“I thought perhaps they’d sent word from Washington.”
“I don’t think so, Sir. Wouldn’t that have been a ‘personal for General MacArthur’?”
“Probably. Almost certainly.”
“I keep pretty well up on that file, Sir,” Pluto Hon said. “There hasn’t been anything.”
“Well, that at least gives me today. I need a bath, a couple of drinks, and a long nap. I’ll call over there at five o’clock or so and ask for an appointment in the morning.”
“There’s a couple of things I think you should see, Sir,” Pluto said.
“This morning?” Pickering asked.
“Yes, Sir.”
When Pickering came out of his bedroom into the living room of Water Lily Cottage, Pluto Hon and John Marston Moore were waiting for him. Pickering was wearing a terrycloth bathrobe over nothing at all, and he was feeling—and looking—fresh from a long hot shower.
In the middle of the room, they’d set up a map board—a sheet of plywood placed on an artist’s tripod. Maps (and other large documents) were tacked onto the plywood. A sheet of oilcloth covered the maps and documents; it could be lifted to expose them.
An upholstered chair, obviously intended for him, had been moved from its usual place against the wall so that it squarely faced the map board.
“Very professional,” Pickering said.
“We practice our briefings here,” Pluto said seriously. “It’s a waste of time, but General Willoughby’s big on briefing the Supreme Commander with maps and charts.”
“You don’t work for Willoughby,” Pickering said. “And you don’t have time to waste.”
Pluto didn’t reply. Pickering knew that his silence was an answer in itself.
“How bad has it been, Pluto? Let’s have it.”
“I don’t want to sound like I’m whining, Sir.”
“Let’s have it, Pluto.”
“The point has been made to me, Sir, by various senior officers, that I am a first lieutenant, and that first lieutenants do what they’re told.”
“You’re talking about MAGIC intercept briefings, right?” Pickering asked.
“Yes, Sir. I believe it is General Willoughby’s rationale that since he has no one on his staff cleared for MAGIC, he can’t have them prepare MAGIC briefings for the Supreme Commander. That leaves us.”
“Left you. Past tense,” Pickering said. “For one thing, MacArthur doesn’t need kindergarten-level briefings; he has an encyclopedic memory. For another, I can’t afford to have either of you wasting your time playing brass-hat games. The next time Willoughby calls, your reply is, quote, ‘Sir, General Pickering doesn’t believe that a formal briefing is necessary.’ Unquote. If he has any questions, tell him to call me.”
“General, as I said on the wharf, General, Sir, welcome home!” Pluto said.
“But since you’ve already gone to all this trouble, Pluto, brief me.”
“Yes, Sir,” Pluto said. Moore walked to the map board—limped, Pickering thought; limped painfully; his legs are nowhere near healed—and flipped the oilcloth cover off, revealing a map of the Solomon Islands.
There was something out of the ordinary about it. After a moment, he knew what it was.
“Don’t tell me that map’s not classified?”
“Sir, that’s another decision I took on my own,” Pluto said. “We start with MacArthur’s situation map. Maps. Actually three. MacArthur had one; Willoughby had a second; and G-3 had a third. All classified TOP SECRET. For our purposes, before Willoughby started the briefing business, we used to just go to G-3 with an overlay. Nothing on the overlay but MAGIC information. No problem, in other words. We just locked the door, did our thing on the overlay with our MAGIC intelligence, and then took the overlay back to the dungeon with us. But when we started having to take a map with us to brief MacArthur…”
“What I’m looking at is a TOP SECRET situation map, to which MAGIC intelligence has been added?”
“Yes, Sir. General Willoughby said the Supreme Commander doesn’t like overlays.”
“And,” Pickering said, “because you thought there was a possibility that this map might get out of your hands—with MAGIC intelligence on it—you decided not to stamp it TOP SECRET….”
“Yes, Sir. We don’t let this map out of our hands. It’s been chemically treated, so it practically explodes when you put a match to it—”
“Finish your briefing,” Pickering interrupted. “Take the MAGIC data off onto an overlay, and burn the map.”
