"Sir, they identify commissioned officers of The Corps, Sir."

"I heard a most interesting variation of that, Mr. Larsen..."

Carstairs is glowering at me. Fuck him!

"... from a Marine officer... a career Marine officer... who already wears two Purple Hearts for wounds suffered in this war; he was an officer in the Marine Raiders during the raid on Makin Island; and most recently he was involved in a Top Secret operation rescuing two Marines who were trapped on an enemy-held island. Would you be interested in hearing what this distinguished officer of the Regular Marine Corps told me about the knotted ropes on commissioned officers' caps, Mr. Larsen?"

"Sir, yes, Sir, I would, Sir."

"May I proceed, Sir? Is Mr. Larsen close enough to joining our officer corps that he may be entrusted with this hoary lore?"

"Go ahead, Mr. Pickering," Carstairs said.

"Killer McCoy told me, Mr. Larsen, that the ropes date back to the days when Marines served aboard sailing ships. The first ropes, according to McCoy, were sewn onto officers' covers so that Marine marksmen aloft in the rigging could safely shoot chickenshit officers in the head, and not some good Marine by mistake."

Lieutenant Dunn laughed. Mr. Larsen looked very uncomfortable. After a valiant effort not to, Captain Carstairs smiled.

"Oh, God, Pickering!" he said. "I should have expected something like that from you."

"Did Captain Carstairs tell you that I taught him to fly, Mr. Larsen?"

"Sir, no, Sir. He did not, Sir."

"Just to keep the record straight, Mr. Larsen, I taught him how to fly," Carstairs said, not quite succeeding in keeping himself from laughing.

"Whatever you say, Sir," Pickering said.

"Mr. Dunn," Carstairs said, "Mr. Larsen has informed me that he would consider it a privilege if you were to permit him to drive your personal automobile to Corey Field. I told him I felt sure you would grant him that privilege."

Well, that explains what the kid is doing here; Carstairs wants us in the staff car with him.

"Sure," Dunn said, and then had a second thought. "Can you drive an automatic shift? That's my mother's car, all the new gadgets."

Larsen's face fell.

"Sir, no, Sir, I never drove a car with an automatic shift, Sir."

"Show him how, Dunn," Carstairs ordered.

"You just put it in 'R' for 'Race' and step on the gas," Pick offered helpfully.

"God, you must really want to be a basic flight instructor, Mr. Pickering," Carstairs said.

"I'd forgotten about that," Pick said. "I am now on my very best behavior."

"You'd better be, when we get over there," Carstairs said.

"OK," Pick said.

"I had dinner with Martha last night. She was disgustingly pleased to hear that you were safely home. I think she expects you to call her. Have you?"

"No. I told you. She's made herself pretty clear about how she feels about me. I don't see any point in calling her."

"Suit yourself, Pick," Carstairs said.

Dunn came back.

"He can handle the car all right," he said. "When it works, any idiot can do it."

"When it works?"

"It broke when my mother was driving over the causeway to Mobile; just refused to move another inch. It's supposed to have been fixed."

"Well, he'll be following us," Carstairs said. "It shouldn't be a problem. You ride in the front, Pickering. Dunn and I will ride in the back."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

[FIVE]

Corey Field

Escambia County, Florida

0820 Hours 2 November 1942

Because he had a good view from the front seat of the car, Pickering saw the four Grumman F4F4 Wildcats almost from the moment the Plymouth passed inside the gate.

And he instantly understood what they were doing there. They were props in a bullshit session. He had gone through much the same thing himself, once upon a time. Aviation cadets (or in his and Dick Stecker's case, student officers) were gathered someplace shortly after reporting aboard, and a couple of fighters or dive-bombers were flown in from someplace and put on display: This is what you will be privileged to fly if you work ever so hard and shine your shoes properly and don't kill yourself in a Yellow Peril learning how.

He was surprised that the Plymouth headed in the direction of the Wildcats. Two of them were parked nose to nose, in front of bleachers... as though they were on a stage, or were part of a classroom display. The other two were parked to one side, on the grass between the ramp and a runway. As they drove closer, he saw that the bleachers were full of Naval Aviation cadets. Some of these were in flight suits, and some were in their sailor suits. There were only a few Marines.

Of course there's only a few Marines, stupid! We 're always outnumbered at least ten to one by the goddamned Navy. I wonder what the hell is going on here. There's an admiral's flag, and a staff car to go with it, and I'll be damned, a little tent. I'll bet they put up the tent so the Admiral can take a piss without having to walk a hundred yards. It must be a graduation ceremony or something.

The Plymouth headed right for the other staff car and pulled up beside it.

What the hell is this?

"Out, gentlemen," Carstairs ordered from the rear seat.

The door of the Plymouth beside them was opened by a white hat. An admiral stepped out, and then Colonel Porter got out the other side.

Captain Carstairs saluted.

"Good morning, Admiral," he said. "May I present, Sir, Lieutenant William C. Dunn and Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering?"

"Lieutenant Dunn, I consider it an honor to make your acquaintance," Rear Admiral Richard B. Sayre, USN, said, offering his hand. Then he turned to Lieutenant Pickering and put his arm around his shoulder as he shook his hand.

"Welcome home, Pick," Martha Sayre Culhane's father said, "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you."

"Thank you, Sir," Pick said.

Dunn and Colonel Porter looked at them with wide eyes.

"How have you set this up, Porter?" Admiral Sayre asked.