Close Combat

by W. E. B Griffin

  “I would be most grateful; and so, I am sure, would Major Dillon,” Dr. Barthelmy said. “I’ll have the agency send someone over to fill in for you straightaway.”

  He turned from her, took a prescription pad from a cabinet drawer, and began to write. He handed her four prescriptions.

  “These should do it,” he said. “As soon as your replacement shows up, have them filled and charged to my account at the chemist’s, and then let me know and we’ll run over to Malibu.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “Good girl!”

  When Dawn Morris slid open the glass door and walked out to them, Jake Dillon and Ken McCoy were sitting on chaise lounges on the balcony of the beach house. Beside them lay the remnants of a hamburger and french fries meal. Beer bottles were in their hands.

  “The patient,” Dawn announced, “has had his medicine and is resting comfortably. I thought it best to leave him alone. Where would you suggest I wait?”

  “‘Resting comfortably’?” Dillon replied. “I doubt that.”

  “I beg your pardon, Major Dillon?”

  “He may be a sick kid, but he’s not that sick. If you leaned over him to give him the Atabrine, the one thing he’s not doing is resting comfortably.”

  McCoy laughed. “Jesus, Jake!”

  “I beg your pardon?” Dawn asked, trying for a mixture of indignation and confusion.

  “Honey, if you’re a nurse, I’m an obstetrician,” Dillon said. “Where did Harry get you, Central Casting?”

  Dawn hesitated only a moment.

  “I’m Doctor Barthelmy’s receptionist.”

  Dillon nodded.

  “Would you like me to go?” Dawn asked.

  “Hell, no. I just wanted to be sure that we understood each other. What did Harry tell you, that I could get you a screen test?”

  “He was more subtle than that,” Dawn said.

  “I have to go to Washington in the morning,” Dillon said, glanced at McCoy, and corrected himself: “We have to go to Washington. When I come back, if I see that you’ve taken good care of the Easterbunny…if you’ve seen to it that he’s taken the Atabrine when he should, that he’s been given everything he wants to eat, and that you have made him happy in every way you can think of—and yes, I mean what you think I mean—I’ll make a couple of calls for you, tell a couple of producers who owe me favors that I owe you one. Your tests may turn out to be bombs. Most screen tests do. But on the other hand, they may not. What’s your name?”

  “Dawn Morris.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  “Doris Morrison.”

  Dillon thought that over a moment. “Dawn Morris isn’t bad,” he decided. “Do we understand each other, Dawn Morris?”

  “Yes, Mr. Dillon, we do.”

  “It’s Major Dillon,” he said. “This is Lieutenant Ken McCoy. You can call us Jake and Killer.”

  “Screw you!” McCoy flared disgustedly. “Goddamn, Dillon!”

  “You can call us Jake and Lieutenant,” Dillon said, not chagrined. “Sit down, Dawn. Can I have Maria-Theresa fix you something to eat?”

  “I am a little hungry,” Dawn confessed.

  [THREE]

  Supreme Headquarters

  South West Pacific Ocean Area

  Brisbane, Australia

  1910 Hours 18 October 1942

  General Douglas MacArthur’s Philippine Scout orderly pushed open the door to MacArthur’s sitting room and announced, “General MacArthur, it is General Pickering.” The orderly was a portly, dark-skinned master sergeant, and Fleming Pickering could never remember seeing a smile on him. He was not smiling now.

  “Thank you, Juan,” MacArthur said, and rose from an armchair to extend his hand. “Fleming, I’m glad they were able to find you.”

  “I was in the dungeon, Sir,” Pickering replied, and nodded at Mrs. MacArthur. “Good evening, Mrs. MacArthur.”

  “Oh, Fleming, I’ve told you time and again that we’re friends, and to please call me Jean.”

  “Well then, good evening, Jean,” Pickering said.

  “Do you have to go back to your ‘dungeon,’” MacArthur asked, “or can I offer you something?” He turned to his wife. “The ‘dungeon,’ Jean darling, is the cryptographic room in the basement.”

