Pickering looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then said, "That's another reason I'm not going to jump on another airplane right now. We're going to have to talk about this, Dick."
Fowler nodded.
"Thank you," Pickering said.
Fowler nodded again.
[TWO]
The Penthouse
The Foster San Franciscan Hotel
Nob Hill, San Francisco, California
125O 3 October 195O
The husband of the chairwoman of the board of the Foster Hotel Corporation entered the Foster San Franciscan Hotel through the rear basement door normally used to remove garbage from the kitchen, and rode to what for tax purposes was known as "The Foster Hotel Corporation Executive Conference Center" in the service elevator.
There was a large conference room in what everyone called "The Penthouse," and two or three times a year it was actually used for that purpose. With that exception, however, The Penthouse was de facto the Pickering's San Francisco apartment.
Pickering started to get out of his soiled uniform the moment he stepped off the service elevator into the kitchen. He was trailed by Hart—carrying their two Valv-Paks—and Fowler and Banning.
Pickering laid his tunic on the kitchen table and started to untie his necktie.
"George," he said, turning to Hart, "in this order. Get on the horn and call Travis Air Force Base and tell them we'll be delayed, probably overnight."
"Aye, aye, sir."
"Then get on the house phone and tell the manager we have urgent need of the valet, coffee, and some lunch. . . ."
"Aye, aye, sir."
"And then get on the horn to P&FE, ask for Mr. Kensington—he handles transportation—and tell him I said to get you on the next plane to Saint Louis. Call me at the Lafayette in Washington tomorrow night, and I'll let you know how long you can stay."
"No, sir," Hart said. "Thank you, sir, but no thank you."
"Excuse me?"
"I don't want to go home, sir. I can't."
"Why the hell not?"
"I wouldn't be able to look any of the families of my Marines in the face," Hart said.
"What the hell is he talking about, Ed?" Pickering demanded of Colonel Banning.
"I think I know, sir. This has to do with disestablishment of your company, right, George?"
"Yes, sir," Hart said.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Pickering demanded. "What company?"
"George had a company, an infantry company, in the Marine Corps reserve," Banning explained. "It was activated, and ordered to Camp Pendleton. As soon as they got there, it was disestablished—broken up—and the men sent as fillers to the 1st Provisional Marine Brigade."
"I trained those Marines, General," Hart said. "And I told their families I'd take care of them."
"Why did they do that?" Pickering asked. "Break up his company?"
"I have no goddamn idea," Hart said bitterly. "They just did it. The fucking Marine Corps!"
"Hey!" Banning said warningly, holding up his hand.
Captain Hart was silent, but he did not seem repentant.
"It was a cold-blooded, necessary decision," Banning explained. "The priority was finding bodies to fill up the Provisional Brigade, find them anywhere, and George showed up with two hundred bodies. It was as simple as that."
"I should have been with them in the Pusan Perimeter, and I should have been with them at Inchon," Hart said. "They were my Marines!"
"George," Senator Fowler said, "in the big picture, you're making a greater contribution, meeting a greater responsibility, in taking care of General Pickering than you would have been able to do—"
"Sir," Banning turned on him. "With respect—"
"Dick," Pickering interrupted, "you don't understand. George is a Marine officer. There is no greater responsibility, no greater privilege, than leading Marines in combat. I know exactly how George feels."
Fowler shrugged as if to say, I was only trying to help.
Pickering turned to Hart.
"You didn't mention any of this to me, George."
"You said it, General, I'm a Marine officer. Marine officers go where they're sent and do what they're told to do. But I am not going to go home to Saint Louis so long as my Marines are in Korea."
Pickering looked at him for a long moment.
"Okay, Captain," he said finally, "change of orders. After you call Travis and tell them we'll be delayed—"
"I'll take care of that, Fleming," Senator Fowler interrupted.
"Okay. Then—and this is an order, Captain—you will get on the horn and tell your wife to pack her bags because in the next hour or two a man named Kensington is going to call her and tell her on which flight she and your kids are booked for Washington."
"General—" Hart said, almost visibly trying to frame his objections.
"Captain Hart," Pickering interrupted him, "the proper response from a Marine officer who has been given an order is Aye, aye, sir,' which translates to mean 'I understand the order and will comply.' "
"Aye, aye, sir," Hart said.
"Good," Pickering said. "And just for the record, George, Fowler's right. What you do for me is important. I don't know what the hell I would do without you."
Hart nodded.
"General," Banning said, "have you got anything for General Howe? Or McCoy? I've got to get back to Pendleton."
Pickering thought it over.
"Message them Hart and I made it this far and will be in Washington tomorrow," he said. "But that's about it."
"Aye, aye, sir."
[THREE]
Fleming Pickering marched into the kitchen of The Penthouse, freshly bathed, shaven, and attired in a fresh white T-shirt, boxer shorts, and stockings held up with garters.
"I still don't have a uniform?" he demanded of Captain Hart. "For Christ's sake, all they had to do was press the spare in the suitcase."
"And I'm sure they're working on doing just that," Senator Fowler said. "Have a cup of coffee and calm down."
He pointed to a coffee service on the kitchen table.
"You've got a clean uniform," Pickering said accusingly, to Hart.
"I didn't have mine pressed," Hart said. "You said you wanted yours pressed."
"And he didn't spill his breakfast on his," Fowler offered helpfully.
Pickering glared at him.
"I've got to call Patricia," he said.
"I did that for you. She'll be at the Lafayette when you get there," Fowler said. And then he giggled as much as a dignified U.S. Senator can giggle. "I told her about. . . your uniform difficulties, and that you were in the shower."
That earned Senator Fowler another dirty look.
"Jesus, I've got to call Ernie Sage. I promised Ernie I would as soon as I got here."
He went to the wall-mounted telephone and connected with the long distance operator, who said she was required to ask, because of the increased telephone traffic caused by the war, if the call was necessary.
"Trust me, Operator, I know there's a war, and this call is necessary."
He then informed her that he wished to be connected, person-to-person, with Mr. Ernest Sage at the corporate headquarters of American Personal Pharmaceuticals in New York City.
The call to Mr. Sage's office went through quickly enough, but Mr. Sage's secretary, he was told, "was away from her desk" and her telephone was being answered by someone else, who, to the scarcely concealed amusement of Senator Fowler and Captain Hart, had never heard of Fleming Pickering, and more or less politely demanded to know what it was that he wished to speak to Mr. Sage about.
"I brushed my teeth with your lousy toothpaste and my teeth fell out," General Pickering replied. "Now, get him on the phone!"
The someone else answering the telephone decided that she had best at least relay the information that some furiously angry man was on the phone to Mr. Sage's secretary, who had accompanied her boss to an important staff meeting, and did so.