Counterattack

by W. E. B Griffin

  The bathrooms were still identified by porcelain BATH plates over their doors, although they had now become, of course, Navy “heads.” It would have taken too much time to remove the plates. And it Would also have taken too much time to expand them. So a “bath” designed for the use of a couple en route to Hawaii now served as many as thirty-two men en route to a place none of them had ever heard of a month before, islands in the Solomon chain called Guadalcanal, Tulagi, and Florida.

  There was not, of course, sufficient water-distilling capability aboard to permit showers at will. Showers, and indeed drinking water, were stringently rationed.

  The former tourist-class cabins had proved even more of a problem for conversion. To efficiently utilize space, the beds there had usually been mattresses laid upon steel frameworks, with shelves built under them. These could not be readily moved. These rooms had become officers’ staterooms for captains and above, sometimes with the addition of several other bunks. Because they afforded that most rare privilege of military service, privacy, the few single staterooms now became the private staterooms of senior majors, lieutenant colonels, and even a few junior full colonels.

  The most luxurious accommodations on the upper deck had been left virtually unchanged. Even the carpets were still there, and the oil paintings on the paneled bulkheads, and the inlaid tables, and the soft, comfortable couches and armchairs. These became the accommodations of the most senior of the Marine officers aboard, the one general officer and the senior full colonels. These men took their meals with the ship’s officers on tables set with snowy linen, glistening crystal, and sterling tableware.

  It was almost taken as gospel by those on the lower decks that this was one more case of the brass, those sonsofbitches, taking care of themselves. But the decision to leave the upper-deck cabins unchanged had actually been based less on the principle that rank hath its privileges than on the practical consideration that to convert them to troop berthing would have required two hundred or so men to make their way at least twice a day from the upper deck to the mess deck through narrow passageways. That many men on that deck might actually interfere with the efficient running of the ship.

  Brigadier General Lewis T. Harris, Deputy Commander, 1st Marine Division, and the senior Marine embarked, actually had a strong feeling of uneasiness every time he took his seat in the ship’s officers’ mess.

  Because he often went twice a day to see it, he knew what was being served in the troop messes. The troop mess—jammed full of men, some of them seasick, standing at tables with food slopped around steel mess trays—offered a vivid contrast to the neatly set table at the officers’ mess, with its baskets of freshly baked rolls and bread, and white-jacketed stewards hovering at his shoulder to make sure the levels in his delicate china coffee cup and crystal water glass never dropped more than an inch, or to inquire How the General Would Like His Lamb Chop.

  General Harris tried to live the old adage that an officer’s first duty was the welfare of the men placed under his command. If it had been within his power, Marines on the way to battle would all be seated at a linen-covered table, eating steaks to order. That was obviously out of the question, a fantasy. He had done the next best thing, however. He told his officers that he expected the men to be fed as well as humanly possible under the circumstances, and then he repeatedly went to see for himself how well that order was being carried out. He was convinced that the mess officers and sergeants were indeed doing the best they could.

  He could, he knew, take his meals with the troops in that foul-smelling mess; and if he did, his officers would follow his example. But the only thing he would accomplish—aside from being seen there, implying that he was concerned about the chow—would be to strain the facilities that much more.

  The ship’s officers—and why not?—would go on eating well, no matter where he and his officers ate. The officers’ mess cooks and stewards were not being strained by feeding the Marine senior officers. And every meal they fed to a senior Marine officer was one less to be prepared down below.

  So, in the end, after making sure the senior officers knew he expected them to check on the troop mess regularly and personally, General Harris continued to eat off bone china and a linen tablecloth; and he continued to feel uneasy about it.

  There was a table by the door to the ship’s officers’ mess, on which sat a coffee machine and three or four insulated coffee pitchers and a stack of mugs. Between mealtimes, it was used by the stewards to take coffee to the bridge and to the cabins on the upper deck.

  When General Harris left the mess, he stopped by the table, filled a pitcher a little more than half-full of coffee, and picked up two of the china mugs.

  “General,” one of the stewards said, “can I carry that somewhere for you?”

  “I can manage, thank you,” Harris said with a smile. He left the mess and went to his cabin.

