“Well, the war bond tour, that war bond tour, is about over. We’re bringing some other people back from the Pacific. This time for a national tour. Machine Gun McCoy, among others.”
“Excuse me, Sir?”
“Sergeant Thomas McCoy, of the 2nd Raiders. Distinguished himself on Bloody Ridge. They call him ‘Machine Gun’ McCoy.”
“I see.”
“And some of the pilots from Henderson Field, we’re trying to get all the aces.”
“I see, Sir. I’m sure the tour will be successful.”
“A lot of that will depend on how well the tour is organized and carried out,” General Stewart said, significantly.
“Yes, Sir,” Colonel Wilson agreed.
“Which brings us to Lieutenant Macklin,” General Stewart said. “With the exception of a slight limp, he is now fully recovered from his wounds…”
“I’m glad to hear that, General.”
“…and is obviously up for reassignment.”
After a moment, Colonel Wilson became aware that General Stewart was waiting for a reply from him.
“I don’t believe any assignment has yet been made for Lieutenant Macklin,” he said.
But I will do my best to find a rock to hide him under.
“What I was going to suggest, Colonel…what, to put a point on it, I am requesting, is that Macklin be assigned to my shop.”
What’s this “shop” crap? You sound like you’re making dog kennels.
“I see.”
“My thinking, Colonel, is that nothing succeeds like success. And Macklin, having completed a very, very successful war bond tour, is just the man to set up and run the next one. And then, of course, there is sort of a built-in bonus: Our heroes, Machine Gun McCoy and the flyboys, would be introduced to the public by a Marine officer who is himself a wounded hero.”
“General, I think that’s a splendid idea,” Colonel Wilson said. “I’ll have his orders cut by sixteen hundred hours.”
I was wrong. This has been a gift from heaven. I get rid of Macklin in a job where he can’t hurt The Corps; and the General here thinks I am a splendid fellow.
“Well, I frankly thought I would have to sell you more on the idea, Colonel.”
“General, if I may say so, a good idea is a good idea. Is there anything else I can try to do for you?”
General Stewart looked a little uncomfortable.
“There are two things,” he said, finally. “Both a little delicate.”
“Please go on, Sir.”
“I certainly don’t mean to suggest that you’re not up to the line in your operation…”
But?
“…but, maybe a piece of paper got lost or something. Lieutenant Macklin is long overdue for promotion.”
With what Chesty Puller had to say about the sonofabitch, the only reason he wasn’t asked for his resignation from The Corps is that there’s a war on.
“I’ll look into that myself, General, and personally bring it to the attention of the G-1.”
“I couldn’t ask for more than that, could I? Thank you, Colonel.”
“No thanks necessary, Sir,” Wilson said. “You said there were two things?”
“And—to repeat—both a little delicate,” General Stewart said.
“Perhaps I can help, Sir.”
“I mentioned Major Dillon,” General Stewart said.
“Yes, Sir?”
“I don’t know if you know this or not, Colonel, but Major Dillon has been placed on temporary duty with the Office of Management Analysis.”
“The Office of Management Analysis, Sir?”
“Don’t be embarrassed. I had to ask a lot of questions before I found anyone who even knows it exists,” General Stewart said. “But I think it can be safely said that it deals with classified matters.”
“I see,” Colonel Wilson said solemnly.
“The thing is, Colonel, I’m carrying Major Dillon on my manning table. So long as he is on temporary duty, I can’t replace him. You understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Do you think you could have him transferred, taken off my manning table?”
“I will bring that to the attention of the G-1, Sir. And if anything can be done, I’m sure the General will see that it is.”
“Splendid!” General Stewart said as he stood up and put out his hand. “Colonel, I really appreciate your cooperation.”
“Anything for the good of the Corps, Sir.”
“Indeed! Thank you, Colonel. And if there’s ever any way in which Public Affairs can be of service…”
“That’s very good of you, Sir. I almost certainly will take you up on that.”
