Call to Arms

Chapter One

(One)

Wake Island

1200 Hours, 18 December 1941

Ensign E. H. Murphy, USN, had planned the flight of his Consolidated Aircraft PBYS Catalina to Wake Island with great care. It wasn't a question only of finding the tiny atoll, which of course required great navigational skill, but of reaching Wake when there was the least chance of being intercepted by Japanese aircraft.

His Catalina was a seaplane (though the PBY5-A, fitted with retractable gear, was an amphibian) designed for long-range reconnaissance. Its most efficient cruising speed was about 160 MPH, so it had little chance of running away from an attacker. The high-winged, twin-engine Catalina had three gun ports, one on each side of the fuselage mounting a single.50-caliber machine gun, and one in the nose with a.30-caliber machine gun.

If Ensign Murphy's Catalina encountered one of the Japanese bombers that had been attacking Wake on an almost daily basis, all the Japanese would have to do was slow down to his speed, and, far out of range of his.50-caliber machine guns, shoot him down at his leisure with his 20-mm machine cannon.

It was a five-hour flight from Guam. Murphy took off at first light in the hope that he could be at Wake before the Japanese began their "scheduled" bombing attack.

Hitting Wake on the nose was skill; finding it covered with a morning haze was good luck. He landed in the lagoon and taxied to the Pan American area. Commander Cunningham's requisition of Pan American's Philippine Clipper had been almost immediately overridden by Pacific Fleet, which had plans for the use of the aircraft itself, and it had flown on to Guam, carrying hastily patched Japanese bullet holes in its fuselage.

Marine Fighter Squadron VMF-211 was down to two Wildcats, although Major Putnam told Ensign Murphy that he hoped to get a third Wildcat back in the air within hours with parts scavenged from wrecked airplanes.

Murphy carried with him official mail for Commander Cunningham and Major Devereux, including the last known position of the Saratoga relief force, but the Navy had not risked one of its precious few Catalinas solely to deliver messages. Many Catalinas had been destroyed on December 7, and what planes were left were in almost constant use.

But there was on Wake one of the Marine Corps' few highly skilled communications officers, Major Walter L. J. Bayler, USMC, who had previously been assigned to the USS Wright and had come to Wake with Commander Cunningham. Bayler's services were desperately needed on Midway Island and the decision had been made to send for him, even at the great risk of losing him, and the Catalina carrying him, in the attempt.

Bayler spent the afternoon of December 20 collecting official documents (including casualty lists) from Cunningham and Devereux, and then personal messages from the Marines of the garrison, for delivery, when it could be arranged, to their families.

The next morning, Ensign Murphy lifted the Catalina from the Wake lagoon and pointed the nose toward Pearl Harbor, eight hours and 1,225 miles distant. The Catalina was the last American aircraft to visit Wake Island until the war was over.

At Pearl Harbor, mechanics swarmed over the Catalina to ready it for another flight. Three hours after it landed, it was airborne again with another flight crew, this time bound for the Philippines, where the Japanese were approaching Manila, and demolition at the Cavite U.S. Navy Base had already begun.

The Catalina remained in the Philippines only long enough to drop off its passengers-a Navy petty officer who was a Japanese linguist, and an Army Ordnance Corps major, a demolitions expert-and its mail bags. It loaded aboard the outgoing cargo, mail bags, and its Pearl Harbor-bound passengers while it was taking on fuel. These were a U.S. Foreign Service officer, an Army colonel of Artillery, and a Marine Corps second lieutenant.

Manila Bay was choppy, and the Catalina smashed heavily into unyielding water several times before the pilot was finally able to get it into the air. When they'd reached cruising altitude, he went back into the fuselage to see if any damage had been done to the aircraft-in particular to the floats-and to the passengers. He found the Army colonel and the Foreign Service officer doing what they could to bandage the Marine Corps second lieutenant.

Although it had not been visible under the lieutenant's uniform when he boarded the Catalina, his body was bandaged. The bone-jarring bounces of the Catalina as it had taken off had ripped loose four or five of the two dozen or so stitches holding an eight-inch gash in the young Marine officer's side together. There was some bleeding, and he was obviously in pain, but he refused, rather abruptly, the pilot's offer of a syringe of morphine.

They rigged a sort of bed for him out of life preservers and blankets, but that was all that could be done for him until the seaplane reached Pearl Harbor.

