"Yes, Sir."
"I'll say it again. Don't count on the airplane."
"Yes, Sir."
What that sonofabitch just said, Sergeant George Hart realized in shock, was that I'm going to be in one of those rubber boats!
[Six]
HEADQUARTERS, MAG-25
ESPIRITU SANTO
0730 HOURS 2 OCTOBER 1942
"Come on in, Jack," Lieutenant Colonel Stanley N. Holliman, USMC, Executive Officer of MAG-25, said, waving his hand at Major Jack Finch, USMC.
Major Finch entered the office. He was wearing a wash-faded Suit, Flying, Cotton, Tropical Areas, and he was armed with a.45 Colt automatic in a shoulder holster.
"Stan, I was on the threshold-" he began to complain, and then stopped. There was a stranger in Holliman's office, a non-aviator Marine in a rear-echelon uniform. "Good morning, Sir. You wished to see me?"
"This won't take long," Colonel Holliman said. "Dillon, this is Major Jack Finch. Jack, this is Major Homer Dillon."
"People call me Jake," Dillon said, putting out his hand.
"I think we'd save some time, Dillon," Holliman said, "if you would show Finch what you showed me." Dillon took a stiff piece of plastic from the right bellows pocket of his jacket and extended it to Finch. He read it and then looked at Colonel Holliman.
"Read both sides, Jack," Holliman said.
"I'm impressed," Finch said. "I guess that's the idea, huh?"
"MAG-25., naturally, is going to do whatever it can for Major Dillon and the Chief of Staff to the President," Holliman said.
"Yes, Sir."
"He wants a few things from you, Jack."
"Yes, Sir?"
"Starting with the best R4D you have. It will not be available for anything else until further notice."
"Yes, Sir."
"I've told him you can install auxiliary fuel tanks in a couple of hours. Is that correct?"
"Yes, Sir. The fuel lines are already installed. All that has to be done is to reload the tanks and hook them up."
"Major Dillon has also brought with him some special equipment that will have to be installed," Holliman said.
"What kind of special equipment?"
"They're something like skis," Dillon said. "They're supposed to make it possible to land an R4D on sand."
"On sand?" Finch asked incredulously.
"Certain kinds of sand," Dillon said. "We don't know yet if our sand is the right kind; but in case it is, we want to be ready."
"I don't suppose you're going to tell me where this sand is?" Finch asked.
"You understand that all this is classified?" Dillon asked.
"I thought maybe it would be," Finch said, tempering the sarcasm with a smile.
"Just for the record, I'm telling you the classification is TOP SECRET," Jake said. "The sand is on a beach on an island called Buka."
"That's way the hell up by Rabaul!"
"Right. And there is a Japanese fighter base on Buka."
"I know," Finch said. "I've seen the maps."
"There is also a Coastwatcher station on Buka. Their equipment is about shot, and we have every reason to believe that the people are in pretty bad physical shape. What we're going to do is extract them, and replace them."
"Well, I'll be goddamned!" Finch said softly. Then he added, "I guess it's that important, isn't it?" And then he had a second thought. "Just among three Marines, how did The Corps get stuck with this mission?"
"Two of the three people to be extracted are Marines," Dillon said.
"I didn't know we had Marines with the Coast watchers, Holliman said.
"We have these people, and there are two more on the replacement team," Dillon said.
"I'll be damned," Finch said.
"Major Dillon also wants from you the name of the best R4D pilot you know who would be willing to volunteer for this mission."
"That's easy. Finch, John James, Major."
"See if you can come up with some other names, Jack," Holliman said. "I need you as squadron commander."
"Sir, I'm the best R4D pilot. I can't really think... of anyone with more experience."
"You hesitated," Dillon challenged.
"I'm the most experienced R4D pilot in MAG-25," Finch said flatly.
"Who were you thinking of, Major?" Dillon pursued.
"Tell him, Jack," Holliman ordered.
"Charley Galloway, Sir," Finch said with obvious reluctance. He looked at Dillon. "Galloway's a captain. He's commanding VMF-229 on Henderson Field on Guadalcanal."
"You said you needed a volunteer, volunteers," Holliman said. "I'm not sure Galloway would. Not because he doesn't have the balls, but because he would honestly figure he is more valuable to The Corps as a squadron commander than doing something... like this."
"Something idiotic, maybe suicidal, like this?" Dillon asked.
"Your words, Major, not mine."
"The question is, is Galloway the pilot who could most likely carry this off"
"He was my IP," Finch said. "He's as good as there is. I don't want to sound like I'm trying to sell him for the job, but Galloway was in on the acceptance tests of the R4D before the war. He even went through the Air Corps program on dropping parachutists,"
"Then in your judgment you and Captain Galloway are the two best pilots for this. Is that what you're saying?"
