“I see,” Moore said thoughtfully.
“Just one more thing: You are never, under any circumstances, to tell anyone that you have been given access to MAGIC.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
(Four)
Even after all that Major Banning had explained to him in the kitchen earlier, Moore sat for a long time in the butler’s cubicle listening to the conversation in the library before he even began to understand what was going on. But finally, it began slowly to make sense:
In about a month the 1st Marine Division would invade several islands in the Solomons. Colonel Goettge, who was the Intelligence Officer of the 1st Marines, had very little intelligence information, maps or anything else, that the Division would need in order to launch the invasion. So he was understandably desperate for whatever information he could get. He’d come to Melbourne after Major Dillon told him that he and Captain Pickering were old friends, and that Pickering could be prevailed upon to use his influence at MacArthur’s SHSWPA (Supreme Headquarters, South West Pacific Area).
That wasn’t all Moore learned that evening. There were fireworks too.
“Hell, it’s all over Washington, Flem, that you and Dugout Doug are asshole buddies,” Major Dillon said at one point.
And Captain Pickering jumped all over Major Dillon almost before the words were out of Dillon’s mouth.
If Captain Pickering’s furious defense of MacArthur’s brains and personal courage and his outrage that Major Dillon would dare call him “Dugout Doug” was not so intense, actually frightening, the ass-chewing he gave Dillon would have been funny. Moore was almost pleased to learn that the dignified Naval officer who was now his boss had a completely unsuspected flair for obscenely colorful phraseology. It would have been the envy of any Parris Island Drill Sergeant. Among other things—and there were many other things—he told Major Dillon that he wouldn’t make a pimple on a real Marine’s ass.
But the ass-chewing he gave to Major Dillon was frightening ... so frightening that at one point Colonel Goettge even tried to apologize and leave.
Probably, Moore decided, because he didn’t want to risk exacerbating the already hostile relations between SHSWPA and the Navy, which of course included the Marines.
“No, Colonel, you stay,” Captain Pickering told him. “I certainly don’t hold you responsible for Diarrhea Mouth here. Let’s have another drink to calm down, and then try to figure out how to help the 1st Division.”
Five more people came in the library before they all went in for dinner: Colonel Willoughby, who spoke—Moore noted—with a faint German accent and who was introduced as the SHSWPA G-2; then two women, a U.S. Navy Nurse and some kind of Australian Navy enlisted woman; and finally two Australian Navy Officers.
One of them was introduced as “Commander Feldt.”
“Commander Feldt, Colonel,” Pickering explained to Goettge, “commands the Royal Australian Navy Coastwatcher Establishment.”
Moore tried to get a look at Commander Feldt through the duct, but was unable to see him. He decided that the other Australian officer worked for Feldt, or with him anyhow.
The women baffled him for a long time; but from what was said, he eventually understood that they were the girlfriends of two Marines who were off on some island with the Coastwatchers. And that answer raised another fascinating question: What were these women doing at a dinner where all sorts of classified information was being discussed?
The answer to that, when he finally thought of it, was quite simple. Captain Pickering decided who could be told what. In this case, obviously, he had decided that these two women—who were in uniform themselves and whose men were off on a secret mission—could be trusted to keep their mouths shut about that mission, and for that matter, about anything else.
Proof of that came a little later, just before they went into dinner and the women went to “powder their noses.”
“Nice girls,” Colonel Willoughby said approvingly.
“Women, Colonel,” Commander Feldt corrected him, somewhat nastily. “Daphne has already lost one man, her husband, to this sodding war.”
“He was a Coastwatcher?”
“No,” Feldt answered. “He was a sergeant in the sodding Royal Signals. Our sodding politicians sent most of our men to sodding Africa, which is where he caught it.”
He paused, apparently having seen something on Willoughby’s face. “Did that remark offend you, Colonel?”
By now Moore was convinced that Feldt was more than a little drunk.
