3
PisanoOKINAWA, FRIDAY, 19 JUNE 1968—The day was clear, hot. He had been standing in line for nearly an hour. “NEXT,” the clerk called.
“Pisano. Anthony F. P-I-S-A-N-O.” He waited. The clerk checked the register, gave his crew the last few numbers, again rang out with a loud “NEXT.” Tony stepped to the side. The crew disappeared into the shadows of the giant Quonset hut, then reappeared with four footlockers on a roller cart.
“Okay Pisano, here it is.”
Tony looked at the footlocker. His name was stenciled in black on the top, front and sides. There was a combination lock at the hasp. He attempted several sets of numbers unsuccessfully. “Hey, ah, ya know,” he stammered at the clerk. “How am I supposed to get this open?”
“Ferget the combination?” The clerk’s tone was sarcastic.
“Liste
