"They have names," Pickering said. "Lieutenant Joe Howard and Sergeant Steve Koffler." He's really pissed about something. Or is he drunk?
"Lieutenant Howard and Sergeant Koffler," Rickabee said.
"Joe and Steve," Pickering said, and took a healthy swallow from his drink. "Did you know, Rickabee, that I made Koffler a buck sergeant?"
"No, Sir, I did not."
"He's only a kid. A long way from being old enough to vote.
But I figured that any Marine who volunteers to do what he is doing should be at least a buck sergeant.
So I told Banning to arrange it."
"I didn't know that, General."
"Joe Howard's a Mustang," Pickering said. "An old pal of mine, a Marine I served with in France-he was a sergeant and I was a corporal, fellow named Jack (NMI) Stecker-thought that Sergeant Howard would make a pretty good officer and got him a direct commission."
"Yes, Sir. I know Major Stecker, Sir. I knew him when he was a master gunny at Quantico."
"One hell of a Marine, Jack (NMI) Stecker," Rickabee said.
"Yes, Sir, he is." He is drunk. Otherwise why, this trip down Marine Corps Memory Lane?
Further evidence of that came when General Pickering went back into the small room, returned with the bottle of Famous Grouse, and killed it freshening their glasses.
"No problem, I just checked. There's two more bottles where that came from. And then, of course, as a courtesy to a Marine General, Captain Lee is going to bring me some more, isn't he?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Sergeant Hart had two copies of Dillon's movies made," Pickering said.
"Did you know that, Rickabee?"
"Yes, Sir. Lieutenant Moore told me."
"Clever fellow, that Hart."
"Yes, Sir."
"There's more to Moore than you might judge the first time you met him," Pickering said.
"Yes, Sir."
"Dillon's movies were very interesting, weren't they, Rickabee?"
"Yes, Sir. They were."
"Perhaps `disturbing' would be a more accurate word."
"Disturbing and interesting, General."
"I lay awake a long time thinking about those movies," Pickering said. "And this morning, when Moore brought me the second copy Hart had made, I had the hospital send the projector back and watched them again. The projectionist got sick to his stomach."
"Really?"
"Well, what the hell do you expect, Rickabee? He was only a soldier, and we're Marines, right?"
Jesus Christ, he is about to get out of hand!
"That's when I called you," Pickering went on, "and asked you to come over here... when the soldier was being sick."
"Yes, Sir."
"Those movies triggered a lot of thoughts in my mind, Rickabee. When I saw the shots of Henderson Field, it occurred to me that my son and Jack (NMI) Stecker's son are soon to he among the pilots there... if they're not there already."
"Yes, Sir."
"And then I went back a long time, to when Jack and I were going through Parris Island. You go through Parris Island, Rickabee?"
"No, Sir. I came into The Corps as an officer."
"You know, a lot of people think that everybody in The Corps should go through Parris Island. I mean officers. too."
"it would probably be a good idea, General."
"Banning didn't go through Parris Island, either, did he""
"No, Sir. I believe Major Banning came into The Corps as an officer, Sir."
"Good man, Banning," Pickering said.
"Yes, Sir."
"You know what they teach you as a boot at Parris Island, Rickabee? What they taught me, and Jack Stecker?"
"I don't take The General's point, Sir."
"They taught Jack and me that one of the things that makes Marines special, makes them different, better, than soldiers is that Marines don't leave their wounded, or their dead, on the battlefield."
"Yes, Sir."
"Do you think they still teach that, Rickabee? Or was that something just from the olden days of World War One?"
"No, Sir. I don't think it is."
"You think they taught that to Lieutenant Moore and Sergeant Hart, for example, when they went through Parris Island?"
"Yes, Sir. I'm sure they did."
"And they went back for Moore, didn't they, on Guadalcanal, when he was hit? A couple of Marines with balls went out there and got Moore and the Marines with him because they knew they were either dead or wounded, and Marines don't leave their dead or wounded, right?"
