"Would you just put your arms around me again?" Beth asked softly, looking into his eyes. "And just hold me?" He held his arms open and she took the few steps to him.
When he put his arms around her, she started to cry again. He ran his hands over her back and against her hair and made soothing noises.
And then the warmth of her legs and the softness of her breasts got to him again; and the erection returned. When he tried to pull away from her, she followed him. And then she tilted her head back again and looked into his eyes for a moment. And then her mouth was on his, hungrily, and she dragged him backward onto the bed.
[Four]
WALTER REED ARMY GENERAL HOSPITAL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
1145 HOURS 22 SEPTEMBER 1942
At quarter past ten, Technical Sergeant Harry N. Rutterman put his head in Colonel F. L. Rickabee's office and told him that General Pickering was on the line.
The conversation was a short one: "There's something we have to talk about, Rickabee," General Pickering said. "Is there some reason you can't come over here, say at quarter to twelve?"
"No, Sir," he said, though he was not telling the precise truth when he said it. His work schedule was a god-awful mess. Adding a meeting with The General would only make it worse. On the other hand, a general's wish was a colonel's command.... I "Thank you,' Pickering said, and hung up.
When Colonel F. L. Rickabee, at precisely the appointed hour, walked into the sitting room of Brigadier General Fleming Pickering's VIP suite, he found a table set for two. And The General was dressed in uniform -or part of one-and not in a bathrobe and pajamas. Though he wasn't wearing his blouse a field scarf, there was a silver star on the collar points of his khaki shirt. Rickabee decided that Pickering had a purpose when he pinned on the insignia of his rank.
Otherwise why bother? He's not going anyplace. On the other hand, maybe someone's coming to see him-maybe General Forrest-and he's putting his uniform on for that. And wants some advice from me before he meets him?
"Good morning, General."
"Sorry to drag you away from your office, but I suspect I would have made waves if I had come to you."
"My time is your time, General," Rickabee said. "And I thought you would be interested in this, Sir. It was delivered by messenger yesterday afternoon." He took a sheet of paper from his inside pocket and handed it to Pickering.
INTEROFFICE MEMORANDUM
DATE: 21 September 1942
FROM: Assistant Chief of Staff, Personnel
TO: Director Public Affairs Office Hq, USMC
HAND CARRY
SUBJECT: Office of Management Analysis Hq, USMC
1. Effective immediately, no, repeat no, public relations activity of any kind will
involve the Of f ice of management Analysis, or any personnel assigned thereto.
2. The Public Affairs Office is forbidden to contact the office of Management Analysis for
any purpose without the specific permission of the undersigned.
3. Discussion of this policy, or requests for waivers thereto, is not desired.
BY DIRECTION OF THE COMMANDANT:
Alfred J. Kennedy
Major General, USMC
Assistant Chief of Staff, G-1
Pickering read it and snorted, then handed it back.
"I suppose that will keep them off our backs. Being a general officer does seem to carry with it the means to get things done, doesn't it?"
"Yes, Sir, it does seem to, General.
"I thought we could save time by having lunch," Pickering said. "I asked them to serve at twelve."
"Very kind of you, Sir."
"You better hold the thanks until you see what they give us.
Now that I think of it, I should have ordered some emergency rations."
"Sir?"
"I sometimes have the hotel send over a platter of hors d'oeuvres against the likelihood that lunch or dinner will be inedible."
"I see."
"I am medically restricted to four drinks a day," Pickering said. "I am about to have my second. Would you care to join me?"
You are medically restricted to no more than two drinks a day, General, not four. And somehow I suspect that the drink you are about to have is going to be Number Three or Number Four, not Number Two.
"Yes, Sir. I would. Thank you."
"Scotch all right?"
"Scotch is fine, Sir." Pickering went into the small room between the sitting room and the bedroom. He returned in a moment with a nearly empty bottle of Famous Grouse.
"My supply of this is running a little low," he said.
"No problem, Sir, I don't have to have scotch."
"Oh, no. There's a couple of bottles left here, and if Hart and Moore haven't been at them, several more in the hotel. But the stock is running low. I have a hell of a stock, however, a hundred cases or more, in San Francisco. Most of it came off my Pacific Princess when I chartered her to the Navy."
"Well, they have a rule, no liquor aboard Navy vessels."