“Jesus Christ!” Joe said.
She smiled. “What was going on?”
“I sold him my old uniforms,” Joe said.
“You look very nice in your new one,” Barbara Cotter said, smiling. “Are congratulations in order?”
“I haven’t been sworn in yet,” he said.
“But you did pass the Wassermann,” Barbara said. She had suspected this Adonis could blush when she had told him he looked nice in his uniform; now there was inarguable proof. His face was flushed.
This isn’t the first time, she thought. He blushed when I caught him looking down my whites. Adonis is actually shy!
“Yeah, I did that, all right,” Joe said. And then he took the chance: “Can I offer you a ride? I’ve got a borrowed car.”
Ensign Barbara Cotter hesitated, not about taking the ride, but because she had her own car.
I don’t want to start off lying to this man. Isn’t that strange?
“I’ve got a car,” she said. “I’m on my way to lunch. Have you eaten?”
“No.”
“Follow me over to the hospital, then,” she said. “The food’s not bad.”
Joe looked at his watch. There was time.
“Sure,” he said.
“The blue Plymouth coupe,” she said, and pointed down the line of cars.
With a little bit of luck, Lieutenant Hazel Gower, USN, will be having her lunch when I walk into the officers’ section of the hospital mess with this Wassermann-negative Adonis. Is that why I went up to him in the parking lot? To get at dear old Hazel?
As she put her key in the ignition of her Plymouth, she understood that while zinging Lieutenant Gower might be nice, it was not the reason her heart had jumped when she saw Joe Howard standing by the open trunk of the Ford.
“Oh, God!” she muttered, as she pushed the starter button. “What is this?”
(Seven)
Office of the Chief of Staff
Headquarters, 2nd Joint Training Force
San Diego, California
1445 Hours 3 February 1942
“Congratulations, Lieutenant Howard,” Colonel Lewis T. “Lucky Lew” Harris said, offering his hand to Joe Howard. “You are now a Marine officer. I have every confidence that you will bring credit to the uniform you’re wearing, and to the Corps. Good luck to you!”
“Thank you, Sir,” Joe said.
“Will you wait outside a moment, please?” Harris said. “I’d like a word with Captain Stecker.”
“Yes, Sir,” Joe said, and did an about-face and marched out of Harris’s office.
“That one, I think, will do all right,” Harris said to Stecker. “But, frankly, I’m a little uncomfortable about not sending him to Quantico for Basic School.”
“Sir, he’s not going to get a platoon, or even go to the Division—”
“Not today, anyway,” Harris said, dryly. “I’ve already read today’s teletypes from Washington reassigning our officers. But what about tomorrow?”
“Until he appears on a list of officers who have completed Basic School, he’s not eligible for assignment with troops,” Stecker said. “And as long as we ‘forget’ to request a space for him at Quantico, he won’t be ordered there. In the meantime, we can put him to work.”
“And if some zealous paper pusher sends a TWX asking why we haven’t requested a Basic School slot for Lieutenant Howard, what do we say?”
“When all else fails, tell the truth,” Stecker said. “We tell them that Howard, a small-arms expert, has been charged with getting the 2nd Raider Battalion the weaponry they want. And, that since this is a matter of the highest priority, according not only to the Commandant, but to the Secretary of the Navy as well, we thought this assignment was more in the best interests of the Corps than sending him to Quantico.”
Lucky Lew Harris still looked doubtful.
“Colonel,” Stecker said, “I talked to Captain Pickering about him. He said if anybody gave us any trouble, to call him. He made it pretty plain to me that what the Secretary of the Navy wants is to give the Raider Battalions what the President wants them to have…which is anything they want.”
“Just between you and me, Jack, I don’t like the whole idea of these so-called Raider Battalions a damn bit.”
“I don’t really know how I feel,” Stecker said. “Evans Carlson is a hell of a Marine.”
