"This is Easterbrook's," he said, handing it to him. "Yours will be along in minute, George."
"Yes, Sir."
"You don't have a drink?" Pickering said. "I thought the refrigerator would need restocking by now."
He slid open a closet door. Behind it was a small refrigerator, full of beer and soft drinks.
"And there's whiskey in that cabinet," he said, pointing. "If you'd rather."
"I'll have a beer, please, Sir," Hart said, and walked to him.
Pickering opened a beer, then walked to Easterbrook and handed it to him.
"Son, why don't you put on a shirt and trousers, that's all you'll need, and then go down and sit with McCoy on the patio. I need a word with Sergeant Hart."
"Yes, Sir," Easterbrook replied, and hastily put on a khaki shirt and pants. Pickering made himself a drink of scotch, and waited until Easterbrook was gone before he spoke.
"You were just paid a pretty good compliment, George," Pickering said. "McCoy said of you, quote, 'He's a good Marine, General.' "
"I'm flattered," Hart said. "If only half the things they say about him are true, he's a hell of a Marine."
"I'm on my way to Australia, George. Tomorrow morning. In a day or two, they'll find you a seat on a plane to the States. Show your orders in San Francisco and tell them to route you via St. Louis on your way to Washington. Take a week to see your folks, and then go to Washington. Then pack your bags again. I don't think I'll be coming back there any time soon-that may change, of course-but I'd like to have you with me in Australia."
"Aye, aye, Sir," Hart said, and then: "May I ask a question, Sir?"
"Certainly."
"Wouldn't it make more sense if I went to Australia from here?"
"It would, but I didn't want to ask you to do that. I mean, after a man gets tossed out of a rubber boat..."
"McCoy told you about that?"
"... in the surf off an enemy-held island, he's entitled to a leave. I can do without you for two or three weeks, George."
"Easterbrook deserves to go home. Major Dillon and McCoy have things to do in the States. I don't. I'll go with you, Sir, if that would be all right."
"Strange, I thought that would be your reaction," Pickering said. "And I can use you, George."
There was a knock at the door, and a white-jacketed black man walked in with a freshly pressed set of new khakis.
"Finish your beer," Pickering said. "And then come down to the patio."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
Corporal Robert F. Easterbrook, carrying a bottle of beer, slid open a plate-glass door and walked uneasily onto the patio.
"They take care of you all right at the Marine Barracks, Easterbrook?" Lieutenant McCoy asked.
"Yes, Sir."
"Pull up a chair, take a load off," Major Dillon said, smiling, trying to be as charming as he could.
He thought: Well, now that I've got you off Guadalcanal, what the hell am I going to do with you?
[ONE]
Pan American Airlines Terminal
San Francisco, California
0700 Hours 16 October 1942
Almost all the passengers on Pan American Flight 203 from Hawaii were in uniform, Army, Navy, and Marine. And all the uniforms were in far better shape than his, Major Edward Banning noted. He was sure, too, that no one on the airplane was traveling without a military priority. But it was a civilian airliner, and Pan American provided the amenities it offered before the war.
The food was first class, served by neatly uniformed stewards. It was preceded by hors d'oeuvres and a cocktail, accompanied by wine, and trailed by a cognac. Banning had three post-dinner cognacs, knowing they would put him to sleep, which was the best way he knew to pass a long flight.
For breakfast, there were ham and eggs, light, buttery rolls, along with freshly brewed coffee; he wasn't about to complain when the yolks of the eggs were cooked hard.
We all have to be prepared to make sacrifices for the war effort, he thought, smiling to himself. He was pleased with his wit-until it occurred to him he still might be feeling the effects from the night before of the pair of double bourbons, the bottle of wine, and the cognacs.
After breakfast, the steward handed him a little package containing a comb; a toothbrush and toothpaste; a safety razor; shaving cream; and even a tiny bottle of Mennen after-shave. Armed with all that, he went back to the washroom and tried to repair the havoc that days of neglect had done to his appearance.
Brushing his teeth made his mouth feel a great deal better, and a fresh shave was pleasant. But the face that looked back at him in the mirror did not show a neatly turned out Marine officer. It showed a man with bloodshot eyes-not completely due, he decided, to all the drinks he let himself have last night. His skin was an unhealthy color. And he was wearing a shirt that smelled of harsh Australian soap mixed with the chemicals of the Pearl Harbor photo lab.
I need a shower, eight hours in a bed, and then some clean uniforms. I wonder how long it will take them in San Francisco to get me a seat on an airplane. Maybe enough time to go to an officers' sales store and get at least a couple of new shirts. Maybe even enough to get some sleep.
The United States Customs Service was still functioning normally, randomly looking inside bags. And the Shore Patrol was in place, maintaining high disciplinary standards among transient Navy Department personnel. There was even an SP officer, wearing the stripes of a full lieutenant along with an SP brassard and a white pistol belt.
The Shore Patrol officer walked purposefully over to Banning.
What is this? "Major, the shape of your uniform, and the length of your hair is a disgrace to the U.S. Naval Service generally, and The Marine Corps specifically. You will have to come with me!"
"Major Banning?" the Lieutenant asked.
"My name is Banning."
"Will you come with me, please, Sir?"
"I'm not through Customs."
"I wouldn't worry about that, Sir. Would you come with me, please? Can I help you carry anything?"
"Where are we going?"
"To the airport, Sir. There's a plane waiting for you."
"I just got off an airplane!"
"Right this way, please, Major," the Shore Patrol lieutenant said, already starting to lead the way to a Navy gray Plymouth sedan with a chrome siren on the fender and SHORE PATROL lettered on its doors.
The Army Air Corps major saluted as Banning got out of the Plymouth.
"Major Banning, we're ready anytime you are," he said.
"Is there a head, a men's room, anyplace convenient?"
"Right inside, Major, I'll show you," the Major said. "Major, we have a seven-place aircraft..."
"What kind of an aircraft?"
"A B-25, Sir. General Kellso's personal aircraft. Would you have any objection if we took some people with us?"
"Wouldn't that be up to you?" Banning said. "Or General Kellso? You said it was his airplane."
"Right now, it's the Secretary of the Navy's, Major, with the mission of taking you to Washington."