In Danger's Path

by W. E. B Griffin

  My God, we look like a garbage scow!

  The seas in the Kaiwi Channel were moderate. Under ordinary circumstances, Lieutenant Schneider would have been able to push the throttles of PT-197 full forward, and her Packard engines would have sent her sailing magnificently over the water at better than thirty knots. But Lieutenant Schneider, who was in fact very experienced in handling small vessels in the ocean, knew it would be unwise to get her speed up. Sooner or later, her bow would inevitably crash into a swell. She—and the torpedo tubes and gun mounts—had been designed with that in mind. They would take the shock. But not with the added weight of fifty jerry cans and twenty-seven odd-shaped packages weighing an average of fifty pounds strapped to them wherever a line could find a hold.

  They had crossed the antisubmarine net at 0450. It was 0750 before Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider felt secure in informing Lieutenant Lewis that they were at the point he had specified on the chart.

  “Captain, please, maintaining headway speed, circle this position,” Lieutenant Lewis ordered, then turned to Chief McGuire. “Go get the radio, please, Chief.”

  “Right,” Chief McGuire replied.

  The radio equipment came in two pieces: The radio itself sat on a tripod. McGuire handed that up to Lewis on the bridge, and Lewis and Dillon set it up. There was a telescoping antenna on top, like an automobile antenna, but longer, stronger, and colored black. There was also a telegrapher’s key, and a microphone was clipped to the side of the case. The second piece looked like a stationary bicycle. McGuire set this on the deck, handed a cable to Lewis, then mounted the bicycle. Lewis connected the cable to the radio, put a headset on his ears, then made a motion to McGuire to start pumping. He did so.

  There was a barely perceptible humming noise, and then the dials on the radio illuminated. When he was satisfied with the position of the dials and the switches, Lewis began tapping the telegrapher’s key. “This is supposed to have a range of twenty-five miles,” he said. “With the telescoping antenna. Let’s see.” He tapped the key, threw a switch and listened, and then tapped the key again, repeating the process for several minutes.

  So far as Lieutenant Schneider could make out—and he had done well in his radio telegrapher’s course at the University of California before getting commissioned—Lewis was sending a gibberish of short Morse code letters: A, E, I, N, and so on.

  Then, while listening, Lieutenant Lewis smiled.

  “They’ve got us,” he said. He threw a switch and resumed tapping the telegrapher’s key, tapping it for longer periods, sixty seconds or so at a time, before listening for fifteen seconds.

  Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider wondered whom he had contacted, but he had been ordered not to ask questions, and did not.

  Lewis finally picked up the microphone. “Seagull, Seagull,” he said into the microphone. “This is Texaco, Texaco. How do you read?”

  He listened, but shook his head to Dillon to indicate that he was hearing nothing.

  Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider became aware of the sound of aircraft engines in the distance. He located the source of the sound a second after Jake Dillon did. Jake pointed out the airplane to Lewis. It was several miles away, no more than a thousand feet off the surface of the Kaiwi Channel.

  “Seagull, Seagull, we have you in sight. If read, say how. Also wiggle your wings,” Lieutenant Lewis ordered.

  The airplane lowered first one wing and then the other. By now it was close enough for Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider to recognize as a Catalina…though something wasn’t quite right about it.

  “Make note, Major Dillon, sir,” Lewis said, “that voice communications from the aircraft using the telescopic antenna are somewhat below expectations. They can hear us.”

  Dillon chuckled. But Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider saw that Dillon had a clipboard in his hand and was writing something on it.

  “Seagull, Seagull, we can’t hear you. Set it down, please,” Lieutenant Lewis said into his microphone.

  The Catalina immediately wiggled its wings again, then began to drop toward the water.

  “We need someone to pump the bicycle,” Chief McGuire announced. “I’m getting tired.”

  “You’re a chief petty officer, you’re not supposed to get tired,” Dillon replied.

  “Fuck you, Jake,” Chief McGuire replied, and got off the generator.

