Battleground
Page 42
“Where is Sergeant Arndt now?”
“They took him to the 5th Marines Command Post, Sir.”
“I was there, Flem,” Jake Dillon said. “I thought you had better hear this, so I brought him here.”
“Yeah,” Pickering said.
He looked at Sergeant Sellers.
“Is that about it, Sergeant? Is there anything else?”
Sellers met his eyes but didn’t speak for a moment.
“Sir, as we were swimming away,” he said finally, hollow voiced, “we could make out ... the Japs came out of the boondocks, Sir, from the coconut trees and the other side of them. They ... They went after the people on the beach, Sir. Not only with rifles and pistols. I mean, they were using swords. We could see the swords, reflections from them, I mean. And we could hear our guys screaming.”
From a remote portion of his brain, dimmed by more than two decades, and intentionally hidden on top of that, Pickering’s memory brought forth the sound of the screams men made when their bodies were violated by sharpened steel. Some of the Marines at Belleau Wood, Corporal Fleming Pickering among them, had armed themselves with intrenching shovels. They sharpened the sides with sharpening stones. These had been more effective than the issue bayonets and trench knives.
“Sergeant,” Pickering said after a moment, “I’m going to leave you here for a while. Lie down on my bed. Help yourself to some of the whiskey, if you want. But I think that some other officers will want to talk to you, so go easy with the whiskey.”
That’s so much bullshit. Debriefing should be performed by Intelligence Officers. All of ours are now dead.
“Jake, you stay with him. I’m going to see General Vandergrift.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
XVI
(One)
HEADQUARTERS, 1ST MARINE DIVISION
GUADALCANAL
2305 HOURS 12 AUGUST 1942
“I’d like to see the General, please,” Captain Fleming Pickering said to the sergeant in the Division Command Post.
“He’s in there, Sir,” the sergeant said, pointing, “with Colonel Hunt. I’ll see if he can see you.”
Colonel Guy Hunt was the regimental commander of the 5th Marines.
If he’s here, Pickering reasoned, he knows what has happened.
“Keep your seat, Sergeant,” Pickering said, and walked into Vandergrift’s office.
Both Hunt and Vandergrift looked with annoyance at Pickering when he walked in. Officers, even Navy Captains, do not enter the “office” of the commanding general of the 1st Marine Division without permission.
Vandergrift met Pickering’s eyes.
“For reasons I suspect you already know, Captain,” Vandergrift said after a moment, “please consider yourself the acting G-2 of this division.”
Oh, shit! I am no more qualified to be the Division G-2 than I am to flap my wings and fly.
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“I know you know Colonel Hunt, Pickering. Do you know Marine Gunner Rust?” (Marine Gunners were almost always veteran Master Gunnery Sergeants promoted to warrant officer rank.)
“No, Sir.”
“Rust, this is Captain Pickering. He and Jack NMI Stecker were at Belleau Wood together.”
“I know the captain by reputation,” Rust said and gave Pickering his hand.
“How much do you know about what’s happened to Goettge’s patrol, Pickering?” Vandergrift asked.
“I just finished talking to Sergeant Sellers, Sir. He swam back with Sergeant Arndt.”
“Sellers?” Master Gunner Rust asked.
“He’s one of Major Dillon’s combat correspondents,” Pickering explained.
“Christ, another feather merchant who went along!” Rust exploded.
“A technician, maybe,” Pickering heard himself say, angrily. “Or a specialist. But feather merchants, in my book, are those who head in the other direction from the sound of the guns.”
Rust glowered at Pickering for a moment, and then shrugged.
“I beg the captain’s pardon,” Rust said.
“Not mine,” Pickering said. “I know I’m a feather merchant. But that Four-Months-in-the-Corps Hollywood photographer has no apologies to make for his behavior on this patrol.”
Pickering glanced at Vandergrift and found the general’s serious eyes on his.
“Speaking of this patrol, Pickering,” Vandergrift said, “we were just discussing the possibility of sending a patrol out to look for survivors. What’s your feeling about that?”
“Sir, I don’t feel qualified to ...”
“I make the decisions about who is and who is not qualified to offer an opinion, Captain. I asked for yours.”
