"Because," Ian Bruce said, again with irrefutable logic, "we do not know that Lieutenant Reeves is dead. We only believe he is. Until we know for sure, or until the Japanese come, we will do what he wishes us to do."
"Semper Fi, right?"
"I do not understand."
"Yeah, you do," Steve said.
"Is that English?"
"It's Marine," Steve said. "It means... you do what you're expected to do, I guess. Or try, anyway."
"I see," Ian Bruce said solemnly.
[Two]
USMC REPLACEMENT DEPOT
PARRIS ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA
2250 HOURS 7 SEPTEMBER 1942
Because he was on a routine check of the guard posts, the officer of the day happened to be at the main gate when the 1939 LaSalle convertible pulled up to the guard and stopped.
It had been a long and dull evening and showed little prospect of getting more interesting.
"Hold it a minute," the OD said to his jeep driver.
"Aye, aye, Sir," the driver said and stopped the jeep.
The OD got out and walked toward the LaSalle. The driver was apparently showing his orders to the guard, for the beam of the guard's flashlight illuminated the interior. The OD saw that the car held two lieutenants, neither of whom was wearing his cover.
But what the hell, it's almost eleven o'clock.
"Welcome to sand flea heaven," the OD said. "Reporting in?"
"Just visiting," McCoy replied.
He was a first lieutenant, the OD saw, not any older than he himself was. But he was wearing a double row of ribbons, including the Bronze Star and what looked like the Purple Heart with two clusters on it. The other one was a second lieutenant, and he too was wearing ribbons signifying that he had been wounded and decorated for valor.
Am I being a suspicious prick, or just doing my job? the OD wondered as he reached to take the orders from the guard.
The orders were obviously genuine. They were issued by Headquarters, USMC, and ordered First Lieutenant K. R.
McCoy to proceed by military or civilian road, rail, or air transportation, or at his election, by privately owned vehicle, to Philadelphia, Penna., Parris Island, S.C., and such other destinations as he deemed necessary in the carrying out of his mission for the USMC Office of Management Analysis.
What the hell is the Office of Management Analysis?
"Well, as I said," the OD said, smiling, "welcome to sand flea heaven."
"I know all about the sand fleas," McCoy said, smiling. "But how do I find the BOQ?"
"How do you know about the sand fleas and not the BOQ?" the OD asked, and immediately felt like a fool as the answer came to him: This guy was a Mustang. He had gone through Parris Island as an enlisted man before getting a commission.
He knew about sand fleas. But Marine boots do not know where bachelor officers rest their weary heads.
Follow the signs to the Officer's Club," the OD said. "Drive past it.
Look to your right. Two-story frame building on your right."
"Thank you," McCoy said.
The guard saluted. McCoy returned it. McCoy drove past the barrier.
"Interesting," the OD said to the guard. "Did you see the ribbons on those officers?"
"Yes, Sir. And one of them had a cane, too."
"I wonder what the hell the Office of Management Analysis is?" the OD asked, not expecting an answer.
"I'll tell you something else interesting, Sir," the guard said.
The sergeant major is looking for them. At least for Lieutenant McCoy. He passed the word through the sergeant of the guard we was to call him, no matter when he came aboard."
"Him? Not the OD? Or the General's aide?"
"Him, Sir."
"Well, in that case, Corporal, I would suggest you get on the horn to the sergeant major. Hell hath no fury, as you might have heard."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
"Does this place fill you with fond memories?" McCoy asked as they drove through the Main Post, an area of brick buildings looking not unlike the campus of a small college.
"I would rather go back to Guadalcanal than go through here again," Moore said.
"How's your legs?"
"I won't mind lying down."
"Well, you wanted to come."
"And I'm grateful that you brought me. I was going stir crazy in the hospital."
"I think what you need, pal, is a piece of ass. I also think you're out of luck here."
"Says he, the Croesus of Carnal Wealth," Moore replied.