Jesus Christ, he’s nineteen years old!
“… and I said the thought had occurred to me, but that I hadn’t really thought it through.”
Miss Wood raised the towel over her head and let it fall across her face. And then, her hands locked behind her neck, she demonstrated the dance technique known as “bump and grind.”
“Get off the phone Jake!” she called plaintively from beneath the towel.
“He’s a little young, General,” Dillon said.
“I made that point myself, Dillon,” General Stewart said.
“Who’s a little young? Are you talking about Bobby?” Miss Wood inquired, pulling the towel off her head so she could see.
“The Assistant Commandant said he could think of no greater recommendation for commissioning a second lieutenant than his earning staff sergeant’s stripes on the battlefield, and taking over from officers who had fallen in battle.”
“And you’re thinking of recommending Sergeant Easterbrook for a commission, General?”
“What about Bobby?” Miss Wood asked, letting the towel fall to the floor, then moving to sit, stark naked, beside Dillon on the bed.
“It’s a fait accompli, Dillon! You just get that young man to San Diego as soon as you can. By the time you reach there, everything will be laid on. He’ll be walked through the commissioning process.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And then we’ll assign him to train the combat correspondents. The elusive round peg in the round hole, right, Dillon? Who better to train them than someone like Easterbrook?”
“Yes, Sir,” Dillon said.
“And it should make a fine public affairs press release, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, Sir. I’ll write it myself.”
Marine Corps eats loco weed; goes bananas in spades.
“My other phone has been ringing, Dillon. I’ll be in touch.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. Good-bye, Sir.”
He hung up.
“That was about Bobby, wasn’t it?” Veronica asked.
” ‘Bobby’? I didn’t know you knew his name.”
“I wanted to talk to you about him,” she said. “Or, specifically, about Florence Nightingale.”
“Dawn Morris, you mean?”
“What has Bobby got that that bitch wants?”
“A friend who promised her a screen test,” Dillon said.
“You’re kidding!”
“Not at all. Easterbrook was pretty sick… sick and shaken up… when I got him here. I asked Harry to send a nurse…”
“Harry who?”
“Harald Barthelmy, M.D.,… over here to take care of him. The bastard dressed up his receptionist in a nurse suit and tried to palm her off on me. I was going to throw her out and then kick Harry’s ass; but I saw the way the kid looked at her. And I thought, what the hell, why not? It was in a good cause.”
“You sicked that slut on that nice kid? Jesus Christ, Jake! He’s nice. He’s sweet!” “She’s not so bad. And she’s been good for Easterbrook.”
“He told me about Guadalcanal,” Veronica said.
“Did he?”
That’s surprising.
“Yeah. Whatsername went into town-in my studio car, by the way-and we were alone and started to talk. Florence Nightingale has him drinking gin and orange juice. And he got a little tight, more than a little tight, and told me about it. Including the part about his not knowing he was coming home until you pulled him on the airplane.”
“He was pretty close to the edge,” Jake said. “I didn’t see it, a friend of mine did. Where is he now?”
“Sound asleep on the balcony,” Veronica said, gesturing toward the drapes over the sliding door. “I lowered the awning and put a blanket on him.”
“They’re going to make an officer out of him.”
“An officer? Jesus, he’s just a kid!”
“Right.”
“Was that your idea?”
“No, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re both in The Marine Corps. All you get to do in The Marine Corps is say ‘aye, aye, Sir.’ ”
“They really say that, Jake, ‘aye, aye’? It sounds like bad dialogue from a DeMille sailboat epic.”
Dillon laughed. “They really say it. I really say it.”
“You were really kissing the ass of whoever you were talking to on the phone. Who was that?”
“One of the idiots who wants to put a bar on the kid’s shoulders.”
“So what happens to Florence Nightingale? How long is that going to go on? I think he thinks he’s in love with her.”