In Danger's Path

by W. E. B Griffin

  “I don’t think I’d want to do that,” Weston said. “Jump out of an airplane.”

  “You ever see a drop?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why don’t you drop down to about forty-five hundred feet, and stay behind that formation and watch? It’s something you should see.”

  Weston reached the trim tab to lower the R4-D’s nose, then reached for the throttle quadrant to retard power.

  With a little bit of luck, he thought, the “why don’t you marry Martha” speech is really over.

  The thing is, he’s absolutely right. If it wasn’t for one small problem—Janice, who I also really love—I would marry Martha in a minute.

  [TWO]

  Espíritu Santo Island

  New Hebrides, Southern Pacific Ocean

  1505 22 March 1943

  Chief Boatswain’s Mate William Haber, USN, a lithe, muscular, natty thirty-nine-year-old with twenty-two years of Naval service, happened to be standing before the skipper’s desk when the telephone rang.

  Lieutenant Commander J. K. Sloane, Civil Engineer Corps, USNR, commanding officer of the 3rd Naval Construction Battalion, pointed at the telephone, indicating that Chief Haber should take the call, rather than the clerk in the outer office.

  “Third CBs. Chief Haber speaking, sir.”

  “This is Lieutenant Stevens, Chief, Admiral Henton’s aide.”

  Rear Admiral Jerome J. Henton, USN, commanded U.S. Navy Base (Forward) Espíritu Santo.

  “How may I help the Lieutenant, sir?” Chief Haber said, very courteously. He almost came to attention.

  Chief petty officers with twenty-two years of service are not normally very impressed with lieutenants. Lieutenants who are aides-de-camp to flag officers—who sit, so to speak, at the foot of the throne of God—are an exception.

  Commander Sloane, who looked very much like Chief Haber, lithe, muscular, and natty, picked up on the change of voice. While a mere reservist, he was a graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis. He looked up at Chief Haber in interest.

  “Yes, sir, we have a Chief McGuire aboard,” Chief Haber said.

  Now Commander Sloane was really interested.

  Chief Carpenter’s Mate Peter T. McGuire, USNR, known popularly as “Chief Hollywood”—if he was to be believed, and Commander Sloane was among the dubious, he not only was acquainted with many Hollywood stars, but also had carnal knowledge of many of them—was not only a reservist but had never worn a uniform, much less been to sea aboard a man-of-war, until the day he had raised his hand and been sworn into the Naval Service as a chief petty officer.

  In order to form its construction battalions—the Seabees—the Navy had tried to recruit highly skilled civilian construction workers and other civil engineering specialists. Construction foremen, demolition experts, and heavyequipment operators were not, however, about to swap a job that was high-paying and almost always essential to the war effort, and thus exempt from the draft, in order to become seaman apprentices at twenty-one dollars a month. The solution was threefold: an appeal to patriotism, an assurance that their skills would be utilized by the Navy—that they would not find themselves mopping decks or peeling potatoes—and enlistment in a grade appropriate to their civilian skills and years of experience.

  Peter T. McGuire more than met all the requirements for enlistment as a chief petty officer. If his application was to be believed—and again Commander Sloane was among the dubious—he could not only operate just about every piece of heavy construction and road-building equipment known to engineering, but was also licensed by the state of California as an “unlimited explosives technician” and as a master electrician. Commander Sloane would be the first to admit that whenever he told McGuire what he wanted done, it had been done—and done well—with astonishing speed. But Chief McGuire did not conduct himself as Commander Sloane—or Chief Haber—thought a chief should. Chiefs are supposed to supervise, not do the necessary manual tasks themselves. Chief McGuire did not seem to understand this. Although he had been told, time and time again, with increasing firmness, that he was to supervise his men, Sloane knew that the minute he or Chief Haber turned their backs, Chief McGuire was wielding a sledgehammer, or, more frequently, operating a Caterpillar D-6 bulldozer or a road grader—or some other kind of heavy equipment—most often with his shirt off.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Chief Haber said. “I’ll have Chief McGuire report to you immediately, sir. Sir, it may take a little while. Chief McGuire is at Auxiliary Field Two, sir.”

  In addition to other assigned construction tasks, the 3rd Seabees had been ordered to remove the pierced steel planking that “paved” the runway of Auxiliary Field #2 and to extend the length of the runway and then pave it with concrete. Chief McGuire had been charged with removing the pierced steel planking and then with site preparation of the new runway.

