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

He stopped.

"You may speak, Major Pickering," he said.

"You are not talking about me," Pick said.

"I am talking about you. My adjutant will read aloud, for the edification of all concerned, the citation I showed you a couple of days ago."

"But, Dawk, I told you that wasn't my citation!"

"Under the present circumstances, Major, I think it would be best if you addressed me as 'General Dawkins.' "

"Aye, aye, sir. But it's bullshit, and you know it."

"I attempted, Major, to raise your doubts about the wording of the citation to the commandant," Dawkins said. "The commandant called me personally. He said that he had just had a visit from the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, who used to be an Army four-star, and who told him the President of the United States had asked him to find out if the Navy Cross he had ordered for you had been awarded, and if not, why not, and if not, when would it be. The wording of the citation was not open for discussion."

"It's bullshit," Pick repeated. "I won't take it."

"It may be bullshit, but you will take it, and you will not make any com­ment now, or in the future, to anyone, including me, that will in any way sug­gest that there is something wrong with the wording of the citation, or that you did not do what the citation says you did." Dawkins paused. "Say, 'Aye, aye, sir.' " ,

"General, Aye, aye, sir' means I understand and will comply with the order. I'm not sure I can do that."

"Yes, goddamn you, Pick, you will. You're a Marine officer, and you will take an order. Say, 'Aye, aye, sir.' "

"Jesus Christ!"

"You can—and knowing you as I do, you're entirely capable of—doing something this afternoon to protect what you think is your honor. 'I cannot, in good conscience, accept this . . .' or something similar. If you do that, you will be pissing on the Marine Corps, insulting a lot of good Marines, and per­sonally embarrassing me. Your call, Pick. But you will get into a uniform, and you will get in the car that will carry you out to Pendleton, and you will line up with the others to be decorated, or so help me Christ, I'll have you court-martialed."

Dawkins pushed himself abruptly out of the chrome, plastic-upholstered armchair and headed for the door.

"General!" Picked called after him.

Dawkins turned.

"I really don't give a shit about getting court-martialed," Pick said. "But for you, Dawk, because of ... If you think it's important that I ... Aye, aye, sir."

Dawkins looked at him for a moment, then nodded.

"Okay," he said. "Thank you. Now tit for tat: So far as deserving the Navy Cross is concerned, I put you in for the Navy Cross on Guadalcanal. Before I put Billy Dunn in for his. They said we could have only one—I never under­stood that, but that's what they said—and they decided it should go to Billy, because he was the squadron commander. I protested as loudly as I could, and was told to butt out. I've always felt you deserved it more than he does."

"Jesus Christ!" Pick said.

"And if you want, you can tell Billy I told you that, and on my word as a Marine officer, I'll confirm it. Or you can be a good Marine officer and keep that between us."

"Yes, sir," Pick said.

"See you on the parade ground, Major," Dawkins said, and pushed the door with his hand to swing it open. It didn't, and he pushed harder, and this time it swung outward.

Captain McGowan was standing there. Mrs. Babs Mitchell was standing be­hind him.

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Mitchell," General Dawkins said, holding open the door. "Please come in. I was just leaving."

"Am I interrupting anything?" Mrs. Babs Mitchell asked.

"No, you're not," Dawkins said. "We have concluded our business. Good afternoon, ma'am."

Mrs. Babs Mitchell entered the room. General Dawkins went through the door and it swung closed after him.

"Was it all right that I came without calling first?" Babs Mitchell asked.

No. Jesus Christ, those eyes!

"Of course. The general got me out of a poker game at just the right time."

"Excuse me?"

"I was playing poker at the club," Pick said, and pulled the thick wad of bills from his bathrobe pocket. "And I was way ahead, and wanted to quit, but couldn't think of a way to."

Jesus Christ, I'm babbling!

"Oh," she said, obviously confused. Then she asked, "You won all that money?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "How are you doing?"

"Fine," she said. "How about you?"

I'm just trying to sort out that I'm going to get a Navy Cross I absolutely don't deserve but have to take for the good of the Corps, but that's all right, because I didn't get the Navy Cross Billy Dunn got, even though I deserved it more than he did.

And when 1 saw you, my heart jumped.

In addition to which, I learned, just before I went to the club to play poker so that I wouldn't have to think about it, that Jeanette's body is already here. A day early. Flown to the States, probably because of Dad, as cargo in a lockheed Con­stellation of Trans-Global Airways. Too late to reschedule the welcoming ceremony, of course, so that will be held tomorrow, as per schedule. And I have absolutely no idea how I'm going to handle that.

Aside from that, everything's just hunky-dory.

"I'm fine."

"You look a little funny, Pick," Babs said. "Are you sure?"

When she looks at me that way . . .

"I'm fine."

The door swung inward, and General Dawkins walked back in.

"Excuse me," he said.

"Is it too much to hope there's been a change in the schedule?" Pick asked.

"There may be," Dawkins said. "Depending on Mrs. Mitchell."

"I don't understand," Babs said.

"Mrs. Mitchell, Captain McGowan tells me that you haven't received your husband's decorations," Dawkins said.

"I told . . . whatever his name is, the next-of-kin officer, that I would pre­fer to get them later, that I wasn't up to two ceremonies, the funeral, and that," she said.

"If you don't like this idea, just say no. I assure you I'll understand," Dawkins said. "This afternoon, there is going to be a retreat parade at Camp Pendleton, during which a number of Marines are to be decorated—"

"Oh, I don't think so, General," Babs interrupted.

"—including Major Pickering," Dawkins went on, "who will receive the Navy Cross."

Babs looked at Pick.

Oh, Christ, don't look at me that way!

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked.

"He didn't know until I told him just now," Dawkins said.

"What are you proposing, General Dawkins?" Babs Mitchell asked. "That I get Dick's medals at the parade?"

"Yes, ma'am. That's just what I am suggesting."

"Thank you, but no, thank you," she said.

"I understand," Dawkins said.

“Pick, what do you think?" Babs asked, looking into his eyes. "Wouldn't I be out of place?"

I really wish you wouldn't turn to me for advice, Mrs. Mitchell, he thought. I'm the last sonofabitch in the world who should be offering advice to you.

"No. No, you wouldn't be out of place. You're entitled to Dick's medals. And getting them at a retreat parade would be something you'd remember the rest of your life."

She exhaled audibly.

"Maybe you're right," Babs said, and turned to Dawkins. "All right, Gen­eral. What do I have to do?"

"I'm going to send an officer to escort Major Pickering," Dawkins said. "Would you like him to pick you up, too, and take you out to Pendleton?"

She thought a moment.

"Yes. That would probably be best. What time?"

"The retreat parade starts at 1700, which means you'd have to leave San Diego at, say, 1600."

She looked at her watch. "That doesn't give me much time to dress. Sim­ple black dress, hat, and gloves?"