Call to Arms

Chapter Nine

(One)

Headquarters, 2nd Joint Training Force

Camp Elliott, California

O815 Hours, 9 January 1942

Captain Jack NMI (No Middle Initial) Stecker, USMCR, was a large man, tall and erect. His uniform was perfectly tailored and sharply creased. It bore the insignia of his grade, the double silver bars of a captain, both on the epaulets of the blouse and on his shirt collar. His high-topped dress shoes were highly polished. But there were no ribbons pinned to the breast of the blouse. For what he considered good reason, Captain Stecker had put his ribbons in one of the bellows pockets of his blouse.

Captain Stecker was quite surprised that the technical sergeant functioning as Colonel Lewis T. Harris's sergeant major apparently had no idea who he was. Equally surprising was that he could not recall having ever seen the technical sergeant before.

The technical sergeant wore the diagonal hash marks of sixteen years of satisfactory enlisted service on the sleeve of his blouse. Captain Jack NMI Stecker had worn a Marine

uniform since 1917. It bordered on the incredible that they had never run into each other before someplace. The Marine Corps, between major wars, was a small outfit. By the time someone had put in a couple hitches, he knew practically everybody else in the Corps.

There was supposed to be an exception to every rule, Stecker decided, and this was apparently it.

"The colonel will see you now, sir," the technical sergeant said.

"Thank you, Sergeant," Stecker said, and rose up out of his chair. He tugged on the skirt of his blouse and walked to the door with a red sign on it, lettered, "LEWIS T. HARRIS, COL, USMC, COMMANDING."

He rapped his knuckles on the jamb of Colonel Harris's door.

"Come!" Colonel Harris ordered.

Stecker marched into the office, stopped three feet from the desk, came to attention; and, looking six inches over Colonel Harris's head, barked, "Sir, Captain Stecker reporting for duty, sir."

Colonel Lewis T. Harris, a stocky, bald-headed, barrel-chested officer, looked up at Stecker without smiling. Then he stood up, walked to his office door and closed it, and returned to his desk.

"Well, you old sonofabitch, how the hell are you?" Colonel Harris asked.

"Very well, thank you, sir," Captain Stecker said.

"I'm always right, Jack," Colonel Harris said. "Some people don't understand that, but I hope this proves that to you."

"Sir?"

"If you had taken a commission when I wanted you to, you'd be sitting here with a chicken pinned to your collar, and I'd be reporting to you."

For the first time, Stecker met Colonel Harris's eyes.

"I'm still a little uncomfortable with the railroad tracks," he said.

"Shit!" Colonel Harris said. "Where the hell are your ribbons, Jack?"

"In my pocket," Stecker said.

"I figured," Colonel Harris said. "The Medal's something to be ashamed of, like some bare-teated dame in a hula skirt tattooed on your arm?"

"It makes people uncomfortable," Stecker said.

"Suit yourself, Jack, you can stand there at attention like some second lieutenant fresh out of Quantico, or you can sit down over there while I pour you a drink."

Stecker walked to the small couch and sat down.

"I didn't know how to handle this, Lew," he said. "So I did it by the book."

"And that's why you didn't call when you got in last night, right?" Colonel Harris said. "And spent the night on a cot in a BOQ, instead of with Marge and me?"

Captain Stecker did not reply. Colonel Harris went to a metal wall locker and took a bottle of scotch and two glasses from a shelf. He handed the glasses to Stecker and then poured an inch and a half of scotch in each glass.

He took one of the glasses and touched it against Stecker's.

"I'm glad to see you, Jack," he said. "Personally and professionally."

"Thank you," Stecker said. He started to add something, stopped, and then went on: "I was about to say, 'like old times,' but it's not, is it?"

"It never is," Harris said.

They solemnly sipped at the whiskey.

"I don't know how to handle this, Jack," Harris said. "I'm sorry about your boy."

"Thank you," Stecker said.

"He passed through here on his way to Pearl," Harris said. "He looked like a fine young man."

"He was," Stecker said. "Sixteenth in his class."

"I didn't hear how it happened," Harris said. "Just that it had."

