In Danger's Path (30 page)

“Sir, I got Major Banning's number, if the Captain would like to check with him,” Gunny Zimmerman offered.

“Perhaps that would be a good idea,” Captain Marshutz said.

“Sir, Liberty Three, twenty-nine zero eight,” Zimmerman said. “That's in Washington, D.C.”

He memorized that, too
.

A minute later, Staff Sergeant Krantz handed Captain Marshutz the telephone. “It's ringing, sir,” he said.

The telephone was answered on the second ring.

“Liberty 3-2908.”

“With whom am I speaking, please?”

“Will you tell me who you wish to speak to, please?”

“Major Banning,” Captain Marshutz said, a hint of exasperation in his voice. He added “please” as a latecoming afterthought.

“Sir, there is no one of that name at this number.”

“Gunny, they say they don't have a Major Banning.”

“Bullshit!” Gunny Zimmerman said. “I never forget no numbers. With respect, sir, you got the right number?”

“What is it again, Gunny?”

“Sir, Liberty Three, twenty-nine zero eight,” Zimmerman said.

“Is this Liberty 3-2908?”

“Yes, it is. Who's calling, please?”

“There is no Major Banning at this number?”

“That is correct.”

Captain Marshutz looked at Zimmerman and shook his head.

“Sir, tell them the call is from me,” Zimmerman said.

“Would Major Banning be there if he knew it was Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman calling?” Captain Marshutz asked very politely, which was his manner when his temper was on the verge of eruption.

“Are you Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman?”

“Sir, if that don't work, ask for Captain McCoy,” Zimmerman said.

“Have you a Captain McCoy?” Marshutz asked.

“Captain
Kenneth R
. McCoy,” Zimmerman amplified.

“Captain
Kenneth R
. McCoy,” Marshutz parroted.

“Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman is calling for either Major Banning or Captain McCoy. Is that correct?”

“That is absolutely correct.”

“Hold on, please.”

There was the sound of another telephone ringing, just once, and then another voice came on the line.

“Yes?”

“With whom am I speaking, please?” Captain Marshutz asked politely.

“Whom do you wish to speak to?”

“Either a Major Banning or a Captain McCoy.”

“With regard to what? Who are you, please?”

“My name is Captain Roger Marshutz, USMC,” Marshutz said, as he sensed his temper going from simmer to boil. “I'm calling with regard to a goddamned gunnery sergeant named Zimmerman. Does that satisfy your goddamned curiosity?”

“It helps a great deal, as a matter of fact. I'm always happy to chat on the telephone with a fellow Marine, even one who uses language unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. But, pray tell me, how can I help you, Captain?”

“With whom am I speaking?”

“My name is Rickabee, Captain. Brigadier General Rickabee, USMC.”

Oh, shit!

“Sir, I was asked to call this number, by Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman, Ernest W….”

“Is there some sort of problem with the gunny? Where are you?”

“Marine Barracks, San Diego, sir.”

“And he's there, with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Put him on the phone, please. I want his side of the story first.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Marshutz handed the phone to Zimmerman. “General Rickabee wishes to speak to you.”

“I'll be goddamned! General!” Zimmerman said to himself, then spoke into the telephone. “Sir, the General told me to call Major Banning if I ran into trouble. Sorry to bother
you
, sir.”

“What sort of trouble are you in, Gunny?”

“Sir, they want to put me in the fucking hospital and then send me to some fucking hotel someplace. I told them I couldn't do that.”

“Welcome home, Zimmerman. When did you get in?”

“Sir, about 2300 Saturday.”

“Put the Captain back on, will you, please?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Zimmerman handed the telephone back to Captain Marshutz.

“Yes, sir, General?”

“It is my desire, Captain, that you (a) have Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman on the next available airplane to Washington; (b) telephone the number he gave you after he has actually taken off, prepared to give me his ETA in Washington.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“As far as this rest hotel business is concerned, Gunny Zimmerman considers himself to be taking a rest whenever no one is actually shooting at him. He's one hell of Marine, and we'll take care of entertaining him here.”

“Yes, sir.”

The line went dead.

Marshutz looked at Zimmerman. “Curiosity overwhelms me, Gunny,” he said. “Just who is General Rickabee?”

“Sir, with respect, I don't think the Captain has the fucking need to know.”

“You're probably fucking right,” Captain Marshutz said, and turned to Staff Sergeant Krantz. “Karl, get the gunny on the next flight out of here. I don't care who gets bumped to get him a seat.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“And the minute he's airborne, call that number he gave…”

“Sir, Liberty Three, twenty-nine zero eight,” Zimmerman said.

“…and give them the ETA.”