An hour out of Pearl, the young Marine went forward to the cockpit. The pilot was surprised to see him.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

The young Marine nodded.

"In a couple of minutes, I'll radio ahead, and they'll have medics meet us," the pilot said.

"I thought maybe you'd do that," the young Marine said. "That's why I came up here. Don't."

"Why not?"

"Because, unless I get put in a hospital, my orders will carry me to Washington," he said. "I can get myself rebandaged there."

"You may not make it to Washington, in your shape."

"Then in San Francisco, or Diego, wherever they land me. Do me a favor, just don't say anything."

"Suit yourself," the pilot said, after a moment's thought.

"Thank you," the young Marine officer said, and he went back into the fuselage.

Curious, the pilot took his flight manifest out and looked at it. It gave no identification beyond, "McCoy, Kenneth J. 2nd Lt USMCR," but then the pilot noticed that Second Lieutenant McCoy was listed first on the manifest. Passengers were listed in order of their travel priority, which meant that McCoy had a higher priority than even the Foreign Service big shot.

The pilot was curious about that, and said so to the copilot.

"He's a courier," he said. "Didn't you see the briefcase?"

The pilot shook his head. "No."

"He had it when he came on board, chained-actually handcuffed-to his wrist."

"I didn't notice," the pilot said.

"And when he took off his jacket, he had a.45 stuck in his belt, and a knife strapped to his arm."

"I wonder what's in the briefcase?" the pilot said.

"I don't know," the copilot replied, adding, "but I don't think I'd want to try to take it away from him."

(Two)

The Willard Hotel

Washington, D.C.

1215 Hours, 26 December 1941

"Peacock Alley," which ran through the Willard Hotel from Fourteenth Street to Pennsylvania Avenue, was where, since before the Civil War, the elegant ladies of the nation's capital (and, some said, the more expensive courtesans) and their elegant gentlemen had strutted… like peacocks.

It was ornately decorated, still with Victorian elegance, and along the alley were small alcoves, furnished with tables and chairs where conversations could be held in private. The cynics said that more politicians had been bought and sold in the alcoves of Peacock Alley than in all the smoke-filled rooms in the United States combined.

Thomas C. Wesley, a tall, fifty-year-old, portly, ruddy-faced full colonel of Marines, got out of a 1941 Chevrolet staff car on Pennsylvania Avenue and entered the building. He removed his overcoat and hat and put them in care of the cloakroom. He tugged at the skirt of his blouse and checked the position of his Sam Browne leather belt, and then walked slowly down Peacock Alley all the way to the stairs leading down into the lobby, obviously looking for someone. When he didn't find him, he stationed himself halfway along the corridor and waited.

At just about the same time, a tall, thin, somehow unhealthy-looking man entered the Willard from Fourteenth Street. He was wearing a gray snap-brim felt hat, which he removed (exposing his balding head) as he came through the revolving door. He headed across the old and battered, but still elegant, lobby toward Peacock Alley shrugging awkwardly out of his gray topcoat. By the time he saw Colonel Wesley, he had it draped none too neatly over his left arm.

Colonel Wesley nodded stiffly, perhaps even disapprovingly, when he saw the tall, thin, unhealthy-looking man in the badly fitting blue pinstripe suit.

"Rickabee," he said.

"Colonel," Rickabee said, then looked around Peacock Alley until he found an empty table and two chairs in one of the alcoves and made a gesture toward it. Lieutenant Colonel F. L. Rickabee was carried on the Table of Organization of Headquarters, USMC, as "special assistant to the Public Affairs Officer," although his real duties had nothing to do with public relations.

Colonel Wesley marched to the alcove and sat down, leaving to Rickabee the other chair, which faced the wall. Rickabee moved the chair so that he, too, could look out into Peacock Alley.

"It's been some time, Rickabee, hasn't it?" Colonel Wesley said, and then, before Rickabee had a chance to reply, said what was actually on his mind: "Are you people exempt from the uniform requirements?"

"It's left to General Forrest's discretion, sir, who wears the uniform and who doesn't. The general feels I'm more effective in mufti."

Brigadier General Horace W. T. Forrest, USMC, was Assistant Chief of Staff, Intelligence, USMC.

"General Forrest explained the situation to you?" Colonel Wesley asked.

"He said that you and General Lesterby had been handed a very delicate problem by the Major General Commandant, and that I was to do what I could to help. How can we help you, sir?"

