This would give them a chance to say hello. Or good-bye.

When McCoy drove back to COMPACFLEET, he parked the borrowed truck where no one could see him get out of it, and then went in search of something to eat.

The lieutenant commander found him in the cafeteria eating a bologna sandwich.

"I just looked all over the goddamn BOQ for you," he said. "That's where I told you to go."

McCoy, his mouth full, held up the bologna sandwich.

The lieutenant commander handed McCoy a briefcase and a pad of receipt forms. Then he took him to Ford Island, where a Catalina was being fueled by hand.

The airbase was a shambles, and the dense cloud of black smoke rising from Battleship Row was visible for a long time after they had taken off.

(Four)

Headquarters, 4th Regiment, USMC

Cavite Naval Base

Manila Bay, Territory of the Philippines

1300 Hours, 9 December 1941

The 4th Marines was just about clear of the area when McCoy finally found it. They had apparently moved out in haste. There was a large pile of packaging material, rough-cut lumber, cardboard, and wood shavings, on what had been the neatly trimmed lawn in front of Regimental Headquarters.

The buildings were deserted. Completely deserted, McCoy thought, until he was nearly run down by the colonel, trailed by the sergeant-major, as he turned a comer.

They were in khakis, no field scarves, wearing web belts with.45s dangling from them, and tin hats. Both of them had '03 Springfields slung over their shoulders.

McCoy was in greens, with a leather-brimmed cap.

The colonel's eyebrows rose when he saw McCoy.

"I know you. Who are you?" the colonel demanded.

McCoy popped to attention.

"Corporal McCoy, sir!" he barked.

"Shit," the sergeant-major said, and laughed out loud.

"Lieutenant McCoy, sir," McCoy said.

"I'll be damned," the colonel said. "What the hell is going on, McCoy? Lieutenant?'''

"I just graduated from Platoon Leader's Course, sir."

"And they assigned you back here?" the colonel asked, incredulously.

"No, sir," McCoy said. "I'm an officer courier. I just got in. I thought I'd… come by and say hello to Captain Banning."

"Jesus H. Christ!" the colonel said, and shook his head and marched out of the building.

(Five)

Santos Bay, Lingayen Gulf Luzon, Territory of the Philippines 0515 Hours, 10 December 1941

Captain Edward J. Banning lay behind a quickly erected sandbag barrier at the crest of the hill leading down to the beach.

The day was going to be cloudless. Cloudless and probably hot.

It was entirely likely that he would die here today, possibly even this morning. Behind a sandbag barrier on a hot, cloudless day.

The beach was being defended by two companies of Marines. They had not had time (or material) to mine the approaches to the beach. They had four water-cooled.30-caliber Brownings, six air-cooled.30-caliber Brownings, and half a dozen mortars. Somewhere en route, allegedly, were two 75-mm cannon from a Doggie-officered, Philippine Scout Field Artillery Battery.

A mile offshore were two dozen Japanese ships, half merchantmen converted to troop transports, half destroyers.

At first light, they were supposed to have been attacked by Army Air Corps bombers. Banning was not surprised that they had not been. The Japs had wiped out the Air Corps in the Philippines after it had been conveniently lined up on airfields for them. It had occurred to some Air Corps general that since there was a chance of sabotage if the planes were in widely dispersed revetments, they could be more "economically" guarded if they were gathered together in rows.

They had been all lined up for the Japs when they came in.

There would be no bombers to attack the Japanese invasion force, and the Japanese landing force would not be repelled by two companies of Marines and a handful of.30-caliber machine guns.

These two companies of the 4th Marines would die here today, in a futile defense of an indefensible beach.

And the rest of the regiment would die on other indefensible beaches.

He was resigned to it.

That's what he had been drawing all his pay for, for all those years, so he would be available for a situation like this.

He heard movement behind him and turned to see what it was, and had trouble believing what he saw.

It was Corporal "Killer" McCoy, without headgear, wearing a khaki shirt and green trousers, staggering under the load of a BAR (Browning Automatic Rifle, Caliber.30-06) and what looked like twenty or more magazines for it.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Banning asked.

With what looked like his last ounce of energy, McCoy set the BAR down carefully on the sandbags and then collapsed on his back, breathing heavily, still festooned with bandoliers of twenty-round magazines for the BAR.

It was only then that Banning saw the small gold bars pinned to McCoy's collar.

"I found the BAR and the Ammo at a checkpoint," McCoy breathed, still flat on his back. "Whoever was manning the checkpoint took off."

"What are you doing here?" Banning asked. "And wearing an officer's shirt?"

"I thought you knew," McCoy said. "I went to the Platoon Leader's Course."

"No, I didn't know," Banning said. "But what the hell are you doing here?"

"I came in as a courier," McCoy said. "Now that I am here, I guess I'm doing what you're doing."

He rolled onto his stomach and raised his head high enough to see over the sandbags.

"Jesus Christ, they're just sitting out there! Isn't there any artillery?"

"There's supposed to be, but there's not," Banning said. "There was also supposed to be bombers."

"Shit, we're going to get clobbered!"

"Did somebody order you up here, McCoy?" Banning asked.

"No," McCoy said simply. "But I figured this is where I belonged."

"Where are you supposed to be?"

"They told me to hang around the Navy Comm Center, in case there was a way to get me out of here. But that's not going to happen."

"You've got orders ordering you out of the Philippines?" Banning asked. McCoy nodded. "You goddamned fool! I'd give my left nut for orders like that."

McCoy looked at him curiously.

Perhaps even contemptuously, Banning thought.

"Get your ass out of here, McCoy," Banning said.

McCoy didn't respond. Instead he picked up Banning's binoculars and peered over the sandbags through them.

"Too late," he said. "They're putting boats over the side."

He handed Banning the binoculars.

Banning was looking through them when the tin cans started firing the preassault barrage. The first rounds were long, landing two, three hundred yards inland. The second rounds were short, setting up plumes of water fifty yards offshore.

The third rounds would be on target, he thought, as he saw the Japanese landing barges start for the beach.

The first rounds of the "fire for effect" barrage landed on the defense positions close to the beach.

The fucking Japs knew what they were doing!

When the first of the landing barges was five hundred yards off shore, maybe six hundred yards from where they were, McCoy brought it under fire.

The noise of the BAR going off so close to Banning's ear was painful as well as startling. He turned to look at McCoy. McCoy was firing, as he was supposed to, short three-, four-, five-round bursts, aimed bursts, giving the piece time to cool a little as he fired.

He's probably hitting what he's shooting at. But it's like trying to stamp out ants. There's just too many of them. And in a minute, some clever Jap is going to call in a couple of rounds on us. And that will be the end of us.

Captain Edward J. Banning's assessment of the tactical situation proved to be correct and precise. Two minutes later, the first round landed on their position, so close to him that the shock of the concussion caused him to lose control of his sphincter muscle. He didn't hear the sound of the round explode, although he heard it whistle on the way in.