«That's very kind of you,» Jim said, meaning: «I'll use the gasoline to go see my girl.»
«Anytime you come through here…«
«That's really very nice of you. I'll take you up on it.»
The second philosophical conclusion Captain Weston reached while driving to the Greenbrier Hotel was that he was in love with Janice Hardison.
And from the way she had kissed him that morning when he left her, there was reason to suspect she didn't regard him as the ugly frog, either.
God, she is sweet!
A Navy petty officer of some rating Weston didn't recognize sat behind the desk in the Greenbrier lobby.
Probably desk clerk's mate, second class.
«Yes, sir?»
«Do I report in here? Or check in here?» Weston asked.
The petty officer was not amused.
«You got orders, Captain? Or dependents?»
Weston handed over his orders.
«You're to report to Commander Bolemann,» the petty officer said. «Up the stairs, take the right corridor, sign over the door says 'Commander Bolemann.' «
The name rang a bell. Dr. Kister had told him about Bolemann in the Officers' Club bar, with Janice.
And Kister also said Bolemann enjoys his reputation as one mean sonofabitch.
«Wonderful!»
Commander Bolemann wasn't in his office. A pharmacist's mate first class told Weston that «the doctor's in the dining room» and that he was sure he would like Weston to go there.
«You'll have no trouble finding him, Captain. Chubby fellow with a cane.»
Weston had no trouble finding Commander Bolemann. The Commander with the Medical Corps insignia on his sleeves was sitting alone at a table by the door to the bar. For him, chubby was an understatement. And the cane was equally easy to spot. The handle was brass, cast in the shape of a naked lady.
Commander Bolemann spoke first.
«You must be Weston,» he said as Jim approached the table.
«Yes, sir.»
«Kister said I should look for a guy who looks like a recruiting poster,» Bolemann said. «Are you a drinking man, Weston?»
«I have been known to take a wee nip from time to time, sir.»
«What I had in mind was a martini,» Bolemann said, pointed to a chair, and added: «Sit.»
«Thank you, sir.»
A waiter appeared.
«Two martinis,» Bolemann ordered. «Give the check to this gentleman.»
Weston chuckled. There was a row of ribbons on Bolemann's jacket, among them the Silver Star. He wondered how the doctor had come by that.
«Ordinarily, I give Naval Aviators a wide berth. They're dangerous,» Bolemann said.
«Yes, sir?»
«The reason I am not standing at the bar in there,» Bolemann said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bar, «is a Naval Aviator.»
«How is that, sir?»
«First this idiot proved that he shouldn't have been allowed to fly airplanes in the first place by running his Wildcat into the island on the Enterprise. Then he just sat there, wondering what to do next. When I went up on the wing root to suggest he exit the airplane, its fuel tanks chose that moment to explode. I spent a year learning to walk with a stiff leg, most of it where you just came from.»
«I saw the… cane,» Weston replied, deciding just in time that Bolemann would prefer that to a reference to his Silver Star.
«I need that to beat off all the women with uncontrollable urges for my body,» Bolemann said. «Anyway, when I was in Philadelphia, I got to be pals with Kister. I started out as one of his lunatics, of course, but finally he recognized me as a fellow psychiatrist. When they finally turned me loose, they sent me here. Any other questions?»
«No, sir.»
«And Kister told me all about you, and I mean all about you, including the unwarranted—or did he say 'unwanted'?—attention you have been paying his favorite nurse, so we won't have to waste any time on that. Unless you
want
to tell me about your heroic service in the Philippines?»
«We ate a lot of pineapples,» Weston said. «That what you have in mind?»
«Ah, here's the booze,» Bolemann said as the waiter approached the table.
After the waiter had left their drinks on the table, Bolemann lifted his glass. «Welcome to the Greenbrier, Weston.»
«Thank you, sir.»
They touched glasses and Weston took a sip. Almost immediately, he could feel the alcohol. «Very nice,» he said.
«What did you drink in the Philippines?»
«We made our own beer. It was pretty bad, but not as bad as the rum we made.»
«And did all the pineapples, the bad beer, and the even worse rum cause you to have nightmares, then or since you came home?»
Weston suddenly understood that the question was not idle or bantering.
«No,» he said seriously. «Over there, I used to dream about food. But no nightmares. There or here.»
«They're nothing to be embarrassed about,» Bolemann said. «I've been blown off the wing root of that goddamned Wildcat at least a hundred times, sometimes twice a night.»
«Nothing like that, sir,» Weston said.
Bolemann looked at him intently for a long moment.
«While you are here, you will be counseled, once a week,» he said. «You just had Counseling Session Number One. Your other duties will consist of eating and availing yourself of healthy recreational activities. These run the gamut from A to B, but do not include trying to make out with either the waitresses or the wives of your fellow returned heroes. The food is free. So are the golf, swimming, hiking, et cetera. The booze you have to pay for yourself.»
«What's the pass system?»
«Where do you want to go?» Bolemann asked, and then, before Weston had time to reply, went on: «You've got it bad for Kister's nurse, do you?»
«That sums it up nicely, sir.»
«We can probably work something out,» Commander Bolemann said, and raised his martini glass again. «To Love, Captain Weston.»
«I'll drink to that,» Jim Weston said.
note 29
The Foster Lafayette Hotel
Washington, D.C.
1945 24 February 1943
In Washington, Senator Richardson K. Fowler (R.-Cal.) made his residence in a six-room corner suite on the eighth floor of the Foster Lafayette Hotel, half of whose windows offered an unimpeded view of the White House across Pennsylvania Avenue.
Living in the Foster Lafayette provided benefits he wasn't aware of before he moved in. Twenty-four-hour-a-day room service, for one thing. Sneaking people into the suite for confidential chats, for another.
Thus, when the Foster Lafayette's doorman alerted Fred, Fowler's butler, that the Director of the Office of Strategic Services had arrived downstairs, Fred had the door to Senator Fowler's apartment open when Donovan stepped off the elevator.
Fred had also been instructed by Senator Fowler to serve the liquor at a glacially slow pace.
«Good evening, Mr. Donovan,» Fred said. «Won't you please come in, sir? The Senator and the General are in the library.» He took Donovan's hat and topcoat and, carrying them in his arm, led Donovan to the library.