Steve nodded.
“We’ll have our go at them about fifty yards up the footpath,” Reeves said. “It then passes just a few yards from here. You go have a look at it, and then find yourself a place. Clear?”
“OK,” Steve said.
“It shouldn’t take them long to get down here, so be quick,” Reeves ordered.
“OK,” Steve repeated. He swung the Thompson off his shoulder. When he looked up again, Reeves was nowhere in sight.
Steve made his way through the thick undergrowth until he found the path. He walked ten yards up it, and then ten yards in the other direction, and then backed off into the underbrush again and leaned against a tree.
After a moment, he allowed himself to slip to the ground. This action reminded him that his shorts, and now his trouser legs, were full of shit.
He started to think about his and Daphne’s bungalow in postwar Melbourne again.
Shit, if I do that, I’m liable to doze off and get my fucking throat cut!
All he could hear was the buzzing of the insects.
And then there was noise.
He worked the action of the Thompson and then looked down inside at the shiny brass cartridge. When he pulled the trigger, the cartridge would be stripped from the magazine by the bolt, driven into the chamber, and fired. Then, so long as he held the trigger and the magazine held cartridges, the bolt would be driven backward by recoil, hit a spring, and then fly forward again, stripping another cartridge from the magazine.
He heard something on the trail.
What the fuck is that? It can’t be a Jap. If it was a Jap, Reeves and the others would have been shooting by now.
But, curious, he slowly pulled himself to his feet.
It was a Jap. He was wearing a silly little brimmed cap on his head; and he was carrying a rifle slung over his shoulder that looked much too big for him. He was coming down the trail as if he were taking a walk through the fucking woods.
Shit!
The one thing he had learned at Parris Island was that you couldn’t hit a fucking thing with a Thompson the way Alan Ladd shot one in the movies, from the hip. You had to put it to your shoulder like a rifle, get a sight picture, and just caress the trigger.
He did so.
Nothing happened. He really pulled hard on the trigger. Nothing happened.
The safety! The fucking safety!
He snapped it off, pulled on the trigger, and the Thompson jumped in his hands.
The Jap dropped right there.
There was no other sound for a moment, and that too was scary.
And then there was fire. Different weapons. A burp-burp noise, probably from that funny-looking little submachine gun Reeves had; and booming cracks like from a Springfield, and sharper cracks. Probably from the Japs’ rifles.
Now he could see figures moving through the trees. Not well. Not enough to tell if they were Reeves’s Fuzzy-Wuzzies, or whatever the fuck they were, or Japs.
Jesus Christ!
There’s a Jap!
The Thompson burped again and suddenly stopped.
Oh, shit! Twenty rounds already?
He slammed another magazine in and saw another Jap and fired again, and seemed to be missing.
Another figure appeared.
One of the fucking Fuzzy-Wuzzies.
And then Jacob Reeves.
“I think that’s all of them,” Reeves said. “We counted. There were eight. They usually run eight-man patrols.”
Steve came out of the underbrush onto the trail.
“You all right, son?” Reeves asked.
“I’m all right,” Steve said.
There was a body on the trail. Steve walked up to look at it. It was the first one he’d shot.
He looked at the face of the first man he had killed.
The first man he had killed looked back at him with terror in his eyes.
“This one’s still alive!” Steve said.
“We can’t have that, I’m afraid,” Reeves said, walking up.
Steve pointed the Thompson muzzle at the Jap’s forehead and pulled the trigger.
I already shit my pants and now I think I’m going to throw up.
The village looked like something out of National Geographic magazine. It was much larger, too, than Steve had expected, although when he thought about that, he couldn’t understand why he thought it would be any particular size at all.
Brown-skinned, flat-nosed people watched as he marched after Reeves into the village. Some of them had teeth that looked like they had been dyed blue and then filed to a point. Most of the women weren’t going around in nothing but dirty towels with their boobs hanging out, like Cecilia. They were wearing dirty cotton skirts and loose blouses, some of which opened in the front to expose breasts that were anything but lust inciting.