  Admiral Henton’s aide said something else Commander Sloane could not overhear.

  “Aye, aye, sir, thank you, sir,” Chief Haber said, very courteously, and hung up. He looked at Commander Sloane. “The Admiral wants to see McGuire right now.”

  “What the hell is that all about?” Commander Sloane wondered aloud.

  Chief Haber shrugged.

  “Well, you better go out to Auxiliary Two and get him,” Commander Sloane ordered, and then changed his mind. “Tell you what, Chief, I’ll go get him, and you get on the horn to your pal in the Admiral’s office and see if you can find out what the hell this is all about. What the hell has McGuire done now?”

  Although no witnesses could be found to testify against Chief McGuire in a court-martial, it was common knowledge that Chief McGuire, who was six feet three inches tall and weighed 230 pounds, had thrown two fellow chief petty officers through the screen enclosed verandah of the Chiefs’ Club after they’d made remarks about the Seabees that he’d considered disparaging.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Chief Haber said.

  When his aide informed him that Chief McGuire was at Auxiliary #2 and it might take a little while to get him to the Admiral’s office, the Admiral also changed his mind about the best place to meet with the Chief:

  “Okay,” the Admiral said. “The minute he gets here, bring him in.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Oh, hell, Charley. I’ve been in the office all day, and I would really like to know how long Auxiliary Two will be down. Find the driver, and we’ll take a run out there.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  When Commander Sloane’s jeep approached Auxiliary Field #2, he was surprised and annoyed to find that the road was blocked by a Caterpillar D-6 bulldozer. He stood up in his jeep, holding on to the windshield. “Get that thing off the road!” he ordered.

  The driver of the bulldozer shook his head, “no.” He was a stocky, barrel-chested, shirtless Seabee who wore his white cap with the rim turned all the way down and looked like a beach bum. Then, taking his good sweet time about it, he climbed off the ’dozer and walked to Commander Sloane’s jeep, remembering at the last minute the quaint Navy custom that you were supposed to salute officers. “Good morning, Commander,” he said pleasantly.

  “Couldn’t you hear me, sailor? Get that ’dozer off the road!”

  “It’ll be a minute. McGuire’s about to blow the pierced steel planking.”

  “McGuire’s about to do what?”

  “Blow the runway,” the sailor replied.

  “You mean dynamite it?”

  “Yes, sir. He decided that would be the quickest way to get it up.”

  Commander Sloane’s attention was diverted when he heard the sound of wheels on the dirt road behind him. He turned and saw Admiral Henton’s Plymouth staff car, his blue, two-starred flag flapping from a pole mounted to the fender.

  Oh, my God!

  Admiral Henton and his aide-de-camp got out of the car.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Commander Sloane said, and saluted.

  “What’s going on here?” Admiral Henton said, returni
ng the salute and then shaking Commander Sloane’s hand.

  When in doubt, tell the truth. When in great doubt, tell the truth, but as little of it as possible.

  “We’re about to blow the runway, sir,” Commander Sloane said. “I was about to walk to the crest of the hill and see how things are going.”

  “Blow the runway?” Admiral Henton asked. “Won’t that make salvaging the pierced steel planking a little difficult?”

  He had expected to see a crew of Seabees, armed with sledgehammers. They would sledgehammer the interlocking parts of one piece of pierced steel planking free from the adjacent piece of planking. The freed piece would then be loaded onto a truck and carted off for future use.

  “Yes, sir, it will,” Sloane said.

  This maniac McGuire is going to cost me my promotion!

  Admiral Henton made a gesture indicating that Commander Sloane should lead the way to a place where they could see what was going on.

  “Admiral,” the Seabee said, “I wouldn’t go too far down the slope, if I was you.”

  Admiral Henton turned and looked at him. “Thank you very much,” he said. “I’ll be careful.”

  “You never can tell how far some of that shit will fly when you do something like this,” the Seabee added.

  The Admiral nodded, then gestured to Commander Sloane to again lead the way.

  From the crest of the hill, the entire three thousand feet of runway could be seen.

  Chief McGuire’s complement of Seabees were scurrying all up and down the runway, some of them carrying sandbags. Lines of sandbags were laid across the runway at fifty foot intervals.

