Counterattack

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Was it worth it, Doc? One of our carriers for one of theirs?”

  “Probably not,” McInerney said, after a moment’s thought. “They have more carriers to lose than we do. But if it—and it looks like it did—if it called off, or even delayed for any appreciable time, their invasion of Port Moresby, then it was. If they had taken Moresby, I don’t think we could have held Australia.”

  “You don’t think they’ll be back?”

  “I think they will. But we’ve bought some time. What worries me is that seaplane base on that island—what was it?—Tulagi. If they get a decent air base going in that area, we’re in deep trouble as far as our shipping lanes are concerned. We’re going to have to do something about that.”

  “Such as?”

  “Maybe take one of the other islands and put a dirt-strip fighter base on it.”

  “With what? We don’t have anything over there. My God, we couldn’t even hang on to Corregidor.”

  Three days earlier, on May 6, Lieutenant General Jonathan M. Wainwright, USA, had surrendered the fortress of Corregidor, in Manila Bay, to the Japanese.

  “I know.”

  “That’s the first time a Marine regiment ever had to surrender,” the Commandant said. “Ever!”

  “They were ordered to surrender, Sir, by the Army.”

  “That’s a lot of consolation, isn’t it?”

  The Commandant walked to the whiskey tray and poured himself a drink. He held up the bottle to McInerney, who shook his head no and said, “No, thank you, Sir.”

  “What’s on your mind, Doc?” the Commandant asked.

  “General, I’m really desperate for qualified fighter squadron commanders.”

  “I’ll bet if Al Vandergrift was here, he would say, ‘I’m really desperate for qualified company commanders.’”

  Major General Alexander Vandergrift commanded the 1st Marine Division, which consisted of the 1st and 5th Marines, plus the 11th Marines, Artillery, and which had just been brought up to war strength on May 1 at New River, North Carolina.

  “Sir, I have one Naval Aviation Pilot, Technical Sergeant Galloway, who is qualified by both experience and temperament to command a fighter squadron. I would like to commission him and give him one.”

  The Commandant flashed him an icy stare.

  “Galloway? That’s the young buck who flew the Wildcat onto the carrier off Pearl and enraged the Navy? I’m still hearing about that. Whenever the Navy wants an example of irrational Marine behavior, they bring up Sergeant Galloway’s flight onto the Saratoga.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “You ever hear the story, Doc, of General Jubal T. Early in the Civil War? Somebody sent him a plan he turned down. So this staff officer sent it back, respectfully requesting that the commanding general reconsider his previous decision. Early sent that back, too, after he wrote on it, ‘Goddammit, I already told you “no.” I ain’t gonna tell you again.’”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The Commandant looked at him thoughtfully, even disbelievingly.

  “That’s the only reason you came here tonight? You sat out there on the porch for hours, waiting for me to come home just to ask me to do something you knew damned well I wouldn’t do?”

  “Sergeant Galloway got a raw deal, Sir. And I need squadron commanders.”

  “Loyalty to your men is commendable, General,” the Commandant said, “but there is a point beyond which it becomes counterproductive.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And goddammit, Doc,” the Commandant said, warming to his subject, “I’m disappointed that you don’t know what that point is.”

  Well, I tried, McInerney thought. And really pissed him off. I wonder what that’s going to cost Marine Aviation somewhere down the pike?

  He set his glass on the table.

  “With your permission, Sir, I’ll take my leave.”

  The Commandant glowered at him.

  “Keep your seat, and finish your drink, you hard-headed Scotchman,” he said. “I can’t afford to lose any more old friends.”

  (Three)

  Headquarters, U.S. Marine Corps Parachute School

  Lakehurst Naval Air Station

  Lakehurst, New Jersey

  15 May 1942

  First Lieutenant Richard B. Macklin, USMC, heard the knock at the jamb of his open office door, and then his peripheral vision picked up First Sergeant George J. Hammersmith standing there with a sheet of teletype paper in his hand.

  Macklin did not raise his eyes from the papers on his desk. First Things First made sense. If you interrupted your work every time someone appeared at your door, you never got anything done. And he certainly didn’t want Sergeant Hammersmith to form the opinion, as so many old Marines did, that a commanding officer had nothing to do but sit behind a desk and wait for payday while the sergeants ran the Corps.

