They shook hands.
"How long have you been an officer?" the manager asked.
"It must be, four, five hours now," Pickering said.
"And I don't have a bed for you! All I can do is call around. The Sheraton owes me a couple of big favors."
"What about maid's room in the bridal suite?"
"There's only a single in there," the manager protested.
"Put in a cot, then," Pickering said. "I'll sleep on that."
"I'll probably be able to find something for you tomorrow," the manager said.
"Lieutenant McCoy and I are going to be here for some time," Pickering said. "What about one of the residential hotels? I really hate to comp if we can rent it."
"There's a waiting list for every residential room in Washington," the manager said. "If you don't want to sleep on a park bench, you'll have to stay here. I'll come up with a bed-sitter for you in a day or two. Unless you need two bedrooms?''
"Lieutenant McCoy and I will not know how to handle the luxury of a bed-sitter. We have been sharing one room with thirty others."
"You want to go up now?"
"No, what we want to do now is locate the Marine Barracks."
The manager drew them a map.
They arrived at the Marine Barracks, coincidentally, just as the regularly scheduled Friday evening formal retreat parade was beginning. The music was provided by the Marine Corps Band, in dress blues.
It's like a well-choreographed ballet, Pickering thought as he watched the ceremony (the intricacies of which were now familiar) progress with incredible precision.
I'll be damned, McCoy thought, these guys are really as good as they're supposed to be.
There were Marines in dress blues stationed at intervals around the manicured grass of the parade ground. Their primary purpose, McCoy saw, was more practical than decorative. From time to time, one or more of them had to restrain eager tourists from rushing out onto the field to take a snapshot of the marching and drilling troops, or just to get a better look.
When the Marine Band had finally marched off, the perimeter guard near them, a lance corporal, left his post.
When he came to Pickering and McCoy, he saluted snappily.
"Good evening, sir!" he barked.
"Good evening," McCoy heard himself say.
Something bothered him. After a moment, he realized what it was. When the kid had tossed him the highball, he had done so automatically. The kid had seen a couple of officers, and he had saluted them. There had been nothing in his eyes that suggested he suspected he was saluting a China Marine corporal in a lieutenant's uniform.
I really am an officer, McCoy thought. Until right now, it was sort of play-acting. But now it's real. When that kid saluted me, I felt like an officer.
Well, this is the place to have it happen, he thought. At the Marine Barracks in Washington after a formal retreat parade, with the smell of the smoke from the retreat cannon still in my nose, and the tick-tick of the drums of the Marine Band fading as it marches away.
(Four)
On Saturday, Pickering and McCoy drove around Washington. Pickering was at first amused at the notion of playing tourist, but then he realized it wasn't so bad after all. He saw more of Washington with McCoy than he'd seen during the entire summer he'd spent bellhopping at the Lafayette.
And he came to understand that McCoy was doing more than satisfying an idle curiosity: He was reconnoitering the terrain. He wasn't sure if it was intentional, but there was no question that's what it was. It occurred to him again, as it had several times at Quantico, that McCoy was really an odd duck in society, as for example a Jesuit priest is an odd duck. They weren't really like the other ducks swimming around on the lake. They swam with a purpose, answering commands not heard by other people. A Jesuit's course through the waters of life was guided by God; McCoy's by what he believed-consciously or subconsciously-was expected of him by the Marine Corps.
They spent most of Sunday at the Smithsonian Institution. And again, Pickering was pleased that they had come. He was surprised at the emotion he felt when he saw the tiny little airplane Charles Lindbergh had flown to Paris and when he was standing before the faded and torn flag that had flown "in the rockets' red glare" over Fort McHenry.
At half- past ten on Sunday night (Pickering was still not fully accustomed to thinking in military time and had to do the arithmetic in his head to come up with 2230), Second Lieutenants M. Pickering and K.J. McCoy presented their orders to the duty officer at the Marine Barracks and held themselves ready for duty.
"Your reporting in early is probably going to screw things up with personnel," the officer of the day said. "I'll send word over there that you're here, and they'll call you at the BOQ [Bachelor Officers' Quarters]."
"We're in a hotel in town," Pickering said. "Okay. Probably even better. As you'll find out, the Corps is scattered all over town. What hotel?" "The Lafayette," Pickering said.
"Very nice," the officer of the day said. "What's the room number?"
"I don't know," Pickering said and started to smile. "Then how do you know where to sleep when you get there?" the officer of the day asked, sarcastically.
"Actually, we're in the bridal suite," Pickering said. And then, quickly, he added: "In the maid's room off the bridal suite."
At 0915 the next morning, the telephone in the maid's room of the bridal suite rang. It was a captain from personnel. Lieutenant Pickering was ordered to report, as soon as he could get there, to Brigadier General D.G. Mclnerney, whose office was in Building F at the Anacostia Naval Air Station. Before McCoy's reconnoitering over the weekend, Pickering had only a vague idea where Anacostia Naval Air Station was. Now he knew. He even knew where to find Building F. He had seen the building numbers-or rather building letters-in front of the office buildings there. Lieutenant McCoy was to report to a Major Almond, in Room 26, Building T-2032, one of the temporary buildings in front of the Smithsonian. They knew where that was, too, as a result of McCoy's day-long scoping of the terrain.
"You drop me there," McCoy said. "I can walk back here. Anacostia's to hell and gone."
Pickering found Building F without difficulty. It was one of several buildings immediately behind the row of hangars. Three minutes later, to his considerable surprise, he was standing at attention before the desk of Brigadier General D.G. Mclnerney, USMC. Unable to believe that a brigadier general of Marines would have thirty seconds to spare for a second lieutenant, he had simply presumed that whatever they were going to have him do here, his orders would come from a first lieutenant.
General Mclnerney looked like a general. There were three rows of ribbons on his tunic below the gold wings of a Naval Aviator. He didn't have much hair, and what there was of it was cut so close to the skull that the bumps and the freckles on the skin were clearly visible.
The general, Pickering decided as he stood at attention, was not very friendly, and he was unabashedly studying him with interest.
"So you're Malcolm Pickering," General Mclnerney said finally. "You must take after your mother. You don't look at all like your dad."
Pickering was so startled that for a moment his eyes flickered from their prescribed focus six inches over the general's head.
"You may sit, Mr. Pickering," General Mclnerney said. "Would you like some coffee?"
"Yes, sir," Pick Pickering said. "Thank you, sir."
A sergeant appeared, apparently in reply to the pushing of an unseen buzzer button.
"This is Lieutenant Pickering, Sergeant Wallace," General Mclnerney said. "He will probably be around here for a while."
The sergeant offered his hand.
"How do you do, sir?" he said.
"Lieutenant Pickering's father and I were in the war to end all wars together," General Mclnerney said, dryly.
"Is that so?" the sergeant said.
"And the lieutenant's father called me and, for auld lang syne, Sergeant Wallace, asked me to take care of his boy. And of course, I said I would."