* * *
[TWO]
VMF-229
Henderson Field
1330 Hours 13 October 1942
“You had a blowout is what it looks like, Mr. Pickering,” Technical Sergeant Oblensky said.
They were in a maintenance revetment, an area large enough to hold two Wildcats. It was bordered on three sides by sandbag walls. Sheets of canvas, once part of wall tents, had been hung over it to provide some relief from the heat of the sun, and from the rain.
“A blowout?” Pickering asked bitterly.
“If I had to guess, I’d guess you ran into a bent-up piece of pierced steel planking. But maybe a piece of bomb casing or something.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Put you out of control. And then the gear collapsed. It won’t handle that kind of stress, like that. You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”
“The airplane’s totaled, right?”
“Yeah. Not only the gear. When that went, there was structural damage, hard to fix. And then the engine was sudden-stop. Probably not even worth trying to rebuild, even if we had the stuff to do it with. I’ll pull the guns and the radios and the instruments and whatever else I can out of it and have it dragged to the boneyard.”
“How many aircraft does that leave us with?”
“Three. Plus I think I can fix what Captain Galloway was flying. He lost an oil line, but he shut it right down, maybe before it had a chance to lock up. I’ll have to see.”
Galloway at that moment walked in.
“I blew a tire,” Pickering said.
“Blew the shit out of it,” Oblensky confirmed. “Have a look.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pickering,” Galloway said.
“Thank me for what?”
“You know for what. I couldn’t have gotten away from that Zero.”
“You were doing all right,” Pickering said.
“When I say ‘thank you,’ you say ‘you’re welcome.’”
Pickering met his eyes. “You’re welcome, Skipper.”
“I just saw Colonel Dawkins. There were witnesses to both of yours. Both confirmed. What does that make, seven?”
“Eight. I’ll confirm yours. I saw it go down.”
“They confirmed that, too,” Galloway said, and turned to Oblensky. “Did you have a chance to look at that engine?”
“I’m going to pull an oil line from this,” Oblensky said, gesturing at Pickering’s F4F4, “and put it on yours and then run it up and see what happens. You said you shut it down right away.”
“I don’t want anyone flying it but me, understand?”
“If I didn’t think it was safe, I wouldn’t let anybody fly it.”
“Just say ‘aye, aye, Sir,’ for Christ’s sake, Steve,” Galloway said.
“What happens now, Skipper?” Pickering asked.
“What you do now is run down all your friends—they’re scattered all over—and bring them here. As soon as the runways are fixed, they’re flying the B17s off to Espiritu Santo. They can go with them.”
“What about the R4D?”
“It took a hundred-pound bomb through the wing. It didn’t explode, but that airplane’s not going anywhere. Mr. Pickering will need your jeep, Steve.”
“It was over by the AvGas dump when that went up,” Oblensky said. “No jeep, Skipper.”
“Well, Mr. Pickering, you said you were thinking of joining the infantry. The infantry walks, so that should be no problem for you.”
For a moment Lieutenant Pickering looked as if he was about to say something obscene. But he thought about it, and what he said was, “Aye, aye, Sir.”
[THREE]
VMF-229
Henderson Field
1535 Hours 13 October 1942
When Captain Charles M. Galloway walked in, Majors Ed Banning and Jake Dillon, Lieutenant Ken McCoy, Sergeant George Hart, and Corporal Robert F. Easterbrook were sitting on the bunks and wooden crates of the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters—a tent with sandbag walls. Galloway was trailed by Lieutenant Bill Dunn.
Galloway looked at Banning.
“Major, the B-17s can’t get off today. That last raid cratered the runway again.”
There had been a second Japanese bombing attack at 1350, a dozen or so Kates and slightly fewer Zeroes.
“I saw fighters take off,” Banning replied. It was a question, not a challenge.
“You saw two fighters get off,” Galloway replied. “Joe Foss and somebody else. They took a hell of a chance; dodged the craters and debris.”
“I saw one Japanese plane go down,” Major Dillon said.
“Foss again,” Galloway said. “He got a Zero. But that was all the damage we did.”
“What the hell happened to the Coastwatchers?” McCoy asked.
Galloway looked at him. He had not yet got a fix on this semilegendary Marine. A lot of what he’d heard about Killer McCoy had to be bullshit, yet he’d also noticed that Major Ed Banning (a good professional Marine, in his view) treated McCoy with serious respect.
“According to what I heard, McCoy, there was a transmission delay between Pearl Harbor and here. You know what atmospherics are?”