“He used to be, anyway,” Harris said. “But it’s a moot point, Jack, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Sir, it is.”
“And your pal Captain Pickering makes me nervous, frankly. Can he be trusted?”
There was a moment’s hesitation before Stecker answered. “He can be trusted to do what the Secretary tells him to do. And beyond that, I think he still thinks like a Marine.”
“What did he tell you about me? About the General?” Harris asked.
“Sir?”
“I suppose what I’m asking is whether he wants reports from you directly.”
“Sir, he told me to feel free to call him if I saw any problems coming up. But I wouldn’t do that without checking with you.”
“No, of course you wouldn’t,” Harris said. “No offense intended. Christ, Jack, why do things get so complicated?”
“It wouldn’t be the Corps, Sir, if there wasn’t some moron putting his two cents in and getting in the way of simple riflemen trying to do their job,” Stecker said.
Harris chuckled.
“Keep Carlson happy, Jack,” he said. “Let me know if I can help.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
Lieutenant Joe Howard was sitting on a battered, chrome-framed, plastic-upholstered couch in Colonel Harris’s outer office, thumbing through a copy of Collier’s. He got to his feet when Stecker came out of Harris’s office.
“What we’ll do now, Lieutenant,” Stecker said, “is take you out to the 2nd Raider Battalion and introduce you to Colonel Carlson, his S-4, and Captain Roosevelt. Then we’ll get you settled in a BOQ. And then, I thought, tonight we’ll celebrate your bar, wash it down, and maybe get a steak, at the officers’ club.”
Howard looked a little uncomfortable.
“Something wrong with that?”
“Sir, I’ve got sort of a date tonight.”
“Oh?”
“I met a nurse at the hospital,” Joe said. “I asked her to supper.”
“Well, hell, I wouldn’t want to interfere with that,” Stecker said. Then he smiled, dug in his pocket, and came out with a key. “Here,” he said, handing it to Howard.
“What is this, Captain?” Joe asked, confused. Stecker had handed him a hotel key from the Coronado Beach Hotel.
“We Mustangs have to stick together,” Stecker said, as they walked down the corridor toward the front door. “Captain Fleming Pickering, USNR, gave that to me. We served together in France in the first war. I was a buck sergeant, and he was a corporal. He just came in the Navy, as a captain.”
Howard was visibly confused.
“Between wars, Pickering is in the shipping business. Specifically, Pacific & Far Eastern Shipping. He owns it. And they keep a suite at the Coronado Beach Hotel, permanently, to put up their officers who are in port. If you want to impress the nurse, take her out there. Just show that key to the maitre d’, and he’ll give you a table. Without a reservation, I mean.”
“And I can use it?”
“I think Captain Pickering would be delighted to have you use it, under the circumstances,” Stecker said. “And who knows, Joe, you might get lucky. The suite has four bedrooms. Odds are, one of them ought to be empty.”
“She’s not that kind of a girl,” Joe Howard said.
“The one thing I’ve learned about women, Joe, over the years,” Stecker laughed, “is that you never can tell about women.”
“I said she’s a nice girl,” Joe Howard said sharply. “From Philadelphia. She’s even got a college degree.”
“I’m sure she is,” Stecker said.
(Eight)
The Coronado Beach Hotel
San Diego, California
1930 Hours 3 February 1942
There was a long line of people waiting to get into the main dining room. The line overflowed the bank of upholstered benches intended for those waiting for a table.
“We’re never going to get in here,” Ensign Barbara Cotter said to Lieutenant Joe Howard.
“Trust me,” Joe said, with far more confidence than he felt. He put his hand on her arm and marched her past the sitting and standing people waiting to get in. Some of them, senior officers, many with their wives, looked at them either curiously or unpleasantly.
The maitre d’, in his good time, raised his eyes from his list of reservations.
“Your name, Sir?”
Joe showed him the hotel key.
The maitre d’s eyebrows rose.