[TWO]
Main Gate
U.S. Naval Air Station
Pensacola, Florida
1215 6 March 1943

The galling thing about this chickenshit little sonofabitch
, Captain James B. Weston, USMCR, thought as he sat fuming in the Buick waiting for the duty officer to show up after he was summoned by the main gate guard,
is that he's a Marine, not a sailor. You'd think a Marine would cut a fellow Marine a little slack
.

The whole trip had not gone well, beginning with the reason he was making it in the first place: Lieutenant (j.g.) Janice Hardison, NC, USNR, had told him, firmly, that she had the duty, midnight to eight, Friday
and
Saturday, and that he should not come up to Philadelphia because there wouldn't be time for them to do anything if he did.

So he had driven
down
, leaving the Greenbrier as early as he could on Friday afternoon, and driving through the night. During the journey, he had been stopped twice for speeding. One of these, early that morning in Georgia, had seen him forking over fifty-five dollars to a justice of the peace roused from his bed by the deputy sheriff who had arrested him.

He had arrived in Pensacola a few minutes before seven, and had decided the smart thing to do would be to get a room at the San Carlos Hotel before driving out to the air station. There would, of course, be a telephone in the room, over which he could conveniently contact Major Avery R. Williamson, USMCR.

He had to practically beg the manager to give him a room, and the only thing left was a two-room suite at $32.50 a night, a luxury he needed like a hole in the head. And then, a little later when he got on the telephone, the air station operator refused to put him through to Major Williamson's quarters, saying that he would have to telephone Major Williamson's office, which, since it was Saturday,
might
be open after 0800.

So then he stretched out on the bed to wait for 0800, and wakened at 1200, whereupon he had called again, requested Major Williamson's office number, and listened as the number rang and rang and rang and no one answered.

The thing to do, obviously, was go out to the goddamned air station and run down Major Williamson by whatever means proved to be necessary. Seeing Major Williamson was important.

He got as far as the main gate, expecting to get waved through after a crisp salute from the guard. But instead he was waved to a halt by a five-foot-two, 120-pound Marine PFC, who asked him what his business was at the Pensacola Naval Air Station.

“I'm just visiting,” Weston had told him.

The PFC had then asked him for his identification card and his pass, or orders.

He had only his ID card.

Weston more or less patiently explained that he was on temporary duty at the Greenbrier Hotel, which was serving as a rest and recuperation facility for personnel returning from overseas, and didn't have a pass because it was the policy at the Greenbrier that passes were not needed to leave the place on weekends.

Clearly convinced that he had at the minimum apprehended an AWOL officer, and perhaps even a Japanese spy intent upon infiltrating the air base to blow up the aircraft on the flight lines, the Marine PFC showed Weston where he should park the car until the duty officer arrived. Then he stood in the door of the guard shack, his eyes never leaving Weston for more than five seconds. Should Weston attempt to drive off, he was obviously prepared to take any necessary action, like shooting him with his .45.

The duty officer, a lieutenant (j.g.) who was
not
wearing the golden wings of a Naval Aviator, appeared ten minutes later. He eyed Weston warily, while Weston repeated his tale about being at the Greenbrier, and not needing a pass because no passes were required.

“Sir, it's my understanding that the Greenbrier Hotel has been taken over as sort of a hospital for personnel who have escaped, or have otherwise been returned from POW status.”

“That's correct.”

“You were a POW?” the j.g. asked.

“Yes,” Weston said, deciding that this was not the time to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing else. “Lieutenant, if you don't believe me, you can call the Greenbrier. I'm sure they will tell you I am who I'm telling you I am.”

And if he calls the Greenbrier, and I can't get Commander Bolemann on the line, he is going to be told that while I am who I say I am, the No Pass Required rule is for the “Local Area Only” and does not include Pensacola, Florida
.

“Sir, what are you doing at Pensacola?”

“I'm carrying a message to Major Avery R. Williamson,” Weston replied, “from a mutual friend.”

The way things are going, he'll ask to see the message, and I will really be fucked up. Colonel Dawkins said I was to personally give it to Major Williamson and to make sure nobody else sees it. So I will obey the Colonel, which means I will have to tell this clown, “Ooops, I seem to have misplaced the message
.”

“I saw Major Williamson half an hour ago at the Yacht Club,” the j.g. said, displaying a nearly miraculous change of attitude. “I was sanding my bottom.”

Captain Weston had an instant mental image of the j.g. sanding his bottom, before he realized he was talking about the bottom of a boat. The smile that came to his face, however, was misinterpreted by the j.g. as a gesture of friendship between fellow sailors. He smiled warmly back.

“I'd say go down there,” he said. “But I think he's probably gone by now.”