"Willoughby and I were saying, just before you came in, that it was amazing the enemy could move as much ammunition as they did to the battle line."
El Supremo's beginning to approve of Commander Ohmae; the true test of somebody else's intelligence is how closely he agrees with you.
"He also faults 17th Army for their, quote, faulty assessment, unquote, of our lines despite, quote, aerial photography showing the enemy had completed a complex, in-depth, perimeter defense of their positions, unquote."
"Willoughby and I were just talking about that, too. When they struck the lines, they attacked in inadequate force at the wrong place. Isn't that so, Willoughby?"
"Yes, Sir."
"We had decided that it was due to lack of adequate intelligence. But if they had adequate aerial photos and ignored them, then that is incompetence."
"Ohmae also stated, bluntly," Pickering said, "quote, General Oka was chronically indifferent to his orders, and General Kawaguchi was chronically insubordinate, unquote."
" 'Chronically insubordinate'?"
"Yes, Sir."
"A serious allegation," MacArthur said thoughtfully. "But it happens, even among general officers. We know that, don't we, Willoughby. We've had our experience with that, haven't we?"
"Yes, Sir. Unfortunately, we have."
"General Wainwright," MacArthur went on, "disobeyed my order to fight on. He apparently decided he had to. But then, with every expectation his own order would be obeyed, he ordered General Sharpe on Mindanao to surrender. General Sharpe had thirty thousand effectives, rations, ammunition, and had no reason to surrender. Yet he remembered his oath-the words 'to obey the orders of the officers appointed over me'-and hoisted the white flag."
"It's a tough call," Pickering said without thinking.
MacArthur looked at him.
"I was ordered to leave the Philippines, Fleming. Did you know that?"
"Yes, Sir."
"What I wanted to do was resign my commission and enlist as a private and meet my fate on Bataan...."
By God, he means that!
"It was, as you put it, 'a tough call.' But in the end, I had no choice. I had my orders. I obeyed them."
"Thank God you did," Willoughby said. "The Army, the nation, needs you."
He believes that. He is not kissing El Supremo's ass. He believes it. And he's right.
MacArthur looked at Willoughby for a long moment. Finally, he spoke.
"Willoughby, I think I would like a doughnut and some fresh coffee," he said. "Would you see if Sergeant Gomez can accommodate us? Will you have some coffee and a doughnut with us, Fleming?"
"Yes, Sir. Thank you," General Pickering replied.
[TWO]
Los Angeles Airport
Los Angeles, California
0910 Hours 27 October 1942
Major Jake Dillon, USMCR, waited impatiently behind the waist-high chain-link fence as Transcontinental & Western Airline's City of
Portland taxied up the ramp and stopped. This was Flight 217, nonstop DC-3 service from San Francisco.
The door opened, and a stewardess appeared in the doorway. (Nice-looking, Jake noticed almost automatically, good facial features, nice boobs, and long, shapely calves.)
The steps were nowhere in sight. Jake looked around impatiently and saw they were being rolled up by hand from a hundred yards away.
They were finally brought up to the door, and passengers began to debark. These were almost entirely men in uniform; but a few self-important-looking civilians with briefcases were mixed in.
A familiar face appeared. It belonged to First Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR. Lieutenant Pickering was in the process of buttoning his unbuttoned blouse and pulling his field scarf up to the proper position. After that he correctly adjusted his fore-and-aft cap, then glanced around until he spotted Dillon, whereupon he waved cheerfully.
He walked over to Dillon. At the last moment, as if just remembering what was expected of him as a Marine officer, he saluted.
"And good morning to you, Sir. And how is the Major this fine, sunny morning?"
Dillon returned the salute.
"Have you been drinking, Pick?" he asked.
"Not 'drinking,' Sir, which would suggest that I have been hanging around in saloons. I did, however, dilute that awful canned orange juice they served on the airplane with a little gin."
"Where's the others?"
Pickering pointed back toward the airplane, where First Lieutenant William C. Dunn was in intimate conversation with the stewardess. As they watched, she surreptitiously slipped him a matchbook containing her name and telephone number.
"He's wasting his time," Dillon said. "You're on another airplane in thirty-five minutes."
"Really? That's a shame. The stewardess has her heart set on mothering Little Billy before The Marine Corps sends him off to the war."
"Where's Charley?"
"The Major is referring to Captain Charles M. Galloway?"
"Where is he, Pick?"
"The Captain came down with a severe case of diarrhea, Major. He-"
"You can hand that diarrhea crap to Macklin, Pick. Don't try to pull it on me. Where's Galloway?"
"He's not coming," Pick said.
"What do you mean, he's not coming?"
"I didn't tell him you called."
Dillon looked at him to make sure he wasn't having his chain pulled.
"You want to explain that?"
"He's with his girlfriend. I decided that whatever this public relations bullshit you've set up is, it's not as important as that. So I didn't tell him you called. I left him a note, to be delivered with his room-service breakfast, saying that Little Billy and I would be out of town for a couple days, and to have fun."
