W E B Griffin - Corp 05 - Line of Fire

by Line Of Fire(Lit)

  Assuming it did not encounter a 30-knot Japanese destroyer and/or a Japanese patrol aircraft, HMAS Pelican would surface each morning at the same time to see how things were going on the beach. If the people from Ferdinand Six had not returned within seventy hours, it would be presumed they were not coming and Sergeant Hart and Corporal Godfrey would be free to make an attempt to paddle back through the surf to the Pelican for evacuation.

  Even if the tests suggested the sand on the beach could take the weight, Sergeant Hart privately concluded, there would be no point in sending in the airplane if the people from Ferdinand Six weren't there to meet it. And they certainly wouldn't take the risk just to pick up a sergeant and a corporal. The Marine Corps had more important uses for an airplane like that. Semper Fi!

  Sergeant Hart heard electrical pumps. Then he thought he sensed movement, but he wasn't sure. A moment later he decided he was wrong. There was no movement, he was just nervous-read scared shitless.

  And then there were more mysterious submarine-type noises, and now he was sure he sensed movement.

  An Aussie officer appeared, climbing halfway down a ladder.

  "We're ready for you, Mr. McCoy," he announced courteously.

  Hart followed McCoy up the ladder. When he reached the level of the next deck, there was the absolutely delicious smell of fresh air.

  We're on the surface, and the hatches are open, otherwise there would be no fresh air.

  While he waited his turn to follow McCoy and some Aussie sailors through a hatch, the Pelican's hull trembled. It was her diesel engines starting.

  He stepped through a hatch onto the deck. It was light enough to see that the surface of the sea was smooth, so smooth it looked oily.

  Thank God for that!

  McCoy started aft. When Hart started to follow him, McCoy stopped him and gestured toward the bow of the submarine, where Aussie sailors were manhandling the radios and supplies through hatches.

  Two minutes later, as he watched Staff Sergeant Kelly kneel beside one of the two rafts to inflate it, McCoy spoke in his ear.

  "Just one, Kelly," McCoy said.

  "Sir?"

  "There's no way we can get loaded rafts through that surf," McCoy said. "The waves are ten, twelve feet, close together." Hart felt light-headed; this was instantly followed by a sudden chill. He knew why McCoy only wanted one raft. It was because he'd decided they had to shift to Plan B. He had confided this plan only to Chief Wallace and Sergeant Hart, since they were the only ones who'd be involved in it.

  If the surf was so rough that passing through it in heavily laden rafts was impossible, Plan B would be placed into effect.

  They had not rehearsed Plan B as carefully as Plan A, but Plan B was a little simpler. It required only one raft to attempt making it to shore. This would contain Lieutenant McCoy, Chief Signalman Wallace, and Sergeant Hart. They would carry with them only their personal weapons, three days' supply of rations, and two of the radios Chief Signalman Wallace had modified so they could communicate with both HMAS Pelican and aircraft (on air-to-ground frequencies).

  When they reached the beach, McCoy and Wallace would wait to see if Hart's tests of the beach sand suggested that an R4D aircraft could land successfully. The results, one way or the other, would be radioed to the Pelican, for relay to Townsville.

  If the test results were favorable, Lieutenant McCoy and Chief Signalman Wallace would head for Ferdinand Six, while Sergeant Hart would remain on the beach, there being no good reason to subject him to the hazards of the trip through the jungle. Presuming McCoy and Wallace found Ferdinand Six, they would radio Townsville the estimated time of their return to the beach. Then they'd return there with sufficient manpower to handle the supplies which would come in with the R4D.

  If the tests indicated that a safe landing could not be made, Sergeant Hart would go with Lieutenant McCoy and Chief Signalman Wallace to Ferdinand Six. And they'd all wait there until some other, better, workable plan to reinforce Ferdinand Six and extract its garrison could be devised.

  It had to be presumed, finally, that if they couldn't land on Buka through the surf, then that was it. There was no other way in. Swimming was out of the question. Sharks.

  "You're going to try it with just one rubber raft?" Staff Sergeant Kelly asked, a little confused.

  "Chief Wallace, Sergeant Hart, and me," McCoy replied.

  "None of the equipment."

  "Lieutenant, I'd like to try," Staff Sergeant Kelly said.

  "You would only be another mouth to feed," McCoy said.

  "But thanks, Sergeant Kelly."

  "I really want to go, Lieutenant," Kelly said.

  "When you get that raft over the side, Sergeant, you better start getting everything else below."

  "Shit!" Sergeant Kelly said.

  Lieutenant McCoy did not seem to hear him.

  About a hundred yards from the beach, the surf turned the rubber raft end over end, and George Hart found himself suddenly underwater, instinctively swimming toward the surface.

  I am going to drown on this fucking beach!

  He broke through the surface much sooner than he expected to. When he glanced around, another wave was about to fall on him; he took a quick breath and ducked under the water.

