"Excuse me, Sir?"
"Can I have the check, please?"
"Sir, that’ll go on the Pacific and Far East house ledger."
"I’d like to pay for it," Joe said.
"Sir, that would be ... difficult."
"Let it go, Joe," Barbara said. "Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth."
"OK," he said, hesitantly. "Thank you."
"I hope you enjoyed your meal, Sir."
He took her arm again as he led her from the room. They walked within ten feet of Lieutenant Gower and her friend. When Barbara smiled at her, Gower stared right through her.
In the lobby just outside the dining room entrance, Barbara stopped.
"Where’s the room the key goes to?"
"I don’t know. It says 418."
"Then it would seem reasonable to assume it is on the fourth floor, wouldn’t you say?"
"I suppose."
"And I think it would also be reasonable to assume that it would have a bathroom, wouldn’t you say?"
"Sure. I’m sure it would."
"Nature calls," she said. "And there, lucky me, are the elevators."
"Would you like me to wait here?"
"No."
She walked ahead of him and got on the elevator.
"Four, please," she said to the elevator operator.
She didn’t look at him on the way up. He followed her into the corridor.
She stopped and turned to him, and looked into his eyes.
"If you don’t kiss me right now, I’m going to lose my nerve," she said.
He didn’t move. He looked paralyzed.
"Didn’t anybody ever tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?" Barbara said.
He kissed her.
And then they walked, arms around each other, down the corridor until they found suite 418. He had a little trouble fitting the key to the lock, but once they were inside, and after he kissed her again, everything went off without a hitch.
Chapter Six
(One)
Building "F"
Anacostia Naval Air Station
Washington, D.C.
0845 Hours 13 February 1942
"General Mclnerney," Brigadier General D. G. Mclnerney answered his telephone, not taking his eyes off the thick stack of paper before him.
"Colonel Hershberger, Sir."
"Hello, Bobby, how are you? What can I do for you?"
Colonel Robert T. Hershberger was Chief of Staff, 1stMarine Air Wing, Quantico, Virginia.
"General, the General is gone. He’s at New River. I’m minding the store."
The General was Brigadier General Roy S. Geiger, Commanding, 1stMarine Air Wing.
"Got something you can’t handle, Bobby?"
"General, I can handle this. What I would like is your advice on how to handle it."
"Shoot. Advice is cheap."
"I have a requirement to send one R4D, rigged for parachutists, to Lakehurst, to arrive NLT 0600, 14 February. That’s tomorrow."
"I know. I laid that requirement on you."
"And your Major made it pretty plain that this is a must-do."
"It is."
"And thirty minutes ago, I got a call from the Director of Public Relations, just checking to see that the aircraft was scheduled, and asking me if I could take particular care to see that the crew was ‘photogenic’"
"The sonofabitch called me just a few minutes ago," General Mclnerney said. "He told me that the Commandant had ‘expressed enthusiastic interest in the project.’ You know what it is?"
"Lifemagazine is sending a photographer. Photographers. Plural. To watch the parachute trainees jump out of the airplane."
"Right. The idea, apparently, is that when the red-blooded youth of our nation see these heroic daredevils, they will rush to the nearest recruiting office to join up," General Mclnerney said dryly.
"That being the case, I figured there was no way I could get out of sending my only R4D up there," Colonel Hershberger said.
"If that’s why you called, Bobby, save your breath. I don’t know if General Holcomb really knows about whatever this public-relations operation is, but that requirement came down here from the Throne Room."
"There are four people here qualified in the R4D," Hershberger said.
"That’s all?" Mclnerney asked, surprised.
"General, you may not have noticed, but people have been sending my pilots overseas."
"I can do without the sarcasm, thank you very much, Bobby," Mclnerney said. "And you may not have noticed, but there’s a war on."
Colonel Hershberger did not reply.
"What’s the problem, Bobby?" Mclnerney said, more cordially. "It only takes two pilots to fly one of those things, doesn’t it?"
"Two of the four pilots don’t look old enough to vote; and they have just finished the checkout. The check pilot, aware of the pilot shortage, was not as critical as he should have been."
"How do you know that?" Mclnerney snapped.
"I was the check pilot," Hershberger said. "Primarily because I am the only R4D Instructor Pilot here."
"You said four pilots."
"Well, he has two hundred-odd hours in the aircraft, and he went through the parachute-dropping course at Fort Benning."
"Well, then, what the hell is the problem? Send him. And send the two kids with him to see how it’s done."
"Aye, aye, Sir. I hoped the General would say that. The name of the only fully qualified pilot for this mission is Technical Sergeant Charles Galloway."
General Mclnerney exhaled audibly.
"Oh, you sonofabitch, Bobby," he said. "You sandbagged me."
"The options, General, as I see them, are to send the two kids and pray they don’t dump the airplane, or drop the parachutists in the Atlantic or over Central Park, while Life’s cameras are clicking. Or fly it myself. I’ve never dropped parachutists. I can probably find Lakehurst all right, but it occurred to me that it would look a little odd to have a full bird colonel flying a mission like this. Or send Charley Galloway."
"I told you about Galloway."
"Yes, Sir, I know that he embarrassed the U.S. Navy by getting repaired an airplane that BUAIR said was beyond repair. And then he further embarrassed the U.S. Navy’s security procedures by finding out where a Task Force was, and then flying the unrepairable airplane out to it. And I know the only excuse he offered for this outrageous behavior was that he thought Marines were supposed to fight the enemy."
"It’s a damned good thing we’ve been friends for twenty-odd years, Bobby," Mclnerney said. "Otherwise, I’d have your ass for talking to me that way."
"Doc, for God’s sake, I’m bleeding for pilots. Not only for this stupid public-relations nonsense, but all over. It makes absolutely no sense to have a pilot like Galloway sitting on the goddamned ground with a wrench in his hand when he could be, for example, teaching the kids how to fly the goddamned R4D."
Mclnerney didn’t reply.
"And if we hadn’t been friends for twenty years, Doc, and somebody else was sitting at your desk, I would have just sent him without asking, and said, ‘Fuck you, court-martial me,’ if anybody said anything about it."
There was a long silence.
Finally, Mclnerney said, "Got your mouth under control now, Bobby?"