Patience Witherspoon stuck her head in the opening.
You had to show up right now, right? When I was thinking of Daphne?
"Oh, Steven, come quickly!" Patience said excitedly, holding her arm across her bosom.
"What's up?"
Jesus, maybe Ian got another pig! He hasn't been around since yesterday. Reeves had to pump the fucking bicycle.
"Oh, come quickly!" Patience said, and disappeared.
Maybe I should fuck her again. That once wasn't bad, and if I'm going to die, what the fuck difference does it make if she looks like something out of National Geographic magazine?
Fuck that. Don't even think that. You may be holding the shitty end of the stick in the absolute asshole of the world, but you are a white man, and a Marine, and you know better than fucking cannibals.
He rose to his feet and picked up the Thompson and left the hut.
Well, there's Ian. He doesn't have a pig. Who the fuck is that with him? I never saw that cannibal before. What is this, Cannibal Homecoming?
Patience came running back and caught his hand and pulled him to the new cannibal, slowing as they got close.
"Steven," she said shyly, "I want you to meet my old friend Nathaniel Wallace. Nathaniel, this is Steven."
"Chief Signalman Wallace, Sergeant," the cannibal said, putting out his hand. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."
"You have?"
"You have a fine hand," Wallace said. "I tried to copy your style."
"I'll be goddamned."
[Two]
HENDERSON FIELD
GUADALCANAL, SOLOMON ISLANDS
1105 HOURS 7 OCTOBER 1942
Captain Charles M. Galloway ran the engines up, saw that all the needles were in the green, and looked back over his shoulder toward Major Jake Dillon. Dillon was standing behind the pilots' seats, wearing a headset. Galloway took the microphone from its holder and moved the switch to INTERCOM.
"Strap yourself in, Jake," Galloway ordered, jerking his thumb to show Dillon a fold-down seat behind him. "I don't want you in my lap if I have to try to stop this thing." He looked at Second Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, in the copilot's seat.
"We have twenty degrees of flaps," he said, pointing.
"There's the gear control. The way we're going to do this is move onto the runway, run the engines up, remove the brakes, and see if we can get it to fly. You follow me through on the throttles. When I give you the word, you will raise the gear and then the flaps. Got it?" Pickering took his microphone and pressed the switch.
"Got it, Skipper."
"Call the tower," Galloway said.
Pickering moved the switch to TRANSMIT.
"Cactus, this is"-he stopped, searching the control panel in vain for the aircraft's call sign-"Eastern Airlines City of San Francisco on the threshold for takeoff."
"Eastern Airliner, you are cleared for takeoff as number one," the Cactus tower replied. The amusement in his voice came through even over the frequency-clipping radio.
Pickering dropped his microphone in his lap and watched as Galloway moved onto the runway, lined up with its center, stopped, locked the brakes, and put his hand on the throttle quadrant. Then he put his hand over Galloway's as Galloway ran the throttles forward to TAKEOFF POWER.
The engines roared and the airplane strained against the brakes.
Galloway released them, and the R4D started to roll. He pulled his hand from under Pickering's and put it on the wheel.
Pickering picked the microphone from his lap.
"Cactus, Eastern Airlines rolling." The aircraft slowly began to gain speed. It was over the Recommended Maximum Gross Weight for the temperature and available runway length. And the runway was not smooth concrete but wet dirt, patched here and there with pierced steel planking.
Galloway was more than a little worried about blowing a tire, but he kept that to himself As soon as he could, he eased forward on the wheel to get the tail wheel off the ground.
Then he kept his eye on the end of the runway, dropping his eyes every second or so to the airspeed indicator, which had come to life at 40 knots.
The speed climbed very slowly. But then Galloway sensed life in the controls. He eased back on the wheel, felt the airplane want to try to fly, and then eased the wheel back just a hair more.
The heavy rumbling of the undercarriage suddenly quit.
"Gear up!" he called.
Pickering took his hand from the throttle quadrant and dropped it to the wheel-shaped landing gear control ten inches down and to the rear. He put it in RETRACT.
The wheels took a long time coming up. On Jack Finch's orders, the pilot who had flown the airplane to Guadalcanal from Espiritu Santo had also tested and timed how long it took to get the gear up with the added weight and wind resistance o the skis. It hadn't taken appreciably longer than normal, a tribute to the strength of the hydraulic system.
A moment before he expected the GEAR up light to go on, Galloway ordered, "Flaps Up!"
The GEAR up light went on as Pickering moved the flap-control lever.
"Gear up," Pickering's voice came over the earphones, and then a moment later, "Flaps retarded." The airspeed indicator needle pointed at 110. Galloway put the airplane into a shallow climb to the left and kept it there until the surf on the Guadalcanal beach passed under his wing.
Then he straightened it out, retarded the throttles, and set up a shallow climb.
