"I'm sorry," Pickering said, very softly.
"Yeah," Stecker said. "Me, too. He was one of the good guys."
Their eyes met for a moment.
"You did say our penthouse has two bedrooms, didn't you?" Stecker asked. "Plus a living room? And a patio? What about a bar?"
"Two bars," Pickering said. "One in the living room, and another one, a wet bar, on the patio."
"I think that's just the sort of thing Jack had in mind," Stecker said.
Chapter Nine
(One)
Headquarters, 2nd Joint Training Force
Camp Elliott, California
O815 Hours, 9 January 1942
Captain Jack NMI (No Middle Initial) Stecker, USMCR, was a large man, tall and erect. His uniform was perfectly tailored and sharply creased. It bore the insignia of his grade, the double silver bars of a captain, both on the epaulets of the blouse and on his shirt collar. His high-topped dress shoes were highly polished. But there were no ribbons pinned to the breast of the blouse. For what he considered good reason, Captain Stecker had put his ribbons in one of the bellows pockets of his blouse.
Captain Stecker was quite surprised that the technical sergeant functioning as Colonel Lewis T. Harris's sergeant major apparently had no idea who he was. Equally surprising was that he could not recall having ever seen the technical sergeant before.
The technical sergeant wore the diagonal hash marks of sixteen years of satisfactory enlisted service on the sleeve of his blouse. Captain Jack NMI Stecker had worn a Marine
uniform since 1917. It bordered on the incredible that they had never run into each other before someplace. The Marine Corps, between major wars, was a small outfit. By the time someone had put in a couple hitches, he knew practically everybody else in the Corps.
There was supposed to be an exception to every rule, Stecker decided, and this was apparently it.
"The colonel will see you now, sir," the technical sergeant said.
"Thank you, Sergeant," Stecker said, and rose up out of his chair. He tugged on the skirt of his blouse and walked to the door with a red sign on it, lettered, "LEWIS T. HARRIS, COL, USMC, COMMANDING."
He rapped his knuckles on the jamb of Colonel Harris's door.
"Come!" Colonel Harris ordered.
Stecker marched into the office, stopped three feet from the desk, came to attention; and, looking six inches over Colonel Harris's head, barked, "Sir, Captain Stecker reporting for duty, sir."
Colonel Lewis T. Harris, a stocky, bald-headed, barrel-chested officer, looked up at Stecker without smiling. Then he stood up, walked to his office door and closed it, and returned to his desk.
"Well, you old sonofabitch, how the hell are you?" Colonel Harris asked.
"Very well, thank you, sir," Captain Stecker said.
"I'm always right, Jack," Colonel Harris said. "Some people don't understand that, but I hope this proves that to you."
"Sir?"
"If you had taken a commission when I wanted you to, you'd be sitting here with a chicken pinned to your collar, and I'd be reporting to you."
For the first time, Stecker met Colonel Harris's eyes.
"I'm still a little uncomfortable with the railroad tracks," he said.
"Shit!" Colonel Harris said. "Where the hell are your ribbons, Jack?"
"In my pocket," Stecker said.
"I figured," Colonel Harris said. "The Medal's something to be ashamed of, like some bare-teated dame in a hula skirt tattooed on your arm?"
"It makes people uncomfortable," Stecker said.
"Suit yourself, Jack, you can stand there at attention like some second lieutenant fresh out of Quantico, or you can sit down over there while I pour you a drink."
Stecker walked to the small couch and sat down.
"I didn't know how to handle this, Lew," he said. "So I did it by the book."
"And that's why you didn't call when you got in last night, right?" Colonel Harris said. "And spent the night on a cot in a BOQ, instead of with Marge and me?"
Captain Stecker did not reply. Colonel Harris went to a metal wall locker and took a bottle of scotch and two glasses from a shelf. He handed the glasses to Stecker and then poured an inch and a half of scotch in each glass.
He took one of the glasses and touched it against Stecker's.
"I'm glad to see you, Jack," he said. "Personally and professionally."
"Thank you," Stecker said. He started to add something, stopped, and then went on: "I was about to say, 'like old times,' but it's not, is it?"
"It never is," Harris said.
They solemnly sipped at the whiskey.
"I don't know how to handle this, Jack," Harris said. "I'm sorry about your boy."
"Thank you," Stecker said.
"He passed through here on his way to Pearl," Harris said. "He looked like a fine young man."
"He was," Stecker said. "Sixteenth in his class."
"I didn't hear how it happened," Harris said. "Just that it had."
"He was in the Marine detachment on the Arizona,'' Stecker said. "I understand they got at least one of the Marine-manned antiaircraft cannon into operation before she went down. I hope Jack at least got a chance to shoot back."
"How's Elly?" Colonel Harris said.
Stecker shrugged. There was no way to put the reaction of his wife to the loss of their oldest son into words.
"And the other boy? Richard? He's in the class of 'forty-two at West Point, right?"
"He was supposed to be," Stacker said.
"Supposed to be?" Hams asked.
"They commissioned them early," Stecker said. "Dick reported to Pensacola today. Or he reports tomorrow. For aviation training."
"You don't sound pleased."
"I don't know if I am or not," Stecker said. "Elly's afraid of airplanes."
"Hell, so am I," Harris said.
Stecker looked at him and smiled. "The only thing in the world you're afraid of is your wife," he said.
"And airplanes," Harris said. "I went to Pensacola in 'thirty, when I came back from Haiti. I did fine until they actually put me in the front seat of an airplane and told me to drive. I broke out in a cold sweat and was so scared I couldn't find my ass with both hands. Once I tilted the wings, I really didn't know which way was up. Somewhere in my jacket is a remark that says 'this officer is wholly unsuited for aviation duty.'"
"I didn't know you tried it," Stecker said.
"I was afraid when I went," Harris said. "I knew I was no Charles Lindbergh. But I was a brand-new captain with three kids, and I needed the flight pay. If your boy can't hack it, Jack, he'll find out in a hurry. Nothing to be embarrassed about if he can't. Some people are meant to soar like birds, and others, like you and me, to muck around in the mud."
Stecker chuckled.
"You know Evans Carlson, Jack?" Colonel Harris asked.
The question was asked lightly, but Stecker sensed that Harris was not playing auld lang syne.
"Sure," Stecker replied.
"China?" Harris pursued.
"I was on the rifle team with him," Stecker said.
"I forgot about that," Harris said. "You're one of those who thinks the Garand's the answer to a maiden's prayer."
The U.S. Rifle, Caliber.30, Ml, a self-loading weapon fed by an eight-round en bloc clip, was invented by John C. Garand, a civilian employee of the Springfield Arsenal. It was adopted as standard for the U.S. military in 1937 to replace the U.S. Rifle, Caliber.30, M1903, the Springfield, a bolt-operated rifle with an integral five-shot magazine.
"I don't know about a 'maiden's prayer,'" Stecker said. "But it's a fine weapon. It's a better weapon than the Springfield."
"I'm surprised to hear you say that," Harris said.
"You ever fire it?" Stecker asked.
"Familiarization," Harris said. "I had trouble keeping it on the target. I rarely got close to the black." (The eight, nine, and ten scoring rings of the standard rifle target are printed in black; the "bull's-eye.")
"I was on the troop test at Benning," Stecker said. (The U.S. Army Infantry Center was at Fort Benning, Georgia.) "And I had an issue piece out of the box. I had no trouble making expert with it. More important, neither did twelve kids fresh from Parris Island."