"Not only was Pickering not doing anything more than any shot-down pilot is expected to do, but it was his fault- and mine-that he got shot down in the first place."

"You want to explain that to me, Colonel?" the captain asked somewhat coldly.

"What he was doing when he was shot down was trying to become the first locomotive ace in the Marine Corps," Dunn said. "I knew what he was doing, and I didn't stop him."

"What do you mean, 'locomotive ace'?"

"He wanted credit for shooting up five locomotives; in his mind that would make him a locomotive ace. He'd already checked with the Air Force to see if any Air Force pilot was credited with more locomotives in World War Two."

The captain looked at him, shook his head, but said nothing.

"It was a joke to him," Dunn said. "The whole war is a joke to him. And I knew what he was doing and didn't stop him."

"I thought you were old pals."

"He was my wingman at Guadalca.n.a.l," Dunn said. "I love the sonofab.i.t.c.h, but I am not going to go through with this nonsense of giving him the Navy Cross. What he did was cause a lot of good people to put their d.i.c.ks on the chopping block to save his sorry a.s.s, and I am not going to help him get a medal like that for being a three-star horse's a.s.s and, for that matter, a lousy Marine officer."

"Calm down, Colonel," the captain said.

"I beg your pardon for my language, sir," Dunn said. "But I am not going to go along with this bulls.h.i.t."

The captain raised his hand in a gesture that meant take it easy. take it easy.

"Jesus!" Dunn said disgustedly.

The captain said nothing.

"There was a standing order at Fighter One on the 'Ca.n.a.l," Dunn said. "No buzzing the field, period. We couldn't risk the airplanes. Pick used to do full-emergency-power barrel rolls barrel rolls over the field every time he shot down an airplane," Dunn said. "And sometimes just whenever the h.e.l.l he felt like it. That's when I should have pulled the wisea.s.s b.a.s.t.a.r.d up short." over the field every time he shot down an airplane," Dunn said. "And sometimes just whenever the h.e.l.l he felt like it. That's when I should have pulled the wisea.s.s b.a.s.t.a.r.d up short."

"When you have your emotions under control, Colonel, let me know," the captain said coldly.

Dunn looked at him for a long moment.

"My apologies, sir," he said finally.

"What are you going to do?" the captain asked. "You have been ordered by the Chief of Naval Operations to immediately prepare 'a suitable citation.' "

"I'm unable to comply with that order, sir."

The captain said nothing.

"A lot of good men have earned earned the Navy Cross-" Dunn began. the Navy Cross-" Dunn began.

"Including you, Colonel," the captain interrupted. "Is that what this is about?"

"-and giving Major Pickering the decoration for having done nothing beyond what he was expected to do," Dunn went on, "would be an insult to every one of them."

"Be that as it may, the Commander-in-Chief 'desires' that Pickering be awarded the Navy Cross. You can't fight that, Colonel. You have an order. You have no choice but to obey it."

"I am unable to do that, sir," Dunn said.

Thirty minutes later, a message went out from the Badoeng Strait. Badoeng Strait.

SECRETURGENTBADOENG STRAIT 1405 17 OCTOBER 1950FROM: COMMANDING OFFICER MAG 33.

TO: CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS.

ATTN: CHIEF, AWARDS BRANCH1. REFERENCE PARA 2. MSG CNO SUBJ: CITATION FOR DECORATION FOR MAJOR M.S. PICKERING, USMCR DATED 16 OCT 19502. THE UNDERSIGNED IS UNABLE TO COMPLY.

WILLIAM C. DUNN.

LIEUTENANT COLONEL, USMC.

COMMANDINGSECRET.

[TWO].

U.S. NAVAL HOSPITAL U.S. NAVY BASE, SASEBO SASEBO, j.a.pAN 1625 18 OCTOBER 1950.

Lieutenant (j.g.) Rosemary Hills, Nurse Corps, USNR-a five-three, one-hundred-fifteen-pound twenty-three-year-old from Chicago-had the duty, which placed her at a desk in the nurses' station of Ward 4-G between 1600 and 2400 hours.

There were six Corpsmen always on duty in Ward 4-G, and usually two or three of them could be found at the nurses' station. They dealt with the routine operations of Ward 4-G, and turned to Lieutenant Hills only when something required the attention of the ward nurse on duty, a registered nurse, or a commissioned officer, or any combination thereof.

She was a little uncomfortable when she glanced up from her desk and saw a Marine standing on the other side of the counter, obviously wanting something, and saw there was no Corpsman behind the counter-or anywhere in sight-to deal with him.

Lieutenant Hills had not been in the Navy very long, and was not completely familiar with all the subtleties of Navy rank and protocol, and was even less familiar with those of the Marine Corps.

She knew from the rank insignia on his collar points and shoulders that the man standing before her was a master gunner, which was the equivalent of a Navy warrant officer, which meant that he ranked between the senior enlisted Marine and the junior Marine officer.

She remembered, too, from orientation at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center, that Marine master gunners were special, as lieutenants-Marine and Navy-were ordinary. There were very few master gunners, and they were all ex-senior enlisted Marines with all sorts of experience that qualified them to be master gunners.

The ribbons and other decorations on this one's tunic- she recognized only a few of them-seemed to attest to that. Judging by just the number of them, this master gunner had been in every war since the American Revolution, and wounded in all of them.

One of the medals on his chest she did recognize was the Purple Heart, awarded for having been wounded in action. She had seen enough of them pinned on hospital gowns here in the ward to know what that was. The master gunner's Purple Heart medal was just about covered with little things-Lieutenant Hills had forgotten what they called the little things-pinned to it. But she knew that each one of the little things meant a different award of the Purple Heart for getting wounded in action.

