“Mud in your eye,” Eckley Walker said. “Good to see you, Dave.”
“Bottoms up,” Haughton said.
They smiled at each other.
A slight, tall, balding man in civilian clothing, holding a beer glass, slipped onto the stool next to Haughton.
“Amazing, the strange people you run into in obscure, out-of-the-way restaurants,” he said.
“Eckley,” Haughton said, “have you got a little room someplace where this guy can make his life-insurance pitch without disturbing the paying guests?”
“We’ve already got one,” the slight man said.
“I’ll have them take the oysters there, if you like,” Eckley Walker said.
“Please,” Haughton said.
Walker nodded. “Enjoy your lunch.”
As they walked to the rear of the bar, the slight man turned and said, “I suppose I should warn you. I’ve got my boss with me.”
“Is there a reason for that?”
“He asked me where I was going, and when I told him, he said he thought he would come along. If you don’t like that, tell him.”
There was a door at the end of the barroom, opening on a flight of stairs. At the top of stairs was a corridor. The tall, slight man opened a door and gestured for Haughton to precede him.
A trim man, his gray hair shorn in a crewcut, sat at the table. A napkin was tucked into his collar to protect his pin-striped, double-breasted blue suit from dripping butter as he attacked a steaming pile of crab and shrimp.
“You look unhappy to see me, Haughton,” he said. “Now I’m glad I came.”
“Good afternoon, General,” Haughton said. “I am a little surprised, Sir.”
“Consider your hand shaken, Captain,” said Brigadier General Horace W. T. Forrest, Assistant Chief of Staff G-2 (Intelligence), USMC. “My fingers are dirty.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Haughton said.
“I could tell you I came here because this is the best seafood on the East Coast, but that would be a lie. What the hell are you up to, Haughton?”
“I’m acting for the Secretary, Sir,” Haughton said.
“Clever fellow that I am, I already had that figured out,” General Forrest said, “but the question was, ‘What the hell are you up to?’”
There was a knock at the door, and the waiter appeared with a battered oblong tray holding what looked like two dozen oysters.
“Why don’t you order while he’s here?” General Forrest said. “Then we can talk without being disturbed every two minutes.”
“Can I get a lobster?” Haughton asked. The waiter nodded. “A cup of clam chowder and a lobster, then, please,” Haughton said.
“Twice,” the slight man said. He was Lieutenant Colonel F. L. Rickabee, USMC. Rickabee was carried on the organizational chart of Headquarters USMC as being assigned to the Office of Congressional Liaison. That had absolutely nothing to do with what he really did.
“And to drink? A bottle of wine?” the waiter asked.
“I don’t want a whole bottle,” Haughton said.
“We’ll help you, Haughton,” General Forrest said. “Yes, please. A dry white.”
“And a lobster for you, too, Sir?”
General Forrest looked at the shrimp and oysters before him.
“What the hell, why not? I just won’t eat again for the next couple of weeks. But hold the clam chowder.”
The waiter left.
“You were saying, Haughton?” General Forrest said, the moment the door closed.
Haughton hesitated just perceptibly. He had decided that Rickabee had told him the truth, which was that General Forrest had asked where he was going, and Rickabee had told him. He knew Rickabee well enough to know that while he often would do a great many things without telling General Forrest, he would not evade a question from him. And Forrest was naturally curious as to why the Secretary of the Navy’s alter ego wanted to meet Rickabee in a restaurant in Baltimore, rather than somewhere in Washington. That implied an unusual degree of secrecy, and that had fired his curiosity.
“I have a project for Colonel Rickabee, General,” Haughton said. “One which we will fund from the Secretary’s Confidential Fund.”
General Forrest, who had just popped a large shrimp in his mouth, gestured for Haughton to continue.
“Do you know Captain Fleming Pickering, Sir?” Haughton asked.
“I don’t know him. I know who he is. I don’t know what he’s doing.”