"He thought you might be interested in this," Colonel Wesley said, taking an envelope from his lower blouse pocket and handing it to Rickabee.

There was no question in Lieutenant Colonel Rickabee's mind who "He" was. Colonel Thomas C. Wesley was one of a handful of officers at the absolute upper echelon of the Marine Corps. They were somewhat derisively known as "the Palace Guard," because of their reputation for doing the bidding of, and protecting from all enemies, foreign and domestic, the Commandant of the U.S. Marine Corps.

"Captain James Roosevelt has been good enough to offer some suggestions on how he believes the Marine Corps should organize its own version of a Communist Route Army," Colonel Wesley said dryly.

"I thought he was working for Colonel Wild Bill Donovan," Rickabee said.

"Not any longer," Wesley said. "He now works for Lieutenant Colonel Evans Carlson."

Rickabee took from the envelope a thin sheath of carbon sheets. They were the fifth or sixth carbon, he concluded. They were just barely readable.

A waiter appeared.

"Nothing for me, thank you," Colonel Wesley said.

"I'll have a Jack Daniel's," Lieutenant Colonel Rickabee said. "No ice, and water on the side."

He sensed Colonel Wesley's disapproval.

"The way I handle drinking on duty, Colonel," Rickabee said, "is that for the first twenty-four consecutive hours I have the duty, I don't touch alcohol. After that…"

"Do what you like, Rickabee," Colonel Wesley said.

Rickabee returned to reading, very carefully, the sheath of carbon copies Wesley had given him. Finally, he finished and looked at Wesley.

"Very interesting," he said. "Where did you get this?"

"I'm not at liberty to say," Wesley said.

"You think he's actually going to submit it?"

"Yes, I do."

"And apparently you don't think that General Vogel is going to call him in for a little chat and point out that it's just a touch pushy for a reserve captain to tell him, much less the Commandant, how the Corps should be run?"

"I believe the letter will be forwarded to the Commandant," Wesley said. "I'm interested in your reaction to it."

"You are, or He is? Does He know you're showing this to me?"

Colonel Wesley nodded his head, signifying, Rickabee decided, that Wesley was running an errand.

"I would really like to know where you got this, where He got it," Rickabee said.

"I can assure you, Colonel," Wesley said, "that it is authentic."

"I'd still like to know how it came into His hands," Rickabee insisted. "That could be very important."

"The document was typed, from a handwritten draft, by a clerk, a corporal, who thought the sergeant major should see it. He made six, instead of five carbons. The sergeant major sent it on to… sent it on here."

"To you or to Him?" Rickabee asked.

"To Him," Wesley said.

The waiter, an elderly black man, delivered Rickabee's bourbon on a silver tray.

"I believe I will have one," Colonel Wesley said. "The same, with ice… This is obviously a very delicate situation," he continued, when the waiter had gone.

"Well, there's one way to handle it," Rickabee said. "I know several people at San Diego who would be happy to run Carlson over with a truck. Better yet, a tank."

Wesley was not amused; it showed on his face.

"Then you think that Colonel Carlson has a hand in this?" he asked.

"That seems pretty obvious," Rickabee said. "Have you read his reports, Colonel? Or his books?"

"As much as I could stomach," Colonel Wesley said.

"That 'leaders' and 'fighters' business," Lieutenant Colonel Rickabee said, "has appeared before. That's pure Carlson. So is the business about everybody being treated equally, officers, noncoms, and privates. He got all that from the Chinese Eighth Route Army… and the term 'column,' too, meaning 'battalion.' That's pure Chinese Red Army."

"Well then, let's get right to that," Wesley said. "Did he get himself infected by them when he was with them? Is he a Communist?"

Rickabee sipped at his bourbon, and then took a sip of water before replying.

"No, I don't think so," he said. "He's been investigated. When he applied to get his commission back, the FBI investigated him, and came up with nothing we didn't already know."

"You've seen the FBI reports?" Wesley asked. "Of course not," Rickabee said, dryly. "FBI reports are confidential and never shown to outsiders. What agencies requesting an investigation get is a synopsis of what the FBI thinks it found out."

He clearly meant, Wesley decided, that he had indeed seen the FBI reports on Lieutenant Colonel Evans Carlson, USMCR.

"What's your personal opinion of him?" Wesley said.

"I think he's a good Marine gone off the deep end," Rickabee said. "That he's a zealot, quite eccentric, perhaps even unbalanced. He might have gotten Roosevelt to sign this, but the Major General Commandant will know he was behind it."