  In one of the drawers of a mahogany chest, there were a dozen small, olive-drab cans. Each was neatly labeled BORE CLEANER, 8 OZ. They looked like tiny paint cans, and there was a neat line of red candle wax sealing the line where the top had been forced tight on the body of the can. Anyone seeing the cans would understand that General Harris did not want the bore cleaner to leak.

  He took a penknife from his pocket and carefully scraped the wax seal from one of the cans, and then switched to the screwdriver blade. He pried the lid carefully off, then poured the brown fluid the can held into the coffee pitcher.

  After that, he left his cabin, headed aft, and passed through a door opening onto the open deck. This deck had previously been a promenade where the affluent could take a constitutional or sit on deck chairs in an environment denied to the less affluent down below. Now he had trouble making his way past the bulky life rafts that had been lashed on the deck to provide at least a shot at survival, should the USS Lowell Hutchins be torpedoed.

  There was still enough light to see several of the ships of the Amphibious Force. There were eighty-two ships in all, sailing in three concentric circles. The twelve transports, including the USS Lowell Hutchins, formed the inner circle. Next came a circle of cruisers and, outside that, the screening force of destroyers.

  General Harris stared at the ships long enough to reflect (again) that although it appeared to be a considerable armada, it was not large enough to accomplish their mission with a reasonable chance of success. He then made his way down three ladders to what had once been the second of the tourist decks, and through a passageway to cabin D-123, where he knocked at the door.

  When there was no response, he put his mouth to the slats in the door and called, “Stecker!”

  “Come!”

  He pushed the door open. Major Jack NMI Stecker, Commanding Officer, 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines, wearing only his skivvies, was sitting on the deck of the tiny cabin beside the narrow single bunk that formed part of the bulkhead.

  “Jack, what the hell are you doing?” Harris asked.

  Stecker turned and, seeing the General, jumped to his feet.

  “At ease, Major,” Harris said, just a trifle sarcastically. “What the hell were you doing down there?”

  “I was cleaning my piece, Sir,” Stecker said, gesturing at the bunk.

  Harris went to look. There was a rifle, in pieces, spread out on the bunk.

  Harris snorted, and then extended the coffee pitcher.

  “I thought you might like some coffee, Jack,” he said.

  “I’m pretty well coffeed out, Sir.”

  “Jack. Trust me. You need a cup of coffee.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Stecker said.

  Harris set the cups down on a steel shelf, filled each half-full of the mixture of “bore cleaner” and coffee, and handed one to Stecker.

  Stecker sipped his suspiciously, smiled, and said, “Yes, Sir, the General is right. This is just what I needed.”

  Harris smiled back. “We generals are always right, Jack. You should try to remember that. What are you doing with the Garand? And now th
at I think about it, where the hell did you get it?”

  “I found it on post at Quantico, General,” Stecker said. “And just as soon as I can find time, I will turn it in to the proper authorities.”

  Harris snorted. He walked to the bunk and picked up the stripped receiver. His expert eye picked out the signs of accurizing.

  “I forgot,” he said. “You think this a pretty good weapon, don’t you?”

  “It’s a superb weapon,” Stecker said. “I’ve shot inch-and-a-half groups at two hundred yards with that one.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No bullshit. And the kid—I shouldn’t call him a kid—Joe Howard. He took a commission, and is now off doing something hush-hush for G-2—the man who did the accuracy job on that one had one that was more accurate than this one.”

  “You realize that ninety-five percent of the people in the Corps think the Garand is a piece of shit that can never compare to the Springfield?”

  “Then ninety-five percent of the people in the Corps are wrong.”

  “Ninety-five percent of the people in this Amphibious Force think that Guadalcanal is going to be a Cakewalk, a live-fire exercise with a secondary benefit of taking some Japanese territory.”

  “Ninety-five percent of the people in this Amphibious Force have never heard a shot fired in anger,” Stecker said.

  “Is that the same thing as saying they’re wrong, too?” Harris asked.

  “You’re pulling me on the spot,” Stecker said uncomfortably.

