"The Assistant Commandant was aware, of course, that Easter-brook's splendid work has come to the attention of the Secretary of the Navy," General Stewart said.
What the hell is he talking about? Oh, yeah! The Easterbunny's 16mm film and still pictures Ed Banning took to Washington with him. Knox probably said, "nice pictures, Banning." And Banning probably said, "they were taken by a young corporal, Sir, "passing the credit where it was due.
"Yes, Sir?"
"That letter reflected well on the shop, Dillon. It made us all look good."
What the fuck is this idiot talking about?
"Yes, Sir," Major Dillon said.
"And I told him that I had just arranged to have his lost-in-combat records reconstructed, which would reflect his promotion to staff sergeant early on in the Guadalcanal campaign."
"Thank you, Sir."
Miss Wood untucked the towel that more or less covered her body and held it by its corners. She lowered a corner, briefly, enough to expose her left breast. And then she quickly gathered it back over her and winked at Major Dillon.
"Get off the phone, Jake," Miss Wood said.
"And the Assistant Commandant then asked me, Jake, if I had considered the question of decorating Easterbrook and commissioning him..."
Jesus Christ, he's nineteen years old!
"... and I said the thought had occurred to me, but that I hadn't really thought it through."
Miss Wood raised the towel over her head and let it fall across her face. And then, her hands locked behind her neck, she demonstrated the dance technique known as "bump and grind."
"Get off the phone Jake!" she called plaintively from beneath the towel.
"He's a little young, General," Dillon said.
"I made that point myself, Dillon," General Stewart said.
"Who's a little young? Are you talking about Bobby?" Miss Wood inquired, pulling the towel off her head so she could see.
"The Assistant Commandant said he could think of no greater recommendation for commissioning a second lieutenant than his earning staff sergeant's stripes on the battlefield, and taking over from officers who had fallen in battle."
"And you're thinking of recommending Sergeant Easterbrook for a commission, General?"
"What about Bobby?" Miss Wood asked, letting the towel fall to the floor, then moving to sit, stark naked, beside Dillon on the bed.
"It's a fait accompli, Dillon! You just get that young man to San Diego as soon as you can. By the time you reach there, everything will be laid on. He'll be walked through the commissioning process."
"Yes, Sir."
"And then we'll assign him to train the combat correspondents. The elusive round peg in the round hole, right, Dillon? Who better to train them than someone like Easterbrook?"
"Yes, Sir," Dillon said.
"And it should make a fine public affairs press release, wouldn't you say?"
"Yes, Sir. I'll write it myself."
Marine Corps eats loco weed; goes bananas in spades.
"My other phone has been ringing, Dillon. I'll be in touch."
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. Good-bye, Sir."
He hung up.
"That was about Bobby, wasn't it?" Veronica asked.
" 'Bobby'? I didn't know you knew his name."
"I wanted to talk to you about him," she said. "Or, specifically, about Florence Nightingale."
"Dawn Morris, you mean?"
"What has Bobby got that that bitch wants?"
"A friend who promised her a screen test," Dillon said.
"You're kidding!"
"Not at all. Easterbrook was pretty sick... sick and shaken up... when I got him here. I asked Harry to send a nurse..."
"Harry who?"
"Harald Barthelmy, M.D.,... over here to take care of him. The bastard dressed up his receptionist in a nurse suit and tried to palm her off on me. I was going to throw her out and then kick Harry's ass; but I saw the way the kid looked at her. And I thought, what the hell, why not? It was in a good cause."
"You sicked that slut on that nice kid? Jesus Christ, Jake! He's nice. He's sweet!" "She's not so bad. And she's been good for Easterbrook."
"He told me about Guadalcanal," Veronica said.
"Did he?"
That's surprising.
"Yeah. Whatsername went into town-in my studio car, by the way-and we were alone and started to talk. Florence Nightingale has him drinking gin and orange juice. And he got a little tight, more than a little tight, and told me about it. Including the part about his not knowing he was coming home until you pulled him on the airplane."
"He was pretty close to the edge," Jake said. "I didn't see it, a friend of mine did. Where is he now?"
"Sound asleep on the balcony," Veronica said, gesturing toward the drapes over the sliding door. "I lowered the awning and put a blanket on him."
"They're going to make an officer out of him."
"An officer? Jesus, he's just a kid!"
"Right."
"Was that your idea?"
"No, but there's nothing I can do about it."
"Why not?"
