Call to Arms

Chapter Seventeen

(One)

The New York Public Library

1215 Hours, 25 March 1942

Carolyn Spencer Howell was thirty-two years old. She was tall, chic, and much better dressed than most of the other librarians in the Central Reading Room of the New York Public Library on Forty-second Street, and she wore her black hair parted in the middle, and long enough to reach her shoulder blades. She had begun-not without feeling a little foolish and wondering what her real motives were-what she thought of as her special "research project" four days before.

Although one saw more and more then in uniform on the streets these days, one did not encounter many in the library, except in the lobby waiting out the rain. But there was one who was spending-considerable time in the Central Reading Room, and Carolyn Spencer Howell found him very interesting. She had no way of knowing, of course, how long he had been coming into the Central Reading Room before she noticed him; but since she had noticed him ten days earlier, he had come in every day.

He was a Marine, and an officer. She knew that much about the military services. Marines wore a fouled anchor superimposed on a representation of the world as their branch-of-service insignia. Officers wore pins representing their rank on the epaulets of their tunics and overcoats, and in the case of this man, on his collar points. Carolyn had to go to the Britannica to find out that a golden oak leaf was the insignia of a major.

From the time she had first noticed him, the Marine major had followed the same schedule. He arrived a few minutes after nine in the morning and went to the periodicals, where he read that day's New York Tunes, and then the most recent copies available of the Baltimore Sun and the San Diego Union Leader. He could have just been killing time, which of itself would be interesting, but he seemed to be looking for something particular in the newspapers.

When he came into the library every day, the Marine major had with him an obviously new leather briefcase, in which he carried two large green fabric-bound looseleaf notebooks, a supply of pencils, two fountain pens, cigarettes, and a Zippo lighter and a can of lighter fluid. She had once watched while he refilled his lighter. It was unusual to carry a supply of lighter fluid around with you, but it seemed to make sense if you thought about it.

He would make notes in one of the two notebooks, writing in pencil in one of them and in ink in the other. When he had finished reading the newspapers, he would come to the counter-sometimes to Carolyn Spencer Howell, and sometimes to one of the other girls-and fill out the little chits necessary to call up material from the stacks.

The first words he ever said to Carolyn Spencer Howell were "Would it be possible to get the New York Times from November fifteenth, nineteen forty-one, through, say, December thirty-first?"

"Of course," she said, "but it would make quite an armful. How about four days at a time? Starting with November fifteenth, nineteen forty-one?"

"That would be fine," the major said. "Thank you very much."

He had a nice, deep, masculine voice, she thought, and spoke with a regional accent that told her only that he was not a New Yorker. And there was something a little unhealthy about him, she thought. He didn't look quite as robust and outdoorsy as she expected a Marine major to look.

On the plus side, he had nice, warm, experienced eyes.

The second time he spoke to her, the major asked if by any chance the library had copies of the Shanghai Post.

"Well, yes, of course," she said. "Up to when the war started, of course."

"Could I have them from November first, nineteen forty-one… up to the last?"

"Certainly."

While he was reading the Shanghai Post, Carolyn noticed something strange. The major was just sort of staring off into space. There was a strange, profoundly sad look on his face. And in his eyes.

Some of the other requests he made of Carolyn Spencer Howell were of a military or politico-military nature. For instance, she got for him the text of the Geneva Conventions on Warfare, and several volumes on stateless persons. He was especially interested in Nansen passports. (In 1920, the League of Nations authorized an identity/travel document to be issued to displaced persons, in particular Russians who did not wish to return to what had become the Soviet Union. It came to be called the "Nansen passport" after Fridtjof Nansen, League of Nations High Commissioner for Refugee Affairs.)

Most of his requests concerned the Japanese, which was understandable, but what in the world was a major of Marines doing spending all day, every day, in the public library? Didn't the military services have more information on the enemy than a public library could provide?

An even more disturbing thought came to Carolyn Spencer Howell. Was he really a Marine officer? Or some character who had simply elected to put on a service uniform? This was New York City, and anything was possible in New York, even in the main reading room of the public library. This unpleasant thought was fertilized when Carolyn realized that the major's uniforms were brand new. There was even a little tag that he had apparently missed stitched below one of the pockets on one of his blouses.

