The Corps I - Semper Fi

Chapter Thirteen

(One)

U.S. 1 Near Washington, D.C.

2230 Hours, 23 November 1941

They stopped for gas and a hamburger, and when they started off again, Pickering took the wheel.

"What did you think of the Met?" Pickering asked.

"What?"

"Since I didn't see you from the time we walked out of Brooks Brothers until five-thirty this afternoon, I naturally presumed that you had been enriching your mind by visiting the cultural attractions of New York City. Like the Metropolitan Museum of Art."

McCoy snorted.

"We did take the Staten Island Ferry," he said. "She said it was the longest ride for a nickel in the world."

"It must have been thrilling!" Pickering said.

"Fuck you," McCoy said, cheerfully. "Since you're so fucking nosy, we spent most of the time in her apartment."

"We are now going sixty-eight miles per hour," Pickering said.

"So what? You're driving. You'll get the ticket, not me." Then he added, "But maybe you had better slow down a little. The Corps goes apeshit when people get speeding tickets. Especially in cars they're not supposed to have in the first place."

"If you were to slug me, I would probably lose control, and we would be killed in a flaming crash," Pickering said.

McCoy looked at him curiously.

"I mention that because I have something to say to you.

Some things-plural, two; and I want you to understand the risk you would be running by taking a poke at me."

"You can say anything you want," McCoy said. "God is in his heaven, and all is right with the world."

"Ernie Sage really got to you, huh?"

"How do you know her name?" McCoy demanded,

suspiciously.

"I followed you," Pickering said. "When you met her in Grand Central, I was lurking behind a pillar."

"You sonofabitch!" McCoy said. But he wasn't angry. "I hope you got an eyeful."

"Very touching," Pickering said. "Romeo and Juliet."

"She's really something," McCoy said.

"I realize this is none of my business-"

"Then don't say it," McCoy interrupted.

"- but since you seem to put such weight on such things, I feel obliged to tell you something about her."

"Be careful, Pick," McCoy said, and there was menace in

his voice.

"Ernie is named after her father," Pickering said. "Ernest Sage. Ernest Sage is chairman of the board of American Personal Pharmaceutical."

"So what?" McCoy said. "I never even heard of it."

Pickering recited a dozen brand names of American Personal Pharmaceutical products.

"In other words," McCoy said, finally catching on, "she's like you. Rich."

"The rich say 'comfortable,' Ken," Pickering said.

"I don't care what they say," McCoy flared. "Rich is rich." There was a moment's silence, and then McCoy said, "Oh, goddamn!"

It was a wail of anguish.

"As I have tried to point out, being rich is not quite as bad as having leprosy," Pickering said. "I'm sure that if you put your heart in it, you could learn to like it."

"She lied to me, goddamnit. Why did she do that?" McCoy asked. Pickering knew he hadn't heard what he had

told him.

"There is a remote possibility that the lady finds you attractive," Pickering said. "Marines have that reputation, I'm told."

"She made a fucking fool out of me!" McCoy said. "Goddamnit, she got me to tell her all about Norristown."

"Norristown?"

"About why I went in the Corps. About my father. Even about my slob of a sister.''

"If she wanted to hear about that, then that means she's interested in everything you are. What's wrong with that?"

"Just butt out of this, all right?"

"Now I'm sorry I told you," Pickering said.

"If you hadn't, I would have made an even bigger fucking fool of myself!" McCoy said, adding a moment later, "Jesus!"

"As I said," Pickering said, "there is a remote possibility that Ernie likes you-"

"She doesn't like to be called Ernie" McCoy said.

"- for what you are. Warts and all," Pickering continued.

"Jesus, you just don't understand, do you? this isn't the first time this has happened to me. All she wanted was a stiff prick. Marines have a reputation for having stiff pricks."

"I think you're dead wrong," Pickering said.

"Fuck what you think, I know," McCoy said.

"You told me that you"-Pickering paused and then went on-"were the first."

"So what?"

"That means something to women, from what I've seen. They can only give it away once. Ernie chose to give it away to you."

"She decided to get it over with, and I was available."

"That's bullshit and you know it."

"She lied to me, you dumb fuck! A whole line of bullshit, about this being her first job, right out of school, and I thought she meant high school, and how they were paying her eighteen fifty a week, and that's why her apartment was such a dump."

"That's all true," Pickering said.

"You know what I mean," McCoy said.

"She had to lie to you, you dumb fuck," Pickering said. "You have this well-developed inferiority complex, and she was afraid you'd crawl back in your hole."

