“The two exceptions, the only times we have at least hurt the Japanese a little, were Lieutenant Colonel Jimmy Doolittle’s B-25 raid on Tokyo and the Corps’ invasion of Guadalcanal. From what I’ve heard, we almost got pushed back into the sea at Guadalcanal, and that fight, as you all well know, is by no means over. But at least it looks to the public as if the Armed Forces, especially the Marine Corps, have finally done something right.
“So what has this got to do with you? You’re Marine officers. You will carry out the orders you are given cheerfully and to the best of your ability. Your orders in this instance are to comply with whatever orders we feather merchants in Public Affairs give you. Generally speaking, this will mean being where you are told to be, sober, in the proper uniform, and wearing a smile. This will, it is hoped, convince the civilian populace that after some initial setbacks, the Marines finally have the situation under control. This, in turn, may encourage people to buy War Bonds, and it may even convince some of our innocent youth to rush to the recruiting station so they can share in the glory.
“An effort will be made to have someone from Public Affairs present whenever you are interviewed by the press. Keep in mind that the purpose of this operation is to bolster civilian morale. I don’t want to hear that any of you have been telling the press about what went wrong on Guadalcanal, and that certainly means you are not at liberty to say anything unflattering about the Navy, or the Army, or indeed the Corps.
“The tour will last two weeks, and possibly three. When it is over, you will be given a fifteen-day delay en route to your new assignments. The tour will start on Monday, which will give you an opportunity to get your uniforms in shape. Tonight you are free. Which does not mean you are at liberty to get drunk and chase skirts. Use the time to call home, if you like, to have a good meal, and—repeating myself—to have your uniforms pressed and your shoes shined. Sometime early tomorrow morning, you will be informed where you are to gather for specific instruction in what will be expected of you.”
After the bus delivered them to the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, and the senior officer among them had received the Key To The City from the Mayor, they were assigned to rooms. Clete Frade’s first priority then was a long, hot shower.
“Is there anything else I can get for you, Lieutenant?” the bellman asked.
“How about a large-breasted, sex-starved blonde?” Clete asked with a smile.
From the look on the bellman’s face it was evident that he thought Clete meant it.
“Just kidding,” Clete said.
“Lieutenant,” the bellman said, “I don’t think you’re going to have any trouble finding women.”
“I hope not,” Clete said.
Clete went back to the bedside table, took another dollar, and gave it to the bellman.
Then he made himself a drink—carefully—savoring that luxury too. Just a little water and one large ice cube, which he twirled around the glass with his finger. He took a sip.
Then he put the glass down and got dressed. He was not pleased with his reflection in the mirror. His shirt collar was not only limp, it was too large. The tunic, for which he paid so much money, hung loosely on him. He looked like a stranger, wearing somebody else’s uniform.
How the hell much weight did I lose over there?
The new set of shiny gold Naval Aviator’s wings displeased him. In a moment, he decided that was because they added to the illusion that whoever was looking back at him from the mirror was not Clete Frade.
He took the tunic off and replaced the new wings with his old ones. Then he put the tunic back on and looked at his reflection again.
Better, he thought. Much better. They are a connection with reality, with the past.
Finally, he sat down on the bed, reached inside Francis Xavier Sullivan’s left Half Wellington boot, and pulled out the wad of twenty-dollar bills he had been paid in Pearl Harbor. They were folded in half. He took three of these, put them in his trousers pocket, then flattened out the stack that remained and put them in the left lower pocket of his tunic. After that, he pulled the boots on and walked around the room until they settled around his feet.
He picked up his drink and raised it.
“Francis Xavier, old pal. Thank you,” he said aloud, and took a healthy sip of the bourbon.
He started for the window, intending to push the drape aside to see what was outside. Before he reached it, there was a double knock at the door. He turned and went to it and opened it.
A Marine officer stood there. He was a short, trim, tanned, barrel-chested, bald-headed, bird colonel wearing a pencil-line mustache. He carried an expensive, if somewhat battered, civilian briefcase. There was something vaguely Latino about him.
Hell, yes, he spoke to me in Spanish. I’ll bet three-to-five that Colonel A. F. Graham’s first name is either Alejandro or Antonio. And the “F” is for “Francisco.”
“Buenas noches, mi Coronel,” Clete said.
“May I come in?” Colonel A. F. Graham asked in Spanish.
“Yes, Sir.”
Clete stood out of the way, let Colonel Graham into the room, and closed the door.
“I thought I asked you to hold off on the drink until we had a chance to talk,” Graham said, still in Spanish.
“With all respect, Sir, the operative word was ‘asked.’”