The Marines of Autumn: A Novel of the Korean War Read Online Free PDF Page B

Captain.”
    “I’m sure,” Verity said, measuring the man.
    Izzo was a reservist called back into the Corps in July from a pleasant and constructive (he said) civilian life.
    “I myself, Captain, independent of family connections, have a career marketing previously owned automobiles—”
    “You sell used cars,” Tate interposed.
    “—at fair market value with all warranties in order, working on pure commission at rates previously and amiably agreed upon by management and me. The neighborhood could vouch; they could give testimonials. If Izzo sells it, the car runs.” He never dealt a car that wasn’t “glorioso.”
    The army said Izzo stole a jeep.
    “It was there, Captain, abandoned, key in the ignition. All about me roving bands of North Korean soldiers in headlong retreatnorth, plus guerrillas and irregulars. I am to leave a taxpayer asset like this where the enemy steals it? I was looking for its rightful owners when the MPs came upon me.”
    “You a good driver?” Tate asked.
    Izzo looked pained even to be asked. “Gunny, any year now they will invite me to drive the pace car at Indianapolis. Briefly as a lad I got in with bad company in South Philadelphia and drove for evil companions. I was in several major stickups, highly publicized in both the
Inquirer
and
Bulletin
, as wheelman. It was how I got to join the Marine Corps in the first place back in ’42. It was that or serve time. I was seventeen and wise beyond my years, so I enlisted in the Corps. After Peleliu I knew I’d make a mistake; I should have gone to friggin’ jail for life.”
    Izzo was small and skinny and said his nickname was Mouse.
    “Mouse. That’s what they call me, being small.”
    Ferret
, Verity thought, more vicious than a mouse. Mice were soft and gray and issued little warning squeaks. This Izzo was neither soft nor colorless; all sinew and bone, no bulk. Cunning was his muscle.
    Well, they were going to the wars. “Can you fix it, Gunny?” Verity asked.
    “We’ll try, sir.”
    Tate arranged things with an army master sergeant, a fifth of Verity’s scotch and some of Verity’s cigars changing hands, and they had Izzo released into Captain Verity’s custody.
    “I was in the first wave at Inchon,” Izzo claimed as he got into the driver’s seat, running hands admiringly over the care-polished wheel.
    “What outfit?” Tate inquired.
    Izzo was somewhat vague about that and noisily ran through the various gears, trying them out. Changing the subject. “Want to be sure you’ve got a good vehicle here, Captain.”
    “I’ll remember you said that, Izzo,” Verity replied.
    He knew about shifty-eyed enlisted men. It was funny, how quickly being a Marine officer came back.
    “All right,” Tate growled, “let’s move it.”
    The new driver no sooner had the jeep rolling when he reached into a field jacket to pull out a pair of silver-mirrored aviator glasses, which he hooked on his ears before squaring away his fatigue cap.
    Tate, in the backseat, tapped him on the shoulder. “You see with those things?”
    “See great, Gunny; they cut down the glare. Very restful on the eyes. Glorioso for distance vision. They—”
    “All right, Izzo, all right. I’m not pricing them, just asking if you can see.”
    “Just fine, Gunny.”
    Verity, amused, said nothing. You let senior NCOs chivy enlisted men and didn’t get into it yourself, not if you were smart. An officer lost authority that way, picking at every little thing and nagging.
    Izzo turned the engine over smoothly and drove the jeep slowly out of the army compound, resisting the temptation to burn rubber and showboat.
    “Where to, Captain?” he asked, polite as prep schools.
    Well
, Verity thought,
we’ve got ourselves a driver. Let’s hope he’s a good one.
    Izzo drove well but talked endlessly. Free association. About playing baseball in the Southern Association as a Phillies farmhand, selling cars, racing midget autos at the track at Upper Marlboro,