It was just about 900 miles in a straight line from Henderson to Port Moresby on New Guinea, but Galloway was planning for at least a thousand-mile flight, in case he ran into weather, and because he knew that flying dead reckoning, the airfield was probably not going to be where he expected it to be.
To conserve fuel, he would cruise somewhere around 8,000 to 10,000 feet and at an indicated 180 knots. A thousand miles at 180 knots translated to right at six hours. That would give them an Estimated Time of Arrival at Port Moresby of 1700, 1710. The worst possible case-if they failed to find the field for another hour or so-would still see them on the ground at 1800. Before nightfall.
There was plenty of fuel. An R4D in this configuration could officially carry twenty-eight fully loaded paratroops, or 5,600 pounds. Galloway's experience during the C47/R4D acceptance tests had taught him that was a very conservative estimate of Maximum Gross Load.
Dillon had told him five people would be going into Buka.
That would be less than 1,000 pounds, because they would not be fully equipped paratroopers. But call it a thousand anyway.
And they would have with them an already weighed 950 pounds of supplies. So call that a thousand pounds, too. That left 3,600 pounds of cargo lift weight available.
More than that, really. Galloway had concluded that the Maximum Gross Weight erred on the side of caution by about 20 percent (a thousand pounds). So that left him 4,600 pounds.
AvGas weighed about seven pounds a gallon. And he had auxiliary fuel tanks mounted inside the cabin over the wing root. He'd ordered these filled with 600 gallons of gasoline.
One of the Rules for Over Water Flight that Captain Galloway devoutly believed in was that as long as you could get the airplane to stagger into the air with it, there was no such thing as too much fuel aboard. If necessary, they could fly to Australia.
Galloway turned to Pickering.
"Can you hear me?" Pickering nodded.
"You've never been in one of these before?"
"Not sitting up front," Pickering said.
"They're a very forgiving airplane," Galloway said.
"That's nice," Pickering said. "May I ask a question?"
"Shoot."
"From the movies I've seen, people are supposed to be asked to volunteer for a mission they can't be told about." Galloway smiled.
"You volunteered the day you joined The Corps," he said.
"And again when you went through P'Cola. You had two chances to say no."
"Where are we going?"
Galloway threw t
he map into his lap. "First stop, Port Moresby. It'll take us about six hours-"
"We have that much fuel aboard?" Pickering asked, and then realized the stupidity of his question. "I guess we do, don't we?"
"-and then-turn the chart over-Moresby to Buka and return."
"The Japanese hold Buka, right? Where are we going to land? Or are we going to land?"
"We're going to pick up some people and equipment at Moresby and fly to Buka. We'll land on the beach, off-load the people and their equipment, and pick up three passengers." Pickering looked at him. "Christ, you're serious!" Galloway nodded.
"There's something I think I should tell you, Captain," Pickering said. Charley picked up on the "Captain"; Pickering usually called him "Skipper."
"You're not Alan Ladd or Errol Flynn, right?"
"No," Pickering said. "I used to think I was a pretty good pilot."
"You are. With the Zeke you shot down this morning, that made five, you're officially an ace."
"That's not what I meant," Pickering said. "I mean, when I got my first ride in a Yellow Peril at P'Cola, the IP thought I was a wiseass-"
I can certainly understand that, Mr. Pickering.
"-and tried to make me airsick, and couldn't. So he turned it over to me and told me to take it back to the field and land it and I did; and then he was really pissed because he thought I already knew how to fly and hadn't told anybody."
"No kidding?"
"No kidding," Pickering said. "I had no trouble learning to fly the Wildcat, either, and... shit, just before I came over here, I took my grandfather's Stagger Wing Beech up, the first time I'd ever sat behind the wheel, buzzed Marin County, and then flew under the bridge."
"You flew under the Golden Gate Bridge?" Galloway asked incredulously.
Pickering nodded.
"Both ways, I flew in from the ocean, went under the bridge, did a one-eighty over Alcatraz, and flew back out under the bridge."
"That's a little hard to believe."
" I did it. And I wasn't scared. And I wasn't scared here until this morning."
I'll be a sonofabitch if I don't believe him about flying under the Golden Gate.
"Maybe you grew up this morning," Galloway said.
"Could be. After I saw what happened to Dick Stecker, I was about to hand you my wings and take my chances with a rifle.
I don't want to end up like that." He means that, too.
"So why didn't you?"
"Because wherever you were going was away from Henderson, from Guadalcanal," Pickering said. "I figured I could hand you my wings wherever we landed."
"You're out of luck, Pickering. At least until this mission's over," Galloway said. "You want to turn in your wings, that's your business. But not until we get back."
"You can't make me get back in this airplane once we land."
"Yes, I can. You're a goddamned Marine officer, and you'll do what you're ordered to do."
"Or what?"
"There is no `or what,' " Galloway said. "The subject is closed, Mr. Pickering."
Pickering shrugged and folded his arms across his chest.
