"Harris came in my office when I first got here, told me to give him my hand, and when I did he wrote C-A-P-T on the palm. Then he said, ‘Every time you answer your phone, Captain Stecker, read your hand before you speak.’ He said he was getting tired of explaining to people that I was retarded."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Harris is one of the good guys. We were in France together. In Domingo, too. Nicaragua. We go back a long way. I had a hell of a time getting that stuff off my hand. It’s really indelible."
"You sure you’re doing this because you think I’d make a passable officer?"
"Or what?"
"Because we’re friends."
"Thatpisses me off," Stecker snapped.
"Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. But, Jesus, this came right out of the goddamned blue!"
"You’ll be able to handle it, Joe," Stecker said. Maybe as an ordnance officer. Just maybe. Maybe they’ll assign me here, or at Quantico. Someplace in the States, some rear area. I know weapons, at least. I could earn my keep that way.
"When is all this going to happen?"
"We’ll go back to the office. You’ll see Harris. If you don’t fuck that up, you’ll go into ‘Diego to the Navy Hospital and take what they call a ‘pre-commissioning physical.’ That’ll take the rest of the day. In the meantime, we’ll get all the paperwork typed up, there’s a lot of it. Jesus... you do have your records?"
"In the bag."
"OK. Come back to the office tomorrow morning, we’ll get you discharged. And then you go over to the Officers’ Sales Store and get your uniforms. Colonel Harris can swear you in after lunch."
"That quick?"
"That quick."
"Where will I be assigned?"
"Here. To work for me, stupid. Why do you think I went to all this trouble?"
"What will I be doing?"
"You ever hear of the Raiders?"
"No. What the hell is that?"
"American commandos. Long story. Nutty story. No time to tell you all about them now. But they’ve been authorized to arm themselves any way they want to. I need somebody to handle that for me, to get them whatever they want. You."
(Four)
Headquarters, 2ndJoint Training Force
Camp Elliott, California
1205 Hours 2 February 1942
One of the two telephones on Captain Jack NMI Stecker’s desk rang, and he answered it on the second ring, and correctly:
"G-3 Special Planning, Captain Stecker speaking, Sir."
"Stecker, this is Captain Kelso."
There was a certain tone of superiority in Captain Kelso’s voice. Stecker knew what was behind that. Although Captain Kelso was in fact outranked by Captain Stecker, by date of rank, he could not put out of his mind that Captain Stecker was a Mustang, an officer commissioned from the ranks. As an Annapolis man himself, Kelso considered that he was socially superior to a man who had served in the ranks. This opinion was buttressed by his duty assignment: he was aide-de-camp to the Commanding General, 2ndJoint Training Force.
What Captain Kelso did not know was that the Commanding General of the 2ndJoint Training Force had discussed him with Captain Stecker over a beer in the General’s kitchen when Captain Stecker had first reported aboard.
"My aide may give you some trouble, Jack," the General had said. He and Stecker had been in Santo Domingo, Nicaragua, and France together. "He’s an arrogant little prick, thinks he’s salty as hell. Efficient as hell, too, to give the devil his due, which is why I keep him. But he’s capable of being a flaming pain in the ass. If he does give you any trouble, let me know, and I’ll walk all over him."
"General, I’ve had some experience with young captains who thought they were salty," Stecker had replied dryly, "going way back."
"Your commanding general, Captain, is sure you are not referring to anyone in this kitchen," the General replied, laughing.
"Don’t be too sure, General," Stecker chuckled.
"I have never known a master gunnery sergeant who couldn’t handle a captain," the General said. "I don’t know why I brought that up."
"I appreciate it," Stecker said. "But don’t worry about it."
"And how may I be of service to the General’s aide-de-camp, Captain Kelso?" Stecker said, oozing enough sarcastically insincere charm to penetrate even Captain Kelso’s self-assurance and cause him to become just a little wary. Kelso recalled at that moment that the General habitually addressed Captain Stecker by his first name.
"There’s a Navy captain, from the Secretary of the Navy’s office, on his way to see you . . ." He paused just perceptibly, and added, "Jack."
"Oh? Who is he? What’s he want?"
"His name is Pickering, and I don’t know what he wants. He just walked in out of the blue and asked for the General; and when I told him the General wasn’t available, he asked for you. I’ve never seen a set of orders like his."
Now Stecker was curious.
"What about his orders?"
"They say that he is authorized to proceed, on a Four-A priority, wherever he deems necessary to travel in order to perform the mission assigned to him by the Secretary of the Navy, and that all questions concerning his duties will be referred to the office of the Secretary of the Navy."
"That’s goddamned unusual," Jack Stecker thought aloud. "I wonder what the hell he wants with me?"
"I have no idea. But I’m sure the General would be interested in knowing, too."
"What did you say his name was?"
"Pickering."
Stecker’s office door opened and his sergeant stuck his head inside.
"Sir, there’s a Captain Pickering to see you, a Navy captain."
"He’s here," Stecker said, and hung the telephone up. He got to his feet, checked the knot of his field scarf as an automatic reflex action, and then said, "Ask the Captain to come in, please."
Captain Fleming Pickering, USNR, walked into the office.
"Good afternoon, Sir," Stecker said. "Sir, I’m Captain Stecker, G-3 Special Planning."
Pickering looked at him, smiled, and then turned and closed the door in the Sergeant’s face. Then he turned again and faced Stecker.
"Hello, Dutch," he said. "How the hell are you?"
"Sir, the Captain has the advantage on me."
"I always have had, Dutch. Smarter, better looking . . . You really don’t recognize me, do you?" Pickering laughed.
"No, Sir."
"I would have recognized you. You’re a little balder, and a little heavier, but I would have known you. The name Pickering means nothing to you?"
"No, Sir."
"I’m crushed," Pickering said. "Try Belleau Wood."
After a moment, Stecker said, "I’ll be damned. Flem Pickering, right? California? Corporal? You took two eight-millimeter rounds, one in each leg, and all they did was scratch you?"
"I don’t think ‘scratch’ is the right word," Pickering protested. "I spent two weeks in the hospital when that happened."
"You went into the Navy? Back to college, and then into the Navy? Is that what happened?"
"I just came into the Navy," Pickering said.
"Am I allowed to ask what’s going on? You awed the general’s aide with your orders, but they didn’t explain much."