“Based on what Sergeant Sellers told me, I don’t think there will be many survivors, if any,” Pickering said. “And I would presume the Japanese will be waiting for us to do something. At night, Sir, in my opinion, it would be suicidal. I think we could, should, send a strong patrol over there at first light.”
“I agree,” Vandergrift said. “I appreciate the offer, Rust, but that makes it three to one against your idea.”
“Yes, Sir,” Rust said.
“You can head it up yourself, Rust, if you like,” Vandergrift said. He turned to Colonel Hunt. “All right with you, Guy?”
“Yes, Sir. A strong patrol, Rust. They’ll be expecting you.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“Guy, why don’t you and Rust go set it up?” Vandergrift said. “Let me know before you take off. I want a word with Captain Pickering.”
Hunt and Rust left the room. Then Colonel Hunt returned. He offered his hand to Pickering.
“Good luck, Captain,” he said. “Thank God we have somebody like you to step into the breach.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Pickering said.
Hunt left again. Pickering looked at Vandergrift.
“That was gracious and flattering,” Pickering said. “But I am not qualified to step into Goettge’s shoes.”
“You weren’t listening carefully, Captain,” Vandergrift said. “The operative words were ‘somebody like you to step into the breach.’ I don’t have anyone else. You don’t expect to lose your division G-2 like this. Nor the 5th Marines’ G-2, who would have been my choice for a temporary replacement.”
“I’ll do my best, Sir. But you need a professional.”
“I’ll send a radio asking for one, of course,” Vandergrift said. “But until he arrives, or until I have to order you off the island, you’re it.”
“I’ll need some help, Sir.”
“Jack Stecker? Am I reading your mind?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Major Jack NMI Stecker had commanded 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines, when they invaded Tulagi. During the battle, Stecker had personally taken out a sniper-in-a-bunker who had been holding up the 2nd Battalion’s advance by standing in the open and shooting him, offhand, in the head from a distance of 200 yards. The story had not surprised Pickering when he heard it.
“General Harris won’t like losing Stecker, but he’ll have to live with it. Tulagi is secure, and Stecker will be of more value to the division working with you here. I’ll send a boat to Tulagi at first light to fetch him. He’s not going to be happy about it, either, but that’s the way it’s going to have to be.”
“What he really won’t like is working for me,” Pickering chuckled. “In France, in 1918, he was my sergeant when I was a corporal.”
Vandergrift looked at Pickering, and then smiled. “I think they call that the fortunes of war, Captain,” he said, in mock solemnity, and then went on, changing the subject, “There’s something I feel I should tell you: How well do you—perhaps that should be, ‘did you’—know Lieutenant Cory?”
“You’re speaking of the 5th Marines Japanese language officer?” Vandergrift nodded. “Not well, Sir.”
“He is another of your Four-Months-in-the-Corps Marines, Pickering. He came in April. Direct commission. He was previously employed by the Navy.
In Washington. Something to do with communications intelligence. Something hush-hush. I received a special message about him. I was directed to take whatever action was necessary to keep him from falling into Japanese hands.”
“Jesus!” Pickering said, not aware he had spoken.
My God, he might have known about MAGIC! What idiot assigned him to an infantry regiment here?
“From your reaction, I gather you might know what that’s all about,” Vandergrift said. “‘Whatever action’ was not defined. Did it mean that I should make an effort to see that he did not go on patrols like this one? Or was more unpleasant action on my part suggested?”
“Sir, there are some classified matters which would justify any action to keep people privy to them out of enemy hands.”
“Are you in that category, Captain?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Then it won’t be necessary for me to tell you not to put yourself in a position where you might fall into enemy hands, will it?”
“No, Sir.”
“Unless there’s something else going on that I don’t know about, I think the thing for you and me to do is try to get some sleep. There’s nothing else that can be done about Goettge and his people tonight.”
“Yes, Sir,” Pickering said. “Sir, is our communications in to Pearl Harbor?”
“As far as I know.”
“I have a message to send,” Pickering said. “I have authority, Sir ...”
“I know all about your authority, Pickering: You don’t have to ask my permission to radio the Secretary of the Navy, and I don’t have the authority to ask what you’re saying to him.”