"Do me a favor, Pickering," McCoy said. "Just shut your fucking mouth!"

"Ken, I want to keep you from-"

"Shut your fucking mouth, I said! The subject is closed." Pick Pickering decided that under the circumstances, the only thing to do was shut his fucking mouth.

(Two)

The last week of training in Platoon Leader's Course 23-41 went just as rapidly as the previous weeks had, but far more pleasantly.

In the words of Pick Pickering: "It's as if the Corps, having spent all that time and effort turning us into savages, has considered the risks they'd run if they turned us loose on an unsuspecting civilian population and is now engaged in recivilizing us."

There were several lectures on the manners and deportment expected of Marine Corps officers, and lectures on "personal finance management" and the importance of preparing a last will and testament. There was a lecture on insurance, and another on the regulations involved in the travel and transfers of officers.

They were even taken to the Officers' Club, where the intricacies of officer club membership were explained in a hands-on demonstration. They were ushered into the dining room, allowed to order whatever struck their fancy from the menu (which Pickering and McCoy found somewhat disappointing), and then shown how to sign the chit. Commissioned officers and gentlemen do not pay cash in officers' clubs.

Afterward, before they marched back to the company area, a lance corporal at a table outside the dining room permitted them to redeem the chits for cash.

But they got the idea. And they had their first meal as gentlemen-if not quite yet officers-and-gentlemen-and were thus free, since they had paid for it, not to eat it if they didn't like it. Corporal Pleasant had not even marched them over to the officers' club (Platoon Leader Candidate McCoy had been ordered to do that) and there was thus no risk that any of them would be ordered to slurp it up.

And they were given liberty at night during the last few days, from retreat to last call. Pickering and McCoy went to the slop chute, where a pitcher of beer and paper cups were available for a quarter. McCoy put away a lot of beer; but neither he nor Pick Pickering got drunk or reopened the subject of Miss Ernestine Sage.

On Wednesday afternoon, in time for the retreat formation, most of the officer uniforms were delivered. The uniform prescribed for the retreat formation was a mixture of officer and enlisted uniforms. They could not be permitted to wear officer's brimmed caps, of course, because they were not yet officers. But they wore officer's blouses and trousers, without officer-type insignia, because the primary purpose of the formation was really to see if the uniforms would fit on Friday, when they would be sworn in.

Platoon Leader Candidates Pickering and McCoy did not have their officer's uniforms on Wednesday afternoon. When this was discovered by Corporal Pleasant, it afforded him one last opportunity to offer his opinion of the intelligence, responsibility, and parentage of two of his charges. But even after that, they were not restricted to the barracks for the evening. They got the LaSalle one last time from the provost marshal's impounding lot and went off the base so that Platoon Leader Candidate Pickering could make inquiries of Brooks Brothers.

It was a lot of trouble to make a lousy phone call, but there were few pay phones available on the base, and these generally had long lines waiting to use them. And they had to get the car from the Impounding Compound rather than take a bus, because the MPs checked passes on buses. McCoy's properly stickered car and campaign hat got them past the MP at the gate without inspection.

On Thursday morning, as the platoon was preparing to march off to rehearse the graduation and swearing-in ceremony, a blue Ford station wagon drove into the company area. A large black man emerged from it, and addressed Corporal Pleasant.

"Hey, Mac!" he called out. "Brooks Brothers. I'm looking for Mr. Pickering and Mr. McCoy."

Even Pleasant seemed amused.

"The asshole with the guidon," he said, "is Mr. McCoy, and Mr. Pickering is the tall asshole in the rear rank. Wave at the nice man, Mr. Pickering."

The man from Brooks Brothers cheerfully waved back at Mr. Pickering, and then began to unload bag-wrapped uniforms, cartons of shirts, and oblong hat boxes from his station wagon. He stacked everything on the ground, and then sought out Mr. Pickering and Mr. McCoy to get his receipt signed.

After the rehearsal, as they were unpacking their uniforms and preparing their enlisted men's uniforms to be turned in, Corporal Pleasant entered the barracks.

"Attention on deck!" someone bellowed.

"Stand at ease," Corporal Pleasant said. And then he went to each man and handed him a quarter-inch-thick stack of mimeograph paper. It was their orders.

There were three different orders, or more precisely, three different paragraphs of the same general order. The first sent about half of Platoon Leader Class 23-41 to Camp LeJeune, North Carolina, "for such duty in the field as may be assigned." The second sent just about the rest of 23-41 to San Diego, California, "for such duty in the field as may be assigned."

