He's lying
, she thought.
He made that up. There is absolutely no way, in the short time he's been here, that he could have made a date
.
«But thank you just the same,» Jim Weston went on. «You may consider yourself forgiven for your outrageous behavior at the airport.»
»
My
outrageous behavior?» Janice asked incredulously.
«Yes,» he said. «We'll just pretend
that
never happened, and perhaps I can even fit you into my schedule later in the week. But right now, I'm running a little late, so you'll have to excuse me.» He stood up and resumed walking up South Broad Street.
She leaned over and with difficulty reached across for the open door and closed it. When she looked out the windshield, she saw him trying and failing to flag down a taxicab.
Where the hell is he going? If I don't get him back to the hospital, he's headed for real trouble.
She put the Ford in gear and went after him. «Get in, and I'll give you a ride,» she called to him when she pulled to the curb again.
«If I get in your car, Florence Nightingale, you'll try to drive me back to the hospital. I can see it in your eyes.»
«I'll take you wherever you want to go,» she said.
«Girl Scout's Honor? I don't have much faith in that officer and gentleman— gentlelady?—word-of-honor business.»
«Where are you really going?»
«Will you really take me there?»
«Yes, I will. I said I would, and I will.»
He opened the car door and slipped in beside her.
«Where to?» Janice asked.
What he's going to do now is make another pitch to take me to dinner, and I'll turn him down again and take him back to the hospital.
Oh, what the hell, I have to eat. Having dinner with him will calm him down
—
stroke that enormous ego
—
and then it will be easier to get him back to the hospital
.
She could smell his aftershave lotion.
He handed her a slip of paper on which was written: «Caroline. 98 Stevens Ave., Jenkintown WI 76746.»
I'll be damned. He really has a woman waiting for him.
A tramp, more than likely. Maybe even a lady of the evening, who does that sort of thing for money.
And I have agreed to take him to meet her.
«Do you know where that is?» Weston asked.
«The other side of Philadelphia,» she said, «past the other end of Broad Street.»
«If that's out of your way, Florence,» he said, «then just drop me where 1 can catch a cab.»
«My name is Janice,» she corrected him. «And I said I'd take you and I will,» she added firmly.
«Thank you,» he said.
Fifteen minutes later, as they headed up North Broad Street, she asked two questions: «What's in the paper bag?»
«A pineapple.»
«A
pineapple
?»
»
Ananas comosus
,» he clarified. «One eats them. You don't know what a pineapple is?»
Janice fell silent for ninety seconds, then asked about the second thing that had piqued her curiosity. «How did you get out? If you don't mind my asking?»
«I climbed the fence,» he replied matter-of-factly.
«But there's barbed wire on top of the fence,» she replied, «and a walking patrol.»
«I noticed,» he said.
«And how did you plan to get back in?»
«You must be reading my mind,» he said. «I don't suppose you could stick around awhile? What I have to do won't take long, and you could drive me back.»
»
What I have to do won't take long «
?
«On the way we could have dinner,» he added.
Janice did not reply.
Ninety-Eight Stevens Avenue in Jenkintown turned out to be a large brick colonial house set two hundred feet back from the road on a large, tree-studded lot. A Mercury station wagon was parked on the drive.
Janice parked behind the station wagon.
«Are you going to wait for me, Florence?» Weston asked.
«I told you my name was Janice,» she snapped.
He snapped his fingers, indicating that he now remembered.
«So you did,» he said. «Well,
Janice
, are you going to wait for me, or are you going to just leave me here to face the dangers of suburban Philadelphia all by myself?»
«What are you going to do in there?»
«God only knows what time will bring,» he said solemnly. He stepped out of the car and walked toward the house
When he was halfway to the door, she got out and followed him.
As he walked up the shallow flight of stairs, the door opened. A tall, good-looking blonde smiled at Weston.
An older woman
, Janice thought.
She must be at least thirty
.
«You have to be Jim,» the woman said.
«And you have to be Caroline,» Weston said. «Have a pineapple, Caroline.» He handed her the brown paper bag. She opened it and smiled. «Picked by the skipper himself,» Weston added.
«And I have never seen a more beautiful pineapple,» she said.
«As splendid an example of
Ananas comosus
as Charley could find,» Weston said. «It must have taken him as much as ten, fifteen seconds to pick this one.»
She laughed.
«Come on in, quickly,» she said. «Our air raid warden takes his duties seriously.»
She looked at Janice curiously and smiled.
They stepped into the foyer, and Caroline closed the door.
«If I knew you were with your girl, I wouldn't have told you to come right out,» Caroline said.
«She's more like my keeper than my girl,» Weston said. «But I'm working on it. Caroline, Janice. Janice, Caroline.»
«Your keeper?»
«She's a nurse in the psychiatric ward of the hospital,» Weston said.
«Charley wrote about that. The letter came this morning,» Caroline said. «That's outrageous!»
«Pay attention, Florence,» Weston said.
«Janice, damn it!» Janice blurted. '
«Hello, Janice,» Caroline said. «I'm Caroline McNamara.»
«How do you do? I'm Janice Hardison.»
«It was very nice of you to bring Jim out here,» Caroline said.
«Nothing is too good for us lunatics, right, Janice?»
«Will you shut up?» Janice snapped.
«We've only known each other four hours, and we're having our first lovers' quarrel,» Weston said.
«We are not lovers!»
«I'm working on that,» Weston said. «I'm certainly willing to give it a shot.»
Caroline laughed. «Why do I suspect Jim is your first Marine Aviator?» she asked.
«He's not my first anything,» Janice said.
«They take a little getting used to,» Caroline said. «But once you acquire the taste, you won't be satisfied with anything less.»
«Pay attention to the lady, Janice,» Weston said.
«If you don't shut up…«
«You'll hold your breath until you turn blue?»
Caroline laughed.
And Janice realized she was smiling. «You
are
crazy, you know that?»
Oh, my God! I can't believe I said that! What's the matter with me?
«No, Florence Nightingale, Dr. Kister and I are in agreement that I am not crazy.»
«Who's Dr. Kister?» Caroline asked.
«Navy psychiatrist.»
«Wait until Dr. Kister hears that you went AWOL. Climbed over the fence.»
«You're going to tell him?»
«You went AWOL?» Caroline asked.
«Perhaps,
technically,'»
Weston said. «But if it gets down to a court-martial, my defense is going to be that I was simply carrying out a legal order.»
«What legal order?» Janice asked.
«From my last commanding officer, Captain Charles M. Galloway,» Weston said. « '
The first thing you do when you get to Philadelphia, Weston, is take this pineapple to Caroline.' «
Caroline chuckled.
«What he did—he didn't have a pass, of course. They never give off-base passes when a patient is in Five-B…« Janice said.
«Five-B is the loony bin, Caroline,» Weston clarified.
«What he did was climb the barbed-wire fence,» Janice went on, wondering why it was important to her to explain herself to Caroline. «I found him brazenly walking up South Broad Street—«
«And you brought him here,» Caroline interrupted. «That was a very nice, a very kind thing for you to do, Janice. Thank you.»
«Yes, it was,» Weston said. «Thank you, Janice.»
Janice was not quite sure if he was making fun of her or not.
«Now the problem is getting him back on the base,» Janice said.
«Is that going to be a problem?» Caroline asked.
«No,» Weston said immediately.
«Yes, it is,» Janice insisted.
«Changing the subject,» Weston said. «At the risk of sounding forward, Mrs. McNamara, Captain Galloway suggested that you might offer me a small libation, presuming I delivered the
Ananas comosus
while it was still suitable for human consumption.»
«Oh, God! Where's my manners? Keeping you standing here in the foyer! Come in the living room, please.»
He called her «Mrs. McNamara.» So where's
Mr.
McNamara
?
Weston misread the look in Janice's eyes. «Not to worry, Janice, I gave Dr. Kister my word that I would go easy on the booze. That was after he told me he scheduled a physical for me in the morning.»
«Good,» she said, a trifle self-righteously.
«To completely put your mind at rest, Janice, I also gave the good doctor my word as an officer and a gentleman—or was it as a Boy Scout? It
was
as a Boy Scout, now that I think about it, which means that I was really serious—that I would not drag you into the bushes.»
«What?» Janice asked incredulously.
«So you can stop looking at me as if you think I have that in mind.»
«That thought would never occur to a Marine officer, right?» Caroline said. «Particularly a Marine fighter pilot?»
«Perish the thought,» Weston said piously.
They were now in a well-furnished living room, standing before a sideboard turned into a bar.
«What would you like, Jim?» Caroline asked.
«I'd like one of each,» Weston said. «But I'll settle for a small scotch.»
«Janice?»
«Nothing, thank you.»
«Oh, come on,» Weston said. «Try to remember you're an officer of the Naval establishment.»
«If she doesn't want anything, don't push her,» Caroline said, coming to her aid.
«I'll have a light scotch, please,» Janice said.
«And afterward, I've got some steaks warming up in the kitchen.»
«Warming up?» Janice asked.
«One of the many things that Charley taught me is that meat tastes much better if you get it to room temperature before you cook it.»
«You have a lovely home, Mrs. McNamara,» Janice said politely.
«My husband, thank God, had the morals of an alley cat,» Caroline said.
«Excuse me?» Janice asked.
«If he had obeyed that promise he made to keep himself only to me until death did us part, I would still be married to him, I would still be supporting him, I wouldn't have gotten this house as part of the divorce settlement, and I wouldn't have met Charley,» Caroline said.
«I'll drink to that,» Weston said.
Janice looked at him and could not keep herself from smiling.
note 18
«The first reasonably deserted place I see,» Lieutenant (j.g.) Hardison said to Captain Weston, «I'm going to stop so you can climb in the trunk.»
«You're not serious.»
«I'm perfectly serious,» she said. «You're AWOL, goddamn it!»
«I like it when you talk dirty,» he said.
«That's profane, not obscene.»
«Say something obscene.»
«I will not,» she said, shaking her head.
«Just drop me a couple of blocks away, and I'll go back over the fence.»
«This would be easier.»
«Your trunk is probably greasy, and I will ruin my nearly brand new uniform.»
«You would probably tear your nearly brand-new uniform going back over the barbed wire,» she said. «And my trunk is spotless!»
«I am putty in your hands,» he said. «Now that I've considered that a dry cleaning job is much cheaper than a new pair of pants, anyway.»
Her trunk was clean, but it was small. Weston had to lie on his back, with his knees pulled up. Janice was just about to close the trunk lid on him when he motioned for her to come close. Then he grabbed her and kissed her on the forehead. «Nighty night, Mommy,» he said.
«You are insane,» she said, and slammed the trunk shut.
When she opened the trunk in the parking lot behind the Female Officers' Quarters, he had trouble climbing out. «God,» he said seriously. «That brought back a lot of memories. The last gate I sneaked through was guarded by Japanese soldiers.»
«Really?»
«Actually no,» he said. «But now that I know you're impressed with heroic efforts, I'll try to invent some more.»
«You're really terrible. I believed you.»
«It was a joke,» he said.
«I don't think I like your sense of humor,» Janice said.
That's not true. He's really a funny guy
.
«What did you think of Caroline?»
«I like her,» she said.
«She liked you. And I like you. That leaves the question, do you like me?»
«I don't think so,» she said.
That's not true, either. I really like him
.
«I suppose that means a goodnight kiss is out of the question?»
«Yes, it does,» she said firmly.
But then she looked into his eyes, and she kissed him.
«Jesus H. Christ!» he said. «That was not what I expected.»
«What did you expect?»
«Not that,» he said. «When do you want to get married?»
«Good night, Captain Weston,» Janice said. «Sleep well.»
«After that? Don't be absurd.»
«That was nothing special.»
«When can I expect special?»
«Never,» she said. «Go to bed.»
She marched toward the door of the Female Officers' Quarters. When she had pulled it open, she turned and looked back at the parking lot. He was still standing where she had left him, looking at her. She looked at him for a long moment before she went into the building.
Chapter Five
note 19
The White House
Washington, D.C.
1420 17 February 1943
«Jim was right about you, Captain,» the President of the United States said, gesturing toward a tall, slender, bald man in the uniform of a Marine major. «You are a remarkable young man, a fine Marine.»
«Hear, hear,» Senator Richardson K. Fowler (R.-Cal.) said. Fowler, sometimes described by President Roosevelt as «the chief of my more or less loyal opposition» and Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, had been close friends for thirty years.
«He was a Raider, Dad,» Major James Roosevelt said. «What did you expect?»
«Well, in that case, I presume, as one Raider to another, you will make sure that Captain McCoy is well taken care of tonight? And that, by order of the Commander in Chief, he gets some well-deserved time off?»
«With pleasure,» Major Roosevelt said.
The President had a tangential thought. Looking first at Senator Fowler and Navy Secretary Frank Knox, and then at McCoy, he asked: «Tell me, Captain, how do you feel about your assignment to the OSS?»
«I'm a Marine, sir,» McCoy said.
«Does that mean you'd really prefer to go back to the Raiders?»
«Sir, I would like to go back to the Raiders, but what I meant was I'm a Marine officer, and I do what I'm ordered to do.»
«I wish there was some way I could make that splendid attitude contagious around here,» the President said. He leaned forward in his wheelchair and offered McCoy his hand. «Thank you very much, Captain,» he said, «not only for the briefing, but also for what you and the others did when you went into the Philippines to hook up with this Fertig chap.»
«He told you, Dad,» the President's son said. «He's a Marine officer. He does what he's told to do. 'Get in the rubber boat and start paddling.' Right, Killer?»
«Yes, sir,» McCoy said.
» 'Killer'?» the President quoted. «I think I'd like to hear about that.»
«No, you wouldn't,» Major Roosevelt said.
But the President was already turning his attention to the Secretary of the Navy. «I'd like a few minutes of your time, Frank, please,» he said. «Of course, Mr. President,» the Secretary of the Navy replied. McCoy sensed that he was being dismissed. Confirmation came a second later as Major Roosevelt touched his arm and nodded toward the door of the upstairs sitting room. He saluted and marched out of the room. Major Roosevelt and Senator Fowler followed him.
As they entered the corridor, a Secret Service man closed the door after them. «Good job, McCoy,» Major Roosevelt said. «You really impressed the Old Man.»
McCoy blurted what he was thinking. «It wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be.»
Senator Fowler chuckled. «Jimmy's father can charm the socks off you, if he's so inclined,» he said. «You have to remember to ask for your shoes back. I didn't say that, Jimmy.»
Major Roosevelt laughed. «I won't tell him what you said, and I won't tell you what he says about you.»
«Fair enough,» Fowler said.
«Okay,» Roosevelt said. «Now we have to find a place where the Killer can rest his weary head.»
«I thought you weren't supposed to call him that,» Fowler said.
«Those rules don't apply to Raiders,» Roosevelt replied. «So what's your pleasure, Killer? I'm sure we can put you up here, but I'll tell you I don't stay here myself unless I'm forced to. And there aren't very many nubile young things prowling these historic corridors.»
«Ken's taken care of,» Fowler said.
«Oh, really?»
«Across the street,» Fowler said, «in General Pickering's apartment.»
«Well, I can't top that offer,» Roosevelt said. «But what about money? Have you been paid lately?»
«I'm all right for money,» McCoy said. «I drew a partial pay at Pearl Harbor.»
«Anything? Incidentally, my father meant it when he said to take some time off. Take at least two weeks off, and tell anybody who asks that it's administrative leave, not chargeable as ordinary leave. By direction of the President.»
«Can I get away with that?»
«Yes, you can,» Roosevelt said firmly. «The least I can do is get you a car to drive across the street.»
«I've got my car, but thank you just the same,» Fowler said. '
Roosevelt put out his hand to McCoy. «It was good to see you, Ken. And when you see Zimmerman, tell him I sent my best regards. He's still in Australia?»
«With this OSS business, there's no telling,» McCoy said. «It was good to see you again, too, Major.»
«I'll walk you downstairs,» Roosevelt said, putting an arm around his shoulders.
note 20
The Marquis de Lafayette Suite
The Foster Lafayette Hotel
Washington, D.C.
1445 17 February 1943
A soft chime sounded, announcing that someone was in the sixth-floor corridor seeking entrance. The three men in the sitting room of the six-room suite looked at the door. Major Edward J. Banning put his drink on the coffee table in front of the red leather armchair where he was sitting, walked to the door, and opened it. He was in uniform, but had removed his tunic, pulled his field scarf loose, and turned up the cuffs of his shirt.
«Good afternoon, Senator,» Banning said politely, and smiled at Captain McCoy.
«Hello, Banning,» Senator Fowler said. «I return this young man to your capable custody.»
«He looks to me as if he could use a drink,» Banning said.
«We both could,» Fowler said, and stepped into the room.
The other two men rose to their feet. One of them, Captain Edward Sessions, USMC, was a tall, lithely muscular, well-set-up Marine captain in his late twenties. He, too, had removed his uniform tunic. A ring on his finger identified him as a graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy. An intelligence officer assigned to the Office of Management Analysis, he had met McCoy during a covert operation staged by Banning in China before the war.
The other was a tall, slight, pale-skinned, unhealthy-looking man, wearing glasses and an ill-fitting gray suit.
«Good afternoon, Senator,» Colonel F. L. Rickabee, USMC, said.
«Good to see you, Colonel,» Fowler said. «And to quickly put your mind at rest, Ken did himself proud.»
«I expected nothing less,» Rickabee said, «but I think we can give him a drink nevertheless.»
«I'll even make them,» Captain Sessions said. «What's your pleasure, gentlemen?»
«I don't know about Ken,» Fowler said. «But I think I will dip once again into General Pickering's bottomless well of Famous Grouse.»
«Ken?» Sessions asked. McCoy nodded.
Sessions walked to a rolling cart on which sat a dozen or so bottles of whisky, glasses, a soda siphon, and the other paraphernalia of a bar.
«It went well?» Colonel Rickabee asked as he sat down again.
«I bear orders from the Commander in Chief,» Fowler said. «This 'remarkable young man, this fine Marine' is to get 'some well-deserved time off.' «
«Consider it done, Senator,» Colonel Rickabee said.
«I told you you'd live through it, Ken,» Major Banning said.
McCoy looked at him. «Specs was there,» McCoy said. «That helped a lot.»
«Specs?» Banning asked.
«Major Roosevelt,» McCoy said. «He was the only guy on the Makin Raid who wore glasses. We called him 'Specs' behind his back.»
Sessions handed McCoy a squat glass dark with whisky.
«You hungry, Ken?»
McCoy nodded. «Yeah, a little.»
«You didn't have any lunch,» Sessions said.
«Get on the horn, Sessions,» Colonel Rickabee ordered, «and order up a steak for this 'remarkable young man, this fine Marine.' «
«Aye, aye, sir,» Sessions said.
«A large steak, Ed,» Major Banning said, «big enough for two people, and a dozen oysters on the half shell.»
«I don't know about the oysters,» McCoy said.
«Don't let those brand-new railroad tracks go to your head, Captain McCoy,» Colonel Rickabee said. «When a superior officer tells you to eat oysters, it's because he thinks you need oysters. What you say is, 'Aye, aye, sir. Thank you, sir,' and eat them.»
For some reason, Colonel Rickabee, Major Banning, and Captain Sessions looked very pleased with themselves.
Sessions called room service and ordered a very large steak and a dozen oysters, the larger the better. Then he turned to Colonel Rickabee. «Can I fix you another drink, Colonel?»
«No. No. thank you. We're going back to the office. I think this remarkable young man, this fine Marine, needs some time to himself.»
