have USMC on the door, but that had been applied with a stencil, using black paint.

The driver of the pickup, seen up close, was even more unusual than the truck. He was a thin-even gaunt-man not quite forty-two years old. He was dressed in dungarees; and the letters USMC and a crude representation of the Marine Corps insignia had been stenciled in black paint on the dungaree jacket. The jacket was unpressed, and the silver oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel were half-hidden in the folds of the collar.

The lieutenant colonel parked the Chevrolet in line with the other vehicles-an ambulance, two other pickups, and two of the recently issued and still not yet common trucks, 1/4-ton, 4 x 4, General Purpose, called "Jeeps"-and got out. There were a captain, several lieutenants, and four noncoms standing in the shade of a small frame building, an obviously newly erected range house.

It was two story. The second story was an observation platform, only half framed-in. A primitive flagpole of two-by-fours rose above the observation platform. Flying from this was a red "firing in progress" pennant.

There were what the lieutenant colonel judged to be two companies of infantry (somewhere in the neighborhood of four hundred men) sitting on the ground twenty-five yards away from the firing line. It was already getting hot, and the sun was shining brightly. Shortly, the lieutenant colonel decided, they would grow uncomfortable.

The captain glanced at the newcomer and looked away. He had seen the man's face, and guessed his age, and concluded that he was probably a gunnery sergeant. It did not enter the captain's mind that the newcomer might be an officer, much less a lieutenant colonel. Officers were provided with drivers, and field-grade officers were customarily provided with Ford or Chevrolet staff cars.

The captain's ignorance was not surprising. This was the first time the lieutenant colonel had come to Machine Gun Range #2. He walked to the front of the pickup, leaned casually against the hood, studied the setup carefully.

He saw that there were twelve machine-gun positions, each constructed more or less as a machine-gun position would be set up in a tactical situation. That is to say, a low semicircle of sandbags had been erected at each position, in the center of which sat a Browning machine gun, placed so that it would fire over the sandbags.

Three different types of machine gun had been set up. Each of the four sandbag positions on the right of the firing line held a Browning Model 1919A4.30-caliber weapon. This version of the Browning was "air cooled," with a perforated jacket on me outside of its barrel intended to dissipate the heat generated by bullets passing through the barrel. The gun was mounted on a low tripod, a single, short leg forward, and two longer legs, forming a V, to the rear. There was a steel rod between the two rearward legs. Elevation of the weapon was controlled by a threaded rod connected to and rising upward from the steel rod to the rear action of the weapon. Traverse of the weapon was limited by the length of the steel rod connecting the two rear legs of the tripod.

Four M1917A1.30-caliber "water-cooled" Brownings had been set up in the center four firing positions. A jacket through which water was passed encased the barrel of the ' 17Als. And the mounting, otherwise identical to that of the '19A4s, was different in one important respect: Traverse of the weapon was restricted only by the length of the hose connecting the water jacket to the water reservoir. In theory, the ' 17A1 could be fired through 360 degrees. Elevation was controlled by curved steel plates connected to the machine gun itself and the top of the tripod.

The four firing positions on the left of the firing line each held an M2 Browning. This was the.50-caliber (Caliber is expressed in decimal portions of an inch. For example, the 50-caliber machine gun projectile has a diameter of one-half inch) version of the Browning. And it was essentially an enlargement of the.30-caliber '19A4. The perforated steel cooling device on the barrel, however, ran only a short distance out from the receiver. The quick-replaceable barrel was fitted with a handle, for ease in handling; the cocking lever was enlarged and fitted with a wooden handle; and the "pistol grip" behind the trigger of the ' 19A4 was replaced with a dual wooden-handled trigger mechanism.

The lieutenant colonel found nothing wrong with the placement of the machine guns. And he saw why the weapons were silent; there was some sort of trouble with one of the 1917Als. He saw an armorer on his knees with the '17A1 in pieces before him. He was being watched by its fascinated two-man crew.

The range was new, and consequently primitive. There was neither a target pit (a below-ground trench at the targets) or a berm (a mound of earth used as a bullet trap) behind the targets. The targets were constructed of two-by-fours, with target cloth stretched between them. The targets themselves were approximately life-size silhouettes of the human torso, rather than the expected bull's-eye targets.

The bullets fired from the machine guns impacted on low, sandy hills the lieutenant colonel judged to be a mile and a half from the firing line. He presumed that whoever had laid out the range was perfectly familiar with the ballistics of.30- and.50-caliber machine-gun projectiles and that a large area behind the hills had been declared an impact area and thus Off Limits.