“He’s in Australia, Sir, as the Secretary’s personal liaison officer to General MacArthur.”
“The admirals must love that,” Forrest said dryly.
“Captain Pickering has learned from the Australians of a special force they have. Coastwatchers. They have arranged for people who lived on the islands in that area—plantation managers, civil servants, even some missionaries—to remain behind when the islands were lost to the Japanese—”
“I’ve heard about that,” Forrest cut him off.
“Captain Pickering feels that these people have an enormous intelligence potential,” Haughton went on. “His opinion is apparently not shared by senior Navy officers in the area.”
“I can understand that,” Forrest said. “I mean, hell, everybody knows that if you didn’t go to Annapolis, you’re stupid, right?”
Haughton smiled at General Forrest, but did not rise to the challenge. “The Secretary feels that Captain Pickering is right, and that these people could be of great use to us,” he said. “He is, however, understandably reluctant to intervene personally and override the officers in question.”
Forrest grunted.
“What I wanted to discuss with Colonel Rickabee was the formation of a special Marine unit to establish contact with the Coastwatcher organization, see what, if anything, we can do to assist them, and ensure that their intelligence is readily available to us when we commence operations in that area. In the interests of efficiency, and considering the time element, the Secretary feels that setting up such an organization under Colonel Rickabee is the way to go.”
“And with a little bit of luck, maybe the admirals won’t find out what’s going on, right, until it’s too late to do anything about it?”
“That’s just about it, Sir.”
“Now drop the other shoe, Haughton,” Forrest said. “You couldn’t hide an operation like that from the admirals, and both you and I know it.”
Did I handle that badly? Or is he that clever? You don’t get to be head of Marine Corps intelligence by being dull, and it’s a sure thing he and Rickabee played “What’s Haughton up to?” for an hour, as they drove over here from Washington.
“In addition to his liaison duties with General MacArthur’s headquarters, Captain Fleming is performing other, classified, duties for the Secretary,” Haughton said.
“Spying on the admirals, you mean,” Forrest said. “And, of course, MacArthur.”
“I don’t think I’d use those words, Sir.”
“I’ll bet those are the words the admirals are using.”
“If they are, Sir, they’re wrong,” Haughton said.
Forrest met his eyes. “They are?” he asked softly.
“The Secretary feels that he needs a set of eyes on the scene. Expert eyes. Dispassionate. Perhaps nonparochial would be a better word. Captain Pickering has been charged with reporting to the Secretary on matters he feels will be of interest to the Secretary. If the Secretary feels that’s necessary, I don’t think it appropriate for me to categorize it as ‘spying.’”
“You don’t?”
“I think Captain Pickering’s role is analogous to that of an aide-de-camp in the nineteenth century. Or the eighteenth. He has no command function. All he is, as aides on horseback were, is an extra set of eyes for the commander.”
Captain David Haughton had originally been offended both by the way Fleming Pickering had entered the Navy—commissioned from civilian life as a captain, a rank Haughton had taken eighteen years to reach—and by t
he role intended for him. It had taken him a long time and a lot of thought to come up with the aide-de-camp analogy. But once he had reached it, he knew it to be the truth.
“You dropped the other shoe, Haughton,” General Forrest said, “but so far I haven’t heard it.”
“The Secretary feels that Captain Pickering can better perform his duties if he has some help,” Haughton said carefully. “What I had hoped to get from Colonel Rickabee is an officer who could, covertly, provide that help, in addition to his intelligence duties. With the Coastwatchers, I mean.”
“A junior aide-de-camp on a horse, huh?” Forrest said dryly. He looked at Colonel Rickabee.
“Banning,” Rickabee said.
Forrest grunted.
“Excuse me?” Haughton asked.
“We have an officer,” Forrest said, “who just might fit the ticket. He used to be the 4th Marines’ intelligence officer in Shanghai. In the Philippines, too. He went blind over there—temporarily, apparently some sort of concussion from a Japanese artillery round—and they evacuated him by submarine. He regained his sight. Just made major. Bright, tough officer. His name is Ed Banning.”