  “Deep in the basement,” Pickering added, “and yes, Sir, I have to go back. And yes, Sir, I would be very grateful if you offered me something.”

  “Good, because I have one thing to tell you which I think will please you, and another thing to tell you I hope ultimately will be cause for celebration.”

  “Sir?”

  “Where the hell is he?” MacArthur asked impatiently. “I am about to wear this bell out!”

  Pickering saw for the first time that MacArthur was tapping his foot on what looked like a doorbell button under the coffee table.

  The Filipino orderly appeared.

  “Ah, there you are, Juan!” MacArthur said warmly, without a hint of displeasure in his voice. “Would you please get General Pickering something to drink? And while you’re at it, would you refreshen this, please? Jean, darling?”

  “Nothing for me, thank you, Juan,” she replied.

  “The General drinks scotch-soda, small ice, is correct?” Juan asked.

  “That’s right, thank you,” Pickering said.

  “Why do you call it the ‘dungeon’?” Mrs. MacArthur asked. “Because it’s in the basement?”

  “Because the walls run with water, and there is a steel door which creaks like a Boris Karloff movie,” Pickering said.

  “I don’t think I have ever been down there,” she said.

  “I don’t think they’d let you in, dear,” MacArthur said. “Willoughby has to have written permission from Fleming before he can get inside the steel door.”

  “That’s not true, Sir,” Pickering said. “He would need a note from you.”

  “The security is necessarily quite rigid, Jean,” MacArthur lectured. “It is in the dungeon that Fleming and Pluto and the boy…I shouldn’t say ‘boy’…and the young officer who was raised in Japan, Moore, analyze intercepted Japanese messages. Only three people here—myself, Willoughby, and Fleming—are authorized access to that material. Or, for that matter, are even authorized to know what MAGIC means.”

  “I see,” she said.

  Except of course, you, Jean, Pickering thought. The most serious violation of security vis-à-vis MAGIC is committed by the Supreme Commander.

  Or are you being holier than thou? If Patricia were here, would you talk to her, secure in the knowledge that it would go no further?

  Juan handed Pickering a stiff drink.

  “Thank you, Juan.”

  “There was a radio from CINCPAC an hour or so ago,” MacArthur said. “Actually two, but the important one to you first. That’s when I asked if you could be located.”

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “After distinguishing itself almost beyond words in the air war over Guadalcanal, VMF-229 has been withdrawn from combat,” MacArthur announced. “I sent a personal radio to General Vandegrift, to which there was an immediate reply. Lieutenant Malcolm Pickering, I am delighted to inform you, is one of the officers who survived.”

  My God, he came through! Pick’s all right!

  Pickering’s physical response came as a total shock to him. His throat tightened. His eyes watered. He was able to keep from sobbing only by an act of massive willpower.

  “Fleming’s son, Jean, has eight times been the victor in aerial combat,” MacArthur announced. “A warrior in his father’s mold!”

  “You must be so proud of him!” she said.

  “I am,” Pickering said, surprised that he could speak.

  And so goddamned relieved! Thank you, God!

  “General Vandegrift did not say to where they have been withdrawn,” MacArthur said. “I suppose I should have asked. Perhaps Espiritu Santo, or Noumea, or here, or New Zealand. Should I send another personal radio?”

  “N
o, Sir. That won’t be necessary. Pluto will either know or can quickly find out.”

  And why should I be able to have access to scarce communications facilities when ten thousand other fathers will have to wait until the services in their own good time get around to telling them whether their sons are dead or alive?

  Don’t get carried away, Pickering, and kick the goddamn gift horse in the goddamn mouth!

  “You said there were two things, General?” Pickering asked.

  “Yes, there are,” MacArthur said, and reached to the table beside him and came up with a radio message. “This came in at the same time the other did.”

  MacArthur handed him the CINCPAC radio message announcing that Nimitz had relieved Ghormley and appointed Halsey to replace him.

  “You saw Admiral Nimitz on your way here,” MacArthur said. “Did he tell you he was thinking about doing something like this?”

