"Dad's in Walter Reed Hospital with malaria. He's apparently pretty sick, but in no danger."
"I gather we should see about getting your mother on an airplane?"
"Just Mother. It was just pointed out to me that I do not have time to go to see him."
"I will take your mother to see him and tell him why you couldn't be there. Is there anything else I can do, Pick?" Pick raised both hands helplessly.
"What?" he asked.
[Two]
TEMPORARY BUILDING T-2032
THE MALL WASHINGTON, D.C.
1630 HOURS 9 SEPTEMBER 1942
When First Lieutenant Kenneth R. McCoy pushed open the outer door of the two-story frame building, he noticed a new sign, USMC OFFICE OF MANAGEMENT ANALYSIS, nailed to the side of the building. Previously, there had been no sign at all. Since that made Building T-2032 even more anonymous among the other identical "temporary" frame buildings-they had been there since the First World War-he wondered why Colonel Rickabee had decided to hang a sign.
As he took the stairs to the second floor two at a time, he decided that some brass hat with nothing better to do had probably issued an edict that all buildings would be properly labeled.
It had probably occupied the better part of his time for a month, McCoy mused, first coming up with the idea, and then deciding in precise detail the size of the sign, and of its lettering, and its color.
As he reached the second floor, he remembered that a bird colonel and his entourage had been sharing the building.
He was charged with coordinating enlisted morale projects with the Army and Navy, or some such bullshit. I wonder why he doesn't have a sign?
At the top of the stairwell was a small foyer. Access to the rest of the building was barred by a counter; wire mesh went in the countertop to the ceiling.
McCoy recognized one of the two staff noncoms behind the barrier.
"Open up, Rutterman," he said.
Technical Sergeant Harry Rutterman, who had first come to know Lieutenant McCoy as a just-graduated-from-Quantico second lieutenant, threw up his hands in horror.
"Sir, these are classified premises," he said. "Will you please state the nature of your business and show me your identification?"
"You're kidding."
"Not at all, Sir. Less than an hour ago, our beloved commanding officer passed through these portals without challenge, and then ate my ass out for letting him in."
"Really?"
"I think you are next on his menu, Lieutenant, if you don't mind my saying so," Rutterman said. "He left word that he wants to see you as soon as you came in." McCoy extended his identification, a leather folder holding a badge and a photo identification card.
"Pass, friend," Rutterman said, as he pushed a button which operated a solenoid that unlocked a wire mesh door. "And good luck!"
"If I wasn't an officer and a gentleman, Harry, I'd tell you to take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut," McCoy said as he walked past him.
Colonel F. L. Rickabee's office was at the corner of the far end of the building. Its door was closed. McCoy knocked and said, "McCoy, Sir."
"Come!" McCoy opened the door, marched in, and stood to attention before Rickabee's desk, even though Rickabee was in civilian clothing.
"Moore?" Rickabee asked.
"He's all right, Sir. It was exhaustion more than anything else."
"Taking him out of the hospital was stupid, McCoy."
"Yes, Sir. No excuse, Sir."
"Sessions told me that General Pickering ordered you to get in touch with his wife." It was a question more than a statement.
"Yes, Sir. I was unable to reach Mrs. Pickering, but I spoke with his son, Sir."
"That's right, you know him, don't you?"
"We were in OCS together, Sir."
"Where's this man Hart?"
"At the hotel, Sir. I didn't know what to do with him. I was going to ask if you wanted to see him."
"I'll have to go on what Sessions and you feel," Rickabee said "I'll want to see him when he comes back."
"Sir?" Rickabee handed him a large manila envelope. McCoy opened it. It contained airline tickets and a sheaf of mimeographed orders.
HEADQUARTERS
UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS
WASHINGTON, D.C.
9 September 1942
LETTER ORDERS:
To: SGT Hart, George F 386751, USMCR
Company "A"
Marine Barracks
Washington, DC
1. You will proceed this date to San Francisco, Cal., St. Louis, Mo., and such other