3. PASS TO CAPTAIN PICKERING ARRANGEMENTS FOR HIS FURTHER MOVEMENT BY AIR HAVE BEEN MADE. BY DIRECTION: D.J. WAGAM, REARADM USN
Pickering went to the heavy plate glass windows of the bridge and looked out. There was no other vessel in sight on the smooth, blue swells of the sea.
“Where, or what, is Baker XRay Mike?”
“Espíritu Santo, Sir. They’ve got a pretty decent airfield up and running there.”
“Is this what the Navy calls ‘flank speed’?” Pickering asked.
“She’ll go a bit faster than this, Captain. But the ride gets a little rough, and the fuel consumption goes way up. I dislike not having enough fuel in the bunkers.”
“That was a question, not a criticism. I’ve never been on one of these before.”
“You know what they are?”
“High speed transport,” Pickering said. “Right?”
“That’s something of a misnomer, Sir. They removed half the boilers and converted that space to troop berthing. It’s high speed relative to a troop transport, not compared to anything else. She’s considerably slower than she was before they removed half her boilers.”
“Well, whoever’s idea it was, it seems to be a good one. They couldn’t start landing aircraft on Henderson until they got some fuel in there, and they couldn’t risk sending a transport.”
“The original idea, as I understand it, Sir, was that the APDs would be used to transport the Marine Raiders. We even trained with them for a while. You familiar with the Raiders, Sir?”
“Yes,” Pickering said. “A little.”
Franklin Roosevelt copying—or trying to best—the British again. They almost wound up being called The Marine Commandos.
“What happened to the idea of using these ships to transport Raiders?” Pickering asked.
“Well of course, in a sense, we did. We are. We put the Raiders ashore on Tulagi. But that was a conventional amphibious assault. What I meant, Sir, was that I think the idea for the conversion of these ships was to transport the Raiders on raids.”
“That isn’t going to happen?”
“There is some scuttlebutt, Sir, that the Second Raider Battalion was to be landed yesterday on Makin Island from submarines. I emphasize, Sir, that it’s scuttlebutt, and probably shouldn’t be repeated.”
Meaning, of course, that you know goddamn well the Second Raider Battalion was landed yesterday on Makin by submarine, but are afraid that when your VIP supercargo has a few drinks with the brass, he will report that you told him.
“I know an officer with the Second Raiders,” Pickering thought aloud, and then corrected himself. “I have a friend who is an officer with the Second Raiders.”
I know Colonel Evans Carlson and Captain Roosevelt, whose father is our Commander-in-Chief, and a dozen other Raider officers. But I’m not sure—I frankly doubt—if they would appreciate me going around announcing that I’m a friend of theirs. Killer McCoy, on the other hand ...
“And actually, he’s more my son’s friend—they went through officer candidate school at Quantico together—than mine. Very interesting young man. He was an enlisted man with the Fourth Marines in China before the war. They call him ‘Killer’ McCoy.”
“Your son is a Marine, Sir?”
“Yes, he is.”
“With the First Division?”
“No. Thank God. He’s just finished flying school. Actually, the last I heard, he’d just finished F4F training. I expect he’s on his way over here, or will be shortly.”
“The F4F is supposed to be quite an airplane,” the captain said.
Thank you, Captain, for your—failed but noble—attempt to reassure the father of a brand-new Marine Corps fighter pilot that all is right with the world.
“Bridge, Lookout,” the loudspeaker above Pickering’s head blared suddenly. “Aircraft, to port. On the deck.”
The captain ran to the port to the open portion of the bridge, rested his hands on the steel surrounding it, and looked out.
Aware that his function as supercargo was to stay the hell out of people’s way, Pickering successfully resisted the temptation to look for himself. He backed up until his back touched the aft bulkhead of the bridge.
The captain turned around. “Sound General Quarters,” he ordered. “All ahead full. All weapons to fire when ready.” He looked at Pickering, and over the clamor of the General Quarters bell, said, “It’s an Emily. Obviously on a torpedo run.”