«Yes, sir.»
«I've got to go back to work, too,» Senator Fowler said. «Ken, do I have to tell you if I can be of any help, in any way, all you have to do is call?»
«Thank you, sir,» McCoy said.
«Duty calls, gentlemen,» Rickabee said, stood up, and gestured for them to precede him out of the apartment.
«If you get bored later on, Ken,» Captain Sessions said, «call me at the apartment after seventeen thirty.»
«Why should he get bored?» Major Banning said. «He's a remarkable young man, a fine Marine. That means he should be able to find something to do to keep himself from getting bored.»
«I don't want to see your smiling face for at least two weeks, Captain McCoy. Consider that an order,» Colonel Rickabee said. «Aye, aye, sir,» McCoy said.
«On the other hand, let us know where we can get in touch with you,» Rickabee said.
«Aye, aye, sir.»
In a moment, McCoy was alone. He took off his tunic, tossed it on the couch, pulled down his tie, and carried his drink over to the windows overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue and the White House.
Jesus H. Christ! I
really
was in that building, with the President of the United States
.
You're a long goddamned way from the machine-gun section of Baker Company, 4th Marines, in Shanghai, Corporal McCoy
.
He slowly sipped his drink.
When the chime sounded, he was in the process of making himself another. He opened the door and the floor-service waiter wheeled in a cart loaded with silver lidded dishes, cutlery, a vase holding a single rose, and a towel-wrapped bottle in a silver wine cooler.
«May I open the champagne for you, sir?»
«No. No, thank you.»
I
don't want any champagne. I don't even like champagne
.
«Is there anything else you require, sir?»
«No, thank you. This is fine.»
«Yes, sir. Thank you very much, sir.»
The waiter left.
No check was presented. There was a standing rule in the Foster Lafayette hotel from Mr. Foster himself. No check would ever be presented to anyone staying in the Marquis de Lafayette suite as a guest of Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR. Foster's only child, his daughter Patricia, was married to Pickering.
McCoy lifted the lids on the plates. The steak was enormous. And so were the dozen oysters on their bed of ice under another lid. He dropped the lid over the oysters back in place, sat down on the couch, and reached for the telephone on the coffee table.
«Person-to-person to Miss Ernestine Sage,» he ordered. «Try her first at J. Walter Thompson, the advertising agency, in New York City. I don't know the number. If she's not there, try Gramercy 5-4777. If there's no answer there, try the Sage residence in Bernardsville, New Jersey. I don't know that number either.»
He put the telephone in its cradle, leaned back against the cushions of the couch, and closed his eyes.
He opened them quickly and sat up when he heard the sound of a door being opened.
A young woman was walking across the sitting room toward him. She had jet-black hair, worn in a pageboy, and she was wearing a black negligee that was almost invisible in the light coming through the windows behind her.
She picked up the telephone. «You can cancel that call to Miss Sage, please, operator,» she said.
She looked down at McCoy. «Well, now I know,» she said.
«You know what?»
«That I
am
more important to you than eating a steak.»
His face contorted. His chest shook. He began to sob.
«Oh, baby,» Ernie Sage said, and went to the couch and put her arms around him.
He tried to sit up. «I'm sorry, honey! I'm…«
«Shut up!» she said, then held his face against her breast and ran her hands through his hair, until, after a moment, he stopped crying.
«I wonder if they'll work,» Ernie said.
«What?»
«The oysters. There's a dozen of them.»
«I wondered what those bastards were up to with that oyster business,» he said.
«Those bastards called me the minute they heard you were in California— which is more than you did. And they called me again when they knew when you were due in Washington. If it wasn't for those bastards, you'd still be trying to talk to me on the telephone.»
«Okay. Sorry. Are you really starved? Or would a couple of oysters hold you for a while?»
«Oh, God, Ernie, I love you.»
«If that's the case, what are we doing here in the living room, with all your clothes on?»
He stood up and looked down at her, then leaned over and picked her up and carried her toward the bedroom. Halfway to the door she kissed him, which caused him to lose his sense of direction, and he collided with the door frame.
But he quickly made the necessary course corrections, passed through the door to the bedroom, and kicked the door shut behind them.
note 21
Officers' Club
U.S. Navy Hospital
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
1745 17 February 1943
«Hi,» Captain James B. Weston, USMC, said to Lieutenant (j.g.) Janice Hardison, NNC, when she slipped onto the barstool beside him.
«Hi.»
«May I say that you do more for that uniform than any other member of the Naval Officer Corps I have ever met?»
Janice blushed and was furious with herself.
«I hope you're hungry,» he said. «I didn't get any breakfast, as you know, and what they offered for lunch was unfit for human consumption.»
«I have something to tell you about me,» she said.
Oh, shit. What? You've got a boyfriend? Hell, yes, you've got a boyfriend! Someone as good-looking as you are, in the midst of all these nice young men, is not going to be alone for long.
«I'm all ears.»
«I want you to promise, first, that you won't make some smart-aleck reply.»
He held up his fingers in the manner of Boy Scouts vowing the truthfulness of what they are about to say. «Boy Scout's Honor,» he said.
«I'm a virgin,» Janice said.
Just in time, he stopped himself from saying what immediately came to his mind:
No problem. We can fix that tonight
.
«If that was intended to surprise me, it didn't.»
«And I intend to stay that way,» she said. «So maybe you may want to change your mind about…«
«What I am offering, Lieutenant Hardison, is a lobster dinner.»
«You know what I mean,» she said. «I just wanted to have things clear between us.»
«They are crystal clear,» he said. «Now, would you like a drink?»
«Yes, please,» she said. «A weak scotch.»
He signaled the bartender and ordered her drink.
When it was delivered, she took a quick, small sip, put the glass on the bar, looked at him, found him looking at her, and quickly dropped her eyes to her glass.
«How do you like it?» Weston asked.
«Excuse me?»
«Boiled? Broiled? Thermidor?»
«I don't know,» she confessed. «I've never had lobster before.»
What does that make you, a lobster virgin?
«Really?»
«Kansas—Wichita—is a long way from the ocean,» Janice said.
«It's even farther from Scotland,» he said.
«My father's a doctor,» she said. «He taught me to drink scotch.»
And how to keep it till marriage, right?
«What kind of a doctor?»
«A psychiatrist,» she said.
«And that's why you became a psychiatric nurse?»
«I was in a test program at the University… of Kansas, at the Medical School. The university offers a four-year course in nursing. You need an undergraduate degree to get into medical school. They wondered how well a B.S.N. would do in medical school—hopefully better than the usual B.S. or B.A.»
«B.S.N.? Bachelor of Science, Nursing?»
«Right. So I was one of the guinea pigs.»
«How does one get to be a guinea pig?»
«It helps if your father is a professor of medicine,» she said.
«So why aren't you in medical school?»
«Well, the war came along, the Navy came around recruiting nurses, and Daddy said I should take it. Daddy said I could get more clinical experience as a nurse in the service than I would get as a psychiatric resident.»
Daddy said? Daddy said, «Daughter Darling, go in the Navy, drink scotch, and hang on to your pearl of great price until you get married»?
Well, what the hell is wrong with that?
«What about you?» Janice asked.
«University of Iowa,» he said. «I was raised in Des Moines. Offered a chance for flight school, joined the Corps, and here I am.»
«Your parents?»
«My mother died when I was a kid, and my father—he was in the insurance business—died when I was in college.»
«Brothers and sisters?»
«Neither. Just an aunt.»
«I have two brothers,» she said. «Both doctors. One surgeon and one proctologist. My mother was a nurse before she married my father.»
«What's a proctologist?»
«It deals with the lower intestines,» she said after a brief hesitation.
His face lit up. «I know what it means!» he remembered.
«I thought you might,» she said, and smiled at him.
Goddamn, she's really sweet.
Well, why not? Good solid family. Daddy's a doctor, Mommy's a nurse, she was baby sister to two brothers. Either of whom would probably cheerfully break both my legs if! changed her virginal status. Or pull my tonsils through the terminus of my lower intestines with surgical forceps.
«We ate lobster in Iowa,» Weston said. «God only knows how it got there, but there it was.»
«I'm sure we had them in Kansas, too,» she said, loyally. «My family just never ate them.»
«Charley Galloway told me to go where we're going tonight,» Weston said. «Caroline took him there. Place called Bookbinder's.»
«I've been there,» she said, «a couple of times. I've gone as far as clam chowder and broiled flounder, but so far I haven't had the courage for lobster or oysters. Raw oysters.»
«I'd stay away from raw oysters if I were you,» Weston said without thinking first.
Janice blushed.
Oh, shit. You and your big mouth. She's heard what oysters are supposed to do to you.
And she blushed. She's a nurse, she's heard everything, seen everything, and it hasn't touched her, otherwise she wouldn't be blushing.
«Yes, thank you, Captain Weston,» Commander Jerome J. Kister, MC, USNR, said, as he took the barstool beside Janice Hardison, «I will permit you to buy me a drink. I spent most of the afternoon on the telephone about you.»
«Do I have to buy you the drink before you tell me what happened?»
«Jim!» Janice said.
«Yes, you do,» Kister said, «and let me say how delighted I am that you two have reached some sort of armistice.»
«It was love at first sight,» Weston said. «But she's having trouble adjusting to that.»
«Oh, Jim!» Janice said.
«You mean all you wanted was a lobster?»
«I'm still not sure I want a lobster,» she said.
«The Junior Assistant Deputy Surgeon General of the United States Navy.» Kister said, hoping to turn their attention away from each other to him. When he had their attention, he went on, «Or was it the Deputy Assistant Junior Surgeon General?»
«You tell me,» Weston said. «I'm all ears.»
«Whatever his title,» Kister said, «he's now the guy who makes decisions in cases like yours. He's a captain.» He paused. «I suspect the sonofabitch was an obstetrician in civilian life,» he sighed, «and I'd be very surprised to learn he's ever been afloat in anything larger than a canoe. Be that as it may, the Captain is
absolutely
unwilling to accept my professional opinion that you are no crazier than any other Marine…«
«Oh, shit!» Weston said bitterly, and then, remembering the company, quickly added, «Sorry, Janice.»
«He said that he was surprised that someone of my experience would risk his reputation by making a snap judgment.»
«So what happens now?» Jim asked, quietly furious.
«That was the bad news,» Kister said. «Or almost all of it. I told you they— they being this obstetrician drunk with his own power—would challenge the physical you had at Pearl Harbor.»
«And he did.»
«And he did. But the good news is that he did agree to accept the opinion of the medical staff here vis a vis your general physical condition.»
«I don't understand,» Weston said.
«Presuming nothing bad shows up on your lab work—your blood, urine, that sort of thing, and I don't think it will—on the physical you took this morning, I can certify you as physically fit to enter upon your convalescent leave and get orders cut for you to go to the Greenbrier. You can be out of here in a couple of days, in other words.»
The downside to that is that if I'm out of here, I will also be away from Janice.
«Explain that 'orders cut to go to the Greenbrier' to me.»
«The Greenbrier is a luxury resort hotel in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, which you could not possibly afford under normal circumstances. In the abnormal circumstances existing today, however, you can, because it's free. The government has taken the place over, thrown out the undeserving rich, and made it available for the rest and rehabilitation of returned heroes such as yourself.»
«And if I don't want to go to this luxury hotel in the wilds of West Virginia?»
«You don't seem to understand. You
will
be placed on orders. You
will
, on temporary
duty
for a period of thirty days, proceed to the Greenbrier Hotel. You
will
rest and recuperate, and incidentally be psychologically evaluated.»
«By who? I thought you were the head doctor.»
«By a fellow practitioner of the Freudian medical arts. Who enjoys, I think I should warn you, his reputation as one mean sonofabitch. Excuse me, Janice.»
«In other words, this luxury hotel is a funny farm?»
«No. But the Navy wants to make absolutely sure that you are in possession of your faculties before you are turned loose on the public. They don't, for example, want you to slit the throat of your friendly neighborhood policeman because you think he is a Japanese soldier.»
«Jim,» Janice said, «some of the men who have gone through what you have gone through are really disturbed.»
He looked at her, and found her compassion-filled eyes both disconcerting and pleasing.
That is not a professional, be-nice-to-the-loony look. I think she really likes me. By «really disturbed» Janice means loony tune time. I suppose that explains the ambulance and the two Corpsmen at the airport, and those two gorillas who took me to Ward Five-B.
«I'm not disturbed,» he said.
«No,» Dr. Kister said, «you're not. But the obstetrician in the Navy Department doesn't want to take any chances. From his point of view, he's just taking a routine precaution. And he has the authority.»
«Damn!»
«So you will undergo at least four sessions of counseling and evaluation at the Greenbrier over a thirty-day period. Then you will return here, and presuming you can convince Dr. Bolemann that you pose no threat to the cop on the beat, or anyone else, I will be able to certify you as both physically and psychologically fit for flight status. Then you will go to Pensacola, Florida, where, according to General Mclnerney, you will be taught to fly all over again.»
«Jesus.»
«And I also have for you some advice from General Mclnerney—actually, it's more in the way of an order. You will do what you're told and keep your mouth shut. Are there any questions, Captain?»
«No, sir,» Weston said. «Thanks, Doc.»
«Nothing to thank me for,» Commander Kister said. «I would have done whatever was necessary to get you out of my smooth-running hospital, and get you away from my nurses.» Janice chuckled.
«Can I drive to this place? Or is Janice going to take me there, strapped down to a stretcher in the back of an ambulance?»
«You could, if you had a car,» Commander Kister said. «You don't, do you?»
«I was thinking of buying one,» Weston said.
«I can see some problems with that,» Kister said. «For one thing, have you got a driver's license?»
«I think mine has probably expired,» Weston said.
«I'll bet it has,» Kister said, chuckling. «Don't tell me you've been carrying it around all this time? In the steaming jungles of Mindanao?»
«No,» Weston said, chuckling. «I'm going to have to get one.»
«I could take you for your test,» Janice said. «They give the test in Fairmount Park.»
«Next problem, Doctor?» Weston asked, smiling at her.
«There's gasoline and tire rationing,» Kister said. «The war, you know.»
«I can deal with that,» Weston said.
«And there is a nationwide thirty-five-mph speed limit,» Kister said.
«Now, there's a problem,» Weston said.
«Why the hell do you want a car?» Kister asked.
«So I can drive from this luxury funny farm you're sending me—«
»
I'm
not sending you,» Kister interrupted. «A
grateful nation
is sending you. So far as I'm concerned, I'd put you to work. You've had a whole year off, lying around a tropical paradise, eating pineapples.»
«And other interesting tropical fruit. Not much meat, but all the pineapples I could eat.»
«Really?» Janice asked.
«This time, really really,» he said. «We operated around the Dole pineapple plantations.»
«It obviously didn't hurt you any,» Kister said. «Maybe you should consider becoming a vegetarian.»
«While I was munching on my pineapple, I used to have a dream. There I was, riding down the highway in my convertible Buick, with a pretty girl smiling at me. The girl, if you must know, looked much like this fine young Naval officer.»
«In the unlikely event that you're serious, you could probably get a deal on a Buick convertible.»
«Is that so?»
«They guzzle gas. Gas is rationed. And this is the middle of the winter. No one in his right mind wants a gas-guzzling Buick convertible in the middle of the winter.»
«You've convinced me,» Weston said. «A Buick convertible it is.»
«We're back to 'why do you need a car?' «
«So I can drive up here on weekends and see Janice,» Weston said.
Kister's eyes swiveled back and forth between them.
Janice blushed.
«1 think the time has come for me to fold my tent and silently steal away,» Commander Kister said.
«Oh, doctor, don't go, please,» Janice said.
«Okay,» Kister said. «The three of us can go out and have a lobster.»
He waited, with a straight face, until he saw the anguished looks on their faces. Then he chuckled, slapped Weston on the back, and walked out of the bar.
note 22
The Marquis de Lafayette Suite
The Foster Lafayette Hotel
Washington, D.C.
I900 17 February 1943
Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, was dozing when the telephone rang. He was almost instantly awake, but for a moment didn't know where he was. A moment later he did realize where he was, and also realized that Ernie wasn't in the bed with him. As he sat up and swung his feet out of the bed, he reached for the bedside telephone. The bathroom door was open, he noticed then, and Ernie was standing in it, naked except for a towel wrapped around her waist. She had another towel in her hand. As he watched, she resumed drying her hair with it.
«I was wondering if you were going to answer that,» she said.
My God, she's beautiful!
«I must have dropped off,» he said, and picked up the telephone.
«Lieutenant McCoy,» he said.
«That's
Captain
McCoy, I think. Why don't you write that on the back of your hand?» Captain Edward Sessions, USMC, said.
«I guess I'm not used to being a captain,» McCoy said. «What's up, Ed?»
Ernie was now leaning on the door, listening to the conversation. Dressed as she was, wearing nothing but the towel around her waist, and with most of her left leg peeking out through the flap in the towel, she was incredibly erotic. Even if she didn't mean to be.
Or is she doing that because she knows damned well how it will excite me?
«I've been appointed officer-in-charge of getting you off on your presidentially directed administrative leave,» Sessions said.
«Which means what?»
«I've got your orders, new ID card, new credentials, et cetera, et cetera.»
«You've been busy.»
«And money. Another partial pay.»
«And you want me to come over there?»
«No. I'll come there if you want. But what Jeanne wants is for you and Ernie to come over here. To the apartment, I mean. For dinner.»
«What is it?» Ernie asked.
«Jeanne wants us to come for dinner,» McCoy said.
«Great! I want to see the baby. Tell him yes.»
«Unless, of course, we'd be interrupting something important,» Sessions said. «I would understand that.»
«Screw you,» McCoy said.
«Jeanne wants to show Ernie the baby,» Sessions said.
«What time?»
«How soon could you come? We could have a couple of drinks.»
«How soon could you be ready?» McCoy asked Ernie.
«Just as soon as I put some clothes on.»
«Ernie says just as soon as she can get dressed,» McCoy said.
«Damn you!» Ernie said. «You didn't have to say that!»
«Give me the address, again,» McCoy said, and reached for the pencil and notepad beside the telephone.
Ernie removed the towel from around her waist, balled it up, and threw it at him. She waited long enough for him to dodge the towel and then turned back into the bathroom and closed the door after her. But not before offering him a good look at her fanny and hips.
And she did that on purpose, too!
What I really want to do is go in there after her, pick her up, and carry her back in here.
He thought about that for a moment, then stood up, walked to the bathroom and pulled open the door, and scooped her off her feet.
«What took you so long?» Ernie laughed. «I was beginning to wonder if you'd lost interest.»
note 23
There are two things wrong with babies
, Captain McCoy thought, as he watched Ernie making cooing noises to the Sessionses' infant.
One, they make me uncomfortable. Second, sure as Christ made little apples, it will start Ernie off again, wanting one of her own. Our own. Damn
!
«Cute kid,» he said to Captain Sessions.
«You ought to have one of your own,» Sessions said.
Thanks a lot, pal.
«Listen to the man, Ken,» Ernie said.
I'd like to break his fucking arm!
«You said you have a new ID for me?» McCoy said.
«Yeah, come on in the study. I've got a briefcase full of stuff for you,» Sessions said.
«Oh, you're
so precious
!» Ernie said to Edward F. Sessions, Jr.
Ed Sessions stopped in his living room long enough to make drinks for both of them, then led McCoy into his study, which was slightly larger than a closet, and motioned McCoy into its one upholstered chair.
He picked a briefcase up from the floor, set it on his small desk, and began taking things from it. «You really should, you know,» he said, looking at McCoy.
