"I'll be damned," Pickering said.
"And the day before yesterday, he shot down another two Japanese planes. A Zero and a bomber. That makes eight. He's a fine young man, General."
"In a fighter squadron which is down to three airplanes, according to what you just told me. You ever hear of the laws of probability, Ed?"
"His squadron commander, Captain Galloway-the man who flew the R4D, a very experienced pilot-told me, Sir, that Pick is that rare bird, a natural aviator. He's good at what he does, Sir. Very good."
"Jack Stecker's boy is an ace, plus one. He was obviously pretty good at what he did, too. He's over at the hospital wrapped up like a mummy. They feed him and drain him with rubber tubes."
"I heard about that, Sir. McCoy saw Colonel Stecker on the 'Canal. You heard he was promoted?"
"I heard. Getting him promoted pitted Vandegrift and me against most of the rest of the officer corps," Pickering replied bitterly, adding: "Christ, Jack ought to be wearing this star, not me."
"You wear it very well, Sir," Banning said without thinking.
Pickering looked at him but did not reply.
"Speaking of McCoy... where are the others?"
"Probably in the air by now, Sir. I came ahead. I thought that was what you wanted. I bumped a Navy captain from some admiral's private airplane."
Pickering chuckled. "Wagam. Rear Admiral. I know. I was in Nimitz's office when he reported back in. Complaining."
"I hope it wasn't awkward for you, Sir."
"Not for me. For him. He didn't know who I was. Just some Marine. When he was finished complaining about some Washington paper-pusher Marine running roughshod over CINCPAC procedures, Nimitz introduced him to me. 'Admiral,' Nimitz said, 'I don't believe you know General Pickering, do you?' "
Banning chuckled. "I didn't expect to see you here, either, General."
"I didn't expect to be here," Pickering said. "Dillon and company must be on the plane I'm waiting for."
"It's going on to Washington, Sir?"
"No. As soon as they service it, it's going to Australia."
"You're going to Australia, Sir?" Banning asked, surprised.
"Yes, I am," Pickering said, his tone making it clear that he wasn't happy about it.
"Then who's going to brief Secretary Knox?"
"You are," Pickering said. "You've got a seat on a Pan American clipper leaving here at 4:45. Which means we have to get you to the terminal by 3:45."
Banning looked uncomfortable.
"Ed, just give a repeat performance of what you did just now for me," Pickering went on. "Frank Knox puts on his pants like everybody does. Actually, I've grown to rather like him."
"Sir, my going to Washington is going to pose problems in Brisbane."
"About MAGIC, you mean? Pluto and Moore and Mrs. Feller should be able to handle it; they've been holding down the fort pretty well as it is, with all the time you've been spending in Townesville with the Coastwatchers."
Banning looked even more uncomfortable.
"All right, Ed, what is it?"
"Sir, between the three of us, we have been pretty much keeping Mrs. Feller out of things."
"You have? Obviously, you have a reason?"
"I am reluctant to get into this, Sir."
"That's pretty damned obvious. Out with it, Ed."
"General, I don't want to sound like a prude, but when we're dealing with intelligence at this level-at this level of sensitivity-people's personal lives are a factor. They have to be."
"What are you suggesting, Ed, that Ellen Feller is a secret drinker? For God's sake, she was a missionary!"
"She sleeps around, Sir."
"You know that for a fact? You have names?"
"General," Banning said, hesitated, and then plunged ahead. "I considered it my responsibility to make sure that you didn't leave any classified material in your quarters."
"I never did that!"
"Yes, Sir. You did."
"Jesus! You're serious about this, aren't you?"
"Yes, Sir. Sir, I arranged with the Army to keep Water Lily Cottage under security surveillance. They assigned agents of their Counterintelligence Corps to do so. They reported daily to me."
"What's that got to do with Mrs. Feller?"
"They were very thorough, Sir. They reported all activity within the Cottage. On a twenty-four-hour basis."
Now Pickering looked uncomfortable.
"Jesus," he said softly, and then he met Banning's eyes. "Ed, just because, in a moment of weakness, I got a little drunk and did something I'm certainly not proud of, that does not mean that Ellen Feller can't be trusted with classified information. Christ, it only happened once. Those things happen."
"It wasn't only you, General," Banning said.
"Who else?" Pickering asked.
"Moore, Sir. Before he went to Guadalcanal."
"Moore?" Pickering asked incredulously.
John Marston Moore, who was twenty-two, was raised in Japan, where his parents were missionaries. With that background, he was assigned to Pickering as a linguist, which led to his becoming a MAGIC analyst. Later, he was seriously wounded on Guadalcanal, after which Pickering arranged to have him commissioned.
"And, Sir, Mrs. Feller could have prevented Moore from going to Guadalcanal. As she should have."
"That's a pretty goddamn serious charge. Why the hell didn't you report this to me?" Pickering flared.
