"You want to tell me what that's all about?" Pick asked.
"He's a mean sonofabitch when he's sober," Dillon said. "Drunk, he's worse. The gunnies are going to keep him sober while the President or the Secretary of the Navy-just who is still up in the air-hangs The Medal around his neck. And while you all are out selling war bonds."
"Major, did you hear what he did on Bloody Ridge?" Dunn asked. "He's one hell of a Marine."
"I also heard what he did in a whorehouse in San Diego," Dillon replied. "The only reason he's not on his way to Portsmouth Naval Prison is because of what he did on Bloody Ridge." He paused for a moment, catching each of their eyes in turn., as he said: "Let me tell both of you something: A smart Marine officer knows when to look the other way when good Marine sergeants, like those two, deal with a problem. You understand what I'm saying?"
"I get the picture," Pickering said.
"Good," Dillon said. "I really hope you do. I know Charley would have. Whether you like it or not, Pick, you're going to have to start behaving like a Marine officer; flying airplanes isn't all The Corps expects you to do."
He raised his hand over his shoulder and made a come on over gesture to the second lieutenant sitting in the chrome and plastic chair across the terminal.
"Surprise two," Dillon said.
Pick and Dunn turned to see Second Lieutenant Robert F. Easter-brook, USMCR, standing up and then walking over to them.
"I'll be damned," Bill Dunn said. "What do you call that, a three-day wonder?"
"Good morning, Sirs," the Easterbunny said.
My God, Pick thought, he's actually blushing.
"Where's your camera, Easterbunny?"' Dunn asked. "You have to have a camera around somewhere."
"Shit," the Easterbunny said, blushing even redder as he ran back to where he'd been sitting and retrieved a 35mm Leica from under the seat. He returned looking sheepish.
"Lieutenant Easterbrook is one more responsibility of yours, Lieutenant Pickering," Jake said. "Since you so graciously excused Captain Galloway from this detail."
"What do I do with him?"
"The Director of Public Affairs, a brigadier general named J. J. Stewart whom you will find at Eighth and I, is not only determined to have a look at this most recent addition to the officer corps, but he's going to pin a medal on him. You will work that into your busy schedule, too. After that, Easterbrook, you have until Thursday, 5 November, to make your way back out here."
"Aye, aye, Sir," the Easterbunny said.
"The same applies to you two," Jake said. "Today is Tuesday the twenty-seventh. I want you in Los Angeles a week from Thursday. The tour starts Friday. And you will be on it."
"This officer, too, Sir?" Dunn asked.
"For a day or two. Then he's going to start training combat correspondents."
"Hey, good for you, Easterbunny," Pick said.
"In the meantime, I don't want him to pick up any bad habits," Dillon said.
"We won't let him out of our sight until we send him home to his mommy, will we, Lieutenant Dunn?" Pick replied.
"That's what I'm afraid of."
Miss Dorothy Northcutt, a stewardess for two of her twenty-eight years, thought the two young Marine officers in 9B and 9C were just adorable. Neither of them looked old enough to be out of school, much less Marine officers.
She did the approved stewardess squat in the aisle.
"Well, the Marines seem to have just about taken over this flight, haven't they?" she asked.
"I think they have just come back from the war," the blond one said, indicating the three sergeants in 8A, -B, and -C. "There's something about their eyes..."
Meaning, of course, Miss Northcutt concluded, that you are on your way to the war. And you're so young!
"Can I get you anything before we serve breakfast?"
"Do you think I could have a little gin in a glass of orange juice?" the blond one asked. When he saw the look on Miss Northcutt's face, he added, "My mother always gave me that when my tummy felt a little funny."
"You don't feel well?"
"I'll be all right," he said bravely. "It's a little bumpy up here."
"But you're wearing wings. Aren't you a pilot?"
"In training," Dunn said. "I've never flown on one of these before."
"I'll get you one," she said, and looked at Second Lieutenant Easter-brook.
"Could I have the same thing, please?"
Ignoring the Marine officer in 9A (who was obviously older-and even more obviously trying to look down her blouse while she was squatting in the aisle), Miss Northcutt stood up and walked forward to fetch orange juice and gin.
"This isn't your day, Bill," Pickering said, leaning across the aisle. "We're making a fuel stop at Kansas City; I'll bet they change crews there."
"With a little bit of luck, we'll hit some bad weather, or blow a jug or something, and get stranded overnight," Dunn replied. "Think positive, Pickering! Butt out!"
[THREE]
The Foster Lafayette Hotel
Washington, D.C.
1300 Hours 28 October 1942
Senator Richardson S. Fowler (R., Cal.) knocked on the door of the suite adjacent to his.
"Come!" a familiar voice called, and he pushed the door open.
Three young men, in their underwear, were seated around a room-service table eating steak and eggs and french fried potatoes. When one of them stood up and smiled, Senator Fowler had trouble finding his voice.
"Well, Pick," he said finally, trying and not quite succeeding to attain the jocular tone he wanted, "home, I see, is the sailor...."
"Uncle Dick..." Pick said, and approached him with his hand extended. But that gesture turned into an embrace.
"Uncle Dick, sailors are those guys in the round white hats and the pants with all the buttons on the fly. We are Marines."
The other two young men looked at them in curiosity.