Yet he wore decorations, or at least the little colored ribbons that represented decorations, on the breast of his uniform. And for some reason she came to believe that these were the real thing-which made him the real thing. Finding out what they represented became important to Carolyn. She thought of it as her "research project."

He had four ribbons. And when he came to the counter, she looked at them carefully and later made notes describing their colors. She checked her notes for accuracy when she had reason to walk through the reading room.

One had a narrow white stripe at each end, then two broader red stripes, and a medium-sized blue stripe in the middle. Next to it was one that was all purple, except for narrow white stripes at each end. And there was a little gold pin on this one, an oak leaf maybe. Another one was all yellow, with two narrow red-white-and-blue bands through it. And there was another yellow one, this one with two white-red-white bands and a blue-white-red band. This one had a star on it.

Carolyn was, after all, a librarian; she was trained to do research. Thus it wasn't hard to find out what the ribbons represented. The one that sat on top of the other three was the Bronze Star Medal, awarded for valor in action. The purple one was the Purple Heart, awarded for wounds received in action. The little pin (officially, according to United States Navy Medals and Decorations, Navy Department, Washington D.C., January 1942, 21 pp., unbound, an oak leaf cluster) signified the second award. Or, in other words, it said he had been wounded twice. The mostly yellow one with the star on it was awarded for service in the Asiatic-Pacific Theater of Operations; the star meant participation in a campaign. The other mostly yellow one was the American Defense Medal, whatever that meant.

That meant that the somewhat pale and hollow-eyed major was a bona fide hero. Either that or that he was a psychotic subway motorman who was enduring his forced retirement by vicariously experiencing the war-dressing up in a Marine officer's uniform and spending his days reading about the war in the public library.

Today, the Marine officer, with an armload of books, came directly to Carolyn Spencer Howell's position behind the counter.

"I wonder if you could just keep these handy?" he asked, "while I go have my lunch."

"Certainly," Carolyn said, and then she blurted, "I see you've seen service in the Pacific."

For the first time he looked at her, really looked at her as an individual, rather than as part of the furnishings.

"I was in the Pacific," he said, and then, "I'm surprised you know the ribbons. Few civilians do."

"I know them," Carolyn heard herself plunge on. "And you've been wounded twice. According to the ribbons."

"Correct," he said. "You have just won the cement bicycle. Would you care to try for an all-expense-paid trip to Coney Island?"

And then his smile vanished. He looked at her intently, then shook his head and started to laugh.

"What were you about to do?" he asked. "Call the military police?"

She felt like a fool, but she was swept along with the insanity.

"I was just a little curious how you could have served in the Pacific and be back already," she said.

"Would you believe a submarine?" he asked, chuckling. He reached in his pocket and took his identity card from his wallet and handed it to her.

It had a photograph of him on it, and his name: BANNING, EDWARD J. MAJOR USMC.

"Now will you guard my books for me while I have lunch?" he asked.

"I'm sorry," Carolyn Spencer Howell said, flushing. Then she lowered her head and spoke very softly.

There was no reply, and when she looked up, he was gone.

Carolyn Spencer Howell shook her head.

"Oh, damn!" she said so loudly that heads turned.

Fifteen minutes later, she walked into a luncheonette on East Forty-first Street and headed for an empty stool. A buxom Italian woman with her hair piled high on her head beat her to it, and Carolyn turned in frustration and found herself looking directly at Major Edward J. Banning, USMC, who was seated at a small table against the wall.

"You wouldn't be following me, would you?" he asked.

Carolyn flushed, and started to flee.

Banning stood up quickly and caught her arm.

"Now, I'm sorry," he said. "Please sit down. I'm about finished anyway."

She sat down.

"I have made an utter fool of myself," she said. "But I wasn't really following you. I often come here for lunch."

"I know," Banning said. "I've seen you. I hoped maybe you'd come here for lunch today."

She looked at him.

"I've been thinking," he said. "Under the circumstances, I would have thought I was suspicious, too."

"Would you settle for 'curious'?" Carolyn asked.

"You were suspicious," he said. "Why should that embarrass you?"

A waitress appeared, saving her from having to frame a reply. She ordered a sandwich and coffee, and the waitress turned to Banning.