Wesley grunted his agreement.

"But on the other hand," Rickabee said after taking a sip of his drink, "they said very much the same things about Jesus Christ, you will recall. 'What's happened to that nice Nazarene carpenter? Why is he attacking the established order?'"

"I don't think that's funny, Colonel," Wesley said, coldly.

"It wasn't intended to be, Colonel. There is even the parallel between Christ being able to talk to his heavenly, all-powerful father…"

What could have been a faint smile crossed Wesley's lips. "And what about Roosevelt… the son, I mean?" he asked.

"Everything I know about him is positive. He's smarter than hell, hard working, everything a good reserve officer should be. After seeing this, I would suggest that he's fallen in with evil companions… an evil companion." "You know him, personally?"

Rickabee nodded. "Not well. Great big guy. Getting bald. Has to wear glasses. Nice guy, from the little I know him. What I would like to know is why they gave Carlson his commission back."

"Isn't that obvious, Colonel?" Colonel Wesley replied, sarcastically. "He came highly recommended. He has the Navy Cross. And, as they say, 'friends in high places.'"

"A little backbone then would have kept this from happening," Rickabee said, and raised the sheets of paper.

"He made that decision," Wesley said.

"That was the big mistake," Rickabee said, undaunted.

"You say your mind, Colonel, don't you?" Colonel Wesley said, coldly.

"That's what I'm paid for," Rickabee said. "I would prefer to be at Camp Elliott myself. Believe it or not, I'm qualified to command an infantry battalion."

"Obviously, the Corps feels that what you're doing now is of greater importance," Colonel Wesley said.

"What does the Corps want me to do about this?" Rickabee asked, holding up the sheaf of paper again. "How does my run-him-over-with-a-truck suggestion sound?"

"As if you don't understand the seriousness of the problem," Wesley said. "Otherwise you wouldn't be joking."

"You seem to be very sure that I was joking," Rickabee said.

Colonel Thomas C. Wesley was furious with himself when he realized that he did not in fact know for sure that Rickabee was being flip. He met Rickabee's eyes for a long moment, and learned nothing.

"What I was hoping-" he said, finally.

"Was that I could give you proof positive," Rickabee interrupted him, "proof that He could take to at least Frank Knox, and/or to the White House, that Evans Carlson is in fact a Communist and/or certifiably out of his mind. I can't do that, Colonel. I can't even manufacture any evidence to that effect. It wouldn't stand up in the light."

"But you do see the problem," Wesley said.

"Would you like to hear how I see it?" Rickabee asked.

"Of course," Wesley said, impatiently.

"The Corps is in a no-win situation," Rickabee said. "When this document reaches His desk, He's going to have to approve it, at least on a trial basis. Carlson's Eighth Communist Route Army, also known as the Marine Commandos or Rangers or whatever, will have to be employed. That will result in one of two things: They will get wiped out on the beach of some Pacific island, and He will find Himself explaining why He approved such a nutty idea, resulting in such a terrible waste of young American life. Or, Carlson's private army will do what Carlson says it will do, which, by the way, is very likely to happen. Carlson has proved that he's a skilled, courageous officer. If Carlson succeeds-and to repeat, he damned well may-the Commandant will find himself turning the Corps into the U.S. Commandos, with at least full Colonel Carlson-and possibly General Carlson-at his side while the rules are written."

"It could mean the end of the Corps," Wesley said.

"Yes, it could," Rickabee said. "After the war, when there was no need for Commandos, or for more than a few of them, the Marine Corps could become an Army regiment. A lot of. people would like to see that happen."

"If you were charged with stopping this, Rickabee," Colonel Wesley asked, "how would you go about it?"

"Is that what this little chat is all about, Colonel? He sent you here to order me to stop it?"

"I said nothing of the kind," Wesley said quickly. "Just answer the question, please."

"I would look for proof positive that Carlson is crazy or a Communist, or both," Rickabee said. "That's the only chance I see to scuttle this."

"And, how would you do that?"

"I would put someone close to him, telling him what to look for, and to make sure he had witnesses… unimpeachable witnesses."

"A spy, you mean."

"An undercover operative," Rickabee said.

"Have you such a man available?" Wesley asked.

"Not off the top of my head," Rickabee said, then changed his mind. "I might. He's a bright young shavetail-"

Wesley interrupted him. "I don't want to know the details," he said. "Not yet."