Then he turned to look at the aircraft again.
The Emily, Pickering knew, was the Kawanishi H8K2, a four-engine flying boat which had obviously borrowed much of its design from Igor Sikorski’s Pan American Airways flying boats. It was fast—he recalled that it cruised at 290 mph—had a range of 4000 miles, and could carry either two of the large, excellent, 1780-pound Japanese torpedoes, or just over two tons of bombs.
It’s spotted the Gregory, Pickering realized, and has decided an American destroyer all alone on the wide sea is just what she is looking for.
With the element of surprise on the side of the bomber, a destroyer made an excellent torpedo target. On the other hand, hitting an aircraft with the 40mm Bofors and .50 Caliber Brownings on a destroyer was very difficult, even if they could be brought to bear in time. An aircraft slowed to a speed that allowed it to safely and accurately launch a torpedo was a little more vulnerable, but not much.
Thirty seconds later—it seemed like much, much longer—there was a sudden, violent eruption of noise and sound on the bridge. Explosions followed, and smoke, and shattering glass. And before Pickering regained his senses, there was another explosion and then a water spout thirty feet off the port rail; and a moment later a hundred feet off the starboard rail, another.
The captain was wrong, Pickering decided, even as he looked down at his body and saw with surprise that his upper chest and right arm were bloody, the sonofabitch was not on a torpedo run. Her pilot opted for a bomb run. Maybe he didn’t have any torpedoes. So he came in far faster than he would have if he were dropping a torpedo.
He looked for the captain and found him almost immediately. He was on his back on the deck, his eyes and mouth open in astonishment, his shirt a bloody mess. He was very obviously dead.
There had been six, seven, eight people on the bridge a moment before. Now Pickering saw only two others on their feet. The talker, his earphones and microphone harness in place, leaned against the aft bulkhead not far from Pickering, a look of shock and horror on his face. A sailor, whose function Pickering did not know, stood with his back to the forward bulkhead, his face blackened, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest.
The helmsman was crumpled on the deck by the wheel, and the others were scattered all over the rest of the bridge. One sailor was crawling toward the chartroom port.
A bomb didn’t do this, Pickering thought. These were small, explosive shells. He remembered then that the Emily carried five 20mm cannon and four 7.7mm machine guns. The Emily had strafed the Gregory before, during, and after the bombing run.
He tried to push himself off the bulkhead, and heard himself moan with pain. He looked again at his arm, and saw that it was hanging uselessly.
I am about to go into shock.
There was confirmation of that. He felt light-headed and was chilled.
He finally managed to stand erect and went to the talker, who looked at him but did not see him.
“Get the executive officer to the bridge,” he ordered. When there was no response, when the talker’s eyes looked at him but did not see him, Pickering slapped him hard across the face. The talker looked at him like a kicked puppy, but life came back in his eyes.
“Get the executive officer to the bridge,” Pickering repeated. The talker nodded, and Pickering saw his hand rise to the microphone switch.
As Pickering went to the other sailor, he slipped and nearly fell in a puddle of blood.
“Take the wheel,” Pickering ordered.
“I’m the ship’s writer, Sir.”
“Take the goddamned wheel!”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
Pickering went to the window of the bridge. Only shards remained of the thick glass. Dead ahead, he could see the Emily, still close to the sea, making a tight turn. He was about to make another bomb run.
An officer, a nice-looking kid in a helmet, appeared on the bridge.
“Mother of Christ!” he said, looking around in horror.
“Get the executive officer up here!” Pickering shouted at him.
“Sir, I ... Mr. Goldberg’s dead, Sir. I came up here to report.”
“Can you conn this vessel?”
“No, Sir. I’m the communications officer.”
“Get someone up here who can,” Pickering ordered. “Get people up here. I need someone on the telegraph, someone on the wheel.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” the communications officer said, then turned and left the bridge. Pickering saw that he stopped just outside and became nauseous.
He returned his attention to the Emily, which was now in level flight, low on the water, making another bombing run to port.