Where the hell is this conversation going?
"Yes, Sir. That's probably just what happened." There was a knock at the door and two Army medics pushed a rolling cart into the room.
I hope the food sobers hint up.
Lunch was vegetable soup, fried chicken, macaroni and noodles, a slice of bread, a banana custard, and a pot of tea.
"Please bring me some coffee," General Pickering said, and then changed his mind. "No. Belay that. I don't want any coffee. Thank you very much." He took instead another swallow of Famous Grouse.
Then he carefully cut a piece of chicken from the breast on his plate and put it in his mouth.
I hope that tastes terrible and he will divert the anger that's inside him to eating out the mess officer.
"Well, the mess sergeant must be drunk," General Pickering said. "That's really good."
"I'm pleased, Sir."
"I wonder what Joe Howard and Steve Koffler are eating on Buka?"
"I'm afraid they're not eating this well, General."
"More to the point, Rickabee," General Pickering asked conversationally, "when did we kick them out of The Corps)"
What the hell does that mean?
"Sir?"
"Well, I would call their physical condition pretty much the same as being wounded, and that's presuming they're still alive.
If they were Marines, we'd go get them, wouldn't we? Marines don't get left on their battlefield when they're wounded. Or dead. So that means they're not Marines, right?"
"General, if Major Banning could relieve them, he would."
"Wrong. Major Banning has written them off. You were here when Dillon told me that. As far as Banning is concerned, as far as anybody is concerned, they're dead."
"I'm afraid that's true, Sir. There's absolutely nothing that can be done, given the circumstances."
"I'm going to tell you something, Colonel Rickabee," General Pickering said, just this side of nastily. "This Marine is `going to try."
"I'm not sure I take The General's meaning, Sir."
"You can knock off that `The General this' and `The General that' crap, Rickabee. And you know damned well what I mean.
You just don't want to hear it."
"May I speak bluntly, Sir?"
"You better. Bullshit time is over."
"There's nothing you can do, Sir."
"Maybe not. But I am damned sure going to try. If I have the power to have some captain deliver overnight two cases of booze to me from the West Coast, I ought to be able to divert a little of it to getting those two kids off of Buka."
"Trying to reinforce them would endanger their safety."
"What safety, for Christ's sake? Feldt and Banning are sitting around in Townsville with their thumbs up their ass waiting to hear they're dead."
"I'm sorry to hear that you have lost your confidence in Major Banning."
"I was sorry to lose it. What's happened is that he's forgotten he's a Marine and fallen under Feldt's goddamned British philosophy that no sacrifice is too great for King and Country."
"I can't believe that Ed Banning is capable of forgetting he's a Marine," Rickabee said, aware that he was on the edge of losing his temper.
"Then why is he sitting around waiting for those two kids to get killed?"
I'll be a sonofabitch. Touch‚, General
"General, I wouldn't know where to start. I'm exceedingly reluctant to sit here in Washington and second-guess what Banning is d
oing, the decisions he is forced to make."
"I'm not," Pickering said simply. "And, for a place to start, I want to see McCoy."
"McCoy?"
"Is there some reason that's impossible?"
"Sir, there is an operation in the planning stages-"
"What kind of an operation?"
"We're going to set up a weather observation station in Mongolia, General. The mission was laid on The Corps by the Joint Chiefs. The station will be required later in the war for long-range bombing raids.
McCoy is singularly well qualified to take a major role."
"Mongolia?" Pickering asked dubiously, and then: "When does this operation get under way?"
"In about four months, Sir. They're trying to decide the best way to get the people into Mongolia."
"I'm planning to get Howard and Koffler off Buka in the next month, Rickabee. Send for McCoy. I have the feeling there's a very good reason they call him `Killer." And in any event, he's a simple ex-enlisted man like me who believes that Marines don't leave their dead and wounded on the battlefield."
"There are a number of professional officers, General, including this one, who don't think so either.
"I've angered you, Rickabee, haven't I?"
What you've done is make me a little ashamed of myself.
