"Stecker will probably get one," McCoy said. "He's an ace too, isn't he?"
"A mummy ace," Pick said.
McCoy glared at him.
"Don't give me the evil eye, Mister McCoy. You saw him. Wrapped up like Tutankhamen."
There was a knock at the door. It was one of the assistant managers.
"I thought you would like to see this, Mr. Pickering," he said, and handed him a thin stack of newspapers. "There's several copies."
"Thank you," Pick said.
He accepted the stack of newspapers and handed one to McCoy and Ernie. It was The Washington Star, and there was a four-column picture of Bill Dunn as Secretary Knox was pinning his Navy Cross on him. A headline accompanied the picture: "GUADALCANAL DOUBLE ACE AWARDED NAVY CROSS."
Pick took his copy and walked to the couch and draped it over Lieutenant Dunn's head. By the time he reached the bar, Dunn was in the process of sweeping the newspaper away. Once he finished that, he rose to his feet wide awake and started toward Pickering.
"I have a great idea!" he said.
"Look what woke up! Read the newspaper."
"You come home with me," Dunn said.
"Read the goddamned newspaper."
"What are you going to do, just stay here?"
"I thought that I'd hang around with the Killer," Pick said. "Maybe pick up some girls or something."
"Goddamn you!" McCoy said.
"What you've heard about Alabama isn't true. We wear shoes and have indoor plumbing and everything," Dunn said.
"I'm not going to be here," McCoy said. "I'm on my way to Parris Island in the morning."
"You don't want to stay here alone, Pick," Ernie said. "Come with me. Mother and Daddy would love to see you."
"With all respect, I'll pass on that," Pick said. "Wouldn't I be in the way, Bill?"
"Hell, no. Come on, Pick. I want you to."
Pick shrugged. "OK. Thank you. Now go read the newspaper," Pick said.
"Why?" Dunn asked. But he took the newspaper McCoy offered him.
Dunn looked at his photograph.
"Goddamn!"
"That will be printed all over the country," Ernie said. "You're famous, Bill."
"Goddamn it, this is going to ruin my... social... life! I knew if I stayed in the goddamned Marine Corps long enough, they'd get around to screwing that up, too!"
"What in the world are you talking about?" Ernie asked.
"Tell her, Lieutenant," Pick said. "She's one of us. She'll understand."
"I think what I need is a drink," Bill Dunn said.
[ONE]
The Officers' Club
Main Side
U.S. Naval Air Station
Pensacola, Florida
1545 Hours 30 October 1942
With a feeling that he'd accomplished, in spades, what he'd set out to do, Lieutenant Colonel J. Danner Porter, USMC (elevated to that rank three weeks previously), marched out of the club. He was accompanied by Captain James Carstairs, USMC, who followed Colonel Porter, a few steps to his rear.
It had come to Colonel Porter's attention that certain of his instructor pilots, in direct violation of written orders to the contrary, had taken up the habit of visiting the club during the afternoon hours.
Colonel Porter devoutly believed that when the duty hours were clearly specified-in this case from 0700 to 1630-his officers would perform military duties, not sit around the O Club in their flight suits swilling beer and killing time until 1625, when they could sign out for the day at Flight Training Operations.
In Colonel Porter's opinion, it didn't matter at all whether or not they had completed their scheduled training flights. There were other things they could do: prepare for the next day's operations, for example, or counsel their students, or spend a little time studying the training syllabus to evaluate their performance and that of their students against the specified criteria.
When he looked in on the Club a few minutes earlier, he found nine of his Marine flight instructors in the small bar, where officers were permitted to drink when they weren't in the prescribed uniform of the day. (He saw at least as many Navy flight instructors in there as well, but that was besides the point. The Navy was the Navy and The Marine Corps was The Marine Corps. If the Navy was willing to tolerate such behavior, it was the Navy's business, not his.) Colonel Porter knew all nine by sight. While he stood at the door and called off their names, Captain Carstairs wrote them down.
As soon as the clerks could type them up, each of the nine officers would receive a reply-by-endorsement letter. This would state that it had come to the undersigned's (Colonel Porter's) attention that, in disobedience to Letter Order so and so, of such and such a date, the individual had been observed in the Officers' Club during duty hours consuming intoxicating beverages. The officer would "reply by endorsement hereto" exactly why he had chosen to disregard orders.
Those letters would become part of the officer's official records and would be considered by promotion boards. Colonel Porter regretted the necessity of having to place a black mark against an officer's record; but this was The Marine Corps, and Marine officers were expected to obey their orders.
It was at this moment-when he was at the peak of the savoring of his own effectiveness-that Colonel Porter's pleasure came suddenly crashing down: Walking up to the Officers' Club under the canvas marquee were a pair of Marine officers. They were not, technically speaking, his Marine officers (as the nine in the bar were his); but they were Marine officers, or at least they were wearing Marine officers' uniforms, with Naval Aviators' wings of gold. And so, in that sense, he was responsible for them.
Why me, dear Lord? he thought to himself. Why me?
The pair were a disgrace to the Corps.
Their violations of the prescribed uniform code were many and flagrant: Their covers, for instance, were at best disreputable... at worst insulting to good order. Though the prescribed cover was the cap, brimmed, these two were wearing fore-and-aft caps. The taller of the two officers wore his on the back of his head, while the smaller actually had his on sidewards (to look at him, he was so young he was probably fresh from Basic Flight Training-maybe at Memphis?).
The knot of the tall officer's field scarf was dangling at least an inch away from his collar, the top two buttons of his blouse were unbuttoned, and he was eating a hot dog. This last meant there was no way he could render the hand salute (unless he dropped the hot dog). For he was holding the hot dog in his right hand, while in his left he was carrying a disreputable-looking equipment bag.
The small officer, meanwhile, looked like a goddamned wandering gypsy. In one hand he was carrying a cigarette; in the other, an even more disreputable-looking issue equipment bag. Both lower bellows pockets of his blouse were bulging. The left held a newspaper, and the right almost certainly contained a whiskey bottle in a brown paper bag. And God alone knows what else; the pocket's seams are straining.
"Afternoon, Colonel," the little one greeted him, smiling. He had a Rebel twang that was almost a parody of a southern accent. It came out, 'Aft'noon, Cunnel."
"A word, gentlemen, if you please," Colonel Porter said. The two stopped. Colonel Porter stepped close enough to confirm some of his suspicions: Neither had been close to a razor for at least twenty-four hours. And they both reeked of gin.