"Goddamn you!" Dillon exploded.
"So court-martial me, Major," Pick said, not entirely pleasantly.
"You're liable to regret playing Fairy Godfather," Dillon said, after the moment he gave himself to control his temper.
"How so?"
"You are now, officially, the escort officer assigned to take Staff Sergeant McCoy and Lieutenant Dunn to Washington for their decoration ceremonies, Vice Captain Galloway."
"Is that what this is all about?"
"You will escort Lieutenant Dunn and Sergeant McCoy to Washington. You will see that they appear-sober, in the appointed uniform, at the appointed place, at the appointed time-or so help me Christ, I will call in every favor I have owed me, and you will spend the rest of this war ferrying Stearmans from the factory to Pensacola."
"Do you think I could have that in writing?"
Dillon glowered at him. After a moment, Pick shrugged.
"OK, Jake. I'll take care of them."
"The proper response, Mr. Pickering, is 'aye, aye, Sir.' "
"Aye, aye, Sir," Pick said. "I said I'd take care of them. I will."
"Sergeant McCoy and his escorts will be billeted at Eighth and I. I have no objection to you and Dunn staying in your dad's apartment, but I am holding you responsible for McCoy."
"Then I had better stay at Eighth and I, too, hadn't I? What escorts?"
"I've got two gunnies, large ones, sitting on McCoy. You work out the details with them. Somebody from Public Relations will meet your plane. You call me on arrival, and at least once a day. And whenever anything happens you think I should know about. I'll give you the numbers of the Public Relations office here, and my house in Malibu. The officer-in-charge is a lieutenant named Macklin."
"OK, Jake," Pick said.
"When we're around Macklin, it's 'Major' and 'Yes, Sir.' Get the picture?"
"Aye, aye, Sir."
Dunn walked up.
"Can I meet you guys later someplace? The lady wants to show me around Hollywood."
"In half an hour, you'll be on another airplane," Dillon said. "Follow me, please, gentlemen."
"Major, this is a sure thing!" Dunn protested.
"The only sure things are death and taxes," Dillon s
aid. "I broke my ass to get seats on the airplane. You'll be on it."
"What if I, for example, had diarrhea and missed it?"
"Then you would spend the next four days having diarrhea crossing the country by train," Dillon said. "Follow me, please."
There were four Marines inside the terminal: three noncommissioned officers standing by a not-in-use-at-the-moment ticket counter, and one second lieutenant sitting in a chrome and plastic chair in a waiting area on the other side of the terminal space.
As Major Dillon and Lieutenants Dunn and Pickering approached the enlisted men, the largest of these, a barrel-chested, 220-pound, six-foot-two-inch master gunnery sergeant, softly said, "Ten-hut!" and came to attention. The next-largest Marine, a six-foot-one, 205-pound, barrel-chested gunnery sergeant, decided that the smallest Marine, a six-foot, 195-pound staff sergeant, was not complying with the order with sufficient dispatch. He corrected this perceived breach of the code of military courtesy by punching the staff sergeant just above the kidneys with his thumb, which caused the staff sergeant not only to grunt painfully but rapidly assume the position of attention.
"As you were," Major Dillon said. "Gunny, there's been a slight change in plans. This is Lieutenant Pickering, who will be in charge."
"Aye, aye, Sir," the master gunnery sergeant said.
"Lieutenant Pickering, this is Master Gunnery Sergeant Louveau, who is Sergeant McCoy's escort, and this is Gunnery Sergeant Devlin."
Pickering shook hands with both Louveau and Devlin, then offered a hand to McCoy.
"I have the advantage on you, Sergeant," he said. "Not only do I know who you are, but I'm a friend of your brother's. This is Lieutenant Dunn."
"I know who you are, too, Sergeant," Dunn said.
Staff Sergeant McCoy said not a word, for which breach of courtesy he received another thumb over the kidney.
"The officers spoke to you, McCoy," the gunnery sergeant said.
"Aye, aye, Sir," Staff Sergeant McCoy said.
"Gunny, I'm sure they're ready to board the aircraft," Dillon said. "Would you see that Sergeant McCoy finds his seat?"
"Aye, aye, Sir," the master gunnery sergeant said. He took Staff Sergeant McCoy's elbow and, followed by the gunnery sergeant, propelled him down the terminal toward an area occupied by United Airlines.
"You want to tell me what that's all about?" Pick asked.
"He's a mean sonofabitch when he's sober," Dillon said. "Drunk, he's worse. The gunnies are going to keep him sober while the President or the Secretary of the Navy-just who is still up in the air-hangs The Medal around his neck. And while you all are out selling war bonds."
"Major, did you hear what he did on Bloody Ridge?" Dunn asked. "He's one hell of a Marine."