  “That’s why I’m sharing my bore cleaner with you,” Harris said. “I want lo get you drunk, so you’ll give me a straight answer.”

  Stecker looked al him without replying.

  “Come on, Jack,” Harris said. “We go back a long way. I want to know what you’re thinking.”

  Stecker shrugged, and then asked, “You ever give any thought to why the brass are going ahead with this, when they damned well know we’re not ready?”

  “You’re talking about the drill?” Harris asked.

  The “drill,” the practice landings in the Fiji Islands that the convoy carrying the Amphibious Force had just come from, had been an unqualified disaster. Nothing had gone as it was supposed to.

  “That’s part of it, but that’s not what I meant,” Stecker said. “The brass knew before the Fiji drill that the LCP(L)s were no fucking good.”

  There were 408 landing craft in the Amphibious Force. Of these, 308 were designated LCP(L), a thirty-six-foot landing craft with a fixed bow. In other words, when the craft touched shore, personnel aboard would have to exit over the bow and sides, rather than across a droppable ramp. Similarly, supplies would have to be manhandled over the sides. And, of course, LCP(L)s could not discharge vehicles or other heavy cargo onto the beach.

  “They’re all we have, Jack. We can’t wait to re-equip with LCP(R)s or LCMs.”

  Both the thirty-six-foot LCP(R) and the forty-five-foot LCM had droppable ramps. The LCP(R) could discharge over its ramp 75mm and 105mm howitzers and one-ton trucks. The LCM could handle 90mm and five-inch guns and heavier trucks.

  “Ever wonder why we can’t?” Stecker asked softly.

  “Because the Japanese are almost finished with their air base on Guadalcanal. We can’t afford to let them do that. We have to grab that air base before they make it operational.”

  “That’s what I mean. The Japanese know how important that air base is. To them. And to us—if we take it away from them and start operating out of it ourselves. So they’re going to fight like hell to keep us from taking it; and if we do, they’re going to fight like hell to take it back.”

  “That’s what we’re paid to do.”

  “No cakewalk. No live-fire exercise. An important objective. If it’s important to them, they’re going to be prepared to defend it. We’re going to have three-fourths of our landing barges exposed as the troops try to get over the sides and onto the beach. And once we start manhandling cargo out of those damned boats…Jesus, if they have any artillery at all, or decent mortar men, or, for that matter, just some well-emplaced machine guns, we’re going to lose those boats! No boats, no reinforcements, no ammunition, no rations.”

  “You don’t sound as if you’re sure we can carry it off,” Harris said. “Is that what you think?”

  “I wouldn’t say this to anyone but you, but I don’t know. I’ve got some awful good kids, and they’ll try, but balls—courage, if you like—sometimes isn’t enough.”

  Brigadier General Lewis T. Harris and Major Jack NMI Stecker had known each other for most of their adult lives. They had been in combat all over the Caribbean basin together. Harris didn’t have to recall Stecker’s Medal of Honor for proof of his personal courage. Stecker was no coward. He was calling the upcoming battle for Guadalcanal as he saw it.

  Harris was afraid Stecker’s analysis was in the X-ring.

  “Have some more coffee, Jack,” Harris said.

  “No, thank you, Sir.”

  “‘No, thank you’? You getting old, Jack? Taken up religion?”

  “Yes, Sir, I’m getting old,” Stecker replied. He pulled a canvas rucksack from under the mattress of his bunk, and took from it a large pink bottle which bore a label from the Pharmacy, Naval Dispensary, Quantico, Virginia. Under a skull and crossbones, it read, CAUTION!! HIGHLY TOXIC!! FOR TREATMENT OF ATHLETE’S FOOT ONLY. IF FLUID TOUCHES EYES OR MOUTH, FLOOD COPIOUSLY WITH WATER AND SEEK IMMEDIATE MEDICAL ATTENTION!!

  He put the bottle to his mouth and took a healthy pull, then exhaled in appreciation.

  Harris chuckled.

  “I’m giving some serious thought to religion, General, but I haven’t said anything to the chaplain yet,” Stecker said. “Do you have to go, or can we sit around and drink coffee, cure my athlete’s feet, and tell sea stories?”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Jack,” Harris chuckled. “But you better put that Garand back together before you take another pull at that pink bottle and forget how.”