"Because we're both in The Marine Corps. All you get to do in The Marine Corps is say 'aye, aye, Sir.' "
"They really say that, Jake, 'aye, aye'? It sounds like bad dialogue from a DeMille sailboat epic."
Dillon laughed. "They really say it. I really say it."
"You were really kissing the ass of whoever you were talking to on the phone. Who was that?"
"One of the idiots who wants to put a bar on the kid's shoulders."
"So what happens to Florence Nightingale? How long is that going to go on? I think he thinks he's in love with her."
"Tony Weil called me. They're getting stage nineteen set up for some Technicolor tests. He said he needs some bodies for that, and if I send her over on Monday, he'll give her dialogue and put her in costume, get her somebody decent to play against, and direct it himself. After that, I can send her back to Dr. Harry. I'll think of some story to tell the kid, to let him down easy. I've got to send him to San Diego Monday anyway. She just won't be here when he gets back. She had to see her sick grandmother in Dubuque, or something."
"Tony's actually going to direct her a test?" Veronica asked.
Dillon nodded. "He'll also cut it for me. Do it right."
"Tony's all right. Not like some unnamed overrated hysterical Hungarian fags we have on the lot. That was nice of him."
"He owes me a couple of favors. But he is a nice guy."
"So are you," Veronica Wood said, reaching out to touch his face. "A nice guy." He looked into her eyes for a moment. "Speaking of costumes: Does the one I'm wearing give you any ideas?"
He looked thoughtful a moment. "Beats me."
"You bastard!" she said.
"If you vant to geddin in my pants, sveetheart," Dillon said, in a thick and very credible mimicry of the director with whom Miss Wood was currently experiencing artistic differences, "you shouldn't ought to talk to me like dat."
"You three-star bastard!" Veronica said delightedly, and pushed him back on the bed. Then she shrieked and looked at her fingers. "What the hell is that sticky crap?"
"It comes out of the plumbing that makes the roof of the car go up and down."
"Well, I don't want it on me," Veronica said. "Go take a bath."
He went into the bathroom, into the stall shower, and turned the water on. Veronica stepped in beside him.
"What the hell," she said. "I was already in costume."
[SIX]
Apartment 7B
The Bay View Apartments
Russian Hill, San Francisco, California
1145 Hours 24 October 1942
"I'm a little embarrassed," Miss Bitsy Thomas said to First Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR. "I've never known Alex to behave like that before."
She was referring to Miss Alexandra Spears. Two minutes before, Miss Spears announced that Miss Thomas and Lieutenant Pickering would have to amus
e themselves, then led First Lieutenant William C. Dunn into her bedroom.
"Neither have I," Pick said. "Perhaps it is love at first sight."
"She had a lot to drink," Bitsy said loyally.
"I've noticed that women who want to do something they think is a little out of the ordinary tend to take a belt or two," Pick said. "It gives them an excuse."
"That's a dirty shot," Bitsy said.
"In vino veritas," Pick said. "Speaking of which, can I fix you another?"
"I think I've had enough, thank you."
"There is no such thing as 'enough,' " he said. "It goes directly from 'not enough' to 'too much.' "
"Have it your way. Too much."
Pick started to make himself a drink at Alexandra's bar.
"Can I ask you a question?" Bitsy asked.
"You can ask," he said.
"Do you always drink this much? You've really been socking it away."
"Only when I can get it."
"I've got another question, but I'm afraid to ask it."
"Ask it. I didn't promise to answer your questions."
"Is it because you're going overseas?" Bitsy asked. "Oh, God, that came out wrong. I didn't mean to suggest you're afraid."
"If I was going overseas, I would be afraid."
"You're not going overseas?"
Pick took a sip of his drink, then met her eyes before replying. "I just got back."
"You did? Where were you?"
"VMF-229, on the 'Canal."
"I don't know what that means."
"I flew fighters, Wildcats, F4Fs, on Guadalcanal."
There was doubt in her eyes.
"That's kind of hard to believe, Pick."
"It's even harder to believe when you're there," he said.
After a pause, she said, shocked, "My God, I believe you!"
"All's well that ends well, to coin a phrase."
"What are you going to do now?"
"I don't know. First they're putting Us on display. And after that, who knows?"
"What do you mean, 'on display'?"
"There's a war bond tour," Pick said, a bitter tone in his voice. "We are going to build up civilian morale and encourage people to buy war bonds."
Bitsy considered this a moment, then walked over to him.
"I have the prerogative of changing my mind," she said. "I'm a female." She took his glass from his hand and took a sip. "That's good. Would you make me one?"