“No, of course not,” Willoughby replied, somewhat unconvincingly.
“I was thinking of a conversation I had yesterday with Banning,” Feldt went on, “as I watched her walk out of here just now.”
“Oh?” Willoughby asked uneasily.
“He asked me what I thought the chances were of getting them back alive—Banning’s men on Buka, Lieutenant Howard and Sergeant Koffler, who has been comforting the widow Farnsworth in her grief. I told him the truth: From slim to sodding none.”
“Is it that low?” Willoughby asked.
“Commander Feldt underestimates the Marine Corps,” Major Banning said, trying to temper Feldt’s bitterness.
“Sod you, Banning,” Feldt said cheerfully. “What I was thinking, Colonel, was that it is a bit much to ask of a pretty young woman like Yeoman Farnsworth to lose two men to this sodding war.”
“I think they’ll come back,” Pickering said. “They are both very resourceful young men.”
“I think we had better change the subject,” Banning said. “They’re liable to walk in here any moment.”
“They wouldn’t hear a sodding thing they haven’t sodding well thought of at least once a sodding day themselves,” Feldt said. “What the hell are they doing here anyway? Whose brilliant sodding idea was that?”
“Mine, actually,” Pickering said.
Feldt snorted. “Until just now, Pickering, when you said that, I was beginning to believe I had finally met one American who really had enough brains to pour piss out of a sodding boot.”
“Banning suggested that the company of a pretty woman just possibly might put you in a mellow frame of mind,” Pickering said.
“Shit!” Feldt said. “Why? Banning, you bastard, what do you want from me?”
The women came back in the room. There was an awkward silence, and then Feldt said, “Major Banning was about to tell me what he wants from me.”
“A dozen Coastwatchers to be attached to the 1st Marine Division,” Banning said.
“That’s a marvelous idea,” Colonel Goettge said enthusiastically. Moore sensed that it was the first time he had heard of the idea.
“What for?” Feldt asked.
“Captain Pickering and I think they could be very helpful to Colonel Goettge,” Banning said. “Dealing with the natives, among other things. Colonel Goettge doesn’t speak Pidgin too well.”
“I’ll bet he sodding well doesn’t,” Feldt snorted. “From what I’ve seen, he’s living proof of the old saw that ‘intelligence officer is a contradiction of terms.’ ”
“That’s quite enough, Feldt,” Pickering snapped. “You’re in my home, and you owe the colonel an apology.”
There was a long, silent moment.
“No offense, Goettge,” Feldt said finally. “A little down-under humor.”
“No offense taken, Commander,” Goettge said.
Neither of them sounded at all sincere.
“Interesting thought, Major,” the other Australian officer said, in an obvious attempt to spread oil on the troubled waters.
“Don’t encourage Banning, for Christ’s sake,” Feldt said. “There’s no telling what the bastard’ll ask for next.” He fell silent for a moment, and then said, “OK. I don’t know about a dozen. But I can come up with six or eight people.”
“Why don’t we go in to dinner?” Captain Pickering suggested.
“Are you trying to separate me from the booze, by any chance, Captain?”
There was a moment’s silence, and then Feldt laughed.
“You’re a devious bastard, Pickering,” he said. “I like you.”
(Five)
THE ELMS
DANDENONG, VICTORIA, AUSTRALIA
0805 HOURS 2 JULY 1942
When Major Jake Dillon, more than a little hungover, went down to breakfast, he was surprised to find Fleming Pickering’s driver, or orderly, or whatever the hell he was, sitting at the dining room table finishing up what looked like steak and eggs.
Until he had been accused (with justification) of helping himself to the booze, Corporal Jake Dillon of the 4th Marines had once served as an orderly to a captain named Jerold in Shanghai. Corporal Dillon had not eaten steak and eggs at the captain’s table. What he ate was leftovers, and he had done that standing up in the kitchen.
Sergeant John Marston Moore started to get to his feet when he saw Dillon.