There were only two names on the third paragraph of the General Order. It said that the following officers, having entered upon active duty at Quantico, Virginia for a period of three years, unless further extended by competent authority, were further assigned and would proceed to Headquarters, U.S. Marine Corps, Washington, D.C., "for such administrative duty as may be assigned."

"What the hell does this mean?" Pickering asked, when Pleasant had left.

McCoy had a very good idea what it meant so far as he was concerned, but he had no idea what the Corps had planned for Pickering.

"It means while the rest of these clowns are running around in the boondocks, you and I will be sitting behind desks," he said.

At 1245 hours,. Friday, 28 November 1941, Platoon Leader Candidate Class 23-41 fell in for the last time. They were wearing the uniforms of second lieutenants, U.S. Marine Corps, but Corporal Pleasant took his customary position and marched them to the parade field.

The first order of business was to give them the legal right to wear the gold bars on their shoulders. They raised their right hands and swore to defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and to obey the orders of such officers who were appointed over them, and that they would discharge the duties of the office upon which they were about to enter to the best of their ability, so help them God.

"Detail commander, front and center, harch!" Corporal Pleasant barked.

McCoy, to his surprise, had been appointed to this role. He marched from his position at the left of the rear rank up to Corporal Pleasant.

Pleasant saluted.

"Take the detail, sir," Pleasant said.

"Take your post, Corporal," McCoy ordered.

They exchanged salutes again. Pleasant did a right-face and marched off to take a position beside the gunny and the first sergeant, just to the right of the reviewing stand.

McCoy did an about-face.

"Right- face!" he ordered, and then, "Fow-ward, harch!"

He gave them a column right, and then another, and when they got to the proper position relative to the reviewing stand, bellowed, "Eyes, right!" and raised his hand to the brim of his new Brooks Brothers $38.75 Cap, Marine Officers, with the cord loops sewn to its crown.

At the moment he issued the command, the Quantico Band, which had been silent except for the tick-tick beat of its drummers to give them the proper marching cadence, burst into the Marine Corps Hymn.

And the moment Second Lieutenant Pickering, USMCR, snapped his head to «he right, he saw two familiar faces on the reviewing stand. His father and his mother.

On the goddamned reviewing stand; not with the other parents and wives and whoever had showed up for the graduation parade. On the goddamned reviewing stand!

The officers on the reviewing stand returned McCoy's hand salute.

"Eyes, front!" McCoy ordered when he judged the last file of the formation had passed the reviewing stand. He marched them back to where they had originally been.

The officers marched off the reviewing stand, in order of rank. When the colonel got to McCoy, McCoy saluted.

"Put your detail at rest, Lieutenant," the colonel ordered.

"Puh- rade, rest!"

They moved their feet the prescribed distance apart, and put their hands and arms rigidly in the small of their backs.

"Congratulations," the colonel said to McCoy. "Welcome to the officer corps of the U.S. Marine Corps."

He shook his hand and simultaneously handed him a rolled-up tube of paper, which contained his diploma and his commission. Then, leaving McCoy at parade rest, the colonel, trailed by his entourage, went down the ranks and repeated the process, exactly, for each man.

Finally, the entourage returned to the reviewing stand.

"Lieutenant," the colonel called. "You may dismiss these gentlemen."

McCoy saluted, did an about-face, and barked, "Atten-hut. Dis-missed."

23- 41 just stood there for a moment, as if unwilling to believe that it was actually over and that they were now in law and fact commissioned officers and gentlemen of the United States Marine Corps.

And then one of them yelped, probably, McCoy thought, that flat-faced asshole from Texas AM who was always making strange noises. That broke the trance, and they started shaking hands and pounding each other on the back.

Captain Jack NMI Stecker walked off the reviewing stand, and then across the field to McCoy. As he approached McCoy, Pickering started for the reviewing stand. McCoy wondered where the hell he was going, but with Stecker advancing on him, there was no chance to ask.

He saluted Stecker, who offered his hand.

"Despite what some people think of China Marines, Lieutenant," Stecker said, "every once in a while some of them make pretty good officers. I think you will."

"Thank you, sir," McCoy said.

"I thought you might need a ride to the Impounding Compound," Stecker said.

"I got the car last night, sir," he said.

"Then in that case, McCoy, just 'good luck.' "

He offered his hand, they exchanged salutes, and Stecker walked away.

McCoy saw that most of 23-41 had formed a line by the reviewing stand. Corporal Pleasant was saluting each one of them. They then handed him a dollar. It was a tradition.