«I really should what?»
«Marry her. Have a baby. That's what's it's all about, Ken.»
«Oh, for Christ's sake! What do you think my chances are of coming through this war alive, in one piece? The one thing I don't want for Ernie is to be a widow with a baby. Or a loyal wife taking care of a one-legged, or vegetable, war veteran for the rest of her life.»
«You've got to take the chance, Ken.»
«Can we change the subject, please, before I punch you out?»
«That would be assault upon a superior officer, punishable by death, or such lesser punishment as a court-martial may decree,» Sessions said solemnly. «Besides, I'm larger, stronger, and smarter than you are, capable, in other words, of whipping
your
ass. You should take that into consideration.»
«Can we get on with this?» McCoy said, with a glance in the direction of the briefcase.
«Okay. Except that I have to say that with the exception, of course, of Jeanne, they don't come any better than the one you walked in here with just now.»
«Yeah, I know. That's
why
I can't marry her. What's all that stuff?»
Sessions flipped him a plastic card.
«New identity card, to reflect the new railroad tracks on your shoulders. Incidentally, congratulations, Captain McCoy.»
«Sometimes I wonder if the Corps knew what it was doing,» McCoy said. «I don't think I'm qualified to be a captain.»
«That's horseshit. You're better qualified to be a captain than ninety percent of the people walking around with captain's bars.»
«Captains command companies. Do you really think I'm qualified to command a company?»
«Maybe the advanced officer course would do you some good,» Sessions said after a moment, and very seriously. «But you already have a more important qualification they can't teach you at Quantico.»
«Oh, yeah? What?»
«You know how to give orders,» Sessions said. «When you tell people to do something, they just do it, and think about whether it's smart later. Most people, most captains, including me, don't have that ability.»
McCoy met his eyes for a moment. «What other goodies have you got for me?» he asked.
Sessions handed him a stack of mimeographed orders. «That's your leave orders. Fifteen days. Administrative leave. It doesn't get charged against your accrued leave. DP.»
«DP? What's that?»
«Direction of the President. Your pal Major Roosevelt called the Colonel and said his father ordered that personally.»
«He's not my pal. I was a second lieutenant on the Makin Raid. Specs was the skipper, and a captain.»
«Tell
him
that.
He
thinks he's a pal of yours.»
«Anything else?»
«Gasoline ration coupons, two hundred gallons' worth.»
«My car's up on blocks at Ernie's parents' place in New Jersey.»
«Take it off the blocks. Or aren't you planning to spend your leave with her?»
«What I meant was that it probably doesn't have plates on it.»
«If I were Ernie, I would have paid for plates. That would get her gasoline coupons for her own car.»
«And I'm sure my driver's license has expired.»
«It's good for the duration plus six months,» Sessions said. «Is there some reason you don't want to drive your car?»
«No, of course not,» McCoy said. «You know, aside from my uniforms, things like that, that car is the only thing I own. I bought it when I came back from China. It's a 1939 LaSalle convertible. Silver.»
«Really?
«I paid five hundred twenty-five dollars for it,» McCoy said. «It was the first decent car I ever owned, and I didn't want to sell it when I went overseas, and Ernie said I could leave it at the farm, so I did.»
«So now you have a car. Enjoy it.»
«Yeah,» McCoy said thoughtfully. «I'll ask Ernie how much trouble it would be to get it off the blocks.»
Sessions tossed him a small leather folder.
«New credentials. That was the Colonel's idea. He said the photograph on your old ones made you look like a high school cheerleader.»
McCoy opened the folder. It contained a badge and a card sealed in plastic identifying McCoy, Kenneth R., as a Special Agent of the Office of Naval Intelligence.
«I'll have to have the old one back,» Sessions said.
«I don't have them.»
«Ken, they're not supposed to leave your person,» Sessions said.
«I didn't think I'd need them in the Philippines, so I left them in the safe in Water Lily Cottage in Brisbane. And forgot about them.»
«The Colonel will be thrilled to hear that,» Sessions said.
«I don't think it makes any difference,» McCoy said. «Maybe you better keep these.»
«Meaning what?»
«After he showed me that Special Channel from the President, the first thing General Pickering said was 'welcome to the OSS, Captain McCoy.' I don't think I belong to Colonel Rickabee anymore.»
«Did the General say anything about taking Management Analysis into the OSS lock, stock, and barrel?»
«No,» McCoy said. «I don't think that's going to happen, though. I think he would have said something.»
«Rickabee's worried about that,» Sessions said. «The guy who runs the OSS has been trying to get us all along. Or shut us down.»
«I don't think that will happen.»
«I hope you're right, Ken. God knows, I don't…«
»… want to go in the OSS?» McCoy finished. «Well, maybe
you'll
get lucky.»
«What have you got against the OSS?» Sessions said.
«The only nice thing I can think of about being in the OSS is that probably, now, I won't get parachuted into the Gobi Desert… which is what you bastards had in mind for me.»
«The last scuttlebutt I heard about that was that the Army Air Corps got to Admiral Leahy, and he told the Navy, which means Management Analysis, to butt out. The Air Corps's going to set up a weather station in Russia.»
«Good luck to them!» McCoy said.
«Pickering didn't tell you what you'll be doing?»
«I don't think he knows. I don't think he knows what
he'll
be doing.»
Sessions grunted but said nothing. He went back into the briefcase and came out with a stuffed business-size envelope.
«And this little jewel contains your partial pay. One thousand bucks.»
«I drew a partial in Pearl Harbor,» McCoy said. «But as you pointed out, I will be spending some time with Ernie, which means I'm going to need this. Thank you.»
«That's about it,» Sessions said. «I think you better keep those credentials.»
«Whatever you say.»
«How do you feel about lying to me?»
«Not good. About what?»
«You could tell me you destroyed your credentials before going into the Philippines. Or while you were there. And then I'll send a Special Channel to Pluto, and tell him to go in the safe, find your credentials, and burn them. It would keep you out of hot water with the Colonel.»
«What's he going to do? Send me to the OSS?»
Sessions chuckled, then detected an odd tone in the way McCoy was looking at him.
«What, Ken?»
«You've been in Washington too long, Ed. You're learning to lie like the rest of the bastards around here.»
«I was just trying to be helpful,» Sessions said.
«Yeah, I know you were,» McCoy said. He held up his nearly empty glass. «You got any more of this stuff?»
«Absolutely,» Sessions said, and went to fix fresh drinks.
Chapter Six
note 24
Muku-Muku
Oahu, Territory of Hawaii
1345 17 February 1943
When Second Lieutenant George F. Hart, USMCR, saw Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, walk onto the patio at Muku-Muku wearing a terry-cloth bathrobe, he quickly slid out of the inner tube he had been floating in, swam to the side of the pool, and hoisted himself out. He almost lost his borrowed, too-large swimming trunks in the process.
«You manage to get some sleep, sir?» he asked, as he pulled the trunks up.
«Not a goddamn wink, thank you just the same,» Pickering said. «Every time I closed my eyes, there was Wild Bill Donovan leering at me from the fires of hell.»
Hart chuckled. «Now what, sir?»
«You get on the horn, George, call the flag secretary at CINCPAC and ask if Admiral Nimitz can give me ten or fifteen minutes to make my manners. And then we'll have some lunch. Or did you eat?»
«I thought I'd wait for you, sir.»
«Did you check on our flight?»
«Yes, sir, it's laid on for 1945.»
«You better tell the flag secretary that time,» Pickering said.
«Aye, aye, sir.»
Pickering nodded, slipped out of the terry-cloth robe, and took a running dive into the pool. He swam the length of the large pool in a smooth breaststroke, turned, swam back, and repeated the process. He hauled himself out of the pool, put the terry-cloth robe back on, and looked at Hart, who pointed at the telephone.
«I'm waiting for it to…« Hart began. The telephone rang. Hart picked it up. «General Pickering's quarters, Lieutenant Hart speaking, sir.» He listened a moment. «I'm sure the General will find that convenient, sir. Thank you very much.» He replaced the telephone in its cradle.
«What time will he see me, George?»
» 'If General Pickering does not find this inconvenient, CINCPAC and Admiral Wagam will call on him at 1600,' « Hart quoted.
«You made it clear, I hope, George, that I wanted to go into Pearl Harbor?»
«Yes, sir. The flag secretary told me he would speak with Admiral Nimitz and see what could be arranged. And call me back. He just did.»
«I wonder what they want?»
«They probably want an excuse to get out of CINCPAC for an hour or so,» Hart said.
Pickering walked to the wall beside the glass doors leading into the house and pushed a button mounted on it.
Denny Williamson appeared almost immediately. «Ready for a little lunch, Captain?» he asked.
«Denny, I done told you two times already,» Hart said, smiling. «I ain't gonna tell you no more. It's
General
Pickering.»
«Maybe to you, young man,» the elderly black man said. «Not to me.»
«Admirals Nimitz and Wagam will be here at four, Denny,» Pickering said. «I don't know how long they'll stay, but be prepared for a light supper. Hart and I have to be at Pearl Harbor by quarter to seven.»
«What you should do, you know, is not be at Pearl Harbor tonight, and not tomorrow night, either. You need a couple of days off,» Denny said.
«You sound like my wife.»
«I got my orders from Mrs. Pickering. You show up here, I'm supposed to keep you for a couple of days.»
«I really wish I could stay a couple of days, Denny.»
«We'll lose the whole war if you do, right?»
«Absolutely,» Pickering said. «Could you broil a piece of fish for lunch, Denny? Maybe with a salad?»
«Yes, sir, Captain. Anything special for you, young man?»
«That sounds good to me, Denny.»
note 25
Admirals Nimitz and Wagam arrived in separate cars at almost precisely four p.m. Nimitz was riding in a black 1939 Cadillac sedan, from the front fender of which flew a blue flag with four stars. Wagam was in a Navy gray Plymouth, which carried a blue plate with two stars where a license plate would normally go.
A portly captain Pickering did not recognize was in the Cadillac with Nimitz. Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis III, whom Pickering and Hart had last seen in Brisbane, was in the backseat of the Plymouth with Wagam.
Pickering, who had been waiting on the mansion's wide verandah, walked down the shallow flight of stairs in time to meet Nimitz's Cadillac when it stopped. Nimitz stepped out, Pickering saluted, and Nimitz returned it, then offered his hand.
«Thank you for finding time for me, Admiral,» Pickering said.
«I'm a little embarrassed about inviting myself out here, Fleming,» Nimitz said, «but I've learned that the only way to keep people from interrupting a conversation is not to let them know where I am.»
«You're always welcome here, sir,» Pickering said.
«I don't think you know Groscher, do you, Fleming?» Nimitz said, indicating the captain.
I
know that name from somewhere
, Pickering thought,
but I have never seen this fellow before
.
«How do you do, General?» Captain Groscher said.
By then Admiral Wagam and Lieutenant Lewis were out of their car.
«Good to see you again, Admiral,» Pickering said, offering his hand, and smiled at Lewis. «Back on the gossip-and-canapè circuit, I see, Chambers.»
«No thanks to you, Fleming,» Wagam said, smiling. «He quickly let me know he'd rather have stayed on Mindanao.»
«Come on in the house, and we'll see if Denny can't find us something to drink,» Pickering said.
«I was hoping you might have something like that in mind,» Nimitz said.
They walked through the house to the patio in the rear, where Denny had set up a bar.
Nimitz accepted a Famous Grouse with a little water and no ice, stirred it, and took a sip. Then he looked at Pickering and smiled. «How is Mrs. Pickering?» he asked politely. «Well, I trust?»
«She's doing such a hell of a job running Pacific and Far East, I may not be able to get my job back when the war's over. I tried to call her when I got here.»
Patricia Pickering had taken over the management of the Pacific & Far East Shipping Corporation when her husband entered the service. In her husband's judgment—quickly proven— she was the best-qualified person to do so.
«And couldn't get through? I know what the commercial phone service is these days. I think we could bend the rules a little and give you a couple of minutes on one of my lines.»
«That's very kind of you, sir,» Pickering said. «But P&FE has a dedicated line from the Honolulu office to San Francisco. The switchboard patched me through on it from here.»
«And she was delighted to hear you're coming home?»
«They weren't sure whether she's in Boston or Savannah, but they promised to do their best to get the word to her.»
Nimitz chuckled. «Remember that song from the First War, Fleming? 'How are you going to keep them down on the farm, after they've seen Paree'?»
«Sure.»
«How are we going to get our ladies back in the kitchen after they've proved they can do anything we do at least as well as we can?»
«It may take whips and chains,» Pickering said.
«You've heard there are now lady Marines?» Nimitz asked.
Pickering nodded.
«And how do you feel about that?»
«I decline to answer the question on the grounds that it may incriminate me,» Pickering replied.
Nimitz chuckled, and then something in his manner told Pickering the small talk period was over. «Following the hoary tradition that the best way to know what a junior officer is really thinking is to make him speak first, Fleming, what's on your mind?» Nimitz asked.
«Sir, I wanted to pay my respects,» Pickering said. «And to thank you for providing the
Sunfish
.»
The submarine
Sunfish
had carried McCoy and his team into Mindanao, and then it had brought him and the others out.
«Thank you for understanding why I didn't want to give you the
Narwhal»
Nimitz said. «I was under orders to give you anything you thought you needed.»
«The
Sunfish
worked out well, Admiral,» Pickering said.
«I had the idea you might have wanted to talk about your new appointment,» Nimitz said.
«I'd hoped we could talk about that, too, sir,» Pickering said.
«Good, because that's the reason I wanted to see you. I have an ax to grind, Fleming.»
«Sir?»
«What time's your flight to San Diego?»
«Nineteen forty-five, sir,» Pickering said.
«Chambers,» Nimitz ordered, «get on the horn to Flight Operations at Pearl, and tell them… No. Just get me the duty officer at Flight Operations.»
Lieutenant Lewis walked to the telephone, dialed a number from memory, then carried the telephone to Nimitz.
«Commander, this is Admiral Nimitz,» CINCPAC announced. «General Pickering and his aide may be a little late arriving at Pearl Harbor. Make sure the
Coronado
flight scheduled for nineteen forty-five doesn't leave without them.»
He handed the telephone back to Lieutenant Lewis.
«Doing that is probably spinning wheels; but I like to err on the side of caution,» Nimitz said. He turned to the portly captain. «Okay, Groscher, here's your chance to make your pitch to the OSS's Director of Pacific Operations.»
«Yes, sir,» Captain Groscher said. «General, I'm sure that you're aware that timely weather information is of great value to the Navy.»
«You can skip that, Groscher. General Pickering has spent as much time on the bridge of a ship as I have,» Nimitz interrupted. «He knows how important weather forecasting is.»
«Yes, sir,» Groscher said, flushing. It took him a moment to collect his thoughts, and then he decided his duty required him to disagree with the Commander in Chief, Pacific. «Admiral, with respect, I'd be more comfortable if I took General Pickering through this step by step.»
Nimitz looked at him coldly for a moment.
«Fleming, intelligence officers are like lawyers,» he said finally. «You either take their advice or you get yourself another one. Go ahead, Groscher.»
Intelligence officer
? Pickering wondered. I
thought he was Nimitz's aide
.
«General,» Groscher began again, «the movement of arctic air masses across Russia through Mongolia and China into the Pacific…«
My God, he's talking about that Gobi Desert weather station operation. I thought I was through with that!
That quick suspicion proved correct. For nearly ten minutes, Captain Groscher, speaking entirely from memory, explained in great detail why the Navy was now handicapped, and would be even more handicapped in the future, by a lack of accurate and timely weather information from the area around the Russia-Mongolia border. Throughout the briefing, Pickering was impressed with Admiral Nimitz's detailed knowledge of the situation. The pertinent questions CINCPAC asked indicated how important Nimitz considered the establishment of a weather-transmitting radio station.
Groscher introduced a number of factors Pickering had previously either not known or not given much thought to. The strength and direction of winds aloft was enormously important to Naval Aviation operations at sea now, and would become more important when—as seemed very likely—the time came for the Navy to strike the enemy home islands from carriers. And even more important when the Army Air Corps began strategic bombing of the Japanese home islands with heavy bombers, including the new B-29.
It had never occurred to Pickering, either, that weather information was a critical factor in the direction of fire from the enormous naval cannon on battleships and cruisers.
Groscher also spoke of geopolitical considerations. Pickering remembered hearing—but not particularly caring—that the Japanese had taken the last emperor of China from his palace in Tientsin (where, stripped of power, he had been in something like house arrest) to Manchuria. There they had installed him as Emperor of Manchuko. Manchuko (formerly Manchuria) was the first nation to join with the Japanese in their Greater Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere. The Emperor of Manchuko, Captain Groscher related, had invited his new Japanese allies to station troops in his domain, and they had done so, which meant that the United States could not use Manchuko/Manchuria—which would have been ideal for the purpose—as a base for a weather station.
That left either the Soviet Union or the Gobi Desert within Mongolia as the only place where such a weather station could be—
had
to be—established. So far as Captain Groscher was concerned, the chances were nonexistent that the Soviet Union would permit the establishment of a weather station/radio station on their territory.
Pickering learned for the first time that the Soviet Union was holding close to one hundred American airmen (and no one knew how many British or other allied airmen) who for one reason or another had landed on Soviet territory. Predictably, the Soviets denied this, even when presented with names, ranks, serial numbers, aircraft tail numbers, and in some cases photographs of the downed airmen in Russia.
«By a process of elimination,» Captain Groscher said, «that leaves the Gobi Desert.»
Pickering next learned that the Gobi Desert was not, as he had previously pictured in his mind's eye, a vast area of shifting sands. Actually it had very little sand. The terrain was rock, most of it flat. It was possible, he learned, to drive an ordinary automobile for hundreds of miles in any direction without difficulty. Presuming, of course, one had fuel.
As it had been for a thousand years, the area was regularly traversed east to west, and north to south, by camel caravans. The first contact with the handful of Americans who were wandering around in the vast rocky Gobi Desert had been messages sent out on several camel caravans that had reached India.
There had been three messages, Groscher reported. Each had said about the same thing: There were retired U.S. military personnel in the desert. They were trying to reach Allied lines. They had a shortwave receiver and would monitor a frequency in the twenty-meter band at 1200 Greenwich time whenever possible.
Each message was signed differently, Groscher went on. With the rank and initials (not the full name) of individuals who had retired from the Yangtze River patrol, the 15th U.S. Army Infantry Regiment, and the 4th Marines.
«From the available records,» Groscher said, «we determined that indeed there was a Chief Motor Machinist's Mate Frederick C. Brewer—corresponding with the initials FCB on one message—who retired from the Yangtze River patrol. And a Staff Sergeant Willis T. Cawber, Jr.—corresponding with the initials WTCJr on another—who retired from the 17th Infantry. And there was a Sergeant James R. Sweatley—corresponding with the initials on the third message—who was assigned to the Marine detachment in Peking, and was presumed to have become a Japanese POW.»
«When contact was first established with Fertig in the Philippines,» Pickering observed, «there was some question whether it might be a Japanese trick.»
«Our gut feeling has been that's not the case here,» Groscher replied. «Meanwhile, we were investigating ways to get radio transmitters into these people, when they suddenly came on the air themselves. Their radio equipment is almost certainly cobbled together from whatever they could lay their hands on, is not very good when it works, and doesn't work very often. But it does give us a communications link with them.»
«The transmitter Fertig used to first establish contact with the outside was built by a Filipino sergeant with parts from the sound apparatus of a movie projector,» Pickering said.
