Pickering said, and went into his bedroom.
The Supreme Commander’s black 1941 Cadillac limousine was parked in the circular drive of the hotel. The red flag with five stars in a circle that normally flew from the left fender was now shrouded, but the small American flag on the right hung limply from its chrome pole. The chauffeur, a master sergeant in crisp khakis, stood by the rear door.
It was enough to attract a crowd of the curious—even reverent—who stood under the marquee and along the drive hoping to catch a glimpse of MacArthur.
The master sergeant saluted as Pickering and Huff entered the limousine, then walked around to the front of the car and slipped a red flag with one star—the flag to which Pickering was entitled—over the shrouded flag. Then he got behind the wheel and started down the drive.
“I think we have some disappointed people standing there, Sid,” Pickering said.
“The Supreme Commander’s car always attracts that kind of attention, sir,” Huff said. “The Japanese people revere him.”
“They really do, don’t they?” Pickering agreed, thoughtfully.
Huff led Pickering into what had been the U.S. Embassy and was now The Residence—and so called—of the Supreme Commander, Allied Powers, and now Supreme Commander, UN Forces, and to the MacArthur apartment.
He knocked at a double door, but did not wait for a response before pulling it open and announcing, “Brigadier General Pickering, United States Marine Corps.”
General of the Army Douglas MacArthur carefully laid a long, thin, black cigar into the ashtray and then rose from a red leather armchair. He was wearing his usual washed-soft khakis.
He started toward Pickering, but before he reached him, Mrs. Jean MacArthur, in a simple black dress with a single strand of pearls, walked to Pickering, took his hand in both of hers, and said, “Oh, Fleming, we’re so sorry.”
She then stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek.
Pickering could smell her perfume.
I wonder if she can smell the scotch; I should have used Sen-Sen or something.
MacArthur came up and laid a hand on Pickering’s shoulder.
“I got the word only now, just before I sent Sid to the hotel, ” he said. “I’m so very sorry, Fleming.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“You should have told us,” Jean MacArthur said.
“Yes,” her husband agreed.
What the hell was I supposed to do? Call up and say, “General, I thought you would like to know my son has just been shot down”?
Pickering didn’t reply.
MacArthur looked in his eyes, then patted his shoulder and turned and walked to a sideboard.
“I think a little of this is in order,” he said, picking up a bottle of Famous Grouse by the neck.
“Thank you, sir,” Pickering said.
Jesus, what’s wrong with me? The last thing I need is another drink. Not here.
MacArthur poured an inch of scotch in a glass, walked to Pickering, handed it to him, and then returned to the sideboard, where he poured white wine in a glass, walked to his wife and handed it to her, then returned to the sideboard a final time to pour scotch in a glass and then returned.
He solemnly touched his glass to Pickering’s. His wife touched her glass to Pickering’s.
"Major Pickering,” MacArthur said, solemnly.
They all sipped at their glasses.
Not that I really give a damn, but how did he find out? He’s not on a next-of-kin list—anything like that—and I can’t believe he reads a report with the names of everybody who’s KIA or MIA on it.
“General Cushman was at the Dai-Ichi Building . . . ,” MacArthur said.
My God, is he reading my mind?
“. . . briefing General Almond and myself on the splendid—absolutely splendid!—job Marine aviation is doing in the Pusan area. He concluded his briefing by saying that ‘sadly, our operations have not been without a price’ and then told us what has happened to Major Pickering.”
“General Cushman was kind enough to message me with the details,” Pickering said, and took a pull at his drink.
“General Cushman also told me that Major Pickering flew the Marines’ first combat sortie of this war, during which he destroyed an enemy train . . .”
“I understand that’s the case, sir.”
“. . . and is in complete agreement with me that Major Pickering’s flying skill and valor entitle him without question to the Distinguished Flying Cross. The citation at this moment is being prepared.”
What am I supposed to do, say “thank you”?
“Thank you.”
“Thanks are not in order, Fleming. Your son upheld the finest traditions of the Marine Corps.”
“Pick was a fine Marine officer,” Pickering said.
“Indeed, he was.”
“I don’t know why I said