When he had seen what he wanted to see (and he was not here to judge machine-gun training; only professionally curious) the lieutenant colonel pushed himself off the hood of the pickup and walked toward the officers gathered in the shade of the range office.

He was almost on them, as they chatted quietly together before one of the noncoms, when a staff sergeant glanced in his direction and saw the glitter of silver on his dungaree jacket collar points. He inclined his head toward the captain, who looked quickly in his direction.

When the lieutenant colonel drew close, the officers and the noncoms came to attention, and the captain saluted and smiled.

"Good morning, sir," the captain said.

"Good morning," the lieutenant colonel said, with a salute that was far short of parade-ground perfect. "Are you in charge here, Captain?"

"I'm the senior officer, sir," the captain said.

"That's what I asked," the lieutenant colonel said, reasonably, with a smile. He examined the lieutenants and picked one out. "Are you Lieutenant McCoy?"

The lieutenant came to attention. "No, sir," he said.

"I was told I could find Lieutenant McCoy here," the lieutenant colonel said.

"He's on the line, sir," the captain said. "There's a stoppage on one of the weapons." He gestured in the direction of the pit where the lieutenant colonel had seen the armorer working on the machine gun.

The lieutenant colonel started to walk toward it. The captain followed him. When they were out of hearing of the group in the shade of the range house, the lieutenant colonel stopped and turned to the captain.

"I think I can find Lieutenant McCoy myself, Captain," be said softly. "What I suggest you do is put one officer and one noncom in the observation tower, and then send the others over to the troops. If I were, say, a PFC, I would resent being ordered to sit in the sun while my sergeant stood in the shade. Much less my officers."

The captain came to attention, with surprise on his face.

"Aye, aye, sir," he said.

The lieutenant colonel walked to the machine-gun pit where there was a malfunctioning weapon.

One of the two troops saw him coming and said something to the third man, who was, the lieutenant colonel saw, just about finished reassembling the weapon. The man started to straighten up. The lieutenant colonel saw the gold bars of a second lieutenant on his dungaree shirt. The two Marines came to attention.

"Finish what you're doing," the lieutenant colonel said, in Chinese.

"Yes, sir," McCoy replied in English, and went on with his work.

"You two can stand at ease," the lieutenant colonel ordered, and then switched to Chinese: "What was wrong with it?"

"Dirt," McCoy replied, again in English. "We just drew these guns. They've been in storage since the First World War. What stopped this one was petrified Cosmoline. It was too hard to wash out with gasoline, but then firing shook it loose. It jammed the bolt as it tried to feed."

"Your record, Lieutenant, says that you are fluent in Cantonese," the lieutenant colonel said in Chinese.

"I don't speak it as well as you do, sir," McCoy said, in Cantonese. He got the machine gun back together, opened the action, and stood up. "Is there something I can do for you, sir?"

The lieutenant colonel ignored the question.

"Isn't there an armorer out here?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," McCoy said. "But I like to explain what went wrong, instead of just fix it."

"Where did you learn about machine guns?"

"I was in a heavy-weapons company with the Fourth Marines in Shanghai, sir," McCoy said.

The lieutenant colonel was pleased with what he had found. The service record of Second Lieutenant McCoy had said that he was an Expert with a.30- and a.50-caliber Browning machine guns and that he was fluent in Cantonese. He was now satisfied that both were the case.

"You're the range officer, I understand?" the lieutenant colonel said.

"Yes, sir."

"If you would feel comfortable in turning over that responsibility to one of the other officers, I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes."

"I'll ask one of the other officers to take over for me, sir," McCoy said.

"I'll wait for you in the pickup," the lieutenant colonel said, smiling and pointing toward the Chevrolet.

When McCoy got to the pickup truck, the lieutenant colonel was inside. He signaled for McCoy to get in. After McCoy was inside, he put out his hand. His grip was firm.

"My name is Carlson, McCoy," he said. "I'm pleased to meet you. I'm an old China Marine myself."

"Yes, sir." McCoy said.

"How'd you get your commission, McCoy?" Carlson asked.

"When I came home from China, I applied for officer school and they sent me," McCoy said.

"You like being an officer?"

"It pays better," McCoy said.

Carlson chuckled.

"Most second lieutenants, faced with a malfunctioning Browning, would get an armorer to fix it," Carlson said. "Not dirty their hands on it themselves."

"Most second lieutenants wouldn't have known what was wrong with it," McCoy said.