  It was evident on the face of Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider’s helmsman that he had never before heard a chief petty officer tell an officer to fuck himself.

  “Captain, please make us dead in the water,” Lieutenant Lewis said. “We’ll let him come to us. And can you get someone to pump the generator, please?”

  Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider retarded PT-197’s engines to idle, then took them out of gear. The boat slowed. Then he reached for the speaker switch to order someone up from below, but changed his mind.

  He touched the arm of his helmsman and indicated that he should get on the generator bicycle. For one thing, if boat handling was going to be involved, he would do it himself. His helmsman was a nice kid—he was, in fact, six months younger than Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider—but all he knew about boat handling was what he had been taught in a five-week course. For another, the decks of PT-197 were about to get crowded. The fewer people there, the better.

  Chief Peter McGuire came onto the bridge. “I think the first thing to do is get the boats in the water,” he said to Lieutenant Schneider. “Your people know how to do that?” he went on without giving Schneider a chance to reply. “First you tie the rope on front to something, and then throw it into the water. Then you jerk on the rope and the boat will blow up.”

  “I’m sure we can handle that,” Lieutenant Schneider said, and reached for the speaker switch. “Chief of the Boat to the bridge,” he commanded.

  Schneider saw that the Catalina was about to touch down. It created a huge splash, bounced back in the air, and then touched down again, this time staying on the surface of the water.

  “I wish the seas were a little rougher,” Major Dillon said.

  “Yeah,” Lieutenant Lewis agreed thoughtfully.

  The Chief of the Boat, a first class bosun’s mate who was at least five years older than PT-197’s captain, came onto the bridge.

  “Can you get the rubber boats over the side, Boats?” Lieutenant Schneider asked.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Lieutenant Schneider saw that Major Dillon had a stopwatch in his hand. As he watched, he pushed the button to start it.

  The helmsman was now pumping the generator.

  “Seagull, how read?” Lieutenant Lewis said into his microphone, and a moment later said, “Five by five now, Jake.”

  “Got it,” Dillon said.

  “Bring it alongside,” Lewis ordered over the microphone.

  The Catalina turned toward PT-197.

  Lieutenant Schneider now understood the vague feeling he had had when he first saw the airplane. Normal Catalinas were originally conceived as observation aircraft; they were to be “the eyes of the fleet.” That meant they had a large Plexiglas “blister” on each side of their fuselages to facilitate observation and, secondarily, to be used as a machine-gun position. There was also a machine-gun position on the bow.

  The blisters and the forward machine-gun position on the Catalina approaching PT-197 were missing. They had been faired over with aluminum.

  “Big Steve reports the main tanks have been topped off,” Lewis announced.

  “Which should leave the auxiliaries nearly empty,” Dillon said. “The first thing we’re going to do, Schneider, is move the avgas over there.”

  “Which we will do with the sub’s crew—for now, your guys—paddling the boats over to the plane twice,” Chief McGuire amplified. “We figure if they can carry ten jerry cans with them at a time.”

  “Sub’s crew”? What “sub’s crew”? Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider wondered. But having been ordered not to ask questions, he didn’t.

  “If the seas aren’t rough,” Li
eutenant Lewis said.

  “Like I said, I wish they were a little rougher,” Major Dillon said. “I think we have to count on something worse than this millpond.”

  “If the water’s too rough for the boats to carry three hundred and fifty pounds,” Chief McGuire argued, “it’ll be too rough for the airplanes to land, much less take off.”

  “Airplanes”? Plural? What the hell does going on? Lieutenant Schneider wondered, but kept his mouth shut.

  “Don’t even think about that,” Dillon said.

  “Worst case,” Lewis said. “They would have to try to land—they wouldn’t have enough fuel to get back. I would really hate to have to jump into the Yellow Sea this time of year.”

  “Jesus!” Chief McGuire said. “Let’s see how this works, anyhow. Two trips over there and back, paddled by Schneider’s men, and then a fifth trip with the weather guys—who don’t come back—paddling.”

  “Yeah,” Dillon said.

