"Great," McCoy said. "Everything laid on for me, us, to talk to them?"
"You tell me when and where and I'll have them there."
"You got someplace?"
"Yeah. I'll take care of it," Osgood said. "I'll send a car for you in the morning. You have to make your manners with the G-2, I guess?"
"I suppose we'll have to," McCoy said.
"There's another guy, Ken. He don't speak Jap, and he's no radio operator, but he's interesting."
"Why interesting?"
"Well, for one thing, he used to be a cop. Actually a vice squad detective. Saint Louis."
"A vice squad detective?" Moore asked, laughing.
"Maybe he could do something to solve your problem, Lieutenant," McCoy said, and then added, "I don't understand, Teddy."
"He went after one of his DIs, was going to break his arm."
"Sounds like my kind of guy," Moore said.
Osgood looked at him and smiled. "The word is that the DI, an assistant DI, is a real asshole."
"And this guy broke his arm?" McCoy asked.
"No. The platoon DI saw what he was up to and stopped him. He said the guy really knows how to use a knife. If he had wanted to cut the DI, kill him, he would be dead, the DI said.
But all he wanted to do was break his arm. I guess he figured he could get away with that."
"They court-martial him?"
"No. For what? The DI said, `Try to kill me." The guy was just obeying orders. The platoon DI came to me and explained the situation, and I transferred the guy to another platoon."
"Is this guy a sleaze, Teddy?" McCoy asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what does he look like, what does he act like?"
"I don't know. I never actually seen him. His platoon DI's a friend of mine, and he must have sort of liked this guy or he wouldn't have come to me about him."
"Or, like you said, the assistant DI is an asshole and he figured he deserved a broken arm. I want to see him, Teddy. Can you arrange that?"
"No problem," Osgood said. "I'll have him there with the others."
"You want another one of these?" McCoy asked, extending the pint of scotch to Moore. He suspected, correctly, that Moore was both exhausted by their trip and in pain.
"Please," Moore said, taking the bottle.
"What about now?" McCoy said. "Let's see how he reacts to getting up in the middle of the night."
"You're serious, aren't you?" Osgood asked.
"Yeah, I'm serious," McCoy said. He looked at Moore.
"After I talked to your new boss, I talked to Captain Sessions.
He said I should also ask about getting your new boss an orderly, or a driver, but really somebody to pick up the papers he leaves lying around when he's not supposed to."
"Oh," Moore said.
"He also used the word `bodyguard' but said we shouldn't say it around your boss."
"Yeah," Moore said, understanding.
"Why not?" Sergeant Major Osgood said. "Everybody knows people in the supply business need bodyguards. Who is your boss, anyway?"
"None of your fucking business," McCoy said. "Since you asked." The sergeant major chuckled. He went to the bedside table, pulled open a drawer, took out a mimeographed telephone directory, found the number he was looking for, and dialed it.
"This is the sergeant major," he said "Roll Private Hart, George F., out of the sack. Have him standing by in full field gear in five minutes. I'll send a vehicle for him."
Private Hart was not surprised when the lights in the squad bay came on in the middle of the night. That happened all the time. Nor was he particularly surprised when the drill instructor marched down the aisle between the rows of double bunks, his heels crashing against the wooden, washed-nearly-white flooring, and stopped at his bunk.
At least I'm out of the sack and at attention, he thought, taking some small solace from the situation.
It was not the first time since he had been transferred to his new platoon that he'd been singled out for what was euphemistically called "extra training." This most often consisted of an order to get dressed and take a couple of double-time laps around the barracks area with his rifle held over his head. But a couple of times they woke him at two in the morning to practice "basic elements of field fortification." That meant digging a man-sized hole with his entrenching tool and filling it up again. Then they let him shower and get back in the sack.
He understood now why they'd done those things. His new DI and his assistants wanted to make sure he was not a wiseass who had to be broken to fit the Marine mold. Although what he had almost done to Corporal Clayton C. Warren, USMC, had not officially happened and was supposed to be kept as quiet as possible to protect the dignity of the DI Corps, they knew about it, obviously, and so they wanted to make sure about him.
For his part, he'd obeyed their orders without complaint and to the best of his ability. And the DI here and his assistants, while they were a stiff-necked bunch of bastards, were at least a reasonably fair trio of stiff-necked bastards-a marvelous improvement over Corporal Clayton C. Warren, USMC.
It was against Holy Writ to meet the eyes of a DI; one was required to stare off into space. So it was a moment before Private Hart became aware that the DI whose face was an inch and a half from his was the DI, Staff Sergeant Homer Hungleberry, USMC, and that Staff Sergeant Hungleberry was attired in his boondockers and skivvies only.
"Caught you with your cock in your hand, did I, Hart?"
"Sir, no, Sir."
"What have you done that I don't know about, Hart?"
What the fuck is he talking about?
"Sir, I don't know."
"When I find out, and I will find out, I will have your ass twice. Once for doing something I don't know about and once for lying to me about it."