[THREE]
Anacostia Naval Air Station
Washington, D.C.
2055 Hours 16 October 1942
As the B-25 was taxiing from the runway to the Transient Aircraft Ramp, the pilot came out of the cockpit and walked back to Banning, who was seated in the front of the fuselage, in a surprisingly comfortable airline-type seat.
“A car’s going to meet you where we park,” he said.
“Thank you,” Banning said.
He had a headache. His mouth was dry. He’d been sleeping fitfully until his ears popped painfully as they made their descent and approach.
They’d stopped at St. Louis for fuel. And he had a fried-egg sandwich and a cup of coffee there. The mayonnaise and the slice of raw onion on the sandwich had given him heartburn.
He belched painfully.
It was raining, steadily, and a chilling wind was blowing across the field. And there was no car in sight. He’d just about decided that the pilot had the wrong information, or that the plane was parked in the wrong place, when a 1940 Buick convertible sedan rolled up. The Buick was preceded by a pickup truck painted in a checkerboard pattern and flying a checkered flag.
The rear door of the Buick opened.
“Will the Major please get in so the Captain will not get drowned?” a voice called.
Banning quickly stepped into the backseat and put out his hand.
“How are you, Ed?” he said. “Good to see you.”
“Take us to the hotel, Jerry,” Captain Edward Sessions, USMC, ordered, and then turned to Banning. “It’s good to see you, Sir,” he said. He was a tall, not quite handsome twenty-seven year old in a trench coat. A plastic rain cover was fastened over the cover of his billed cap.
“I didn’t want to get my best uniform soaked,” he went on. “There’s a good chance I will be in the very presence of the Secretary of the Navy himself.”
“We will be.”
“Tonight?” Banning asked, surprised.
“Very possibly. The Colonel’s at the hotel; that’s where we’re going. He should know by the time we get there.”
“What hotel?”
“The Foster Lafayette,” Sessions said. “Your hotel, Sir. By order of General Pickering. He sent a radio from Pearl Harbor.” He made a gesture with his hand. “The car, too. He said we were to give you the keys.”
“Jesus,” Banning said.
“And this, I thought, would give you a laugh,” Sessions said, and thrust a newspaper at Banning. “There’s a light back here somewhere…. Ah, there it is.”
A pair of lights came on, providing just enough illumination to read the newspaper. It was The Washington Star.
“What am I looking at?”
Sessions pointed at a photograph of a Marine officer in dress blues. He was standing at a microphone mounted on a lectern on a stage somewhere.
There was a headline over the photograph:
PACIFIC HEROES COMPLETE WAR BOND TOUR;
‘BACK TO THE JOB WE HAVE TO DO’ SAYS
PURPLE HEART HERO OF GUADALCANAL.
“So?” Banning asked.
“Take a good look at the hero,” Sessions said.
“Macklin! I’ll be damned.”
“I thought that would amuse you,” Sessions said.
“Nauseate me is the word you’
re looking for,” Banning said. And then something else caught his eye.
* * *
NAVY SECRETARY KNOX
‘EXPECTS GUADALCANAL
CAN BE HELD’
By Charles E. Whaley
Washington Oct 16—Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox, at a press conference this afternoon, responded with guarded optimism to the question, by this reporter, “Can Guadalcanal be held?”
“I certainly hope so,” the Secretary said. “I expect so. I don’t want to make any predictions, but every man out there, ashore or afloat, will give a good account of himself.”
The response called to mind the classic phrase, “England expects every man to do his duty,” but could not be interpreted as more than a hope on Knox’s part.
One highly placed and knowledgeable military expert has, on condition of anonymity, told this reporter that the “odds that we can stay on Guadalcanal are no better than fifty-fifty.” He cited the great difficulty of supplying the twenty-odd thousand Marines on the island, which is not only far from U.S. bases, but very close to Japanese bases from which air and naval attacks can be launched on both the troops and on the vessels and aircraft attempting to provide them with war matériel.
