"What the hell is this?" Easterbrook asked.

"It must be our transient barracks," Hart replied.

Fleming Pickering opened the passenger door and put out his hand.

"Welcome home, George," he said.

"Thank you, Sir," Hart said. "I didn't expect to see you here, General."

"I didn't expect to be here," Pickering replied. "Get yourself cleaned up, have a drink, and I'll explain it all to you." He leaned over the front seat and offered his hand to Easterbrook.

"I'm General Pickering," he said. "You're Easterbrook, right?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Those pictures you took, and the motion picture film you shot, were just what I needed. Come on in the house, and I'll try to show you my gratitude."

When Fleming Pickering knocked on the door, Sergeant Hart and Corporal Easterbrook were sitting in a large room furnished with two double beds. They were showered and shaved and wearing new skivvies. A moment later Pickering walked in, a freshly pressed uniform over his arm.

"This is Easterbrook's," he said, handing it to him. "Yours will be along in minute, George."

"Yes, Sir."

"You don't have a drink?" Pickering said. "I thought the refrigerator would need restocking by now."

He slid open a closet door. Behind it was a small refrigerator, full of beer and soft drinks.

"And there's whiskey in that cabinet," he said, pointing. "If you'd rather."

"I'll have a beer, please, Sir," Hart said, and walked to him.

Pickering opened a beer, then walked to Easterbrook and handed it to him.

"Son, why don't you put on a shirt and trousers, that's all you'll need, and then go down and sit with McCoy on the patio. I need a word with Sergeant Hart."

"Yes, Sir," Easterbrook replied, and hastily put on a khaki shirt and pants. Pickering made himself a drink of scotch, and waited until Easterbrook was gone before he spoke.

"You were just paid a pretty good compliment, George," Pickering said. "McCoy said of you, quote, 'He's a good Marine, General.' "

"I'm flattered," Hart said. "If only half the things they say about him are true, he's a hell of a Marine."

"I'm on my way to Australia, George. Tomorrow morning. In a day or two, they'll find you a seat on a plane to the States. Show your orders in San Francisco and tell them to route you via St. Louis on your way to Washington. Take a week to see your folks, and then go to Washington. Then pack your bags again. I don't think I'll be coming back there any time soon-that may change, of course-but I'd like to have you with me in Australia."

"Aye, aye, Sir," Hart said, and then: "May I ask a question, Sir?"

"Certainly."

"Wouldn't it make more sense if I went to Australia from here?"

"It would, but I didn't want to ask you to do that. I mean, after a man gets tossed out of a rubber boat..."

"McCoy told you about that?"

"... in the surf off an enemy-held island, he's entitled to a leave. I can do without you for two or three weeks, George."

"Easterbrook deserves to go home. Major Dillon and McCoy have things to do in the States. I don't. I'll go with you, Sir, if that would be all right."

"Strange, I thought that would be your reaction," Pickering said. "And I can use you, George."

There was a knock at the door, and a white-jacketed black man walked in with a freshly pressed set of new khakis.

"Finish your beer," Pickering said. "And then come down to the patio."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

Corporal Robert F. Easterbrook, carrying a bottle of beer, slid open a plate-glass door and walked uneasily onto the patio.

"They take care of you all right at the Marine Barracks, Easterbrook?" Lieutenant McCoy asked.

"Yes, Sir."

"Pull up a chair, take a load off," Major Dillon said, smiling, trying to be as charming as he could.

He thought: Well, now that I've got you off Guadalcanal, what the hell am I going to do with you?

[ONE]

Pan American Airlines Terminal

San Francisco, California

0700 Hours 16 October 1942

Almost all the passengers on Pan American Flight 203 from Hawaii were in uniform, Army, Navy, and Marine. And all the uniforms were in far better shape than his, Major Edward Banning noted. He was sure, too, that no one on the airplane was traveling without a military priority. But it was a civilian airliner, and Pan American provided the amenities it offered before the war.

The food was first class, served by neatly uniformed stewards. It was preceded by hors d'oeuvres and a cocktail, accompanied by wine, and trailed by a cognac. Banning had three post-dinner cognacs, knowing they would put him to sleep, which was the best way he knew to pass a long flight.

For breakfast, there were ham and eggs, light, buttery rolls, along with freshly brewed coffee; he wasn't about to complain when the yolks of the eggs were cooked hard.

We all have to be prepared to make sacrifices for the war effort, he thought, smiling to himself. He was pleased with his wit-until it occurred to him he still might be feeling the effects from the night before of the pair of double bourbons, the bottle of wine, and the cognacs.

After breakfast, the steward handed him a little package containing a comb; a toothbrush and toothpaste; a safety razor; shaving cream; and even a tiny bottle of Mennen after-shave. Armed with all that, he went back to the washroom and tried to repair the havoc that days of neglect had done to his appearance.

Brushing his teeth made his mouth feel a great deal better, and a fresh shave was pleasant. But the face that looked back at him in the mirror did not show a neatly turned out Marine officer. It showed a man with bloodshot eyes-not completely due, he decided, to all the drinks he let himself have last night. His skin was an unhealthy color. And he was wearing a shirt that smelled of harsh Australian soap mixed with the chemicals of the Pearl Harbor photo lab.

I need a shower, eight hours in a bed, and then some clean uniforms. I wonder how long it will take them in San Francisco to get me a seat on an airplane. Maybe enough time to go to an officers' sales store and get at least a couple of new shirts. Maybe even enough to get some sleep.