"I also heard what he did in a whorehouse in San Diego," Dillon replied. "The only reason he's not on his way to Portsmouth Naval Prison is because of what he did on Bloody Ridge." He paused for a moment, catching each of their eyes in turn., as he said: "Let me tell both of you something: A smart Marine officer knows when to look the other way when good Marine sergeants, like those two, deal with a problem. You understand what I'm saying?"
"I get the picture," Pickering said.
"Good," Dillon said. "I really hope you do. I know Charley would have. Whether you like it or not, Pick, you're going to have to start behaving like a Marine officer; flying airplanes isn't all The Corps expects you to do."
He raised his hand over his shoulder and made a come on over gesture to the second lieutenant sitting in the chrome and plastic chair across the terminal.
"Surprise two," Dillon said.
Pick and Dunn turned to see Second Lieutenant Robert F. Easter-brook, USMCR, standing up and then walking over to them.
"I'll be damned," Bill Dunn said. "What do you call that, a three-day wonder?"
"Good morning, Sirs," the Easterbunny said.
My God, Pick thought, he's actually blushing.
"Where's your camera, Easterbunny?"' Dunn asked. "You have to have a camera around somewhere."
"Shit," the Easterbunny said, blushing even redder as he ran back to where he'd been sitting and retrieved a 35mm Leica from under the seat. He returned looking sheepish.
"Lieutenant Easterbrook is one more responsibility of yours, Lieutenant Pickering," Jake said. "Since you so graciously excused Captain Galloway from this detail."
"What do I do with him?"
"The Director of Public Affairs, a brigadier general named J. J. Stewart whom you will find at Eighth and I, is not only determined to have a look at this most recent addition to the officer corps, but he's going to pin a medal on him. You will work that into your busy schedule, too. After that, Easterbrook, you have until Thursday, 5 November, to make your way back out here."
"Aye, aye, Sir," the Easterbunny said.
"The same applies to you two," Jake said. "Today is Tuesday the twenty-seventh. I want you in Los Angeles a week from Thursday. The tour starts Friday. And you will be on it."
"This officer, too, Sir?" Dunn asked.
"For a day or two. Then he's going to start training combat correspondents."
"Hey, good for you, Easterbunny," Pick said.
"In the meantime, I don't want him to pick up any bad habits," Dillon said.
"We won't let him out of our sight until we send him home to his mommy, will we, Lieutenant Dunn?" Pick replied.
"That's what I'm afraid of."
Miss Dorothy Northcutt, a stewardess for two of her twenty-eight years, thought the two young Marine officers in 9B and 9C were just adorable. Neither of them looked old enough to be out of school, much less Marine officers.
She did the approved stewardess squat in the aisle.
"Well, the Marines seem to have just about taken over this flight, haven't they?" she asked.
"I think they have just come back from the war," the blond one said, indicating the three sergeants in 8A, -B, and -C. "There's something about their eyes..."
Meaning, of course, Miss Northcutt concluded, that you are on your way to the war. And you're so young!
"Can I get you anything before we serve breakfast?"
"Do you think I could have a little gin in a glass of orange juice?" the blond one asked. When he saw the look on Miss Northcutt's face, he added, "My mother always gave me that when my tummy felt a little funny."
"You don't feel well?"
"I'll be all right," he said bravely. "It's a little bumpy up here."
"But you're wearing wings. Aren't you a pilot?"
"In training," Dunn said. "I've never flown on one of these before."
"I'll get you one," she said, and looked at Second Lieutenant Easter-brook.
"Could I have the same thing, please?"
Ignoring the Marine officer in 9A (who was obviously older-and even more obviously trying to look down her blouse while she was squatting in the aisle), Miss Northcutt stood up and walked forward to fetch orange juice and gin.
"This isn't your day, Bill," Pickering said, leaning across the aisle. "We're making a fuel stop at Kansas City; I'll bet they change crews there."
"With a little bit of luck, we'll hit some bad weather, or blow a jug or something, and get stranded overnight," Dunn replied. "Think positive, Pickering! Butt out!"
[THREE]
The Foster Lafayette Hotel
Washington, D.C.
1300 Hours 28 October 1942
Senator Richardson S. Fowler (R., Cal.) knocked on the door of the suite adjacent to his.
"Come!" a familiar voice called, and he pushed the door open.
Three young men, in their underwear, were seated around a room-service table eating steak and eggs and french fried potatoes. When one of them stood up and smiled, Senator Fowler had trouble finding his voice.
"Well, Pick," he said finally, trying and not quite succeeding to attain the jocular tone he wanted, "home, I see, is the sailor...."
"Uncle Dick..." Pick said, and approached him with his hand extended. But that
gesture turned into an embrace.
"Uncle Dick, sailors are those guys in the round white hats and the pants with all the buttons on the fly. We are Marines."
The other two young men looked at them in curiosity.
"Senator Fowler, may I present Lieutenants Dunn and Easterbrook?" Pick said. "They, too, are Marines."
W E B Griffin - Corp 06 - Close Combat Page 31