"This was easier, frankly, when I thought you were a goddamn feather merchant," General Underwood said.
"Jake, are you really here to try to talk us into letting this sonofabitch go?" Colonel Frazier asked. "Do you know what all he did?"
"Yes, Sir, I read the reports. But on the other hand, Sir, I heard what he did on Bloody Ridge. He's one hell of a Marine, Colonel."
"He's a goddamn animal who belongs in Portsmouth!" General Underwood said angrily.
Dillon and Colonel Frazier both looked at him.
"Sir, the word is already out that they're going to give him the Medal of Honor," Dillon said. "If it comes out why he-"
"That's enough, Dillon," General Underwood said sharply.
"Yes, Sir."
General Underwood stood up.
"I can't waste any more time on this individual," General Underwood said. "You deal with it, Frazier. If Dillon has any reasonable proposals to make, that you feel you can go along with, I will support any decision you make. That will be all, gentlemen. Thank you."
Colonel Frazier stood up. Both he and Major Dillon came to attention.
"By your leave, Sir?" Colonel Frazier asked.
General Underwood, his eyes on his desk, made an impatient gesture of dismissal. Colonel Frazier and Major Dillon made precise about-face movements and marched out of his office.
"The General said if you had 'any reasonable proposal,' Jake," Colonel Frazier said. They were now in his office, drinking coffee to which sour-mash bourbon had been added.
"Sir, the first thing we have to keep in mind is that some people, who are a lot more senior than you and me, think this war bond tour business is good for The Corps."
"Do you?"
Dillon met his eyes.
"I really don't know. They told me to do it. I'm saying 'aye, aye, Sir,' and giving it my best shot."
"OK. We'll go with that, for the sake of argument: The war bond tour is good for The Corps."
"If we go with that, Colonel, then we have to go with the idea that putting a major, me, in charge, with a lieutenant and half a dozen sergeants to help, is a justified use of Marines. Plus, of course, the heroes. They could be doing other things, too."
"I'm listening, Jake," Colonel Frazier said.
"If we go with that, and if it means that instead of The Corps looking foolish for giving the Medal to somebody who turns out to be an asshole, The Corps looks good for giving the Medal to a guy who killed thirty, forty Japs all by himself, then it seems to me that The Corps would be justified in assigning two more Marines to the tour... that would mean for about a month."
"Two more Marines, Jake? Who are you talking about?"
"I don't have any names, but I'll bet you wouldn't have to look hard around the Recruit Depot to find two gunnery sergeants who are larger and tougher than Staff Sergeant McCoy."
"And what would these two gunnies do, Jake?"
"Well, I think that by now, as long as he's been in the Brig, Sergeant McCoy must be pretty dirty. The two gunnies would probably start off by giving Sergeant McCoy a bath. With a fire hose. That would probably put him in a good frame of mind. Then they could talk to him about how important it is to him and The Corps for him to behave himself. And if he ever felt he needed some exercise, they could give it to him."
Colonel Frazier looked at Major Dillon for a long moment. Then he pushed a lever on his intercom.
"Sergeant Major," he announced. "I'm sending a Major Dillon to see you. He will tell you what he wants. I don't know what that is, and I don't want to know. But you will give him whatever he asks for. Do you understand?"
"Aye, aye, Sir," a metallic voice replied.
"Thank you, Colonel," Jake said.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Major Dillon," Colonel Frazier said. "But I'm sure you'll be able to work it out with the Sergeant Major. He's in the third office down the hall to the right."
[FOUR]
Water Lily Cottage
Brisbane, Australia
1615 Hours 23 October 1942
When he heard the crunch of tires on the driveway, Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, was drinking coffee. Not five minutes earlier, he almost took a stiff drink. But now that Ellen was arriving, he knew he'd made the right decision in not doing that.
He checked himself in the mirror, tugging at the skirt of his blouse, then adjusting his necktie to a precise location he decided would please the Commandant of The Marine Corps himself.
He was wearing his ribbons, too. There was an impressive display of them-the Navy Cross, the Silver Star, the Legion of Merit, the Navy and Marine Corps Medal, the Purple Heart with three oak leaf clusters, the World War I Victory Medal, the Legion d'Honneur in the grade of Chevalier, and the Croix de Geurre. And they were neatly arrayed above what Pickering thought of as the "I-Was-There" ribbons: for service in France in World War I, for service since World War II started, and the Pacific Theatre of Operations ribbon.
He rarely wore all this, and he wasn't sure why he was doing so now. Certainly his visit to General MacArthur required it (he'd correctly suspected that El Supremo would not only have a photographer present for the pinning-on-of-the-insignia, but that he would insist that Pickering get in the picture). But then there was Ellen Feller, who was just now approaching (like a pirate ship on the horizon; up goes the Jolly Roger). Mrs. Feller was impressed with brass. And he was aware that he made a visually impressive brass hat in his general's uniform, with stars on collar points and epaulets, and all his ribbons.
"On deck, George," Pickering said softly. "Here she comes."
He heard footsteps on the stairs, and then on the porch, and then the old-fashioned, manual, twist-it-with-your-fingers doorbell rang.
Wearing not only his hours-old lieutenant's uniform, but a silver cord identifying him as an aide-de-camp to a general officer, George Hart went to the door and opened it.
"May I help you?" George asked.
Pickering looked up and let his gaze rest casually on Ellen. She was a tall woman in her middle thirties, dark haired and smooth skinned; and she was wearing little makeup. She seemed surprised to see Hart. At the same time, Pickering was surprised to see how she was dressed. She was in uniform. An Army officer's uniform, complete to cap with officer's insignia. But on the lapels, where an officer would have the U.S. insignia above the branch of service, there were small blue triangles. The uniform was authorized for wear by civilians attached to the Army.
Now that he thought about it, Pickering was not surprised that Ellen had decided to put herself in uniform. He noticed, too, that the uniform did not conceal her long, shapely calves or the contours of her bosom.
He had a quick mental image of her naked, and as quickly forced it from his mind... consciously replacing it with an image of Johnny Moore wincing with pain as he pulled his torn-up leg from the Studebaker.
What happened to Johnny is as much Ellen's fault as it was the fault of the Japanese. This is a world-class bitch.
"Mrs. Feller to see General Pickering," Ellen said.
"Just a moment, please," George said, "I'll see if the General is free."
"He expects me, Lieutenant," Ellen said, not at all pleasantly.
"One moment, please," Hart said, and closed the door in her face.