«The one in the Gobi was probably built by some retired electrician's mate,» Groscher said. «Most of these people are probably Yangtze River patrol sailors.»
«Why do you say that?» Nimitz asked, as Pickering opened his mouth to ask the same thing.
«Sir, the records indicate that there are far more retired Yangtze sailors in China than Marines, by a factor of five; and by a factor of seven, more river patrol retirees than soldiers.»
«Is that somehow significant?» Pickering asked.
«Sailors rarely have—what shall I say?—'the live off the land skills,' or the ability to function as infantry that Marines and soldiers may be presumed to have,» Groscher said. «Consequently, when we have to ask the question 'what shape are these people in?' we are forced to operate on the least pleasant likelihood. That is to say, these people are probably more on the order of a group of nomads than anything resembling a military force of any description, especially considering that they are accompanied by women and children.»
«A point which the Army Air Corps has made, time and again, to the Joint Chiefs of Staff,» Nimitz said. «And, I'm afraid, with justification.»
«I've been around the fringes of this, Admiral,» Pickering said. «But until now I didn't know what it was really all about.»
«Politics are at play, of course,» Nimitz interrupted him. «The State Departmentdoesn't want to do or say anything that might annoy our Russian allies, which means we can forget about sending anyone into Mongolia through the Soviet Union. The Army Air Corps are convinced that they should be in charge of this, but they don't really have any sense of urgency. B-29s are not going to bomb the Japanese home islands this year, and probably not until late in 1944. The Navy needs a weather station
now
.»
Nimitz
, Pickering thought,
probably figures that I will now have Donovan's ear, and will be able to plead his case to him. That's why he brought Groscher here
.
The problem is that my support of a project like this
—
my advocacy of any project, for that matter
—
would be the kiss of death for it in Donovan's eyes
.
«Sir,» Pickering said. «I'm probably missing something here. But what has this to do with me?»
«I had a Special Channel from Admiral Leahy two days ago,» Nimitz said. «It was the decision of the Joint Chiefs of Staff that the responsibility for determining whether or not the Americans in the Gobi Desert can be used to set up a weather station and get it running will be given to the OSS.»
«Admiral, I'm sure that the OSS will do whatever it can.»
«Yesterday I sent Admiral Leahy a special channel message expressing my belief that you were the obvious choice within the OSS to assume this responsibility, and asked him to exert his influence to see that you are so assigned.»
«I wish I shared your confidence in me,» Pickering said. «And I am sure Mr. Donovan doesn't.»
«I ask very few favors of Admiral Leahy,» Nimitz said. «He generally gives me what I ask for. And so far as Mr. Donovan is concerned, I wouldn't be at all surprised if Admiral Leahy brought the matter up with the President before he discussed your participation in it with Mr. Donovan. And the President, to my knowledge, has never refused Admiral Leahy anything he's asked for.»
«I'm back to repeating I wish I shared your confidence in me,» Pickering said.
«It should go without saying that CINCPAC will support you in any way we can,» Nimitz said. «Groscher has a magic clearance, so you can communicate with him using the Special Channel. And Admiral Wagam will coordinate things, and advise me of any problems.»
«Yes, sir,» Pickering said. «Sir, may I ask a question?»
«Of course.»
«For the sake of argument, suppose that I can—the OSS can—establish contact with these people. Then what? According to Captain Groscher, the odds are that they're nothing more than—what did you say, Groscher?—nomads.»
Nimitz acted as if the question—or perhaps Pickering's naivete—surprised him.
«Fleming, the situation is very much like what you just did with this Fertig fellow on Mindanao. Once you have sent people in to meet with these people and established reliable two-way radio communication with them, we will have a force—a
Naval force
—in position. Then the Navy can reinforce that force. I'm sure that I will be able to convince Admiral Leahy that reinforcing a force in being is a far more sound proposition than waiting for our Russian allies to permit the Air Corps to establish a weather station on their territory.»
«Yes, sir,» Pickering said.
Chapter Seven
note 26
Carlucci's Bar & Grill
South Fourth Street
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
1615 18 February 1943
«Why are we stopping here?» Janice asked dubiously.
Carlucci's Bar & Grill did not look like the sort of place one took young ladies for a romantic cocktail and supper.
«I have to go in here for a minute,» Weston said. «Would you like to wait in the car?»
Just over two hours previously, when Captain James B. Weston, USMCR, had taken possession of it, the interior of the 1941 dark green Buick Roadmaster convertible had reeked of tanned leather. It now smelled of whatever perfume Lieutenant (j.g.) Janice Hardison, NNC, had dabbed behind her ears—or in more intimate places—just before meeting him outside the gate of the Philadelphia U.S. Navy Hospital.
It was a significant improvement, although, pre-Janice, Weston had always had a soft place in his heart for the smell of leather in a convertible.
«You're going in there?» Janice asked. «Why?»
«It affects our future life together,» he said. «Beyond that, I'd rather not say. And I don't think you would want to know.»
«Jim, what are you up to?» she asked, half annoyed, half plaintive.
«It won't take me long,» he said, and stepped out of the car.
«Wait a minute,» she said. «You're not leaving me here alone.»
Carlucci's Bar & Grill smelled primarily of beer and cigarette and cigar smoke, although there was a more subtle odor both Janice and Jim associated with Italianrestaurants. most of the seats at the long bar were occupied by large males, who looked as if they worked in the naval shipyard, Janice thought, or possibly as stevedores on the Philadelphia waterfront. They found seats near the far end of the bar.
A very large, swarthy bartender who needed a shave put both hands on the bar and leaned toward them to inquire, «What'll it be?»
«Scotch, twice,» Weston said. «One light, one heavy.»
The drinks were served. Weston laid currency on the bar.
«Anything else I can do for you, pal?»
«I was hoping I could talk to Mario,» Weston said.
«You're a friend of Dominic's, right?»
«Right. You're Mario?»
The two men shook hands.
Mario turned to the cash register behind him, opened it, lifted an interior drawer, took an envelope from it, and handed it to Weston, who glanced quickly at what it contained, then put it into an inner pocket of his tunic.
«And you got something for me, right?» Mario asked.
Weston took a thick wad of bills from his pocket, peeled money from it, and laid it on the bar.
Mario picked the money up and put it in his trousers pocket.
«I can take care of your other problem, too, if you want,» Mario said.
«The sooner the better,» Jim said.
«Right now soon enough?»
«How long would that take?»
«Not longer than it would take you to have some pasta,» Mario said, nodding at four tables just beyond the extreme end of the bar. «If you don't gulp it down.»
«How do you feel about pasta, Janice?» Jim Weston inquired.
«We also got sausage, pepper, and onions,» Mario suggested helpfully.
«Fine!» Janice said, without much conviction.
Weston reached into his pocket and handed Mario the keys to the Buick. Mario walked down the bar, spoke softly to an equally large man sipping a beer, and handed him the keys. The man walked out of the bar.
Mario returned to Janice and Jim.
«If you don't like pasta,» he said to Janice, «the sausage and peppers is really nice.»
«Thank you,» Janice said.
«Are you going to tell me what's going on?» Janice asked, almost whispered, after their order had been taken by a very large middle-aged woman in a big white apron. «What's in that envelope that man gave you? Where is the other man going with your car?»
«You are an officer and gentlelady of the Naval Service,» Jim said. «You don't want to know. Besides, haven't you seen the poster? 'Loose Lips Sink Ships!'?»
«Jim, I want to know!» Janice said, in such a manner that Jim understood she really wanted to know.
He handed her the envelope. She looked into it, then quickly handed it back.
She looked at him, shaking her head in disbelief.
«That's dishonest!» she said. «I can't believe you did that!»
«It's
not
dishonest,» he said. «Dishonesty, by definition, means telling people lies. He had something I wanted, and I paid him what he wanted for it. Where's the dishonesty?»
«It's… it's unpatriotic!»
«There's a war on, right?»
«Yes, there is, and the armed forces need every gallon of gasoline they can get, and here you are—«
«The armed forces get all the gasoline they need,» Weston said. «The shortage is of rubber. The thinking is that the less people drive, the less they will wear out their tires. I can understand that.»
«But you're going to drive… My God, I don't know how many gasoline ration coupons were in that envelope!»
«There's supposed to be enough to buy a thousand gallons of gas,» Jim said. «I didn't count them. Mario, I thought, has an honest face.»
«But you're going to wear out your tires. Doesn't that bother you?»
«I'm going to contribute my already worn-out tires—the ones that came with the car—to the very next rubber-salvage campaign I come across. Unless, of course, Mario's friend takes care of that for me.»
She looked at him for just a moment until she took his meaning.
«Is that where he went with your car? To put new tires on it?»
«God, I hope they're new. But anything would be better than the tires that came with it. I'd never have made it out of Philadelphia on those tires, much less to the wilds of West Virginia. Much less back here to see you.»
«You're absolutely incredible!»
«Thank you!»
«I meant to say 'shameless,' « Janice said.
«Shamelessly in love with you,» he said. «What would you have preferred? That I die of a broken heart in Sulfuric Acid Springs, West Virginia?»
«White Sulphur Springs,» she corrected him.
«Because, because of a few lousy gallons of gasoline, and four tires, I was separated from her whom I love beyond measure?»
«Will you
please
knock off that 'you love me' business?» Janice said, but Jim didn't think she really meant it. He thought he saw that in her eyes.
note 27
The 21 Club
West Fifty-second Street
New York City, New York
1745 18 February 1943
Ernest Sage was sitting at the extreme end of the bar, his back against the wall, sipping his second martini. He was a superbly tailored, slightly built, and very intense man, a month shy of his fiftieth birthday, and wore his black hair slicked straight back with generous applications of Smootheee, one of the 213 personal products of American Personal Pharmaceuticals, the company whose board he chaired. He was, as well, its chief executive officer.
When his only child, Ernestine, and her gentleman friend, Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, entered the room, he fixed a not entirely genuine smile on his face and raised his right arm to attract their attention. His daughter smiled warmly and genuinely when she saw him. As always, this warmed him.
Captain McCoy's smile was as strained as Ernest Sage's.
«Hiya, Daddy,» Ernestine said, and kissed him.
«Hello, Princess,» he said, and hugged her.
Oh, Princess, why did you have to get yourself involved with this character?
«Hello, Ken,» he said, offering his hand. «It's good to see you. Welcome home.»
«Thank you, sir.»
«Charley, see what the Lieutenant will have,» Sage said to the bartender.
«It's
Captain
, Daddy,» Ernie said. «
One
silver bar, first lieutenant.
Two
silver bars, captain.»
Oh shit. I knew that. Every time I get around him, I make an ass of myself.
«Well, then, I guess congratulations are in order.»
«They certainly are,» Ernie said. «And notice the new fruit salad,» Ernie said, pointing at McCoy's ribbon-bedecked tunic. «That's the Silver Star, the third-highest decoration for valor.»
«Oh, Christ, Ernie,» McCoy said.
«He got it from General MacArthur personally,» Ernie went on, undaunted.
«Scotch,» McCoy, now very uncomfortable, said to the bartender. «Famous Grouse if you have it. A double.»
«Ernie, you're embarrassing Captain McCoy,» her father said.
«You can call him 'Ken,' Daddy. We're lovers.»
«Jesus, Ernie!» McCoy protested.
Ernest Sage pretended he had not heard his daughter. «You got to meet General MacArthur, did you, Ken?»
«And yesterday he briefed President Roosevelt,» Ernie said. «In the White House.»
«Did he really?» Sage asked, and then curiosity got the best of him. «I'm not sure what that means, 'briefed.' «
«It's sort of a report, sir.»
«A report on what?»
McCoy hesitated before answering. The operation had been classified Top Secret, but that was no longer the case. After McCoy's briefing, the President had ordered Navy Secretary Knox to put out a press release: «It will do great things for morale, Frank,» President Roosevelt had said, «for the public to learn that these brave men refused to surrender and are carrying on the fight against the Japanese in the Philippines.»
«There's a guerrilla force operating in the Philippines,» McCoy said.
«A gorilla force?» Sage asked, dubiously.
Ernie laughed at him. She started pounding her chest with balled fists.
«Hundreds of King Kong's cousins,» she said, «beating their chests. And looking for Japanese to rip apart.
Guerrillas
, Daddy. Probably from the French
guerre
, meaning 'war.' «
Ernest Sage saw that
Captain
McCoy was smiling, approvingly and fondly, at his only child. «I hadn't heard that,» Ernest Sage said.
«It was classified until yesterday,» McCoy said.
«And how did you come to know about these
guerrillas
, Ken?»
«He went into the Philippines and made contact with them,» Ernie said.
«That's enough, Ernie,» McCoy said flatly. «Put a lid on it.»
Ernie looked stricken. She did not like McCoy's disapproval.
«Am I asking questions I shouldn't be asking?» Ernest Sage said.
«Sir, I really don't know how much of this is still classified,» McCoy said.
The waiter delivered McCoy's double Famous Grouse and stood poised over it with a small silver water pitcher in one hand and a soda siphon bottle in the other.
McCoy held up his hand to signify he wanted neither, then picked up the glass and took a sip.
«What can I get you, Miss Sage?» the bartender asked.
«I'll just help myself to his. He had several… too many… on the train on the way up here.»
McCoy overrode this decision by signaling the bartender to give her her own drink. She did not press the issue.
«Daddy, to change the subject, what about Ken's car?»
At last, a safe subject.
«I called the man at the Cadillac place in Summit,» Sage said. «He's sending a mechanic out to the farm. You should have it tomorrow morning sometime.»
«I was hoping we could have it today,» Ernie said.
«Princess, it's too late for you two to drive anywhere today,» Sage said. «This way, we can go out to the farm, have a nice dinner—your mother is making a welcome-home dinner for Ken, turkey—get a good night's sleep…«
«Ken's only got fifteen days, Daddy!»
«It's all right,» McCoy said. «Thank you, Mr. Sage.»
Sage nodded his acceptance of the thanks and went on: «And, and, I have gasoline ration coupons—don't ask me where I got them—for a hundred gallons of gas.»
«You bought them on the black market,» Ernie said. «To replace the ration coupons—
Ken's
ration coupons—you 'borrowed' from me.» Ernest Sage raised his eyebrows.
«I wasn't going to renew the license plates, honey,» Ernie went on. «But Daddy talked me into it. He said we could use the gasoline ration coupons.»
Here I stand with a man who just got a medal from General MacArthur, and my daughter takes pains to let him know I'm supporting the war effort by using his gasoline ration.
«I've got coupons for two hundred gallons,» McCoy said. «Ed Sessions gave them to me when he gave me my leave orders.»
«We'll take his—actually, they're yours—anyhow,» Ernie said.
McCoy said nothing.
The guest room given to Captain Kenneth R. McCoy was on the ground floor of the left wing of the Sage house. The bedroom of the daughter of his hosts was on the second floor of the right wing. There was no way her parents could have separated them farther, Captain McCoy realized, unless they had put him in the stable.
On one hand, McCoy was well aware that if he himself had been in the shoes of Mr. and Mrs. Ernest Sage, he would have put this guy who'd caught their daughter's attention in the stable, hoping that with a little bit of luck, one of the horses would go nuts and trample him to death.
On the other hand, the prospect of sleeping without Ernie was unpleasant. They were going to have only fifteen days. If that much. He would not have been at all surprised if something came up… «Sorry, get here as soon as you can.»
Shit, I didn't call in.
He picked up the telephone, gave the operator the number of the Office of Management Analysis duty officer, assured her the call was necessary, and waited for her to put it through.
Major Banning answered the phone by giving the number.
«McCoy, sir. I'm at Ernie's father's place.»
«I thought you might be. I have the number. Having fun?»
«Whoopee!»
«The Boss is back, Ken. He called a while back from Los Angeles. He said to pass 'well done' to you for the presidential briefing. I guess Senator Fowler gave him a report.»
«What happens now?»
«You take your leave, Captain McCoy. You
will
have a good time. That's an order. But check in, Ken, please.»
«Aye, aye, sir.»
Captain McCoy was shortly afterward informed by the Sage butler that Mr. Sage was in the study and wondered if Captain McCoy might wish to join him for a drink.
They were joined in the study by Miss and Mrs. Sage, and dinner followed shortly thereafter. It was roast turkey stuffed with oysters and chestnuts.
«A belated Christmas dinner, Ken,» Elaine Sage said. She was a striking, silver-haired woman in her late forties. Ken often imagined Ernie looking like that when she was forty-something.
«That's very kind. Thank you.»
«I don't suppose you had a Christmas dinner, did you?»
«The Armed Forces go to great lengths to provide a turkey dinner with all the trimmings to the boys, wherever they are,» Ernest Sage said. «Isn't that so, Ken?»
«Yes, sir.»
«Where were you on Christmas, Ken?» Ernie asked.
I
was marching through the jungles of Mindanao, hoping I could find Fertig before the Japs did. Or before they found me
.
«Actually, I did have Christmas dinner,» he said, «on a Navy ship.»
Two days early. Nice gesture from the
Sunfish's
skipper
.
«You see?» Ernest Sage said triumphantly.
«It wasn't as good as this,» Ken said.
«Have another glass of wine, Ken,» Ernest Sage said.
Following dinner, there was coffee and brandy in the study, and then Miss Sage announced she was tired and was going to go to bed.
Captain McCoy and Ernest Sage shared another cognac, and then they, too, went to their respective bedrooms.
Captain McCoy was more than a little surprised to find that his bed already had an occupant.
«Jesus, Ernie,» he said. «They'll know.»
«No,» she said. «They are determined not to know. Come to bed, baby.»
note 28
The Greenbrier Hotel
White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia
1825 22 February 1943
On the nearly ten-hour drive from Philadelphia, Captain James B. Weston came to two philosophical conclusions.
The first: there were concrete benefits attached to being a Marine Aviator and certified hero. That proposition had three proofs. The first came in Mercersburg, Pennsylvania, where he had been pulled to the side of the road by a highly indignant Pennsylvania state trooper.
«I've been chasing you for five miles,» the trooper had begun the conversation. «Do you know how fast you were going?»
«No, sir.»
«Seventy, seventy-five. The wartime speed limit is thirty-five, for Christ's sake.»
«I didn't realize I was going that fast.»
«Well, goddamn it, you were!»
«Yes, sir. I'm sure you're right.»
«I'll need to see some identification, and your orders,» the state trooper said, and added, «There's been people wearing uniforms who ain't even in the armed forces.»
The trooper's tone of voice suggested he suspected—and indeed hoped—he now had such a person in custody.
«Just got out of the hospital, did you, Captain?» the trooper asked when he handed Jim's identity card and orders back to him.
«Yes, sir.»
«Going home, are you?»
«Actually, sir, I'm going to the Greenbrier Hotel.»
«I saw that on the orders,» the trooper said. «I'd have thought they'd have shut that place down for the duration.»
«No, sir, the government's taken it over.»
«What for?»
«It's where they send people when they come back from overseas,» Jim said.
«You just came back from overseas?»
«Yes, sir.»
«And you're just out of the hospital. How the hell am I going to give someone like you a ticket?»
Weston did not reply.
«If I let you go, will you promise to slow it down a little?»
«Yes, sir.»
«I don't think any cop would give someone like you—especially in a car like this, with good rubber—a ticket for going fifty or fifty-five. But
seventy-five
!»
«Yes, sir.»
«Drive careful, Captain. Now that you're home safe, you really ought to take care of yourself.»
«Yes, sir. Thank you.»
The state trooper saluted. Weston crisply returned it.