He thinks, Pickering thought, that I am going to radio Washington that Cory may have been captured by the Japanese. I hadn’t even thought about that. But I’ll do that, too.
“With your permission, Sir?” Pickering said.
Vandergrift smiled, nodded, and waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal.
“For what it’s worth, I share Colonel Hunt’s sentiments about you, Pickering,” Vandergrift said.
(Two)
The duty officer in the communications section of Headquarters 1st Marine Division was a second lieutenant. He was dozing, but woke up when Pickering entered the small, sandbag walled room.
“May I help you, Colonel?” he asked, getting to his feet.
“I’m Captain Pickering. I need to send a radio, classified Top SECRET. Are you a crypto officer?”
“Yes, Sir, I am, but ... Captain, what’s your authority?”
Pickering took his orders, wrapped in waterproof paper, from his pocket and showed them to the young officer.
“If that won’t do it for you, Lieutenant, call General Vandergrift.”
“This will do, Sir. Where’s the message?”
“I haven’t written it yet,” Pickering said. “Sergeant, you want to get up and let me at that typewriter?”
The sergeant, who had been monitoring his radio, waiting for traffic, looked at the lieutenant for guidance. The lieutenant nodded. The sergeant got up, and Pickering sat down at the typewriter. There was a blank sheet of paper in it.
Pickering looked at the lieutenant.
“The priority immediately below ‘Operational Immediate’ is ‘Urgent,’ right?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Pickering tapped the balls of his fingers together impatiently as he mentally composed the message, and then he began to type. He typed with skill. He had taken up typing to pass time as a junior officer at sea. It wasn’t too much later than that when he learned that doing the typing himself was much faster than dictating to a secretary.
URGENT
FROM: HQ FIRST MARINE DIVISION
TO: CINCPAC
0045 13AUG42
FOLLOWING CLASSIFIED TOP SECRET FROM CAPTAIN FLEMING PICKERING USNR FOR EYES ONLY SECNAVY WASHINGTON DC1. LOSS IN COMBAT OF COLONEL FRANK GOETTGE 1ST MARDIV G2, CAPTAIN WILLIAM RINGER 5TH MARINES S2 AND 1STLT RALPH CORY 5TH MARINES LANGUAGE OFFICER REQUIRES IMMEDIATE ACTION TO AIRSHIP QUALIFIED REPLACEMENT PERSONNEL.
2. DESPITE URGENT NECESSITY TO FURNISH 1ST MARDIV WITH QUALIFIED PERSONNEL I URGE IN STRONGEST POSSIBLE TERMS THAT EXISTING POLICIES PROHIBITING ASSIGNMENT OF PERSONNEL WHO HAVE HAD ACCESS TO HIGHLY CLASSIFIED INFORMATION TO DUTIES WHERE THEY MAY FALL INTO ENEMY HANDS BE STRICTLY OBSERVED.
3. PENDING ARRIVAL OF QUALIFIED REPLACEMENT, THE UNDERSIGNED HAS TEMPORARILY ASSUMED DUTIES OF 1ST MARDIV G2.
SIGNED FLEMING PICKERING CAPTAIN USNR
END TOP SECRET EYES ONLY SECNAV FROM PICKERING CAPT USN G2 1ST MARDIV
He tore the paper from the typewriter and read it.
If that second paragraph doesn’t tell Haughton that some damned fool assigned Cory, who almost certainly knew about MAGIC, to an infantry battalion, he’s not as smart as I think he is.
He handed the sheet of paper to the lieutenant.
“Encrypt it and get it out as soon as you can,” he said.
“Yes, Sir,” the lieutenant said. He read the message.
“My God, they’re all dead? What the hell happened?”
“It’s a long, sad story, Lieutenant,” Pickering said and walked out of the commo bunker.
(Three)
SUPREME HEADQUARTERS SOUTHWEST PACIFIC
AREA
BRISBANE, AUSTRALIA
13 AUGUST 1942
On the plane from Pearl Harbor, Lieutenant Colonel George F. Dailey, USMC, seriously considered doing something about the pristine newness of his silver oak leaves. The problem was that he didn’t know what would do the job ... He didn’t think that rubbing them—on a carpet, say—would effectively dim their gloss. And working on them with, say, a nail file, would probably produce a silver lieutenant colonel’s leaf that looked like somebody had worked it over with a nail file.