"Yes, that's what I'm saying."
"Colonel, would you agree with that?"
"I could lie, I suppose," Holliman said. "Maybe I should. But I won't. Yeah, they're the best."
"Well then, the next step, obviously, is to ask Captain Galloway if he'd be willing to volunteer."
"I'm going up there this morning," Finch said. "I was about to take off when I was told to come here. I'll ask him."
"If you don't mind I'll ride along with you. I'd like to see him myself. Charley's an old friend of mine." That announcement seemed to surprise both Holliman and Finch, but they didn't say anything.
"That would mean bumping a passenger already on my plane. Or two hundred pounds of cargo," Finch said.
"You can send whoever or whatever I bump up there on the R4D you're going to install the fuel tanks and skis on," Dillon replied. "I want that ready to go from Henderson as soon as possible."
Chapter Fifteen
[One]
WATER LILY COTTAGE
MANCHESTER AVENUE
BRISBANE, AUSTRALIA
1030 HOURS 2 OCTOBER 1942
There is a smell of pain, Lieutenant (J.G.) Joanne Miller, NNC, thought. He's sweating because of the pain I'm causing him, and the sweat smells of pain.
"Am I hurting you?" she asked as she bent his lower leg back until it would flex no more. She pressed harder, raising his hips off the bed.
"I'm all right," John said.
"Don't be a goddamn hero," Lieutenant Colonel M. J. Godofski, MC, USA, said. "You're not going to impress Joanne with some manly bullshit about not feeling pain. If it hurts, say so."
Godofski was leaning against the bedroom wall, puffing on a cigar.
"OK, Colonel, it hurts," John said.
"Good," Godofski said. "It should hurt a little. Not to the point where you can't stand it. We're trying to make your blood vessels down there take more blood than they're used to taking. They have to be trained to replace the ones you lost. Understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
Joanne counted thirteen, fourteen, fifteen and stopped.
"That's fifteen, Doctor."
"Can you take five more, son?"
"Yes, Sir."
Colonel Godofski nodded.
Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, ninetetn, twenty.
Honey, I'm sorry!
"Twenty, Doctor."
Godofski went to the bed and probed John's muscles with his fingers.
"Just give him fifteen on the other leg," he said. "It was damaged more than the other one. We don't want to overdo it."
"Yes, Doctor."
"I'll see you tomorrow, son," Godofski sa
id. He looked at Joanne. "I think he's out of the woods with the malaria. No sweats. No diarrhea. His temperatures seem constant. We'll leave him on the Atabrine regimen for a couple more days and see what happens."
"Yes, Doctor."
"They called up from Melbourne about you yesterday. Wanted to know when they can have you back. You must be a pretty good gas passer."
Joanne nodded.
"They're getting in a bunch of wounded from New Guinea," Godofski said.
"I didn't ask for this assignment," Joanne said.
"I didn't ask for mine, either," he said and walked out of the room.
"But are you sorry you came?" John asked as he picked up his ankle. "That's what it sounded like."
"Shut up," Joanne said.
One, she began to count, two.
She saw the sweat suddenly pop out on his forehead.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.
"Jesus!" John said.
Oh, honey, I'm sorry.
She sat on the bed beside him and wiped the sweat from his face and neck.
"I like that," he said, then caught her hand and kissed it.
She slapped him on the buttocks and stood up.
"Go take a bath, you stink."
"I like that, too," he said.
"Will you stop? Barbara will hear you."
"You don't think she doesn't know?" John asked.
The doorbell went off, it was an old-fashioned Turn-to-ring device.
"That's probably the Colonel," John said. "He's had second thoughts. He wants you to give me twenty." He rolled onto his back. She put her hand on his cheek.
He caught it and used it for support as he pulled himself to a sitting position. Next he swung his legs out of bed; the movement made him wince.
"You're all right? You're not going to fall down in there?"
"No," he said as he made his way into the bathroom.
She was pulling the sweaty sheets from his bed when Barbara put her head in the door.
"Taking a shower," Joanne said. "If that's what you were about to ask."
Barbara, who looked upset, walked to the bathroom and opened the door.
"John, Daphne Farnsworth is here. Would you come out, please?"
"Be right there. Offer her a cup of coffee. Tea, " John replied.
"I've wanted to meet her," Joanne said.
Barbara didn't reply.
There were two women in the living room. One of them was obviously Daphne Farnsworth, Royal Australian Navy Women's Volunteer Reserve, and Barbara's friend. She's not in uniform; I wonder why not, Joanne asked herself. Though Daphne looked damned unhappy at the moment, that didn't detract from her looks; she was a pretty young woman, with light-brown hair, hazel eyes, and that soft peaches-and-cream skin English women seem to have.
