"There are those who are saying that air power saved Guadalcanal," Fowler said.
"Has it been saved?"
"It's not over. But the Japanese apparently took their best shot, and it wasn't good enough."
"I hadn't heard," Pick said.
"I should have thought you'd be fascinated to hear the news from there."
Pick ignored the question. "If anybody saved the 'Canal-if, in fact, it has been saved-it was the Marine with a rifle in his hand who saved it."
"That's pretty modest of you, isn't it?"
"No. That's the way it is. I have a hard time looking a rifle platoon leader in the eye; it makes me feel like a feather merchant."
"I'm sure he feels the same way about you," Fowler said, then changed the subject. "What did you want to ask me, Pick?"
"I need some influence. I need an air priority for Dunn-he lives near Mobile, Alabama-to get him from there to Los Angeles on November 5. And the same thing for the Easterbunny. He lives near Jefferson City, Missouri, wherever the hell that is."
" 'The Easterbunny'? Why do you call him that?"
"What else would you call a nineteen-year-old who blushes and whose name is Easterbrook?"
"But those were officer's uniforms the bellman carried in there. He's only nineteen and he's an officer?"
"He's been an officer for maybe three days. I need an air priority for him from here to Jefferson City, leaving as soon as possible after five-thirty today, and then from there to Los Angeles."
"Call my office, they'll arrange it. I'll tell them to expect the call."
"Thank you."
"Where are you going?"
"I'll probably stay here. Mother's in Honolulu. God only knows where The General is, and I'm sure I'm beginning to get on Grandpa's nerves living in his apartment."
"You better not let him hear you say that," Fowler said, chuckling. "Your father-the-general is in Brisbane. The President sent him there."
"To do what?"
"I'm sorry, Pick, I can't tell you; that's privileged."
Pick shrugged.
"Well, if you stick around here, we'll have dinner," Fowler said.
"Love to. Thanks for the help."
"I'm invited to that awards ceremony in Knox's office, Pick. You want to ride over with me?"
"Fine, thank you."
"I'll pick you up at quarter to three," Fowler said. "Now let me make some telephone calls."
The first call the Senator made was to his office, to tell his administrative assistant that Young Pickering would be calling. The second was to the Hon. Frank Knox, Secretary of the Navy.
The Director of Marine Corps Public Relations was also on the phone to Secretary Knox's office that afternoon. It was quite easy for Captain David Haughton, USN, Secretary Knox's administrative assistant, to clarify for him the confusion about which Marine officers were to be decorated and by whom. The Secretary desired to make the presentations to all three officers personally.
And it turned out to be just as easy for the Director of Public Affairs, USMC, to carry out the Secretary's desires in regard to this ceremony. The President's presentation of the Medal of Honor to Staff Sergeant Thomas M. "Machine Gun" McCoy was scheduled for 1100 the next day. General Stewart had already laid on a dry run for the still and motion picture photographers and the sound team who'd be recording that event. And now, instead of practicing with Marines playing the roles of the people involved, those technicians would simply go to the Secretary of the Navy's office today. Two birds with one stone. General Stewart was pleased with himself.
[FOUR]
Office of the Secretary of the Navy
Navy Department
Washington, D.C.
1515 Hours 28 October 1942
Having decided the presentation ceremony was of sufficient importance to justify his personal attention, Brigadier General J. J. Stewart had arrived at Secretary Knox's office thirty minutes earlier, on the heels of the still and motion picture photography crew.
Those to be decorated, however, had not yet shown up. And so General Stewart's temper flared once again at Captain O. L. Greene. The first time Captain Greene provoked his anger (at least in regard to the present circumstances) was after he'd returned from meeting the plane from California at the airport. When he came back from the airport, Greene reported that the three young officers did not, as they were supposed to, accompany him to the VIP Transient Quarters at Eighth and I, where they were to be installed.
"I told them about the quarters, General," Greene explained, "but Pickering, the officers' escort, told me he'd already made arrangements for the officers. Sergeant McCoy and the two gunnies are in the transient staff NCO Quarters. I gave the officers' escort the schedule."
By then, of course, it had been too late to do anything about the escort officer running around loose with Dunn and Easterbrook. So he'd limited his expression of displeasure to suggesting to Captain Greene that the next time he was given specific instructions, it would well behoove him not to let a lieutenant talk him out of following them.
Now he wished he'd given in to the impulse to ream Captain Greene a new anal orifice back when it might have done some good. In fifteen minutes, the Secretary of the Navy was going to invest Lieutenant Dunn with the Navy Cross, the nation's second-highest award for valor, and no one had the faintest goddamn idea where Dunn was.
The Secretary's conference room had been turned into something like a motion picture set for the presentation. The conference table itself was now pushed to one side of the room; a dark-blue drape suspended from iron pipe was put up as a backdrop; lights were set up and tested; and two motion picture cameras-an industry-standard 35mm Mitchell and a 16mm Eyemo as a backup-were in place. It then took the master sergeant in charge of it all an extraordinary amount of time to arrange the flags against the backdrop-the National Colors, and the flags of the Navy Department, The Marine Corps, and the Secretary of the Navy.
But that delay was as nothing in comparison with the one that really mattered.
And then, as General Stewart glared impatiently-for the umpteenth time-at his wristwatch, the door to the Secretary's conference room opened and three Marine officers walked in.
"General," the tallest of the three barked crisply, "Lieutenant Pickering reporting with a detail of two, Sir."
The other first lieutenant, who was also wearing the wings of a Naval Aviator (and thus he had to be the Navy Cross decoratee), seemed for some reason to find this very amusing.
But General Stewart did not dwell on that. He was pleased with what he saw. The three of them were not only shipshape, with fresh shaves and haircuts, but fine-looking, clean-cut young officers in well-fitting uniforms. It could very easily not have been so. When these pictures appeared in movie newsreels and in newspapers across the country, The Corps would look good.
There was only one minor item that had to be corrected. But even as this thought occurred to General Stewart, the master sergeant took care of it:
"Lieutenant," he said, "this time you're on the other side of the lens. Why don't you let me hold that Leica for you?"
Lieutenant Easterbrook pulled the strap of his Leica camera case over his head and turned it over to the master sergeant.
It was at that point that General Stewart realized that a civilian had entered the room. And then, a moment later, he realized just who that civilian was.