"No, Sir. Not at all, Sir. I'll have McCoy here in the morning, and I'll give this some thought."
[Five]
THE FOSTER LAFAYETTE HOTEL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
1910 HOURS 22 SEPTEMBER 1942
"May I help you, Miss?" the desk clerk said to the striking young woman with jet-black, pageboy-cut hair.
"May I have the key to 614, please?" she asked.
Although every effort had been made to prepare him for every possible contingency, the request posed certain problems for the desk clerk.
For one thing, he had no idea who this woman was. For another, 614 was a three-room suite maintained year-round by American Personal Pharmaceuticals, Inc., for the convenience of corporate executives who had business in Washington. For another, the desk clerk was aware that the Chairman of the Board of American Personal Pharmaceuticals, Inc., and his wife had a personal relationship with the Foster family: Mrs. Elaine Sage had been the college roommate of Mrs. Patricia Pickering, Andrew Foster's only child.
A quick look at the key board confirmed the desk clerk's recollection that 614 was not occupied at the moment.
The stunning young woman in the pageboy was obviously not Mrs. Elaine Sage. She was not even married; there was no ring on her finger. Neither was there a ring on the third finger of the left hand of the uncomfortable-looking young Marine officer standing behind her.
"Six-fourteen, Miss?"
"Please. I'm Ernestine Sage."
"Just a moment, please," the desk clerk said and walked quickly to the small office occupied by the assistant manager on duty.
"There is a young woman at the counter-a real looker, in bangs-who wants the key to 614. She says her name is Sage."
"A looker with bangs? Give it to her. That's Ernest Sage's daughter."
"She's got a Marine with her," the desk clerk said.
`Really?" the assistant manager said, and got up and walked through the door to the counter.
"Hello, Miss Sage," he said. Then, in one smooth move, he snatched the key from the key board, handed it to her, and tinkled the bell for a bellboy. "Nice to have you in the house again. And you too, Lieutenant McCoy."
"How are you," Ken McCoy responded, running the words together and flashing a brief uncomfortable smile.
"Thank you, it's nice to see you," Ernie Sage said, and turned to follow the bellboy with their luggage to the elevators.
The assistant manager picked up the telephone and asked for room service.
"Send flowers, fruit, and a bottle of champagne, Moet, to six fourteen," he ordered. After he hung up, he turned to the desk clerk. "That was indeed Miss Ernestine Sage. The gentleman with her is Lieutenant K.
R. McCoy. Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering-who was once the bell captain here, by the way, did you know that?"
"No, I didn't."
"-Lieutenant Pickering once told me that Lieutenant McCoy was his best friend. He asked me as a personal favor to him to take very good care of Lieutenant McCoy whenever he was in the house. Is everything clear now, Tom?"
"Crystal clear."
In the elevator, oblivious to the presence of the operator, the bellboy, and a well-dressed couple in their fifties, Ernie Sage said, "Don't you dare look embarrassed! I'm not the one who doesn't want to get married."
"Jesus, Ernie!" McCoy said, flushing.
"I have no objection to becoming an honest woman," Ernie said, enjoying herself. "You're the one who insists on living in sin." McCoy rushed off the elevator before the doors were fully open and hurried down the corridor. Ernie smiled warmly at the well-dressed middle-aged couple before following the bellboy.
Once the door was open, McCoy headed for the couch in the sitting room and picked up the telephone from the coffee table in front of it. He gave the operator a number.
"Give me the watch officer, please.
"Lieutenant McCoy, Sir. The Colonel told me to check in when I got to Washington.
"No, Sir. I'm in the Foster Lafayette Hotel. Room 614.
"Thank you, Sir." Ernie, meanwhile, had led the bellboy into the largest bedroom, tipped him, and then watched him leave. By the time McCoy was done with the phone, she had removed all her clothing but her underwear. She was now standing in the bedroom doorway with her hip thrust out provocatively.
Her arm was behind her head and a rose was in her teeth.
"Hi, Marine! Looking for a good time?"