"And she's slept with several officers of SWPOA, Sir," Banning continued, calmly but firmly. "Two of General Willoughby's intelligence staff, and a Military Police officer."
"The answer to my question, obviously, is that you never reported this to me because it would be embarrassing."
"I didn't know what your reaction would be, Sir. And we've had the situation under control."
"Now for that, goddamn it, you owe me an apology. I may be an old fool, but not that much of a fool. You should have come to me, Ed, and you know it!"
Banning didn't reply.
"Does she know that you know?"
"Yes, Sir. When I found out she stood idly by when they sent Moore to Guadalcanal, I lost my temper and it slipped out."
"You lost your temper?"
"She was more worried about getting caught with Moore in her bed than she was about MAGIC. Yes, Sir, I was mad; I lost my temper. I told her what I thought of her."
Pickering looked at him for a moment, and then laughed.
"I can't tell you how glad I am to hear that," he said. "You have been a thorn in my side for a long time, Banning. I find it very comforting to learn that you, the perfect Marine, the perfect intelligence officer, can lose your temper and do something dumb."
"General, if an apology is in or-"
"The subject is closed, Ed," Pickering interrupted. "I will deal with Mrs. Feller when I get to Brisbane."
"I'm sorry I had to get into this-"
Pickering interrupted him again: "Looking at your face just now, I would never have guessed that." He touched Banning's shoulder. "Let's see how many photos we have, Ed. And then we'll see about getting you a shower and a shave before you catch your plane."
He went to the door and then stopped.
"Curiosity overwhelms me. Not you, too?"
"No, Sir," Banning said after hesitating. "But there were what could have been offers."
"And now you'll never know what you missed, Ed. The price of perfection is high."
[SIX]
Muku Muku
Oahu, Territory of Hawaii
1645 Hours 15 October 1942
Wearing a red knit polo shirt and a pair of light-blue golf pants, Brigadier General Fleming Pickering walked out onto the shaded flagstone patio of a sprawling house on the coast. Five hundred yards down the steep, lush slope, large waves crashed onto a wide white sand beach.
Major Jake Dillon, USMCR, was sitting on a stool. A glass dark with whiskey was in his hand; a barber's drape covered his body. He was having his hair cut by a silver-hai
red black man in a white jacket.
"You find enough hair to cut, Denny?" Pickering asked.
"He's got more than enough around the neck, Captain," the black man said to Pickering with a smile. "Excuse me, General," he corrected himself; to his mind Pickering would always be Captain of his merchant fleet. "We just won't mention the top."
"If you didn't have that razor in your hand," Dillon said, "I'd tell you to go to hell."
Denny laughed.
"Very nice, General," Jake Dillon teased. "What is this place?"
"This is Muku Muku, Major," the black man said. "Pretty famous around the Pacific."
"What the hell is it?"
"My grandfather bought this, all of it," Pickering said and made a sweeping gesture, "years ago. Now they've turned it into Beverly Hills."
Dillon laughed. "You make Beverly Hills sound like a slum, the way you said that."
"What I meant was very large houses on very small lots," Pickering said. "I can't understand why people do that."
Another elderly-looking black man in a white jacket opened one of a long line of sliding plate-glass doors onto the patio. Lieutenant Kenneth R. McCoy walked outside. He was wearing obviously brand-new khakis.
"You find everything you need, Ken?" Pickering asked.
"Yes, Sir," McCoy said. "Thank you."
"Can I offer you something to drink, Lieutenant?" the black man said. "You, Captain?"
"I'll have whatever the balding man is having," Pickering said.
"That's fine," McCoy said. "General, what is this place?"
"It's Muku Muku," Dillon said. "I got that far."
"My grandfather bought it," Pickering said. "As sort of a rest camp for our masters, and our chief engineers, when they made the Islands... the Sandwich Islands then. In the old days, the sailing days, they were at sea for months at a time."
"I sailed under the Commodore, the Captain's grandfather," the black man working on Dillon said. "The Genevieve. The last of our four-masters. Went around the Horn on her."
"That's right, isn't it?" Pickering said. "I'd forgotten that, Denny."
"And I retired off the Pacific Endeavour, " Denny said. "From sail to air-conditioning." He looked over at McCoy. "Just as soon as I'm through with this gentleman, Sir, I'll be ready for you."
"And then my father started sending masters' and chief engineers' families out here from the States, to give them a week or two-or a month's-vacation. And then he tore it down, in the late twenties..."
"Nineteen thirty-one, Captain," Denny corrected him.
"I stand corrected," Pickering said. "He tore down the original house-it was a Victorian monstrosity-and built this place. And to get the money, he sold off some of the land."
"Turning it into a slum," Dillon said.
"I didn't say 'slum,' I said 'Beverly Hills,' " Pickering answered. "He always said he was going to retire here. But then he dropped dead."