“Yes, Sir,” Pluto said. “Sir, how much of a briefing did you get from Major Banning in Hawaii?”
“A damned good one. I presume you know what he told me? How much of it is still valid?”
“Would you mind, Sir?”
Good for you, son. Don’t leave anything to chance.
“General Hyakutake is ashore,” Pickering summarized. “As soon as he believes he has an adequate force, he will start an attack on three fronts, counting the combined fleet as a front. I forget the names of the Japanese generals—”
“Major Generals Maruyama and Tadashi,” Pluto interrupted him. “Did he have a date?”
“No.”
“We have new intercepts indicating 18 October. Tomorrow.”
Pickering grunted.
“Did Major Banning get into Japanese naval strength?”
“He did, but let’s have it again.”
“On 11 October,” Moore began, “Admiral Yamamoto sent from Truk a force consisting of five battleships, five aircraft carriers, four cruisers, forty-four destroyers, and a flock of support vessels.” He paused for a moment. “We don’t know if Yamamoto himself is aboard; they’re not quite under radio silence, but nearly.”
“My God!”
“The Japanese do not commit their entire available force at one time,” Pluto said. “Or so far haven’t done that. It is reasonable to assume that they will commit this force piecemeal, as well.”
“Even a piece of that size force is more than we have,” Pickering thought aloud.
“‘My forces totally inadequate to meet situation,’” Moore said, obviously quoting.
“Who said that?” Pickering asked.
“Admiral Ghormley, in a radio yesterday to Nimitz.” Pluto said.
“And there was a follow-up about an hour ago,” Moore said, and started to read from a sheet of paper. “Ghormley wants all of MacArthur’s submarines; all the cruisers and destroyers now in the Aleutians Islands/Alaska area; all the PT boats in the Pacific, except those at Midway; and he wants the assignment of destroyers in the Atlantic ‘reviewed.’”
“They’re not going to give him that,” Pickering said. “And there wouldn’t be time to send destroyers from the Atlantic, if they wanted to. Or cruisers from Alaska, for that matter.”
Pluto shrugged, but said nothing.
“He also wants ninety heavy bombers; eighty medium bombers; sixty dive-bombers; and two fighter groups, preferably P38s.”
“In other words,” Hon said, “essentially all of MacArthur’s air power, plus a large chunk of what the Navy hasn’t already sent to the area.”
Pickering opened his mouth to speak, then changed his mind, stopping himself from saying. He sounds pretty goddamn desperate.
Why did I stop myself? Am I starting to believe that I’m really a general? And generals do not say anything derogatory about other generals or admirals in the presence of people who are not generals or admirals. Like two young lieutenants, for example.
“He sounds pretty goddamn desperate,” Pickering said. “Is he justified?”
“I don’t think so, Sir,” Pluto said. “My thought when I read that—in particular, the phrase ‘totally inadequate,’ and his obviously unrealistic requests for air support (I don’t think there are ninety operational B17s over here, for example)—is that it’s going to raise some unpleasant questions in the minds of Admiral Nimitz and his staff.”
“Yeah,” Pickering said.
&nbs
p; “That’s all I have, Sir, unless you’ve got some questions. Would you like to take a look at the map?”
“No. I’ve sailed those waters,” Pickering said. “And I was on the ’Canal. Burn it.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The telephone rang. Moore limped quickly across the room to pick it up.
Instead of “hello,” he recited the number. Then he smiled. “One moment, please,” he said, and covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Colonel Huff for General Pickering,” he said. “Is the General available?”
Colonel Sidney Huff was aide-de-camp to the Supreme Commander, South West Pacific Ocean Area.
Pickering pushed himself out of the chair, went to Moore, and took the telephone from him.
“Hello, Sid,” he said. “How are you?”
“The Supreme Commander’s compliments, General Pickering,” Huff said very formally.
“My compliments to the General,” Pickering said, smiling at Moore.