"He was in the Marine detachment on the Arizona,'' Stecker said. "I understand they got at least one of the Marine-manned antiaircraft cannon into operation before she went down. I hope Jack at least got a chance to shoot back."

"How's Elly?" Colonel Harris said.

Stecker shrugged. There was no way to put the reaction of his wife to the loss of their oldest son into words.

"And the other boy? Richard? He's in the class of 'forty-two at West Point, right?"

"He was supposed to be," Stacker said.

"Supposed to be?" Hams asked.

"They commissioned them early," Stecker said. "Dick reported to Pensacola today. Or he reports tomorrow. For aviation training."

"You don't sound pleased."

"I don't know if I am or not," Stecker said. "Elly's afraid of airplanes."

"Hell, so am I," Harris said.

Stecker looked at him and smiled. "The only thing in the world you're afraid of is your wife," he said.

"And airplanes," Harris said. "I went to Pensacola in 'thirty, when I came back from Haiti. I did fine until they actually put me in the front seat of an airplane and told me to drive. I broke out in a cold sweat and was so scared I couldn't find my ass with both hands. Once I tilted the wings, I really didn't know which way was up. Somewhere in my jacket is a remark that says 'this officer is wholly unsuited for aviation duty.'"

"I didn't know you tried it," Stecker said.

"I was afraid when I went," Harris said. "I knew I was no Charles Lindbergh. But I was a brand-new captain with three kids, and I needed the flight pay. If your boy can't hack it, Jack, he'll find out in a hurry. Nothing to be embarrassed about if he can't. Some people are meant to soar like birds, and others, like you and me, to muck around in the mud."

Stecker chuckled.

"You know Evans Carlson, Jack?" Colonel Harris asked.

The question was asked lightly, but Stecker sensed that Harris was not playing auld lang syne.

"Sure," Stecker replied.

"China?" Harris pursued.

"I was on the rifle team with him," Stecker said.

"I forgot about that," Harris said. "You're one of those who thinks the Garand's the answer to a maiden's prayer."

The U.S. Rifle, Caliber.30, Ml, a self-loading weapon fed by an eight-round en bloc clip, was invented by John C. Garand, a civilian employee of the Springfield Arsenal. It was adopted as standard for the U.S. military in 1937 to replace the U.S. Rifle, Caliber.30, M1903, the Springfield, a bolt-operated rifle with an integral five-shot magazine.

"I don't know about a 'maiden's prayer,'" Stecker said. "But it's a fine weapon. It's a better weapon than the Springfield."

"I'm surprised to hear you say that," Harris said.

"You ever fire it?" Stecker asked.

"Familiarization," Harris said. "I had trouble keeping it on the target. I rarely got close to the black." (The eight, nine, and ten scoring rings of the standard rifle target are printed in black; the "bull's-eye.")

"I was on the troop test at Benning," Stecker said. (The U.S. Army Infantry Center was at Fort Benning, Georgia.) "And I had an issue piece out of the box. I had no trouble making expert with it. More important, neither did twelve kids fresh from Parris Island."

Harris grunted. A lesser man, he thought, would have quickly detected his disapproval of the Garand rifle and deferred, as is appropriate for a captain, to the judgment of a colonel. But Jack NMI Stecker, until recently Master Gunnery Sergeant Stecker, was not a lesser man. He spoke his mind.

"I've got one," Stecker went on, "that was worked over by an Army ordnance sergeant at Benning. It shoots into an inch and a half at two hundred yards."

"I've got a Springfield that'll do that," Harris argued.

"Your Springfield won't put eight shots in the black at three hundred yards as fast as you can pull the trigger," Stecker said.

"You're like a reformed drunk, Jack," Harris said. "Nothing worse than a reformed drunk. They have seen the goddamn light."

"Sorry," Stecker said.

"Maybe I'm wrong," Harris said. "I've been wrong before."

"The last time was May 13, 1937, right?" Stecker said.

Harris laughed, heartily, deep in his chest. "Moot point, anyway," he said. "This war'll be over long before the goddamned Army gets around to giving your wonderful Garand to the Corps."

"Probably," Stecker agreed, chuckling. The Marine Corps received all of its small arms through the Ordnance Corps of the U.S. Army. It was accepted as a fact of life that the Army supplied the Corps only after its own needs, real and perceived, were satisfied.

