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levy moves out tomorrow.”
    “Certainly, sir!” he said with the greatest military precision, throwing us each an extra-snappy salute.
    When he had left the general said, “The perpetual civilian. Well, there’s no use court-martialing a man like that. Maybe Korea’ll knock some sense into him.”
    “I wish you’d let me handle him,” I said.
    “You’ll learn that the Army gains more in the long run by taking civilian nonsense. But, by God, you don’t have to take it at meals.”
    That evening when we returned to the Club and entered the elevator, the general noted with satisfaction that his memorandum had been posted, but when he read to the bottom of the typed sheet he turned a bright purple, for someone had scrawled in pencil, “Signed, Mrs. Mark Webster.”
    “Who did that?” the general shouted.
    The Japanese girl who ran the elevator could not read English and had no idea of what the general was enraged about. He pointed at the penciled signature and demanded, “Who do this?”
    “Me no see,” she whispered, cowering in the corner.
    In her confusion the elevator stormed past the general’s floorand by the time the frightened little girl could get it back under control, General Webster had ripped down the announcement. Then he dragged the girl into his suite and rang furiously for the hotel manager, who established the fact that Major Bartlett had ridden in the elevator that afternoon. But it was impossible to prove anything and by mealtime every officer in the hotel knew about the incident, for civilian officers are like schoolboys—always giggling with delight when something embarrasses the headmaster.
    Dinner that evening was a chilly affair. Eileen and I sat in silence and absorbed the hateful stares of the officers who normally brought Japanese girls in to dinner. Major Bartlett appeared, bowed my way and sat right where the general would have to see him, chatting happily with some cronies and telling dirty stories. But the principal target of the icy stares that night was Mrs. Webster, who didn’t seem to mind at all. She had been through many Army crises with her husband—some, like this, which she had precipitated—and she had never wilted under criticism. My father did not approve of her meddling in Army life but once said, “If you ever get into trouble, Lloyd, be like Nancy Webster. Stick your chin out and take it.”
    Now she brazenly pointed at a table where three American schoolteachers were dining with some civilian men employed by the Army to run the gasoline-supply system. In a voice just loud enough to be heard by eavesdroppers she said, “Isn’t it charming to see those pretty American girls at that table?”
    Somebody had to say something, so I offered, “After you’ve been in Korea, it’s wonderful to see an American girl.”
    I realized immediately that this sounded pretty awful, and I was sure of it when Major Bartlett suddenly picked up his spoon and started polishing it like mad. I glared at him but he simply looked at the spoon, breathed on it the way you do when you’re polishing apples and polished some more.
    Any trouble between me and the fat major was averted by the appearance of the young Marine lieutenant and his lovely Japanese girl. He had apparently not seen the notice, for he headed toward a vacant table and everyone in the room looked up to see what would happen.
    The headwaiter pounced on the couple, explained the situation to the girl in rifle-hot Japanese and the obviously well-bred girl turned away in an agony of embarrassment. The Marine wouldn’t take this. Calmly he grabbed his beautiful girl by the hand and led her against her will to the table. The headwaiter was furious. He hissed instructionsat the girl and he had the bad luck to use some words which the Marine understood, for the American let go the chair he was holding for the girl, hauled his fist back and launched a haymaker.
    Another Marine anticipated this and deftly caught his