THE FOSTER LAFAYETTE HOTEL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
0755 HOURS 9 SEPTEMBER 1942
Captain Edward L. Sessions, USMC, was standing inside the lobby of the hotel when the LaSalle convertible pulled up at the curb.
He quickly put his brimmed cap on and walked to the curb, reaching it just as the doorman pulled the car door open.
"Good morning," he said. "Let me get in the back." There were three people in the front seat, two of whom he knew, Lieutenants McCoy and Moore. The man he had come to see, Private George Hart, was at the wheel.
McCoy slid forward on the seat, permitting Sessions to squeeze into the back.
All three of them looked as if they had driven through the night, which was of course the case.
"Let's go somewhere and get a cup of coffee," Sessions said, sitting on the forward edge of the rear seat, trying to get a better look at Hart.
"Turn right on Pennsylvania Avenue," McCoy ordered.
"There's a place we can go a couple of blocks away."
"Aye, aye, Sir," Hart replied.
He was very much aware that in the normal course of events he should have been on the drill field at Parris Island at this hour, not at the wheel of a LaSalle convertible, driving past the White House.
"Long ride?" Sessions asked.
"You said it," McCoy said, "and we ran into a patriotic Virginia highway cop who took this new 35-mph speed limit very seriously. He said he was really surprised that Marines of all people, they should know better-would be speeding."
"Get a ticket?"
"No." McCoy chuckled. "Hart still had his badge. Professional courtesy. He let us go."
"You were a detective, I understand, Hart?"
"Yes, Sir."
"How are you, Moore?"
"Fine, Sir."
"He is not," McCoy said. "I should not have let him talk me into taking him out of the hospital."
"I'm all right, Sir," Moore said.
"Congratulations on the gold bar," Sessions said.
"Thank you," Moore said.
"We got you a linguist, Captain. Just one."
"I thought there were supposed to be three?" "
Two didn't speak a word of Japanese," McCoy said.
"Anybody else?"
"Couple of radio operators. The trip was really a waste of time."
"Are you including Private Hart in that?"
"Isn't that why you wanted to meet us? To make that decision?" McCoy asked.
"I thought it would be a good idea to talk to Hart before we take him to see General Pickering," Sessions said. "I wasn't questioning your judgment, Ken, I just thought it would be a good idea for me-"
"I know, to talk to him," McCoy said.
"Are you going to tell me why I am annoying you, or am I supposed to just sit here and suffer in silence?" Sessions said sharply.
"I'm pissed at me, Captain," McCoy said. "When Moore got out of bed this morning correction: yesterday morning he passed out."
"I told you, I slipped," Moore interrupted.
"He passed out and fell down... hit his leg on a dresser drawer and opened his goddamned wound. And when they took a look at him at the dispensary, they wanted to keep him.
"I had a hell of a time getting him out."
"I'm all right," Moore insisted.
"Do you think we should take him to Bethesda?" Sessions asked.
"Sir, I would prefer to go back to Philadelphia," Moore said.
"I should never have taken you out of Philadelphia," McCoy said.
"OK," Sessions said. "Lieutenant Moore, you will return to the Naval Hospital at Philadelphia and you will stay there until properly discharged by competent medical authority. Understand?" Moore nodded.
"Lieutenant, when an officer receives an order from a superior officer, the expected response is, `Aye, aye, Sir."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
"What the hell's the matter with you, John? You were seriously wounded," Sessions said, far more gently.
"Sir, I'm all right. I'm a little weak, that's all."
"You up to driving to Philadelphia? Or should I make other arrangements?"