  “Jake, I think I’m going to go over to the airplane in the first rubber boat,” McGuire said.

  “I thought you said you were never going to get on another airplane as long as you live,” Dillon replied.

  “I’m not going flying in it, for Christ’s sake. I just want to see how topping off the auxiliary tanks works.”

  Dillon looked at Lewis.

  “Go ahead,” Lewis said. “Schneider, we need eight boat paddlers.”

  “Sir, my men aren’t experienced in rubber boats.”

  “Yeah, we thought about that,” McGuire said. “We’re trying to make this as realistic as possible.”

  “What are we going to do with the jerry cans?” Lieutenant Lewis said.

  “Fuck ’em,” Chief McGuire suggested. “Toss them in the water.”

  “Where they would be spotted as debris by every other airplane flying over here,” Lewis said. “We don’t want that.”

  “Empty, they’ll float,” Dillon said. “Pete, if you’re going over there, tie them together, and we’ll pick them up.”

  “Okay,” Chief McGuire said. “Why not? No problem.”

  “For your general fund of nautical knowledge, Chief McGuire,” Lewis said, “the correct response should have been, ‘Aye, aye, sir.’”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Chief McGuire said, smiling broadly. He left the bridge and stood on the deck of PT-197 watching the jerry cans of avgas being loaded into the rubber boats.

  Schneider now saw that Major Dillon had not one but three stopwatches, all hanging from cords around his neck, and then, as the ferrying of the avgas to the Catalina was carried out, understood what he was doing with them.

  He carefully timed how long it took each rubber boat to move to the Catalina and then return. He timed how long it took both boats to make the trip on a second stopwatch, and used the third to time how long the total operation took.

  Finally the four trips paddled by PT-197 crewmen were completed. The weathermen were brought on deck from the tiny mess of PT-197, where they had been waiting, outfitted with Mae Wests, and then helped into one of the rubber boats.

  “If they stay on the airplane, how’s McGuire going to get back?” Lewis inquired.

  “You heard what he said,” Dillon said. “Fuck ’em.”

  “If we didn’t need him, Major Dillon,” Lewis said. “I would readily concur with your recommendation, sir.”

  Dillon chuckled.

  “I think you better send the other boat back, Schneider, with a couple of extra paddlers,” Dillon ordered. “As Lieutenant Lewis points out, Chief McGuire cannot be left to paddle his own boat. We need him.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Ten minutes later, both rubber boats were back alongside PT-197, and Chief McGuire came back aboard.

  “I’m not really happy with the topping off of the tanks,” he announced.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Lieutenant Lewis asked.

  “Big Steve and I have a couple of ideas,” McGuire said. “This will work, but it can be done faster. Safer. With fewer fumes. Big Steve says he wouldn’t want to shut down his engines in rough water in the Yellow Sea, and we don’t want the airplanes to blow up.”

  Lewis grunted, then leaned over the bridge and spoke to the helmsman.

  “You want to start pumping that thing again, son?”

  When the dials on the radio lit up, he picked up the microphone.

  “I think that’s it,” he announced. “You can head back to Ewa.” Then he turned to Lieutenant Schneider. “As soon as we get the boats back aboard, and the jerry cans, we can start for home,” he said. “And on the way, Major Dillon will explain to you what this is all about.”

  [TWO]

  Chungking, China

  1515 7 April 1943

  The first thing Brigadier General Fleming Pickering noticed as the B-17 turned off the active runway onto a taxiway was the contrast between Espíritu Santo and here. Espíritu Santo was a forward base, but it was neat and clean and looked new. This was China, where very little was neat, clean, or new.

  When the aircraft had been parked and the engines shut down, he went through the door in the fuselage and stretched his legs.

  This smells like China, too, he thought.

  If I never have to get on another B-17 as long as I live, it will be too soon.

  The pilot came through the door. “The tower says they will try to find us a truck, sir,” he said. “It looks like a hell of a walk from here to base operations.

  “That was an interesting flight,” he went on. “It reset my longest flight record by an hour and ten minutes.”