Fuck him, McCoy decided. Pleasant had been entirely too willing to kick him when he was down. And he wasn't even that good a corporal.

I'm not going to give the sonofabitch a dollar to have him salute me. He'll head right for the NCO Club with it and sit around making everybody laugh with stories about the incompetent assholes the Corps had just made officers.

And then he saw that Pick Pickering was not in the line. He was standing with a couple, the man well dressed, the woman in a full-length fur coat. Obviously, Pick's folks had come to see their son graduate. McCoy started to walk back to the company area.

Pickering ran after him and caught up with him.

"I want you to meet my mother and dad," Pick said.

"Wouldn't I be in the way?"

"Don't be an asshole, asshole," Pick said, and grabbed McCoy's arm and propelled him in the direction of the reviewing stand.

"I didn't see you giving Pleasant his dollar," Pickering said.

"I didn't," McCoy said. "Just because we're now wearing bars doesn't make him any less of a vicious asshole."

"My, you do hold a grudge, don't you, Lieutenant?" Pickering said.

"You bet your ass, I do," McCoy said.

Fleming Pickering smiled and put his hand out as they walked up.

"I knew who you were, of course," he said.

"Sir?" McCoy asked, confused.

"One Marine corporal can always spot another, even in a sea of clowns," Fleming Pickering said, pleased with himself.

"Flem!" Mrs. Pickering protested. She smiled at McCoy and gave him her hand. "You'll have to excuse my husband, his being a Marine corporal was the one big thrill of his life. I'm pleased to finally meet you, Ken… I can call you 'Ken,' mayn't I?… Malcolm's written so much about you."

"Yes, ma'am," McCoy said.

"I would like nothing better," Fleming Pickering said, "than to sit over a long lunch and have you tell me how you shepherded the lieutenant here around the boondocks, but we have a plane to catch."

"I'd forgotten about that," Pick said.

"This time tomorrow, we will be high above the blue Pacific," Fleming Pickering said. "Bound for sunny Hawaii. I was originally going by myself, but then some scoundrel told my wife about the girls in the grass skirts."

"I wasn't worried about the hula-hula girls," Pick's mother replied. "What concerned me was the way you behave on a ship. If they serve eight meals a day-and Pacific-Orient does-and I wasn't along, you'd eat all eight of them, and they'd have to take you off the ship in a wheelbarrow."

"You're coming back by ship?" Pick asked. "I thought you were flying both ways."

"No," Pick's father said. "I put off the meeting in San Francisco until the twentieth. That way, we can board ship in Honolulu on the tenth and still make it back in plenty of time.''

Pick nodded his understanding.

McCoy finally figured out what they were talking about. He had been a little impressed that Pick's parents would come all the way to Virginia just to see him get sworn in. But, so far as they were concerned, that was like a trip to the corner drugstore for cigarettes. They were about to fly to Hawaii. The only thing that had surprised Pick about that was they weren't going to fly both ways.

Pick and his family were people from a different world.

A world like Ernestine Sage's. A world where I don't belong, even with a gold bar on my collar.

(Three)

Washington, D.C.

1600 Hours, 28 November 1941

Before Pickering's parents had showed up, it had been understood between McCoy and Pickering that immediately after they were sworn in, they would drive to Washington. The LaSalle was already loaded with their luggage.

He had been sure that would change because of his parents. But that hadn't happened. Pick shook hands with his father, allowed himself to be kissed by his mother, and then the Pickerings left. Taking trips halfway around the world was obviously routine stuff for them.

Pick and McCoy, as originally planned, then simply backed from the parade field to where McCoy had parked the LaSalle by the barracks, got in, and drove off.

There were no farewell handshakes with the others in 23-41. Because he had been on Pleasant's and the gunny's shit list, the others had most of the time avoided McCoy as if he were a leper. And they had avoided Pickering, too, because he was McCoy's buddy. And there had been whispers at the end about the two of them getting "administrative duty" in Washington rather than "in the field" at LeJeune and San Diego.

Pickering thought about this as they got in the LaSalle: If somewhere down the pike, Class 23-41 sent him an invitation to its twentieth reunion, he would send his regrets.

This time, they were stopped by the MP at the gate. First the MP waved them through, then he saw the bars and saluted, and finally he stepped into the road in front of them with his hand up.

He saluted as McCoy rolled down the window.

"Excuse me, sir, is this your car?"

"Yes, it is," McCoy said.

"It's got an enlisted decal, sir."

"That's because, until about twenty minutes ago, I was enlisted," McCoy said.