"If the lady doesn't mind me sharing her table, I'll have some more coffee," he said.

"Please," Carolyn said quickly.

She looked at him. Their eyes met.

"You remember me asking for stuff on Nansen passports?" Banning asked. She nodded. "The reason I wanted to find out as much as I can is that my wife, whom I left behind in Shanghai, is traveling on a Nansen."

"I see," she said.

"I wanted that out in front," Banning said.

"Yes," Carolyn Spencer Howell said. And then she said, "I was married for fifteen years. My husband turned me in on a younger model. It cost him a good deal of money. I had to find a way to pass the time, so I went back to work in the library."

He nodded.

We both know, she thought. And he knew before I did. 1 wonder why that doesn't embarrass me? And what happens now?

They walked back to the library together. Just before she was to go off shift, he walked to the counter and asked her how she would respond to an invitation to have a drink before he got on the subway to go back to Brooklyn. She said she would meet him for a drink in the Biltmore Hotel. She would meet him under the clock… he couldn't miss the clock.

And so after work they had a drink, and then another. When the waiter appeared again, she said that she didn't want another just now. Then he asked her if she was free for dinner, and she told him she was, but she would have to stop by her apartment for a moment.

In the elevator, she looked at him.

"I can't remember one thing we talked about in the Biltmore," she said.

"We were just making noise," he said.

"I don't routinely do this sort of thing," Carolyn Spencer Howell said softly, as they moved closer together.

"I know," he said.

Afterward, she went to the Chinese restaurant on Third Avenue, and returned with two large bags full of small, white cardboard containers that Ed Banning said looked like they held goldfish.

Then she took off her clothes again, and they ate their dinner where she had left him, naked, in the bed.

(Two)

Bachelor Officers' Quarters

U.S. Navy Hospital

Brooklyn, New York

0930 Hours, 26 March 1942

The spartan impersonality of the bachelor officers' quarters struck Major Edward J. Banning the moment he pushed open the plate-glass door and walked into the lobby. It was in some ways like a small hotel.

There was a reception desk, usually manned by a petty officer third. But he wasn't there. And the lobby and the two corridors that ran off it were deserted.

The lobby held a chrome-and-plastic two-seater couch; a chrome-and-plastic coffee table in front of the couch; and two chrome-and-plastic chairs on the other side of the coffee table. There was a simple glass ashtray on the coffee table, and nothing else.

The floor was polished linoleum, bearing the geometric scars of a fresh waxing. There were no rugs. Two photographs were hanging on the walls, one of the Battleship Arizona, the other of a for-once-not-grinning-brightly Franklin Delano Roosevelt. There was a cork bulletin board, onto which had been thumbtacked an array of mimeographed notices for the inhabitants.

A concrete stairway led to the upper floors. Its railings were steel pipe, and its stair-tread edges were reinforced with steel.

Banning went to the desk and checked for messages by leaning over the counter for a look at the row of mailboxes where a message would be kept. There was no message, no letter. This was not surprising, for he expected none.

Banning went up the concrete stairs to the second floor. It was identical to the first, except there was no receptionist's desk. That space was occupied by a couch-and-chairs-and-table ensemble identical to the one in the lobby, which left the center of the second floor foyer empty. There was an identical photograph of President Roosevelt hanging on the wall, next to a photograph of two now-long-obsolete Navy biplane fighters in the clouds.

Halfway down the right corridor, his back to Banning, the petty officer who usually could be found at the reception desk was slowly swinging a large electric floor polisher across the linoleum. Banning walked down the left corridor to his room.

The reason he noticed the spartan simplicity of the BOQ, he realized, was that forty-five minutes earlier, he had walked down a carpeted corridor illuminated by crystal chandeliers to an elevator paneled in what for some strange reason he had recognized as fumed oak, and then across carpets laid on a marble floor past genuine antiques to a gleaming brass-and-glass revolving door spun by a doorman in what looked to be the uniform of an admiral in the Imperial Russian Navy.

"Good morning, Mrs. Howell," the doorman had politely greeted Carolyn. "It's a little nippy. Shall I call a cab?"

"No, thank you," Carolyn had said. "I'll walk."

