"Aye, aye, Sir. You don't know what he wants with Private Moore?"
"I was not told," Colonel Westman said. "When I asked, I was told that if Captain Sessions wanted me to know, he would tell me."
"Jesus Christ!"
"I had precisely the same reaction, Humphrey," Colonel Westman said. "I would like an after action report, if I don't hear from you in the interim."
"Aye, aye, Sir. When does Captain-Sessions, you said, Sir?-get here?"
"Sessions," Westman confirmed. "The courier plane is due here in thirty minutes."
"Thank you for the advance warning, Sir."
"Good afternoon, Major," Colonel Westman said, and hung up.
Major Humphrey called for his clerk, learned to his scarcely concealed annoyance that the battalion sergeant major had business on Main Post... which meant that he was already hoisting his first brew of the afternoon at the Staff NCO Club... and was not available.
"Find out what platoon a man named Moore, John Marston Moore, is in," Major Humphrey ordered. "Then send word I want him available; and that I want to see his Drill Instructor here, right now. And then go to personnel and get his record jacket."
"If I leave, Sir, there will be no one to answer the telephone."
"I know how to answer a telephone," Major Humphrey said, more sharply than he intended. "Get moving."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
Staff Sergeant J.K. Costerburg, Private John Marston Moore's Drill Instructor, was not very helpful: Moore had not given him any trouble, but on the other hand he hadn't been an outstanding trainee, either. There had been genuine concern that he was going to have trouble on the rifle range for a while, but he'd finally shaped up. He kept to himself.
"Sir, he's just not... out of the ordinary," Staff Sergeant Costerburg said, almost visibly pleased that he'd found the right words.
Private Moore's record jacket, which included a synopsis of the FBI Complete Background Investigation, was more illuminating: Moore was the second of three children born to the Reverend Doctor and Mrs. John Wesley Moore. He had been born in Osaka, Japan, twenty-two years before. There was a notation that under a provision of the Immigration and Naturalization Act of 1912, as amended, Moore was considered to be a native-born American, as his father's service abroad as a missionary representative of the Methodist Episcopal Church was considered to be service abroad in the interest of the United States.
He had lived in the United States, in Washington and Philadelphia, from 1922 until 1929 (Humphrey checked the dates and did the mental arithmetic and came up with from the time he was two until he was eight), and then had returned to Japan with his family, staying there until 1940, during which time he had matriculated at the University of Tokyo. On his return to the United States, he had entered the University of Pennsylvania as a junior and graduated in June of 1941 with a Bachelor of Arts degree in Oriental Languages.
He applied for the Marine Officer Candidate Program in January 1942 and was accepted. He was sworn into the Marine Corps Reserve in February, and ordered to active duty 1 April.
Humphrey was aware that people who spoke Japanese were in great demand, and that a young officer who spoke Japanese would almost certainly be given duties to take advantage of his skill, but that did not explain the attention being paid to him by a lieutenant colonel who "sat at the foot of the divine throne."
He now knew a little something about Private John Marston Moore, but he had no idea what that little something meant. And there was no time to really think it through; for he was still examining the contents of his record jacket when Colonel Westman called again.
"The plane was early," Westman announced by way of greeting. "He's on his way in my staff car with one of my lieutenants."
"Thank "you, Sir," Humphrey said. For a reply he got the clatter and click of a telephone being replaced in its cradle.
Captain Sessions appeared ten minutes after that. He was a stranger to Humphrey, but he had a manner that suggested that he had been a Marine before the war.
That didn't annoy Humphrey; but there was something about his attitude that did. He was polite, but superior. It was an attitude that Humphrey had sensed in other officers who worked in Headquarters, U.S. Marine Corps, and who seemed to be very much aware of their own importance.
"Sir, my name is Sessions," Sessions had begun. "I understand that someone telephoned to alert you that I was coming."
"They didn't tell me why," Humphrey said.
"I want to look at the service records of Private John Marston Moore, and then I'd like to talk to him, Sir."
"Have you got some kind of orders, Captain? Or at least some identification?"
"Yes, Sir," Sessions said. He handed Humphrey a small leather folder. It contained a gold badge, and an identity card sealed in plastic with Sessions's photograph and name-but not, Humphrey noticed with curiosity, his rank. And it was not a Marine Corps identity card. It bore the seal of the Navy Department, and the legend CHIEF OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE. It identified Sessions as Special Agent, not as a Marine Captain.
"That ought to do it," Humphrey said, and then blurted, "I've never seen anything like that before."
"There's not very many of them," Sessions said, matter-of-factly.
"I've got Moore's record jacket here," Humphrey said.
"May I see it, please?" Sessions replied. "And then could you send for him, please, Major?"
"I've got him standing by," Humphrey said. "Is this boy in any kind of trouble, Captain?"
"Not so far as I'm concerned," Sessions replied, and then smiled, "I was about to put that same question to you, Major."
(Three)
UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS RECRUIT DEPOT
PARRIS ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA
1615 HOURS 15 JUNE 1942
Private John Marston Moore, United States Marine Corps Reserve, had practiced the maneuver, but he had never before rendered the rifle salute to a real officer: He marched through the door identified by a stenciled sign as that of MAJOR H.B. HUMPHREY, USMC, BATTALION COMMANDER, with his piece at right shoulder arms, determined to do so to the best of his ability.
He stopped eighteen inches from the Major's desk, with his heels together and his feet turned out equally and forming an angle of 45 degrees. He then moved his left hand smartly to the small of the stock, forearm horizontal, palm of the hand down, the first joint of his left forefinger touching the cocking piece of his Springfield Model 1903A4 rifle.
"Sir," he barked, looking at Major Humphrey, a thin, leather-skinned man of about thirty-five who wore his hair so short his scalp was visible, "Private Moore, J.M., reporting to the battalion commander as ordered."
Ordinarily, Private Moore had learned, persons in the Naval Service of the United States do not salute indoors, except when Under Arms. He was obviously, with the Springfield, Under Arms, but he had also learned in his six weeks of service in the Marine Corps that things were most often not as one expected them to be. He had asked the staff sergeant in the outer office what he was supposed to do with the rifle. The reply-"Get your ass in there and report to the Major"-had not been very helpful.
Major Humphrey touched his eyelid with his right hand, fingers together and straight, palm down.
The salute had been returned.
Private Moore cut his left hand smartly back to his right side, fingers extended and together, so that his thumb touched the seam of his utility trousers. He then looked six inches above Major Humphrey, in the prescribed position of attention.
"Order arms," Major Humphrey ordered, and then followed this command immediately with, "stand at ease."
Private Moore moved the Springfield so that it cut diagonally across his body, the center of the rifle just below his chin, held at the point of balance by the left hand. He moved his right hand from the butt on the rifle to a point one-third down from the muzzle, and then moved the rifle beside his right leg, checking the movement with his left hand. When the butt touched the floor, he moved his left hand so that its thumb touched the seam of his utility trousers. Then he leaned the Springfield forward, put twelve inches between the heels of his boots, and set his left hand in the small of his back. He was now At Ease.
"He's all yours, Captain," Major Humphrey said.