The MP smiled broadly. "I thought that was you," he said, admiringly. "You been sneaking in and out of here all the time you was in the Platoon Leader Course, haven't you?"

"How could you even suspect such a thing?" McCoy asked.

The MP came to attention and saluted.

"You may pass out, sir," he said. "Thank you, sir."

A minute later, after they had left the base, McCoy said, "I guess I better stop someplace and scrape that sticker off."

"And then what?"

"What do you mean, then what?"

"What are we going to do when we get to Washington?"

"I thought you'd be taking some leave," McCoy said.

"No," Pickering said. "I'd rather report in. I want to find out what's planned for me. How, exactly, do we do that?"

"Today is a day of duty," McCoy explained, patiently. "We get a day's travel time to Washington. That carries us up through midnight tomorrow. So long as we report in by midnight on Sunday, that makes Sunday a day of duty. So about eleven o'clock Sunday night, we'll find out where it is."

"You're not going home?" Pickering asked, and when McCoy shook his head, went on, "Or to New York?" "No," McCoy said, stiffly.

"I thought maybe you'd come to your senses about going to New York," Pickering said.

"You miss the point," McCoy said. "I have come to my senses. And that's the end of that particular subject."

"Okay, so we'll go to the Lafayette," Pickering said. "It's a little stuffy, but it has a very nice French restaurant." "Another hotel you own?"

"Grandpa owns it, actually," Pickering said. "It's right across from the White House. Do you suppose you can find the White House without a map, Lieutenant?"

"No, I've never been in Washington before, and I don't have a map, and I'm not going to sponge again off you or your 'Grandpa,' " McCoy said.

"Very well," Pickering said. "I will stay in the Lafayette, and you can stay in whatever flea-bag with hot-and-cold running cockroaches strikes your fancy, just so long as I know where to find you when it is time for us to go to the Marine Barracks and sign in. I hate to tell you this, Lieutenant, you being an officer and a gentleman and all, but you have a great talent for being a horse's ass." McCoy laughed.

"You're sure you want to sign in early?" he asked. "It may be a long time until they offer you any leave again."

"I need to know what this 'administrative' duty is all about," Pickering said. "I don't like the sound of it."

"What's the difference?" McCoy asked. "Whatever it is, they're not offering you a choice."

"Indulge me," Pickering said. "Take me along with you,

so that you can explain things to me. And for Christ's sake,

stop being an ass about being comped in one of our hotels."

"Being what?"

" 'Comped,' " Pickering explained. " 'Complimentary accommodations.' It's part of the business. If you work for Foster Hotels, you're entitled to stay in Foster Hotels when you're away from home."

"I don't work for Foster Hotels," McCoy argued.

"That's all right, you're with me," Pickering said. "And I am the apple of Grandpa's eye. Will you stop being an ass?"

"It makes me uncomfortable," McCoy said.

"So do you, when you pick your nose," Pickering said. "But if you agree to stay in Grandpa's hotel, you can pick your nose all you want, and I won't say a thing."

The doorman at the Lafayette knew Pickering by sight. He rushed around and opened the door with all the pomp shown a respected guest. But what he said, was, "Jesus, Pick, are you for real? Or is there a costume party?"

"You are speaking, sir, to an officer and a gentleman of the U.S. Marine Corps," Pickering said. "You will not have to prostrate yourself; kneeling will suffice." He turned to McCoy. "Ken, say hello to Jerry Toltz, another old pal of mine. We bellhopped here all through one hot, long, miserable summer.''

"How long are you going to be here?" the doorman asked.

"I don't know. Probably some time."

"They know you're coming?"

"I don't think so," Pickering said.

"I thought I would have heard," Jerry Toltz said. "The house is full, Pick."

"We need someplace to stay," Pickering said.

"Well, if they don't have anything for you, you and your pal can stay with me. There's a convertible couch."

"Thank you," Pickering said.

"Will you be needing the car?"

"Yeah," Pickering said. "I'm glad you asked. Don't bury it. We have to go out."

"That's presuming you can get in," the doorman said, and motioned for a bellboy and told him to park the car in the alley.

The man behind the reception desk also knew Malcolm Pickering.

He gave him his hand.

"You will be professionally delighted to hear the house is full," he said. "Personally, that may not be such good news.

How are you? It's good to see you. Your grand-dad told me you were in the Marines."

"Good to see you," Pickering said. "This is my friend Ken McCoy."

They shook hands.

"How long have you been an officer?" the manager asked.

"It must be, four, five hours now," Pickering said.

"And I don't have a bed for you! All I can do is call around. The Sheraton owes me a couple of big favors."