“General MacArthur hopes that General Pickering will be able to join him and Mrs. MacArthur at luncheon.”
“What time, Sid?”
“If it would be convenient for the General, the Supreme Commander customarily takes his luncheon at one, in his quarters.”
“I’ll be there, Sid. Thanks.”
“Thank you, General.”
The phone went dead.
Pickering hung up and looked at Hon.
“Sometimes I have the feeling that Colonel Huff doesn’t approve of me,” he said. “He didn’t welcome me back to Australia.”
“I wonder how he knew you were back, and here?” Moore wondered aloud.
“I think he likes you all right.” Hon said. “It’s that star you’re wearing that’s a burr under his brass hat.”
“Why, Lieutenant Hon. How cynical of you!”
“That’s what I’m being paid for, to be cynical,” Hon said.
[TWO]
Lennon’s Hotel
Brisbane, Australia
1255 Hours 17 October 1942
When Pickering arrived, with Sergeant George Hart at the wheel of the Studebaker President, MacArthur’s Cadillac limousine was parked in front of the hotel.
“We’re putting a show on, George,” Pickering said. “Stop in front and then rush around and open the door for me.”
“I already got the word from Lieutenant Hon, General,” Hart said, smiling at Pickering’s reflection in the rearview mirror.
Colonel Sidney Huff was waiting on the veranda of the sprawling Victorian building. He watched as Hart opened the door and Pickering stepped out; then he waited for Pickering to start up the walk before moving to join him.
He saluted. Pickering returned it and put out his hand.
“Good to see you, Sid,” Pickering said.
“It’s good to see you again, too, Sir,” Huff said. “If you’ll come with me, please, General?”
He led Pickering across the lobby to a waiting elevator. When MacArthur had his headquarters in the Menzies Hotel in Melbourne, Pickering remembered, one of the elevators was reserved for his personal use; it had a sign. This one had no sign, and was presumably available to commoners.
When the elevator door opened on the third floor, a nattily dressed MP staff sergeant rose quickly and came to attention. The chair he was sitting in didn’t seem substantial enough to support his bulk.
Huff led him down the corridor to the door to MacArthur’s suite and pushed it open. Pickering walked through.
“Fleming, my dear fellow,” said the Supreme Commander, South West Pacific Ocean Area, holding his arms wide.
He was in khakis, without a tie. He had a thin, black cigar in his hand. The corncob pipe generally disappeared in the absence of photographers.
“General, it’s good to see you, Sir,” Pickering said, and handed him a package. “They’re not Filipino. Cuban. But I thought you could make do with them.”
“This is absolutely unnecessary, but deeply appreciated,” MacArthur said, sounding genuinely pleased. “What was it the fellow said, ‘a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke’?”
“I believe he said that out of the hearing of his wife,” Pickering said.
“Speaking of which, Mrs. MacArthur, Jean, sends her regrets. She will be unable to join us. But she said she looks forward to seeing you at dinner. You did tell him about dinner, Sid?”
“No, Sir, I didn’t have the chance.”
“A small dinner, en famille, so to speak. And then some bridge. Does that fit in with your schedule?”
He did not wait for a reply. He handed Colonel Huff the cigars. “Unpack these carefully, Sid, they’re worth their weight in gold. And put them in a refrigerator. And then get yourself some lunch.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Huff left the room.
“What is your schedule, Fleming?” MacArthur asked.
“I gratefully accept Mrs. MacArthur’s kind invitation to dinner, General.”
“‘Jean,’ please. She considers you, as I do, a friend. But that’s not the schedule I was talking about.”
“You mean, what am I doing here?”
“To put a point on it, yes,” MacArthur said. “But let me offer you something to drink. What will you have?”
“I always feel depraved when I drink alone at lunch,” Pickering said.
“Then we will be depraved together,” MacArthur said. “Scotch whiskey, I seem to recall?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Almost instantly, a Filipino in a white jacket rolled in a table with whiskey, ice, water, and glasses.