  He finished what he was doing, which was to consider a request from the Navy Commander of Lakehurst that he permanently detail two enlisted men a day to work with the Base Engineer on roads and grounds. He decided against it; Para-Marines had more important things to do than pick up trash and cut weeds. Then he raised his head.

  “You wish something, First Sergeant?”

  “Got a TWX here, Sir, I thought you’d want to see right away.”

  Macklin made an impatient gesture for Hammersmith to give him the sheet of teletype paper. He judged in advance that the message would probably be of little genuine importance and could just as easily have been sent by mail. In his view, ninety-five percent of TWXs were a waste of time.

  He was wrong.

  HEADQUARTERS USMC

  WASHDC 0755 15MAY42

  ROUTINE

  COMMANDING OFFICER

  USMC PARACHUTE SCHOOL

  LAKEHURST NAVAL AIR STATION

  LAKEHURST NJ

  1. ON RECEIPT, ISSUE NECESSARY ORDERS DETACHING 1ST LT RICHARD B. MACKLIN, USMC, FROM HEADQUARTERS AND HEADQUARTERS COMPANY USMC PARASCHOOL LAKEHURST NAS NJ FOR TRANSFER TO HQ & HQ COMPANY 1ST USMC PARA BN, FLEET MARINE FORCE PACIFIC.

  2. LT MACKLIN WILL REPORT TO US NAVAL BASE SAN DIEGO CAL NOT LATER THAN 2400 HOURS 30 MAY 1942 FOR FURTHER SHIPMENT TO FINAL DESTINATION. TRAVEL BY FIRST AVAILABLE MIL AND/OR CIV RAIL, AIR, OR MOTOR TRANSPORTATION TO SAN DIEGO IS AUTHORIZED. TRAVEL BEYOND SAN DIEGO WILL BE BY US GOVT SEA OR AIR TRANSPORT, PRIORITY BBBB2B.

  3. TIME PERMITTING LT MACKLIN IS AUTHORIZED NO MORE THAN SEVEN (7) DAYS DELAY EN ROUTE OVERSEAS LEAVE.

  4. LT MACKLIN WILL COMPLY WITH ALL APPLICABLE REGULATIONS CONCERNING OVERSEAS TRANSFER BEFORE DEPARTING LAKEHURST. STORAGE OF PERSONAL AND HOUSEHOLD GOODS AND ONE (1) PRIVATELY OWNED AUTOMOBILE AT GOVT EXPENSE IS AUTHORIZED.

  5. HEADQUARTERS USMC (ATTN: PERS/23/A/11) WILL BE NOTIFIED BY TWX OF DATE OF LT MACKLIN’S DEPARTURE.

  BY DIRECTION:

  FRANK J. BOEHM, CAPT, USMCR

  The first thing that occurred to Lieutenant Macklin was that it was sort of funny that as the Commanding Officer of the Parachute School, he would be ordering himself overseas.

  Then it no longer seemed amusing at all.

  His promotion had not come through.

  He was supposed to be in San Diego two weeks from tomorrow, and from there he was going to the Pacific—in other words, to war.

  It didn’t seem fair. Just as he was getting the Parachute School shipshape, they were taking it away from him.

  It seemed to him that he could make a far greater contribution to the Marine Corps where he was—as an expert in place, so to speak—than in a routine assignment in the 1st Parachute Battalion.

  After some thought, he picked up the telephone and called Captain Boehm, who had signed the TWX and had presumably made the decision to send him overseas. He outlined to Boehm the reasons it would be to the greater benefit of the Marine Corps if the TWX was rescinded.

  Captain Boehm was not at all receptive. He was, in fact, downright insulting:

  “I heard you were a scumbag, Macklin. But I never thought
I would personally hear a Marine officer trying to weasel out of going overseas.”

  (Four)

  The Officers’ Club

  U.S. Marine Corps Base

  Quantico, Virginia

  1730 Hours 17 May 1942

  When he entered the club, First Lieutenant David F. Schneider, USMC, was not exactly pleased to bump into First Lieutenant James G. Ward, USMCR, and Lieutenant Ward’s aunt, Mrs. Caroline Ward McNamara. But neither was he exactly unhappy. He reacted like a man for whom fate has made a decision he would rather not have made himself.