McCoy nodded. Galloway noticed that the nod was all he got, not a “Yes, Sir.”
“Well, we monitor Coastwatcher radio. Sometimes we can hear them, sometimes we can’t. This time we couldn’t. So the warning had to go through CINCPAC radio at Pearl” (Commander-In-Chief, Pacific headquarters at Pearl Harbor, T.H.). “There was a delay in them getting through to here. They said atmospherics. We were refueling our fighters when we finally got the warning. By that time the Japanese were over the field.”
“Buka’s operational, Ken,” Banning said. “These things happen.”
“So what happens now?” Dillon said.
“The Seventeens can’t dodge runway craters. And they don’t think they can fill them before it gets dark. So the Seventeens will have to wait until first light. You’ll leave then.”
“Unless the Japs come back again,” Dillon said.
“Unless the Japs come back again,” Galloway parroted. “I’m sorry, it’s out of my control.”
“If the Seventeens can’t get off in the morning, is there any other way I can get to Espiritu Santo?” Banning asked.
Interesting question, Galloway thought. He doesn’t want out of here to save his skin. If he did, he wouldn’t talk openly about going the way he just did. And why did he ask how “I” can get to Espiritu, not “we”? What business does he alone have to take care of?
Galloway seemed to be reading his mind.
“Galloway, I’m going to have to claim a priority to get to Espiritu, if it comes to that.”
“There will probably—almost certainly—be an R4D, or several of them, who will try to land here at first light. Bringing AvGas in. They carry as many wounded as they can when they leave.”
“If it comes down to that, and the B-17s aren’t flying…” Banning said, “…what I was hoping was maybe catching a ride in an SPD or a TBF.”
The Douglas SPD-3 “Dauntless” was a single-engine, low-wing monoplane two-place dive-bomber. It was powered by a Pratt & Whitney 1000-horsepower R-1820-52 engine. The Grumman TBF “Avenger” was a three-place, single-engine, low-wing monoplane torpedo bomber, powered by a 1700-horsepower Wright R-2600-8 “Cyclone” engine. Both aircraft were used by both the U.S. Navy and the USMC.
“I’ll ask,” Galloway answered, “but I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary,” Banning said.
Galloway was now uncomfortable.
“Dunn’s found some cots for you to sleep on. But we lost our jeep, so they’ll have to be carried. How about you, Sergeant?” he asked, and looked at George Hart. “And you, Easterbunny?”
Corporal Easterbrook looked unhappy.
“You have something else to do?” Galloway said.
“Captain, if I’m going to spend the night with the Raiders,” Easter
brook said, “I’m going to have to start up there now.”
“Go ahead, Easterbrook,” Lieutenant McCoy said. “We can carry our own cots. We only look like feather merchants.”
He was talking to me, goddamn it, not you, McCoy, Galloway thought. And then he wondered why that made him so angry.
“Thank you, Sir,” Easterbrook said, and left the tent.
“I wasn’t picking on him, McCoy,” Galloway heard himself say. “He’s a pretty good kid. I try to keep an eye out for him.”
“Somebody should,” McCoy said. “He’s about to go over the edge.”
“Meaning what, McCoy?” Dillon broke in, an inch short of unpleasantly.
“Meaning he’s about to go over the edge. Did you see him during the last raid? Take a good look at his eyes.”
“Oh, bullshit!” Dillon flared. “Nobody likes to get bombed. He’s a Marine, for Christ’s sake.”
“He’s a Marine about to go over the edge,” McCoy said.
“You’re a fucking expert, are you?” Dillon said, now unabashedly unpleasant. “You have a lot of experience in that area?”
“Yes, Jake,” Banning said, calmly but firmly, “he does. In the Philippines, for example.”
“You were in the Philippines?” Bill Dunn blurted. “How did you get out?”
“Like I hope to get out of here tomorrow,” McCoy replied. “On a B-17.” He stood up. “Come on, George, you and I will go carry cots for these field-grade feather merchants.”
Banning laughed, and stood up.
“To hell with you, McCoy, I won’t let you get away with that. Off your ass, Jake. If I can carry my own cot, so can you.”
Dillon, not moving, looked up at Banning.
“Off your ass, Jake,” Banning repeated. His tone was conversational, but there was no mistaking it for a friendly suggestion. It was an order.