"We were talking about Evans Carlson," Harris said. "You get along with him all right, Jack?"

"Isn't that a moot point? I heard he resigned a couple of years ago. Actually, what I heard is that he was asked to resign. I heard he went Asiatic and annoyed some very important people."

"I don't know about that, but he's back. He applied for a reserve commission as a major, and they gave it to him. And then they promoted him. He knows some very important people."

"I hadn't heard that," Stecker said, thoughtfully. "Well, hell, why not? He's a good Marine. And here I sit wearing captain's bars."

"You didn't answer my question, Jack," Colonel Harris said.

"Do I get along with him? Sure. Is he here?"

Colonel Harris did not reply to the question directly.

"From this point, what I tell you is between us girls, Jack. I don't want it repeated."

"Yes, sir," Stecker said.

"Within the next couple of weeks, maybe the next month, the Corps is going to establish two separate battalions. One of them here. The one here will be commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Carlson."

"What do you mean, separate battalions? To do what?"

"Commando battalions," Harris said.

"I'm lost," Stecker confessed.

"A reserve captain wrote the Commandant a letter," Harris said, "in which he recommended the establishment of Marine units to do what the English Commandos do. Raids by sea on hostile shores."

"A reserve captain wrote the Commandant?" Stecker asked, incredulously.

"And the Commandant has decided to go along," Harris said.

Stecker didn't reply, but there was wonderment and disbelief all over his face.

"The captain who wrote the letter has friends in high places," Harris said.

"He must," Stecker said.

"His name is Roosevelt," Colonel Harris said.

"Captain Roosevelt," Stecker said, suddenly understanding.

"You know him?"

"I saw him a couple of times at Quantico," Stecker said. "I don't know him."

"Captain James Roosevelt will be the executive officer of the Second Separate Battalion, under Lieutenant Colonel Carlson, when it is activated," Harris said.

Stacker's eyebrow rose but he said nothing.

"I have been directed to do whatever can be done to grease the ways for Colonel Carlson and his separate battalion. He will have the authority to recruit for his battalion anywhere within the Corps. And simultaneously he will be able to transfer out from his battalion anybody he doesn't want. He will have the authority to equip and arm his battalion as he sees fit, and funds will be provided to purchase whatever he wants that can't be found in the warehouse. If there is a conflict between Carlson's battalion and some other unit for equipment, or the use of training facilities, Carlson will get what he thinks he needs. You getting the picture, Jack?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good, because as of this minute, it's your job to take care of Colonel Carlson and his separate battalion for me."

"I had hoped to get a company," Stecker said

"No way, Jack," Harris said. "Even without Carlson, there would be no company for you. We have company commanders. We're damned short of people like you. Once you get Carlson formed and trained and he's gone from here, I've got a spot from you in S-Three. If you handle Carlson right, there'll probably be a major's leaf to go with it."

"And if not?"

"Carlson has to be handled right, period," Colonel Harris said. "Or you and me will both be doing things we won't like."

Stecker frowned thoughtfully. Finally he said, "Aye, aye, sir."

"There's more, Jack," Colonel Harris said. "And if this goes outside the walls of this room, we're both in trouble."

"I understand," Stecker said.

"Carlson not only wants to have a commando outfit, he has some very strange ideas about how it should be run."

"That I don't understand," Stacker said. "How do you mean, 'run'?"

"Well, for one thing, the original proposal would do away with the rank structure. Instead of officers and noncoms and privates, there would be 'leaders' and 'fighters.' There would be no officers' mess. Everybody would 'cooperate.'"

"You're serious," Stecker said, after a moment. "That's crazy."

"Odd that you should use that word," Harris said, dryly. "There are some very important people who think that Carlson is crazy."

"You mean really crazy, don't you?"

Harris nodded. "And the same people think that he may have been turned into a Communist," he added.

"Then why are they giving him a battalion?"

"Because the President of the United States has got a commando bee up his ass, and he thinks Carlson is the man to come up with American commandos," Harris said.