  It was, Pickering understood, more than a matter of curiosity. MacArthur wanted to know if Pickering had information that he had not chosen to share with him.

  “No, Sir,” Pickering said, meeting MacArthur’s eyes. “He didn’t.”

  “Does this surprise you?”

  “Admiral Nimitz gave me no indication that he was…dissatisfied…with Admiral Ghormley,” Pickering said.

  “But?”

  “But Ghormley seemed…General, you’re putting me on the spot. I dislike criticizing officers who know vastly more about waging war than I do.”

  “Entre nous, Fleming,” MacArthur said. “We are friends.”

  That was a command, not a request. He wants a reply and I will have to give him one.

  And when in doubt, tell the truth.

  “General, in the belief it would go no further, Pluto Hon said to me that Admiral Ghormley’s radios of 16 and 17 October were unreasonable, and sounded a little desperate…the ones in which he claimed his forces were totally inadequate and requested tremendous new levels of support. I thought so, too.”

  “Absolutely!” MacArthur agreed. “The one thing a commander simply cannot do is appear unsure of himself. Nimitz saw this. He had no choice but to relieve Ghormley; Ghormley gave him none.”

  Pickering looked at him but did not reply.

  “Relieving an officer, especially if he is someone you have served with and think of as a friend, is one of the most painful responsibilities of command,” MacArthur declared. “It must have been very distressing for Admiral Nimitz.”

  He looked for a moment as if he was listening to his own words, and upon hearing them, agreeing with them. He nodded, then smiled.

  “But at least he picked the right man,” he said.

  “You know Admiral Halsey, Sir?”

  “I’ve met him. I know his reputation. But he is apparently someone who immediately takes charge. He has called a conference for the day after tomorrow at Noumea. Vandegrift will be there. And Harmon. And Patch. The Admiral is apparently one of those rare sailors who thinks that sometimes soldiers and Marines may have something to say worth listening to.”

  “Douglas!” Jean MacArthur chided. “That’s unkind!”

  MacArthur ignored her.

  “In the belief that you would find this conference interesting, Fleming, I’ve arranged for a plane to take you there.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Pickering said.

  He suddenly understood: MacArthur had not been invited to Admiral Halsey’s conference.

  Prince Machiavelli knows that while I would be no more welcome there than he would, or any of his palace guard (Willoughby, for example), they can’t keep me out. And, since we are friends, it is to be expected that on my return, I will report what happened. The wily old sonofabitch!

  “But my mission here, Sir, is to convince you that Mr. Donovan’s people would be of greater value than harm. I’m not sure I should go to Admiral Halsey’s conference with that hanging in the air.”

  “We can talk about Wild Bill Donovan when you return,” MacArthur said.

  That could be interpreted to mean tit-for-tat; I go to the conference and tell you what they said, and you let Donovan’s people in. But I know you better than that. When I return we will talk about Donovan again and you will tell me of another reason you don’t want his camel’s nose under your tent.

  “General, you have again put me on the spot,” Pickering said, draining his scotch. “Ethically. If I go to Halsey’s conference, there is a good chance I will be made privy to things the Navy wouldn’t wish you to know.”

  “My dear Fleming,” MacArthur said. “I understand completely. But it is a moot point. If anything transpires at that conference that I should know, Admiral Nimitz will see to it that I do.”

  I believe that. I also believe that somewhere in the hills of Tennessee there is a pig that really can whistle.

  “And anyway,” MacArthur said, tapping his foot on the floor-mounted button again, and smiling at Pickering, “when they see you at the conference, they won’t say anything they don’t want me to hear. They know how close we are.”

  Office of the Director of Public Affairs

  Headquarters, U.S. Marine Corps

  Eighth and I Streets, N.W.

  Washington, D.C.

  0945 Hours 20 October 1942

  Brigadier General J. J. Stewart, USMC, a ruddy-faced, stocky, pleasant-looking officer of not-quite fifty, had received by hand the square envelope he was now holding. In theory, every item delivered into the Navy Department message center system was treated like every other: It would gradually wend its way through the system until it ultimately arrived at its destination.