Lieutenant Hills saw that he was carrying a small canvas bag in his left hand, as a woman carries a bag. She wondered what was in it.

Then she realized that she had no idea how master gunners were addressed.

Do you call them "Master Gunner," as you would call a major "Major"? If not, then what?

"May I help you, sir?" Lieutenant Hills finally asked, even though she knew that as a lieutenant j.g. she outranked the master gunner and therefore he was not ent.i.tled to be called "sir."

"Major Pickering," the master gunner said.

"What about Major Pickering?" she asked.

"Where is he?"

I think he was supposed to say, "Where is he, ma'am?"

"He's in 404," Lieutenant Hill said. "But he's on Restricted Visitors. If you want to visit him, you'll have to go to . . ."

The master gunner nodded at her, then turned and marched down the corridor toward room 404.

"Just a minute, please," Lieutenant Hills called after him as firmly as she could manage. "Didn't you hear me? Major Pickering is on Restricted Visitors. You have to have permission of the medical officer of the day-"

When she realized she was being totally ignored, she stopped in midsentence.

She came from behind the nurses' station counter and looked down the corridor in time to see the gunner enter room 404.

Master Gunner Ernest Zimmerman, USMC, marched to the foot of the cranked-up hospital bed in which Major Malcolm S. Pickering was sitting and looked at him without speaking.

"Look what the G.o.dd.a.m.n tide washed up!" Pick cried happily. "I'll be G.o.dd.a.m.ned, Ernie, it's good to see you!"

"You won't think so in a minute, Pick," Zimmerman said. "Can you handle some really s.h.i.tty news?"

There was a just-perceptible pause, long enough for his bright smile to vanish before Pickering asked, "Jesus Christ, not the Killer?"

"Not the Killer," Zimmerman said.

"Dad? Has something happened to my father?"

Zimmerman opened the straps on his canvas bag and extended it to Pickering.

"What's this?" Pick asked, but looked, and then reached inside without waiting for an answer.

He came out with a fire-blackened object that only after a moment he recognized as a camera.

"Jeanette's camera," Zimmerman said, and then when Pick looked at him curiously, went on: "I picked it up yesterday near where the plane went in."

"Jeanette's?" Pick asked. "What plane?"

"An Air Force Gooney Bird headed for Wonsan," Zimmerman said. "It clipped a mountain and blew up. n.o.body got out."

"Jeanette was on the Gooney Bird?"

"Yeah."

"You're sure?" Pick asked softly.

"Yeah."

"How can you be sure? How did you get involved?"

"From the top?"

"From the f.u.c.king top, Ernie," Pickering said, struggling to keep his voice from breaking as a tear slipped down his cheek. "Every f.u.c.king tiny little f.u.c.king detail."

Lieutenant Hills went back behind the nurses' station aware that she had two choices. She could ignore what had happened, or she could report it. She had just decided to ignore the breach of orders- What harm was really being done? It wasn't, after all, as if Major Pickering was at death's door. What they were trying to do for him was fatten him up, and making sure the dysentery wouldn't recur. And having a visitor might make him feel better. He looked so unhappy, which was sort of funny because he was just back from escaping from the enemy, and you'd think that would make someone happy.

-when she was forced to reverse it. The hospital commander, Captain F. Howard Schermer, MC, USN, was now standing at her nurses' station.

With him was a very pretty, very pregnant young woman.

"Good afternoon, sir," Lieutenant Hills said.

"This is Mrs. McCoy, Lieutenant," Captain Schermer said. "She is to be the exception to the Restricted Visitors on Major Pickering. They're old friends, and she just came from Tokyo to see him."

Schermer had received a telephone call that morning from Major Pickering's father, who was a Marine brigadier, saying that Mrs. McCoy, "the wife of one of my officers," was on the way to Sasebo to see his son.

"They're very close, they grew up together. They're like brother and sister."

"We'll be happy to take care of her, General."

"You may have to. She's very pregnant and traveling against medical advice."

"Yes, sir," Lieutenant Hills said.

"Four oh four, right?" Captain Schermer asked.

"Yes, sir," Lieutenant Hills said. "Captain, Major Pickering already has a visitor."

"Who would that be?" Captain Schermer asked, not very pleasantly. "You were aware, were you not, of the Restricted Visitors?"

"Sir, I tried to tell him, but he just ignored me."

"A journalist? Was the person who ignored you a journalist? Is that why he thought he could ignore you? Because he was a journalist?"

"No, sir. Sir, it's a Marine, a master gunner Marine. . . ."

"About this tall?" Mrs. McCoy said, holding up her hand. "Built like a tank?"

Lieutenant Hills smiled and nodded.

"That has to be Ernie Zimmerman," Mrs. McCoy said. She turned to Captain Schermer and added, "He works for General Pickering."

"I see," Captain Schermer said with a somewhat strained smile. "Well, why don't we . . . ?" He waved Mrs. McCoy down the corridor toward 404.

Master Gunner Zimmerman stopped in midsentence as the door swung open.

Major Malcolm S. Pickering looked angrily at Captain F. Howard Schermer, USN, and was about to say something when Mrs. K. R. McCoy brushed past the captain.

"I've seen you looking better," she said, and went to the bed and bent over him and kissed him. "But I'm glad to see you anyway."

"I guess you haven't heard, huh?" Pick said.

"Heard what?" Ernie replied, and turned to Zimmerman. "What's going on, Ernie?"