There were chickens running loose, and pigs with one leg tied to a stake. There were fires burning. And he saw women beating something with a rock against another rock.
A clear stream, about five feet wide and two feet deep, meandered through the center of the collection of grass-walled huts.
“I’ll go see about your lieutenant’s arm,” Reeves said.
“What can you do about it?” Steve asked.
“Set it, of course,” Reeves said.
“Can you do that? I mean, really do it right?”
“I’m not a sodding doctor, if that’s what you mean,” Reeves snapped.
“No offense,” Steve said lamely.
“I’ll have them put up a hut for you, while you’re having your bath,” Jacob Reeves said after a moment. “Just leave your clothing there. The girls will take care of it for you. And I’ll send you down a shirt and some shorts to wear.”
He pointed to a muddy area by the stream, at the end of the village. It was apparently the community bath and wash house.
I think he actually expects me to just take off my clothes in front of everybody and sit in that stream and take a bath.
“That water’s safe for bathing,” Reeves said, as if reading Steve’s mind. “But don’t drink it. I’ve been here since Christ was a babe, and I still haven’t built up an immunity to the sodding water. There’s boiled water and beer.”
Steve looked at him in surprise.
“Well, it’s not really beer,” Reeves admitted. “We make it out of rice and coconuts. But it’s not all that bad.”
Reeves walked off. And after a moment, Steve Koffler walked to the edge of the stream and started to take his clothing off.
(Five)
Eyes Only—The Secretary of the Navy
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
ORIGINAL TO BE DESTROYED AFTER ENCRYPTION AND TRANSMITTAL TO SECNAVY
Melbourne, Australia
Monday, 8 June 1942
Dear Frank:
This will deal with the Battle of Midway, from MacArthur’s perception of it here, and the implications of it for the conduct of the war, short-and long-term, as he sees them.
But before I get into that: Willoughby somehow found out, I have no idea how, that I am on the Albatross list; and he promptly ran to tell MacA. MacA., of course, knew; like everyone else on it, he had been furnished with the list itself. I am quite sure that MacA. brings Willoughby in on anything that would remotely interest him whenever he (MacA.) receives Magic intelligence. But Willoughby is not on the Albatross list himself, and as a matter of personal prestige (he is, after all, a major general and MacA.’s G-2), he found this grossly humiliating even before he learned that lowly Captain Pickering was on it.
The result of this is that MacA. fired off a cable demanding that Willoughby be added to the Albatross list. Then he made a point of mentioning to me that he understands how critical it is that Magic not be compromised, and the necessity for keeping the Albatross list as short as possible. The implication I took was that he really would be happier if Willoughby were kept off the list and rather hoped that I would pass this on to you.
I’m not sure what his mo
tive is (motives are), but I don’t think they have anything to do with making sure Magic isn’t compromised. Quite possibly, MacA. regards the Albatross list as a prerogative of the emperor, not to be shared with the lesser nobility. He may also be hoping that if you (“Those bastards in Washington”) refuse to add Willoughby to the Albatross list, it will ensure that Willoughby hates you as much as the emperor himself does.
Personally, I hope that Willoughby is added to the list. It would certainly improve my relationship with him and make my life here in the palace a little easier. But that’s not a recommendation. Magic is so important that I refuse to recommend anything that might pose any risk whatever that would compromise it.
Tangentially, I do not receive copies of Magic messages reaching here. I don’t have any place to store them, for one thing. I don’t even have an office, much less a secretary with the appropriate security clearances to log classified material in and out. There are four people here (in addition to MacA. and me) on the Albatross list. They are all Army Signal Corps people: the Chief of Cryptographic Services, a captain; and two cryptographers, both sergeants. There is also a Lieutenant Hon, a Korean (U.S. citizen, MIT ’38) who speaks fluent Japanese. He is often able to make subtle changes in interpretation of the translations made at Pearl.