"You're nuts, you know that?"
"I don't know about you, but I find it terribly sexy to be in a hotel room with someone I'm not married to."
"You're going to keep that up, are you?"
There was not time for her to reply. There was a knock at the door. After she closed the bedroom door, McCoy opened the corridor door to a waiter delivering a rolling cart with champagne, fruit, cut flowers, and a copy of The Washington Post.
The bellman refused the two dollars McCoy extended to him.
"No, Sir. Professional courtesy. Pick and I used to run bells together. Any friend of Pick's.
"Thanks," McCoy said.
As soon as the door had closed behind the bellboy, the bedroom door opened.
"Isn't that nice?" Ernie said. "Why don't you just roll that in here?"
"I've had worse offers," McCoy said.
The telephone rang. Ernie picked up the phone on the bedside table.
"Hello?" she said, and then extended it to McCoy.
"Lieutenant McCoy."
"Yes, Sir. I'll be there."
"Sir, I have someone with me. A friend of General Pickering's. She would like to visit with him. Would that be possible?"
"Try to keep me away! I'm not in the goddamned Marines! Ernie announced.
"Yes, Sir. I understand. Thank you, Sir.
"Whichever would be easier, Sir. I'll be here. Yes, Sir. Good night, Sir."
"You understand what'?" Ernie said when he put the telephone down.
"You can see him for thirty minutes at half past seven in the morning."
"Oh, I'm so grateful!"
"Hey, I told you this was duty."
"What's it all about?"
"I don't know. I'm-which does not mean `you'-about to find out. Captain Sessions is coming over here."
"Great!" Ernie said sarcastically.
"He could have made me go to the office. You're getting to be a pain in the ass, Ernie." Her face tightened. She opened her mouth to reply, then visibly changed her mind.
"Sorry," she said.
"I'm sorry I said that," McCoy said, genuinely contrite.
She waved her hand, signifying it didn't matter.
"When's Ed Sessions coming?"
"It'll probably take him thirty mi
nutes, maybe forty-five. He's got some stuff the Colonel wants me to read before We see General Pickering."
"I don't know about you, baby," Ernie said, "but on general principles, I have nothing against a quickie."
When Captain Edward Sessions walked into suite 614, Lieutenant K. R. McCoy and Miss Ernestine Sage, fully clothed, were sitting on the couch in the sitting room, working on an enormous platter of shrimp and oysters. It did not escape his attention, however, that despite the early hour, the bed he could see through a partially opened door seemed to have been slept in.
"Good to see you, Ernie," he said, and she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek.
"Would you be crushed, Ed, if I told you I suspect something is about to happen that I'm not going to like at all?"
"No," he said.
He fumbled in his pocket for the key to the handcuff which chained his briefcase to his wrist, freed his wrist, and handed the briefcase to McCoy.
"If some kind soul were to offer me a drink and an oyster, I could occupy myself while you read that, Ken," Sessions said.
"We just had a bottle of champagne," Ernie said. "I would order another, but I don't think we have anything to celebrate.
"Scotch, Ed?"
"Please," he said.
McCoy settled himself in a corner of the couch and opened the briefcase. Before she made Sessions'
drink, Ernie looked long enough to see TOP SECRET cover sheets on the manila folder he took from the briefcase. After a moment's thought she made one for herself.
She glanced at Ken. She recognized the look of absolute concentration on his face. She knew he would be annoyed if she offered him a drink or even handed him one.
She gave Ed Sessions his drink.
"How's Jeanne, Ed?"
"Great. If she knew you were here, she would have come. She'll be sorry to have missed you."
Five minutes later McCoy raised his eyes from the stack of folders on his lap.
"OK. I gave it a quick once-over. What's this got to do with me?"
"All I know is that General Pickering told the Colonel to send for you," Sessions said.
"Is Banning behind that?" McCoy asked.
Sessions shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't know. All I know is that the Colonel wants yoùconversant' with that stuff before we see The General in the morning."
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