He waited for that to sink in, and then went on: "The Commandant is worried about three things, Jack. First and foremost, that Carlson has gone off the deep end, and after he's picked the cream of the crop for his Raiders, he'll get a bunch of them wiped out on some crazy operation. Or worse: that he'll be successful on a mission, and the entire Corps will be converted to the U.S. Commandos."

"What's wrong with that?" Stecker asked, thoughtfully. "We do what I understand the commandos do, invest hostile enemy shores."

"The British Commandos have neither aviation nor artillery," Harris said. "If the Marine Corps is turned into the U.S. Commandos, there would be no need for the Corps to have either aviation or artillery either. And after the war, Jack? What would the Corps become? A regiment, maybe two, of Commandos."

"I hadn't thought about that," Stecker admitted.

"The Commandant has had this commando idea shoved down his throat," Harris said. "And like the good Marine he is, he has said 'aye, aye, sir,' and will do his best to carry out his orders. There are some other people, close to the Commandant, who are not so sure they should go along with it."

"I don't understand that," Stecker said. "What do you mean, not go along with it?"

"There's some interesting scuttlebutt that Intelligence is going to get an officer assigned to Carlson with the job of coming up with proof that he is a Communist, or crazy, or preferably both. Proof that they could hand the Commandant, proof that he could take to the President."

"Jesus!"

"Jack," Harris said carefully. "If something out of the ordinary, something you believe would be really harmful to the Corps, comes to your attention when you are dealing with Colonel Carlson, I expect you to bring it to my attention. But don't misunderstand me. I want you to do the best job you can in supporting him."

Stecker met his eyes. After a moment, he said, almost sadly, "Aye, aye, sir."

(Two)

The USS Pickerel

178 Degrees 35 Minutes West Longitude

21 Degrees 20 Minutes North Latitude

0405 Hours, 14 January 1942

Captain Edward J. Banning, USMC, awake in his bunk in the captain's cabin of the Pickerel, knew that it was a few minutes after 0400. He had heard the sounds of the watch changing, and that happened at precisely 0400.

He also knew that it was Wednesday, 14 January.

Not quite six hours before, the Pickerel had crossed the international date line; and Thursday, 15 January, had become Wednesday, 14 January, once again. From 180 degrees (which was both west and east longitude, exactly halfway around the world from Greenwich, England, which was at 0 degrees, east and west longitude), it was 22 degrees and some seconds-say 675 nautical miles-to the U.S. Navy Base at Pearl Harbor, on the Island of Oahu, Territory of Hawaii.

Captain Edward T. Banning, USMC, was aware that there was a very good chance that this Wednesday, 14 January 1942, would be the last day in his life. After a good deal of what he believed was careful, unemotional thought, he had decided that he did not want to continue living if that meant he had to live blind. And after reaching that decision, he had calmly

concluded that today was the day he should do what had to be done.

He would remove the bandages from his eyes, open his lids, and if he saw nothing but black, he would use the.45 on himself.

With a little luck and a lot of careful planning, this could be accomplished with a minimum of disruption to anyone else's life. And that was important-not to make a spectacle of himself. It would be much better to go out here and now with a bullet fired through the roof of the mouth into the brain and to be buried immediately at sea than it would be, say, to jump out of a window in a VA hospital somewhere, or to swallow a handfull of pills. A.45 pistol was the answer, and today was the day.

The Pickerel was sailing on the surface now, making sixteen or seventeen knots, and it would thus arrive at Pearl Harbor sometime between thirty-nine and forty-two hours from the time it had crossed the international date line.

Captain Banning had done the arithmetic in his head. Not without effort, for without seeming unduly curious, it was necessary to acquire the data on which to base his calculations from Captain Red MacGregor and others. And then he had to do the work in his head. There was plenty of time to do it, of course, which was fortunate, for Banning had learned that he was far less apt with mental arithmetic than he would have believed.

But he was reasonably sure that the Pickerel would be off Pearl Harbor waiting for the antisubmarine nets across the mouth of the harbor to be opened sometime between 1900 and 2200 hours on 16 January 1942. In other words, less than two full days from now. The antisubmarine nets would probably not be opened at night, which meant that the Pickerel would not actually be able to sail into Pearl until first light on 17 January.

