Larry Miller

I'VE MENTIONED LT. RUSSELL BATES before in this column, a Marine pilot, my friend Pete Hamilton's nephew. Pete and his wife, Marcia, brought their four girls out from Connecticut and stayed with us last Thanksgiving, and his sister, Trish, another pal forever, made everyone a fabulous meal at her place ("faboo," as she would say). Russell came up from Miramar to join everyone. In case you've never done it, it's actually great fun when that many people stay with you, assuming, of course, you don't detest them. We have a four-bedroom house (the bar is its best feature, for good or ill), and every couch and pull-out was filled. And there was always someone padding around with a bowl of cereal.

The next day we all drove down to Russell's base, and had enough cars in procession to look like the picnic in "Citizen Kane." We climbed all over the planes and helicopters, and put on the too-big helmets--the kids, anyway; the grownups just took pictures. Everyone got coated, literally, with the ever-present oil mist, and was disgusted by it--the adults, this time; the kids loved it. Then we all checked into a hotel not too far away for the night, with an eye on their renowned brunch the next day. (You know the ones, where you fill up on the first thing you see, and they have an entire room just for rolls. I think the profit margin on those brunches slightly edges out Las Vegas.)

We were lucky, indeed, to be able to stay at a place like that, because it's one of the fanciest joints anywhere, and I know this for a fact, because just as we all got into our rooms, it became clear that I had cleverly left three pieces of luggage sitting next to the front door back home. Nothing important, really, unless you consider all of the kids' clothes and toothbrushes and toys important. (They were covered with oil, remember, and seriously stank.) The Divine Mrs. M. chewed this new information over in her usual thoughtful manner, measured me for a straight right, thought better of it (for the time being, anyway), and exited the room wordlessly for the gift shop. This was not their first time at the dance, and they were filled with everything a stupid family might need. Monogrammed, of course, with the name and crest of the hotel that will mock me forever on T-shirts, shorts, pants, books, and what used to be called "sundries."

Russell came down the next day and joined us for the brunch, and actually noticed how many of us were walking ads for the hotel. But it was a lovely day, and the rest of us caravanned back to our house, while Russ went back to work. I remember glancing at him down the long table, laughing with Katie, Pete and Marcia's oldest. Russ and Katie were always very close, like brother and sister. I've known Russell since he and his brother were toddlers, and he's one of those guys it's impossible not to meet and think, "What a great young man."

WELL, maybe you can see this coming, and, yes, it's bad news. Russell was killed two weeks ago, flying back to base. Just days later his outfit, Squadron HMM-166: The Seaelk, was beginning a larger training mission before deploying to Iraq. Now they'd have to begin it one man short. But first, they had to find him.

It was one of those things where one second he was on the radar, and the next second he was off it. This was on Monday afternoon, February 16, and the Marines sent out AWACS planes and troops. He was young and strong. Maybe he had survived. But the mountains and the desert hold many secrets, and are hard to beat. Two days became five, and five became ten. His mother flew from England, where Russell and his brother were born and raised, to Connecticut, and she and Marcia and Katie flew from there to San Diego to wait and pray.

We all did. Wait and pray. Each day that brought no word, brought something less desired: longer odds. But as I said to Pete, there's never any reason in life not to hope and pray for the best. Especially when that's all you have. One night, after about a week, my wife asked about Russell when our own kids were asleep, and I shrugged and shook my head. And I said, "Maybe there's some old gold miner in a cabin with no electricity who found him and is nursing him back. Maybe this will all be just an incredible story." Maybe.

As it turns out, maybe not.

In the face of not finding anything, a larger prayer meeting was scheduled on the base for Friday, the 27th, but then they found him Thursday, the night before. The meeting was held on Friday, just the same, but now the prayers were for something different.

LENO USED TO HAVE A STORY he loved to tell about his early days at the Improv in New York. An older comic had started hanging around the club; he'd been out of the business for a while, and wanted to get back in. And he had material like, "You ever notice it's always the guys in uniform who get the girls?"

One night Jay and some of the other young comics sat him down and suggested that maybe he should think about updating his act. So the guy went onstage the next night and said, "You ever notice it's always the Green Berets who get the girls?"

EVERYONE'S SEEN "The Sting," because it's a great movie. Well, I guess not everyone, but you know what I mean. And it's still a great movie. Newman and Redford are wonderful (I've always wished the two of them had made more together), and the rest of the cast is as good as it gets: Robert Shaw, Eileen Brennan, Charles Durning, Harold Gould, Ray Walston, Dana Elcar, and many others. The great George Roy Hill directed--he passed on not too long ago--and David S. Ward wrote the script.

I saw it again last week.