He had a similar conversation with a deputy sheriff near Romney, West Virginia, who had clocked him at sixty-five. The deputy sheriff confided in Weston that he was thinking of enlisting in the Marine Corps himself. Weston told him he felt sure the Marines could put a man with his training to good use. And promised to hold it down.
The third proof came when he filled the Buick's tank in Frost, West Virginia, about fifty miles shy of White Sulphur Springs. The service station attendant refused to accept gasoline ration coupons for the transaction.
«They give us an allowance for spillage and evaporation,» the man confided. «More than what we actually spill, or what evaporates… we call it 'overage.' I generally save my overage for when some serviceman like you comes in.»
«That's very kind of you,» Jim said, meaning: «I'll use the gasoline to go see my girl.»
«Anytime you come through here…«
«That's really very nice of you. I'll take you up on it.»
The second philosophical conclusion Captain Weston reached while driving to the Greenbrier Hotel was that he was in love with Janice Hardison.
And from the way she had kissed him that morning when he left her, there was reason to suspect she didn't regard him as the ugly frog, either.
God, she is sweet!
A Navy petty officer of some rating Weston didn't recognize sat behind the desk in the Greenbrier lobby.
Probably desk clerk's mate, second class.
«Yes, sir?»
«Do I report in here? Or check in here?» Weston asked.
The petty officer was not amused.
«You got orders, Captain? Or dependents?»
Weston handed over his orders.
«You're to report to Commander Bolemann,» the petty officer said. «Up the stairs, take the right corridor, sign over the door says 'Commander Bolemann.' «
The name rang a bell. Dr. Kister had told him about Bolemann in the Officers' Club bar, with Janice.
And Kister also said Bolemann enjoys his reputation as one mean sonofabitch.
«Wonderful!»
Commander Bolemann wasn't in his office. A pharmacist's mate first class told Weston that «the doctor's in the dining room» and that he was sure he would like Weston to go there.
«You'll have no trouble finding him, Captain. Chubby fellow with a cane.»
Weston had no trouble finding Commander Bolemann. The Commander with the Medical Corps insignia on his sleeves was sitting alone at a table by the door to the bar. For him, chubby was an understatement. And the cane was equally easy to spot. The handle was brass, cast in the shape of a naked lady.
Commander Bolemann spoke first.
«You must be Weston,» he said as Jim approached the table.
«Yes, sir.»
«Kister said I should look for a guy who looks like a recruiting poster,» Bolemann said. «Are you a drinking man, Weston?»
«I have been known to take a wee nip from time to time, sir.»
«What I had in mind was a martini,» Bolemann said, pointed to a chair, and added: «Sit.»
«Thank you, sir.»
A waiter appeared.
«Two martinis,» Bolemann ordered. «Give the check to this gentleman.»
Weston chuckled. There was a row of ribbons on Bolemann's jacket, among them the Silver Star. He wondered how the doctor had come by that.
«Ordinarily, I give Naval Aviators a wide berth. They're dangerous,» Bolemann said.
«Yes, sir?»
«The reason I am not standing at the bar in there,» Bolemann said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bar, «is a Naval Aviator.»
«How is that, sir?»
«First this idiot proved that he shouldn't have been allowed to fly airplanes in the first place by running his Wildcat into the island on the Enterprise. Then he just sat there, wondering what to do next. When I went up on the wing root to suggest he exit the airplane, its fuel tanks chose that moment to explode. I spent a year learning to walk with a stiff leg, most of it where you just came from.»
«I saw the… cane,» Weston replied, deciding just in time that Bolemann would prefer that to a reference to his Silver Star.
«I need that to beat off all the women with uncontrollable urges for my body,» Bolemann said. «Anyway, when I was in Philadelphia, I got to be pals with Kister. I started out as one of his lunatics, of course, but finally he recognized me as a fellow psychiatrist. When they finally turned me loose, they sent me here. Any other questions?»
«No, sir.»
«And Kister told me all about you, and I mean all about you, including the unwarranted—or did he say 'unwanted'?—attention you have been paying his favorite nurse, so we won't have to waste any time on that. Unless you
want
to tell me about your heroic service in the Philippines?»
«We ate a lot of pineapples,» Weston said. «That what you have in mind?»
«Ah, here's the booze,» Bolemann said as the waiter approached the table.
After the waiter had left their drinks on the table, Bolemann lifted his glass. «Welcome to the Greenbrier, Weston.»
«Thank you, sir.»
They touched glasses and Weston took a sip. Almost immediately, he could feel the alcohol. «Very nice,» he said.
«What did you drink in the Philippines?»
«We made our own beer. It was pretty bad, but not as bad as the rum we made.»
«And did all the pineapples, the bad beer, and the even worse rum cause you to have nightmares, then or since you came home?»
Weston suddenly understood that the question was not idle or bantering.
«No,» he said seriously. «Over there, I used to dream about food. But no nightmares. There or here.»
«They're nothing to be embarrassed about,» Bolemann said. «I've been blown off the wing root of that goddamned Wildcat at least a hundred times, sometimes twice a night.»
«Nothing like that, sir,» Weston said.
Bolemann looked at him intently for a long moment.
«While you are here, you will be counseled, once a week,» he said. «You just had Counseling Session Number One. Your other duties will consist of eating and availing yourself of healthy recreational activities. These run the gamut from A to B, but do not include trying to make out with either the waitresses or the wives of your fellow returned heroes. The food is free. So are the golf, swimming, hiking, et cetera. The booze you have to pay for yourself.»
«What's the pass system?»
«Where do you want to go?» Bolemann asked, and then, before Weston had time to reply, went on: «You've got it bad for Kister's nurse, do you?»
«That sums it up nicely, sir.»
«We can probably work something out,» Commander Bolemann said, and raised his martini glass again. «To Love, Captain Weston.»
«I'll drink to that,» Jim Weston said.
note 29
The Foster Lafayette Hotel
Washington, D.C.
1945 24 February 1943
In Washington, Senator Richardson K. Fowler (R.-Cal.) made his residence in a six-room corner suite on the eighth floor of the Foster Lafayette Hotel, half of whose windows offered an unimpeded view of the White House across Pennsylvania Avenue.
Living in the Foster Lafayette provided benefits he wasn't aware of before he moved in. Twenty-four-hour-a-day room service, for one thing. Sneaking people into the suite for confidential chats, for another.
Thus, when the Foster Lafayette's doorman alerted Fred, Fowler's butler, that the Director of the Office of Strategic Services had arrived downstairs, Fred had the door to Senator Fowler's apartment open when Donovan stepped off the elevator.
Fred had also been instructed by Senator Fowler to serve the liquor at a glacially slow pace.
«Good evening, Mr. Donovan,» Fred said. «Won't you please come in, sir? The Senator and the General are in the library.» He took Donovan's hat and topcoat and, carrying them in his arm, led Donovan to the library.
Both Senator Fowler and General Pickering stood up when Fred opened the door. Pickering was in civilian clothing, an impeccably tailored double-breasted pin-striped suit.
«Hello, Bill,» Fowler said, approaching him with his hand extended.
«Senator,» Donovan said, and looked at Pickering. «General,» he said.
Well, so much for my not embarrassing Colonel Wild Bill by not rubbing my general's stars in his face.
«Good to see you, Bill,» Pickering said, and walked to him to shake hands.
«What can I fix you, Bill?» Fowler asked.
«A glass of sparkling water, with a little lime, if you have it, please,» Donovan said.
Is that because he doesn't want a drink, or to set the stage for our sober confrontation ?
«Coming right up, sir,» Fred said.
«We are at the bottomless well of Flem's supply of Famous Grouse,» Fowler said. «He made sure the liquor stocks were sent ashore before he turned his passenger ships over to the Navy.»
«I can also make you a deal on the silver from the first class dining rooms,» Pickering said.
Donovan laughed dutifully.
«You kept the merchant ships, didn't you?» Donovan said. «What was that all about? Not that it's any of my business.»
«There will always be a need for merchantmen,» Pickering said. «But when I came back from Hawaii, right after Pearl Harbor, we made port in Seattle, and I had a chance to see all the B-17s lined up at the Boeing plant. They can fly to Hawaii in hours. It seemed to me that after the war, people are not going to be willing to spend weeks on a ship—no matter how comfortable—when they can get where they have to go in hours.»
«In other words, buy Boeing stock?»
«I have. And Lockheed, after I saw drawings of a four-engine transport Howard Hughes wants to make that will carry fifty people across oceans at three hundred miles an hour.»
«And what do you think of his wooden airplane? That will carry two hundred and fifty people? Or is it three fifty? Or so he says.»
«I heard about that,» Pickering said. «I haven't seen it, but my gut reaction would be to bet on Howard Hughes. I would be surprised if it doesn't work as promised. But to answer your question, I was delighted to sell the government my passenger ships. I kept the merchantmen because I thought P&FE could operate them more efficiently than the Navy could.»
«And you're probably right,» Donovan said, then switched over to the real point of the meeting. «I have something to say to you, Pickering. And not because of the circumstances. I was wrong when I didn't offer you an assistant directorship when you came to see me.»
«We were not mutual admirers,» Pickering said. «If the shoe had been on my foot—«
«The matter is now out of our hands, isn't it?» Donovan said.
«It would seem that way,» Pickering said.
«Is this the appropriate time for me to say 'welcome'? Or maybe, if an old soldier can get away with saying this, 'welcome aboard'?»
«Thank you very much, sir,» Pickering said, and offered his hand again.
«You see?» Fowler said. «It's like going to the dentist. Once you sit down in the chair and open your mouth, it's not nearly as bad as you imagined.»
«Jesus, Dick!» Pickering said, but smiled.
«How's your health?» Donovan asked.
«Fine,» Pickering said. «I was pretty tired when I got off the airplane in San Diego, but then I spent four days at home, lifting nothing heavier than a fork.»
«You're ready to go to work?»
«Yes,» Pickering said simply.
«Good. There are things for you to do,» Donovan said. «But before I get into that, let me give you the lay of the land.»
Pickering nodded.
«Am I supposed to be privy to any of this?» Senator Fowler asked. «Legally, no,» Donovan said. «But on the other hand…«
«I'm a United States senator?»
«You were there, Dick, having dinner with the President, when he had—what was it he said? his 'divine revelation'—about naming Pickering OSS Deputy Director for Pacific Operations. I don't think that was a coincidence; he wanted you involved. It's difficult knowing what Roosevelt is really thinking about anything, but maybe he's hoping that if—when—Pickering becomes unhappy with something at the OSS, he'd rather have him talk it over with you before he takes it to him. I think it would be valuable if you heard this.»
He calls Fowler «Dick» and me «Pickering.» Did that just happen? Or is it to remind me that he's the boss?
Fowler nodded.
«Let's clear the air about that,» Pickering said. «I take my orders from you. If I decide that I cannot in good conscience obey my orders, I will tell you why, and resign.»
Donovan looked into Pickering's eyes. «Fair enough,» he said. «Then my orders to you are this: If you find yourself thinking of resignation, talk it over with the Senator before you come to me.»
«Yes, sir,» Pickering said. ' «And I will ask you, Senator, not to share anything with your colleagues.»
«Of course, not,» Fowler said.
«There is an organizational chart at the OSS,» Donovan said. «And like most organizational charts, it's primarily eyewash. The basic setup is this: the Deputy Director, Administration, functions as my chief of staff. If you don't like what you hear from him, come to me.»
Pickering nodded.
«There is a Deputy Director, Operations, and Deputy Directors, European, Western Hemisphere, and now Pacific… you. While you and the other area Deputy Directors are not subordinate to the Deputy Director, Administration, when he speaks, he's almost always speaking for me.»
Pickering nodded again. «Okay,» he said.
«Come by the office tomorrow. I'll introduce you to everybody.»
«Fine. What time?»
«Nine?»
«Fine.»
«How much do you know about the people—the Americans—who are supposed to be in the Gobi Desert?»
«One of Admiral Nimitz's intelligence officers briefed me in Pearl Harbor…«
«Nimitz had you briefed on the Gobi Desert operation?» Donovan asked.
To judge by his eyes
, Pickering decided,
he doesn't like that
.
«Yes, he did,» Pickering replied evenly.
«Did he give any reason for bringing you in on that problem?»
My conversation with Admiral Nimitz was obviously confidential. So what do I do? Break that confidence? Or start off my armistice with Donovan by lying to him ?
If I did that, he would sooner or later find out anxway.
And by now he probably has heard what Nimitz asked Admiral Leahy to do.
«He told me that he had recommended to Admiral Leahy that the OSS be given the responsibility for establishing contact with the people in the Gobi, and that it was his recommendation that I be given responsibility for the operation.»
Donovan looked at Pickering for a long moment without speaking.
The sonofabitch is trying to make up his mind whether I'm lying or telling the truth!
«The Joint Chiefs,» Donovan said finally, «which of course means Admiral Leahy, gave the OSS the mission of establishing contact with these people. Nothing was said about you.»
«Then you didn't know about Admiral Nimitz's recommendation?» Pickering asked, surprised.
«No, but I did know that Nimitz is one of your admirers, and that he knew all about your Philippine operation—and, of course, your appointment to the OSS— so I was a little surprised that your name didn't come up in Phase One.»
«Phase One?» Pickering asked, not understanding.
«Phase One was a little preliminary work in the OSS, pending my return to Washington. My Deputy Director, Administration, had a memo waiting for me recommending that you be given the operation, giving as his reasons your successful Philippine operation and your position as Deputy Director, Pacific.»
«One doesn't ordinarily consider the Gobi Desert to be in the Pacific,» Pickering said.
Donovan didn't respond to the comment.
«My Deputy Director, Operations, sent me a memo stating that should your name come up in connection with the Gobi operation, he wanted to go on record early on as being opposed to it. He offered three reasons: First, the point you just made—one doesn't think of the Gobi as being in the Pacific. Second, it would be unfair to you, inasmuch as you have little knowledge of the OSS. And finally, in his view, applying your knowledge of the Pacific Ocean and of shipping generally could be put to more important use in the OSS than running what will be a commando/parachutist covert operation.»
«You understand, Bill…«
Donovan held up his hand to cut him off.
«Phase Two occurred last night, across the street,» Donovan said, gesturing through the window toward the White House. «Where I was honored to break bread with the Commander in Chief and his Chief of Staff. Shortly before the apple cobbler. Roosevelt looked at me, and said—in words to this effect, 'In addition to other things he might be doing for you, Admiral Leahy thinks that Fleming Pickering should command the operation to get a radio station operating in the Gobi Desert. Do you have any problem with that?» Or, as 1 said, words to that effect.»
«And what did you reply to the Commander in Chief?» Senator Fowler asked, chuckling.
«I said the idea had already been proposed to me by one of my deputy directors, and I was delighted General Pickering's appointment would please Admiral Leahy.»
«Franklin does that so well.» Fowler chuckled. «Makes a suggestion that is impossible to refuse.»
«You didn't say what you had decided to do before the President made his 'suggestion,' « Pickering said.
«No. I guess I didn't,» Donovan said. «Water under the dam anyway, wouldn't you say?»
«Yes, I suppose so,» Pickering said.
«Tell me about your briefing from Admiral Nimitz,» Donovan said.
«His intelligence officer, or at least one of them—«
«Groscher? Captain Groscher?» Donovan interrupted.
«Yeah.»
«Groscher knows as much about the Americans in the Gobi as anybody,» Donovan said. «What did he have to say?»
«Nothing I would suppose that you don't know. Much of it was new to me. There doesn't seem to be any question about whether the weather station is needed, just who will get it up and running.»
«And now we know, don't we?»
«It's none of my business, but I think Nimitz and Leahy are right. Flem has a way of getting things done,» Senator Fowler said.
Pickering had the feeling Donovan could have happily done without Fowler's comment.
«We'll talk about this tomorrow at the office,» he said.
«Okay,» Pickering said.
«The President gave you authority to bring anybody you want along with you, in addition to your people already in Australia. Have you given that any thought?»
«Yes.»
«I'd like to have the Office of Management Analysis,» Donovan said. «Lock, stock, and barrel. Have you considered that?»
«Frank Knox would not stand still for that,» Senator Fowler said, thinking out loud.
«The President gives the orders,» Donovan said. «Except, of course, to senators.»
It didn't take long before we came to serious disagreement, did it
? Pickering thought.
Well, to hell with being polite. Get it on the table
.
«I think that Management Analysis should stay right where it is,» Pickering said.
«Is that so?» Donovan said coldly. «Why?»
«It's up and running,» Pickering said. «I don't want to see it swallowed by the OSS bureaucracy.»
«You're now part of that OSS bureaucracy, General,» Donovan said, his face whitening.
«I am going to ask Colonel Rickabee if he will give me a couple of people over there,» Pickering said. «And there are several other people I'd like to have. But I oppose taking the Office of Management Analysis away from Frank Knox.»
It was obvious that Donovan didn't like the response, but he didn't press it.
If I had any tact, and the brains to use it, I would have used words like «think.»
«suggest,» et cetera. Fuck it. Let Donovan know what I think.
«Why don't we reschedule your arrival at the office until, say, half past twelve tomorrow?» Donovan said. «That would give you time to ask Rickabee who he's willing to give you.»
«Fine,» Pickering said.
«We'll have to do some schedule shuffling to move them through the Country Club,» Donovan said. «We'll need your list as soon as possible. This Gobi operation is on the front burner.»
«Excuse me?» Pickering asked, confused.
«The OSS training base. Before the war, it was the Congressional Country Club. Everybody who comes into the OSS has to go through it. With very rare exceptions, like you.»
My God, McCoy comes home from his third rubber-boat trip onto hostile shores and Donovan wants to send him to basic training?
Senator Fowler saw the look on Pickering's face. «Are you two about ready to eat?» he asked quickly.
This is not the time
, Pickering decided,
to debate the wisdom of sending McCoy and Jake to
—
what did he call it
?—
the «Country Club
.»
«Anytime, Dick,» Pickering said.
«Actually, I was hoping the subject of eating would come up soon,» Donovan said. «I've got a couple of more stops to make tonight.»
«And I have a telephone call to make,» Fowler said. «Our mutual friend across the street is staying close to the telephone, waiting for my report on how this went.»
«I was right, then?» Donovan chuckled. «You're to be the referee?»
«What he did, Bill, was wave his cigarette holder at me, and smile that smile of his, and ask me—since he and I have a civilized gentleman's armistice—if he was being unreasonable in expecting you two to do the same.»
«I knew it,» Donovan said.
«I will now be able to happily tell him that you two have kissed and made up.»
«Good God!» Pickering said.
Chapter Eight
note 30
The Foster Lafayette Hotel
Washington, D.C.
0805 25 February 1943
Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, the Washington
Star
in hand, was sitting in the marble walled bathroom of his apartment, waiting for his bowels to move, when the telephone rang. He dropped the
Star
onto the floor and gazed, with a sense of moral triumph, at the telephone mounted on the wall.
Men of less imagination and determination
, he thought,
in a similar circumstance, would be nonplussed. They would be forced to decide between hastily abandoning their attempt to vacate their bowels, or just letting the damned telephone ring
.
They
would not have installed a phone in the John, as
he
had, over Patricia's firm objections. For reasons he did not pretend to understand, Patricia thought using a telephone in the bathroom was tantamount to using the facilities with the door wide open.
The telephone, which was mounted on the wall beside the water closet, was equipped with a red light, a green light, and a switch. The green light indicated the incoming call was from the hotel switchboard; the red that it was coming in over the private, unlisted line.
The red light was blinking.
With a little bit of luck, that will be my bride, and I can open the conversation by asking her if she can guess where I am.