From his observations of Captain Red MacGregor (Banning was aware of the incongruity of a blind man making observations, but he could think of no more accurate word), he had concluded that the closer the Pickerel came to Pearl, the more according to the book MacGregor would run his command.

Earlier, after Banning had very carefully asked if it would be possible for the blind then aboard to be given some fresh air, MacGregor had had no problem breaking the rules for him.

This meant allowing them up on the conning tower, where there was really no room for them, and where they would not only be in the way, but would pose a hazard if a crash dive was necessary.

When Banning asked him, shortly after they had entered the Philippine Sea at the upper tip of Luzon, MacGregor had considered the request and denied it.

"A little later, Ed," he said then. "Maybe when we get past the Marianas."

MacGregor had meant what he said. Two days later, when Banning had still been wondering if the time was ripe to ask again, the chief of the boat had come to him, and with rather touching formality said, "The captain's compliments, sir, and will you join him on the bridge?"

Getting up the ladders to the conning tower hadn't been as difficult as Banning had thought it would be.

And the smell of the fresh salt water had been delightful after breathing nothing but the smell of unwashed bodies, paint, and diesel fuel.

Thereafter, the blind then aboard were permitted to get a little air on the conning tower once a day, for half-hour periods. And even though the time they spent on the conning tower cut into the time set aside for that for the crew of the Pickerel, there were no complaints. Only a real sonofabitch would deny blind then whatever pleasure they could find.

After this had been going on awhile, Captain Red MacGregor noticed (as Banning hoped that he would; the manipulation shamed him, but he considered it necessary) that Banning himself never came to the conning tower, and he asked him about it.

"I think my 'troops' need it more than I do," Banning said.

MacGregor snorted at the time, but said nothing. At that evening's meal, however, he announced, "Henceforth, Captain Banning has the privilege of the bridge."

What that meant was that Banning could go to the conning tower whenever he wished. He could then ask for permission to "come onto the bridge." If there was no good reason for him not to, permission was more or less automatic.

In practice, others with the "privilege of the bridge" (the officers and chief petty officers) quickly left the bridge to make room for Banning when he put his head through the hatch and asked for permission.

Banning was careful not to abuse his privilege. He went to the conning tower often, but never stayed long. His intent (and he was sure he succeeded) was to make his presence there routine. The officers and crew thus grew used to him coming to the bridge at all hours. And once there he kept out of the way, cleared his lungs, sometimes accepted a cigarette, and then went quickly below again.

Banning was sure, however, that as the Pickerel came closer to Pearl, MacGregor would tighten his command, and conning-tower privileges would be revoked. Maybe not for him, but he couldn't take the chance.

Now was the time. Twenty-four hours later the opportunity would more than likely be gone.

Banning's "observation" of Captain Red MacGregor had taught him that MacGregor woke up whenever the watch was changed. Just for a minute or two, but he was awake.

And he had wakened when the watch had changed to 0400. He hadn't moved or gotten out of his bunk, but his breathing pattern had changed, and Banning knew that he was awake and waiting to see if something would require his attention. Only when he was satisfied things were going as they should would he go back to sleep.

Banning had acquired a good deal of admiration for Red MacGregor. He was a fine officer. He hoped that what he had in mind would not appear as a derogatory remark in MacGregor's service jacket. That had been an important consideration while he was making his plans. It was unfortunate that he could not think of anything that would get MacGregor completely off the hook. He could only hope that in the circumstances it would not be a really important black mark against him.

Banning, as stealthily as he could, slipped down from the narrow upper bunk and lowered himself carefully to the deck.

He sensed that he had not been as stealthy as he had hoped, even before MacGregor spoke.

"You all right, Ed?"

"I'm going to take a piss and then get a breath of air," Banning replied, hoping that there was nothing in his voice that would betray him to MacGregor. Banning had "observed" that MacGregor, like most good commanders, was both sensitive and intuitive.

"We crossed the date line just after twenty-two-hundred," MacGregor said. "It's yesterday."

"The chief of the boat told me," Banning replied, as he felt around for the drawer in which he knew he could find freshly washed khakis.

"I had a hell of a time with that at the academy," MacGregor said. "My mind just doesn't accept that you can lose, or gain, a day just because somebody drew a line on a chart." Banning chuckled.