“There would be few raised eyebrows in the Corps,” Rickabee said, “or in the Navy, if Banning was sent to Australia with an intelligence detachment.”
“You seem pretty willing to go along with Haughton,” Forrest said.
“I want to get in with the Coastwatchers,” Rickabee said. “I think that’s important. And this way, we get the Confidential Fund to pay for it.”
“And, just incidentally, you’d like to know what Pickering is reporting to the Secretary, right?” Haughton said.
“You’re a pretty bright fellow, Haughton,” General Rickabee said. “Why aren’t you a Marine?”
Haughton laughed.
“You seem rather unconcerned about the possibility that Banning would report to me what your man Pickering is up to, and that I would promptly tell the Navy,” General Forrest said.
“I’ve always thought you were a pretty bright fellow yourself, General,” Haughton said. “Certainly bright enough to know that would not be in your best interests.”
General Forrest glared icily at Haughton for a long moment. Finally he looked at Rickabee. “You’re right, Rickabee,” he said. “He is a Machiavellian sonofabitch. I like him.”
The door banged open, and the waiter returned with an enormous tray heaped high with steaming lobsters.
X
(One)
Headquarters
U.S. Marine Corps Parachute School
Lakehurst Naval Air Station
Lakehurst, New Jersey
8 April 1942
First Lieutenant R. B. Macklin, USMC, (Acting) Commanding Officer, USMC Parachute School, had a problem. He had been directed by TWX from Headquarters USMC to furnish by TWX the names of volunteers for a special mission. The volunteers must be enlisted men of his command who met certain criteria. He was to furnish these names within twenty-four hours.
That special mission was officially described as “immediate foreign service of undetermined length; of a classified nature; and involving extraordinary hazards. Volunteers will be advised that the risk of loss of life will be high.”
The criteria set forth in the TWX directed that “volunteers should be at least corporals but not higher in rank than staff sergeants; and have no physical limitations whatever.
“The ideal volunteer for this mission will be an unmarried sergeant with at least three years of service who has, in addition to demonstrated small-arms and other infantry skills, experience in a special skill such as radio communications, demolitions, rubber-boat handling, and parachuting.
“Especially desirable are volunteers with French and Japanese language fluency, oral or written. Individuals who are now performing, or in the past have performed, cryptographic duties are not eligible.”
In compliance with his orders, Lieutenant Macklin had his First Sergeant gather together all the corporals, sergeants, and staff sergeants of his command in the brand-new service club, where, after warning them that the subject of the meeting was classified and was not to be discussed outside the room where they had gathered, he read them the pertinent portions of the TWX.
There were twenty-one men present. Nineteen of them lined up before the First Sergeant, and he wrote their names down on a lined pad on his clipboard.
Viewed in one way, nineteen of twenty-one eligibles volunteering for an undefined mission where “the risk of loss of life will be high,” could be interpreted as one more proof that young Marine noncoms were courageous, red-blooded American patriots, eager for an opportunity to serve their country, regardless of the risk to their very lives.
Viewed in another, more realistic, way, Lieutenant Macklin was very much afraid that if he forwarded the names of all nineteen, as he had been directed, questions would be asked as to why ninety percent of his junior noncoms were willing to take such a chance. It suggested, at the very least, that they didn’t like their present assignment and would take a hell of a chance to get out of it.
And that would tend to reflect adversely on the professional reputation of First Lieutenant R. B. Macklin, USMC.
And of course, if he sent the names forward and only half of them wound up on orders, that would play havoc with the parachute training program. And if the program collapsed, that too would reflect adversely on his professional reputation.
Lieutenant Macklin was very concerned with his professional reputation, especially since Colonel Neville had jumped to his death before there had been time for him to write an efficiency report on Macklin. Macklin didn’t even know who was going to write his efficiency report, now that Neville was dead.
