"Easterbrook?" Pick asked incredulously.

"Did you know that Mr. Easterbrook was with the Raiders on Bloody Ridge?"

"I knew he spent a lot of time with the Raiders," Pick replied, remembering the Easterbunny eating in VMF-229's mess-tired, dirty, and scared shitless. And remembering how he'd felt sorry for him and asked where he'd been.

"Well, it looks like he was on Bloody Ridge when McCoy did whatever he did to get the Medal, and McCoy seen him try to carry some wounded officer down the hill. Saw him fall; thought he was killed. McCoy said that when Mr. Easterbrook stood up to carry this officer, he had to know he was going to get his ass killed, the way the Japs were laying in fire. But he did it anyway, trying to get this officer to a Corpsman."

"Jesus H. Christ!"

"And Mr. Easterbrook told McCoy that he seen what McCoy done.... I guess he left his position when he wasn't supposed to when he killed all them Japanese.... And Mr. Easterbrook told him if he'd had a weapon, he would have killed him himself."

"How did this all come out?" Pick asked, sensing that what he was hearing was the truth.

"We was bringing McCoy up in the elevator from the press conference. And when the door opened, there was Mr. Easterbrook. And McCoy called him a feather merchant, and... I guess Mr. Easterbrook had a couple of drinks and decided he'd had enough of McCoy's shit. And he really went after him." The gunny paused, and then added, with admiration in his voice, "He really ate him a new asshole. Called him everything in the book... starting with asshole."

"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.

TEARS FILLING HIS EYES, MCCOY WENT ON TO DESCRIBE HOW EASTERBROOK, WITH COMPLETE DISREGARD OF HIS OWN SAFETY, ATTEMPTED TO CARRY A BADLY WOUNDED MARINE OFFICER TO SAFETY THROUGH A HAIL OF JAPANESE SMALL ARMS AND MORTAR FIRE.

'I THOUGHT HE WAS DEAD,' MCCOY SAID, 'I DON'T KNOW HOW ANYONE COULD HAVE LIVED THROUGH THAT. WHEN HE STOOD UP, WITH LIEUTENANT DONALDSON SLUNG OVER HIS SHOULDER, I KNEW THEY WERE BOTH AS GOOD AS DEAD.'