In Danger's Path (31 page)

“I've been trying to get his phone number.”

“Marine!” the j.g. ordered, “bring the base phone book over here!”

The PFC delivered the phone book. Major Williamson's name was not listed. The j.g. examined the cover of the phone book.

“This is outdated!” he said.

“Sorry, sir,” the PFC said.

“I think the smartest thing for you to do, sir,” the j.g. said, “is go to the Main Officer's Club. You know where that is?”

“I trained here,” Weston said.

“They'll have the latest phone book,” the j.g. said.

“Thank you,” Weston said.

“I'm really sorry you were inconvenienced here, Captain. But sometimes—no offense intended—Marines sometimes get carried away.”

“No offense taken,” Weston said. “I presume I'm free to go?”

“Yes, sir,” the j.g. said. “Of course. Welcome home, sir.”

The Main Officer's Club was a rambling white stucco building that he remembered as stifling in the summer, but that now had air-conditioning. Weston found it without trouble. The cocktail lounge he also found without trouble. There he decided what he needed before lunch was at least two drinks.

He was about to order the second double scotch when it occurred to him that he might not make the proper impression on Major Avery Williamson if he appeared in a cloud of scotch fumes.

“Where can I find a phone book?” he asked.

“There's a phone booth in the lobby, sir.”

Weston paid for the drink and went to the lobby. There was indeed a phone book, and it listed the quarters telephone number for Williamson, A. R., Maj. USMC. Weston wrote it down, then waited for the occupant of the phone booth to finish. She was a slightly portly matron in a floppy hat whose husband, Weston decided, was probably at least a lieutenant commander.

“Sir,” a crisp naval voice said in his ear. Weston turned to see a full lieutenant wearing the insignia of an aide-de-camp.

Now what?

“Sir, is your name Weston?”

Weston nodded.

“Sir, the Admiral's compliments. Sir, the Admiral would be grateful for a few words with you.”

What admiral?
Weston wondered.

“That would be my great pleasure, Lieutenant,” Weston said.

The lieutenant marched across the lobby and into the dining room, then led him to a corner table where a vice admiral, a rear admiral, a Navy captain, and a Marine colonel were sitting. Weston recognized the vice admiral.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said.

“Jim, a little eagerness is a good thing,” Vice Admiral Richard B. Sayre said, rising to his feet and putting out his hand. “But you're not due here for a month.”

“Sir?”

“But we'll talk about that later. I'm really glad to see you. Until General McInerney called, I thought you'd been lost in the Philippines.”

Brigadier General D. G. McInerney was the Deputy Director of Marine Corps Aviation.

“I managed to get out, sir,” Weston said.

“So I understand. General McInerney and I had a long talk about that, and about Ewa, and about our mutual friend, Colonel Dawkins. He led me to believe you wouldn't be coming here for a month.”

“I'm just passing through, sir. On a weekend pass.”

“Well, I know that Mrs. Sayre and Martha would be very disappointed to miss you. Could you find time to call?”

“At your convenience, sir,” Weston said, then asked, “Martha's here?”

“Yes, she is,” Admiral Sayre said simply.

“And where's Greg?”

Jesus, with a little bit of luck, Greg might be here, too, if Martha is
.

Admiral Sayre looked at him sharply.

And then the look softened.

“Of course, you were trapped in the Philippines, there was no way you could know. Greg was shot down at Wake Island, Jim. Right at the beginning.”

“Oh,
shit!
” Weston blurted bitterly. “I'm so sorry to hear that!”

“Captain Weston, gentlemen,” Admiral Sayre said, retaining control of his voice with great effort, “and my late son-in-law Lieutenant Gregory Culhane, USMC, Class of '38, got their wings here together. Jim was Greg's best man when he and my daughter Martha were married.”

“And this is the first you'd heard of Lieutenant Culhane's loss, Captain?” the Marine Colonel asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“You were obviously pretty busy in the Pacific yourself,” the Colonel said, pointing at Weston's fruit salad.

“Jim refused to surrender,” Admiral Sayre said. “He made his way from Corregidor to Mindanao, where he was G-2 of the guerrilla organization operating there, until they brought him out by submarine.”

Jesus, how did he know about that?

What did he say about General McInerney calling him?

“Really?” the Marine Colonel said, impressed.

“Well, now he's back to flying,” Admiral Sayre said, meeting Weston's eyes as he spoke. “Or soon will be. What Mac McInerney and I are trying to do is get him back in a fighter cockpit as quickly as possible.”

I'll be damned! McInerney didn't just give up, and give in to those bastards in Washington
.

“I'd like to talk to you about that, Jim,” Admiral Sayre went on. “If you would have the time while you're here.”

“I'm going to have to leave here early tomorrow morning, sir.”

Local Area Only authority to leave the grounds of the Greenbrier on the verbal orders of the commanding officer expired at midnight on Sunday.

“We don't want you hungover when you begin your happy rest-and-recuperation program on Monday morning,” Commander Bolemann had explained.

“Well, I suggest that you go over to the house and see Mrs. Sayre and Martha now—Jerry, call up and tell them he's coming.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the Admiral's aide said.

“And as soon as I'm through here, I'll come home, and we can have a chat. There's someone I want you to meet.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Weston said.

“Jerry, run down Major Williamson, and ask him if he could come by my quarters at, say, 1530.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“I'm really glad to see you, Jim,” Admiral Sayre said, offering Weston his hand again.