“Certainly, Sir, will you come with me, please?”
The enormous, old fashioned, high-ceilinged dining room was almost full, but here and there there were empty tables with Reserved signs mounted on brass stands. The maitre d’ led them to a table by a wide window overlooking the water. The window was now covered by a heavy black curtain.
“Your waiter will be here shortly, Sir,” the maitre d’ said, as he held Barbara’s chair for her. “Enjoy your meal.”
“What did you show him?” Barbara asked.
He handed her the key.
“I don’t know what you think I am, or who you are—” Barbara flared, and started to get to her feet. She saw the horrified look on his face, and stopped.
“Captain Stecker loaned me that,” Joe said. “He said to show it to the headwaiter, and it would get us a table.”
“Who is Captain Stecker?” Barbara asked, partially mollified.
Why am I so furious? So far, he hasn’t even looked directly at me, much less tried to put his hands on me.
“He’s my boss, the one that got me the commission,” Joe said, and then blurted, “I’m not trying to get you into a hotel room or anything like that.”
“I certainly hope not,” she said.
“All the key is for is so we could get a table,” Joe said.
“You said that,” she said. “He lives here, or something?”
“No. The key…this is an involved story….”
“I’m fascinated,” she said.
He told her what Stecker had told him. Their eyes met, and in them she saw that he was telling the truth.
And now that’s over, she sighed inwardly. The key has been explained, and I believe he did not get himself a room here, confident that I would jump in bed with him. So why do I feel a little let down? He almost sounds as if he doesn’t want to go to bed with me. My God, this is an insane situation!
“I’m sorry,” he concluded.
“Why should you be sorry?”
“Because you thought—”
“Let’s just let it drop, OK?”
“OK,” he said, with enormous relief. “What would you like to drink? I mean, do you drink?”
“Scotch,” she said.
“Scotch?” he asked, in disbelief.
“Something wrong with Scotch?”
“I didn’t think girls drank Scotch.”
“Girls drink gin fizzes and brandy Alexanders, right? Things like that? And then they get sick to their stomachs. Well, this girl learned that in college, and this girl drinks Scotch. If that’s all right with you.”
My God, why did I snap at him like that? What the hell is wrong with me?
“Sorry,” he said.
“Stop saying you’re sorry!”
“Good evening,” a waiter said. “May I get you something from the bar?”
“Scotch,” Joe said. “Scotch and soda. Two of them.”
“I’m very sorry, Sir, we’re out of Scotch.”
Barbara looked at Joe, and she saw that he was looking at her, and that his lips and his eyes were curled in laughter he was afraid to let out.
“That figures,” Barbara said, and then she laughed; then, without thinking about it, she reached out and touched his hand with hers. But instantly withdrew it.
“What now?” Joe asked.
“Do you have any rye whiskey?” Barbara asked the waiter.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Rye and ginger ale, please,” Barbara said.
“Two, please,” Joe said.
He handed them menus and left.
They read the menu. Joe was astonished at the prices; Barbara was horrified.
He’s only a first lieutenant. He can’t afford this. I wonder how he would react if I suggested we go Dutch treat?
“I’m not really very hungry,” she said. “I think I’ll just have a salad.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said.
“I certainly hope not,” she said. “What am I thinking?”
“You’re thinking the prices are crazy.”
“They are,” she said.
“Two big things have happened in my life in the last forty-eight hours. And I happen to have a lot of money. Let me splurge. Please.”
“What two big things?”
“Look at my shoulders,” Joe said. “A year ago, I was a buck sergeant.”
“Being an officer is important to you, isn’t it?”
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to hack it,” he said.
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “I’m just not sure, is all.”
As if with a mind of its own, her hand touched his again, and was again instantly withdrawn.
“What was the other thing?” she asked, idly curious.
“You,” he said.
Her eyes moved to his, and then away.
My God, he means that. And I’m blushing!
“I wish you hadn’t said that,” she said.