  Neither Admiral Henton nor Commander Sloane could imagine what was going on. When Sloane looked around for Chief McGuire, he was annoyed—but not surprised—to find him standing on the canvas seat of a Caterpillar D-6 bulldozer parked fifty yards off the near end of the runway.

  Chief McGuire was naked, except for a pair of khaki trousers cut off above the knees. A disgracefully beat up and dirty chief’s brimmed cap on his head was the only symbol of his rank.

  “Chief McGuire?” Admiral Henton inquired. “Is he the fellow on the bulldozer?”

  “Yes, sir. Sir, in consideration of the heat, and the labor the men are performing, I allow considerable leeway in the way they dress.”

  “I’m sure it gets hot as hell out here,” the Admiral said.

  Chief McGuire got off the seat of the bulldozer and crawled up on the hood over the engine. “Clear!” he bellowed.

  Faintly, Commander Sloane saw all the Seabees down the length of the runway run off the runway to seek shelter wherever they could find it, most often behind the bulk of eight bulldozers that were parked to the side of the runway.

  Chief McGuire then jumped off his own bulldozer and disappeared from sight. He emerged a moment later at the wheel of a jeep that had been parked out of sight beside the ’dozer. He drove down the runway, slowing at each pile of sandbags. When he reached the end of the runway, he drove the jeep into a depression.

  Very faintly at first, then more loudly and more clearly as it was repeated by Seabees along the edge of the runway, came the call: “Fire in the hole!”

  The first muffled roar came a moment after the last “fire in the hole!” call was shouted, soon followed by a series of roars. Clouds of smoke then appeared at regular intervals down the runway where there had been lines of sandbags.

  “My God!” Admiral Henton exclaimed.

  Before the smoke cleared, Chief McGuire reappeared in his jeep and started back down the runway toward them. Soon after that, ’dozer engines were revving, and all of the ’dozers started to back up to the side of the runway. Eye hooks were fastened to holes in the pierced steel planking, then to the bulldozers. An engine revved, and a section of runway one hundred feet wide and fifty feet long began to slide off to the side.

  “By God, that’s clever!” Admiral Henton exclaimed. “You are to be complimented on your initiative, Commander!”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I suppose that trucks will now—” the Admiral said, and interrupted himself as trucks appeared. “Very clever,” he said. “One crew can salvage the pierced steel, while another starts laying the runway foundation. I’ll bet you didn’t get that out of a book, did you, Commander?”

  “We pride ourselves on innovation, sir,” Commander Sloane said.

  Admiral Henton started down the hill. Commander Sloane and the Admiral’s aide followed him. They arrived just as Chief McGuire reached the end of the runway.

  He looked curiously at the Admiral, the Commander, and the Admiral’s aide, then drove up to them. He saluted, but did not leave the jeep.

  “That was very impressive, Chief,” the Admiral said. “How soon can you start preparing the runway?”

  “The dump trucks with the gravel will be here any minute,” McGuire said. “While they’re dumping, we’ll start laying the forms. As soon as the ’dozers get the pierced steel out of the way, they’ll start scraping. Then we’ll get the graders going. With a little bit of luck, we should be able to pour maybe a hundred feet by the time it’s dark. It’ll be slower at night, of course, and I don’t like to pour unless I can really see what I’m doing.”

  He did not once use the term “sir,” Commander Sloane noticed. If the Admiral noticed, he did not take offense.

  “Well done, Chief,” the Admiral said.

  “Commander Sloane said you needed this runway in a hurry,” McGuire said.

  “Tell me, Chief, do you happen to know a Major Dillon, of the Marine Corps?”

  “Sure, we’re old buddies. He a friend of yours?”

  “I don’t have that privilege, I’m afraid,” Admiral Henton said. “May I ask where you and the Major know each other?”

  “L.A.,” Chief McGuire said. “We both used to work for Metro-Magnum.”

  “The motion picture studio?”

  “Yes, sir…”

  That’s the first time he said “sir”! Commander Sloane thought.

  “…I was chief of construction,” Chief McGuire went on, “and ol’ Jake was the publicity guy.”

  “Well, Chief, I’m sure you’ll be happy to hear that you’re soon going to see you friend again.”

  “Really?”

  Admiral Henton handed Chief McGuire a sheet of teletypewriter paper.