"Then where are we?" Rickabee said.

"I want you to think this through," Wesley said. "Come up with a plan, including the name of the man you intend to employ, and a synopsis of his background. When you have that, as soon as you have it, call me."

"Yes, sir," Rickabee said. He motioned to someone standing in Peacock Alley to come to the table.

"What are you doing?" Colonel Wesley asked, confused.

A good- looking young man in a camel's hair sports coat and gray flannel trousers came to the table.

"Colonel Wesley, Lieutenant Frame," Rickabee said.

"How do you do, sir?" Lieutenant Frame asked politely.

"Lieutenant," Colonel Wesley said.

"Bill, take this to the office and have it photographed," Rickabee ordered, handing Frame the sheaf of carbon copies. "Stick around until you have the negatives, then bring this back here. I have just accepted Colonel Wesley's kind invitation to lunch, and we'll be in the dining room."

"Aye, aye, sir," Lieutenant Frame said. He looked at Colonel Wesley, said, "It was a pleasure to meet you, sir," and then walked down Peacock Alley toward Fourteenth Street.

"And what's his reason for being in mufti?" Colonel Wesley asked. He was annoyed that Rickabee had, without asking, turned the carbon of Captain James Roosevelt's proposal for Marine Commandos over to Frame to be photographed.

"He'd look a little strange following a civilian around in uniform, don't you think, Colonel?" Rickabee replied, smiling.

"And that's necessary? His following you around?"

"That was the general's idea, Colonel," Rickabee said, and stood up. "Shall we have our lunch? He won't be long, and I've got a busy afternoon."

From Colonel Wesley's silence during lunch, Lieutenant Colonel Rickabee decided that Wesley was displeased with him. He had probably been a little too flip for the colonel, failed to display the proper respect for a senior member of the Palace Guard. But there was nothing that could be done about that now.

He was wrong. When Colonel Wesley returned to Headquarters, USMC, and to the office of Major General Lesterby, he told Lesterby that Rickabee might just be the answer to "the Carlson problem."

"He had a specific suggestion?"

"Yes, sir, that he arrange to have Carlson run over with a truck."

"You think he was serious?"

"Sir, I don't know."

"It may come down to that, Tom."

(Three)

The Brooklyn Navy Yard

Brooklyn, New York

0400 Hours, 6 January 1942

Two noncommissioned officers of the United States Marine Corps, Staff Sergeant C. (for Casimir) J. Koznowski and Sergeant Ernst W. "Ernie" Zimmerman, stood on the cobblestone street before an old brick barracks, shifting their feet and slapping their gloved hands against the cold. Koznowski was twenty-seven, tall, and slim. Zimmerman was stocky, muscular, round faced, and twenty-three. There were two "hash marks"-red embroidered diagonal bars each signifying the satisfactory completion of four years' service-on the sleeve of Koznowski's overcoat, and one hash mark on Zimmerman's.

Sergeant Zimmerman's face was pale, and his uniform seemed just a hair too large for him. Sergeant Zimmerman had two days before been released from the St. Albans Naval Hospital where he had been treated for malaria. He had been certified as fit for limited service and was being transferred to Parris Island for duty in his military specialty of motor transport sergeant.

Two corporals came around the corner of the brick barracks building, and when they saw Koznowski and Zimmerman, broke into a trot to join them.

"Where the fuck have you two been?" Staff Sergeant Koznowski demanded. It was not really a question, but rather an expression of disapproval, and no answer was expected or given.

"Go get 'em," Staff Sergeant Koznowski said to one of the corporals, and threw a clipboard at the other.

Both corporals ran into the building. There was the blast of a whistle, and lights were on, and the sound of muffled shouts.

Less than a minute later, encouraged by curt shouts of "Move it! Move it! Move it!" the first of 106 young then began to pour out of the building. They were in civilian clothing. The day before, or two days before, they had been civilians. They were now recruits of the United States Marine Corps. And they were about to be transported, under the command of Staff Sergeant Koznowski, Sergeant Zimmerman, and the two corporals, to the United States Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, South Carolina, for basic training.

One of the corporals stood on the street. He grabbed the first four then to reach him by the shoulders and placed them one behind the other. Then he got the others to form ranks on them, sometimes by pointing, sometimes by shoving them into place.

Finally, they were all lined up in four ranks.

"Ah- ten-hut!" the corporal with the clipboard barked.