  When he came up again and started treading water, he became aware that the bag containing the sand-density measuring equipment was banging against his back. He had looped the rope handle around his neck. It was a good thing he had his life preserver on, he realized. That stuff was heavy.

  Then he saw McCoy. The Lieutenant was in the act of wrapping the weapons package in a life preserver, with the idea it might float in to shore. The next person he saw was a stranger.

  But in a moment he became recognizable; it was Chief Signalman Wallace. When Hart was previously with Wallace, his hair was a six-inch-high support for his Chief Petty Officer's brimmed cap. Now that it was soaking wet, Wallace's hair was hanging down over his face, almost to his chin. He looked like a really ugly woman.

  Hart pointed at him. McCoy followed the pointing hand and laughed.

  Wallace at first looked surprised, and then his face clouded.

  "Sod you both!" he called. Pushing the hair out of his face, he turned and started swimming toward the beach. He was towing two other packages, also hastily wrapped in life preservers.

  That's all of them, then. The weapons, the radios, and our clothes.

  Another wave came in and crashed over Hart. It took him so much by surprise that he breathed some water in.

  He coughed and gagged a moment or two, and then he started swimming after McCoy and Wallace.

  Ahead of him, he saw the rubber raft. It was now right side up, and a wave was gently depositing it on the beach.

  Forty yards from the sand, treading water again, his feet touched sand.

  So he started walking the rest of the way ashore.

  He almost made it, walking in water not even waist high, when another wave took him by surprise, knocked him down, and scraped him along the bottom.

  The beach turned out to be much wider than they expected, even wider and flatter than it appeared from the raft. Even so, the first thing he started to do was what they'd told him to do: He began taking measurements right down the middle.

  But then he decided that they'd given him those instructions because they'd been thinking of beaches like the ones in Florida. This one was twice, three times, that wide. With a beach that wide, there was no telling where the tide would go-how far the water would come up the beach at high tide.

  Instead, because the beach stopped dead in a mass of roots and trees, he stepped off from its inland side a distance that was twice the length of the wing of the Air Corps C-47 (he'd measured one in Florida). Then he looked around again, saw where he was, and stepped off that distance again. And then, after another look around, he stepped off one more wing length.

  Even taking into account the foliage, there was room for at least two R4Ds to sit wingtip to w
ingtip between the trees and the place where he decided to pound the cone into the sand.

  And to seaward, there was even more sand.

  Then he put the cone down and pounded it in. Next he was on his knees, bent over to read the cone's markings.

  I don't believe this, George thought, it's too good to be true!

  He picked the cone up and moved five feet closer to the water; then he stood the cone up and dropped the weight on it.

  The cone went into the sand no farther than it did on the first try.

  Jesus! Maybe there's clay or rocks or something here! This can't be right!

  He scraped at the sand with his fingers, but could move only an inch or so away without difficulty.

  He jumped to his feet and ran fifty yards down the beach and repeated the test. And then he ran a hundred yards down the beach end did it again.

  He went back to where he started.

  McCoy intercepted him, holding out for him a set of utilities.

  "Put these on." Amazingly cheerful, Hart replied, "Afraid I'll get sunburned?"

  "For the bugs," McCoy said.

  Hart was so excited he'd forgotten he'd been waving his hand in front of his face and swatting at various parts of his body.

  When he looked now, he was spotted all over with insect bites.

  "The antibug grease is in the first-aid stuff," McCoy said, gesturing toward the Pelican.

  Hart nodded.

  "How does it look?"

  "Too good to be true," Hart said. He pulled the utilities over his swimming trunks and ran farther down the beach.

  Five minutes later he ran back to McCoy, who was holding the battery-powered shortwave radio.

  "What do I tell them?" McCoy asked.

  "Two, repeat Two, this is no mistake, Two," Hart said.

  "You're sure?" McCoy said.

  "I'm sure," Hart said, beaming.

  McCoy put the microphone to his lips.

  "Bird, this is Bird One, Over."

  "Go ahead, Bird One."

  "Message is Two. Repeat Two. This is not a mistake. Two.

  Over.

  "Understand Two No Mistake Two, Over."

  "The message is Two. Over."

  "Good luck, you chaps. See you soon. Bird out." McCoy and Hart smiled at each other.

  "Wallace is snooping around the boondocks looking for some water for you," McCoy said.

  "Good," Hart said.

  What the fuck am I so cheerful about? As soon as he finds the water, he and McCoy are going to take off and leave me alone on this fucking beach.

  Wallace appeared five minutes later, wearing only a loincloth. There was a compass on a thong around his neck. In one hand he held his Sten gun, and in the other was one of the funny-looking machetes Hart had seen in Townsville. His hair was now dry, and it seemed to have snapped back into place, but not to the carefully configured coiffure Hart had grown used to. Wallace did not now look like a Chief Signalman of the Royal Australian Navy Volunteer Reserve.

  He looks like a fucking cannibal.

  McCoy told him what Hart's tests of the beach had turned up.

