"Well, the war bond tour, that war bond tour, is about over. We're bringing some other people back from the Pacific. This time for a national tour. Machine Gun McCoy, among others." "Excuse me, Sir?"
"Sergeant Thomas McCoy, of the 2nd Raiders. Distinguished himself on Bloody Ridge. They call him 'Machine Gun' McCoy."
"I see."
"And some of the pilots from Henderson Field, we're trying to get all the aces."
"I see, Sir. I'm sure the tour will be successful."
"A lot of that will depend on how well the tour is organized and carried out," General Stewart said, significantly.
"Yes, Sir," Colonel Wilson agreed.
"Which brings us to Lieutenant Macklin," General Stewart said. "With the exception of a slight limp, he is now fully recovered from his wounds..."
"I'm glad to hear that, General."
"... and is obviously up for reassignment."
After a moment, Colonel Wilson became aware that General Stewart was waiting for a reply from him.
"I don't believe any assignment has yet been made for Lieutenant Macklin," he said.
But I will do my best to find a rock to hide him under.
"What I was going to suggest, Colonel... what, to put a point on it, I am requesting, is that Macklin be assigned to my shop."
What's this "shop" crap? You sound like you're making dog kennels.
"I see."
"My thinking, Colonel, is that nothing succeeds like success. And Macklin, having completed a very, very successful war bond tour, is just the man to set up and run the next one. And then, of course, there is sort of a built-in bonus: Our heroes, Machine Gun McCoy and the flyboys, would be introduced to the public by a Marine officer who is himself a wounded hero."
"General, I think that's a splendid idea," Colonel Wilson said. "I'll have his orders cut by sixteen hundred hours."
I was wrong. This has been a gift from heaven. I get rid of Macklin in a job where he can't hurt The Corps; and the General here thinks I am a splendid fellow.
"Well, I frankly thought I would have to sell you more on the idea, Colonel."
"General, if I may say so, a good idea is a good idea. Is there anything else I can try to do for you?"
General Stewart looked a little uncomfortable.
"There are two things," he said, finally. "Both a little delicate."
"Please go on, Sir."
"I certainly don't mean to suggest that you're not up to the line in your operation..."
But?
"... but, maybe a piece of paper got lost or something. Lieutenant Macklin is long overdue for promotion."
With what Chesty Puller had to say about the sonofabitch, the only reason he wasn't asked for his resignation from The Corps is that there's a war on.
"I'll look into that myself, General, and personally bring it to the attention of the G-l."
"I couldn't ask for more than that, could I? Thank you, Colonel."
"No thanks necessary, Sir," Wilson said. "You said there were two things?"
"And-to repeat-both a little delicate," General Stewart said.
"Perhaps I can help, Sir."
"I mentioned Major Dillon," General Stewart said.
"Yes, Sir?"
"I don't know if you know this or not, Colonel, but Major Dillon has been placed on temporary duty with the Office of Management Analysis."
"The Office of Management Analysis, Sir?"
"Don't be embarrassed. I had to ask a lot of questions before I found anyone who even knows it exists," General Stewart said. "But I think it can be safely said that it deals with classified matters."
"I see," Colonel Wilson said solemnly.
"The thing is, Colonel, I'm carrying Major Dillon on my manning table. So long as he is on temporary duty, I can't replace him. You understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Do you think you could have him transferred, taken off my man-ning table?"
"I will bring that to the attention of the G-l, Sir. And if anything can be done, I'm sure the General will see that it is."
"Splendid!" General Stewart said as he stood up and put out his hand. "Colonel, I really appreciate your cooperation."
"Anything for the good of the Corps, Sir."
"Indeed! Thank you, Colonel. And if there's ever any way in which Public Affairs can be of service..."
"That's very good of you, Sir. I almost certainly will take you up on that."
[THREE]
Anacostia Naval Air Station
Washington, D.C.
2055 Hours 16 October 1942
As the B-25 was taxiing from the runway to the Transient Aircraft Ramp, the pilot came out of the cockpit and walked back to Banning, who was seated in the front of the fuselage, in a surprisingly comfortable airline-type seat.
"A car's going to meet you where we park," he said.
"Thank you," Banning said.
He had a headache. His mouth was dry. He'd been sleeping fitfully until his ears popped painfully as they made their descent and approach.
They'd stopped at St. Louis for fuel. And he had a fried-egg sand-wich and a cup of coffee there. The mayonnaise and the slice of raw onion on the sandwich had given him heartburn.
He belched painfully.
It was raining, steadily, and a chilling wind was blowing across the field. And there was no car in sight. He'd just about decided that the pilot had the wrong information, or that the plane was parked in the wrong place, when a 1940 Buick convertible sedan rolled up. The Buick was preceded by a pickup truck painted in a checkerboard pattern and flying a checkered flag.
The rear door of the Buick opened.
"Will the Major please get in so the Captain will not get drowned?" a voice called.
Banning quickly stepped into the backseat and put out his hand.
"How are you, Ed?" he said. "Good to see you."
"Take us to the hotel, Jerry," Captain Edward Sessions, USMC, ordered, and then turned to Banning. "It's good to see you, Sir," he said. He was a tall, not quite handsome twenty-seven-year-old in a trench coat. A plastic rain cover was fastened over the cover of his billed cap.
"I didn't want to get my best uniform soaked," he went on. "There's a good chance I will be in the very presence of the Secretary of the Navy himself.
"We will be."
"Tonight?" Banning asked, surprised.
"Very possibly. The Colonel's at the hotel; that's where we're going. He should know by the time we get there."
"What hotel?"
"The Foster Lafayette," Sessions said. "Your hotel, Sir. By order of General Pickering. He sent a radio from Pearl Harbor." He made a gesture with his hand. "The car, too. He said we were to give you the keys."
"Jesus," Banning said.
"And this, I thought, would give you a laugh," Sessions said, and thrust a newspaper at Banning. "There's a light back here somewhere.... Ah, there it is."
A pair of lights came on, providing just enough illumination to read the newspaper. It was The Washington Star.
"What am I looking at?"
Sessions pointed at a photograph of a Marine officer in dress blues. He was standing at a microphone mounted on a lectern on a stage somewhere.