He heard sounds he interpreted as the kinds MacGregor would make as he rolled over in his bunk.

Banning put on his shirt, and then his trousers, and finally socks and shoes. He did so slowly, both because he wanted to make sure that he had the right button in the right hole, and because he wanted to give MacGregor time to go back to sleep. When he had finished tieing his shoes, he felt behind him on the bulkhead for the gray metal locker MacGregor had turned over to him. He opened it as quietly as he could and then took from it a khaki-colored rubber-lined canvas foul-weather jacket. Sometimes the wind carried spray as high as the conning tower, even in relatively calm seas.

When he had the jacket on and had finished closing its metal hooks, Banning took something else from his closet where it had been concealed under a stack of skivvy shirts. He jammed it quickly in his waistband, and then pulled the foul-weather jacket down over it. -

He went to the hatch and felt his way through it, and then he moved down the passageway to the head. He sensed that two crew members had flattened themselves against the sides of the passageway to make room for him to pass, but neither of them spoke to him.

He found the door to the head, and then the doorknob. He pushed down on it, and it moved. This meant the head was unoccupied. If the head was in use, the door handle would not move.

He went inside and threw the latch, and then sat down on the head. He pulled the foul-weather jacket out of the way, and then took the Colt.45 automatic from his waistband.

Banning had thought this through, too, very carefully, going over it again and again in his mind. If he actually had to do the thing, he had to do it right. That meant very quickly pulling the pistol out from under the jacket and placing the muzzle into his mouth, so that even if someone on the conning tower bridge did happen to be looking in his direction, they wouldn't have time to stop him. He thought that even if someone did happen to be looking at him when he took the Colt out, they would be so astonished that there would be a couple of seconds' delay before they would try to take it away from him. A couple of seconds would be all he needed.

That was presuming there was a cartridge in the chamber when he pulled the trigger. If the firing pin flew forward into an empty chamber, there would be no time to take the pistol out of his mouth and work the action again. If it didn't fire the first time, that would be it. They would take the pistol away from him with whatever force was necessary, and they'd never take their eyes off him until they docked at Pearl. After that he would be turned over to the then in white coats from the psychiatric ward at the Naval hospital.

There weren't that many ways to end your life aboard a submarine at sea. You couldn't just jump over the side, for example. The bulkheads on the conning tower were almost shoulder high and would be difficult to climb over even if you could see. And even if he managed to jump off the conning tower without being stopped, then what? He would probably break his leg on the fall to the deck, or else knock himself out. The best he could hope for in that circumstance would be to be able to scurry across the deck like a crippled crab and bounce off the hull into the sea, then try to swim away from the hull before the suction of the propellers sucked him down to where the blades could slice him up.

It would also be a dirty trick on Red MacGregor to blow his brains all over his cabin. Or to do it in the head where, every time one of the Pickerel's crew took a leak, he would remind himself that this was where that poor, blind jarhead captain blew his brains out.

The place to do it was on the conning tower. His brains would be blown off the conning tower, and there would only be a little blood on the conning-tower deck when the body fell, easily washed away.

After Banning did it, the captain would be called to the bridge. He would probably be thoroughly pissed at the officer of the deck for not seeing what the poor, crazy, blind jarhead captain had been up to, and for not stopping it. But once that passed, MacGregor would start to think clearly, like the good commander he was. There would be no point in getting the crew upset. Then someone would be sent below for a mattress cover and some line, and something heavy (probably a couple of shells for the five-inch cannon), and the body would be tied into the mattress cover with the shells, and then lowered to the deck.

MacGregor would probably even go so far as ordering a flag placed over the mattress cover (it would be tied to the deck so it wouldn't be lost). And more than likely, he would read the Episcopal service for the burial of the dead at sea.

And then he would order the Pickerel submerged.

There would be a note in the log, Captain Edward J. Banning, VSMC, buried at sea 0500, 14 January 1942, and the coordinates.

There was a school of thought, of course, that felt that suicide was the coward's way out of a tough situation. Banning had spent much time pondering that line of reasoning, and he had come to the conclusion that in his case, it just didn't wash.

