"Not as far as I could throw you," Joe said. "I show up there tomorrow and you’re not there, then what would I do?"
The Storekeeper First heaved the duffel bag back into the trunk, and then shrugged. He dipped his hand behind the thirteen-button fly of his bell-bottoms and came out with two twenties and a ten.
"That’s all I got," he said. "I’ll have to owe you the two-fifty."
"Either look in your sock or somewhere, or put two of the wool shirts back."
The Storekeeper First looked carefully at Howard, then shrugged and dipped into his thirteen-button fly again. He came out with a wad of singles and counted off three of them. Joe put them in his pocket and gave the man two quarters in change. They exchanged dry little smiles, and the Storekeeper First, grunting, hoisted the duffel bag to his shoulder again and marched off.
That fat old sonofabitch has got a nice little racket going,he thought. He paid me less than half of what that stuff is worth in any hockshop. And there’s probably one or two guys like me going through there every day. Christ, not only Marines! The Navy must be commissioning Mustangs too.
"I’ll be a sonofabitch," he said aloud, more out of admiration than anger, as he considered that the Storekeeper First must be taking in probably as much as a hundred fifty dollars a day.
"I’m almost afraid to ask what all that was about," a voice, a female voice, said behind him. Surprised, he turned quickly to see who it was. It was an officer, a female officer, a Navy nurse, and specifically the one who had drawn his blood for the Wassermann test the day before.
Joe saluted crisply, without thinking about it, a Pavlovian reflex: an officer had spoken to him; therefore he saluted.
"I think I was supposed to do that," the nurse said. She was carrying a paper sack from the Commissary.
"Excuse me?" Joe said.
"Those are silver bars you’re wearing? Mine, you’ll notice, are gold. I think I was supposed to salute first."
"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, 2ndJoint 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 2ndRaider 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."