But he was faithful to her, witness last night, when a smashingly beautiful woman with an uncontrollable lust for Marine Aviators had a friend who felt very much the same way. Pick hadn't even wanted to meet her.
That was either incredibly stupid or admirable.
Because Stecker had grown very fond of Pickering, he gave his buddy the benefit of the doubt. It was admirable. Sir Pick, riding off to the Crusades, vowing to stay chastely faithful to Maid Martha while she remained pure and untouched in Castle Pensacola.
Stecker looked out the window and saw they were riding beside the hurricane fence that surrounded the Grumman plant. Up ahead he could see the floodlighted area around the gate. Since the cab was not permitted inside the fence, they got out of it by the gate.
Stecker saw a white-hat inside the guard shack. That was unusual. Although there was a small Navy detachment assigned to the factory, the security force was civilian. The officers and white-hats were here to get aircraft through the production lines and out to the fleet and air bases, not to guard the plant.
Pickering paid the cabdriver, and Stecker walked to the gate, taking a copy of their orders from his pocket as he did so.
"Excuse me, Sir," the white-hat said, saluting as he came out of the guard shack. "Is your name Pickering?"
"He's Pickering," Stecker replied with a gesture in the general area of the taxi. He was suddenly afraid that something unpleasant was about to happen. The insignia on the white-hat's sleeve identified him as an aviation motor machinist's mate first class. Sailors holding the Navy's second-highest enlisted grade are not ordinarily found in guard shacks at quarter to six in the morning.
"You're Lieutenant Stecker, then, Sir?"
"Right."
"Wait right there please, Lieutenant," the white-hat said, and went back in the guard shack. Stecker saw him pick up a telephone and dial a number.
The white-hat came back out of the guard shack as Pickering walked up. The white-hat saluted him. Stecker found nothing wrong with the return salute Pickering rendered.
He returns salutes just fine. What gets him in trouble are those vague gestures supposed to be salutes that he gives those senior to him in the military hierarchy.
"Gentlemen," the AMMM1st said, "the senior naval representative aboard would like a word with you. If you'll come with me I have transport." The transport turned out to be a Chevrolet pickup truck painted Navy gray. When they had all crowded into the cab Stecker said, "I wonder why I have this feeling that we're in trouble?"
"May I speak freely, Sir?"
"Please do."
"Where the fuck have you two been? They've been looking for you since yesterday afternoon."
"Who is `they'?"
"First it was Lieutenant Commander Harris. Then, when you didn't show up last night, Commander Schneebelly. He's the senior naval representative, and he's been shitting a brick."
"Do you have any idea what it's all about?"
"I know there was a message from the Navy Department. I don't know what was in it. Where the hell have you been Night on the town? I hope she was worth it."
"This officer was carousing and consorting with loose women," Pickering said piously. "I myself went to bed early and of course, alone. I should have known that if I associate with him, he would sooner or later get me in trouble."
"Why don't I believe that, Lieutenant?" the petty office asked.
"That he would get me in trouble?"
"That you went to bed early and alone. You could ha come out here and done that."
"I have to keep an eye on him. He tends to run amok."
"This may not be as funny as you seem to think it is" Stecker said. "Did you do anything at Pee-cola I don't know about?"
"Can't think of a thing," Pick said truthfully.
The pickup pulled up before the Operations Building, Quonset hut.
"Here we are," the petty officer said. "Good luck. Commander Schneebelly sometimes gets a little excited." They stepped out of the truck and walked into the Quonset hut.
A chief petty officer was leaning on a counter. He stood erect he saw them.
"Good morning, Chief," Stecker said.
"Mr.... ?"
"Stecker, and this is Mr. Pickering."
"Commander Schneebelly will see you now, gentlemen," the chief said, pointing to a closed door.
Motioning Pickering to follow him, Stecker walked to the door and knocked.
"Come!"
"Stand at attention when we get in there and keep your mouth shut," Stecker said softly, and then opened the door and marched in.
He came to attention before Commander Schneebelly's desk.
"Sir, Lieutenants Stecker and Pickering reporting as ordered, Sir." Commander Schneebelly was short and plump; he wore both a pencil-line mustache and aviator's wings.
He pursed his lips.
"Stand at ease, gentlemen," he said softly, and then far less softly, "Where the hell have you two been?"
"Sir, our orders state `not later than zero six-thirty' this morning," Stecker said. "Sir, with respect, it's zero five fifty-five."
"That's not what I asked, Mister!" Commander Schneebelly snapped. "And I can tell time, thank you. Don't tell me what your orders say. I asked you, where have you been?"
"Permission to speak, Sir?" Pickering said, and Stecker winced.
"Speak!"
"Sir, this is all my fault. We spent the night at my grandfather's house. Lieutenant Stecker wanted to come right out here, but I talked him out of it." Commander Schneebelly considered that for a moment.
"Goddamn it, Mister, don't you have the brains you were born with? Doesn't your grandfather have a telephone? Is there some reason you couldn't have called out here and said that you would report in this morning?"
"No excuse, Sir," Pickering said.