He flipped the switch to the private line and picked up the receiver.
«Good morning!» he cried cheerfully.
«General Pickering, please,» a male voice he didn't recognize replied.
Who the hell is this? Not ten people have this number.
«Who is this?»
«Am I speaking with General Pickering?»
It's that goddamned Wild Bill Donovan, that's who it is! A little demonstration of his ability to do things like get unlisted telephone numbers. And that he's too important to dial the number himself and has some flunky to do it for him.
And, if he senses this has annoyed me, he will have accomplished his purpose.
«This is General Pickering,» he said as charmingly as he could manage under the circumstances.
«One moment, please, General,» Donovan's flunky said.
«Certainly,» General Pickering said graciously.
And before that sonofabitch comes on the line, he'll keep me waiting as long
—
«I didn't get you out of bed, I hope, Fleming?»
This voice Pickering recognized, and it wasn't that of Wild Bill Donovan.
«No, Mr. President, I've been up for some time. Good morning, Mr. President.»
«I just called to tell you how delighted I was to hear from Dick Fowler that you and Bill Donovan have established an amicable relationship.»
«We had a very pleasant dinner, Mr. President.»
«So Dick told me. There's one other thing, Fleming. I meant it when I said that my door will always be open to you, if you have something you wish to share with me.»
«That's very kind of you, Mr. President.»
«Bill and I have been friends for years,» President Roosevelt said. «And I therefore know better than most people how obdurate he can be.»
«I defer, of course, to your greater knowledge, Mr. President.»
Roosevelt laughed. «As soon as it can be arranged, you'll have to come for dinner.»
«I know how you busy you are, Mr. President.»
«Never too busy for you, Fleming,» Roosevelt said, and the line went dead.
Pickering put the handset back in its cradle.
What the hell was that all about?
You know what the hell that was all about.
Roosevelt being Machiavellian again.
During dinner the night before, Donovan had spoken, with barely concealed anger, of his relationship with FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover. It wasn't that he disliked Hoover—he had been instrumental in having Hoover named head of the FBI—but that Roosevelt refused to clear up a jurisdictional dispute between the FBI and the OSS.
The FBI was charged with intelligence and counterespionage in the Western Hemisphere. The OSS was charged with the same thing worldwide, with the exception of the United States. So far as Donovan was concerned, that meant exactly what it said. So far as Hoover was concerned, the FBI was in charge of espionage and counterespionage everywhere in the Western Hemisphere, which meant that the OSS was marching on the FBI's turf when it operated anywhere in Canada, Central America, or South America.
«Franklin just wants you and Edgar to compete, Bill.» Senator Fowler had said, «to see who gets the gold star to take home for Mommy.»
«It's not funny, Dick,» Donovan had said.
«I know. What it is, is Franklin Rooseveltian,» Fowler had said. «And only God can change that.»
And now Roosevelt's consciously setting up the same kind of competition between Donovan and me.
Pickering looked at his watch, then at the telephone again.
What I am about to do is absolutely childish.
But on the other hand, one does not have this sort of splendid opportunity every day.
He picked up the telephone, dialed O for operator, asked for long distance, and when the long-distance operator came on the line, gave her a number in San Francisco.
«Is this call essential, sir?» the operator asked.
«Operator, the entire outcome of the war depends on this call getting through.»
«You don't have to be sarcastic, sir.»
The number in San Francisco rang four times before an operator came on. She sounded as if she might have been asleep at her post.
«Pacific and Far East Shipping.»
«This is Fleming Pickering,» he announced.
«Good morning, Commodore,» the operator said, now fully awake.
«I'd like to leave a message for my wife when she comes to work this morning,» he said.
«Of course, Commodore.»
«You have a pencil?»
«Yes, sir.»
«The message is, 'Guess where I was at eight oh five this morning when the President of the United States called. Love, Flem.' Got that?»
«Yes, sir. Commodore, you don't want to tell her where?»
«She'll know, thank you just the same,» Pickering said, and hung up.
As he did that, he noticed, a little surprised and confused, that the green light was illuminated, indicating an incoming call from the hotel switchboard. He shrugged, flipped the switch, and said, «Hello?»
«I hope I didn't wake you,» Senator Richardson K. Fowler said, his tone suggesting he didn't mean that at all.
«You mean you've been waiting for me to answer?»
«Only for the last twenty or thirty minutes,» Fowler said.
«Actually I was on the phone, having a little chat with the President,» Pickering said.
Fowler groaned.
«And how may I help you, Senator?»
«No good deed goes unpunished,» Fowler said. «I was about to ask you to breakfast.»
«Give me five minutes, Dick,» Pickering said.
«Anything special?»
«Something simple. How about a breakfast steak, and a couple of eggs, sunny-side up?»
«Five minutes, Flem,» Fowler said, and hung up.
Pickering, tieless and in his shirtsleeves, arrived at Fowler's down-the-corridor door just as the floor waiter was rolling in a food cart.
«That wasn't five minutes, Flem,» Fowler greeted him. «I have a full day ahead of me.»
«More than you know,» Pickering said, as he followed Fowler into his dining room. The table was set for three.
«Good morning, Commodore,» Fred said.
«Call me General today, Fred,» Pickering said, touching his shoulder. «I have been up most of the night thinking General-type thoughts.»
«I need some of that coffee,» Fowler said, snatching a silver coffeepot from the floor waiter's cart. He sat down at the table and poured himself a cup. Then he remembered Pickering's recent words.
» 'More than I know'? What's that supposed to mean?»
«Put a little something in your stomach,» Pickering said. «It'll put you in a better mood.»
«Just put the plates on the table please,» Fowler said to the floor waiter, «and then, thank you, that'll be all. I have a terrible suspicion that the breakfast-table conversation will concern topics that nice people shouldn't have to hear.»
Pickering waited until the waiter transferred the plates, uncovered them, and left. Fred saw him through the door, locked it, and then sat down at the table with Pickering and Fowler.
«I thought you would be beside yourself with curiosity about my conversation,» he began.
«Your conversation with who?»
«Take a wild guess. He smiles a lot—lots of teeth—and smokes his cigarettes in a long ivory holder.»
Fowler shook his head.
«And what did our beloved leader have to say?» Fowler asked, and then, before Pickering could begin to answer, added: «Flem, who called who?»
«'He called me,» Pickering said. «On my unlisted line.»
«He
is
the President. What did he have to say?»
«Because he and Colonel Donovan are old friends, he told me, he knows better than most people how obdurate… I love that word; I thought I knew what it meant, but when we hung up, to be sure, I looked it up in the dictionary—«
«Hardened in wrongdoing,» Fowler said.
«Or wickedness,» Pickering said. «According to Mr. Webster, 'wrongdoing
or wickedness
.' 1 told you I looked it up.»
»
And
, Flem?» Fowler said, smiling.
«And because he knows how
obdurate
the good Colonel can be, his door is always open to me.»
«That's nice,» Fowler said. «You remember our conversation last night about J. Edgar Hoover?»
«How could I forget?» Pickering said.
«Interesting,» Fowler said, and stared at his breakfast steak with disdain. «I don't know why I ordered this. If I eat this, I'll fall asleep before lunch.»
«I will, of course, take the President at his word, and go knocking at his door. Today, if I have to. Unless you can fix it so that I won't have to.»
«What are you talking about?»
«You remember what Donovan said last night? 'I'd like to have the Office of Management Analysis. Lock, stock, and barrel'?
«And I remember that you told him no.»
«And I remember he took my 'no' too easily, as if he expected that reaction and was going to ignore it.»
«Yeah,» Fowler said, remembering. «Frank Knox wouldn't at all like losing Management Analysis,» he added. «He is very fond of his private, personal OSS.»
«Which performs a number of valuable functions, and which should not be swallowed up by the OSS.»
«1 agree,» Fowler said.
«I suspect that Donovan has tried to get it before, failed, and sees a new opportunity. He can tell the President I want it. Or, more likely, that he naturally presumed I would want to bring it into the OSS with me. Since the President has told me I can have anybody I want, he will see nothing wrong with this, and will tell Admiral Leahy to take care of it. Once it's in the OSS, he takes it away from me.»
«You don't trust Donovan, do you?»
«He's a lawyer, Dick, of course I don't trust him.»
«So am I a lawyer,» Fowler said, not amused.
«Yeah, but Donovan is a
Democratic
lawyer.»
«That's a little better,» Fowler said.
Fred chuckled.
«So what do you propose to do? Or propose that I do for you?» Fowler asked.
«Get to Frank Knox, immediately, this morning, and tell him I'll make a deal with him. If he's willing to go along, I'll go to the President with him and tell him I think Management Analysis should remain under Knox. If we both go to the President and tell him no, I think we can prevail over Bill Donovan, done deal or not.»
«You understand how quickly Roosevelt's open door is going to slam in your face if you go over Donovan's head your first day on the job?»
«I couldn't do it alone, and I don't think Frank Knox could,» Pickering said. «We'll have to do it together. I'll worry about the door slamming in my face later.»
«You said 'deal,' « Fowler said. «What kind of a deal? Frank Knox is not well-known for making deals. What do you want from Knox?»
«I want Fritz Rickabee promoted to brigadier general,» Pickering said. «And Ed Banning promoted to lieutenant colonel. Incidentally, I've decided I need Banning more than Rickabee does.»
«Why is this important to you?» Fowler asked.
«Fritz needs a star to run Management Analysis. If I have to point this out, he is far more entitled to a star than I am. And when I have to ask him for help, I would like him, frankly, to remember where his star came from.»
Fowler grunted.
«And Banning?»
«Several reasons. Some practical, some political. Banning knows China. He was an intelligence officer there for years. God, he had to leave his wife behind him in Shanghai—«
«I didn't know that,» Fowler interrupted. «She's a prisoner?»
«Nobody knows.»
Fowler shook his head.
«Anyway, I need Banning's brains and expertise. He has a magic clearance, which will be useful.»
«Why should he be promoted? That might be difficult. The Marine Corps likes to decide who gets promoted, and when.»
«First of all, he's deserving of promotion,» Pickering said. «Secondly, I suspect there are a lot of majors in the OSS—the guy Donovan sent to replace Killer McCoy in the Philippines was a major—and I want my deputy to outrank them. As far as that goes, I'm bringing Jake Dillon into the OSS, and I think it's a good idea for him to be calling Ed Banning 'sir' and 'Colonel' «
«Dillon?» Fowler asked doubtfully. «Your movie press agent friend?»
«Not only is Jake an old China Marine, but he did a hell of a job for me on several occasions,» Pickering said, «and he's loyal to me.»
Fowler shrugged.
«Don't tell me it can't be done, Dick,» Pickering said.
«It can be done. I think Frank Knox will go along with you. And the price will be antagonizing both Donovan and the entire OSS—and the Marine Corps.»
«I would worry a hell of a lot more about that if Archer Vandegrift wasn't going to become Commandant of the Marine Corps.»
Fowler grunted again.
«But speaking of the Marine Corps: do you still have 'U.S. Senator' license plates on your car?»
«Yeah, why?»
«I want to borrow your car this morning. I'm going to Eighth and I to see Jack Stecker, and—«
«You would like the word to rapidly spread that Jack Stecker has a friend who is a friend of a senator.»
«I'm just trying to save cab fare,» Pickering said.
«Why do you want to see Jack?»
«As soon as Vandegrift becomes Commandant, he's going to hear a litany of complaints about the OSS, and probably me, personally, especially about the promotions. So when he asks Jack, «Just what the hell is your friend Pickering up to?' I want Jack to be in a position to tell him.»
«You're going to tell him everything?»
«Everything I decide he has a need to know; as a practical matter, that means just about everything. Why Rickabee and Banning got promoted; all about this Gobi Desert business; everything.»
Fowler grunted.
«I strongly suspect,» Pickering went on, «that Vandegrift will make his manners to Admiral Nimitz in Pearl Harbor on his way home. And that Nimitz will explain to him the significance of the Gobi operation—and, more important, that he wanted me to run it. If I'm right, Vandegrift's blessing on the operation will grease a lot of skids. What I'm really trying to do is eliminate friction between the Corps and the OSS.»
Fowler met Pickering's eyes for a long moment.
«Maybe you're learning how the game is played, Flem,» he said, and turned to Fred: «See if you can get Secretary Knox on the phone, please, Fred. I'll speak with Captain Haughton if I have to, but tell him it's important that I speak to Knox personally.»
«Thank you, Dick,» Pickering said.
Senator Fowler shrugged. «The reason I keep getting reelected is that I have become known for my service to my constituents,» he said, straight-faced.
When he heard the door to his apartment open. General Pickering was examining the insignia and decorations on his tunic. He was doing that with great care; this morning he really wanted to look like a Marine general about to go on parade.
«In here, Fred,» he called out. «I'll be with you in a minute.»
«It's me. General,» Second Lieutenant George F. Hart, USMCR, replied.
What the hell is he doing here? He's supposed to be visiting his family in St. Louis.
Pickering turned to his bedroom door and waited for Hart to appear.
«Good morning, sir.»
«Where the hell were you when I needed you, George?» Pickering asked, gesturing toward the tunic laid out on his bed.
Hart walked to the bed and carefully examined the placement of the insignia and decorations.
«Shipshape, sir,» he said, picked up the tunic, and held it out for Pickering.
«I didn't expect you so soon. You understand that?» Pickering asked as he slipped his arms into the sleeves.
«Well, I could say duty called, but the truth is my girl is in New York, and Washington is closer to New York than St. Louis.»
«Well, then why aren't you in New York?»
«1 thought maybe you might need me,» Hart said.
«This morning, I do,» Pickering said. «And then you can go to New York.»
«What's happening this morning?»
«We're going to see Colonel Stecker at Eighth and I,» Pickering said, «and I really want to look like a general. And you can't look like a general, can you, without an aide-de-camp hovering around you?»
«Who are we trying to impress?» Hart asked, smiling.
«Every feather merchant at Eighth and I,» Pickering said. At that moment a thought occurred to him. He went to his briefcase and removed a legal pad. He handed it to Hart. «That's a list of the people we're taking into the OSS. I made it up last night. Have I left anybody off?»
Hart studied the list. «Two questions,» he said.
«Shoot.»
«The sergeant—maybe I should say the lieutenant—who was with Weston in the Philippines. Everly.
Percy
L. Everly?»
«Why him?»
«Killer McCoy told me he told him he was going to try to get him out of the Philippines.»
«He should be brought out,» Pickering thought out loud. «Weston told me about him.»
«The Killer must think he's okay. They were in the Fourth Marines in Shanghai. Anyway, just a question.»
«McCoy didn't say anything to me about getting him out.»
«Once you told him he was going to have to brief the President, the Killer wasn't really himself.»
Pickering chuckled.
«He did that very well, by the way,» Pickering said. «The President told Admiral Leahy to radio both MacArthur and Nimitz that support of U.S. forces in the Philippines is to be considered essential. Okay. Add his name to the list. If we get him out—
when
we get him out—he finds out he's in the OSS.»
«Yes, sir.»
«You said you had two questions, George?»
«I noticed Lieutenant Easterbrook's name on the list,» Hart said evenly.
Second Lieutenant Robert F. Easterbrook, USMCR (who was known to his friends as «the Easterbunny»), had been a combat correspondent on Guadalcanal. After a Marine who had won the Medal of Honor on Bloody Ridge described him as «the bravest man on Bloody Ridge,» he had been directly commissioned as an officer. Easterbrook was nineteen years old.
Making him an officer looked good in the newspapers, but Pickering, who knew and admired Easterbrook, thought making him an officer just about headed the list of stupid acts perpetrated by the feather merchants at Eighth & I.
When he heard the Marine Corps was about to send the boy back to the Pacific in command of a team of combat correspondents—an act that would almost certainly get him, and the men under him, killed—he had decided that Lieutenant Easterbrook could make a far greater contribution to the war effort in the OSS.
It was a moment before Pickering replied.
«We're going to make history, George, and I have decided that we need someone with us to photograph it all for posterity.»
«Yes, sir.» Hart chuckled.
«If anybody at Eighth and I, or at the OSS, asks you what you know about Easterbrook, you know nothing.»
«Yes, sir. Off the record, sir?
«Yeah, sure.»
«I approve, and so will Pick when he hears,» Hart said. «He was really worried about the Easterbunny going back over there and getting himself killed trying to prove he's really a Marine officer.»
The door opened again; this time it was Fred. «Anytime you're ready, General,» he called.
«We're ready now,» Pickering said.
note 31
Headquarters, United States Marine Corps
Eighth and I Streets, N.W.
Washington, D.C.
0955 25 February 1943
The Marine guards at the gate of the compound were armed with pistols suspended from web belts. They were also wearing steel helmets, the new style. Pickering thought of this as «German style,» as opposed to the old style, which General Pickering had worn both in France and on Guadalcanal and thought of as «Limey style.»
He also thought that wearing helmets here was a little absurd. Their primary purpose was to protect the skull from artillery and mortar shrapnel, or from pieces of exploded antiaircraft shells falling back to earth. And none of that was liable to happen right now in the District of Columbia.
Fowler's 1942 Packard 280 limousine had a license plate: u.s. senate 12. The Marine sergeant who approached it was already prepared to be very polite to the august personage the vehicle was carrying.
His determination to be very polite increased by at least fifty percent when he saw the passenger was a Marine brigadier general. He saluted crisply. «Good morning, sir!» he barked. «How may the sergeant assist the General, Sir?»
Pickering returned the salute.
«Good morning, Sergeant. I'm here to see Colonel Jack (NMI) Stecker.»
When Colonel Jack (NMI) Stecker, USMC, was a young sergeant in France in World War I, he had won the Medal of Honor. Sergeant Fleming Pickering and Corporal D. G. Mclnerney had been with him in the action.
«Yes, sir. May the sergeant trouble the General, Sir, for his identification? Regulations, sir.»
It is, I suppose, possible that the Axis Powers would, for some nefarious purpose, attempt to gain entrance to Headquarters, USMC, by sending in the agent wearing a Marine brigadier's uniform and in a car they stole from a senator.
«Certainly,» Pickering said, removing his wallet and nudging George Hart with his elbow to do the same thing.
The sergeant examined both ID cards carefully.
«Thank you, sir,» the sergeant said, handing them back. «One moment, sir, and I'll try to locate Colonel—Stecker, you said?—for you.»
«Stecker,» Pickering confirmed. «Thank you, Sergeant.»
The sergeant walked quickly to the guard shack and consulted a mimeographed list mounted on a clipboard. After a moment, it was evident from his face that he couldn't find what he expected to find.
He checked again, carefully, and then, looking worried, returned to the rear window of Fowler's long black Packard limousine.
«Sir, the sergeant probably misunderstood the General, Sir. The name of the colonel the General wishes to see is?»
«Stecker, Sergeant. Colonel Jack (NMI) Stecker,» Pickering said.
«Sir, I couldn't find a Colonel Stecker on my list, sir.»
«I know he's here, Sergeant,» Pickering said. «Why don't you call the Office of the Commandant and ask the sergeant major?»
«Aye aye, sir,» the sergeant said, and trotted quickly back to the guard shack.
A minute later, he was back. «Sir, if the General will be good enough to wait, the Office of the Commandant is sending someone down, sir, to take you to Colonel Stecker.»
«Thank you very much, Sergeant,» Pickering said.
Three minutes later a very natty Marine major walked up to the limousine and saluted.
He's a chair-warmer
, Pickering decided, somewhat unkindly, and not only because none of the ribbons on the major's chest indicated he had seen foreign service.