But he did know that unless he handled this volunteer business the right way, he was in trouble.
He flipped through the stack of service records on his desk.
Every one but two of those ungrateful, disloyal sonsofbitches volunteered! Goddamn them! Willing to leave me in a lurch like this, making me look like some Captain Bligh with a mutiny on his hands! The ungrateful bastards, after all I’ve done for them!
He wondered who the two loyal Marines were. He compared the names of the volunteers against the roster.
Staff Sergeant James P. Cumings, the mess sergeant, was one of those who had not volunteered. Cumings was in his middle thirties, a career Marine, married and with a flock of kids.
Nor had Corporal Stephen M. Koffler. He was the little sonofabitch who went AWOL and then turned out to be the first one to reach Colonel Neville’s body on The Day That It Happened.
And then he had been painted as some sort of hero and given an unjustified promotion to corporal—just because he happened to be next out of the airplane when the Colonel jumped to his death.
He was practically useless around here, too. The first sergeant had him driving a truck.
Christ, you’d just know that the one sonofabitch you would like to get rid of would be the only one that doesn’t want to go!
Lieutenant R. B. Macklin, USMC, tapped his pencil absently against his white china coffee cup as he thought the problem through.
The basic question, he thought, is what is best for the Corps?
While it’s probably true that whatever these volunteers are needed for is important, I don’t know that. What I do know is that parachutists are the wave of the future, and ergo, that the parachute school is very important, perhaps even critical, for future Marine operations in the Pacific and elsewhere. It follows logically from that that if I lose all, many, or even any of my middle-ranking noncommissioned officers to whatever it is they have volunteered for, I am setting parachute training back for however long it would take to train their replacements. I don’t think I have the right to do that to the Marine Corps.
I do know that Corporal Stephen M. Koffler is not needed around here. Truckdrivers are a dime a dozen.
First Lieutenant R. B. Macklin made his decision.
“First S
ergeant!” he called.
(Two)
First Sergeant George J. Hammersmith, having determined that Corporal Koffler had not been given a pass and that he was not in his barracks, looked for him first in the slop chute, and finally located him in the service club.
The service club was a new building that had been put up in a remarkably short time not far from the huge dirigible hangar. It was a large building, two stories tall in the center, and with one-floor wings on either side. It had been furnished with upholstered chairs and couches, tables, magazine racks, and pool and Ping-Pong tables. Somewhere down the pike there was supposed to be a snack bar and a small stage for USO shows and for a band, for dances.
With the exception of Corporal Koffler and two hostesses in gray uniforms, it was now empty. Lieutenant Macklin thought that parachutist trainees had more important things to do in their off-duty hours than loll around on their asses, and had placed the service club off limits to trainees except on weekends.
The permanent party did not patronize the club very much. There was a club, with hard liquor, for noncommissioned officers, and a slop chute, beer only, for corporals and down. Furthermore, the permanent party was well aware that the First Sergeant and other senior noncoms held the belief that only candy-asses would go someplace where you couldn’t get anything to drink or do anything more than smile at the hostesses.
Corporal Koffler was sitting in an upholstered armchair, a can of peanuts at his side, reading the Newark Evening News, on which there was a banner headline: BATAAN FALLS; WAINWRIGHT’S FORCES WITHDRAW TO FORTRESS CORREGIDOR.
That news had been on the radio all day, and it had bothered George Hammersmith. He had a lot of buddies with the 4th Marines, and the last he’d heard, they’d taken a real whipping. And he’d done his time in the Far East. There was no way that Corregidor could hold out for long. The fortress had been built on an island in Manila Bay to protect Manila; and Manila was already in the hands of the Japanese.
That little shit probably doesn’t have the faintest fucking idea where the Philippines are, much less Corregidor. Sonofabitch probably never even looked at the front page, just turned right to “Blondie and Dagwood” in the comic section.
Counterattack Page 35