One hundred and five of the 106 young then stood as stiff as they knew how. The 106th young man continued to try to tie the laces of his right shoe.

Staff Sergeant Koznowski walked quickly to him, standing before him until the shoe was tied and the young man stood erect..

"Got it all tied now?" Koznowski asked.

"Uh- huh," the young man replied. He was now wearing a nervous smile.

"When you are in ranks, and someone calls 'ah-ten-hut,' you come to attention right then," Koznowski said. "Not when it's convenient for you. You think you can remember that?"

"My shoe- "

"I asked, can you remember that?" Koznowski snapped.

"Yeah, sure."

"And you never, never, never say 'yeah, sure' to a sergeant," Koznowski said.

The young man was clever enough to sense that whatever he said next was going to be the wrong thing, so he said nothing.

"Take off the shoe," Koznowski said, conversationally.

The young man looked at him in disbelief.

"Take off the fucking shoe!" Koznowski shouted, his face two inches from the young man's face, spraying him with spittle.

The young man did as he was ordered, and finally stood up again, holding the shoe in his hand.

"Call the roll, Corporal," Staff Sergeant Koznowski ordered.

"Listen up, you people," the corporal with the clipboard said. "I will call off your last name, and you will respond with your first."

The roll was called.

The corporal turned and saluted. "The recruit draft is formed, sir," he reported.

Koznowski returned the salute, and then barked, "At ease."

Next he delivered a short speech. He told them that there was clear proof that God did not love him, for he had been assigned the unpleasant task of moving their miserable asses from the Brooklyn Navy Yard to Parris Island, South Carolina, where an attempt would be made to turn their miserable asses into something resembling Marines.

Before they could leave the Navy Yard, Staff Sergeant Koznowski announced, four things had to be done. First, they would be fed. After which they would run, not walk, back to the barracks. Second, their blankets, sheets, pillow cases, and mattress covers would have to be turned in. Third, the barracks and the head which they had managed to turn into a fucking pig sty in a remarkably short time would have to be returned to the immaculate state in which they had found it. Finally, they would have to wash and shave and do whatever else they could to make themselves as presentable as possible for the walk between the buses at the entrance to Pennsylvania Station and the train itself.

It was going to be humiliating enough, Staff Sergeant Koznowski said, for himself and Sergeant Zimmerman and Corporals Hayworth and Conn to be seen shepherding so many assholes around without the assholes looking like they had just crawled out of the fucking sewer.

They had, he informed them, precisely twenty-eight minutes and twenty seconds to accomplish breakfast and get back here.

"Are there any questions?" Staff Sergeant Koznowski asked.

A tall, rather thin young man in the rear rank had raised his hand above his shoulders.

Koznowski looked at him. "Anyone tell you to put your hand up? You want permission to leave the room so you can take a piss?"

"Sergeant," the tall thin young man said, nervously, "you asked if there were questions."

"I didn't mean it," Staff Sergeant Koznowski said, pleased with himself. "Sergeant Zimmerman, take over."

With that, Staff Sergeant Koznowski marched off in the direction of the mess hall, leaving Sergeant Zimmerman in charge.

Like many-perhaps most-Marines, Zimmerman was ambivalent about the hoary Marine Corps tradition of shitting all over recruits until they had passed through either the Parris Island or San Diego Recruit Depots. He understood the philosophy, which was to break a man down and then rebuild him as a Marine; and he knew that it worked. It had turned him into a Marine. But he was personally uncomfortable with shitting on people; he could not have been a drill instructor himself, and he had been made uncomfortable when he had learned that he would be taking a draft of recruits to Parris Island.

When Koznowski had turned the corner, Zimmerman said, "Finish buttoning your clothes."

The young man holding his shoe in his hand looked at him questioningly. Zimmerman shook his head no.

When they had time to tuck their trousers in their pants and button their jackets and overcoats, Zimmerman called them to attention and marched them to the mess hall.

He watched the line until the young man with his shoe tucked under his arm passed through it, and then told him he could now put his shoe on. Then he had his own breakfast.

Afterward, he walked back to the barracks as the recruits ran past him. And there he supervised the turning in of the bed clothes and the cleaning of the barracks. He did not find it necessary to jump anybody's ass while doing so.

When Staff Sergeant Koznowski returned from the staff NCO mess he found the draft of recruits lined up on the street before the barracks waiting to be loaded onto the chartered buses for the trip into Manhattan and Pennsylvania Station.