The second black man appeared with two whiskey glasses on a silver tray.
Pickering picked his up and raised it.
"Welcome home, gentlemen," he said. "Welcome to Muku Muku."
"After all I've been through," Dillon said, "I frankly expected more than this fleabag."
"Oh, Jesus," McCoy groaned. Pickering laughed delightedly.
There was the sound of aircraft engines. They looked out to sea. A white four-engine seaplane came into view. It was making a slow, climbing turn to the left.
"There goes Banning," Pickering said. "That's the Pan American flight to San Francisco."
"I wondered where he was," Dillon said as he was being brushed off by Denny.
"He's going to brief Frank Knox on Guadalcanal," Pickering said. "That film your man made was valuable, Jake."
"I'm glad to hear that," Dillon said. "So what happens to us now, Flem?"
"You'll spend tomorrow here, and maybe the day after tomorrow. I fed the four of you into the regular air transport priority system. With an AAAA priority, they say it generally takes a day or two to find a seat."
"What I meant is what happens to me? Am I still working for you?"
McCoy took Dillon's place on the stool. Denny draped the cloth around him.
"Jake, I want you to understand that I appreciate the job you did for me, but..."
"No apologies required, Flem. I was out of my depth in that whole operation. McCoy ran it. I'm ready to go back to being a simple flack."
"Don't get too comfortable doing that," Pickering said. "We may call on you again."
"General," McCoy said. "I promised Colonel Stecker and Pick that I would see Stecker while I was here...."
"My plane leaves Pearl Harbor at eight in the morning," Pickering said. "I'd like to have you around until it leaves. Then you can go to the Naval Hospital. Be prepared for it; he's really in bad shape."
"Thank you, Sir."
"I sent a message to Colonel Rickabee, primarily to warn him that Banning will need a shave and a haircut and a decent uniform when he arrives... before he goes to see Frank Knox. But I also asked him to call Ernie Sage and tell her you're here, and on your way to the States."
Colonel F. L. Rickabee, a career Marine intelligence officer, was Pickering's deputy at the Office of Management Analysis in Washington. Ernestine "Ernie" Sage was McCoy's girlfriend, the daughter of the college roommate of Pickering's wife.
"Thank you, Sir," McCoy said.
"Tell me, McCoy," Pickering asked. "What do you think of George Hart? How is he under pressure?"
McCoy laughed.
"He was the maddest one sonofabitch I ever saw in my life on the beach at Buka," McCoy said. "First, the rubber boat got turned over and he had a hell of a hard time getting ashore. And then I told him he was going to have to wait there-alone, overnight at least-while the native radio operator and I went looking for Howard and Koffler."
"But he did what he was expected to?"
"Oh, yes, Sir. He's a good Marine, General."
"I thought he might turn out to be," Pickering said.
[SEVEN]
Marine Barracks
U.S. Naval Station
Pearl Harbor, T.H.
1715 Hours 15 October 1942
Sergeant George F. Hart, USMCR, and Corporal Robert F. Easter-brook, USMCR, came out of the basement of Headquarters Company unshaved, unwashed, and wearing the utilities they had put on at Guadalcanal. Each was carrying a large, stuffed-full seabag.
"What now, Sergeant?" Sergeant Hart asked the freshly shaved, freshly bathed, and impeccably shined and uniformed staff sergeant who was their escort since the plane from Espiritu Santo landed.
"I was told to get you issued a clothing issue," the staff sergeant replied. "I done that. You been issued. I guess you wait to see what happens next."
At that moment, a corporal, who was just as impeccably turned out as the staff sergeant, pushed open the door and marched down the highly polished linoleum toward them.
"I'm looking for a Sergeant Hart and a Corporal Eastersomething," he announced.
"You found them," the staff sergeant announced. "Ain't you the Colonel's driver?"
"Yeah. You want to come with me, you two?"
"Where are we going?" Sergeant Hart asked.
The corporal ignored the question, but did hold the door open for them as they staggered through it under the weight of their seabags. Corporal Easterbrook was carrying additionally a Thompson.45 ACP caliber submachine gun, an Eyemo 16mm motion picture camera, and a Leica 35mm still camera, plus a canvas musette bag.
Parked at the curb was a glistening 1941 Plymouth sedan, painted Marine green-including its chromium-plated bumpers, grille, and other shiny parts. The corporal opened the trunk and the seabags were dropped inside.
"You taking the Thompson with you?" the corporal asked.
"Yes, I am," Easterbrook replied.
"You're not supposed to take weapons off the base," the corporal said. "But I guess this is different."
" 'Off the base'?" Sergeant Hart as
ked. "Where are we going?"
The corporal did not reply until they were in the car. Once they were inside, he consulted a clipboard that was attached to the dashboard.
W E B Griffin - Corp 06 - Close Combat Page 11