At the time he met Colonel DePress, Hart was devoutly following the ad-vice of his father-Police Captain Karl J. Hart-that when you're involved in something you don't really understand, keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth shut. Thus, when Colonel DePress came into General Pickering's hospi-tal room, he thought like a cop, and not like a Marine Corps boot promoted far beyond his capabilities to sergeant. And as a cop, trained to read people, he recognized that DePress and Pickering were kindred souls, and that they them-selves were both aware of their kinship.
When he came to Australia with General Pickering, he was not surprised that Colonel DePress became one of the very small group of people uncon-nected with General Pickering's mission who were welcome at Water Lily Cottage.
Not much surprised George F. Hart anymore. Not even when he found him-self in a rubber boat with Killer McCoy, paddling ashore onto the Japanese-held island of Buka, nor the gold bars on his collar when the other boots in his platoon at Parris Island were still hoping to make PFC.
He was well aware that his promotion had to do with facilitating General Pickering's mission, and not with his being some kind of super Marine. He was beginning to understand his role as a Marine: In addition to the bodyguard role, it was to make himself as useful as he could to General Pickering. And he liked this role. He had some time ago realized that Pickering was special, and work-ing for him a privilege.
More than that: General Pickering was the only man in his life he admired as much as his father... perhaps more than his father, as disloyal as this might sound.
Pickering drove the Studebaker President past the boarded-up racetrack, turned right, and two blocks beyond turned off the street onto the clamshell-paved driveway of Water Lily Cottage.
A Chevrolet pickup truck with Royal Australian Navy markings was among the vehicles pulled nose-in against the porch of Water Lily Cottage. It belonged to Lieutenant Commander Eric A. Feldt, RAN.
Pickering had stopped the Studebaker, pulled on the parking brake, and was halfway up the steps of Water Lily Cottage before Lieutenant Hart could open his door.
When Pickering walked into the room, Feldt and Hon were comfortably sprawled on the rattan furniture with which the cottage was furnished. Hon started to get to his feet, but Pickering waved him back.
"I knew you wouldn't mind if we started without you, Pickering, old sod," Feldt said, raising a glass dark with whiskey. "Particularly since I am the bearer of bad tidings."
"No sub?" Pickering asked, walking to a table holding a dozen or more bottles of liquor.
"Three weeks is the best I could do," Feldt said, "even begging on my knees. Sorry."
"Well, thanks for trying," Pickering said.- "It was a long shot anyway."
He picked up a bottle of Famous Grouse scotch whiskey and poured an inch and a half into a glass. Then he turned to Hart.
"You want one of these, George?" he asked.
"No, thank you, Sir. I've got the duty tonight."
"That may be a blessing in disguise," Pickering said thoughtfully, obvi-ously referring to the unavailability of an Australian submarine. "Nimitz may be able to loan us the Narwhal."
"The what?"
"The Navy has two transport submarines. Underwater freighters, so to speak. One of them is the Narwhal; I don't know what they call the other one. If we can have it, we could take Fertig a lot more than we could carry on a regular sub."
"You think he'll be willing?" Feldt asked.
"We'll soon find out," Pickering said. "Pluto, send Nimitz a Special Channel Personal, saying we need the Narwhal, and where should we plan on rendezvousing with her?" He paused and added, thinking aloud, "Which means we'll probably have to fly them to Espiritu Santo; it would take too much time to bring the Narwhal here; which in turn means I'm going to have to fight the Army Air Corps for several tons of space on their transports."
Feldt nodded.
"Yes, Sir," Major Hon said. "Would you like to see the message before it goes out?"
"I have a profound faith in your spelling, Pluto," Pickering said, smiling, "but you better send an information copy to Haughton. I'm sure there are thirty admirals on CINCPAC's staff, with twice as many good reasons why CINC-PAC should not let us have the Narwhal. I may have to go to Frank Knox about this, and Haughton should have forewarning."
"Yes, Sir," Pluto said. "Haughton but not Rickabee?"
"Ask Haughton to advise Rickabee," Pickering said, and then asked, "Where are they?"
Major Hon pointed to the rear of the cottage.
Pickering took a healthy swallow of the whiskey, then set the glass down beside a row of empty glasses. He then immediately picked it and the empties up with the fingers of one hand. With the other, he grabbed the bottle of Fa-mous Grouse by the neck.
He walked out of the living room and down the corridor to a closed door, and knocked on it with the whiskey bottle.
"Open up!" he ordered.
The door was opened by Staff Sergeant Steve Koffler.
"It's the cocktail hour," Pickering said. "Didn't anyone notice?"
He handed the Famous Grouse to Koffler, and walked to a table in the middle of the room and set the glasses on it. Lieutenant Colonel Jack (NMI) Stecker and First Lieutenant Kenneth R. McCoy were sitting at the table, their uniforms protected by flower-patterned aprons, obviously borrowed from the kitchen. The table held three small rifles, technically U.S. Carbines, Caliber.30, Ml, broken down. Pickering saw their trigger group assemblies were also in pieces.
"When you can part with that adorable apron, Jack," Pickering said, "stick these in your pocket."
He tossed a small cellophane-covered package onto the table. It contained two silver eagles, the insignia of a colonel.
"That's a little premature, isn't it?" Lieutenant Colonel Stecker asked, a little uncomfortably.
"The Secretary of the Navy told me, I told General MacArthur; and to-morrow morning at oh eight forty-five, with suitable ceremony, El Supremo will pin those on you."
Stecker shook his head.
"That really wasn't necessary," Stecker said.
"There will be a photographer," Pickering went on. "Elly will soon have a picture of her husband the Colonel, with El Supremo beaming at him, with which to dazzle her neighbors."
Elly was Mrs. Jack (NMI) Stecker.
"I suppose," Colonel Stecker said, reaching for the bottle of whiskey, "that it would be bad manners if I were to say I wish to hell the General had minded his own business?"
"I suppose you've heard the bad news? No Aussie sub?" Pickering asked.
"Feldt told us," Stecker said. He held the bottle over one of the glasses and asked with a gesture if Lieutenant McCoy wanted him to pour.
McCoy held up fingers, indicating that he wanted about an inch and a half.
"Thank you, Sir," he said.
"And will Mrs. Koffler banish you from the marriage bed if you come home smelling of this?" Stecker asked Sergeant Koffler.