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

"What is it?" she snapped.

"This is Pick, Ernie," he said.

"What do you want at this time of the morning?" she snapped.

"I've got a little bad news," Pick said, gently.

"About what?" she asked, now with concern in her voice.

"About Ken," Pick said. "Ernie, did you read in the paper or hear on the radio about the Marine Raiders and Makin Island?"

"Yes," she said. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about Ken," Pick said.

"Just a minute," Ernie said, and went off the line. And stayed off.

"Hello?" Pick said, finally.

"Hello, yourself," Ken McCoy's voice came over the wire. "You have a lousy sense of timing, asshole. Did I ever tell you that?"

"When did you get back?"

"I got into Washington about ten last night," McCoy said. "And I caught the four A.M. train into New York. I've been here about an hour and a half. Get the picture?"

"Sorry to have bothered you, sir," Pick said, and hung up.

Captain Mustache handed him a drink. Pick looked at it and set it down.

"Our twice-wounded hero is in New York," he said. "I don't know how the hell he worked that, but I'm not really surprised."

"Well, there's our excuse to celebrate again," Carstairs said.

"No," Pick said.

"No?" Carstairs asked.

"Actually, I think I'll go to church," Pick said.

"Well, sure," Carstairs said, uncomfortably, forcing a smile.

(Four)

Navy Air Station Chapel Pensacola, Florida 30 August 1942

Chaplain (Lieutenant Commander) J. Bartwell Kaine, USNR, who until three months before had been rector of the Incarnation Episcopal Church of Baltimore, Maryland, was pleased to see the two Marine second lieutenants at his morning prayer service.

It had been his experience since coming to Pensacola that few, too few, of the officer aviation students attended worship services of any kind, and that those who did went to the nondenominational Protestant services at 1100. He was interested in keeping, so to speak, Episcopalian personnel within the fold, and there was no question in his practiced eye that the two handsome young Marines in the rear pew were Episcopal. They knew the service well enough to recite the prayers and doxology from memory, and they knew when and how to kneel.

Chaplain Kaine made a special effort, when the service was over, to speak to them, to let them know they were more than welcome, and to invite them to participate in the activities of what he referred to as "the air station Episcopal community."

They informed him that while they appreciated the offer of hospitality, they had finished their training and were about to leave Pensacola.

Then Second Lieutenants Pick Pickering and Dick Stecker walked to Pickering's car and got in. As Pickering pushed the starter button and got the Cadillac running, Stecker spoke:

"Even though I'm aware of the scriptural admonition to 'judge not, lest ye be judged,' why is it that I have the feeling that you dragged me over here more in the interests of your sinful lusts of the flesh than to offer thanks for your buddy coming through all right?"

"Fuck you, Dick," Pickering said, cheerfully.

"What made you think she'd be there? And if she had been, what makes you think she would have rushed into your arms?"

"I saw the picture of her father in the base newspaper. He's a vestryman. It was worth a shot."

"You're desperate, aren't you?" Stecker replied, half mockingly, half sympathetically.

"You're goddamn right I am. We're leaving here Tuesday."

"You're nuts, Pick," Stecker said, not unkindly.

"I'm in love, all right? People in love are allowed to be a little crazy."

"What you need is a piece of ass," Stecker said. "It has amazing curative powers for crazy people. Let's go back to the hotel and commit every sin-except worshipping graven images."

"Let's go sailing," Pickering said.

"Let's do what?"

"Sailing. Boats, sails. You have been on a boat?"

"How are we going to do that?"

"Trust me, my son," Pickering said solemnly. "Put thy faith in me, and I will work miracles."

Five minutes after they passed the Marine guard on the Pensacola Navy Air Station, Pickering turned off Navy Boulevard. Five hundred yards beyond he passed between two sandstone pillars.

"You did notice the sign?" Stecker asked, dryly.

"The one that said 'Pensacola Yacht Club'?"

"The one that said 'Members Only.'"

"Oh, ye of little faith," Pickering said.

"You really think she's going to be in here?"

"There was another story about her father," Pickering said, "in the Pensacola newspaper. In addition to being an admiral, he's the vice commodore here."

"Jesus, you are desperate."

"It also said they serve a buffet brunch, starting at ten," Pickering said. "Admirals have to eat, just like human beings. Maybe he brought his daughter with him."

"And what if he did? Presuming we don't get thrown out on our asses, what are you going to do, just walk up and say, 'Hi, there'?"

"Why not?" Pickering said, smiling at Stecker as he parked the car and pulled the emergency brake on.

A portly, suntanned man in a blue blazer with an embroidered patch on the pocket walked up to them as they entered the lobby of the yacht club.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he said. "Meeting someone?"

"Gee," Stecker said, under his breath, "we lasted a whole ten seconds before we got caught."

"No, we thought we'd try the buffet," Pickering said.

The man in the blazer looked uncomfortable, making Stecker think that he disliked throwing servicemen out of his yacht club, even if that was precisely what he was about to do.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I'm afraid this is a private club-"

"But you are affiliated with the American Yachting Association?" Pickering asked, as he took out his wallet.

"Yes, of course," the man said.

Pickering searched through the wallet and came up with a battered card and handed it over.

"Welcome to the Pensacola Yacht Club, Mr. Pickering," the man said, smiling, and handing him the card back. "I won't have to ask, will I, what brings you into our waters?"

"Our Uncle Samuel," Pickering said.

"Well, let me show you to the dining room," the man said. "If you don't think it's too early, the first drink is traditionally on me club."

"How nice," Pickering said.

The corridor from the lobby to the dining room was lined with trophy cases and framed photographs.

"Well, there's a familiar face," Pickering said, pleased, pointing to a photograph of a large sailboat with its crew. They were standing along the port side, hanging on to the rigging, and they were obviously delighted with themselves.

A thin strip of typewritten legend on the photograph said, "FAT CHANCE, 1st Place, Wilson Cup, San Francisco-Hawaii 1939."

"That was the 'thirty-nine Wilson Cup," the man from the yacht club said. "Jack Glenn, one of our members, was on her."

"Fat Jack," Pickering said. "But please note that splendid sailor about to fall off the bowsprit."

Stecker looked. It was Pickering, as obviously drunk as he was delighted with himself, holding on firmly to the bowsprit rigging.

"That's you," Stecker accused.

"Indeed," Pickering said.

From the look on the man from the yacht club, Stecker decided, the Pensacola Yacht Club was theirs.

"God is in his heaven," Pickering said solemnly. "Prayer pays. All is right with the world."

"What the hell?" Stecker asked, and then looked where Pickering was looking.

A rear admiral, a woman obviously his wife, and Martha Sayre Culhane were coming down the corridor.

"Well, hello, there," Mrs. Sayre said, offering her hand to Pickering. "It's nice to see you again, Lieutenant. You're a sailor, too?"

"Quite a sailor, Mrs. Sayre," the man from the yacht club said. He pointed to the photograph. "He was on the Fat Chance with Jack Glenn."