When a Magic comes in, the captain calls me. I go to the crypto room and read it there. Lieutenant Hon hand-carries the Magics to MacA., together with his interpretation of any portion of them that differs from what we get from Pearl. MacA. stops whatever else he is doing and reads them—or, I should say, commits them to his really incredible memory. The paper itself is then returned to the crypto safe. Only twice to my knowledge has MacA. ever sent for one of them to look at again.
On the subject of the Albatross/Magic list: I would like permission to make Major Ed Banning privy to Magic messages. He has managed to establish himself with the Australian Coastwatchers. He speaks Japanese, and has, I think, an insight into the way the Japanese military think. I have the feeling that with input both from the Australians and the Magic intercepts, he could come up with analyses that might elude other people—of whom I’m certainly one. He already knows a good deal about Albatross/Magic, and I can’t see where my giving him access to the intercepts themselves increases the risk of compromising Magic much—if at all. I would appreciate a radio reply to this: “yes” or “no” would suffice.
Finally, turning to the Battle of Midway: We had been getting some rather strong indications of the Japanese intentions throughout May—not only from Magic—and MacA. had decided that it was the Japanese plan to attack Midway, as a steppingstone to Hawaii.
I asked MacA. what he thought the American reaction to the loss of Hawaii would be. He said that it might wake the American people up to the idea that basic American interests are in the Pacific, not in Europe; but that if it fell, which he couldn’t imagine, American influence in the Pacific would be lost in our lifetimes, perhaps forever. Then he added that a year ago he would have been unable to accept the thought that the American people would stand for the reinforcement of England, knowing that it would mean the loss of the Philippines.
MacA. expected that Admiral Yamamoto, for whom he has great professional admiration, would launch either a two-pronged attack, with one element attacking Midway, or a diversionary feint coinciding with an attack on Midway. He would not have been surprised if there had been a second attack (or a feint) at Port Moresby.
MacA. reasoned that the Japanese loss of the carrier Shoho and the turning of the Port Moresby invasion force in early May had been the first time we’d actually been able to give the Japanese a bloody nose. For the first time, they had been kept from doing what they had started out to do. Their admirals had lost face. But now they’d had a month to regroup, lick their wounds, and prepare to strike again. They could regain face by taking Port Moresby, and that would have put their Isolate Australia plan back on track.
He was surprised when the Magic messages began to suggest an attack on the Aleutians. He grilled me at length about the Aleutians, whether there was something there he hadn’t heard about. He simply cannot believe the Japanese want to invade Alaska. What could they get out of Alaska that would be worth the logistical cost of landing there? MacA. asks. Their supply lines would not only be painfully long, but would be set up like a shooting gallery for interdiction from the United States and Canada.
He therefore concluded that the attack on the Aleutians, which came on June 3, was a feint intended to draw our Naval forces off; that the Japs believe that the Americans would place a greater emotional value on the Aleutians than was the case; and that we would rise to the bait. MacA. predicted this would be a miscalculation on their part.
“Nimitz is no fool,” he said. “He doesn’t care about the Aleutians.”
Events, of course, proved him right. We learned from Magic intercepts that Admiral Nagumo (and thus the entire Japanese fleet) was very surprised on 4 June, when his reconnaissance aircraft reported seeing a large American Naval force to the northeast of Midway.
We later learned—from Magic!—that these were the aircraft carriers Yorktown, Enterprise, and Hornet, under Admirals Spruance and Fletcher. We were getting our information about the movements of our own fleet from Japanese intercepts, via Hawaii, before we were getting reports from the Navy. MacA. is convinced, in the absence of any other reason to the contrary, that the Navy believes that the war in the Pacific is a Navy war, and consequently they have no obligation to tell him what’s happening.
I have a recommendation here: I strongly recommend that you direct Nimitz (or have King direct Nimitz) to assign one commander or captain the sole duty of keeping MacA. posted on what’s going on while it’s happening—not just when the Navy finds it convenient to tell him.