The main pain in the ass for him in being blind had not turned out to be the inconvenience. The inconveniences-the difficulties of just living without sight: spilling food all over his chin, not knowing if he had been able to properly wipe his ass, the constant bumping painfully into things-he could probably get used to, in time.

What was wrong with being blind was that it gave you so much time to think. That was really driving him crazy.

Thinking about Ludmilla, for instance.

Ludmilla, "Milla," was the only woman he had ever loved in his life. And he had left her on the wharf in Shanghai when he'd been flown to Cavite with the advance party of the 4th Marines. The Japs were in Shanghai now, and it was entirely possible that Milla had already done to herself what he was going to do if it was black when he took the bandages off.

He knew that she had thought about it. Once in bed, she had told him that she had been close to it before she met him, that she just didn't think she had it in her to become a whore, and that death wasn't all that frightening to her. Certainly, she would have thought of that again when the Japanese drove down the Bund. There weren't very many options open to a White Russian woman in Shanghai besides turning herself into a whore for some Japanese officer. Milla still thought seriously about such things as honor and pride and shame, and she was very likely to have concluded that death was far preferable to the dishonor of being a Japanese whore.

And Milla had been around the block. She'd already gone through one revolution, and what she had told him about what she had experienced in St. Petersburg-the complete breakdown of society as she had known it-couldn't have been much different from what the breakdown of society in Shanghai must have been once the Japanese had come in.

Milla was practical. She would have understood that the chances of her ever again getting to be with her husband of eighteen hours-her American, Marine officer husband, gone off to fight what looked to be a losing war-were practically nil.

And she would have concluded that the eleven good months that they had had together before they had made it legal had been a brief happy interval in a miserable, frightening life.

And she didn't know, of course, that he was blind.

"The trauma to your optical nerves, Captain, is one of those things, I'm afraid, we don't know a hell of a lot about. Obviously, the trauma was of such severity to cause loss of sight, but on the other hand, it isn't as if anything in there had been severed or destroyed, in which case there would be no hope. I really can't offer an opinion whether your impaired condition will in time pass, or whether the damage is permanent. We just don't have the experience in this area. I would not be surprised, either way. In any event, we should have some indication in two or three weeks."

If the sonofabitch thought there was any real chance the "impaired condition" would "in time pass," they would not have sent him out on the Pickerel. The 4th Marines had been given the responsibility for defending Fortress Corregidor. They needed the regimental intelligence officer, presuming of course that he could see.

He had been sent out, with the colonel's permission, on the Pickerel. Q.E.D.

Banning knew what would come next. They would get him stateside, most likely to the Naval hospital at San Diego. And there they would do whatever was humanly possible for him.

Following which he would be handed a white cane, his retirement orders, and a one-hundred-percent disability pension. They would then turn him over to the Veterans Administration until he learned how to maneuver with the white cane, or maybe with a seeing-eye dog.

He could handle that, too, if he didn't have all this time to think about Milla and wonder what she was doing.

The final conclusion he had drawn was that he could live without Milla, or the Corps, or his sight; but he could not give up all three at once.

If he could see when he went to the conning tower and took the bandage off, then there was something. He wouldn't be with the regiment, but he would be what he had trained all of his adult life to be, a serving Marine officer in a war. Which meant he could do something about Milla, too-though he had no idea how.

Banning pressed the checkered round steel magazine-release button on the Colt.45 automatic. The magazine slipped out of the butt into his hand. He laid the pistol carefully on his lap, then thumbed the cartridges from the magazine, putting them one at time into the side pocket of the canvas foul-weather jacket. There were seven.

He loaded one cartridge back into the magazine, slipped the magazine into the pistol until he felt it click in place, and then worked the action. He pulled the slide back all the way, and then, still hanging on to it, let the spring move it forward into the battery.

He didn't think it had completely chambered the cartridge. He ran his thumb over the rear of the pistol where the slide mated with the frame. It was uneven. He pushed on the slide and it clicked into place.

He put the safety on and then stood up and put the pistol back in his waistband and pulled the foul-weather jacket to cover it.