As the steward, whose actions were obviously choreographed, made the drinks, MacArthur said, “Churchill, I am reliably told, begins his day with a healthy hooker of cognac. I like a little nip before lunch. But, unless it’s something like this—a close friend, no strangers—I don’t like to set a bad example.”
“I’m flattered to be considered a close friend, General,” Pickering said.
“It should come as no surprise,” MacArthur said, and took a squat glass from the steward and handed it to Pickering. “There we are,” he said, and took a second glass and raised it. “Welcome back, Fleming. I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Pickering said.
“And to look at you, you’re in splendid health. Is that the case?”
“I’m in good health, Sir.”
“I had a report to the contrary from Colonel DePress…”
From who? Who the hell is Colonel DePress?
“…who told me that when he saw you in Walter Reed, you were debilitated by malaria, and in considerable pain from your wound. I was disturbed, and so was Jean.”
Pickering remembered Colonel DePress now. He was one of MacArthur’s officer couriers, a light colonel, wearing the insignia of the 26th Cavalry, Philippine Scouts. He’d delivered a letter from MacArthur congratulating him on his promotion to brigadier general.
“I like your Colonel DePress,” Pickering said. “I hate to accuse him of exaggerating.”
“I don’t think he was. But no pain now? And the malaria is under control?”
“No pain, Sir, and the malaria is under control.”
“Good, good,” MacArthur said cheerfully, and then, instantly, “You were telling me what you’re up to here, Fleming.”
Second Principle of Interrogation, Pickering thought: Put the person being questioned at ease, and then hit him with a zinger.
“I’m here on a peacemaking expedition, General,” Pickering said.
“Sent by whom?”
“The President, Sir.”
“You may assure the President, General,” MacArthur laughed, “that the tales of friction between myself and Admiral Nimitz, like the tales of the demise of Mark Twain, are greatly exaggerated. I hold the Admiral in the highest possible esteem, and flatter myself to think that he considers me, for a lowly soldier, to be a fairly competent fellow.”
“The President had in mind Mr. Donovan,
Sir,” Pickering said.
“Donovan? Donovan? I don’t know who you mean.”
“Mr. William Donovan, Sir, of the OSS.”
“I know him only by reputation. He had a distinguished record in the First War. But then, so did you and I, Fleming. Whatever gave the President the idea that we are at swords’ points?”
“I believe the President is concerned about what he—or at least Mr. Donovan—perceives to be a lack of cooperation on the part of SWPOA with regard to Mr. Donovan’s mission to you.”
“Oh,” MacArthur said, and then he laughed. “Franklin Roosevelt is truly Machiavellian, isn’t he? Sending you to me, to plead Donovan’s case? You’ve had serious trouble with Mr. Donovan, have you not, Fleming?”
How the hell does he know I can’t stand the sonofabitch? Or about my trouble with him?
“And were you dispatched to see Admiral Nimitz, with the same mission?”
“No, Sir. I saw Admiral Nimitz, but not about Mr. Donovan.”
“How to deal with Mr. Donovan is just one item on a long list about which Admiral Nimitz and I are in total agreement,” MacArthur said. “We are agreed to ignore him, in the hope that he will go away. Neither of us can see where any possible good he or his people can do us can possibly be worth the trouble he or his people are likely to cause.”
“Mr. Donovan is held in high esteem by the President, General.”
“Is he? And that’s why he sent you, of all people, to plead his case? The word—and certainly no disrespect to the Commander-in-Chief is intended—is Machiavellian.”
MacArthur shook his head, smiling, and took a healthy sip of his drink.
“You may report to the President, General, that you brought the matter of the OSS to my attention, and I assured you that I have every intention of offering the OSS every possible support from the limited assets available to SWPOA.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“As a friend, Fleming, I will tell you that I have a guerrilla operation going in the Philippines. I have high hopes for it, and a high regard for the men there who daily face death. I have no intention…no intention…of having Wild Bill Donovan get his camel’s nose under that tent!”
He looked at Pickering, as if expecting an argument. When there was none, he went on.
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