  “How much fuel did we have left?”

  “I don’t believe the General really wants to know that, sir. We ran into some really stiff head winds.”

  “You’re right, I don’t want to know,” Pickering said. “Well, why don’t you and I hike to base operations? Maybe I can pull a little rank in person and get us a truck.”

  They were halfway to base operations when two Studebaker President sedans came down the taxiway. The first, driven by a sergeant, carried the starred plate of a brigadier general, and Pickering saw Brigadier General H. A. Albright and a younger officer riding in the backseat.

  Probably his brand-new aide-de-camp to go with hisbrand-new star. It didn’t take him long to take advantage of a general’s perks, did it?

  What the hell does that matter to me? Albright is a damned good man, who would have been a general long ago if it hadn’t been for that idiot, that Secretary of the Joint Chiefs.

  The second car was driven by an Army captain. There were two officers in the backseat. One of them was Colonel John J. Waterson. The other was an Army lieutenant colonel.

  That, no doubt, is the Chungking station chief, whose name I still don’t know.

  Where’s Banning? I wonder. And McCoy?

  Albright’s car stopped beside them, and Albright was out of the backseat before the driver could get out of the front seat to open the door for him. He saluted. “Welcome to Chungking, General,” he said.

  “It’s good to see you,” Pickering said, desperately searching his memory for Albright’s first name. “Especially with that star on your collar.” The name didn’t come.

  “Being a general is not what I thought it would be,” Albright said.

  “My experience exactly,” Pickering said. “But that was a well-deserved promotion.”

  The second Studebaker had by then stopped, and Waterson and the two officers got out.

  They all saluted.

  “How are you, Jack?” Pickering said to Colonel Waterson, offering his hand, pleased that he could remember his first name.

  “Did you have a good flight, sir?”

  “It was a very long flight,” Pickering said. “There is no such thing as a good-very long flight.”

  Everyone chuckled.

  Dutifully, of course. That wasn’t very funny. But I am a general.

  “Sir, may I introduce Colonel Richard C. Platt?” Waterson said. “The Chungking stati
on chief?”

  “Welcome to Chungking, General,” Platt said. He was a rather handsome lieutenant colonel, wearing the crossed cannons of Artillery.

  “Thank you,” Pickering said.

  “And this is my adjutant,” Platt said. “Captain Jerry Sampson.”

  Nice-looking kid, Pickering thought. About as old as Pick.

  “I believe I have the privilege of the General’s acquaintance, sir,” Captain Sampson said.

  I don’t remember ever having seen this fellow before.

  “Oh, have we met?”

  “I was trying to remember where, sir. Possibly in Shanghai. My father—Harrison Sampson?—was general manager of First National City Bank. And then I was at Harvard with Malcolm.”

  “Malcolm”? God, he means Pick. But no one’s called Pick “Malcolm” since the day he was christened. So they weren’t buddies. What is this kid trying to do, charm me?

  What was it Drew Pearson said OSS stood for? “Oh So Social”?

  “I remember your father, of course,” Pickering said, and shook his hand. He turned to Albright. “With that new star on your collar, Hugh,” he said—Thank God! His name came to me—“I presume you’ve got some influence around here? We need a truck.”

  “I think I can get you a truck, General, but to answer your question, do I have any influence around here? Very little. Almost none.”

  Pickering introduced the OSS officers to the pilot and then to Lieutenant Hart, who had taken their baggage off the plane. “The Captain and his crew need a place to stay. With good beds and decent food,” Pickering said.

  “I suggest, sir,” Albright said, “that you and I need a moment alone, before General Stillwell learns you’re here and sends for you.”

  Pickering saw that neither Waterson nor Platt liked that announcement.

  “I want to see him, too, as soon as possible,” Pickering said. “But not until I’ve had a shower and a shave. And a chance to talk to you, Waterson, and Banning. Where is Banning, by the way?”

  “General, General Stillwell has left word with the air base commander that he wants to see you immediately after you get off the plane,” Colonel Platt said.