W.E.B. Griffin - Retreat, Hell!

From which location, when he sat down, he was unable to be unaware of her knees and the lace hem of her slip.

Black. Black is the color of mourning. Also of sexy feminine underwear. What's the connection there? McGrory probably has a theory.

"I hope Pick—Major Pickering—won't be offended when I tell you this," Babs Mitchell said as they were rolling through San Diego. "But he's just ex­perienced a terrible loss himself."

"Is that so?" Mother Mitchell asked.

"His fiancee was in a plane crash in Korea the day he was rescued," Babs Mitchell said.

Why is she telling them this?

Because she has finally picked up on Mother Mitchell's — or her mother's — sus­picions that I am the reason she doesn't want to go home to Kan . . . Arkansas. That's why, stupid.

"Oh, how awful!" Bab's mother said, sounding sincere.

"She was on an Air Force medical supply aircraft that crashed," Pick said.

"A nurse?"

"No, ma'am, she was a war correspondent."

"Jeanette Priestman," Babs Mitchell said. "Of the Chicago . . . what?"

"Tribune, " Pick said. "The Chicago Tribune. And it's Priestly, not Priest­man."

"Sorry," Babs Mitchell said.

"Don't be silly."

"My son and his wife, Major Pickering," Mr. Mitchell said, "I still don't re­ally understand why, recently became Episcopalians. The funeral service will be an Episcopal service. Are you familiar with—"

"Yes, sir," Pick said. "I was even an altar boy once."

"Were you really?"

He's pleased. He doesn't think I'm trying to get — or have already been — in his son's widows pants.

"Yes, sir, I was. And before that I sang in the choir of a church also called Saint Paul's."

"Really?"

"Yes, sir."

I think I just made the first goal for Protestant Episcopal Christian virtues.

Hell, make sure!

"Jeanette's body is being returned later this week," Pick said. "So I suppose you could say that Babs and I are trying to support each other. . . ."

Unless, of course, you are aware of the McGrory theory concerning two people of opposite sexes who have both experienced an emotional trauma.

There was a Cadillac hearse outside St. Paul's Church, through the windows of which a flag-draped casket was visible. And a flower car. And several more Marine-green staff cars. And half a platoon of Marines, in dress blues. Two-thirds of them were carrying Garands, and the others were apparently pallbearers.

A function normally performed by one's brother officers.

But they're off on a Far East Deployment and thus unavailable.

Mrs. Babs Mitchell took Major Malcolm Pickering's arm as they followed Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell and Babs's mother down the aisle of the church toward a reserved pew near the altar.

As Major Pickering dropped to the kneeling bench—

So you haven't done this in years.

So maybe you're a little hypocritical.

So what? The point of the exercise is to convince Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell, Babs's mother, and of course Mrs. Babs Mitchell herself that you are not only a fine Ma­rine Corps officer and gentleman, but a Christian gentleman who wouldn't even think of nailing Mrs. Babs Mitchell.

—he saw sitting directly across the aisle from him, in dress blues, Brigadier General Clyde W. Dawkins, USMC. Beside him was Mrs. Dawkins, looking like a slightly older version of the officers' wives who had been in Babs's— Mrs. Mitchell's —apartment.

Both looked at him. Mrs. Dawkins smiled. He smiled back.

Marines carried the casket in and set it on a catafalque in the aisle. The ceremony began.

It was, Pick thought, mercifully brief. The Marines carried the casket back down the aisle. Captain Kane came to the pew and indicated that it was now time for him to lead the widow back down the aisle and out of the church. Mrs. Mitchell took his arm, and he did so. She didn't cry. But that doesn't mean she's not all torn up. How do I know that? Does it matter? I do.

On the slow drive to the cemetery, Mr. Mitchell said, "I was surprised the cer­emony was so short."

Well, that's the way we Whiskey-palians do it. Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, and out of the church and into the ground.

"That's what Dick liked about the Episcopal church," Mrs. Babs Mitchell said. "The ... I guess the word is 'liturgy.' I thought it was a beautiful cere­mony. And Dick would have loved it when they sang 'The Marines' Hymn' as a hymn."

You're going to like this even less, Mr. Mitchell. This usually takes about two minutes, tops.

In the limousine on the way back to the Ocean View, Mrs. Babs Mitchell did not cry. She sat across from Pick with the folded flag in her lap, stroking it with her finger tips.

She had cried three times during the graveside ceremony. First when Gen­eral Dawkins, on behalf of a grateful nation, handed her the folded flag.

Then she had cried when the bugler played taps.

I felt a little weepy then myself.

And she had cried when the firing squad did their little ballet, which had put Major Pickering in the probably prohibited-by-regulation position of hold­ing a weeping female closely with his left arm while he saluted with his right. Every time there had been the crack of twenty blank cartridges going off si­multaneously, Mrs. Babs Mitchell had cringed, and he could feel her bosom pressing against him.

The two squads of Marines who would fire the salute were already lined up, standing at parade rest.

Mrs. Mitchell took Major Pickering's arm and he led her from the limou­sine to a line of folding chairs set up under a tent.

The pallbearers carried the casket from the hearse and began to set it down on the casket-lowering machine.

"Oh, God," Mrs. Babs Mitchell said softly. "I guess this is really it. Oh, Dick!"

When Pick looked down at her, tears were rolling down her cheeks and she had a handkerchief to her mouth, trying to hold back the sobs.

Without thinking about it, Pick put his arm around her shoulders.

Then she gave in to the sobs.

Pick gave her a comforting squeeze.

She took a deep breath, exhaled audibly, took the handkerchief from her mouth, and looked up at him.

"Thank you," she said. "I'll be all right."

He removed his arm from her shoulders.

The priest took up his position at the head of the casket and began the graveside service.

On the curved driveway outside the Ocean View, Major Pickering told Mrs. Babs Mitchell that he was sorry but he was going to have to get back to the hospital.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. But my pass is about to expire."

"Thank you for coming," Mrs. Babs Mitchell said.

"It was an honor."

"No, I mean it," she said. "Thank you."

She stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek, and he felt again the pressure of her bosom against him.

"I'll come to see you," she said. "All right?"

"That would be very nice."

Now, why the fuck did I say that?

You're a highly skilled liar with a good imagination.

Why couldn't you come up with something clever that would cut this off once and for good right now?

He shook hands with Mrs. Babs Mitchell's mother and Captain Mitchell's parents, and turned and walked down the curved driveway toward a taxi stand without looking back.

Chapter Eighteen

[ONE]

The President's Office

Blair House

Pennsylvania Avenue

Washington, D.C.

19OO 2 November 195O

"Who's this Lieutenant Colonel. . . Vandenburg?" the President of the United States asked after reading McCoy's message.