W.e.b. Griffin - The Corps II - CALL TO ARMS

"He told me about you, too," Pickering blurted.

Jeanne Sayre looked uncomfortably from one to the other. And then she looked between them, avoiding what she did not want to look at.

"But your name isn't Foster?" Martha challenged. "What about the rest of the story? How much of that is true?"

"Martha!" Jeanne Sayre snapped.

"Andrew Foster is my mother's father," Pickering said.

He saw surprise on Jeanne Sayre's face. But he didn't know what was in Martha Sayre Culhane's eyes.

"And what brought you to honor the Marine Corps with your presence?" Martha Sayre Culhane challenged.

"An old family custom," Pick snapped. "My father-my father is Fleming Pickering, as in Pacific Far East Shipping-was a Marine in the last war. Whenever the professionals need help to pull their acorns out of the fire, we lend a hand. I am twenty-two years old. I went to Harvard, where I was the assistant business manager of the Crimson. I am unmarried, have a polo handicap of six, and generally can get around eighteen holes in the middle seventies. Is there anything else you would like to know?"

"Good for you, Lieutenant!" Jeanne Sayre said. "Martha, really-"

"If there's no objection," Martha Sayre Culhane interrupted her mother, "I think I'll go first."

She stepped to the tee and drove her mother's ball straight down the fairway.

Whoever had taught her to play golf, Pickering saw, had managed to impress upon her the importance of follow-through. At the end of her swing, her khaki gabardine skirt was skintight against the most fascinating derriere he had ever seen.

"If you would rather not play with us, Lieutenant," Jeanne Sayre said, "I would certainly understand."

"If it's all right with you," Pick said, "I'll play with you."

She met his eyes for a moment. Her eyes, Pick saw, were gray, and kind, and perceptive.

"You go ahead," Jeanne Sayre said. "I'll bring up the rear."

Martha Sayre Culhane hated him, Pick was aware, because he was here. Alive. And her husband-the late Lieutenant Whatever-his-name-had-been Culhane, USMC-had died in the futile defense of Wake Island.

Pick was ambivalent about that. Shamefully, perhaps even disgustingly ambivalent. He was sorry that Lieutenant Culhane was dead. He was sorry that Martha Sayre Culhane was a widow. And glad that she was.

By the time they came off the course, there was no doubt in Pick Pickering's mind that he was in love. There was simply no other explanation for the way he felt when-however briefly- their eyes had met.

(Two)

Thirtieth Street Station Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 1820 Hours, 8 January 1942

The weather was simply too cold and nasty for Ernie Sage to wait on the curb outside the Thirtieth Street Station as she had promised.

But she found, inside the station near one of the Market Street doors, a place where she could look out and wait for him. It was hardly more comfortable than the street: Every time the door opened, there was a blast of cold air, and she desperately needed to go to the ladies' room. But she held firmly to her spot; she was afraid she would miss him if she left.

And finally he showed up. Except for the path the wipers had cleared on the windshield, the LaSalle convertible was filthy. The bumper and grill were covered with frozen grime, and slush had packed in the fender wells.

Ernie picked up her bags and ran outside; and she was standing at the curb when he skidded to a stop.

She pulled open the door and threw her bags into the car.

"If they won't let you wait, go around the block," Ernie ordered. Then she ran back inside the Thirtieth Street Station to the ladies' room.

He wasn't there when she went back outside, but he pulled to the curb a moment later, and she got in.

She had planned to kiss him, but he didn't give her a chance, The moment she was inside, he pulled away from the curb. She slid close to him, put her hand under his arm, and nestled her head against his shoulder.

"Hi," she said.

"What's with all the luggage?" McCoy asked, levelly.

"I thought you'd probably be going through Harrisburg," Ernie said. "I thought I would ride that far with you, and then catch a train."

He looked at her for a just a moment, but said nothing.

"I'm lying," Ernie Sage said. "I'm going with you. All the way."

"No you're not," he said flatly.

"I knew that was a mistake," Ernie said. "I should have

waited until we were in the middle of nowhere before I told you. Somewhere you couldn't put me out."

"You can't come with me," he said.

"Why not? 'Whither thou goest…" Book of Ruth."

When there was no reply to that, Ernie said, "I love you."

"You think you love me," he said. "You don't really know a damn thing about me."

"I thought we'd been through all this," Ernie said, trying to keep her voice light. "As I recall, the last conclusion you came to was that I was the best thing that ever happened to you."

"Oh, Jesus Christ!"

"Well, am I or ain't I?" Ernie challenged.

"You ever wondered if… what happened… is what this is really all about?"

"You mean," she said, aware that she was frightened, that she was close to tears, "because we fucked? Because you copped my cherry?"

"Goddamn it, I hate it when you talk dirty," he said furiously.

Her mouth ran away with her. "Not always," she said.

He jammed his foot on the brakes, and the LaSalle slid to the curb.

"Sorry," Ernie said, very softly.

There was something in his eyes that at first she thought was anger, but after a moment she knew it was pain.

"I love you," Ernie said. "I can't help that."

He was breathing heavily, as if he had been running hard.

Then he put the LaSalle in gear and pulled away from the curb.

"I was afraid you were going to put me out," Ernie said.

"Do me a favor," McCoy said. "Just shut up."

When she saw a U.S. 422 highway sign, Ernie thought that maybe she had won, maybe that he even would reach across the seat for her and take her hand, or put his arm around her shoulder. U.S. 422 was the Harrisburg highway. If she got that far, if they spent the night together…

In Norristown, ten miles or so past the western outskirts of Philadelphia, he turned off the highway and pulled into an Amoco station.

A tall, skinny, pimply-faced young man in a mackinaw and galoshes came out to the pump. McCoy opened the door and got out.

"Fill it up with high test," McCoy ordered. "Check the oil. And can you get the crap off the headlights?"

"Yes, sir," the attendant said.

"Dutch around?" McCoy asked.

"Inna station," the attendant said.

McCoy turned and looked through the windshield at Ernie, and then gestured for her to come out.

By the time she had put her feet back in her galoshes, McCoy was at the door of the service station. Ernie ran after him.

There was no one in the room where they had the cash register and displays of oil and Simoniz, but there was a man in the service bay, putting tire chains on a Buick on the lift.

"Whaddasay, Dutch?" McCoy greeted him. "What's up?"

The man looked up, first in impatience, and then with surprised recognition. He smiled, dropped the tire chains on the floor, and walked to McCoy.

"How're ya?" he asked. "Ain't that an officer's uniform?"

"Yeah," McCoy said. "Dutch, say hello to Ernie Sage."

"Hi ya, honey," Dutch said. "Pleased to meetcha."

"Hello," Ernie said.

"How's business?" McCoy asked.

"Jesus! So long as we got gas, it's fine," Dutch said. "But there's already talk about rationing. If that happens, I'll be out on my ass."

"Maybe you could get on with Budd in Philly," McCoy said. "I guess they're hiring."

"Yeah, maybe," Dutch said doubtfully. "Well, I'll think of something. What brings you to town? When'd you get to be an officer?"