"I was hoping you would say you don't mind getting your hands dirty if mat's the quickest solution to a problem."

"Yes, sir," McCoy said. "That, too."

"I've been given command of a special battalion, McCoy," Carlson said. "What we'll be doing is something like the British Commandos. Amphibious raids on Japanese-held islands; probably, later, working behind Japanese lines. I'm recruiting officers for it."

"I heard something about that, sir," McCoy said.

"What did you hear?"

"I heard suicide troops, Colonel," McCoy said. "That you didn't want married men."

"Well, let me correct that," Carlson said. "Not suicide troops. Only a fool would volunteer to commit suicide, and the one thing I don't want is fools. I don't want married then because I don't want people thinking about wives and children… because that would raise their chances of getting killed. I want them to think of nothing but the mission. If they do that, they stand a much better chance of staying alive. You follow the reasoning?"

"Yes, sir," McCoy said.

"And the training is going to be tough, and there's going to be a lot if it, and a married man would get trouble from his wife because he didn't come home at night and on weekends. My philosophy is that well-trained then stand a better chance of staying alive. You follow me?"

"Yes, sir."

McCoy had seen enough of Lieutenant Colonel Evans F. Carlson to make a fast judgment, but one he was sure of. He judged that Carlson was a good officer. McCoy had noticed, for instance, that the officers and noncoms were now doing what they were supposed to be doing, instead of standing around bullshitting in the shade of the range building; and he was sure that Carlson had straightened them out. And McCoy was impressed with Carlson, the man. There was a quiet authority about him. He didn't have to wave his silver lieutenant colonel's leaf in somebody's face to command respect.

His eyes were soft, but intelligent. He certainly didn't look crazy. Or even like he'd gone Chink. McCoy had no idea what a Communist looked like.

McCoy was worried about the intelligent eyes. They made him think that there was very little that got by Lieutenant Colonel Carlson. He wondered how long it would be before Carlson began to suspect-if he didn't already suspect-that the big brass would send somebody to keep an eye on him, to see if he was crazy, or a Communist, or whatever. And once he figured that out, it wouldn't be a hell of a jump for him to figure out that the spy was Second Lieutenant McCoy.

Shit! Why didn't they send somebody else? I like this guy.

(Two)

Pearl Harbor, Hawaii

17 January 1942

The blind then evacuated from Corregidor aboard the Pickerel were taken from the wharf to the Naval hospital by ambulance.

There they were given thorough physical examinations to determine if they had any medical condition that required immediate attention. None did. One of them-who had for some unaccountable reason regained his sight-even demanded immediate return to duty, but that was out of the question. He was told that because his shrapnel wounds had not completely healed, he would be evacuated to the United States with the others.

Actually, it had been decided that this man's case indicated the necessity of a psychiatric examination. His temporary blindness was psychosomatic in nature, and that was sometimes an indication of psychiatric problems. But telling him that was obviously not the thing to do; it might even aggravate the problem.

The nine blind then and the one who had regained his sight were placed in the medical holding detachment for transport (when available) to the United States for further medical evaluation and treatment.

The first available shipping space turned out to be aboard a civilian freighter under contract to the Navy. When this came to the attention of a senior medical officer, a Navy captain, he found the time to examine the ship, and he saw that its berthing space was temporary. Its number-two and number-three holds had been temporarily rigged with bunks consisting of sheets of canvas stretched between iron pipe. The head available to the sightless then was primitive, the ladders steep, and there were many places where a blind man could smash against sharp objects.

The Navy doctor then went to see the personnel shipment officer on the staff of the Commander in Chief, Pacific Fleet, to ask him if they couldn't do a little better for the blind then in the way of accommodation.

The personnel shipment officer was also a Navy captain. Aware that the doctor might actually outrank him, he didn't stand him tall as he would have liked to do, but rather contented himself with a lecture, which touched on the fact that he was a busy man, that there was a war on, and that medical officers should really stick to medicine and leave the conduct of the Navy to line officers.

This encounter was followed, as soon as the doctor could find a telephone, by a call to the Chief of Staff to the Commander in Chief, Pacific Fleet. The doctor had a little trouble getting the Commander in Chief onto the phone, but eventually he heard the familiar voice.

"Did you really tell my aide," the admiral asked, "that you'd boot his ass from here to Diego if he didn't get me on the horn?"

"Or words to that effect," the doctor said.