  (Four)

  Off Cape Esperance

  Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands

  0240 Hours 7 August 1942

  At 0200, Transport Groups X and Y, the Amphibious Force of Operation PESTILENCE, reached Savo Island, which lay between the islands of Guadalcanal and Florida. The skies were clear, and there was some light from a quarter moon, enough to make out the land masses and the other ships.

  The fifteen transports of Transport Group X turned and entered Sealark Channel, between Savo and Guadalcanal. They carried aboard the major elements of the 1st Marine Division and were headed for the beaches of Guadalcanal.

  Transport Group Y sailed on the other side of Savo Island, between it and Florida Island, and headed toward their destination, Florida, Tulagi, and Gavutu islands. Group Y consisted of four transports carrying 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines, and other troops, and four destroyer transports. These were World War I destroyers that had been converted for use by Marine Raiders by removing two of their four engines and converting the reclaimed space to troop berthing. These carried the 1st Raider Battalion.

  The Guadalcanal Invasion Force was headed for what the Operations Plan called “Beach Red.” This was about six thousand yards east of Lunga Point, more or less directly across Sealark Channel from where the Tulagi/Gavutu landings were to take place. The distance across Sealark Channel was approximately twenty-five miles.

  The Guadalcanal Fire Support Group (three cruisers and four destroyers) began to bombard assigned targets on Guadalcanal at 0614, adding their destructive power to the aerial bombing by U.S. Army Air Corps B-17s which had been going on for a week. At 0616, the Tulagi Fire Support Group (one cruiser and two destroyers) opened fire on Tulagi and Gavutu.

  By 0651 the transports of both groups dropped anchor nine thousand yards off their respective landing beaches. Landing boats were put over the side into the calm water, and nets woven of heavy rope were put in place along the sides of the transports. Marines began to climb down the ropes into the landing boats.
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  Minesweepers began to sweep the water between the ships of both transport groups and their landing beaches. No mines were found.

  The only enemy vessel encountered was a small gasoline-carrying schooner in Sealark Channel. It burned and then exploded under both Naval gunfire and machine-gun fire from Navy fighter aircraft and dive bombers. These were operating from carriers maneuvering seventy-five miles from the invasion beaches.

  The Navy sent forty-three carrier aircraft to attack Guadalcanal, and nearly as many—forty-one—to attack Tulagi and Gavutu. The aircraft attacking Tulagi either sank or set on fire eighteen Japanese seaplanes.

  Zero-Hour for Operation PESTILENCE, when Marines were to hit Beach Red on Guadalcanal, was 0910. H-Hour, when Marines would go ashore on Tulagi, was an hour and ten minutes earlier, at 0800. But the first Marine landing in the Solomons took place across the beaches of Florida Island. That operation, however, did not rate having its own Hour in the Operations Order.

  At 0740, B Company, 1st Battalion, 2nd Marines, went ashore near the small village of Haleta, on Florida Island. Their mission was to secure an elevated area from which the Japanese could bring Beach Blue on Tulagi under fire. They encountered no resistance; there were no Japanese in the area.

  At 0800, the first wave of the Tulagi force—landing craft carrying Baker and Dog Companies of the 1st Raider Battalion—touched ashore on Blue Beach. There was one casualty. A Marine was instantly killed by a single rifle shot. But there was no other resistance; the enemy had not elected to defend Tulagi on the beach, but from caves and earthen bunkers in the hills inland and to the south.

  The landing craft returned to the transports and loaded the second wave (Able and Charley Companies, 1st Raiders) and put them ashore. Then a steady stream of landing craft made their way between the transports and the beach and put the 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines, on shore.

  Once on Tulagi, the 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines, crossed the narrow island to their left (northwest) to clear out the enemy, while the Raiders turned to their right (southeast) and headed toward the southern tip of the island. About 3,500 yards separates the southern tip of Tulagi from the tiny island of Gavutu (515 by 255 yards) and the even smaller (290 by 310 yards) island of Tanambogo, which was connected to Gavutu by a concrete causeway.