  There were exceptions to every standard operating procedure, however, and the item General Stewart held in his hand headed the list of exceptions. The return address read: “The Secretary of the Navy, Washington, D.C.”

  General Stewart carefully opened the envelope by lifting the flap. His usual custom was to stab the envelope with his letter opener, a miniature Marine Officer’s Sword given to him by his wife. But such an act felt too much like a—well, minor desecration. He extracted the single sheet of paper and read it carefully.

  * * *

  The Secretary of the Navy

  Washington, D.C.

  October 19, 1942

  Brigadier General J. J. Stewart

  Director, Public Affairs

  Headquarters, U.S. Marine Corps

  Washington, D.C.

  The Secretary wishes it known, upon the release of Major Homer C. Dillon, USMCR, from temporary duty with the Office of Management Analysis, that he is cognizant of, and deeply appreciative of, the extraordinary performance of duty by Major Dillon in the conduct of a classified mission of great importance.

  The Secretary additionally wishes to express his appreciation of the professional skill and extraordinary devotion to duty, at what was obviously great personal risk, of Corporal Robert F. Easterbrook, USMC. Corporal Easterbrook’s still and motion picture photography, when viewed by the President, the Secretary and certain members of the U.S. Senate, provided an insight into activities on Guadalcanal which would not have otherwise been available.

  By Direction:

  DAVID W. HAUGHTON

  Captain, U.S. Navy

  Administrative Assistant to the Secretary

  * * *

  General Stewart’s first thought was that what he was reading had been written the day before. Probably late in the afternoon, or even at night. Otherwise it would have been delivered before this.

  Then he began to try to understand what the words meant.

  Though he could not be considered an actual thorn in General Stewart’s side, Major Homer C. Dillon was the sort of officer who made General Stewart uncomfortable. He didn’t fit into the system. He knew too many important people.

  As for the “classified mission of great importance” Dillon had been involved in, General Stewart had no idea what it was all about. He’d been told at the time, and rather bluntly, that Major Dillon was being placed on tem
porary duty for an indefinite period with the Office of Management Analysis. He’d never previously heard of that organization. Yet when he quite naturally asked about it, he’d even more bluntly been told that his curiosity was unwelcome.

  He’d made additional, very discreet inquiries, and learned that the Office of Management Analysis had virtually nothing to do with either management or analysis. That information did not surprise him; for he also learned that the number-two man at the Office of Management Analysis was Colonel F. L. Rickabee, whom General Stewart knew by reputation—the reputation being that he’d been involved in intelligence matters since he was a first lieutenant. The number-one man at Management Analysis was Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, a reservist. The Washington Post had described Pickering as a close personal friend of the President, and scuttlebutt had it that he was Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox’s personal spy in the Pacific.

  Dillon had obviously been doing something for the Office of Management Analysis…. Exactly what he was doing there, General Stewart suspected he would never know. But he’d done it well, witness the letter. And so now he was being returned to Public Affairs for duty, with the official thanks of the Secretary of the Navy.

  But who the hell is this corporal?

  “Sergeant Sawyer!” General Stewart called; and in a moment, Technical Sergeant Richard Sawyer, USMC, a lean, crisp Marine in his middle thirties, put his head in the door. General Stewart motioned him inside and Sergeant Sawyer closed the door behind him.

  “Sawyer, were you aware that Major Dillon is being returned to us?”

  “Yes, Sir. There was a call yesterday afternoon. The Major is apparently on his way here—by now, he’s probably arrived—from the West Coast. I arranged for a BOQ for him.”

  “Good man,” General Stewart said. “Does the name Easterbrook, Corporal Robert F., ring a bell with you?”

  Sergeant Sawyer considered the question a moment, and then shook his head, no.

  “No, Sir.”

  “See if you can find out who he is, will you?”

  “Aye, aye, Sir,” Sergeant Sawyer said, and then an idea came to him. “General, he may be one of the combat correspondents Major Dillon took with him when he went over there the first time, for the Guadalcanal invasion. I’ll check.”