We learned (again via Magic intercepts) that the Japanese came under attack by torpedo bombers at 0930 4 June. The aircraft carriers Hiryu, Kaga, Soryu, and Akagi all reported to Yamamoto that they were relatively unhurt, and that the American losses were severe. Then came a report from Hiryu, saying she had been severely damaged by American dive bombers. Nothing was intercepted from any of the others.
Then there were Magic intercepts of Yamamoto’s orders to the fleet to withdraw.
And then, many hours later, we heard from the Navy, and learned that the carriers Soryu, Kaga, and Akagi had been sunk, and that we had lost the carrier Yorktown. It was a day later that we learned that the Hiryu was sunk that next morning, and about the terrible losses and incredible courage of the Navy torpedo bomber pilots who had attacked the Japanese carriers. And that Marine Fighter Squadron VMF-211, land-based on Midway, had lost fifteen of its twenty-five pilots; in effect it had been wiped out.
The Japanese seem to have suffered more than just their first beating; it was also a very bad mauling. And MacA. sent what I thought were rather touching messages to Nimitz, Spruance, and Fletcher, expressing his admiration and congratulations.
And today he sent a long cable to Marshall, asking permission to attack New Britain and New Ireland (in other words, to take out the Japanese base at Rabaul) with the U.S. 32nd and 41st Divisions and the Australian 7th Division. To do so would mean that the Navy would have to provide him both with vessels capable of making and supporting an amphibious invasion, and with aircraft carriers. I don’t think he really expects the Navy to give him what he asks for. But not to ask for the operation—indeed fight for it, and the necessary support for it from the Navy—would be tantamount to giving in to the notion that the Navy owns the war over here.
I won’t presume to suggest who is right, but I frankly think it is a tragedy that the Army and the Navy should be at each other’s throats like this.
I mentioned earlier on in this report that Banning has developed a good relationship with the Australian Coastwatchers. Early this morning, the RAAF parachuted two Marines, a lieutenant and a sergeant, and a replacement radio, onto Buka Island, north of Bougainville, where the Coastwatcher’s radio had gon
e out. Loss of reports from the observation post was so critical that great risks to get it up and running again were considered justified. The only qualified (radio operator, parachutist) Marine was eighteen years old. And that is all he can do. He can’t tell one Japanese aircraft from another, or a destroyer from a battleship. So one of Banning’s lieutenants, Joe Howard, a Mustang, who had taught aircraft/ship recognition, volunteered to parachute in, too, although he had never jumped before. Banning confided to me that he thought he had one chance in four or five of making a successful landing.
The Lockheed Hudson that was to drop them was never heard from. We took the worst-possible-case scenario, and decided it had been shot down by Japanese fighters on the way in and that everyone was lost. Banning immediately asked for volunteers to try it again. All of his men volunteered.
As I was writing this, Banning came in with the news that Buka was back on the air. The Lockheed had been shot down on the way home. With contact reestablished, the RAN people here had routinely asked for “traffic.” This is what they got, verbatim: “Please pass Ensign Barbara Cotter, USNR, and Yeoman Daphne Farnsworth, RAN. We love you and hope to see you soon. Joe and Steve.”
Those boys obviously think we’re going to win the war. Maybe, Frank, if we can get the admirals and the generals to stop acting like adolescents, we can.
Respectfully,
Fleming Pickering, Captain USNR
(Six)
Menzies Hotel
Melbourne, Victoria
16 June 1942
Lieutenant Hon Song Do, Signal Corps, Army of the United States, was sitting in one of the chairs lining the hotel corridor when Captain Fleming Pickering, USNR, stepped off the elevator. Captain Pickering had just finished dining, en famille, with the Commander-in-Chief and Mrs. Douglas MacArthur. Over cognac afterward, General MacArthur had talked at some length about the German campaign in Russia. The dissertation had again impressed Captain Pickering with the incredible scope of MacArthur’s mind; and the four snifters of Remy Martin had left him feeling just a little bit tight.
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