* * *
“What are you reading?”
“Some expert, who doesn’t want his name mentioned, told the Star it’s fifty-fifty whether we can stay on Guadalcanal.”
“You think he’s wrong?”
“It’s pretty bad over there, Ed,” Banning said. “I don’t even think it’s fifty-fifty. The night before we left, they were shelling Henderson Field with fourteen-inch battleship cannon. Nobody can stand up under that for long.”
“Is that what you’re going to tell Secretary Knox?”
“I’m going to tell him what Vandegrift thinks.”
“Which is?”
“That unless he gets reinforced, and unless they can somehow keep the Japs from reinforcing, we’re going to get pushed back into the sea.”
“Jesus.”
Captain Sessions unlocked the door, removed the key, and then handed it to Banning. After that, he pushed open the door and motioned him to go in.
“I realize that this isn’t what you’re accustomed to, but I understand roughing it once in a while is good for the soul.”
“I just hope there’s hot water,” Banning said, and then, suddenly formal: “Good evening, Sir.”
“Hello, Banning, how are you?” a slight, pale-skinned man in an ill-fitting suit said. He was Colonel F. L. Rickabee, of the Office of Management Analysis.
Rickabee was standing in a corridor that led to a large sitting room furnished with what looked like museum-quality antiques. Rickabee waved him toward it. Banning saw a Navy captain and wondered who he was.
“Gentlemen,” Rickabee announced, “Major Edward F. Banning.”
Banning nodded at the Navy captain. A stocky man in a superbly tailored blue pin-stripe suit walked up, removing his pince-nez as he did, and offered his hand.
“I’m Frank Knox, Major. How do you do?”
“Mr. Secretary.”
“Do you know Captain Haughton, my assistant?” Knox asked.
No. But I’ve seen the name enough. “By Direction of the Secretary of the Navy. David Haughton, Captain, USN, Administrative Assistant.”
“No, Sir.”
“How are you, Major?” Haughton said. “I’m glad to finally meet you.”
“My name is Fowler, Major,” another superbly tailored older man said. “Welcome home.”
“Senator,” Banning said. “How do you do, Sir?”
“Right now, not very well, and from what Fleming Pickering said on the phone, what you have to tell us isn’t going to make us feel any better.”
“Major, you look like you could use a drink,” Frank Knox said. “What’ll you have?”
“No, thank you, Sir.”
“Don’t argue with me, I’m the Secretary of the Navy.”
“Then scotch, Sir, a weak one.”
“Make him a stiff scotch, Rickabee,” Knox ordered, “while your captain loads the projector.”
“Yes, Sir, Mr. Secretary,” Colonel Rickabee said, smiling.
“Sir, I had hoped to have a little time to organize my thoughts,” Banning said.
“Fleming Pickering told me I should tell you to deliver the same briefing you gave him in Hawaii,” Senator Fowler said. “And I thought the best place to do that would be here, rather than in Mr. Knox’s office or mine.”
Banning looked uncomfortable.
“You’re worried about classified material?” Captain Haughton asked. “Specifically, about MAGIC?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Haughton looked significantly at Secretary Knox, very obviously putting the question to him.
“Senator Fowler does not have a MAGIC clearance,” Knox said. “That’s so the President and I can look any senator in the eye and tell him that no senator has a MAGIC clearance. But I can’t think of a secret this country has I wouldn’t trust Senator Fowler with. Do you take my meaning, Major?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Rickabee handed Banning a drink.
Banning set it down and took the photographs and the two cans of 16mm film from his bag. He handed the film cans to Sessions and the envelope of photographs to Secretary Knox.
“We brought these with us when we left Guadalcanal. The photographer handed them to Major Dillon literally at the last minute, as we were preparing to take off.”
“My God!” Frank Knox said after examining the first two photographs. “This is Henderson Field?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“It looks like no-man’s-land in France in 1917.”