  Now that he had accidentally bumped into them, so to speak, as opposed to having gone looking for them, he could now begin to rectify an unpleasant situation that it was his duty, as a regular Marine officer, to rectify for the good of the Corps.

  Schneider had learned of Mrs. McNamara’s presence on the base the day before: He was looking for Lieutenant Ward; so he walked into the squadron office and asked the sergeant on duty if he had seen him.

  “He took the lady over to the Officers’ Guest House, Lieutenant.”

  The Guest House was a facility provided to temporarily house (there was a seventy-two-hour limit) dependents and friends of Quantico officers.

  “What lady?”

  “Didn’t get her name. Nice looking. First, she asked for Sergeant Galloway; and when I told her he wasn’t back yet, she asked for Lieutenant Ward, so I got him on the phone, and he came over and fetched her and told me he was taking her over to the Guest House.” There was a perceptible pause before the sergeant added, “Sir.”

  There was little question that the lady was Mrs. Caroline Ward McNamara, but Schneider was a careful, methodical man. He called the Guest House later that day to inquire if there was a Mrs. McNamara registered. And, of course, there was.

  Technical Sergeant Charles M. Galloway had gone to Washington in response to a telephone call from General McInerney’s office. But Washington was to be only his first stop. Schneider suspected that Major Jake Dillon, the Public Affairs Officer, was behind the mysterious call from General McInerney’s office. If that was the case, there was no telling where Galloway had gone after he left Washington.

  “Hey, Dave,” Ward called to him. “I thought you would show up here.”

  “Good evening,” Schneider said.

  “You remember my Aunt Caroline, don’t you?”

  “Of course. How nice to see you again, Mrs. McNamara.”

  “Oh, call me Caroline!”

  Dave Schneider smiled at her, but did not respond.

  “Let’s go in the bar,” Jim Ward suggested. Schneider smiled again, and again did not reply.

  The bar was crowded with young officers. With varying degrees of discretion, they all made it clear that they considered Mrs. Caroline Ward McNamara one of the better specimens of the gentle gender.

  Dave Schneider wondered if they would register so much approval of the “lady” if they were aware that Mrs. McNamara was not only shacked up with an enlisted man but apparently didn’t much care who knew about it.

  They found a small table across from the bar.

  “Dave, do you have any idea where Charley Galloway is?” Jim Ward asked, as soon as the waiter had taken their order.

  “I believe he’s in Washington,” Schneider said. “Specifically, with Major Dillon.”

  “No, he’s not,” Caroline said. “We just called Jake. Jake said he hadn’t heard from him since Tuesday morning, when he left the Willard. He spent Monday night there with Jake.”

  Reserve officer or not, Mustang or not, Lieutenant Schneider thought angrily, Major Jake Dillon should know better than to offer an enlisted man the freedom of his hotel suite.

  “He called Caroline from Pensacola—” Jim Ward said.

  “Pensacola?” Schneider interrupted.

  “Pensacola. He called on Wednesday. He told Caroline he was going to the West Coast,” Jim Ward said.

  “Actually, he said he had a week to get out there,” Caroline McNamara said, “and suggested we could drive out there together.”

  Jim Ward looked a little uncomfortable when she said that, Schneider noticed.

  And well he should. There is absolutely no suggestion that his aunt finds anything wrong with the idea that she has been asked to drive cross-country alone with a man to whom she’s not married. Having a shameless aunt like that should embarrass anybody.

  “That sounds like he’s on orders,” Jim Ward said. “But when Caroline showed up here, and no Charley Galloway, I checked. No orders have come down on him that anyone knows about.”

  “I can’t imagine what’s going on,” Schneider said. “Did anyone in the squadron office know he was in Pensacola?”

  “All the squadron knows is that he went to Washington on the verbal orders of Colonel Hershberger. That was eight, nine days ago,” Jim Ward said.

  “Is there a Lieutenant Jim Ward in here?” the bartender called, holding up a telephone.

  Jim Ward got up and walked to the bar and took the telephone. Less than a minute later he was back at the table, smiling.

  “Our wandering boy has been heard from,” he said. “That was Jerry O’Malloy. He’s the duty officer. I asked him to let me know the minute he heard anything about Galloway.”

  “And?” Caroline McNamara asked excitedly.

  “Charley just called the tower. He’s twenty minutes out,” Ward said, then turned to look at Schneider and added, “In an F4F.”