Or Australian women, Joanne thought. Same blood. I wonder why she's so unhappy? Or is that shame I see in her eyes? What's going on here?
The other woman was wearing what looked like a man's suit with a skirt, and she was old enough to be Daphne Farnsworth's mother. But Joanne was sure that wasn't the case.
"Daphne, this is Joanne Miller," Barbara said. "I've talked about her to you." Daphne Farnsworth, with effort, managed a smile.
"This lady is a policeman," Barbara said. "I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name."
"Constable Rogers," the woman said, unsmiling. "How do you do?"
"Won't you please sit down?" Barbara said. "Can we offer you something? Tea? Something to drink?"
"No, thank you," Constable Rogers said, but she sat down on the edge of the couch, her knees together, and rested her black purse on them.
That looks, Joanne thought, like a midwife's bag.
"Daphne, can't I get you something?" Barbara asked.
Daphne offered another weak smile and shook her head, no.
There was an awkward silence while they waited for John Moore to come in. It lasted no more than two minutes but seemed much longer. Still drying his hair with a towel, John Moore finally walked into the living room.
"Hello, Daphne!" he called cheerfully, and then he saw Constable Rogers and bit off whatever else he had intended to say.
"I'd heard you were hurt," Daphne said. "I'm glad to see you're all right."
"May I ask who you are?" Constable Rogers asked, rising to her feet.
"My name is Moore. Who are you?"
"I'm Constable Rogers-"
"Constable?"
"-and I am instructed to place Mrs. Farnsworth into the custody of Major Edward Banning, of the United States Marine Corps."
"Into the custody? What the hell are you talking about?"
"Can you tell me where I might find Major Banning? This is the address I was given."
"Major Banning is not here. I work for him. Will that do?"
"If you would, I'd like to see some identification, please , Constable Rogers said.
"Daphne, what the hell is going on here?" John asked, and then saw tears in Daphne's eyes.
He went into the bedroom and came back out holding his credentials in his hand. Constable Rogers examined them carefully.
"That will be sufficient, thank you," she said. Then she fished in her purse and came out with a form, in triplicate, with carbons, the whole thing neatly stapled together. "If you would be good enough to sign that, Sir?"
Moore took the form, glanced at it, took the fountain pen Constable Rogers extended to him, and signed his name in the block provided for SIGNATURE OF INDIVIDUAL ASSUMING CUSTODY OF DETAINEE.
Constable Rogers tore off one of the carbons and handed it to Moore.
"Thank you very much," she said as she neatly folded the rest of the form and stuffed it in her purse.
She turned to Daphne. "When you are finished here, Mrs. Farnsworth, if you will come to the Main Police Station, room 306, they will arrange for your transportation back to Melbourne." Daphne nodded but didn't say anything. With a curl of her lips she probably thought was a smile, Constable Rogers gave a nod to Moore and then to Barbara and Joanne and walked out of the living room.
"Daphne, what the hell is this all about?" John Moore asked.
"She called you Mrs. Farnsworth?" Barbara said.
"Yeoman Farnsworth," Daphne said softly, looking at Barbara and then averting her eyes, "has been discharged for the good of the Service."
"What?"
"I'm pregnant," Daphne said. "About four months, they tell me.
"Oh, my God!" Barbara said. "Steve?" she asked; and then a moment later, with horror in her voice, she blurted, "I'm so sorry I asked that."
Daphne shrugged. "Steve," she said.
"What's this... ? Who was that terrible woman?"
"Banning said Feldt would arrange for Daphne to come here," Moore explained.
"They came to where I was working," Daphne said. "Two policemen brought Constable Rogers. Then they took me to my room and let me pack a bag. And then they took us to the railroad station and put us on the train."
Goddamn Major Banning! Joanne thought.
"That's outrageous!" Moore said.
And what if you're in the family way, too, Joanne Miller? You didn't think about that, did you, carried away on the wings of love? Oh, God!
"They can't do that!" Barbara said furiously. "You didn't do anything wrong!"
"Oh, yes they can," Daphne said. "They read me the appropriate passages from the Emergency War Powers Act. Any citizen may be detained for ninety-six hours when it is considered necessary in the prosecution of the war."
"Damn them!" Barbara said.
"What does Major Banning want with me?" Daphne asked.
"I'm afraid to ask, but does it have something to do with Steve?"
"Yes, but he's all right, Daphne," Moore said.
"Then what?"
"We needed a new code to communicate with them," Moore explained. "Pluto Hon came up with a simple substitution code based on personal things that only Barbara and Lieutenant Howard would know. He wanted to do the same thing with you
and Koffler."
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