"What about maid's room in the bridal suite?"

"There's only a single in there," the manager protested.

"Put in a cot, then," Pickering said. "I'll sleep on that."

"I'll probably be able to find something for you tomorrow," the manager said.

"Lieutenant McCoy and I are going to be here for some time," Pickering said. "What about one of the residential hotels? I really hate to comp if we can rent it."

"There's a waiting list for every residential room in Washington," the manager said. "If you don't want to sleep on a park bench, you'll have to stay here. I'll come up with a bed-sitter for you in a day or two. Unless you need two bedrooms?''

"Lieutenant McCoy and I will not know how to handle the luxury of a bed-sitter. We have been sharing one room with thirty others."

"You want to go up now?"

"No, what we want to do now is locate the Marine Barracks."

The manager drew them a map.

They arrived at the Marine Barracks, coincidentally, just as the regularly scheduled Friday evening formal retreat parade was beginning. The music was provided by the Marine Corps Band, in dress blues.

It's like a well-choreographed ballet, Pickering thought as he watched the ceremony (the intricacies of which were now familiar) progress with incredible precision.

I'll be damned, McCoy thought, these guys are really as good as they're supposed to be.

There were Marines in dress blues stationed at intervals around the manicured grass of the parade ground. Their primary purpose, McCoy saw, was more practical than decorative. From time to time, one or more of them had to restrain eager tourists from rushing out onto the field to take a snapshot of the marching and drilling troops, or just to get a better look.

When the Marine Band had finally marched off, the perimeter guard near them, a lance corporal, left his post.

When he came to Pickering and McCoy, he saluted snappily.

"Good evening, sir!" he barked.

"Good evening," McCoy heard himself say.

Something bothered him. After a moment, he realized what it was. When the kid had tossed him the highball, he had done so automatically. The kid had seen a couple of officers, and he had saluted them. There had been nothing in his eyes that suggested he suspected he was saluting a China Marine corporal in a lieutenant's uniform.

I really am an officer, McCoy thought. Until right now, it was sort of play-acting. But now it's real. When that kid saluted me, I felt like an officer.

Well, this is the place to have it happen, he thought. At the Marine Barracks in Washington after a formal retreat parade, with the smell of the smoke from the retreat cannon still in my nose, and the tick-tick of the drums of the Marine Band fading as it marches away.

(Four)

On Saturday, Pickering and McCoy drove around Washington. Pickering was at first amused at the notion of playing tourist, but then he realized it wasn't so bad after all. He saw more of Washington with McCoy than he'd seen during the entire summer he'd spent bellhopping at the Lafayette.

And he came to understand that McCoy was doing more than satisfying an idle curiosity: He was reconnoitering the terrain. He wasn't sure if it was intentional, but there was no question that's what it was. It occurred to him again, as it had several times at Quantico, that McCoy was really an odd duck in society, as for example a Jesuit priest is an odd duck. They weren't really like the other ducks swimming around on the lake. They swam with a purpose, answering commands not heard by other people. A Jesuit's course through the waters of life was guided by God; McCoy's by what he believed-consciously or subconsciously-was expected of him by the Marine Corps.

They spent most of Sunday at the Smithsonian Institution. And again, Pickering was pleased that they had come. He was surprised at the emotion he felt when he saw the tiny little airplane Charles Lindbergh had flown to Paris and when he was standing before the faded and torn flag that had flown "in the rockets' red glare" over Fort McHenry.

At half- past ten on Sunday night (Pickering was still not fully accustomed to thinking in military time and had to do the arithmetic in his head to come up with 2230), Second Lieutenants M. Pickering and K.J. McCoy presented their orders to the duty officer at the Marine Barracks and held themselves ready for duty.

"Your reporting in early is probably going to screw things up with personnel," the officer of the day said. "I'll send word over there that you're here, and they'll call you at the BOQ [Bachelor Officers' Quarters]."

"We're in a hotel in town," Pickering said. "Okay. Probably even better. As you'll find out, the Corps is scattered all over town. What hotel?" "The Lafayette," Pickering said.

"Very nice," the officer of the day said. "What's the room number?"

"I don't know," Pickering said and started to smile. "Then how do you know where to sleep when you get there?" the officer of the day asked, sarcastically.

"Actually, we're in the bridal suite," Pickering said. And then, quickly, he added: "In the maid's room off the bridal suite."

