"Go get in an ambulance, Killer," he said.
"I don't need it," McCoy said.
It was neither bravado nor modesty. He had not, in his mind, been wounded. A wound was an incapacitating hole in the body, usually accompanied by great pain. He had been zinged twice, lightly zinged. The first time had been right after they'd started moving down the island. A Japanese sniper in a coconut tree had almost got him, or almost missed. A slug had whipped through his trousers, six inches above his knee, grazed his leg, and kept going. It had scared hell out of him, but it hadn't even knocked him down.
Almost immediately, he had seen another muzzle flash and fired four shots from his Garand into the coconut tree. The Jap's rifle had then come tumbling down, and a moment later the sniper followed it-at least to the length of the rope he'd used to tie himself up there.
After that McCoy had pulled his pants leg up, then opened his first aid packet and put a compress on the hole, which was a groove about as wide as his pinky finger and about as long as a bandage. And then he'd really forgotten about it. Or rather, the wound hadn't been painful until that night, when he'd waded into the surf and the salt water had gotten to it and made it sting like hell.
And he had been zinged again the next morning, when he'd led a squad down the island to see what the Japs were up to. He had been looking around what had been a concrete-block wall when a Japanese machine gun had opened up on them. A slug had hit the blocks about two feet from him, and a chunk of concrete had clipped him on the forehead; It had left a jagged tear about three inches long, and it had given him a hell of a headache, but it hadn't even bled very much. And it was not a real wound.
The doc on the Nautilus had put a couple of fresh bandages, hardly more than Band-Aids, on him; and until now, that had been the end of it. He had spent the return trip trying to come up with a casualty list: who had been killed; who was missing from the fucked-up landing and the even more fucked-up withdrawal from the beach; and who, if anybody, was still unaccounted for. He hadn't thought of much else after it had become apparent to him that they had left as many as eight people on the beach.
"Hot showers," Doc McCracken said, pushing him toward the gangplank, "sheets, mattresses, good chow, and firm-breasted sweet-smelling nurses. Trust me, Killer."
Doc McCracken was smiling at him.
"What the hell," McCoy said. "Why not?"
It took about two hours before he had gone through the drill and was in a room in the Naval hospital with something to eat. A couple of doctors had painfully removed the scabs and dug around in mere as if they hoped to find gold. Then they'd given him a complete physical. And of course the paper pushers were there, filling in their forms.
McCoy was just finishing his second shower-simply because it was there, all that limitless fresh hot water-and putting on a robe over his pajamas, and getting ready to lie on his bed and read Life magazine, when Colonel Carlson pushed open the door and walked into the room. He was still in mussed and soiled dungarees. McCoy supposed he'd come to the hospital to check on the wounded. The real wounded.
"Go on with what you were doing," Carlson said, as McCoy started to straighten up to attention. "Go on, get on the bed. It's permitted. Then tell me how you feel."
"I don't think I really belong here, Colonel," McCoy said, climbing onto the bed.
"Clean sheets and a hot meal," Carlson said, smiling.
"That's what the doc said, sir," McCoy said.
"I'm about to go out to Camp Catlin," Colonel Carlson said. "I thought I'd drop by and say 'so long.'"
"Sir?"
Carlson dipped into the cavernous pocket of his dungaree jacket and came out with a sheet of teletype paper, which he handed to McCoy.
PRIORITY
YOU WILL ON RECEIPT ISSUE APPROPRIATE ORDERS DETACHING SECOND LIEUTENANT KENNETH J. MCCOY USMCR FROM COMPANY B 2ND RAIDER BN AND TRANSFERRING HIM TO HEADQUARTERS USMC.
TRAVEL FROM HAWAII TO WASHINGTON BY AIR IS DIRECTED PRIORTTY AA2. BY DIRECTION
STANLEY F. WATT COLONEL USMC OFFICE OF THE ASSISTANT CHIEF OF STAFF FOR PERSONNEL
McCoy looked at Carlson.
"Well, you'll be in here for forty-eight hours," Carlson said. "That'll give us time to get your gear from Catlin to you."
"I guess they really need linguists, sir," McCoy said.
"Certainly, they do. Linguists are valuable people, McCoy. There's far too few of them-you did notice that TWX was dated 8 August-for the Corps to risk losing one of them storming some unimportant beach."
Their eyes met.
"When you get to Washington, McCoy, say hello to Colonel Rickabee for me."
McCoy saw that Carlson was smiling.
"You've known all along, then, sir?"
"Not everyone in the Corps thinks I'm a crazy Communist, McCoy," Carlson said. "I've still got a few friends left who try to let me know what's going on."
"Oh, shit!" McCoy said.
"Nothing for you to be embarrassed about, McCoy,"
Carlson said. "You're a Marine officer. A good Marine officer. And good Marine officers do what they're told to do, to the best of their ability."
He stepped to the bed and put out his hand.
"Take care of yourself, son," he said. "I was glad you were along on this operation."
And then be turned and walked out of the room.
(Three)
Navy Air Station Pensacola, Florida 29 August 1942
Second Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering's first response to the knock at the penthouse door was to simply ignore it. Either it would go away or Dick Stecker would get up and answer it.
It was Saturday morning, and they had drunk their Friday supper.
They were finished at Pensacola. Orders would be cut on Monday, 31 August, certifying that Second Lieutenants Pickering and Stecker were rated as fully qualified in F4F-3 aircraft, and placing them on a ten-day-delay-en-route leave to whenever the bell the Marine Corps was sending them.
It was occasion to celebrate, and they had celebrated until the wee hours.
the knocking became more persistent, and Pickering finally gave in. Wrapping a sheet around his middle, calling out "Keep your pants on!" he walked to the door and jerked it open.
It was Captain James L. Carstairs, USMC, Captain Mustache, in his usual impeccable uniform.
"Good morning, sir," Pickering said.
"May I come in?" Captain Carstairs asked. "You alone?"
"I'm alone," Pickering said. "But… Captain Carstairs, Stecker has a guest."
"The one with her hair piled two feet over her head?" Captain Carstairs said. "And the enormous bazooms?"
"Uh…"
"We saw you last night," Captain Carstairs said. "I rather doubt that in your condition you saw us, but we saw you."
"I saw you, sir," Pickering said. "I didn't know you had seen us."
"You should have come over and said hello," Captain Carstairs said. "I had the feeling Mrs. Culhane rather wished you would."
Pickering looked at him in surprise, and blurted what popped into his mind.
"Is that why you're here? To tell me that?"
"Unfortunately, no," Captain Carstairs said, and handed Pickering a yellow Western Union envelope.
"What's this?"
"Keep in mind the other possibility," Carstairs said. "The word is they left a lot of people on the beach."
Pickering ripped the envelope open.