"What were you doing with the General?" Stecker wondered aloud. Lieutenants seldom hold conversations with general officers, much less obtain personal data from them about field-grade officers.
"I'm on my way to the States," McCoy said. "I was told to see if my boss can do anything for him in the States."
"Your boss is?"
"General Pickering."
"What have you been doing here?"
"We replaced the Coastwatcher detachment on Buka," McCoy said matter-of-factly.
Stecker had heard about that operation; and he was not surprised to hear that McCoy was involved, or that he was working for Fleming Pickering. "It went off all right, I guess?" Colonel Stecker asked.
"It went so smoothly, it scared me. Colonel-"
"I'm going to have trouble getting used to that title," Stecker interrupted.
"It took a while, but I'm now used to being called 'lieutenant,' " McCoy said. "I never thought that would happen. They wouldn't have promoted you if they didn't think you could handle it."
"Or unless they've reached the bottom of the barrel so far as officers are concerned. One or the other."
"What I started to say was that I'm going home via Pearl. Pick Pickering asked me to go by the Naval Hospital to see your son. I thought maybe you'd want me to tell him something, or..."
"I expect they're doing all they can for him," Stecker said. "You could tell him... Tell him you saw me, and that I'm proud of him."
"Yes, Sir."
Colonel Stecker was aware that he had just done something he rarely did, let his emotions show.
"What can I do for you, McCoy?" he asked.
"That's my question, Sir. General Pickering told me to look you up and see what he could do for you. Or what I could."
"That's very kind of the General..." Stecker said, and then paused. "We were in France together, in the last war, did you know that?"
"Yes, Sir."
"I was a buck sergeant, and he was a corporal. We were as close as Pick and my son Dick are."
"Yes, Sir. He told me."
"So please tell him, McCoy, that I appreciate the gesture, but I can't think of a damned thing I need."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
"When are you going to Pearl?"
"We were supposed to go today, but when the R4D pilots came in from Espiritu Santo, they found something wrong with the airplane. They're fixing it now, so I guess in the morning."
Stecker put out his hand.
"It was good to see you, McCoy. And thank you. But now I have to get back to my battalion."
"Could I tag along with you, Sir?"
"Why would you want to do that?"
"I feel like a feather merchant just hanging around waiting to be flown out of here," McCoy said simply. "Maybe I could be useful."
"I don't think anyone thinks of you as a feather merchant, McCoy," Stecker said. "But come along, if you like."
[FIVE]
VMF-229
Henderson Field
0930 Hours 13 October 1942
"Well, look who's come home," First Lieutenant William C. Dunn, USMCR, said to First Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR. When he walked into the tent, Dunn found Pickering sitting on his bunk.
Pickering reached around and picked up from the bunk a small cloth bundle tied with string. With both hands, he shot it like a basketball at Dunn.
"Don't say I never gave you anything," Pickering said.
The package was heavier than it looked; Dunn almost dropped it.
"Bribery of superior officers is encouraged," Dunn said. "What is it?"
"Royal Australian Air Force Rompers and booze," Pickering said.
"From Port Moresby."
Dunn took a K-Bar knife from a sheath and slit the cord. Then he carefully removed a pair of quart bottles of Johnny Walker scotch from the two cotton flying suits they were wrapped in and put them in the Japanese shipping crate that served as his bedside table.
"Thanks, Pick," Dunn said.
"I figured even an unreconstructed Rebel like you would rather drink scotch than not drink at all," Pick said.
"Kicking the gift horse right in the teeth, what I really need is underpants," Dunn said. "I don't suppose there's..."
"Shit, I didn't even think of skivvies," Pickering said. "When I saw the booze and the flight suits..."
"All contributions gratefully received," Dunn said. He proved it by stripping out of the sweat-soaked flight suit he was wearing; and then, standing naked except for his held-together-with-a-safety-pin shorts, he began tearing off the labels from one of the flying suits.
He looked at Pickering.
"So tell me all about the great secret mission."
"Not much to tell. It went like clockwork."
"Where did you learn to fly an R4D?"
"On the way to New Guinea," Pick replied.
Dunn looked at him curiously, then saw he was serious.
"Then how come... ?"
"I was about to go over the edge," Pick said. "Galloway saw it and took me along, just to work the radios, to get me out of here."
"Because of Dick Stecker?" Dunn asked quietly.
"I was about to turn in my wings of gold for a rifle," Pick said.
"Same thing happened yesterday as happened to Dick. Or nearly the same thing. Ted Knowles ran out of gas and crashed. Did you get to meet him before you left?"
Pickering shook his head, no.
"He was making a dead-stick approach. According to Oblensky, he tried to stretch his glide and didn't make it. He rolled it end over end. When I went to see him, all you could see was gauze."
"Did he come through it?"
Dunn shook his head, no. "Nice guy. My fault. I didn't check the flight about remaining fuel, and he didn't want to look like he was anything less than a heroic Marine Aviator, so he tried to fly it on the fumes."
"That's not your fault," Pickering said.