“General Vandegrift believes the fire came from fourteen-inch Naval cannon. Battleships, Sir.”
“I saw the After-Action Report,” Knox said. It was not a reprimand.
Banning took a sip of his drink. He looked across the room to where Sessions was threading the motion picture film into a projector. A screen on a tripod was already in place.
“Anytime you’re ready, Sir,” Sessions reported.
“OK, Major,” Frank Knox said. “Let’s have it.”
“Just one or two questions, Major, if I may,” Frank Knox said after Banning’s briefing was finished.
“Yes, Sir.”
“You’re pretty sure of these Japanese unit designations, I gather? And the identities of the Jap commanders?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“They conform to what we’ve been getting from the MAGIC people in Hawaii. But there is a difference between your analyses of Japanese intercepts and theirs. Subtle sometimes, but significant, I think. Why is that?”
“Sir, I don’t think two analysts ever completely agree….”
“Just who are your analysts?”
“Primarily two, Sir. Both junior officers, but rather unusual junior officers. One of them is a Korean-American from Hawaii. He holds a Ph.D. in Mathematics from MIT, and was first involved as a cryptographer—a code-breaker, not an analyst. He placed…a different interpretation…on certain intercepts than did Hawaii; and more often than not, time proved him correct. So he was made an analyst. The second spent most of his life in Japan. His parents are missionaries. He speaks the language as well as he speaks English, and studied at the University of Tokyo. You understand, Sir, the importance of understanding the Japanese culture, the Japanese mind-set…”
“Yes, yes,” Knox said impatiently. “So your position is that the Hawaiian analysts are wrong more often than not, and your two are right more often than not?”
“No, Sir. There’s rarely a disagreement. The relationship between Hon—”
“What?”
“The Korean-American, Sir. His name is Hon. His relationship with Hawaii—and Lieutenant Moore’s—is not at all competitive. When they see things differently, they talk about it, not argue.”
“I wonder if we can make that contagious,” Senator Fowler said. “From what I
hear, most of our people in the Pacific don’t even talk to each other.”
“I wanted to get that straight before we go across the street,” Knox said.
“Sir?” Banning asked.
“We’re going across the street?” Senator Fowler asked.
“Don’t you think we should?” Knox replied.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I think we should. Can we?”
What the hell are they talking about, “going across the street”? Banning wondered. The only thing across the street from here is another hotel, an office building, and the White House.
“There’s one way to find out,” Knox said. He walked to one of the two telephones on the coffee table and dialed a number from memory.
“Alice, this is Frank Knox. May I speak to him, please?” There was a brief pause, and then Knox continued. “Sorry to disturb you at this hour, but there is something I think you should see, and hear. And now.”
Who the hell is Alice? Who the hell is “him”?
Frank Knox put the telephone in its cradle and turned to face them.
“Gentlemen, the President will receive us in fifteen minutes,” he said. “Us meaning the Senator, Major Banning, and me. Plus someone to set up and run the projector.”
“Sessions,” Colonel Rickabee said.
“Aye, aye, Sir,” Captain Sessions said.
“Thank you very much, Major…Banning, is it?” Franklin Delano Roosevelt said.
“Yes, Sir.”
“…Major Banning. That was very edifying. Or should I say alarming? In any event, thank you very much. I think that will be all…unless you have any questions for the Major, Admiral Leahy?”
“I have no questions, Sir,” Admiral Leahy said.
“Frank, I’d like to see you for a moment,” the President said.
“With your permission, Mr. President?” Senator Fowler said.
“Richardson, thank you for coming,” Roosevelt said, flashing him a dazzling smile and dismissing him.
“Captain, you can just leave the projector and the screen,” Knox ordered. “Would you like to have the film and photographs, Mr. President?”
“I don’t think I have to look at it again,” Roosevelt said. “I certainly don’t want to. Admiral?”
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