  "I thought it might turn out that way," Wallace said thoughtfully. "Once I saw the beach, it occurred to me that the wave action is ideal to pack the sand. And the odd large wave tends to provide the right amount of moisture to keep it from drying out." Hart had no idea whatever what Wallace was talking about.

  "I found a place where you might be comfortable," Wallace went on. "And I've been thinking, Lieutenant McCoy, that it would be a rather better idea if you stayed here with Sergeant Hart."

  "Why?" McCoy asked.

  "No offense, Lieutenant McCoy, but I can move faster alone." Please God, let him agree with Wallace.

  "If you think so, OK," McCoy said.

  Wallace nodded.

  "Well, let me help you two get settled, and then I'll be on my way.

  [Two]

  ROYAL AUSTRALIAN NAVY COASTWATCHER ESTABLISHMENT

  TOWNSVILLE, QUEENSLAND

  0555 HOURS 6 OCTOBER 1942

  FRD1, KCY. FRD1, KCY. SB CODE OI.

  Royal Australian Navy Coastwatcher Radio, This is Commander in Chief Pacific Radio.

  Please stand by to receive an encrypted operational immediate message.

  Signalman Third Class Paul W. Cahn, RANVR, threw the switch to TRANSMIT and tapped his key quickly

  KCY, FRD1. GA.

  As the message came in, in the familiar five-character blocks of gibberish, he turned to the device that made crypto- graphic tape and began to type.

  Without stopping his typing, Signalman Cahn called out to Sergeant Vincent J. Esposito, USMC, "Vince, you better go get the brass. I think they're in the mess. Whatever this is, it's Operational Immediate." Operational Immediate was the second-highest priority for message transmission.

  Sergeant Esposito put down his coffee cup and walked quickly out of the radio room.

  Less than two minutes later, Signalman Cahn reached for his key, tapped out,

  KCY, FRD1, AKN UR OI. CLR.

  CINCPAC Radio, Coastwatcher Radio acknowledges receipt of your operational Immediate transmission and is clearing the net at this time.

  He waited for the reply, FRD I, KCY. CLR, and then took the strip of paper which had been fed out of his tape machine and fed it into the cryptographic machine. In a moment, the keys began to clatter:

  FRD1, KCY.

  KCY 6OCT34

  OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE

  FOLLOWING RECEIVED 0545 FROM BIRD FOR RELAY

  START

  PART ONE

  PLAN BAKER RPT BAKER EXECUTED AS OF 0530 RPT 0530

  PART TWO

  EGGS AND CHICKS IN NEST RPT IN NEST

  PART THREE

  CONDITION TWO RPT TWO THIS IS NO RPT NO MISTAKE

  END

  By the time Cahn removed the decrypted message from the machine, Lieutenant Commander Eric Feldt, RAN, and Major Edward Banning, USMC, had come into the radio room. Banning had a large manila envelope in his hand.

  Signalman Cahn handed the message to Commander Feldt.

  He read it and handed it to Major Banning, who read it and handed it to Sergeant Esposito, who had been desperately trying to read it over Banning's shoulder.

  "Christ, they couldn't get through the sodding surf or something else went wrong! Bloody hell!" Commander Feldt said.

  "McCoy and Wallace are ashore," Banning said, "And Condition Two!" McCoy's orders were to assess the condition of the sand on the beach on a scale of One to Five: One meant it was Perfect and Five meant it was Extremely Hazardous.

  Banning took a sheet of paper from the manila envelope. He had prepared a number of messages beforehand to cover all the contingencies he could think of. The message he was looking for had three spaces that he'd left blank. He wrote BAKER in one of them and 0530 06OCT42 and TWO in the others. Then he handed the sheet to Cahn.

  "The sooner the better, Cahn," he said.

  "Aye, aye, Sir." Cahn set the switch on the tape machine to CLEAR, then typed the message.

  FOR CINCPAC RADIO

  OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE

  FROM OFFICER COMMANDING RAN COASTWATCHER ESTABLISHMENT

  FOR RELAY TO COMMGENERAL 1ST MAR DIVISION

  FOLLOWING FOR MAJOR HOMER DILLON USMC X PLAN BAKER SUCCESSFULLY EXECUTED AS OF 0530 06OCT42 X CONDITION TWO REPEAT TWO X EXECUTE PLAN VICTOR X ADVISE ONLY DELAYS AND REASONS THEREFORE X FELDT

  He then moved switches on the encryption device to ENCRYPT, fed the tape to it, and waited for the message to appear.

  Two minutes later, CINCPAC Radio acknowledged receipt of Coastwatcher Radio's encrypted Operational Immediate message. Four minutes after that, CINCPAC sent another message.

  FRD1, KCY. FYI 1STMARDIV AKN UR OI.

  Coastwatcher Radio, this is CINCPAC Radio. For Your Information, First Marine Division Radio has acknowledged receipt of your Operational Immediate.

  KCY, FRD1. THANKS. FRD1 CLR.

  "They've got it, Sir," Cahn
reported.

  "When do we net with Ferdinand Six?" Banning asked.