“Why?”
“It makes me uncomfortable.”
“Sorry.”
“Stop saying you’re sorry!”
The waiter appeared with a silver ice bucket on a stand. There was a towel-wrapped bottle in the cooler.
“We didn’t order any wine,” Joe said.
The waiter disappeared without a word.
“What’s that all about?” Barbara asked.
Joe shrugged.
The waiter reappeared, this time carrying a silver ice bucket, tongs, two glasses, and a soda-water siphon.
“What’s all this?” Barbara demanded.
“I wasn’t aware before, Sir, that you’re Pacific & Far Eastern,” the waiter said, almost in a whisper. “The cooler contains Scotch, Sir. From the P&FE cellar. You won’t mind mixing your own? And please keep the towel in place. Because of the other guests.”
And he disappeared again.
“Do you understand what he said?” Barbara asked.
Joe shook his head, then took the bottle from the cooler. He unwrapped the towel, then closed it again.
“Scotch,” he said. “Something called Old Grouse.”
“Let me see,” Barbara said, and he handed her the towel-wrapped bottle.
“It’s Scotch, all right,” she said. “Good Scotch.”
“Where did it come from?” Joe asked.
“You ever hear the expression ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth’?”
He took the bottle from her, and made a drink for her. It was, to judge by the color, far stronger than Barbara would have preferred, but she didn’t want to make a fuss.
After the first couple of sips, I’ll dilute it with more soda.
She waited until he had fixed his own drink, then touched her glass to his.
“Congratulations on your promotion,” she said.
“To you and me,” he said.
She met his eyes for a moment, then echoed him.
“To you and me,” she said.
The waiter took his sweet time coming back for their order. She had just about finished her second drink by the time he did. She had really only wanted one, and that to be sociable. The second drink
was as dark as the first, but it didn’t seem to taste as strong.
She indulged him and gave up the idea of having just a salad, telling herself that she would make it up to him somehow. She ordered a shrimp cocktail, a New York strip, and asparagus.
“And for a wine, may I suggest a very nice Cabernet Sauvignon? It’s Mr. and Mrs. Pickering’s favorite, I might add.”
“Well, if it’s good enough for them…”
“I think you’ll like it, Sir. It’s made right here in California.”
I will have just one sip of the wine. The last thing I can afford to do is get tight.
She looked down at her glass and saw that he had refilled it.
I don’t need that. I just won’t drink it.
“What’s a New York strip?” Joe asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever had one.”
The admission took Barbara by surprise.
He really doesn’t know, which is not surprising. Since the day before yesterday he was a Marine sergeant, a prewar Marine sergeant, someone my father would claim was in the Marines because he couldn’t find a job, and because the Marines offered three square meals a day and a place to sleep. Regular Marine enlisted men have few of what my father would call the social graces. And no social graces came to Joe miraculously when he put on that officer’s uniform. Ordinarily, God forgive me, I am uncomfortable around the enlisted men. Why is it different with this man?
“You know a T-bone?” she asked, and he nodded. “The big piece. They cut the bone out of T-bone. The little piece is a filet mignon, and the big piece is a New York strip.”
“I came in the Corps when I was seventeen,” Joe said, and she took his meaning: that she had a social background and he didn’t; and that was why he didn’t know what a New York strip was. New York strip was not common fare for Marine enlisted men.
My God, is he reading my mind?
She felt a wave of compassion for him as her mind’s eye filled with a picture of Joe Howard at seventeen, looking like the kids she saw in the Marine Recruit Depot here. Frightened little boys in uniform.
That’s all he is now. The only difference is that he’s twenty-four or twenty-five and wearing an officer’s uniform. But he’s still alone and more than a little frightened.
She finished her drink before the meal was served. And she had three glasses of the Cabernet Sauvignon with the steak. The steak was delicious. While they ate, a band started to play. When they were finished eating, he asked her to dance.
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