He was pouring the drink when, thoughtfully, Bitsy asked. "You said 'we.' You don't mean that..."
She pointed toward the bedroom. Faintly but unmistakably, the sounds of carnal delight were issuing from it. She became aware of them and blushed.
"Put another record on," Pick said.
She did so.
"He was over there, too?" she pursued when she walked back to him.
"They're going to pin the Navy Cross on him in a couple of days," he said. "Little Billy in there is a double ace. Three kills at Midway, seven on the 'Canal. He was my squadron executive officer."
"But Alex asked him what I asked you, if he was... concerned... about going to the war."
"And he said he was. People who have been there are more 'concerned' than those who haven't."
"You know what I mean; that was dishonest of him. Of the both of you."
"First of all, I haven't made a pass at you, by way of trying to turn on your maternal instincts. So that is a moot point. Secondly, haven't you ever heard what the Jesuits say, the end justifies the means?"
"That's dirty!"
"They are both doing what they want to do. What's wrong with that?"
She exhaled audibly, shaking her head, then sipped at her drink.
"You're not what I expected, either," she said.
"What did you expect?"
"I was surprised I didn't have to defend my virtue," she said.
"Sorry to have disappointed you."
She laughed. "That I expected. The arrogance. I didn't say 'disappointed.' I said 'surprised.' "
"People think I'm arrogant?" he asked, as if this surprised him.
"The only reason Alex walked across that bar to you was because she knew you were the only man in there who would not walk across the bar to her. Or am I missing something here? Are you actually arrogant enough to think you can wait for me to make a pass at you?"
"Truth time?"
"Why not?"
"I really wish you had turned out to be a bitch like Alex instead of a nice girl. I don't make passes at nice girls."
"Baloney!"
"Boy Scout's Honor," he said, holding up three fingers like a Boy Scout. "I have learned that I have this great talent for hurting nice girls. There's enough of the other kind around so that I don't have to do that."
She found his eyes and looked into them.
"How do you hurt nice girls?"
"They seem to expect more of me than I can offer," he said.
"You've never had a nice girl?"
"I was, maybe still am, in love with a nice girl."
"And?"
"She was married to a guy in my line of work," Pick said. "He got killed on Wake Island. Once was enough for her. Oddly enough, now I understand."
He drained his drink.
"Are you staying here with Alex?" he asked. "Or can I take you home? The trumpeting of the mating elephants in there is getting me down."
She smiled.
"Where are you staying?" she asked. "With your mother?"
"No. In the hotel."
"Is anybody staying with you?"
"The king of the herd," Pick said, nodding toward the bedroom.
"You can take me home, if you'd like," Bitsy said. "But if you offered to show me your etchings, I just might accept."
Pick's surprise registered on his face.
"You have the saddest eyes I have ever seen," Bitsy went on. "I'm not what you think I am, Pick. Neither a virgin nor a quasi-virgin. As a matter of fact, I understand how your girlfriend feels."
"I don't understand."
"What happened to my husband wasn't heroic, like Wake Island. What happened to Dick was that a World War One cannon he was training on-or with, whatever-blew up at Fort Sill, Oklahoma."
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I think maybe tonight, we need each other," she said. She patted his cheek, smiled, and walked to the door, picking up her jacket on the way.
"Shall we go?" she asked.
Pick put his drink down and walked toward the door.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
[ONE]
Office of the Supreme Commander
South West Pacific Ocean Area
Brisbane, Australia
0805 Hours 26 October 1942
"Good morning, General," MacArthur's secretary, a technical sergeant, said in a voice loud enough to alert everyone in the office to the presence of a general officer-meaning that everybody was supposed to stop what he was doing and come to attention.
"As you were," Brigadier General Fleming Pickering said quickly. The sergeant dropped back into his seat, and a couple of other enlisted men and a captain resumed what they were doing. But Lieutenant Colonel Sidney Huff, MacArthur's senior aide-de-camp, remained on his feet behind his desk.
"You too, Sid," Pickering said with a smile. "Sit down."
He's looking at my ribbons. Have a good look, Sid.
I should have started wearing the damned things long before this; people are impressed. It's not so much, look at me, the hero, but rather don't try to pull that "I'm a regular, you're nothing but a civilian in uniform" business on me. As these colorful little pieces of cloth attest, I have been there when people were trying to kill me, and failed. And this makes me a warrior, too, if only part time.
"The Supreme Commander is in conference with General Willoughby, General. I'll see if he can be disturbed."
THE CORPS VI - CLOSE COMBAT Page 29