Before he fell asleep, he thought that when he got to his new billet in Australia, before he actually reported in, he would find some sand and rub it into his insignia with his Blitz cloth. The idea was amusing. After eight years in the Corps, he’d worn out probably twenty Blitz cloths in practically daily use putting a high shine on his insignia. He would now use one to dull it.
Lieutenant Colonel Dailey’s concern was based less on personal vanity than on his belief that he could function better in new duties if it was not immediately apparent that he had been promoted so recently. After all, he reasoned, he had been a lieutenant colonel only thirteen days. And he wanted to do well in his new billet.
When he actually reached Brisbane, so many things happened so quickly that he forgot about taking the shine off his new silver oak leaves.
For one thing, there was a general’s aide-de-camp, a lieutenant, waiting for him at the airport, with a 1940 Packard Clipper staff car, a driver, and an orderly.
“Colonel,” the lieutenant said, “on behalf of Supreme Headquarters, SWPA, and General Willoughby specifically, welcome to Australia. The General asked me to express his regret that he couldn’t meet you here himself, but he’s tied up with the Supreme Commander at the moment.”
The Supreme Commander, of course, was General Douglas MacArthur. General MacArthur was a full, four-star general. Dailey had never seen a four-star general. There were no four-star generals in the Marine Corps. The Commandant of the Corps was only a three-star lieutenant general. And until recently, his title had been Major General Commandant, and he had had but two stars.
“It’s very good of you to meet me,” Dailey said.
“I’ll have the sergeant get your luggage, Sir,” the aide said, “and then we’ll try to get you settled. General Willoughby hopes we can do that by sixteen hundred, so there will be a chance for him to have a quick word with you before you see the Supreme Commander—he’ll take you to see him—which we have penciled in for sixteen forty-five.”
My God, I’m going to meet MacArthur!
“If I’m to see the General,” Dailey said, “either general, I really am going to have to have a uniform pressed.”
“No prob
lem, Sir,” the aide said. “There’s a valet service in Lennon’s. I’ll have a word with the manager and explain the situation.”
“Lennon’s?”
“Lennon’s Hotel, Sir. Sometimes irreverently known as ‘The Lemon.’ It’s the senior staff officer’s quarters, Sir.”
“Splendid,” Dailey said. He was human. He was not yet really accustomed to being addressed as “colonel,” and liked the sound of it; and the phrase “senior staff officer” had a nice ring to it, too, especially since it had been made clear that he was regarded as such by at least one general officer of General Douglas MacArthur’s general staff.
Lennon’s Hotel turned out to be very nice. It was a rambling, turn-of-the-century structure with high ceilings and a good deal of polished brass and gleaming wood. As General Willoughby’s aide led him across the lobby, Dailey saw a bar, and then smiled when he saw the brass sign above its door: GENTLEMEN’S SALOON.
It was well patronized in the middle of the afternoon, Dailey saw, by men wearing a wide variety of uniforms. He did not see a Marine uniform, however, and wondered how many—if any—other Marines were assigned here. The subject had not been mentioned in the briefings he had been given in Washington and at CINCPAC in Pearl Harbor.
At 1555 hours, General Willoughby’s Packard Clipper deposited Lieutenant Colonel Dailey at the main entrance to Supreme Headquarters, South West Pacific. It was a modern office building. Dailey wondered what it had originally been, but a new sign, reading SUPREME HEADQUARTERS, SOUTH WEST PACIFIC AREA, had been placed on the building wall over the spot where he was sure the building’s name had been chiseled into the marble.
General Willoughby’s aide read his mind: “It used to be an insurance company, Colonel. The Aussie military does things right. When they need a building, they just tell the occupants to get out.”
“I see,” Dailey said.
He saw one more thing of interest before an Army Military Policeman in a white cap cover pushed open the door for them. He saw a Studebaker President pull into a parking spot marked RESERVED FOR SENIOR OFFICERS. A Marine Corps emblem was on its door, and the letters USMC were painted on the hood. A Marine sergeant, carrying a briefcase, got out and headed for the entrance. Obviously, there was at least one other Marine officer assigned here, one senior enough to have his own staff car and driver.