[FOUR]
* * *
SECRET
FROM: COM GEN 1ST MAR DIV 0845 14OCT42
SUBJECT: AFTER-ACTION REPORT
TO: COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF, PACIFIC, PEARL HARBOR
INFO: SUPREME COMMANDER SWPOA, BRISBANE
COMMANDANT, USMC, WASH, DC
1. AT APPROXIMATELY 1830 13OCT42 HEAVY JAPANESE ARTILLERY BARRAGE WITH IMPACT WESTERN END OF HENDERSON FIELD COMMENCED. IT IS BELIEVED THAT WEAPONRY INVOLVED IS 150-MM REPEAT 150-MM NOT PREVIOUSLY ENCOUNTERED. IT IS POSSIBLE THAT THIS ARTILLERY IS NEWLY ARRIVED ON GUADALCANAL.
2. INASMUCH AS 1ST MARDIV DOES NOT POSSESS ANY COUNTERFIRE RANGING CAPABILITY, 5-INCH SEACOAST ARTILLERY OF 3RD USMC DEFENSE BATTALION AND 105MM HOWITZERS OF 11TH MARINES WERE INEFFECTIVE IN COUNTERBATTERY FIRE.
3. AT APPROXIMATELY 0140 14OCT42 HENDERSON FIELD WAS MARKED WITH FLARES BY JAPANESE AIRCRAFT. IMMEDIATELY THEREAFTER INTENSIVE ENEMY NAVAL GUNFIRE COMMENCED AND LASTED FOR A PERIOD OF NINETY-SEVEN (97) MINUTES.
4. A MINIMUM OF EIGHT HUNDRED (800) AND POSSIBLY AS MANY AS ONE THOUSAND (1000) ROUNDS ARMOR PIERCING AND HIGH EXPLOSIVE FELL ON HENDERSON FIELD AND IMMEDIATELY ADJACENT AREAS. FROM THE NATURE OF THE DAMAGE CAUSED, IT IS BELIEVED NAVAL FOURTEEN (14) INCH CANNON WERE INVOLVED, MOST LIKELY FROM A JAPANESE BATTLESHIP OR BATTLESHIPS.
5. ENEMY LOSSES:
NEGLIGIBLE, IF ANY. MAIN NAVAL GUNFIRE CAME FROM WARSHIPS BEYOND THE RANGE OF 5-INCH SEACOAST CANNON OF 3RD MARDEFBN. ACCOMPANYING SMALLER VESSELS, PRESUMABLY DESTROYERS, WERE ENGAGED WITHOUT VISIBLE RESULT.
6. US LOSSES:
A. FIELD GRADE OFFICER KIA ONE (1)
B. FIELD GRADE OFFICER WIA ONE (1)
C. COMPANY GRADE OFFICER KIA FIFTEEN (15)
D. COMPANY GRADE OFFICER WIA ELEVEN (11)
E. ENLISTED KIA THIRTY-NINE (39)
F. ENLISTED WIA SEVENTY-NINE (79)
G. MISSING IN ACTION: TO BE DETERMINED
H. SEVERE DAMAGE TO HENDERSON FIELD RUNWAY, CONTROL TOWER, REVETMENTS AND SUPPLY STORAGE AREAS. REMAINING AVGAS SUPPLY CRITICAL.
I. EXTENT OF DAMAGE TO AIRCRAFT NOT YET FULLY DETERMINED. IT IS OBVIOUSLY SEVERE. FOR EXAMPLE OF THIRTY-NINE (39) SPD AIRCRAFT AVAILABLE AS OF YESTERDAY, FOUR (4) ARE AVAILABLE AT THIS TIME, AND TWO (2) OF EIGHT (8) B17 AIRCRAFT WERE TOTALLY DESTROYED.
7. AS SOON AS RUNWAY REPAIRS PERMIT REMAINING B17 AIRCRAFT WILL WITHDRAW TO ESPIRITU SANTO.
8. MOST CRITICAL NEED OF THIS COMMAND IS RESUPPLY OF AVGAS. URGENTLY REQUEST RESUPPLY BY ANY MEANS AVAILABLE. RECOMMEND NO REPEAT NO REPLENISHMENT OF AIRCRAFT UNTIL SUFFICIENT AVGAS AVAILABLE HENDERSON FIELD FOR FUELING.
VANDEGRIFT MAJ GEN USMC COMMANDING
SECRET
* * *
[FIVE]
Mag-21
Henderson Field
“Colonel,” Captain Samuel M. Davidson, U.S. Army Air Corps, said to Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins, “I’m not sure I like this. As a matter of fact, the more I think about it, I don’t like it at all.”
“You don’t have any choice in the matter, Sam,” Dawkins said. “These people are going with you, period.”
“Who the hell are they?”
