In the background, Eddie heard Rocky bark and he smiled because he knew his friends would take care of the little guy.
9
“Ladies and gentlemen, rounding out our threesome, it’s the fashionably late Colonel Spencer!”
“Glad to see you again, too, Pete,” Leonard said. “At our age, though, we shouldn’t refer to each other as ‘the late,’ fashionably or otherwise. Someone might claim our parking space.”
The other two colonels laughed. “With your wit, you should’ve been a standup comedian,” said Colonel Joseph Watkins. “Or a politician.” As commanding officer of a Marine regiment, Joe was Leonard’s infantry counterpart at Camp Pendleton.
“But not a general?” asked Leonard.
“Hell, no!” said Colonel Peter Williams. Leonard, Joe and Pete—and their wives and ex-wives—had been friends since Vietnam. “Generals don’t need wit. Just a good caddy, a fifth of bourbon and an oxygen tank close at hand.”
“Now, Pete,” said Leonard in a taunting voice. “Are you referring to our boss, General Neville?” Pete, like Leonard, was the commanding officer of a Marine Aircraft Group, but Pete’s MAG consisted of F-18 jet fighter squadrons at Marine Corps Air Station El Toro. Pete’s bull-headedness frequently put him at odds with their superior, the commanding general of the Seventh Marine Aircraft Wing. It had also effectively ended his career in the Marine Corps.
Pete didn’t bite. “You won’t get me started today, you son of a bitch. Are we gonna play some golf or sit here and start the local chapter of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union?”
The men strolled out to their cart and clubs. Looking at the sky, Joe said, “Glad yesterday’s winds died down. Wouldn’t be able to play much of a game today if they hadn’t.”
Leonard climbed into the front passenger seat. “Did you know that in almost every ancient civilization, an eastern wind was a bad omen?”
“Aw, Jesus, Leon!” Pete took his usual spot in the driver’s seat. “We ain’t even made it to the first hole yet and you’re already philosophizin’.”
“I’m serious,” Leonard protested. “The Mayans lived in fear of an ancient prophecy: ‘They shall also be smitten with the east wind.’ The North African proverb was: ‘A western wind carrieth water in his hand; When the east wind toucheth it, it shall wither.’ The Bible is full of dire references to east winds. So is Chinese history.”
“You’re just a bundle of joy this Sunday morning,” said Pete. “I’m takin’ you to some Angels games this season. You need to get out more.”
“Down here in SoCal we don’t have to wait for something bad to happen when the east winds blow. Wildfires break out right away.” Joe took the rear-facing seat. “Last October we almost lost two Marines when a fire spread faster than we could get the platoon out of the field.”
“Fortunately January was wet, preventing the winds from doing their usual damage,” Leonard said. “Unless keeping pilots on the ground counts as damage.”
“When was the last time you flew?” Pete’s foot hit the pedal and the cart jolted forward.
“Yesterday. Sledge arranged for Stinger teams to act as aggressors. I showed up at the last minute and flew with a captain alongside my squadron commander.” Leonard grabbed the cart for support. “Are you insured to drive this thing, Pete?”
“Glad to see the east wind didn’t ground you at all,” Pete said. “Wish I coulda seen the look on Sledge’s face when you showed up to fly with his boys.”
“Pilots and your callsigns,” said Joe. “Who’s ‘Sledge’? What’s his major malfunction?”
“Besides bein’ a drunk-driving wife-beating philanderer?” Pete said sarcastically. “That would be none other than the infamous Lieutenant Colonel Melvin ‘Sledge’ Hammer. Other than his—minor—problems, he’s one of the Marine Corps’s finest leaders.”
“How do these unsatisfactory officers remain in the Marine Corps?” Joe asked as they rounded a sharp curve. “More worrisome—how the fuck do they get command of a squadron?”
“And a training squadron at that,” said Leonard. “Christ, Pete! Sure you’re not the drunk driver this morning?”
“Now Leon, you know I don’t need to be drunk to drive this bad.” Reverting to the topic, he answered, “I know how he got the job. General Laker loved the man. Treated him like a son.”
“Say no more,” Joe said. “General Laker. There’s a name I hadn’t heard in ages. His antics were legendary even among us ground-pounders.” Leonard quietly offered thanks as Pete stopped the cart at the first hole. “Now that General Laker’s retired, will Sledge get selected for colonel?” Joe asked, pulling a club out of his bag.
“Retired, my ass,” said Pete. “General Laker’s not only retired, he’s on life support!”
“So is Sledge’s career,” said Leonard, “if I have my way.”
“Shit.” Pete put on his gloves. “If a Jim Beam-drinking certifiable moron like Paul Laker can wear three stars, Sledge Hammer can certainly get his sorry ass selected for an eagle. Hell, all of us made it, didn’t we?”
Leonard squinted in the sunlight as he fished for his sunglasses. Finding them, he grinned at his close friend. “I disagree. Sledge and his kind haven’t faced reality. The days when the General Lakers of this world could whore about in every port and drink all day are over.”
Pete practiced his swing. “Well, then I say good riddance to bygone days and the dinosaurs of the past. Of course, it won’t make any difference for me. But you, Leon, hell, you got your star. That means you gotta start actin’ and thinkin’—which means not thinkin’ at all—like one of them—a general!”
Joe looked surprised. “Is the list out?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” answered Leonard. “Anyone who claims to know when President Clinton will sign it is delusional.”
“Just saying what everyone knows,” said Pete. “I’m sure you’re on it, too, Joe, but I don’t know how things work on the ground side of the house. Aviation I know.”
Joe was first to tee off. As Leonard swapped clubs, movement in the direction of the clubhouse distracted him. He looked up as a shop manager drove a cart in the direction of their threesome. At the same time, a pager went off. “Who brought his goddamned pager to a golf course on a beautiful Sunday morning like this?” asked Pete.
“We’re about to have company,” said Leonard as the manager approached.
“Colonel Spencer!” shouted the manager from a hundred yards away.
“A pager and a pro shop manager.” Leonard grew apprehensive. “I’d say we have a two-alarm emergency on our hands.” Without leaving his cart, the manager explained that Leonard had an urgent phone call at the club. Joe said he also needed to return to the club to make a call.
“You two are just gonna leave me out here by myself?” Pete moaned, lighting a cigarette.
“Yes,” Leonard yelled as they drove away. “I know what’s in my bag, you worthless jet jockey. If you take anything, I will find out.”
Within minutes, they were back at the clubhouse. “Colonel Spencer,” Leonard said as he took the phone. He listened as his command duty officer briefly explained the emergency. “What? Lieutenant Roberts, you mean that’s it? You’re in squadron 707, aren’t you? Good. Please give this so-called emergency message to Major Burr. Thank you, Lieutenant.” Leonard handed his phone to Joe, who dialed the number to his infantry regiment’s headquarters. “I’d wager we have the same message.” Leonard watched Joe’s face for clues. Sure enough, Joe’s look