The doorman's face had been expressionless. Or at least his eyebrows had not risen when he recognized Mrs. Carolyn Howell coming out of the building with a Marine. Nevertheless, Carolyn's face had colored, and Banning had seen that she was embarrassed.

She had quickly recovered, however, and almost defiantly took his arm before they walked down the street.

The sex had been precisely what the doctor had ordered. From me moment he had kissed her in the elevator on the way up, there had been no false modesty, no pushing him away, no questions about what kind of a woman did he think she was. She wanted him-or at least a man-just about as bad as he had wanted her-or at least a woman.

She had told him later, and he had believed her, that it had been the first time for her since the trouble with her husband.

"It is like riding a bicycle, isn't it?" she had asked, with a delightfully naughty-and pleased-smile as she forked a shrimp from one of the little cardboard Chinese take-out containers. "You don't forget how. Except that I feel, with you, like you've just won the Tour de France."

And it had been, aside from the sex, a very interesting (or perverse?) experience to lie naked in Carolyn's bed and tell her about Milla, while she, with genuine sympathy in her eyes, was kneeling naked beside him. To think that Milla would like Carolyn, and Carolyn would like Milla. And to wonder if he was really a sonofabitch for feeling that somehow Milla, if she knew about Carolyn, would not be all that hurt, or pissed off. That she might even be happy for him.

He reached his room, found the key, and pushed the gray metal door open.

The BOQ room was furnished with a bed; a straight-backed chair, a chest of drawers; a chrome-and-plastic armchair, a small wooden desk; and a framed photograph of a broadly smiling Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

Lieutenant Colonel F. L. Rickabee, USMC, in uniform, was sitting in the straight-backed chair, his feet on the bed, reading the New York Tunes. He had removed his uniform blouse, revealing that he used suspenders to hold up his trousers. There were other straps around his torso, which only after a moment Banning recognized as the kind that belonged to a shoulder holster.

"Ah, Banning," Rickabee said, "there you are. All things come to him who waits."

"Good morning, sir."

"I feel constrained to tell you that I caught the four A.M. milk train from Sodom on the Potomac in the naive belief that by so doing I could catch you before you went out."

"If you had called, sir…" Banning said.

Rickabee swung his feet off the bed, refolded the newspaper carefully, and tossed it on the bed. When he faced Banning, Banning saw the butt of what he thought was probably a Smith Wesson Chief's Special in the shoulder holster.

"No problem," Rickabee said. "It gave me the chance to talk with Captain Toland about you, which was also on my agenda. And it also gave me my very first chance to play secret agent."

"Sir?"

"I asked the white hat on duty downstairs to let me into your room. He told me it was absolutely against regulations." He bent over the bed, took what looked like a wallet from his blouse, and tossed it to Banning. "So I got to show him that. He was awed."

Banning caught it and opened it. Inside was a gold badge and a sealed-in-plastic identification card. The card, which carried the seal of the Navy Department, held a photograph of Rickabee, and identified him as a special agent of the Secretary of the Navy, all questions about whom were to be referred to the Director of Naval Intelligence.

Banning looked at Rickabee.

"I think I could have ordered him to set the building afire," Rickabee said. "It had an amazing effect on him. You could almost hear the trumpets." He held his hand out for Banning to return the identification.

Banning chuckled and tossed the small folder back to him.

"Very impressive, sir," he said.

"In the wrong hands, a card like that could be a dangerous thing," Rickabee said.

"Yes, sir, I can see that," Banning said.

A leather folder came flying across the room. Banning just managed to catch it.

"That's yours," Rickabee said. "You're a field-grade officer now, so I suppose it won't be necessary to tell you to be careful with it."

Close to astonishment, Banning opened the folder. It held the same badge and card, except that his photograph peered at him from it.

"You also get a pistol," Rickabee said, pointing to a large, apparently full, leather briefcase. "Since I didn't think you'd have to repel boarders between here and San Diego, I took the liberty of getting you a little Smith Wesson like mine."

A dozen questions popped into Banning's mind.

"Sir- " he began.

"Let me talk first, Ed," Lieutenant Colonel Rickabee interrupted him. "It will probably save time."

"Yes, sir," Banning said.