“Prepare to come hard to port,” Pickering said.
“Damage report, Captain,” the talker said.
“What?”
“Damage control officer reports no damage, Sir.”
“Tell him to get up here!” Pickering said, then: “Hard to port.”
“Hard to port it is, Sir.”
The Gregory began to turn, heeling over. It was now pointing directly at the Emily.
Pickering saw four dark objects drop from the airplane, and watched in fascination as they arced toward the ship.
And then he saw something else: Red tracers from a Bofors 40mm cannon splashing into the sea, and then picking up, moving toward the Emily. When she was just about overhead, the line of tracers moved into the Emily’s fuselage, and then to her right wing. The wing buckled as the airplane flashed over.
Pickering ran to the exposed portion of the bridge, his feet slipping in the pool of blood now spreading from under her captain’s body. He looked aft. The Emily had already crashed. As he watched, what was left of it slipped below the water, and the dense cloud of blue-black smoke that had been rising from her wreckage was cut off. For a moment, there were patches of burning fuel on the water, but they started to flicker out.
He returned to the bridge. A lieutenant whom he remembered seeing in the wardroom at dinner the night before came onto the bridge.
“I’m the damage control officer, Sir.”
“Can you conn this vessel?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Sir, you have the conn,” Pickering said, and then put his hand out to steady himself. He really felt faint.
“I have the conn, Sir,” the lieutenant said, ritually, and then Pickering heard him say, “Help the Captain, Doc. Stop that bleeding.”
(Two)
ABOARD USS GREGORY (APD-44)
CORAL SEA
1425 HOURS 18 AUGUST 1942
Pickering was in the Captain’s cabin, in the Captain’s bunk, his back resting on pillows against the bulkhead. He was naked above the waist. His arm, in a cast, was taped to his chest. He appeared to be dozing.
The lieutenant walked to the bunk and looked down at him.
“How do you feel, Sir?”
Pickering looked at him for a moment without recognition, and then, with an effort, forced himself awake.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said cheerfully. “Mr. ‘No Damage to Report, Sir.’ ”
“Sir,” the Lieutenant said, obviously hurt. “I didn’t know what had happened on the bridge, Sir. Except that Mr. Goldberg had been killed on the ladder.”
“I shouldn’t have said that,” Pickering said. “I’m sorry. I had a tube of morphine; I must still be feeling it.”
“Are you still in pain, Sir?”
“Every time I breathe. That’s a hell of a place to be stitched up.” He changed the subject: “What shape are we in?”
“We’re about five hours out, Sir, from Espíritu Santo. There’s some things that have to be decided.”
“Are you the senior officer?”
“No, Sir. You are.”
“I’m supercargo.”
“Sir, I checked the manual. Command passes—in a situation like this—to the senior officer of the line. Captain, that’s you, Captain.”
“What is it?”
“The bodies, Sir. I have them prepared, Sir.”
“Where are they?”
“The captain and three others are in sick bay, Sir. The others are in the Chiefs quarters.”
“If you’re suggesting a burial at sea ...”
“That’s your decision, Captain.”
“If we’re only five hours out, I think we should take them to Espíritu Santo,” Pickering said. “I have no intention of conducting a burial at sea.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” the lieutenant said. “And we seem to have forgotten the report, Sir.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mr. Norwood, the communications officer, has prepared it, Sir,” the lieutenant said, and handed it to him.
OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE
SECRET
FROM USS GREGORY
TO: CINCPAC
1. GREGORY ATTACKED 0750 HOURS 18AUG42 POSITION WHISKEY ABLE OBOE SLASH NAN NAN CHARLEY BY ONE REPEAT ONE EMILY. MODERATE TO SEVERE DAMAGE TO BRIDGE. EMILY SHOT DOWN.
2. CASUALTIES: CAPTAIN, EXECUTIVE OFFICER, TWO ENLISTED KIA. THREE OFFICERS AND SEVEN ENLISTED WIA.
3. GREGORY PROCEEDING BAKER XRAY MIKE. PICKERING, CAPTAIN, USN, COMMANDING
“It’s ‘USNR,’ not ‘USN,’ ” Pickering said. “I’m not a regular.”