  “In a what?” Caroline asked.

  “A Wildcat,” Jim Ward said. “A fighter plane. I wonder where he got that, and what he’s doing with it?”

  “Well, I intend to find out,” Lieutenant David Schneider said, and started to get up.

  “Sit down, Dave. I told O’Malloy to have Charley call me here the minute he gets in.”

  “I’m going to be at Base Operations when he lands,” Schneider said.

  “What the hell is the matter with you?”

  “You know damned well what’s the matter with me. For one thing, and you know it as well as I do, he is absolutely forbidden to fly fighters.”

  “And for another?” Ward asked coldly.

  “I would prefer to discuss that privately with you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sit down, Dave,” Jim Ward said.

  Schneider looked at him in surprise.

  “You heard me, sit down,” Jim Ward repeated firmly. “I don’t know what Charley is doing with an F4F, but I do know that it’s none of your business or mine. That’s between him and the squadron commander.”

  Schneider sat down.

  “When he calls, I’ll ask him what’s going on,” Jim Ward said. “In the meantime, we’ll pursue the legal principle that you’re innocent until proven guilty.”

  “I don’t like the way this sounds,” Caroline said. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

  “Never worry about things you can’t control,” Jim Ward said. “So far as we know, nothing is wrong.”

  Charley Galloway did not telephone. Half an hour later, he walked up to the table, leaned down, said, “Hi, baby,” to Mrs. McNamara, and kissed her on the lips.

  He was wearing his fur-collared leather flight jacket over tropical worsteds. He had jammed a fore-and-aft cap in one pocket of the flight jacket, and thin leather flying gloves in the other. He almost needed a shave, and there was a light band around his eyes where his flying goggles had protected the skin from the oily mist that often filled a Wildcat cockpit. It was obvious that he had come to the club directly from the flight line.

  “Where have you been, honey?” Caroline asked. “I was getting really worried.”

  “That’s a long story,” he said.

  “Charley,” Jim Ward asked uncomfortably, “should you be in here?”

  “He knows damn well he shouldn’t,” Dave Schneider flared. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Galloway?”

  “Are you talking to me, Lieutenant?” Charley asked pleasantly. He shrugged out of the leath
er jacket and dropped it on the floor.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then please use the words ‘Captain,’ and ‘Sir,’” Charley said. He faced Dave Schneider, smiled broadly, and pointed to the twin silver bars on each of his collar points.

  “Jesus!” Jim Ward said. “Are they for real?”

  “I got them from the Commandant himself, believe it or not,” Charley said. “Together with a brief, but memorable, lecture on the conduct expected of me now that I was going to be an officer and a gentleman.”

  “What about the West Coast?” Caroline asked softly.

  “I’m going to be given a fighter squadron, baby,” Charley Galloway said. “As soon as I can get out to the Pacific and organize one. They’re going to fly me at least as far as Pearl. I’ve got six days to get to San Diego.”

  “Oh, God!”

  “Can I go with you?” Jim Ward asked softly.

  “With Aunt Caroline and me? Hell, no,” Charley Galloway said indignantly. “Didn’t you ever hear that three’s a crowd?”

  “That’s not what I meant, Captain, Sir.”

  “If, in the next three weeks or a month, you can scare up an IP here who is willing to check you out in that Wildcat I just brought up here, you can come along later. I’ve got authorization to steal five pilots from here,” Galloway said. Then he faced Dave Schneider. “That’s an invitation to you too, Dave. You’re a real horse’s ass sometimes, but you’re not too bad an airplane driver.”

  (Five)

  Melbourne, Australia

  19 May 1942

  The Martin PBM-3R Mariner made landfall on the Australian continent near Moruya, in New South Wales, seventy-five miles southeast of the Australian capital at Canberra. The PBM-3R Mariner was the unarmed transport version of the standard PBM Mariner, a deep-hulled, twin-engined gull-winged monoplane.

  Aboard were a crew of six, nineteen passengers, and eight hundred pounds of priority cargo, including a half-dozen mail bags.

  When the excitement of finally making landfall had died down—for most aboard, it was their first view of Australia—Captain D. B. Toller, Civil Engineer Corps, USN, permitted his curiosity to take charge. He walked to the forward part of the cabin, just below the ladder leading to the cockpit, and sat down beside a Marine Corps major.