"It's fine," he said. "The only time it hurts is when they change the bandage. Most of the time it itches."
"Curiosity overwhelms me," Jean said. "Ed says you've got a girl. Tell me all about her."
The answer didn't come easily to McCoy's lips.
"She's nice," he said finally. "She writes advertising."
He thought: Ernie would like Mrs. Sessions, and probably vice versa.
Jean Sessions cocked her head and waited for amplification.
"For toothpaste and stuff like that," McCoy went on. "I met her through a guy I went through Quantico with."
"What does she look like?" Jean asked.
McCoy produced a picture. The picture surprised Jean Sessions. Not that McCoy had found a pretty girl like the one hanging on to his arm in the picture, but that he'd found one who wore an expensive full-length Persian lamb coat, and who had posed with McCoy in front of the Foster Park Hotel on Central Park South.
"She's very pretty, Ken," Jean said.
"Yeah," McCoy said. "She is."
"The colonel will be here in half an hour," Captain Ed Sessions announced from the doorway.
"So soon?" Jean asked.
"He wants to talk to Ken before his wife gets here," Sessions said. "And he asked if we could set a place for Colonel Wesley."
McCoy saw that surprised Jean Sessions.
"Certainly," she said. "It's a big roast."
"I told him we could," Sessions said.
"Ken was just showing me a picture of his girl," Jean said, changing the subject. "Show her to Ed, Ken."
Sessions said that he thought Ernestine Sage was a lovely young woman.
Lieutenant Colonel Rickabee arrived almost exactly thirty minutes later. He was followed into the room by Jewel, who carried a silver tray of bacon-wrapped oysters. Jean Sessions left after making him a drink. She explained that she had to check the roast, and she closed the door after her.
"I was sorry to have to cheat you out of the rest of your recuperative leave, McCoy," Rickabee said. "I wouldn't have done it if it wasn't necessary."
"I understand, sir," McCoy said.
"The decision had just about been made to send you over to COI, after you'd had your leave," Rickabee said.
"Sir?"
"You've never heard of it?" Rickabee asked, but it was a statement rather than a question. "You ever hear of Colonel Wild Bill Donovan?"
"No, sir."
"He won the Medal of Honor in the First World War," Rickabee explained. "He was in the Army. More important, he's a friend of the President. COI stands for 'Coordinator of Information.' It's sort of a clearinghouse for intelligence information. A filter, in other words. They get everything the Office of Naval Intelligence comes up with, and the Army's G-2 comes up with, and the State Department, us, everybody… and they put it all together before giving it to the President. Get the idea?"
"Yes, sir," McCoy said.
"Donovan has authority to have service personnel assigned to him," Rickabee said, "and General Forrest got a call from the Commandant himself, who told him that when he got a levy against us to furnish officers to the COI, he was not to regard it as an opportunity to get rid of the deadwood. The Commandant feels that what Donovan is doing is worthwhile, and that it is in the best interest of the Corps to send him good people. Despite your somewhat childish behavior in the Philippines, you fell into that category."
McCoy did not reply. And Rickabee waited a long moment, staring at him hard in order to make him uncomfortable- without noticeable effect.
"Let me get that out of the way," Rickabee said finally, with steel in his voice. "You were sent there as a courier. Couriers do not grab BARs and go AWOL to the infantry. In a way, you were lucky you got hit. It's difficult to rack the ass of a wounded hero, McCoy, even when you know he's done something really dumb."
"Yes, sir," McCoy said, after a moment.
"Okay, that's the last word on that subject. You get the Purple Heart for getting hit. But no Silver Star, despite the recommendation."
He reached into his briefcase and handed McCoy an oblong box. McCoy opened it and saw inside the Purple Medal.
"Thank you, sir," McCoy said. He closed the box and looked at Rickabee.
Rickabee was unfolding a sheet of paper. Then he started reading from it: "… ignoring his wounds, and with complete disregard for his own personal safety, carried a grievously wounded officer to safety through an intensive enemy artillery barrage, and subsequently, gathered together eighteen Marines separated from their units by enemy action, and led them safely through enemy-occupied territory to American lines. His courage, devotion to duty, and… et cetera, et cetera…"
He folded the piece of paper and then dipped into his briefcase again, and came up with another oblong box.
"Bronze Star," Rickabee said, handing it to him. "If the Corps had told you to go play Errol Flynn, you would have got the Silver. And if you hadn't forgotten to duck, you probably wouldn't have got the Bronze. But, to reiterate, it's hard to rack the ass of a wounded hero, even when he deserves it."
McCoy opened the Bronze Star box, glanced inside, and then closed it.
"For the time being, McCoy, you are not to wear either of those medals," Rickabee said.
"Sir?"
"Something has come up which may keep you from going to COI," Rickabee said. "Which is why I was forced to cancel your recuperative leave."
McCoy looked at him curiously, but said nothing.
"You're up, Ed." Rickabee said to Captain Sessions.
"When you were in China, McCoy," Sessions began, "did you ever run into Major Evans Carlson?"
"No, sir," McCoy said. "But I've seen his name." And then memory returned. "And I read his books."
"You have?" Rickabee asked, surprised.
"Yes, sir," McCoy said. "Captain Banning had them. And a lot of other stuff that Carlson wrote. Letters, too."
"And Captain Banning suggested you read the books?" Sessions asked.
"Yes, sir, and the other stuff."
"What did you think?" Rickabee asked, innocently.
McCoy considered the question, and then decided to avoid it. "About what, sir?"
"Well, for example, what Major Carlson had to say about the Communist Chinese Army?" Rickabee asked.
McCoy didn't immediately reply. He was, Sessions sensed, trying to fathom why he was being asked.
"Just off the top of your head, Ken," Sessions said.
McCoy looked at him, and shrugged. "Out of school," McCoy said. "I think he went Chink."
"Excuse me?" Rickabee said.
"It happens," McCoy explained. "People spend a lot of time over there, China gets to them. That 'thousands of years of culture' crap. They start to think that we don't know what we're doing, and that the Chinks have everything figured out. Have had it figured out for a thousand years."
"How does that apply to what Carlson thinks of the Chinese Communists?" Rickabee asked.
"That's a big question," McCoy said.
"Have a shot at it," Rickabee ordered.
"There's two kinds of Chinese," McCoy said. "Ninety-eight percent of them don't give a damn for anything but staying alive and getting their rice bowl filled for that day. And the other two percent try to push the ninety-eight percent around for what they can get out of it."
"Isn't that pretty cynical?" Rickabee asked. "You don't think that, say, Sun Yat-sen or Chiang Kai-shek-or Mao Tse-tung- have the best interests of the Chinese at heart?"
"I didn't mean that all they're interested in is beating them out of their rice bowls," McCoy said. "I think most of them want the power. They like the power."
That's simplistic, of course, Sessions thought. But at the same time, it's a rather astute observation for a twenty-one-year-old with only a high school education.
"Then you don't see much difference between the Nationalists and the Communists?" Rickabee asked.
"Not much. Hell, Chiang Kai-shek was a Communist. He even went to military school in Russia."
I wonder how many of his brother officers in the Marine Corps know that? Rickabee thought. How many of the colonels, much less the second lieutenants?