«Good morning, sir,» the Major said, saluting. «I'm Major Robinson, sir, of the Commandant's staff.»
«Good morning, Major,» Pickering said. «Do you know where I can find Colonel Stecker?»
«Yes, sir. The Colonel is also on the Commandant's staff. Specifically, he's a Special Assistant to the Commandant, sir. If I may get in the General's car, sir, I will show you where you can park, and then I'll take you to Colonel Stecker.»
«Special Assistant» to the Commandant ? That means they don't know what the hell to do with him.
«Thank you very much,» Pickering said.
After the major had slipped in the front seat next to Fred, they drove into the compound, and he showed Fred where to park behind a redbrick building.
They stepped out of the car.
«I don't believe I've had the privilege of previously meeting the General, sir,» Major Robinson said.
«No, I don't believe we've met,» Pickering said. «My name is Pickering, and this is my aide, Lieutenant Hart.»
Major Robinson shook Pickering's offered hand and nodded at Hart.
«Right this way, sir,» Major Robinson said. «Colonel Stecker's office is in the basement.»
In the basement, and it's probably a broom closet. That will change when General Vandegrift gets back.
Colonel Jack (NMI) Stecker's office was a little larger than a broom closet, but not much. There was room for a desk and two chairs and not much else. Stecker was a tall, muscular, tanned man in his early forties. When he saw Pickering, he looked up in surprise. The four rows of ribbons on his tunic were not topped by the white-starred blue ribbon indicating he had been awarded the Medal of Honor.
He's not embarrassed by it. He just doesn't want to hide behind it.
«General Pickering to see you, Colonel,» Major Robinson announced.
«Good morning, General,» Stecker said.
«Good morning, Colonel Stecker,» Pickering said, and turned to Major Robinson. «Thank you, Major. That will be all.»
«Sir, the Commandant is not aboard at the moment,» Robinson said. «But the chief of staff…«
«Please present my compliments to the chief of staff, Major, and tell him I will not waste his valuable time by making my manners. I have no business with him; I'm here to see Colonel Stecker.»
«Aye, aye, sir.»
«Close the door after the major, will you, please, George?»
«Aye, aye, sir.»
Pickering waited until the door was closed, and then smiled at Stecker.
«Hello, you ugly old bastard,» he said. «How the hell are you?»
«What the hell are you up to?»
«Well, I heard they'd put you in a broom closet in the basement, and I came to cheer you up.»
«They don't know what the hell to do with me,» Stecker said.
«Nobody's even suspected that you're going to be the eminence grise behind the incoming commandant?»
«The only one who knows who his replacement will be is the Commandant, and he told me he wants to keep it that way.»
«But you are looking forward to the day when General Vandegrift shows up and rescues you from the basement?»
«I'm looking forward to the day when I can make a contribution,» Stecker said.
«Well, I have a few little things you can do for me,» Pickering said.
«Hello, George,» Stecker said, offering his hand to Hart. «I wasn't trying to ignore you. But the last person I expected to see down here this morning is your boss.»
«Good to see you again, sir.»
«You're aware, of course, that you are looking at the new Deputy Director, Pacific, of the Office of Strategic Services?» Pickering asked.
«I saw it in the Washington
Post
. What's that all about?»
«According to the Special Channel I got from the President—I got it on Espiritu Santo, a couple of hours after McCoy and the others flew in from Mindanao—the idea of giving me the job came, as a divine revelation, while he was having dinner with Dick Fowler. He said he needed somebody who enjoyed the trust of El Supremo and Admiral Nimitz, and lo and behold, there I was.»
«Sounds like you were sandbagged. Everybody was sandbagged.»
«Oddly enough, both MacArthur and Nimitz seemed pleased. I stopped to pay my manners to Nimitz at Pearl on the way home, and he told me he'd already arranged—through Admiral Leahy—my first OSS assignment. That's where you come in, old buddy.»
«I don't think I'm going to like this.»
«I want someone with the ear of the Commandant—by that I mean General Vandegrift, when he takes over—who knows what we're doing, so that when we ask the Corps for something, we have a friend in the right place.»
«Flem, not only don't I know what you're going to be doing, but I very seriously doubt that I am cleared to know.» Stecker said.
«I thought about that,» Pickering said seriously. «And I decided that the authority that came with my appointment includes the authority to decide the need-to-know of anybody I decide needs to know.»
Stecker shook his head. «It doesn't work that way, Flem,» he said.
«In your case,
Colonel Stecker
,» Pickering went on. «You are not, repeat not, authorized to bring anyone but General Vandegrift in on anything you hear from me.»
Stecker threw his hands helplessly in the air.
«Did you understand that, Jack?» Pickering said, now obviously very serious.
«Understood, sir,» Stecker said after a moment.
«Okay. The mission that Nimitz, who has more confidence in me than I have, arranged for Leahy to get me is to (a) find a group of Americans, mostly retired Marines, soldiers, and Yangtze River patrol sailors, who are wandering around somewhere in the Gobi Desert; and then (b) somehow use them to set up a weather station, which means also a radio station. The Air Corps is going to need it whenever they get their new B-29 superbomber operational, and the Navy wants it now.»
He watched Stecker carefully for his reaction. It wasn't what he expected.
«That seems right down McCoy's alley,» Stecker said. «And Banning's.»
«You don't seem surprised,» Pickering said, thinking out loud.
«There's been a need for a weather station in that area for years. As a matter of fact, I think Banning tried to get permission to reconnoiter the Gobi in… 1939, 1940.»
«And?»
«The Navy was all for it. The State Department said no, it would antagonize the Japanese. So I don't think it happened. If Banning did something on his own…«
«Speaking of Banning,» Pickering said. «He's on a list of people, Marines, I'm taking into the OSS with me.»
«The way that works, Flem, is that you
request
that the Corps detail to you people you want. Then, considering the needs of the Corps, the
Corps
decides whether or not you can have them.»
«The President says I can have anybody I want. I think I can take him at his word. I expect resentment, and foot-dragging. What I want from you is to reduce the foot-dragging.»
«I don't have any influence around here,» Stecker said.
«Right now, Jack, the subject of conversation in the Commandant's office is what does the Brigadier General want with Colonel Stecker? The Brigadier General who arrived in Senator's Fowler's car and works for Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox. You're wrong. You have influence around here, negative influence. None of these chair warmers will dare to cross you.»
Stecker's face showed that he didn't like to hear that.
«I don't like it any more than you do. Jack,» Pickering said, «but as Fowler told me this morning, I'm learning the rules of the game as it's played around here.»
Stecker shrugged and exhaled audibly.
«Okay. Give me your list of people,» he said. «At least it will give me something to do besides read the newspapers.»
«Give Colonel Stecker the list, George,» Pickering said. «I'm going from here to see Fritz Rickabee. Then we're all going to have lunch at the Army-Navy Club. Any reason we can't pick you up here at quarter to twelve?»
«Oh, Flem, I don't know.»
«Rickabee won't like it any more than you do,» Pickering said. «Think of it as your sacrifice of the day to the war effort.»
«What?»
«If any of the Marine brass missed hearing about your influential visitor here, they'll see us all at the Army-Navy Club.»
«I should have shot you when I had the chance,» Stecker said. «Quarter to twelve, Colonel. Thank you for your valuable time. I know how busy you are.»
Stecker shook his head in resignation.
note 32
Office of the Director
The Office of Strategic Services
Washington, D.C.
1425 25 February 1943
The guard who brought them from the lobby was armed, and he had a badge on the chest of his blue, police-type uniform. Pickering—who was idly curious about him, and the OSS security system generally—wasn't sure if he was some sort of a cop, a member of a separate OSS security force, or maybe hired from one of the commercial security outfits like Brink's, or more likely Pinkerton. Pinkerton's Washington/governmental activities went back to the Civil War when they'd worked for Abraham Lincoln.
Whoever was providing security was doing a good job. When he and George Hart arrived in the lobby and announced he had an appointment with Mr. Donovan, it was first determined that he did in fact have an appointment. Then permission to admit Second Lieutenant George Hart had to be obtained, since his name was not on the list of expected visitors. Next, they were asked to provide identification. Once that was carefully examined and accepted, they were asked to sign two forms on clipboards. The first acknowledged their receipt of yellow-bordered badges reading «VISITOR 5th Floor Only.» One of the guards—this one wearing a gold badge and a lieutenant's bar—alligator-clipped these to the flap of the right chest pocket of their tunics. The second listed their names, the date and time, the person they wished to see, and the purpose of the visit.
After a moment's thought, Pickering wrote «W. Donovan» and «social call» in the appropriate blocks.
They were then turned over to a guard, who led them to the bank of elevators, rode with them to the fifth floor, then led them down a corridor to a door with an «Office of the Director» sign hanging over it. He pushed open the door, stepped inside, then held the door for Pickering and Hart and said, «General Pickering, to see the Director.»
A plump, gray-haired, middle-aged woman moved her lips in a pro forma welcoming smile, then pushed a lever on her intercom box. «General Pickering is here,» she announced.
Pickering noticed that she wore an identification badge with her photograph on it; it had diagonal blue lines running through it.
«Send him in,» a metallic voice responded.
«Through the door, please, General.»
Pickering pushed the door open and walked through, thinking he was about to face the lion in his den.
He found himself instead looking at a tall man in a well-cut suit. A bronze plate on his desk identified him as the Deputy Director (Administration). The identification badge pinned to his jacket pocket showed his photograph and had diagonal red lines running through it.
«I'm Fleming Pickering.»
«The Director was expecting you at twelve-thirty. General.»
«Yes, I know,» Pickering said. «I was delayed.»
«The Director doesn't like to be kept waiting.»
«Does anyone?» Pickering asked.
Well, I'm off on the wrong foot with this character, aren't I? Well, screw him. I am not going to start off on the right foot, if that means I have to set the precedent of explaining my actions to this guy. Or did he really expect me to apologize to him?
After looking at Pickering long enough to understand Pickering was not going to offer an explanation for being late, the Deputy Director (Administration) picked up a red, dial-less telephone on his desk.
«General Pickering is here, sir,» he announced. After a brief pause while Donovan replied, he added, «Yes, sir,» and hung up.
He stood up and gestured to an unmarked door. «This way, please. General. If you wish, your aide may wait here.»
«George goes everywhere I go,» Pickering said. «Come with me, George.»
«Aye, aye, sir.»
Colonel Donovan was not alone in his office. Another well-tailored man in his fifties was with him, sitting slumped, his legs extended, his feet crossed, in one of two green leather armchairs arranged to face Donovan's desk. He rose to his feet when Pickering and Hart entered the room and looked at Pickering carefully.
«Hello, Bill,» Pickering said. «Sorry to be late.»
«First things first,» Donovan said, coming from behind his desk to offer Pickering his hand. Then he introduced the new Deputy Director (Pacific) to the Deputy Director (Operations). The two men shook hands.
The reaction of both men to each other was almost identical: I
think I'm going to like this guy
.
Once he had learned that Pickering was joining the OSS, the DDO had taken the trouble to make discreet inquiries about him. They had many mutual acquaintances, and even a few mutual friends, and they all reported essentially the same things about him and about his wife: that Fleming Pickering had done a better job running P&FE than his father, even from the beginning (he had taken over at twenty-six). In this he'd received no little help from his wife. The proof of Patricia Fleming's ability came when she stepped into her husband's shoes after he went to work for Frank Knox.
From the moment he took over, Pickering had preached efficiency (whichusually meant the fast turnaround of ships) and had spent a lot of money (quickly recovered) to acquire the most up-to-date technologies and have these installed in P&FE's major terminals throughout the Pacific.
His other crusade was to break the long-standing tradition that the officers of a particular ship «owned it.» That is, they stayed with a particular vessel for years. When it was out of service for any reason, so were they, meanwhile continuing to draw their union-guaranteed pay. Under Fleming Pickering, P&FE's officers (and many seamen, just about all of whom expected one day to be a P&FE officer) were expected to sail whichever ship needed their services, whenever those services were needed.
It was an obvious tribute to Pickering's leadership skills that he was able to carry that off, in the face of strong opposition from the Masters & Mates Union, the Maritime Engineer's Union, and the International Brotherhood of Seafarers.
Despite the sometimes strong pressure from these unions, his officers and sailors trusted him. They knew him well and that he had sailed with them, in every position from Seaman Apprentice to Master Mariner, Any Tonnage, Any Ocean. But, the DDO decided, after sixty seconds of examining Pickering face to face, they trusted him even more because he was that rare man whose character shows on his face and in his eyes, and whom people immediately trust.
Many sources had also pointed out to the DDO that Pickering's success with P&FE had not contributed much to his modesty. He was strong-willed, opinionated, and did not suffer fools.
It was therefore not surprising that Donovan and Pickering had clashed. They were two of a kind. Strong, very successful men who were used to giving—but not taking—orders, and who did not like to have their decisions questioned. He wondered what would happen now that they were in the same ring.
«I'm sure the delay was outside your control, Fleming,» Donovan said, and then indicated the empty green leather-upholstered armchair. «Sit down. Coffee?»
«No, thank you,» Pickering said, and sat down.
«It was a presidential summons,» he went on. «Roosevelt wanted to know what I thought about Frank Knox's objections to taking the Office of Management Analysis into the OSS.»
«Oh, really?» Donovan asked. His face whitened.
«I told George to call and tell you we would be late,» Pickering said. «I didn't know the protocol of talking about the President's plans on the telephone, so I decided to be careful and explain why we were late when we finally got here.»
I
think Wild Bill is about to erupt
, the DDO decided.
He and Charley thought that was a done deal
.
«And you told the President that you didn't think bringing Management Analysis in here was a very good idea? Is that about it?»
«Actually, I told him it would be a very bad idea,» Pickering said evenly.
«Certainly, General, you were aware that the Director thought it was a very good idea?» the Deputy Director (Administration) asked.
«The President didn't ask me that,» Pickering explained, as if to a small child. «He asked me what I thought.»
The DDO suddenly had a fit of coughing. The look the Deputy Director (Administration) gave him was not one of sympathy.
«I'm sure you considered that the assets of Management Analysis might have been very useful to you in Operation Gobi,» Donovan said.
«Frank Knox made a point of telling the President—and me—that the assets of Management Analysis would be available to the OSS for the weather station operation,» Pickering said. «And, as I told you over dinner, I am bringing some people from Management Analysis and elsewhere into the OSS. George has a list of their names.»
«Give it to Charley,» Donovan ordered. «I presume they're Marines?»
«Uh-huh.»
«Charley deals with the Marine Corps in personnel matters,» Donovan said.
«I wish I'd known that,» Pickering said. «It would have saved me a trip to Eighth and I this morning. They have the list George has. And I don't anticipate any trouble having the people I want transferred over here.»
«There's only so many training spaces available at the Country Club. Squeezing them in is going to cause some problems,» Donovan said thoughtfully. «Nothing that can't be sorted out, but it will be a problem.»
I
was again wrong about Wild Bill
, the DDO decided.
Wild Bill did not blow his cork. And I really shouldn't be surprised. He knows when erupting will be advantageous and when it won't
.
If Charley came in here with high hopes
—
and I'm damned sure he did
—
that General Fleming Pickering was going to come in here and be immediately and firmly put in his place, he's going to be very disappointed
.
«Did I detect at Dick Fowler's dinner,» Donovan went on, «some question about your people going through the Country Club training program?»
«Yes, as a matter of fact, I'm glad you brought that up,» Pickering said. «In the case of two of my officers it seems to me that it would be a waste of time and money. Particularly since, as you said, there's a shortage of training spaces.»
«And why would that be, General?» the DDA asked smoothly.
Be careful here, Pickering, the Country Club is Wild Bill's pride and joy. He really thinks it turns nice boys from the better families into the sort of cold-blooded killers the OSS needs
.
«Major Ed Banning—he's about to be a lieutenant colonel—and George here have magic clearances. They cannot go operational, so why train them?»
«The Lieutenant has a magic clearance?» the DDA blurted. In OSS headquarters, only Director Donovan and the DDA had magic clearances. The DDA considered it an indication of his importance… and had successfully argued to Director Donovan that the DDO didn't need it. both because Donovan could make him privy to any magic material he needed to know, and because having it would restrict his movements.
«Yes, he does,» Pickering said. «I didn't see how he could work efficiently for me without one.»
Why do I suspect, Charley, that you are now really unhappy about how this meeting is going?
«That makes sense,» Donovan agreed. «That was all there was to your objections about sending your people through training?»
«There was a little more,» Pickering said. «I was thinking that some of the men I'm bringing in with me would make excellent instructors at the training school; they don't really need basic training.»
«You don't think your men could learn anything at the training school?» the DDA asked.
«Most of the people I'm bringing in with me, including George here, have at least one behind-the-lines operation behind them. Several of them two, and in one case, three,» Pickering said. «But, obviously, everybody can always learn something. I have no objection to them learning as much as they can, time and the Gobi operation permitting.»
«You can work that out with Charley,» Donovan said. «That, and the other administrative details.»
«I'm afraid to ask what they are,» Pickering said.
«Pay, service records—we keep all service records here—that sort of thing, plus of course deciding who gets which badges,» Donovan said, pointing at the «VISITOR 5th Floor Only» badge hanging from Pickering's tunic pocket.
«These are known as 'the barber's pole special,' « the DDO said, tapping his own red-striped identification badge, fully aware that what he was about to say would further add to Charley's unhappiness. «With one of them you have access to any OSS facility anywhere at any time. You'll need one of these, of course, and the lieutenant will, and your deputy—Colonel Banning, you said?»
Pickering nodded.
«But probably all of your people won't need that kind of unlimited access. Just tell Charley who you think should have what.»
«We try to limit the Any Area Any Time badges to those who really have a need for them,» the DDA said.
Pickering was obviously thinking that over. Finally he looked at Donovan.
«I'm thinking, Bill, that if getting this operation off the ground as quickly as possible is as important as Admiral Leahy thinks it is, it might save time to give all of my people one of these—what did you call them, 'barber's pole specials'?
That way, if it becomes necessary to take one of my people to some area, we wouldn't have to run to Charley and get him the proper badge.»
«We have never issued anyone at the Country Club a badge giving them access to this building, much less Any Area Any Time,» the DDA said.
«Nevertheless, Charley,» Donovan said. «General Pickering's point is well taken. Give all of his people Any Area Any Time access.»
Charley, this is just not your day, is it
? the DDO thought.
«General,» he said, «when you're finished here with Bill, perhaps we could get together for a little while and try to figure out where we go from here.»
«Certainly,» Pickering said. «Thank you.»
«You can have him right now,» Donovan said. «Unless you have something else, Fleming?»
«No, sir. I can't think of anything.»
«When you two have something on paper about where you want to go on this operation, and how you want to get there, let me see it,» Donovan ordered.
«Yes, sir,» Pickering said, and pushed himself out of the green leather-upholstered armchair.
Chapter Nine
note 33
The Peabody Hotel
Memphis, Tennessee
1655 28 February 1943
First Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, was out of uniform: It was expressly forbidden for officers to appear in public places wearing flight gear, a regulation that both the Shore Patrol and the Army's Military Police (in a spirit of interservice cooperation) enforced with what Pick thought was uncalled-for zeal-ousness.
He had given this regulation—and the zeal with which it was enforced—some thought before deciding to hell with it, and leaving Memphis Naval Air Station attired in a gabardine Suit, Flyers, Temperate Climate and a fur-collared horse-hide Jacket, Flyers, Intermediate, Type G-1.