"What's the problem, Charley?" the admiral said, suppressing a chuckle. The admiral had known the doctor for twenty years; they had once shared a cabin as lieutenants on the Minneapolis.

"One of your chickenshit part-time sailors wants to send those poor bastards, the blind guys the Pickerel brought here from Corregidor, to the States on a cargo ship. The pasty-faced, candy-ass sonofabitch told me with a straight face there's a war on and everyone has to make sacrifices."

"I gather you are referring to my personnel shipping officer?" the admiral asked, dryly.

"I think his name is Young," Paweley said. "Tall, thin sonofabitch. Came in the Navy the day before yesterday, and thinks he's Bull Halsey, Junior."

"I'll take care of it, Charley," the admiral said. "How many of them are there?"

"Ten."

"I'll take care of it, Charley," the admiral repeated. "Now you calm down."

"Sorry to bother you with this, Tom. I know you're busy-"

"Never too busy for something like this," the admiral said.

The next afternoon, the departure of the regularly scheduled courier flight to the United States was delayed for almost an hour. Already loaded and in the water, the Martin PBM-1 was ordered back to the seaplane ramp, where its seven passengers and six hundred pounds of priority cargo were offloaded.

Nine blind then were loaded aboard under the supervision of a Marine captain. All of the seven passengers removed from their seats were senior in grade to the captain, and all had urgent business in the United States, and protest was made to the personnel shipment officer.

It was to no avail. The personnel shipment officer, the previous afternoon, had had a brief chat with the Chief of Staff to the Commander in Chief, Pacific Fleet. No one had ever talked to him like that before in his life.

(Three)

USMC Recruit Training Depot Parris Island, South Carolina 0845 Hours, 19 January 1942

The motor transport officer, the officer charged with operating the fleet of trucks and automobiles for the recruit depot, was First Lieutenant Vincent S. Osadchy. A lithe, deeply tanned twenty-eight-year-old, he was a mustang with eleven years in the Corps. He had been an officer three months, and the motor transport officer nine days. The previous transport officer, a major, as the TOE (Table of Organization Equipment) called for, had been transferred. He knew what he was doing. Osadchy, who didn't, had been given the job until such time as an officer of suitable grade and experience could be found.

Lieutenant Osadchy drove himself in a jeep from the motor pool to the brick headquarters building, not sure of his best plan of attack. Should he make a display of anger? Or should he get down on his knees before the personnel officer and weep?

The personnel officer was a major, a portly, natty man completely filling his stiffly starched khaki shirt. He wasn't bulging out of it, nor really straining the buttons; but, Osadchy thought, there would not be room inside the shirt for the major and, say, a hand scratching an itch.

"Hello, Vince," the major said, smiling. "Can I offer you some coffee?"

"Yes, sir," Osadchy said. "Thank you. And if you have one, how about a weeping towel?"

The major chuckled. He poured coffee from a thermos into a china cup and handed it to Osadchy.

"I thought maybe you'd drop by," he said.

"Can I deliver a lecture on what it takes to operate a motor pool?"

"By all means," the major said.

"Aside from vehicles," Osadchy said, pronouncing the word "vee-hic-els," "and tools and POL [petrol, oil and lubricants], it requires five or six good noncoms, corporals, or sergeants who know the difference between a spark plug and a transmission, and at least one, but preferably two or three, officers who know at least half as much as the noncoms."

"That sounds reasonable," the major said, smiling warmly at him.

"A month ago, our motor pool had both," Osadchy went on. "And then the Corps transferred out all-not some, all- the non-coms who could find their ass with both hands without a map."

"Very colorful," the major said, chuckling.

"And then the Corps, in its wisdom, sent us one sergeant who had previously seen a truck with the wheels off. Actually a pretty good man, even if he just got out of the hospital. But then-the Corps giveth and the Corps taketh away-the Corps transferred the motor transport officer out."

"The Corps is having a few little personnel problems, Vince," the major said. "It's supposed to have something to do with mere being a war on."

Osadchy had to smile, although he didn't want to. He was afraid this would happen, that the major would hear him out, be as pleasant as hell, and give him no help whatsoever.

"Which left the motor pool in the hands of an officer who knows as much about operating a motor pool as he does about deep-sea fishing. And of course the one sergeant who does know what he's doing."

"And now the Corps says promote the sergeant to gunnery sergeant and transfer him, right? Is that the source of your unhappiness, Vince?"

"Yes, sir," Osadchy said. "Sir, don't misunderstand me. Sergeant Zimmerman is a good man. I'd like to see him as a staff sergeant, or a technical sergeant. But gunny? I was a gunny. Zimmerman is not the gunny type."