Banning made his way very carefully from the head to the conning-tower ladder. When his hand found it, he gripped it firmly. He had learned that if there was someone on the ladder, there would be vibrations on the steel framework.

There were none, and he climbed the ladder into the upper compartment.

"Good morning, sir," someone said to him.

"Morning," Banning replied, smiling, as he felt for the ladder to the conning-tower bridge.

This time, there were vibrations in the steel frame. Banning stood to one side of the ladder.

"Sorry, Captain," a voice tinged with embarrassment said in his ear. "I would have-" The kid's breath smelled of peppermint chewing gum.

"It's all right, son," Banning said, reassuringly. He had recognized the voice as one of the enlisted men.

He moved in front of the ladder and went up it, until his head was through the hatch and he could smell the fresh salt air.

''Permission to come on the bridge, sir?" he asked.

"Come ahead, Captain," a voice he recognized as belonging to one of the young JG's said.

Banning went through the hatch, got to his feet, and put his hand out in search of the after bulkhead. When his fingers touched it, he went to it, turned and rested his back against it, and took a deep breath of the fresh, clean air.

"Good morning," Banning said.

Three voices replied. They were in front of him. With a little bit of luck, they would be looking forward, too, when the time came.

Banning took off his fore-and-aft cap and put it in the pocket of his foul-weather jacket.

Then he took a razor blade from his trousers pocket, got a good grip on it, and moved the hand that held it to the back of his head.

Sawing through the gauze bandage and the adhesive tape that held it in place was easier than he thought it would be. He felt the gauze slip off and fall across his face. He caught it, balled it up in his hand, and then reached his hand over the bulkhead and dropped it.

There now remained two pads of gauze, liberally greased with petroleum jelly, over his closed eyelids. The idea, the surgeon had told him, was to keep all light from the optic nerves, in the hope this might facilitate natural recovery from the trauma to the nerves.

Once a day the Pickerel's pharmacist mate had replaced the Vaseline-soaked pads, and then wrapped Banning's head with gauze and adhesive tape to keep them in place.

Banning put both hands to his eyes and jerked the pads away.

He felt a cold chill and heard himself grunt.

The pads were gone, and there was no light.

He was blind.

He felt faint, weak in his knees, and shivered.

All I have to do is put my hands over my face and go below and say I must have caught the bandage on something, and jerked it off.

Fuck it! Don't turn chicken at the last minute. You took a chance and you lost.

He put his hand under the foul-weather jacket and found the butt of the.45 Colt automatic. Following the U.S. Marine Corps' near-sacred tradition that one does not put one's finger on the trigger of a loaded firearm until one is prepared to fire, he took it in his hand, the trigger finger extended along the slide rather than on the trigger, and flicked the safety off.

Then he put his finger on the trigger.

Our Father Who art in Heaven, give me the balls to go through with this…

Banning became aware that his eyelids were squinted closed, as they were habitually whenever the Vaseline-soaked pads were removed.

He forced them open.

Shit! Nothing. Nothing more, anyway, than a glow to one side. If I'm not blind, I'm the next fucking thing to it.

Our Father Who art in-

That's the fucking luminous dial of a wristwatch! That's what that glow is!

Captain Banning removed his finger from the trigger of his pistol.

Captain Banning could now make out the upper edge of the forward bulkhead, and rising above that three vague but unmistakable silhouettes: the officer of the deck, the talker, and somebody else, another officer, with binoculars to his eyes.

Captain Banning snapped the safety of the Colt back on, took his hand from under the foul-weather jacket, and then leaned, weak and faint, against the bulkhead.

He had a sudden terrible necessity to void his bladder.

"Permission to leave the bridge, sir?"

"Granted," the officer of the deck said automatically, and then, remembering that Banning had only minutes before come onto the bridge, asked, "Is there something wrong, Captain Banning?"

"No, thank you," Banning said. "Everything's just fine." The light inside the conning tower hurt his eyes. He felt tears, and he closed them. He knew how to get down the ladder with his eyes closed.

With a little luck, he would go down both ladders and get to the head before his bladder let go and he pissed his pants. And then he would go to the captain's cabin and wake Red MacGregor and tell him. With a little more luck, he would be able to get the pistol back into the cabinet before MacGregor woke up.