“And this reduced McCoy to tears?”
“Yes, Sir. Not by the elevator. When we got him back to the room. He really wants to apologize, Mr. Pickering. I think maybe it would be a good idea.”
“Where is our weeping hero?”
“In the room, Sir.”
“Give me fifteen minutes, Gunny, and then bring him down.”
“Aye, aye, Sir. Thank you, Mr. Pickering.”
[TWO]
When First Lieutenant William C. Dunn, USMCR, unlocked the door to the John Charles Fremont Suite of the Foster Washingtonian Hotel and waved Miss Roberta Daiman inside, it was with the reasonable expectation that First Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, being an officer and a gentleman, would have retired for the evening, leaving the sitting room free for whatever purposes Lieutenant Dunn might have vis-a-vis Miss Daiman.
Instead, he found-for all practical purposes-a crowd. Lieutenants Pickering and Easterbrook, the gorilla, and the gorilla’s keepers were all there. The Easterbunny, who looked wan and pale, was being fed a Prairie Oyster-at least to judge by the horrible grimace on his face, and by the materials on the table: the eggshells, the tomato juice, and the Tabasco and Worcestershire sauce bottles. (Another note having no proper connection with this story: As I was writing this book, word came that Brigadier Walter S. Mclnhenny, USMCR, Retired, of Avery Island, New Iberia, Louisiana, where his family owns the Tabasco Company, had died. General Mclnhenny served with distinction on Guadalcanal and elsewhere, and left a substantial portion of his fortune to the scholarship fund of the Marine Military Academy, a Marine Corps-affiliated boarding school for boys.)
“Easterbunny, damn you!” Lieutenant Dunn said. “What the hell have you been up to?”
“Speak kindly to our boy,” Pickering said. “Or you will offend Sergeant McCoy, and he will pull your arms off… with my blessing.”
“Just what the hell is going on around here?” Dunn asked.
“We have been trying to think of some way to impress upon Mr. Easterbrook’s detachment of would-be combat correspondents that they are singularly fortunate in having an officer of his proven valor to lead them.”
“You bet your fucking ass,” Staff Sergeant McCoy said.
“I didn’t think anyone would be here,” Lieutenant Dunn said to Miss Daiman.
Pickering went on. “We have also concluded that there would be no cries of outrage from the Raiders if Lieutenant Easterbrook were to sew a Raider Patch on his uniform. After all, he was on Bloody Ridge with them.”
“He’s as much entitled to that fucking patch as any fucking Raider,” Staff Sergeant McCoy agreed.
“What, exactly, is the problem with the combat correspondents?” Dunn asked.
“They seem to have formed the notion-or at least Mr. Easterbrook feels they have formed the notion-that he is a feather merchant.”
“Feather merchant, my ass,” Sergeant McCoy interjected. “This little fucker is the bravest man I ever seen. I thought he was dead!”
“What did you say, Sergeant?” Miss Daiman asked.
“Excuse him, Miss, please,” the Master Gunnery Sergeant said. “Watch your goddamn language, McCoy!”
“What did you say, Sergeant?” Miss Daiman asked again.
Sergeant McCoy pointed his finger at Lieutenant Easterbrook. “That’s the bravest man I ever seen,” he said. He made a sound that could have been a sob. And then, finding his voice, he passionately announced, “He deserves this goddamn medal, not me.”
“Do you really mean that, Sergeant McCoy?” Miss Daiman asked innocently.
“You bet your sweet ass I mean it.”
“Excuse me,” Lieutenant Easterbrook said, pushing himself off the couch, “I’m going to be sick again.”
[THREE]
ASSOCIATED PRESS SEATTLE 34224
PRIORITY FOR NATIONAL WIRE
SLUG MEDAL OF HONOR WINNER “MACHINE GUN” MCCOY IDENTIFIES ‘REAL HERO OF BLOODY RIDGE’
BY ROBERTA DAIMAN, STAFF REPORTER, THE SEATTLE TIMES
SEATTLE, WASH NOV. 13 – STAFF SERGEANT THOMAS J. MCCOY USMCR WHOSE VALOR FIGHTING AS A MARINE RAIDER ON GUADALCANAL’S BLOODY RIDGE EARNED HIM BOTH THE SOBRIQUET ‘MACHINE GUN MCCOY’ AND THE MEDAL OF HONOR FROM THE HANDS OF PRESIDENT FRANKLIN D. ROOSEVELT POINTED A FINGER AT A BOYISH MARINE SECOND LIEUTENANT AND PROCLAIMED HIM TO BE THE BRAVEST MAN ON BLOODY RIDGE.
‘HE DESERVES THIS (THE MEDAL OF HONOR) MORE THAN I DO’ SERGEANT MCCOY SAID OF NINETEEN YEAR OLD 2ND LT ROBERT F. EASTERBROOK, OF CONNER, MO. EASTERBROOK, THEN AN ENLISTED MARINE COMBAT CORRESPONDENT, WAS WITH MCCOY ON ‘BLOODY RIDGE’ DURING THE ENGAGEMENT WHICH SAW MCCOY EARN THE NATION’S HIGHEST AWARD FOR VALOR.