"In other words, if you could have your way, Zimmerman would be promoted, but not to gunnery sergeant, and kept here?"

"Yes, sir."

"I know, Vince," the major said, "that you really believe that what I do here all day is think up ways to torment people like you-"

"No, sir," Osadchy protested.

"So, you will doubtless be surprised to hear that when the TWX"-a message transmitted by teletype-"came down, and I reviewed both your situation and Sergeant Zimmerman's record jacket, I came to the same conclusion. I TWX-ed back the day before yesterday, asking for reconsideration of the transfer. I said Zimmerman is critical here."

"And?" Osadchy asked.

"And when there was no reply, I got the Old Man's permission to call up and ask."

"And?" Osadchy asked.

"Pay attention, Lieutenant," the major said. "See for yourself how field-grade officers at the upper echelons of command are willing to grovel before the feet of their betters for the good of the command."

He picked up his telephone.

"Sergeant Asher," he said, "get a control number and then put in a call for me to Enlisted Assignment, G-One, Headquarters, Marine Corps. I want to speak to the officer in charge."

He put the telephone back in its cradle.

"Sometimes, Vince," he said, "it works. And sometimes it doesn't. I haven't called lately. Maybe we'll get lucky."

It took a minute or two to put the call through. The conversation itself took just over a minute.

"I understand, sir. Thank you very much," the major said, then hung up and turned to Lieutenant Osadchy.

"This time we weren't lucky," he said. "Both the decision to make Zimmerman a gunnery sergeant and to transfer him came from 'higher authority.' Since he carefully avoided saying what higher authority, I'm pretty sure he meant Intelligence. That make any sense to you?"

"No, sir," Lieutenant Osadchy said. "Zimmerman… Zimmerman's not an intelligence type. He's just a good China Marine motor sergeant."

"Well, that's it, Vince," the major said, "There's nothing else I can do. I'm sorry."

"Thanks for the try, sir."

The major called in his clerk and told him to cut orders promoting Sergeant Zimmerman to gunnery sergeant with date of rank 31 December 1941, and then to cut orders transferring Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman to the 2nd Separate Battalion, USMC, at Quantico, Virginia; effective immediately.

(Four)

San Diego, California

0830 Hours, 19 January 1942

The Martin PBM-1 flying boat made its approach to San Diego harbor straight in from the Pacific Ocean. Her twin sixteen-hundred-horsepower Wright R-2600-6 engines had been droning steadily for nearly eighteen hours. It was three thousand miles from Pearl to Diego, a long way in an airplane that cruised at 170 knots.

When she was down to two thousand feet, and her speed retarded, her pilot ordered "floats down," and the copilot operated the lever that caused wing-tip floats to be lowered from the high, gull-shaped wings.

"Navy Four Two Four," the tower called, "be on the lookout for one or more small civilian vessels east end landing area."

"Roger," the copilot said. "We have them in sight. Four Two Four on final."

The Martin came in low and slow, touched down in a massive splash, bounced airborne, and then touched down again in an even larger splash and stayed down.

"Four Two Four down at three-one past the hour," the copilot reported.

"Four Two Four, steer zero-thirty degrees, a follow-me boat will meet you and direct you to the seaplane ramp."

"Roger."

A gray Navy staff car and two ambulances, one a glistening Packard with chrome-plated flashing lights and siren on the roof, and the other a Dodge 3/4-ton, painted olive drab and with large red crosses painted on the sides and roof, waited for the PBM to taxi across the bay to the seaplane ramp.

The PBM got as close to the seaplane ramp as her pilot intended to take her under her own power. He cut the engines. A sailor walked down the ramp into the water until it was chest high. He reached over his head and hooked a cable to a ring in the nose of the PBM. An aircraft tractor at the end of the ramp pulled the PBM out of the water by the cable far enough up the ramp so that it could back up to the PBM and hook up a rigid tow bar. Then it pulled it into the parking area.

The doors of the ambulances opened, and doctors and corpsmen went to the hatch on the side of the flying boat's fuselage. A doctor and two corpsmen entered the fuselage. And then Captain Ed Banning climbed out.

A technical sergeant, a stocky man in his thirties, got out of the staff car and walked to him, saluted, and asked, "Captain Banning?"

Banning returned the salute.

"I'll go with the then in the ambulances," Banning said.

The technical sergeant handed him a sheet of teletype paper.