His tone was conversational, even friendly, which was almost astonishing, but what was genuinely astonishing was that the Captain had asked the question in Japanese.
"Very well, thank you, Sir," Private Moore said.
"Could you reply, please, in Japanese?" the Captain asked.
Moore did so.
"Do you read and write Japanese with equal fluency?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Major," the Captain said, switching to English, "I wonder if there's some place I could talk to Private Moore privately?"
"You can use my office, of course," Major Humphrey said.
"Very kind of you, Sir. Thank you, Sir," the Captain said, and then waited for Major Humphrey to get up and leave.
It was not lost on Private Moore that no matter what their ranks, the captain was giving orders, however politely, to the major, and that the major didn't much like it.
Sessions waited until Major Humphrey had left the office, closing the door behind, and then turned to Moore. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, then chuckled.
In English, he said, "I was about to ask you how you find boot camp, but I suppose when you open your eyes in the morning, there it is, right?"
Now he laughed, almost a giggle.
John Marston Moore had no idea how to react. There was no emotion on his face at all. Sessions saw this.
"My name is Sessions," he said. "I'm from Headquarters, USMC."
"Yes, Sir?"
"You're posing something of a problem to the Marine Corps," Sessions began seriously, but then his eyes lit up in amusement. "Usually, with a private, and especially here, that works the other way around, but in this case, you're causing the problem."
"Sir?"
"I'm going to have to take your word that you read and write Japanese," Sessions said. "I suppose I should have brought some document in Japanese for you to read from, but I left Washington in rather a hurry and didn't think about that. And the way I write Japanese... that wouldn't be a fair test."
Moore had just decided that Marine Captain or not, this man was an amiable idiot, when Sessions met his eyes. The eyes were both intelligent and coldly penetrating; not the eyes of a fool.
"You do read and write Japanese with fluency, right?" Sessions asked.
"Yes, Sir."
"OK. You ever read any Kafka, Moore?"
"Sir?"
"Franz Kafka? Everyman's problems with a mindless bureaucracy? They kept telling him he was guilty, but they wouldn't tell him of what?"
"Yes, Sir, I know who you mean."
"This is going to be something like that, I'm afraid," Sessions said. "There is a Marine Corps unit somewhere which has a priority requirement for a man with your Japanese language skills. I can't tell you what that unit is, where it is-except somewhere in the Pacific-or what it does, because that's all classified."
"Sir-" Moore began hesitantly, and then plunged ahead. "Sir, I was told that I've been granted a SECRET security clearance."
"Yeah, I know. But then there's TOP SECRET, and above TOP SECRET are some other security classifications. In this case, your SECRET clearance wouldn't get you in the door."
"Yes, Sir."
"I don't suppose," Sessions said, "that based on what little I'm able to tell you, you would be disposed to volunteer for service with this unit, would you?"
I am being asked to do something. This is the first I have been asked, as opposed to being told, to do anything since I got off the Atlantic Coastline train in Yemassee, South Carolina.
An image of that scene popped into his mind, complete to sound and smell; it was the start of his first night of active duty in the Marine Corps.
They had gotten off the chrome-and-plastic, air-cushioned, air-conditioned ACL cars and transferred to ancient, filthy wooden passenger cars resurrected from some railroad junk yard for the spur line trip to Port Royal. From Port Royal, they had been moved to Parris Island, like cattle being carried to the slaughter house, in an open trailer truck.
In Port Royal, he heard for the first time the suggestion that he might as well give his soul to Jesus, because his ass now belonged to the Marine Corps. Those words had subsequently been repeated many times.
From the moment he boarded the spur line train in Yemassee, his every action had been ordered, usually at the top of some uniformed sadist's lungs, his language punctuated with obscenities.
He had once been ordered by a corporal to run around the barracks with a galvanized bucket over his head, his piece at port arms, shouting, "I am an ignorant asshole who can't tell the difference between his piece and his prick." He'd done it, too.
He had only been permitted to stop when he ran full bore into a concrete pillar and nearly knocked himself out. He could not recall, now, the offense.
And now I am being asked to do something. I am not prepared to make a decision.
"Sir, I don't know what you're asking me to do."
"Let me throw one more thing into the equation," Captain Sessions said. "It would also mean, for the time being, that you would give up your commission. One can be arranged at a later date, but you would not get one now."
"Sir-"
"The bone I am authorized to throw to you is sergeant's stripes, effective immediately, and a five-day delay en route leave, not counting travel time."
"Sir, I don't mean any disrespect, but could you tell me why I should do something like this? I'm almost through here. When I finish at Quantico, I'll be an officer."
He had clung to that, the belief that when he had endured all that Parris Island, specifically all that his Drill Instructor and his assistants, could throw at him, he would be granted a commission. An officer, even a lowly second lieutenant, was not required to obey the orders of enlisted men.
Captain Sessions didn't reply. He shrugged and opened his mouth as if to speak, but then closed it again.
"Couldn't this assignment wait until I get my commission, Sir?" Moore asked.
"No," Sessions said simply, "it couldn't. You're needed now."
"Captain, what if I tell you 'no'?"