"Sir, McCoy was commissioned when the Corps really needed officers. And, frankly, he was one of those who never should have been commissioned."
"Why not?"
"Well, sir, he lacks the education to be an officer, and... this is difficult to put in words. He doesn't really under-stand the unwritten rules on which an officer has to pattern his life. He's not an officer and a gentleman, sir, if you take my meaning."
"Where are you going with this, Macklin?" Lieutenant Colonel Brewer asked.
"I know McCoy well enough to know he's living from payday to payday," Macklin said. "You know the type, sir. Not a thought for tomorrow..."
"Okay, so what?"
"My thought, sir, is that if McCoy doesn't take leave, he'll be paid for it when he's separated. Whether he leaves the Corps or reenlists, I'm sure that he'd like to have-is really going to need-a month's pay in cash."
Lieutenant Colonel Brewer considered that a moment, first thinking that it was really nice of Macklin to take an interest like this-he didn't seem the type-and then con-sidering what he was asking for.
The Eighth and Eye TWX had said McCoy "should be of-fered the opportunity" to take leave; it didn't make it an or-der.
"Sure," Lieutenant Colonel Brewer said. "Why not? Have him inventory supply rooms or something. There's always a need for someone to do that."
"And, sir, with your permission, I'd rather not have him get the idea we're doing this out of-what... pity, I sup-pose, is the word."
Brewer considered that for a moment.
"Handle it any way you think is best, Macklin."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. With your permission, sir?"
Lieutenant Colonel Brewer gave Major Macklin permis-sion to withdraw with a wave of his hand.
Major Macklin returned to his office quite pleased with himself.
"Killer" McCoy getting himself booted out of the Corps was really no surprise. The miserable little sono-fabitch should never have been a commissioned officer in the first place. I'm only surprised that he lasted as long as he did.
Having him assigned here, under my command, for his last twenty-nine days as an officer is really poetic justice. I owe him.
An officer and a gentleman would never have done to a brother officer what that lowlife sonofabitch did to me. And got away with.
Until now.
The next twenty-nine days are mine.
It's payback time.
As he sat behind his desk, he had another thought that pleased him even more:
If he does accept whatever stripes Eighth and Eye de-cides he's worth, and enlists-and how else can he earn a living?-maybe I could arrange to have him stationed here.
"Reduced to the ranks"? I'd like to see the sonofabitch busted down to PFC.
And with a little luck, I might be able to do just that.
[TWO]
THROUGH WITH ENGINES
NEAR CARMEL-BY-THE-SEA, CALIFORNIA
0905 7 JUNE 1950
As Trans-Global Airways' Flight 637, Luxury Service Be-tween Tokyo and San Francisco, began the last (Hon-olulu-San Francisco) leg of the flight, Fleming Pickering had taken advantage of Ken McCoy's visit to the rest room and had brought up the subject of Through with Engines to Ernie Sage McCoy.
Through with Engines was the more-or-less 110-acre Pickering estate near Carmel. On it was a large, rambling, but not pretentious single-floor house, designed to provide as many of its rooms as possible with the best possible view of the Pacific Ocean; a boathouse; a small airplane hangar; a small cottage for the servants; and a shedlike building used to house the grass-cutting-and other es-tate-machinery and a garage. None of the buildings-or the Pacific Ocean-could be seen from the road.
The land, which at the time had held only what was now the servants' cottage, and the boathouse had been the wed-ding gift of Andrew Foster to Patricia, his only daughter, on her marriage to Fleming Pickering. The house-actually the first four rooms thereof; eight more having been added, often one at a time, over the years-had been the gift of Commodore Pickering to his son Fleming on the occasion of his successful passage of the U.S. Coast Guard examina-tions leading to his licensing as an Any Ocean, Any Ton-nage Master Mariner, his right to call himself "Captain," and his first command of a Pacific and Far East vessel.
It was originally used by the young couple as somewhere they could go for privacy when he returned from a voyage, and Patricia had almost immediately pointed out that, since there were no street numbers, and nothing could be seen from the highway, the place needed a name. And it also needed signs to inform the public that it was private property.
Patricia Foster Pickering had thought her husband's sug-gestion of "Through with Engines"-the last signal sent from the bridge to the engine room at the conclusion of a voyage-was rather sweet, and told him she'd see about having a sign made.
"You'll need a lot more than one sign," he had replied. "I'll take care of it."
She thought that was sweet, too, until, on her next visit to what she thought of as "the beach place," she found the road lined at 100-yard intervals with four-by-eight-foot sheets of plywood signs, painted yellow, red, and black, reading:
PRIVATE PROPERTY
THROUGH WITH ENGINES
NO TRESPASSING UNDER
PENALTY OF LAW
They had come from the painting shop of the PandFE maintenance yard, and consequently were of the highest quality, and designed to resist the ravages of storms at sea.
It had taken Patricia most of Pick Pickering's life to get rid of the signs and replace them with something a little more attractive-and a little less belligerent. One original sign survived, and was now mounted on the wall of what she thought of as "the playroom," and her husband referred to as the "big bar," there being another-the "little bar"-by the swimming pool.
"Honey," Fleming Pickering said to Ernie McCoy, "I just had a great idea. Why don't you stay at Through with Engines while Ken's at Camp Pendleton?"
She smiled at him, but there was an I know what you`re up to look in her eyes.
What the hell, when in doubt, tell the truth.
"It won't be much fun for you down there, Ernie," he said. "And Patricia-if she's not already back-will want to see you."
And want to talk to you, especially after I tell her about Ken being reduced to the ranks. It's absolutely true that she thinks of you as a daughter. And talking to Patricia would certainly be a very good thing for you.
"I go where Ken goes," Ernie said. "But thanks, Uncle Flem."
"Have you considered that he might want you to stay at Through with Engines?"
"Pick said that, when he offered us Through with En-gines," Ernie said. "Your minds run in similar paths." She paused, then repeated, "I go where Ken goes."
"Okay."
"Pick's going to fly us down there in his airplane," she said. "We're going from the airport to Through with Engines, spend the night, fly down to San Diego-North Island Naval Air Station-in the morning. Pick will then run the girls out of his suite in the Coronado Beach, and turn it over to us."
"I didn't know," Pickering said.
"That way, I'll have a little time with Aunt Pat," Ernie went on. "The Pickerings are taking good care of the Mc-Coys, Uncle Flem, and the McCoys really appreciate it."
"Ernie, I don't know how much good I'll be able to do Ken," Pickering said.
"I know you'll do what you can," she said, and then Ken had appeared in the aisle and he changed the subject.