  * * *

  P R I O R I T Y

  S E C R E T

  CINCPAC

  1005 21 MARTINEZ 1943

  FLAG OFFICER COMMANDING US NAVY BASE

  (FORWARD) ESPIRITU SANTO

  1. CINCPAC RECORDS INDICATE THAT CHIEF PETTY OFFICER PETER T. MCGUIRE, USNR, IS ASSIGNED TO 3RD USN CONSTRUCTION BATTALION ON ESPIRITU SANTO. YOU PERSONALLY OR A SUITABLY SENIOR OFFICER IF YOU ARE NOT AVAILABLE WILL ON RECEIPT OF THIS MESSAGE INTERVIEW CHIEF MCGUIRE AND DETERMINE IF HE IS PERSONALLY ACQUAINTED WITH MAJOR HOMER C. (NICKNAME) QUOTE JAKE ENDQUOTE DILLON, USMCR.

  3. IF THE ANSWER IS IN THE AFFIRMATIVE, CHIEF MCGUIRE WILL BE IMMEDIATELY DETACHED FROM 3RD USN CONSTRUCTION BATTALION AND TRANSFERRED CINCPAC. AIR TRAVEL IS DIRECTED PRIORITY AAAAA.

  4. CINCPAC WILL BE NOTIFIED BY SEPARATE PRIORITY MESSAGE CLASSIFICATION SECRET WHETHER CHIEF MCGUIRE IS OR IS NOT ACQUAINTED WITH MAJOR DILLON, AND IF HE IS, THE DATE AND TIME OF HIS DEPARTURE FROM ESPIRITU SANTO.

  5. IF FEASIBLE CHIEF MCGUIRE SHOULD TRAVEL TO US NAVY BASE PEARL HARBOR ABOARD A PBY-5A AIRCRAFT. IN THIS CASE, CREW OF PBY-5A SHOULD FAMILIARIZE CHIEF MCGUIRE WITH ALL CHARACTERISTICS OF THE AIRCRAFT, WITH EMPHASIS ON REFUELING, ENROUTE.

  BY DIRECTION NIMITZ, ADMIRAL, USN, CINCPAC

  OFFICIAL: D. J. WAGAM, RADM USN

  S E C R E T

  * * *

  “Jesus, I wonder what the hell this is all about,” Chief McGuire said.

  “I thought perhaps you could tell me.”

  “I haven’t a clue, Admiral. Do I have to go?”

  “One of the quaint customs of the Navy, Chief,” Admiral Henton said, smiling, “is
that when the Commander in Chief, Pacific Fleet, says ‘go,’ we go.”

  “I really hate to fly,” Chief McGuire said.

  “So do I, Chief,” Admiral Henton said. “Why don’t you give that TWX to Commander Sloane, so he’ll know what’s going on?”

  “Sure,” Chief McGuire said. “Here you go, Commander.”

  [THREE]

  Office of the Chief Signal Officer

  Headquarters, U.S. Military Mission to China

  Chungking, China

  25 March 1943

  The dusty GM six-by-six truck jerked to a halt before the entrance to a tunnel. Outside was a wooden sign reading, SIGNAL SECTION, USMMCHI. Lieutenant Colonel Edward J. Banning, USMC, holding a Thompson submachine gun in his hand, climbed down from the cab and walked to the rear of the truck. “We’re here,” he announced, as he began to remove the chain holding the two-foot-high rear “gate” in place.

  With a grace surprising for his bulk, Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman jumped out of the truck. “I’ll get that, Colonel,” he said.

  When the gate was down, Captain Ken McCoy and Master Gunner Harry Rutterman jumped off the truck and started unloading their luggage and the crates marked “Personnel Records, Not To Be Opened Without The Specific Written Permission of the Adjutant General.”

  Banning entered the tunnel. After his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could see signs identifying the various offices the tunnel contained. It reminded him of Corregidor, except that on Corregidor the tunnels were lined with concrete; here the tunnel was naked rock. He found a wide area in the tunnel, a place where it looked like someone had decided to carve another lateral and then changed his mind.

  He walked back to the mouth.

  “Ken,” he called, “there’s a wide place inside. Put everything there and wait for me. I’ll go see what happens next.”

  McCoy, holding one of the “Personnel Record” crates, nodded and started to carry it into the tunnel.