"General Forrest sent me here," Rickabee said. "My first priority was to settle to my own satisfaction the question of your mental stability. Dr. Toland's diagnosis-that there is nothing wrong with you that a good piece of ass wouldn't cure-confirmed my own. Toland told me that the way you handled yourself when you thought you were blind was as tough a test of your stability as he could think of."

Banning waited for Rickabee to go on.

"So you are now officially certified as an officer who, because of the extraordinary faith placed in his ability and trustworthiness by both the Assistant Chief of Staff for Intelligence of the Marine Corps, and the Commandant, can be entrusted with the highest-level secrets of the Corps, and with some extraordinary authority," Rickabee said.

"Jesus Christ," Banning said. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Just what I said," Rickabee said. "Secret one is that General Forrest at this time yesterday morning was cleaning out his desk and wondering how he was going to tell his wife that he was being retired from the Corps in disgrace-a disgrace that was no less shameful because the reasons were secret."

"Forrest? Christ, he's a good man. What the hell-"

"At two yesterday afternoon, the Commandant summoned General Forrest to his office and told him that be had reconsidered; that the needs of the Corps right now-there being no one available with his qualifications and experience to replace him-were such that he would not be retired."

"Colonel," Banning said, "I don't have any idea-"

"Major General Paul H. Lesterby was retired from the Corps as of oh-oh-oh-one hours this morning," Rickabee went on. "Colonel Thomas C. Wesley-"

"Used to be with Fleet Marine Force Atlantic?" Banning interrupted.

Rickabee nodded. "And more recently, he was Plans and Projects in the Commandant's office. Wesley is now on a train" for California, where he will function as special assistant to the commanding officer of the supply depot there until the Commandant makes up his mind whether he will be retired, or court-martialed. The Commandant was honest enough to tell Wesley that he would prefer to court-martial him, and the only thing that was stopping him was the good of the Corps."

"What the hell did he do?"

"You know Evans Carlson, I understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"From this point, Ed, as you will see, we are getting into an even more sensitive area," Rickabee said, and went into his briefcase. First he took out a small revolver in a shoulder holster and laid it on the bed. Then he handed Banning a thick stack of papers. "These documents were given to the Commandant the day before yesterday. I can't let them out of my hands. You'll have to read them now. When I get back to Washington, the whole file will be burned, and I am to personally report to the Commandant that it has been burned."

The first document in the stack was stamped SECRET. It was entitled, "Report of the Activities of Evans Carlson, late Major, USMC, during the period April 1939-April 1941."

Halfway down the stack was Captain James Roosevelt's letter to the Major General Commandant of the Marine Corps. At the bottom of the stack, also stamped SECRET, were transcripts of telephone conversations between Lieutenant Colonel Rickabee or Captain Edward Sessions and Second Lieutenant K. J. McCoy.

"I wondered what McCoy was doing at Elliott," Banning said when he had finished reading everything and was tapping the stack on his chest of drawers to get it in order.

"Any other questions?" Rickabee asked.

"You want an honest response to that?" Banning asked.

"Please," Rickabee said.

"This is a despicable thing to do to Carlson," Banning said.

"Yes, it was," Rickabee said. "And that was one of the more printable terms used by the Commandant to describe it."

"Was?"

"Was," Rickabee confirmed. "Just as soon as the Commandant saw it, it was over. Except for cleaning up the mess, of course."

"How did it happen?" Banning asked. "How did it get started in the first place?"

"The goddamned Palace Guard got carried away with its own importance," Rickabee said. "Wesley took it upon himself to save the Corps from Carlson. He enlisted General Lesterby in that noble cause, and then the two of them went to Forrest with their little idea. When Forrest balked, they led him to believe they were acting for the Commandant."

"Jesus Christ!"

"And that goddamned Wesley suckered me, too," Rickabee said. "There was no question in my mind that he was working for the Commandant. Otherwise-"

"It's hard to believe," Banning said. But when he heard what he had said, he offered a quick clarification. "I mean, a colonel and a major general. Jesus Christ!"

"I think the real reason the Commandant's mad at Forrest is that Forrest was apparently willing to believe the Commandant was capable of something like that. Fortunately, I'm only a lieutenant colonel, and lieutenant colonels are supposed to be stupid. The Commandant treated me with condescending contempt, and spelled out very slowly and carefully what he wants me to do about cleaning up the mess."

"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.