“Good morning, Sir.”
“Keep your seat, Sergeant,” Dillon said. “Finish your breakfast.”
“I’m just about finished,” the kid said. And then he seemed to be stretching his leg under the table. After a moment, Jake understood there was a button on the floor, to summon the help. Proof came a moment later when the door to the kitchen opened and Mrs. Cavendish came out.
“Good morning, Sir,” she said. “I hope you slept well.”
“Like a drum,” Dillon said.
“And what may I get you for breakfast?”
“What the sergeant was eating looks fine, thank you.”
“Tea or coffee?”
“Coffee, please.”
“Don’t drink that,” Mrs. Cavendish said to Moore, as he raised his cup toward his lips. “I’ll bring you a fresh cup, hot.”
She took the cup and saucer from him and went into the kitchen.
“Pretty soft berth, huh?” Dillon said to Moore.
“Sir?”
“I was an orderly once, a long time ago. My officer made me eat in the kitchen.” He saw in Moore’s face that he had interpreted the remark as a reprimand, and added: “Hey, I don’t give a damn where you eat. I told you, I used to be an enlisted man. Hell, I was a sergeant a lot longer than I’ve been an officer. I was just saying that it looks as if you fell into a pretty soft berth.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“How long have you been working for Pickering?”
“Not long, Sir.”
“Well, don’t fuck up, Kid, and get yourself sent down to the 1st Division. They’re living in tents, and they are not eating steak and eggs for breakfast.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Dillon heard the sound of footsteps, turned his head, and saw that Colonel Goettge and Major Banning were coming into the dining room. Moore saw them, too, and started to get up again.
“Good morning,” Dillon said. “I told Captain Pickering’s orderly to sit down and have a cup of coffee. I hope that’s all right, Colonel.”
Moore looked at Banning and saw a small smile around his lips and eyes.
“Sure,” Colonel Goettge said. “Why not? Good morning, Sergeant. Take your seat.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Colonel Goettge, Moore thought, has good reason to be in a good mood. He came here expecting damned little, and he was going to get far more than he could have hoped for.
Before the evening was over, in addition to the Australians of the Coastwatcher Establishment who were going to be attached to the 1st Marine Division, Colonel Goettge had been offered:
—Intelligence briefings on the Solomon Islands by both the SHSWPA Intelligence Section and the Royal Australian Navy;
—the latest aerial photographs available, Australian and American;
—the latest maps, and in quantities sufficient to equip the Division. The number of maps required had really surprised Moore;
—permission to send a liaison officer to SHSWPA to ensure that any new intelligence developed would quickly get to the division.
Captain Pickering had been even more obliging about that. When Colonel Goettge admitted that he didn’t have an officer of high enough rank to send to Melbourne, Pickering had volunteered to send a radio message to the Secretary of the Navy asking that an officer of suitable rank and experience be flown immediately from the United States.
Captain Pickering walked into the dining room.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, as everyone stood up. He walked to the head of the table and sat down. He looked at Moore.
“You look a little beat this morning, Sergeant,” he said. “The scuttlebutt is that you were out until the wee hours carousing. Anything to that?”
“No, Sir.”
“But you would characterize how you spent last night as interesting?”
“Fascinating, Sir.”
Major Dillon snorted. Colonel Goettge smiled tolerantly.
“Well, I hope you can see well enough to drive these gentlemen around town today. They have several errands to run. They’ll tell you what they are.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“But check in every hour or so with Lieutenant Hon, Moore,” Pickering said. “I think he may have something he wants you to do.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“We keep Sergeant Moore pretty busy around here,” Pickering said, a smile around his eyes, “with one thing or another.”
“Well, whatever you have him doing,” Major Dillon said, “it’s still a soft berth compared to living in a tent in the mud at Wellington. I just told him, ‘don’t fuck up, Kid, you’ve got it made.’ ”
“You really think so, Jake?” Pickering asked, innocently.