“Yes, Sir. I’ll have that changed.”
“What about the wounded?”
“One of them is in pretty bad shape, I’m afraid. We’re hoping he makes it. There’s medical facilities at Espiritu. The others will be all right, Captain.”
“Captain, ” Pickering said thoughtfully, sadly, and paused, and then went on: “The captain died quickly. I don’t think he knew what hit him.”
“Mr. Goldberg, too, Sir. He was ... whatever got him, got him in the head.”
“Jesus Christ!” Pickering said.
“Captain, can I get you something to eat? A tray, maybe. A sandwich? You really should have something.”
“What I really would like is a drink,” Pickering replied.
“I wish I could help you, Sir.”
“Is there any medicinal bourbon aboard?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“How much?”
“There’s four cartons, Sir. I think they pack them forty-eight of those little bottles to a carton.”
“Enough for one per man?”
“Yes, Sir. More than enough, Captain.”
“Issue one bottle per man. If there is any left over, bring me a couple.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
(Three)
WATER LILY COTTAGE
MANCHESTER AVENUE
BRISBANE, AUSTRALIA
1925 HOURS 18 AUGUST 1942
There was the sound of tires crunching on the driveway. Major Ed Banning went to the window, pushed the curtain aside, and saw the Studebaker President stopping in the drive.
“Pluto,” Banning said, turning to Mrs. Ellen Feller. She was sitting on the couch, holding a tea cup and saucer in her hand.
“I presumed he would come here to discuss this situation with you,” Ellen Feller said. “Didn’t you?”
Banning didn’t reply. He went to the door and opened it as Hon bounded onto the porch.
“I gather you’ve heard about Moore?” Banning greeted him.
“Yeah,” Pluto said. “Take a look at this.”
He handed Banning a sheet of onion skin, walked into the room, and nodded at Ellen Feller.
“Major Banning and I have been talking about what to do about Sergeant Moore,” she said.
“And?”
“What is this thing?” Banning asked, confused.
“The Signal Corps monitors the Navy frequencies when they can,” Hon explained, “and they copy what they think might be interesting. Operational Immediates, for example. The crypto officer handed me that the moment I walked in. Before he told me that he had to fill in for the missing Sergeant Moore.”
“But what the hell is this?”
“Read the signature,” Pluto Hon said.
Banning did so.
“I’ll be damned,” he said.
“May I see that?” Ellen Feller asked, rising to her feet and walking to Banning. Banning handed her the Operational Immediate message radioed from the USS Gregory to CINCPAC after the Emily attack.
“Well, we knew that Mr. Knox told CINCPAC to take him off Guadalcanal,” Ellen Feller said. “He was apparently on this ship, and I suppose that as the senior officer aboard, he would naturally take command if the captain was killed.”
Banning ignored her.
“I don’t suppose you know off-hand what Baker XRay Mike is. Or where?”
“Espiritu Santo,” Hon said. “With great reluctance, the Navy Liaison Officer told me.”
“Well, thank God, Captain Pickering is all right,” Ellen said.
Banning looked at her but said nothing.
“Lieutenant Hon,” Ellen said. “As I was saying, Major Banning and I have been discussing Sergeant Moore.”
“What do you mean by that?” Hon asked.
“We can’t let it get out that Moore knew ... more than a sergeant should have been permitted to know ... can we? I mean, the greater priority is to protect Captain Pickering, isn’t it?”
He looked at her for a moment before replying. Then he asked, “Are you suggesting that we should not do whatever the hell has to be done to get Moore the hell off Guadalcanal?”
He looked at Banning, who met his eyes, but said nothing. Hon looked back at Ellen Feller.
“The only way,” she said, “we can, as you put it, get Moore the hell off Guadalcanal is to make it known that he has had access to MAGIC. That will get Captain Pickering—for that matter, all of us—in a great deal of trouble.”
Battleground Page 47