W Griffin - The Corps I - Semper Fi

"Today is a day of duty," McCoy explained, patiently. "We get a day's travel time to Washington. That carries us up through midnight tomorrow. So long as we report in by midnight on Sunday, that makes Sunday a day of duty. So about eleven o'clock Sunday night, we'll find out where it is."

"You're not going home?" Pickering asked, and when McCoy shook his head, went on, "Or to New York?" "No," McCoy said, stiffly.

"I thought maybe you'd come to your senses about going to New York," Pickering said.

"You miss the point," McCoy said. "I have come to my senses. And that's the end of that particular subject."

"Okay, so we'll go to the Lafayette," Pickering said. "It's a little stuffy, but it has a very nice French restaurant." "Another hotel you own?"

"Grandpa owns it, actually," Pickering said. "It's right across from the White House. Do you suppose you can find the White House without a map, Lieutenant?"

"No, I've never been in Washington before, and I don't have a map, and I'm not going to sponge again off you or your 'Grandpa,' " McCoy said.

"Very well," Pickering said. "I will stay in the Lafayette, and you can stay in whatever flea-bag with hot-and-cold running cockroaches strikes your fancy, just so long as I know where to find you when it is time for us to go to the Marine Barracks and sign in. I hate to tell you this, Lieutenant, you being an officer and a gentleman and all, but you have a great talent for being a horse's ass." McCoy laughed.

"You're sure you want to sign in early?" he asked. "It may be a long time until they offer you any leave again."

"I need to know what this 'administrative' duty is all about," Pickering said. "I don't like the sound of it."

"What's the difference?" McCoy asked. "Whatever it is, they're not offering you a choice."

"Indulge me," Pickering said. "Take me along with you,

so that you can explain things to me. And for Christ's sake,

stop being an ass about being comped in one of our hotels."

"Being what?"

" 'Comped,' " Pickering explained. " 'Complimentary accommodations.' It's part of the business. If you work for Foster Hotels, you're entitled to stay in Foster Hotels when you're away from home."

"I don't work for Foster Hotels," McCoy argued.

"That's all right, you're with me," Pickering said. "And I am the apple of Grandpa's eye. Will you stop being an ass?"

"It makes me uncomfortable," McCoy said.

"So do you, when you pick your nose," Pickering said. "But if you agree to stay in Grandpa's hotel, you can pick your nose all you want, and I won't say a thing."

The doorman at the Lafayette knew Pickering by sight. He rushed around and opened the door with all the pomp shown a respected guest. But what he said, was, "Jesus, Pick, are you for real? Or is there a costume party?"

"You are speaking, sir, to an officer and a gentleman of the U.S. Marine Corps," Pickering said. "You will not have to prostrate yourself; kneeling will suffice." He turned to McCoy. "Ken, say hello to Jerry Toltz, another old pal of mine. We bellhopped here all through one hot, long, miserable summer.''

"How long are you going to be here?" the doorman asked.

"I don't know. Probably some time."

"They know you're coming?"

"I don't think so," Pickering said.

"I thought I would have heard," Jerry Toltz said. "The house is full, Pick."

"We need someplace to stay," Pickering said.

"Well, if they don't have anything for you, you and your pal can stay with me. There's a convertible couch."

"Thank you," Pickering said.

"Will you be needing the car?"

"Yeah," Pickering said. "I'm glad you asked. Don't bury it. We have to go out."

"That's presuming you can get in," the doorman said, and motioned for a bellboy and told him to park the car in the alley.

The man behind the reception desk also knew Malcolm Pickering.

He gave him his hand.

"You will be professionally delighted to hear the house is full," he said. "Personally, that may not be such good news.

How are you? It's good to see you. Your grand-dad told me you were in the Marines."

"Good to see you," Pickering said. "This is my friend Ken McCoy."

They shook hands.

"How long have you been an officer?" the manager asked.

"It must be, four, five hours now," Pickering said.

"And I don't have a bed for you! All I can do is call around. The Sheraton owes me a couple of big favors."

"What about maid's room in the bridal suite?"

"There's only a single in there," the manager protested.

"Put in a cot, then," Pickering said. "I'll sleep on that."

"I'll probably be able to find something for you tomorrow," the manager said.

"Lieutenant McCoy and I are going to be here for some time," Pickering said. "What about one of the residential hotels? I really hate to comp if we can rent it."

"There's a waiting list for every residential room in Washington," the manager said. "If you don't want to sleep on a park bench, you'll have to stay here. I'll come up with a bed-sitter for you in a day or two. Unless you need two bedrooms?''

"Lieutenant McCoy and I will not know how to handle the luxury of a bed-sitter. We have been sharing one room with thirty others."

"You want to go up now?"

"No, what we want to do now is locate the Marine Barracks."

The manager drew them a map.

They arrived at the Marine Barracks, coincidentally, just as the regularly scheduled Friday evening formal retreat parade was beginning. The music was provided by the Marine Corps Band, in dress blues.

It's like a well-choreographed ballet, Pickering thought as he watched the ceremony (the intricacies of which were now familiar) progress with incredible precision.

I'll be damned, McCoy thought, these guys are really as good as they're supposed to be.

There were Marines in dress blues stationed at intervals around the manicured grass of the parade ground. Their primary purpose, McCoy saw, was more practical than decorative. From time to time, one or more of them had to restrain eager tourists from rushing out onto the field to take a snapshot of the marching and drilling troops, or just to get a better look.

When the Marine Band had finally marched off, the perimeter guard near them, a lance corporal, left his post.

When he came to Pickering and McCoy, he saluted snappily.

"Good evening, sir!" he barked.

"Good evening," McCoy heard himself say.

Something bothered him. After a moment, he realized what it was. When the kid had tossed him the highball, he had done so automatically. The kid had seen a couple of officers, and he had saluted them. There had been nothing in his eyes that suggested he suspected he was saluting a China Marine corporal in a lieutenant's uniform.

I really am an officer, McCoy thought. Until right now, it was sort of play-acting. But now it's real. When that kid saluted me, I felt like an officer.

Well, this is the place to have it happen, he thought. At the Marine Barracks in Washington after a formal retreat parade, with the smell of the smoke from the retreat cannon still in my nose, and the tick-tick of the drums of the Marine Band fading as it marches away.

(Four)

On Saturday, Pickering and McCoy drove around Washington. Pickering was at first amused at the notion of playing tourist, but then he realized it wasn't so bad after all. He saw more of Washington with McCoy than he'd seen during the entire summer he'd spent bellhopping at the Lafayette.

And he came to understand that McCoy was doing more than satisfying an idle curiosity: He was reconnoitering the terrain. He wasn't sure if it was intentional, but there was no question that's what it was. It occurred to him again, as it had several times at Quantico, that McCoy was really an odd duck in society, as for example a Jesuit priest is an odd duck. They weren't really like the other ducks swimming around on the lake. They swam with a purpose, answering commands not heard by other people. A Jesuit's course through the waters of life was guided by God; McCoy's by what he believed-consciously or subconsciously-was expected of him by the Marine Corps.