XI
(One)
ROYAL AUSTRALIAN NAVY BASE
PORT PHILIP BAY
MELBOURNE, VICTORIA
0945 HOURS 2 JULY 1942
Yeoman Daphne Farnsworth, Royal Australian Navy Women’s Volunteer Reserve, walked up to Sergeant John Marston Moore, USMCR. Sergeant Moore was then leaning on the front fender of the Studebaker Commander outside a frame building on a wharf on Port Philip Bay.
Moore recognized her immediately. Last night she was sitting in the dining room directly across from the duct in the butler’s cubicle. She had lost her husband in action in Africa, he remembered, and was now a Marine’s girlfriend ... or, in Commander Feldt’s words, he was “comforting her in her grief.” He also remembered all too clearly what else Commander Feldt said with such bitter cynicism about the Marine, a Sergeant named Koffler now on some Japanese island: His chances of returning alive ranged from “slim to sodding zero.”
“Comforting her in her grief” could have meant something sordid. But looking at her the night before, Moore decided she was a nice girl, and that whatever was going on between her and Sergeant Koffler was not cheap.
Looking at her now—just as he realized she had never seen him—the same thing occurred to him again. She was a nice girl, with warm, intelligent eyes. And damned good-looking.
“I should be very surprised,” she greeted him with a smile, “if you are not Sergeant Moore.”
She has a very nice voice.
“Guilty.”
“Come with me, Lieutenant Donnelly wants to see you.”
“Yes, Ma‘am,” he said.
She looked at him strangely, and then smiled.
Moore followed her into the building. Lieutenant Donnelly, a tall, sharp-featured, skinny officer with a very pale complexion, and black, unruly hair, had an office on the second floor. Moore recognized Donnelly as the other Australian Navy officer who had been at dinner.
I remember you from last night, but how the hell do you know who I am? And what’s this all about, anyway?
“I’m Sergeant Moore, Sir.”
“That’ll be all, Love,” Donnelly said to Yeoman Farnsworth. “Close the door, pl
ease.”
When the door had closed behind her, Lieutenant Donnelly said, without smiling, “Put your eyes back in their sockets, Sergeant. She already has a Yank Marine sergeant.”
Moore looked at him in shock.
“Listen carefully,” Lieutenant Donnelly said. “The airfield at Lunga Point is being built by the 11th and 23rd Pioneers, IJN. Estimated strength 450. They are equipped with bulldozers, rock crushers, trucks, and other engineer equipment.”
Moore was completely baffled. It showed on his face as he looked at Lieutenant Donnelly.
“What did I just say?” Lieutenant Donnelly asked.
“Something about Pioneers,” Moore said lamely, embarrassed.
“Christ!” Donnelly snorted in disgust. He handed Moore a sheet of paper. On it, Moore read what Donnelly had just said. “Try committing that to memory.”
Moore read the sheet of paper again. And then again, and again, very uncomfortable under Donnelly’s impatient glare. Finally, he said, “I think I have it, Sir.”
“Try it,” Donnelly said.
Moore repeated what he had memorized.
“Once more, to set it in your head,” Donnelly ordered.
Moore repeated it again.
“OK. Repeat that to Major Banning,” Donnelly ordered. “Tell him that Commander Feldt said, ‘it’s as good as gold.’ ”
“ ‘It’s as good as gold,’ ” Moore dutifully parroted. “Sir, I don’t know when I’m going to see Major Banning.”
“You are going to see him right away,” Donnelly said. “You get in your car and you go over to the Hotel Menzies, and you repeat to him what you just memorized. And then you forget it, OK? Understand?”
He’s talking to me like I’m a backward child. Probably because I am acting like one.
“Sir, I’m driving some American officers around.”
“Well, Sergeant, they’re just going to have to bloody well wait for you. I’ll have Daphne—Daphne being the Yeoman you were ogling—to look out for them and tell them what’s happened.”
Battleground Page 27