“Two majors, a lieutenant, and a sergeant. I told you.”
“I told my people they’re going out with us.”
“I’ll find something constructive for them to do,” Dawkins said. “And just as soon as I can find space for them, I’ll get them out of here.”
“And what if…?” He paused a moment and then began again: “I really don’t mean to sound insubordinate, but the first obligation of an officer is to take care of his men. What if I simply say ‘with all respect, Sir, no’?”
“I said no way, Sam. I was shown a set of orders on White House stationery, signed by Admiral Leahy, the President’s Chief of Staff. To repeat myself, you don’t have any choice in the matter.”
“How did they get here?”
“In an R4D. It took a bomb through the wing.”
“The one with that funny landing gear?”
Dawkins nodded.
“You want to tell me what that was all about? It looked like skis.”
“Sorry, Sam. I couldn’t tell you if I knew, and I don’t. I really don’t. But if it makes you feel any better, I was in the Division Command Post, and I saw General Vandegrift shake one of the Major’s hands and thank him. They’re not tourists.”
There was a loud, frightening crash, a long one, along with the scream of timbers being ripped apart.
“What the hell was that?” Captain Davidson asked.
“That was the Pagoda,” Dawkins said. “General Geiger decided that the Japanese were using it as an artillery aiming point. They bulldozed it, I guess.”
“Why didn’t they just blow it up?”
“Probably because there’s a shortage of dynamite, in addition to everything else,” Dawkins said.
“Where are these people, then?” Captain Davidson asked.
“Bill Dunn, Charley Galloway’s exec, has been told to take them to your plane.”
“You know, I’ve only got three functioning engines.”
“That shouldn’t bother the Army Air Corps.”
“I feel like I’m running away, Colonel. I don’t like that feeling, either.”
“You’ll be back,” Dawkins said. He stood up and put out his hand. “Have a nice flight, Sam. It’s been good knowing you.”
“What’s going to happen to you?”
“Who knows? Sooner or later, one side is going to run completely out of airplanes.”
Davidson met his eyes for a minute. Then he brought himself to a position of attention worthy of the parade ground at West Point, and saluted.
“Serving with you has been a privilege, Sir,” he said.
“Thank you, Sam,” Dawkins said after a moment, as he returned the salute. “For a dog-faced soldier, you’re not too bad an airplane driver.”
Davidson did a precise about-face and marched out of the sandbag-walled tent that served as the headquarters of Marine Air Group 21.
Corporal Robert F. Easterbrook ran up to the B-17 as it stood, second in line, for takeoff. The prop blast fr
om its idling engines blew his helmet off.
He glanced at the helmet, then went up to the airplane and banged on the fuselage. After a moment, the door in the fuselage opened and an Army Air Corps staff sergeant peered out.
“Major Dillon! Major Dillon!” the Easterbunny shouted over the roar of the engines.
The staff sergeant disappeared, and a moment later Major Dillon showed up in the door.
Easterbrook handed Dillon a canvas bag.
“Still and motion picture film of the Raiders last night,” he shouted. “And a couple of reels of this fucking mess.”
Dillon took the bag and nodded.
Easterbrook stood back and the door closed.
Easterbrook waved at the nice lieutenant who’d kept him from having to carry cots the day before.
The door opened again. Major Dillon motioned for Easterbrook to come closer. When he did, he extended his hand.
Easterbrook thought it was nice that the Major wanted to shake his hand.
Major Dillon took Corporal Easterbrook’s wrist, not his hand. With a mighty jerk, he pulled Corporal Easterbrook into the airplane. The door closed.
The pilot advanced the throttles. The B-17 started to roll. He turned onto the runway and shoved the throttles to FULL MILITARY POWER. It began to accelerate very slowly, and for a moment Captain Davidson thought that with only three engines working, there was a very good chance they weren’t going to make it.
But then he felt life come into the controls. He edged the wheel back very, very carefully.
The rumble of the landing gear on the battered runway died.
“Wheels up!” Captain Davidson ordered.
[SIX]
United States Naval Base
Espiritu Santo
1715 Hours 14 October 1942
While Rear Admiral Daniel J. Wagam, USN, of the CINCPAC Staff, was not a cowardly man, or even an unusually nervous one, he was enough of a sailor to know that the greater the speed of a hull moving through the water, the greater the stresses applied to that hull.
He could see no reason why this basic principle of marine physics should be invalidated simply because the hull belonged to a flying boat. Flying boats, moreover, were constructed not of heavily reinforced steel plate, but of thin aluminum.
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