Galloway put his hand on the wheel and reached up and turned the automatic pilot off.
"Put your hands and feet on the controls," he ordered. Pickering looked at him. After a moment he unfolded his arms and put his left hand on the wheel.
"You have the aircraft, Mr. Pickering," Galloway said.
"Maintain the present course and rate of climb until reaching nine thousand feet." Pickering nodded.
They rode in silence for a minute or so. Galloway had enough time to judge that Pickering was telling the truth about that-the rate-of-climb and airspeed-indicator needles didn't even flicker, nor did the attitude of the aircraft change a half degree. He was one of those rare people you heard about but never actually saw: He was born with the ability to fly.
A glint of light at his left startled him. He snapped his head and looked out.
First Lieutenant William Charles Dunn, USMCR, Executive Officer-and at the moment, acting Commander-of VMF-229 waved cheerfully at him from his F4F.
Galloway furiously signaled him to return to base.
When Dunn brought the subject up before they left, Galloway expressly told him not to escort the R4D.
It would have been nice if a whole squadron of Wildcats could escort the R4D away from Guadalcanal, to protect it from Japanese bombers. They'd be delighted to shoot an R4D down if they saw it. But a whole squadron of Wildcats could not be diverted from their primary mission for that-they couldn't even divert two or three of them.
And a single Wildcat wouldn't do any good. Not only that, it would place itself in unnecessary jeopardy.
Bill Dunn continued to wave cheerfully, apparently choosing to interpret Galloway's furious signals as a friendly return of his own greeting. Galloway remembered that back at Henderson, Bill seemed to cave in to the logic of his arguments far easier than Galloway expected.
"We're at nine thousand feet, Sir," Pickering reported.
"See if you can trim it up for straight and level flight at an indicated 180 knots, Mr. Pickering, without running into Mr. Dunn."
Pickering looked at him in confusion, and then saw Dunn in the Wildcat. He took his left hand from the wheel and, smiling, waved at him.
Meanwhile, the R4D leveled off. The altimeter indicated 9,000 feet, and the rate-of-climb indicator needle stopped moving. It was right in the center of the dial.
In direct violation of a specific order to the contrary, Lieutenant Dunn remained on the wingtip of the R4D until he had only enough fuel, plus ten minutes, to return to Henderson Field.
Then he waved one more time and entered a slow 180-degree turn to the left.
When he was out of sight, Galloway unfastened his shoulder and seat belts and got up out of his seat. Pickering looked at him.
"Piss call," Galloway said. Pickering nodded.
He'll be all right, Galloway thought. He had every reason in the world to go a little crazy. Bringing him along was the right thing to do.
[Three]
ROYAL AUSTRALIAN AIR FORCE STATION
PORT MORESBY, NEW GUINEA
1340 HOURS 7 OCTOBER 1942
RAAF Moresby was located too far forward to have the most advanced cryptographic equipment. It was necessary, therefore, to decrypt both incoming and outgoing classified messages by hand.
A loose-leaf notebook kept locked up in the safe of the cryptographic officer held a number of codes printed on chemically treated paper. It would readily burn-almost explode-if a match were applied.
Each day there was a new code. But the change did not follow the calendar. Rather, it occurred upon notification from RAAF Radio, Melbourne. In other words, a code might be valid for eighteen hours, or twenty-six, or two, depending on when RAAF Radio, Melbourne, decided to change it.
The cryptographic officer's notebook also contained a number of codes for special use. A new set of these codes was sent in every two weeks by officer courier.
The RAAF Moresby Cryptographic Section consisted of a Flight Lieutenant and two Leading Aircraftsmen, RAAF.
When the message came in from RAAF Radio Melbourne for Lieutenant Commander Eric Feldt, RANVR, these men were frankly annoyed. Now that action against the Japanese on New Guinea was finally getting in gear, they had enough work as it was without having to handle the classified traffic for a goddamned sailor and his motley command-four American Marines and a Bushman wearing a RAN Petty Officer's uniform.
So they decrypted the Commander's message as far as his name and address, and stopped there. It was their intention to let the rest of it wait until they'd taken care of the regular traffic. But that idea didn't work out. Air Commodore Sir Howard Teeghe, Commanding RAAF Moresby (his rank was equivalent to Brigadier, Commonwealth Ground Forces and Brigadier General, U.S. Army and Marine Corps), made the first visit anyone could remember to RAAF Moresby Cryptographic Section and informed the Lieutenant that Commander Feldt w
as expecting some rather important. Whenever that came, Air Commodore Teeghe said, he'd be grateful if they got right on it.
While the Air Commodore waited, the Lieutenant himself decrypted the rest of the message and handed it to him:
MOST URGENT
MELBOURNE 1250 7TH OCTOBER NUMBER 212
FROM ADMIRALTY MELBOURNE
W E B Griffin - Corp 05 - Line of Fire Page 53