At 0915 the next morning, the telephone in the maid's room of the bridal suite rang. It was a captain from personnel. Lieutenant Pickering was ordered to report, as soon as he could get there, to Brigadier General D.G. Mclnerney, whose office was in Building F at the Anacostia Naval Air Station. Before McCoy's reconnoitering over the weekend, Pickering had only a vague idea where Anacostia Naval Air Station was. Now he knew. He even knew where to find Building F. He had seen the building numbers-or rather building letters-in front of the office buildings there. Lieutenant McCoy was to report to a Major Almond, in Room 26, Building T-2032, one of the temporary buildings in front of the Smithsonian. They knew where that was, too, as a result of McCoy's day-long scoping of the terrain.

"You drop me there," McCoy said. "I can walk back here. Anacostia's to hell and gone."

Pickering found Building F without difficulty. It was one of several buildings immediately behind the row of hangars. Three minutes later, to his considerable surprise, he was standing at attention before the desk of Brigadier General D.G. Mclnerney, USMC. Unable to believe that a brigadier general of Marines would have thirty seconds to spare for a second lieutenant, he had simply presumed that whatever they were going to have him do here, his orders would come from a first lieutenant.

General Mclnerney looked like a general. There were three rows of ribbons on his tunic below the gold wings of a Naval Aviator. He didn't have much hair, and what there was of it was cut so close to the skull that the bumps and the freckles on the skin were clearly visible.

The general, Pickering decided as he stood at attention, was not very friendly, and he was unabashedly studying him with interest.

"So you're Malcolm Pickering," General Mclnerney said finally. "You must take after your mother. You don't look at all like your dad."

Pickering was so startled that for a moment his eyes flickered from their prescribed focus six inches over the general's head.

"You may sit, Mr. Pickering," General Mclnerney said. "Would you like some coffee?"

"Yes, sir," Pick Pickering said. "Thank you, sir."

A sergeant appeared, apparently in reply to the pushing of an unseen buzzer button.

"This is Lieutenant Pickering, Sergeant Wallace," General Mclnerney said. "He will probably be around here for a while."

The sergeant offered his hand.

"How do you do, sir?" he said.

"Lieutenant Pickering's father and I were in the war to end all wars together," General Mclnerney said, dryly.

"Is that so?" the sergeant said.

"And the lieutenant's father called me and, for auld lang syne, Sergeant Wallace, asked me to take care of his boy. And of course, I said I would."

"I understand, sir."

Pickering felt sick and furious.

"I think we can start off by getting the lieutenant a cup of coffee."

"Aye, aye, sir," Sergeant Wallace said. "How would you like your coffee. Lieutenant?"

"Black, please," Pickering said.

"Aye, aye, sir."

"You get fixed up all right with a BOQ?" General Mclnerney inquired. "Or are you perhaps staying in a hotel? A Foster hotel?"

"I'm in the Lafayette, sir."

"I thought you might be," General Mclnerney said. "I mean, what the hell, if your family owns hotels… how many hotels does your family own, Lieutenant?"

"There are forty-two, sir," Pick said.

"What the hell, if your family owns forty-two hotels, why not stay in one of them, right? There's certainly no room service in the BOQ, is there?"

"No, sir."

The coffee was delivered.

"Thank you, Sergeant," Pickering said.

"Certainly, sir," Sergeant Wallace said.

"I guess it took a little getting used to, not having someone to fetch coffee for you. At Quantico, I mean?" General Mclnerney asked.

"Yes, sir," Pickering said.

"Well, at least here, you'll have Sergeant Wallace and several other enlisted men around for that sort of thing. It won't be quite like home, but it will be a little better than running around in the boondocks with a rifle platoon."

"Yes, sir," Pickering said.

"It's not quite what the Corps had in mind for you," General Mclnerney said, "but I've arranged for you to be my junior aide-de-camp. How does that sound?"

"Permission to speak frankly, sir?" Pickering asked.

"Of course," General Mclnerney said.

"My father had no right to ask you to do anything for me," Pickering said. "I knew nothing about it. If I had any idea that he was even thinking about something like that, I would have told him to keep his nose out of my business."

"Is that so?" General Mclnerney said, doubtfully.

"Yes, Sir," Pickering said fervently, "that's so. And with respect, Sir, I do not want to be your aide-de-camp."

"I don't recall asking whether or not you wanted to be my aide. I presented that as a fact. I have gone to considerable trouble arranging for it."

"Sir, I feel that I would make you a lousy aide."

"You are now a Marine officer. When a Marine officer is told to do something, he is expected to reply 'Aye, aye, sir' and set about doing it to the best of his ability."

"I am aware of that, sir," Pick said. "But I didn't think it would ever be applied in a situation where the order was to pass canapes."