After the fourth time he was written up—three times by the Shore Patrol and once by MPs—for being similarly attired in public places, his squadron commander, Captain Billy Dunn—he had been Dunn's wingman on Guadalcanal— was really getting pissed about wasting his time answering «reply by endorsement hereto» correspondence stating that he had counseled and reprimanded the offending officer and was considering other disciplinary action.
But he had told Elizabeth-Sue Megham, a statuesque Memphis belle with long blond hair, that he would meet her in the Peabody Bar at 5:30, and he didn't want to be late. Since he was sure that Elizabeth-Sue would not wait for him, he took the chance.
On a scale of one to ten—ten being a sure thing—Elizabeth-Sue was a nine. He had met her the previous Friday evening at a service club dance on the Air Station. She had been one of four Memphis matrons chaperoning a busload of Nice Young Memphis Girls making their contribution to the war effort by going out to the air station on Friday nights to dance with white hats and enlisted Marines.
Billy Dunn had assigned him to perform roughly similar duties, with orders to make damned sure none of the enlisted men of VMF-262 consumed intoxicants, behaved in an unsuitable manner, or tried to drag one of the Nice Young Memphis Girls off into the bushes, even, Billy had emphasized, if the Nice Young Girl was suffering from raving carnal lust.
Although it was not officially stated, Pick was well aware that his assignment to this duty was punishment for his last encounter with the Shore Patrol while wearing flight clothing. The correspondence from the Naval District had landed on Billy Dunn's desk while Pick had been in California, and Billy had been waiting for him on the flight line when he'd landed the Corsair.
Greatly pissed was a massive understatement.
It wasn't that he was chasing married women, Pick told himself. He had danced with Mrs. Quincy T. Megham, Jr., as the polite thing to do to his civilian counterpart. And of course they had talked. He let her know, for instance, how much the men enjoyed the dances—even though he knew the statement was far from true: ninety percent of the men who showed up did it only because they couldn't get a pass, or because they were broke. He also told her that chaperoning the dances was a fine thing and that the Marine Corps was really grateful.
«Oh, I like to do it,» Elizabeth-Sue said. «My husband is out of town frequently these days. When he is, I'm bored and always looking for a little activity.»
She doesn't mean that the way it sounds
, Pick decided just then.
Not only is she a respectable Memphis belle, but we haven't known each other five minutes
.
«I'll bet you get bored out here, too, don't you?» Elizabeth-Sue asked. «All alone in
your
room?»
«Oh, yes,» he said.
«I've heard that Bachelor Officers' Quarters are—what is it they say, 'out of limits'?—for lady guests. Is that true?»
«Off-limits,» he corrected her automatically, his mind on other things, specifically that Elizabeth-Sue was pressing her abdomen against his in a manner he didn't think was accidental. «Yes, they are.»
«Then you must get lonely in there, all alone by yourself.»
«Actually, I don't live in the BOQ.»
«You're married?»
The pressure of her abdomen against his disappeared.
«No. I live in the Peabody in Memphis,» he said. «And I'm not married.»
The pressure of her abdomen against his reappeared.
If she keeps that up, I'm going to get a hard-on.
She did, and he did.
The pressure of her abdomen against his remained constant.
Elizabeth-Sue volunteered further information about herself: for example, that her husband, Quincy, Junior, as he was known, was considerably older than she was, was deeply involved with administering War Bond sales in Tennessee, and had to be out of town a good deal. He was, in fact, out of town for the next week.
At that point, Elizabeth-Sue discreetly inquired if living in the Peabody was comfortable, and did he share his accommodations with anyone?
He lied to her in that instance, not to deceive her, but because it was easier to say he was all alone than to explain that he and Captain William Charles Dunn, USMCR, of the Point Clear, Alabama, Dunns, shared the Jefferson Davis Suite in the Peabody—actually two three-room suites sharing a common sitting room. It was understood between the two men that neither entered the quarters of the other without first telephoning to make sure a visit would not interrupt anything, or embarrass the participants.
«Perhaps we could have a drink sometime,» Pick said.
«Memphis is a small town, really,» Elizabeth-Sue said. «Everyone knows everyone. If anyone saw us together, there would be talk.»
«Well, maybe if we just happened to bump into each other somewhere, say the bar at the Peabody, we could go somewhere where no one would see us.»
«You really are a wicked man, aren't you?» Elizabeth-Sue said, clearly aware that the somewhere where no one would see them was his room.
Lieutenant Pickering pulled his Cadillac convertible up to the front door of the Peabody Hotel. After checking up and down the street to make sure no Shore Patrolmen or Military Policemen were in sight, got out quickly and tossed the keys to the bellman on duty. «I won't be needing it tonight, I hope,» he said to the bellman. He entered the building and headed for the bank of elevators. Then stopped in disbelief.
Sitting on a leather couch facing the passage between the elevators and the shallow pool in the center of the lobby was a fellow Marine officer and a lady, both of whom he was acquainted with. The Marine officer was in impeccable uniform.
He slid onto the couch beside the Marine officer.
«What the hell are you doing here?» Lieutenant Pickering asked.
«If she's not pulling my chain,» Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, announced, «I am about to see a flock of ducks march off the elevator, pass right by here, and then paddle around that pool.» He described the path with a pointed finger.
«Truth is stranger than fiction,» Pick said. «The duck march is one of Memphis's best-known cultural attractions.» He consulted his pilot's chronograph and added: «And if they're on time, and they usually are, that will take place in ninety seconds.»
The two men looked at each for a moment.
«God, I'm glad to see you.» Pick said.
«Me, too, buddy,» Ken McCoy replied.
«Who's the broad?» Pick asked.
«Screw you, Pick,» Miss Ernestine Sage said.
«When did you get here? How did you get here?» Pick asked.
«Nine o'clock this morning,» McCoy said. «We came on the train. I wanted to drive, but Ernie said she was afraid of the weather.»
This was not quite the truth. She had actually said that she would like to get a compartment on the train. She had always had a fantasy about making love in a bunk on a train, with the rails making that clickety-click sound beneath them.
Booking a compartment on the
Cotton Blossom
hadn't been easy, but Captain McCoy had been highly motivated. In the event, in his view, the trip had been worth all the effort.
«Why didn't you come out to the air station? Or at least call? What did you do all day?»
Miss Sage looked at Captain McCoy as if she feared he would tell Lieutenant Pickering how they had spent most of the day.
«We walked down to the river and watched it roll by,» McCoy said. «I called out there, and Billy Dunn said you were really tied up and could we wait until you got off duty? If he told you we were here, he would probably have to court-martial you, because you could be counted upon to desert your post.»
«He really takes being a captain a little too seriously,» Pick said.
«According to him, you don't take being a lieutenant seriously enough,» McCoy said, and then he said, «Well, I will be damned!»
A line of ducks, a dozen of them, shepherded by a bellman, emerged from an elevator and marched quacking through the lobby into the shallow pool.
«Aren't they
adorable?»
Miss Sage inquired.
«Lieutenant, may I please see your ID card?» a boatswain's mate second class, USN, with an SP brassard on his sleeve inquired.
«Oh, Jesus, Boats!» Lieutenant Pickering said. «Not again? What were you doing, waiting for me?»
«We just happened to see you get out of your car, sir,» the SP said. «Can I have your ID card, please?»
McCoy saw there were two SPs. The second, a seaman first class, was standing a few feet away, his hands folded behind his back.
«Can I see you a minute, Boats?» McCoy said, standing up.
«Sir. this is no concern of yours,» the SP said.
«That wasn't a suggestion, Boats,» McCoy said, and held up a leather folder before the SP's face, just long enough for him to take a quick look at it.
«Aye. aye, sir,» the Shore Patrolman said.
He followed McCoy across the lobby, where McCoy stopped behind a massive pole.
«Sir. could I see your credentials again, please?» the SP said.
McCoy handed him the leather folder again. The SP examined it carefully, looked hard at McCoy, then handed it back.
«You don't see very many of those, sir,» he said.
«I suppose not,» McCoy replied.
I
never thought about that. I wonder how many Special Agents
—real
Special Agents
—
of the Office of Naval Intelligence there are, running around
?
«How can I help you. Captain?»
«You're interfering with my business with that officer. Can I ask you to just walk away, or are we going to have to get your duty officer over here? Having to do that would annoy me.»
«No, sir. Those credentials are enough for me.»
«Thank you,» McCoy said.
«Captain, it may not be my place…«
«What's on your mind, Boats?»
«Off the record, sir?»
McCoy nodded.
«That lieutenant… Sir, he's an ace from Guadalcanal. And he's a really nice guy. Let me put it this way. Half the time I see him out of uniform, I don't. You know what 1 mean?»
McCoy nodded.
«But the white hats and the enlisted Marines see him running around out of uniform, and they think they can get it away with it too. And when I have to write them up, their asses are really in a crack.»
«I take your point, Boats,» McCoy said.
«I don't know what your business is with him, sir, and I'm not asking. But I really hope he's not in bad trouble.»
«Nothing he can't fix by trying to straighten up and fly right,» McCoy said.
«Yes, sir,» the SP said. «Thank you, sir.»
«Thank you, Boats,» McCoy said.
The SP motioned to the other one, pointing to the door to the street, and walked away. McCoy returned to Ernie and Pick.
«Come on,» he said.
«What did you show that SP?» Pick asked.
«Let's get out of the damned lobby,» McCoy repeated. It was not a suggestion.
«You fixed that somehow, didn't you?» Pick said, as he stood up and walked toward the elevator. «How?»
«Didn't you see him wave his magic wand at the SP?» Ernie said. «Absolutely no compartments on a train without a priority? He waves his magic wand, people appear and hand him a priority. The Shore Patrol is about to haul you away, he waves his magic wand. The Shore Patrol goes away.»
Pick looked confused.
«However you did that, thanks, Killer,» Pick said.
«Jesus Christ!» McCoy said. «I should have let him write you up!»
«That would have really got my ass in a crack with Billy,» Pick said.
«Yeah, he told me. Actually, he's pretty disgusted with you. You never learn.»
When the elevator stopped, Pick led them down the corridor to the door of the Jefferson Davis suite.
«Is it safe for a nice girl like me to go in there?» Ernie asked.
«My quarters are popularly known as either the Monk's Cell or Celibate City, if that's what you mean.»
Ernie snorted. McCoy, shaking his head, chuckled.
«If you hold me in such contempt, why did you try to talk me into marrying your girlfriend if you got yourself blown away?» Pick askqd.
«He probably thought I could reform you,» Ernie said. She looked around the sitting room. «Surprise, surprise, no naked ladies.»
«They're probably hiding in a closet,» McCoy said.
«I was about to offer you champagne, but if the two of you…«
«I'll pass on the champagne.»
«I won't,» Ernie said.
«I also just happen to have in my cell, through the door over there, a full case of Famous Grouse, recently flown in in my Corsair from San Francisco, California, in anticipation of the honor of your visit.»
He led the way to the sitting room of his half of the suite.
«You didn't know we were coming,» Ernie said.
«Both Mother and my father—separately—suggested it was a real possibility,» Pick said. «I really hope it wasn't so that we could have a man-to-man, or girl-to-man, chat. I get enough of those from Billy.»
«You said something about champagne?» Ernie said.
«You take care of the glasses,» Pick said, pointing to a bar in the corner of the room, «and I will extricate the bubbly from the refrigerator.»
McCoy went to the bar, found the still-sealed case of scotch behind it, and started to open it.
«Wouldn't you really rather have champagne?» Ernie asked.
«No,» McCoy said simply, and removed a bottle of Famous Grouse from the case.
Pick returned with a bottle of Mumm's champagne and started unwrapping the wire cork-guard.
«Mumm's, huh?» Ernie said.
«Actually, I prefer Moet and Chandon,» he said. «But it's hard to come by. There's a war on, you may have heard. You found the Grouse. I see, Ken.»
«You keep fucking up, Pick,» McCoy said, «they're going to send you back to VMF-229.»
«There's a lady present, Captain,» Pick said. «Please remember that you, too, are supposed to be a Marine officer and gentleman.»
«What does that mean?» Ernie asked. «Pick was in VMF-229.»
«It's now where they send Marine pilots—fuckup Marine pilots—nobody else wants,» Pick explained. «Pilots that nobody else in the Corps but Charley Galloway can handle.» He paused. «Would you believe I applied for transfer to VMF-229? Billy turned it down.»
«Billy needs you to train his pilots,» McCoy said. «
Your
pilots. You're the squadron exec, for Christ's sake!»
«An amazing thing happens when they pin captain's bars on some people, Ernie,» Pick said. «They start to think of themselves as generals-in-training.» He turned to McCoy. «Just for the record,
Captain
, I have never failed to be at the proper place at the appointed time. I
am
training my pilots.»
«Billy said that, too,» McCoy said. «But you won't be around to do that for your squadron if your MAG commander gets tired of hearing officially about your social life—and I mean the speeding tickets and the drunk driving, not only this out-of-uniform crap—and gets tired of Billy covering for you.»
«I told you, I applied for transfer to VMF-229. And Billy turned me down.»
«And now you're trying to force them to send you anyway, right?» McCoy asked. «Why? Because that's easier than going to Pensacola and finding out once and for all?»
«What the hell are you talking about? Finding out what once and for all?»
«You know what I'm talking about.
Who
I'm talking about.»
Pick looked accusingly at Ernie.
«He already knew about her,» she said. «But we compared notes, okay?»
«Et tu, Brutus?» Pick asked sarcastically.
«If you want to get pissed at somebody, get pissed at Dick Stecker,» McCoy said. «He said when he asked—«
«Where did you see Dick?» Pickering interrupted.
Lieutenant Richard Stecker, USMC, the son of Colonel Jack (NMI) Stecker, had gone through flight school at Pensacola with Pickering. He had been severely injured landing his shot-up Wildcat on Guadalcanal's Henderson Field.
«Ernie and I went to see him in Philadelphia when we passed through. That's where they send banged-up aviators, you know.»
«I went to see him…«
»… a month ago,» McCoy finished. «He told me. He also told me to tell you he is now walking with a cane only.»
«When I saw him, he was on one of those things… parallel bars set just high enough for your hands. Having a hell of a time. Jesus!»
«He wants to go back to flying,» McCoy said. «Anyway, he told me
he
was worried about
you. Ol'
Hot Shot himself. He told me that you told him that Good ol' Whatsername…«
«Martha,» Ernie furnished. «Martha Sayre Culhane.»
«Thank you
very
much, former friend,» Pick said.
«Who, when the dashing Marine Aviator told her 'I love you,' said, 'Thank you just the same, but I am not at all interested.' «
«Don't push me, Ken,» Pick said.
«Breaking your heart.»
«Honey,» Ernie said to McCoy. «It's not funny.»
«And causing you to turn to whisky and wild, wild women to forget. Which also caused you to change from being a pretty good Marine officer to a fuckup…«
»
Fuck you
, Ken.»
»… about to have your ass shipped to the fuckup squadron. How do you think your father's going to like that?»
«This is my business, not my father's, not yours. Is the lecture about over, Captain, sir? Frankly, I'm getting a little bored with it.»
«Jesus Christ, if this woman is so important to you, why the hell are you quitting? Give it another shot!»
Pick shrugged, but didn't respond directly to the question.
«I asked if the lecture was about over?» Pick said.
«Not quite. Almost.»
«Then pray continue.»
«And what makes you think Charley Galloway would put up with your hotshot, i'm a Guadalcanal ace, the rules don't apply to me,' bullshit?» McCoy said, half sadly, half angrily.
«Ken!» Ernie said warningly.
«I went out to Ewa with Galloway to see Big Steve,» McCoy went on. «When Charley walked into a hangar, one of his lieutenants called, 'Skipper on the deck!' and everybody popped to. Including Big Steve. For Christ's sake, Pick, grow up! Charley wouldn't put up with half of the bullshit you're giving Billy.»
The doorbell rang just as Pick opened his mouth to reply.
With a little bit of luck, that will be one of Pick's naked ladies
, Ernie thought.
Arriving just in the nick of time to keep this from really getting out of hand
.
Pick went to the door and opened it.
Mrs. Quincy T. (Elizabeth-Sue) Megham, Jr., stood there, wearing a perky little hat with a veil, a silver fox cape, and a look that was a mixture of surprise, disappointment, and discomfiture.
«Oh, I hope I'm not interrupting anything!» she said. «I just took the chance…«
«Fortunately, you are,» Ernie said, and walked quickly to the door. «Hi, I'm Ernie Sage. You got here just in time to help me drink some champagne. These two are on the hard stuff.»
«Oh, I wouldn't want to intrude!»
«Not at all,» Ernie said, as she grabbed her arm and dragged her into the room. «I'm really glad to see you.» She propelled her to the bar and poured a glass of champagne for her. «I'm the closest thing Pick has to a sister,» Ernie went on. «A
big
sister. And Captain McCoy is Pick's best friend, although Pick sometimes forgets that.»
«How do you do?» Elizabeth-Sue said, directing the greeting mostly to McCoy. McCoy inclined his head and said, «Ma'am.»
«You're stationed at the air station, Captain McCoy?»
«You can call him 'Killer,' « Ernie said. «
All
of his friends do.»
«Oh, Christ!» Pick said, and laughed.
McCoy shook his head in disbelief, but he seemed more amused than angry.
» '
Killer'
?» Elizabeth-Sue asked incredulously.
«As in 'Lady-killer,' « Ernie explained.
«Oh, really?» Elizabeth-Sue asked.
Pick started to giggle. It had a contagious reaction on McCoy. «He really is,» Pick said. «They both are. My best friends in all the world.»
«Then you're not out at the air station, Captain McCoy?» Elizabeth-Sue asked.
«No, ma'am. We're just passing through.»
Elizabeth-Sue's relief at hearing that was evident on her face.
«Lieutenant Pickering—Pick—and I are involved in the Friday dance program for the enlisted people at the air station,» Elizabeth-Sue said.
«Oh, come on, Elizabeth-Sue,» Ernie said. «I told you we're best friends.»
«I don't know what you mean,» Elizabeth-Sue said.
«I mean I'll give you five-to-one odds that I'm not the only female in this room sleeping with a Marine she's not married to,» Ernie said.
Elizabeth-Sue's mouth dropped open and she looked at Ernie in utter disbelief.
«Jesus H. Christ!» Pick said.
«So why don't we stop pretending,» Ernie went on, «and, for example, decide where we can all have a nice dinner where no one who knows you or Pick will see you? After you and I finish the champagne, I mean.»
«I just can't believe I'm hearing this!» Elizabeth-Sue said.
«As a general rule of thumb, Elizabeth-Sue,» Pick said, «you can believe anything Ernie says.»
«You can believe this, Elizabeth-Sue,» Ernie said. «Captain McCoy and I are just as concerned as you are about you and Pick not getting caught. Maybe more than you are.»
«I never, in my entire life—«
«Yes, or no, Elizabeth-Sue?» Pick interrupted her.
Elizabeth-Sue looked at him for a long moment before replying, «Honey, I just can't think of any place, except one across the river.»
«We could eat here,» Ernie said. «It would be safer, and I really don't feel like going out anywhere.»
«Maybe that would be better,» Elizabeth-Sue said.
She drained her glass and extended it to Ernie for a refill. «May I ask you a question?» she asked.
«Ask away.»
«What do you do?»
«When I'm not in my camp follower role, you mean?»
Elizabeth-Sue flinched a little at that, but nodded.
«She's the creative director, reporting directly to the account executive for the American Personal Pharmaceuticals account at BBD&O,» Pick announced, sounding very much like a prideful brother.