"Boy," Second Lieutenant Robert F. Easterbrook, USMCR, said to First Lieutenant R. B. Macklin, USMC, as they drove up the palm-tree-lined drive to the entrance of the Foster Beverly Hills Hotel, "this is classy!"
Lieutenant Macklin ignored him and looked for a place to park the station wagon. Another of Major Dillon's odd notions was to decree that enlisted men could almost always be put to doing something more useful than chauffeuring officers around, and that henceforth the officers (meaning Macklin, of course; Dillon habitually drove his own car) would drive themselves.
He saw a spot and started to drive into it. A bellman held up his hand and stopped him.
"We'll take care of the car, Sir," the bellman said. "Are you checking in?"
"We're here to see Major Dillon," Macklin said. "I don't think it's permissible for a civilian to drive a military vehicle. I will park it myself, thank you, just the same."
The bellman considered that a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and stepped out of the way.
Macklin parked the station wagon and carefully locked it. And then, with Lieutenant Easterbrook at his side, he walked into the lobby.
"How would I find Cottage B?" he inquired of the doorman.
"May I ask whom you wish to see, Sir?"
"Major Homer Dillon, USMC."
"There must be some mistake, Sir. There is no Major Dillon in Cottage B."
"How about a Lieutenant Pickering?" Macklin snapped.
"One moment, Sir," the doorman said. "I'll see if Lieutenant Pickering is in. May I have your name, please?"
"Macklin," Macklin said. "Lieutenant R. B. Macklin."
The doorman picked up a telephone and dialed a number.
"Excuse me," he said to whoever answered. "There is a Lieutenant Mackeral at the door who wishes to see Lieutenant Pickering. May I pass him through?"
"He called you 'Mackeral,' " Lieutenant Easterbrook observed, chuckling... quite unnecessarily.
"Turn right at the reception desk, Lieutenant," the doorman said, pointing. "And then your first left. Cottage B is the second cottage."
"Thank you very much," Lieutenant Macklin said, somewhat icily. "Follow me, Easterbrook."
There was just time for Lieutenant Macklin to be introduced to Lieutenants Dunn and Pickering when Captain Charles M. Galloway and Mrs. Carolyn Ward Spencer walked into the cottage. They were trailed by a bellman carrying luggage.
"The temporary arrangements," Pick said, pointing to the door to the Palm Room, "are that you and Charley are in there. If you'd rather, we could find you some other..."
"This is marvelous," Carolyn said. "Thank you, Pick. I keep saying that, but you keep doing things..."
"Enjoy it while you can," Pick said. "I no longer have to polish the Skipper's apple; me or Dunn. We are all now Instructor Pilots."
"I heard about that," Charley said. "I think it makes sense."
"I can't believe you're saying that. You like the idea of being an IP?"
"He's not going to be an IP is why," Carolyn said. "Somebody blew a trumpet, and he's going back over there."
"How did you work that, Skipper?" Dunn asked.
"Clean living, Mr. Dunn," Galloway said. "You ought to try it sometime. Works miracles."
Clean living indeed, Lieutenant Macklin thought. What the Captain is up to with this woman is defined as illicit cohabitation. It's conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentlemen, de facto and de jure.
"Any chance we can go with you, Skipper?" Pick asked.
"No," Galloway said. "I asked, and the answer is no. Somebody decided clowns like you two are worth their weight in gold. But thanks, Pick. I wish it was otherwise."
"This must be the place," a female voice announced from the doorway. "I can smell Marines in rut."
That's Veronica Wood! Lieutenant Macklin realized in surprise. Did she actually say what I think I heard?
Veronica crossed the room and kissed Lieutenant Easterbrook wetly, then moved to Jake Dillon and kissed him with a little more enthusiasm.
"Bobby gets kissed first," Veronica said, "because he's prettier than you are, even if you are my fianc‚."
"Jesus," Jake said.
What did she say? "Fianc‚"? Macklin thought.
Veronica glanced around the room and noticed Carolyn for the first time. She walked to her and kissed her. "The East Coast President of the Marine Corps Camp Followers. When was the last time?"
"The Hotel Willard, in Washington," Carolyn said.
"Right!" Veronica said, and then accused: "You promised to write, and you never did."
"I thought you were just being polite," Carolyn said.
"Don't be silly. We have to stick together. You going on the tour?"
"No, she is not," Jake Dillon said. "Which brings us to that. Enjoy tonight, children, because tomorrow it's all over. Tomorrow at 0900, we will all gather at the Hollywood Roosevelt, luggage all packed and ready to be loaded aboard the bus...."
"Bus?" Pick asked. "What bus?"
"The Greyhound Bus we have chartered to carry everybody on the tour," Dillon said, "on which, regrettably, there is no room for anyone else."
"You better find one more seat, Jake," Veronica said. "Or there will be two empty seats on your bus."
"Oh, Jesus," Jake said, but it was a surrender.
I can't believe this! Macklin thought. He's actually going to permit this woman to come on the tour-this, to use her own words, camp follower. There will be questions about her, questions that cannot avoid bringing embarrassment to The Corps.
"Jake, if it would pose prob-" Carolyn said, and was interrupted by Veronica.
"No problems, right, Jake?"
"No problems, Carolyn," Jake said. "But I don't know what the hell we're going to do about hotel rooms...."
"No problem," Veronica said. "I will stay in your room, and Charley and Carolyn will stay in mine."
"Yeah," Jake said. "That'd work."
She is absolutely shameless! Macklin thought. The both of them are absolutely shameless! If any of this comes out, how am I going to look? If there is a scandal, and that seems entirely possible, my promotion will go down the toilet.
"Major, Sir," Pick said. "Are there any more logistical problems to be solved? Or can we start thinking about how to enjoy our last night of freedom?"
"Just as long as you understand, Pick, that this is your last night of freedom, and that from now on you behave, that's all I have."
"In that case, I think the condemned man will start drinking his last meal," Pick said.
"Lieutenant," Lieutenant Easterbrook asked, "would it be all right if I used the phone? I'd sort of like to call somebody."
"Somebody named Dawn, no doubt," Veronica said. "Well, we now know how Bobby plans to spend the night, don't we?"
Lieutenant Easterbrook blushed, but no one seemed to notice.
[ONE]
Cryptographic Section
Supreme Headquarters, South West Pacific Ocean Area
Brisbane, Australia
1145 Hours 8 November 1942
Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, was in a particularly sour mood. He was just about finished decrypting a MAGIC intercept from Pearl Harbor. The bitch of it was that he was not very good at operating the cryptographic machine, and this meant that it took him a long, painstaking hour and a half to decode an intercept in which a verbose Japanese admiral was exhorting his underlings to do good-at great length... and this obviously had about as much bearing on the conduct of the war as the price of shoe polish in Peoria, Illinois.