Mr. Mitchell said, “I was surprised the ceremony was so short.”
Well, that’s the way we Whiskey-palians do it. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am, and out of the church and into the ground.
“That’s what Dick liked about the Episcopal church,” Mrs. Babs Mitchell said. “The . . . I guess the word is ‘liturgy.’ I thought it was a beautiful ceremony. And Dick would have loved it when they sang ‘The Marines’ Hymn’ as a hymn.”
The two squads of Marines who would fire the salute were already lined up, standing at parade rest.
Mrs. Mitchell took Major Pickering’s arm and he led her from the limousine to a line of folding chairs set up under a tent.
The pallbearers carried the casket from the hearse and began to set it down on the casket-lowering machine.
“Oh, God,” Mrs. Babs Mitchell said softly. “I guess this is really it. Oh, Dick!”
When Pick looked down at her, tears were rolling down her cheeks and she had a handkerchief to her mouth, trying to hold back the sobs.
Without thinking about it, Pick put his arm around her shoulders.
Then she gave in to the sobs.
Pick gave her a comforting squeeze.
She took a deep breath, exhaled audibly, took the handkerchief from her mouth, and looked up at him.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be all right.”
He removed his arm from her shoulders.
The priest took up his position at the head of the casket and began the graveside service.
You’re going to like this even less, Mr. Mitchell. This usually takes about two minutes, tops.
In the limousine on the way back to the Ocean View, Mrs. Babs Mitchell did not cry. She sat across from Pick with the folded flag in her lap, stroking it with her finger tips.
She had cried three times during the graveside ceremony. First when General Dawkins, on behalf of a grateful nation, handed her the folded flag.
Then she had cried when the bugler played taps.
I felt a little weepy then myself.
And she had cried when the firing squad did their little ballet, which had put Major Pickering in the probably prohibited-by-regulation position of holding a weeping female closely with his left arm while he saluted with his right. Every time there had been the crack of twenty blank cartridges going off simultaneously, Mrs. Babs Mitchell had cringed, and he could feel her bosom pressing against him.
On the curved driveway outside the Ocean View, Major Pickering told Mrs. Babs Mitchell that he was sorry but he was going to have to get back to the hospital.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. But my pass is about to expire.”
“Thank you for coming,” Mrs. Babs Mitchell said.
“It was an honor.”
“No, I mean it,” she said. “Thank you.”
She stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek, and he felt again the pressure of her bosom against him.
“I’ll come to see you,” she said. “All right?”
“That would be very nice.”
Now, why the fuck did I say that?
You’re a highly skilled liar with a good imagination.
Why couldn’t you come up with something clever that would cut this off once and for good right now?
He shook hands with Mrs. Babs Mitchell’s mother and Captain Mitchell’s parents, and turned and walked down the curved driveway toward a taxi stand without looking back.
XVIII
[ONE]
THE PRESIDENT’S OFFICE BLAIR HOUSE PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE WASHINGTON, D.C. 1900 2 NOVEMBER 1950
“Who’s this Lieutenant Colonel . . . Vandenburg?” the President of the United States asked after reading McCoy’s message.
“He’s the officer the Pentagon sent to see if General Dean could be rescued,” Major General Ralph Howe said. “I suggested that he be transferred to the CIA to keep him out of Willoughby’s hands.”
“I remember now. It says here he’s the Seoul station chief,” Truman said.
“After I got your message about him, Mr. President,” Walter Bedell Smith said, “I told General Bradley that was your desire. He placed him on indefinite duty with the CIA, and I so notified General Pickering. I can only suppose General Pickering designated him as Seoul station chief.”
“Good man?”
“General Bradley thought he was the best man for that job,” Smith said. “I mean, trying to get General Dean back.”
“Ralph?”
“First-class man, Mr. President. I understand why he and the Killer get along so well.”
“So well that he’d go along with . . . I’m not going to call that young man ‘Killer’ . . . McCoy because they’re pals?”
“No, sir,” Howe said firmly. “He would not.”
"Vandenburg’s the fellow who stole General Walker’s airplane, right?”
“Mr. President, I said nothing of the kind,” Howe said, smiling. “But I admit that