"You're telling me that you would prefer to be running around in the swamp at Camp LeJeune to being the aide of a general officer?"- General Mclnerney asked, on the edge of indignation.

"Yes, sir, that's exactly my position," Pickering said. "I respectfully request that I not be assigned as your aide."

"I am sorry to tell you, Lieutenant," General Mclnerney said, "that I have no intention of going back to Headquarters, USMC, and tell them that I have now changed my mind and don't want you as my aide after all. As I said, arranging for your assignment as my aide wasn't easy." He waited until that had a moment to sink in, and then went on: "So where would you say that leaves us, Lieutenant?"

"It would appear, sir," Pick said, "that until I am able to convince the general that he has made an error, the general will have a very reluctant aide-de-camp."

General Mclnerney snorted, and then he chuckled.

"Lieutenant, you are a brand-new officer. Could you take a little advice from one who has been around the Corps a long time?"

"Yes, sir."

"Don't jump until you know where you're jumping from, and where you're going to land," General Mclnerney said. "In other words, until you have all the intelligence you can get your hands on, and have time to evaluate it carefully."

"Yes, sir," Pick said, annoyed that he was getting a lecture on top of everything else.

"In this case, the facts as I presented them to you seem to have misled you."

"Sir?"

"Your dad is indeed concerned about you, and he did in fact call me and ask me to look after you. But what he was concerned about was the possibility that some chairwarmer would review your records, see what you did as a civilian, and assign you appropriately. He said he didn't want you to spend your hitch in the Corps as a mess officer. Or a housing officer. And when I checked, that's exactly what those sonsofbitches had in mind for you. If I had not gone over there, Lieutenant, and had you assigned to me, you would have reported for duty this morning to the officers' club at the Barracks."

Pick's eyes widened.

"So, because your Dad and I are old buddies-we were corporals together at Belleau Wood-I am protecting your ass. I think you would make a lousy aide, too. You will be my junior aide only until such time as I decide what else the Corps can do with you."

"I seem to have made an ass of myself, sir," Pickering said.

"We sort of expect that from second lieutenants," General Mclnerney said, reasonably. "The only thing you really did wrong was underestimate your father. Did you really think he would try to grease the ways for you?"

"My father is married to my mother, sir," Pickering said.

"I take your point," General Mclnerney said. "I have the privilege of your mother's acquaintance."

"May I ask a question, sir?"

"Sure."

"Was my moving into the hotel a real blunder?"

"Not so far as I'm concerned," General Mclnerney said. "I understand your situation." _

"I was thinking of… my best friend, I suppose is the best way to decribe him. I sort of pressured him to move in with me."

"I see," Mclnerney said. "Another hotelier? Classmate at school?"

"No, sir. He was a China Marine, a corporal, before we went through the platoon leader's course."

Mclnerney thought that over a moment before he replied.

"I think it might be a good idea if he moved into the BOQ," he said. "There would certainly be curiosity. It could even turn into an Intelligence matter. Where would a second lieutenant, an ex-China Marine enlisted man, get the money to take a room in the Lafayette? It could be explained, of course, but the last thing a second lieutenant needs is to have it getting around that Intelligence is asking questions about his personal life."

"Thank you, sir," Pickering said. "I was afraid it might be something like that. May I ask another question?''

"Shoot."

"How long will I be assigned here? I mean, you said something about deciding what to do with me. How long will that take?"

"That depends on what you would like to do, and whether or not you're qualified to do it. Presumably, you learned at Quantico that leading a platoon of riflemen is not quite the fun and games the recruiter may have painted it."

"Yes, sir."

"Have you ever thought of going to flight school?" General Mclnerney asked.

"No, sir," Pickering confessed.

General Mclnerney was a little disappointed to hear that, but decided that Fleming Pickering's kid meant what he said: that he simply had not thought of going to flight school-not that he had considered the notion and discarded it because he didn't like the idea of flying.

"That's an option," General Mclnerney said. "But only if you could pass the flight physical. On your way out, have Sergeant Wallace set up an appointment for a flight physical. And then take the rest of the day off, son, and get yourself settled. I'm talking about your friend, too, of course."

"I'll check out of the hotel, too, of course," Pickering said.

"Don't do it on my account," General Mclnerney said. "So far as I'm concerned, I'd be delighted to have you in there, in case my wife and I wanted to make reservations for dinner.''

General Mclnerney stood up and offered his hand.

"Welcome aboard," he said. "You're your father's son, and that's intended as a compliment."