Weston sensed he had been dismissed.

Mrs. Jean Sayre, a tall, slim, gray-haired woman with gentle and perceptive eyes, came out the front door of Quarters Number One as Jim Weston drove the Buick into the driveway.

“Oh, Jim,” she said when he stepped out of the car, “when I heard you escaped from the Philippines, I was afraid you'd look like death warmed over! You look wonderful!”

She hugged him. He felt his eyes start to water and closed them. When he opened them he saw Martha, standing in the door. She was tall and slim, and looked very much like her mother. She was deeply tanned and her sunbleached blond hair hung down to her shoulders.

What is she now, twenty-three, twenty-four? And a goddamn widow! Goddamn it! Did they have a kid?

She came halfway down the walk to him as he walked toward the door.

“Well, look what floated in with the tide,” she said.

“Don't I get a hug?” he asked.

She hugged him. He was uncomfortable when he felt the pressure of her breasts against his abdomen, and quickly broke away.

“Mother said I wasn't to ask you how you were, or comment on your appearance,” Martha said. “So I won't.”

“I'm fine, thank you for asking.”

“You look good,” she said. “God, Jimmy, I'm glad to see you.”

“I didn't know about Greg, until just now,” he said. “Jesus Christ, I'm sorry.”

“Let's go in the house,” Mrs. Sayre said, coming up behind them. “There's no champagne, but I think we should have a drink.”

A dark-skinned man in a crisply starched white cotton jacket stood just inside the door.

Christ, he's a Filipino messman. We let them join the Navy, but only as messmen. They're our Little Brown Brothers, not good enough to serve as real sailors
.

“Good morning, sir,” he said.

“
Buenos días
,” Weston said.

“Pedro, would you roll the bar onto the patio?” Mrs. Sayre asked. “Despite the hour, we are going to have a drink. Possibly two. You remember Captain Weston, don't you? He's a dear friend of the family.”

“Yes, ma'am,” the messman said.

Does that mean he remembers me? I don't remember him
.

“That being the case,” Martha said, as they walked through the house and onto the patio, “dear friend of the family, why didn't you call and tell us you were coming? For that matter, why didn't you call and just tell us you were alive?”

He met her eyes, and noticed how blue they were.

“I don't know, Martha,” he said. “The last couple of weeks have been really hectic.”

They sat down on upholstered white metal lawn furniture. The way she was sitting—innocently, of course—Weston could see a long way up her cotton skirt. She was not wearing hose, and he remembered Janice telling him that silk stockings were almost impossible to find.

Pedro wheeled a bar loaded with whisky bottles onto the patio, then stood, obviously waiting for orders.

“What would you like, Jim?” Mrs. Sayre asked.

Among the nearly dozen bottles on the bar, there was a bottle of good scotch, scotch too good to be diluted with water. Without thinking about it, Weston asked, in Spanish, for “some of the good stuff, a double, please, ice but no water.”

“That's new,” Martha said. “When did you learn to speak Spanish?”

“Ninety percent of U.S. forces in the Philippines are Filipinos,” Weston said, as much to the messman as Martha. “You either learn to speak Spanish, or you don't get much done.”

“Permission to speak, sir?” the messman asked.

“Of course,” Weston said.

“Sir, there was a story in the newspaper. It said there were guerrilla forces operating on my home island of Mindanao.”

“Yes, there are,” Weston said.

“Sir, and you were there?”

Weston nodded.

“Just a minute, Pedro,” Jean Sayre said. “Make the drinks. I'll have whatever Captain Weston is having.”

“Good scotch, ice, double, no water, ma'am.”

Weston felt anger well up within him.

“With a little water. Fix a single for Miss Martha.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Weston was surprised at his fury at her treatment of the Filipino.

“Then make yourself whatever you want, pull up a chair and sit down with us. Captain Weston's going to start at the beginning and tell us everything.”

“Yes, ma'am,” the messman said. “Thank you.”

Christ, I should have known better. She's what an officer's lady is supposed to be
.

He sensed Martha's eyes on him, and knew somehow that she had seen his reaction.

“Pedro's been taking care of us for a long time,” Martha said. “He was Daddy's steward on the
Lexington
. When Daddy made rear admiral and came ashore, Pedro came with him. You don't remember him?”

“I thought you looked familiar, Pedro,” Weston said.

That's bullshit. If he was here the last time I was here, he was simply part of the furnishings. I was as bad then about our Little Brown Brothers as I thought Mrs. Sayre was now
.

Pedro made the drinks, handed them around, then took a Coca-Cola for himself and pulled up a chair.

“The last we heard, Jim, you'd been sent to a Navy Catalina Squadron at Pearl…. Wait a minute. What should we drink to?”

“Greg,” he blurted without thinking.

“Greg,” Mrs. Sayre said softly, raising her glass.

Martha, looking at Jim, raised her glass but didn't speak.

“You were at Pearl, Jim?” Mrs. Sayre said. “How did you get to the Philippines?”

“I flew a Catalina into Cavite on December eight,” Weston began, and related, over the next hour, his experiences in the Philippines. He left out, of course, the less pleasant aspects. But he did tell them, in some detail, about Sergeant Percy L. Everly, USMC—now First Lieutenant Percy Everly, U.S. Army Reserve—and about how Brigadier General Wendell W. Fertig came to be a brigadier general.