“This isn’t like the regular Corps, sir. You know?”
Preston gestured around the communications hootch.
“You mean because of the refrigerator?” Dunwood asked innocently.
The hootch—because of the generator powering the radios, and because there was always an officer or senior noncom on duty—also housed a bright white Kenmore refrigerator that they had flown in on the Beaver from The House in Seoul.
“The refrigerator?” Preston asked, confused.
“You’re right,” Dunwood said. “I don’t think even the commanding general of First MarDiv has a refrigerator full of Asahi beer.”
“I wasn’t talking about the refrigerator, sir,” Preston said. “Jesus!”
“I’m a little confused, Preston. What are you talking about?”
“Sir, this isn’t the Pusan Perimeter, is it?”
“No, it’s not. I can’t ever remember getting a cold beer when we were in the perimeter. Or, for that matter, a warm one.”
Preston looked at him in bafflement for a long moment. Finally, he asked, “Sir, is there any particular reason the captain is pulling the sergeant’s chain?”
“Oddly enough, Preston, there is.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“It can’t go any further than this hootch,” Dunwood said.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve been thinking of volunteering myself,” Dunwood said.
“For what, sir?”
“What I have been thinking is that sooner or later, they’re going to send us back to the 5th Marines, and I don’t really want to go back.”
“I’ve been wondering how long this detail will last,” Preston said.
“And I really don’t want to go back to the 5th Marines,” Dunwood went on, “where one of two things would happen. They’d bring the company back up to strength, run us through some kind of training cycle, and put us back on the line. It would be the perimeter all over again. Or the war will be over, and they’ll bring the company back up to strength, run us through a longer training cycle, and it would be Camp Pendleton all over again.”
“Yeah,” Preston said. “I’ve been thinking about that, too. So what are you thinking of volunteering for?”
“The CIA,” Dunwood said.
“How would you do that?”
“I don’t really know. What I do know is that Major McCoy and Gunner Zimmerman are Marines—good ones, they were both Marine Raiders—and they’re in the CIA. And we work for General Pickering, who’s a Marine. I don’t know how it works, but I’m really thinking seriously about asking Major McCoy what he thinks.”
Sergeant Preston looked at him for a long time, expressionless, before he finally asked, “Sir, is there any way I could get in on that?”
“I’m not pulling your chain now, Preston. I’m serious about this.”
“I sort of like this operation,” Preston said.
“Major McCoy—I just told you—said he took two KIA and three WIA. To which his reaction was, send a replacement crew. You like that?”
“I’m not saying this is fun, sir. Don’t get me wrong. But I know what we’re doing here is important. I suppose when we were running around the perimeter saving the Army’s ass, that was important, too. But if I’m going to get blown away, I’d rather it was because I fucked up, not because I was trying to un-fuck-up what some stranger’s fucked up. You know what I mean?”
“Yes, I do,” Dunwood said.
“What I really like about this operation is that the major and Gunner Zimmerman get things done. And they tell you what to do and don’t stand over your shoulder making sure you do it. Shit, when the gunner left here after we found that lady’s crispy corpse, all he said was, ‘Take over, Captain Dunwood.’ ”
“ ‘Crispy corpse’? Jesus Christ, Preston! Show a little respect!”
“I wasn’t being disrespectful, sir. That’s what it was. When we put them bodies in the shelter halves, they was crisp. Like a barbecued pig.”
“You know what I thought when the gunner left me in charge?” Dunwood asked, as much of himself as Preston. “I was happy, proud, like a second lieutenant getting his first platoon. And then I thought I must be crazy. I’m not a real Marine. I’m a weekend warrior, a goddamned car salesman—where do you think Major McCoy got Car Salesman as my call sign? Gunner Zimmerman is fat and German, and he’s Fat Kraut, and I’m Car Salesman, because that’s all I really am, a car salesman that got called up—”
“You’re a Marine, sir, a goddamned good one,” Preston interrupted. “Don’t tell me different. I was in the perimeter with you from day fucking one until they pulled us out.”
“What I was about to say,” Dunwood went on after a moment, “was that the proof of that was that here I was, a captain, taking orders