The next morning, the damage, if any, was apparently repaired, and the Coronado took off on schedule. The seat wasn't all that comfortable, but it was certainly more comfortable than anything the B-l7 Flying Fortress had offered Major Brownlee, and the flight was as pleasant as could be. After hearing what had happened two days before to the in-bound Coronado, he had worried about the weather; but there was none. The Pacific was really pacific, with hardly a cloud in the sky on both legs-Hawaii-Midway, and Midway-Brisbane.
After the whaleboats transported them from the seaplane to the quai, and he climbed the stone stairs set in the face of the quai, he was met by a Marine staff sergeant.
He looked like a child, and Macklin wondered what fool of a commanding officer had agreed to his promotion.
"Captain Macklin?" the boy-faced sergeant asked.
"Yes, lam."
"Staff Sergeant Koffler, Sir. If you'll point out your gear to me, I'll get it."
"The two bags with my name on them on the steps. Make sure they don't get away from you."
"No sweat, Sir. The Major's over there, Sir," Koffler said, and pointed.
"What did you say, Sergeant?"
"I said the Major's over there, Sir. In the Studebaker."
"I meant before that. Did you really say 'no sweat' to me?"
"Yes, Sir, I guess I did."
"The correct response to an order, Sergeant, is 'Aye, aye, Sir.' "
"Aye, aye, Sir," Koffler said.
He looked amused.
"Did I say something amusing, Sergeant?"
"No, Sir."
"Then wipe that smile off your face."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
As he approached the Studebaker, a very large Oriental-the largest Macklin could ever remember seeing-in the uniform of an Army Signal Corps major, stepped out of the front passenger seat.
Macklin saluted. The Major made a vague gesture toward his head that only generously could be interpreted as a salute.
"You must be Macklin," the Major said, in a heavy Bostonian accent.
"I am Captain Macklin. May..."
"Where's the Major?"
"Excuse me?"
"Where is Major Brownlee?"
"You mean he's not here?"
"If he was here, Captain, I wouldn't have asked where he is," Pluto re-plied.
"Sir, may I ask who you are?"
"My name is Hon," Pluto said. "Have you any idea, Captain, where Major Brownlee is?"
"With all respect, Sir, I am on a classified mission, and until-"
"I know all about your mission, Captain," Pluto cut him off. "And I asked you where Major Brownlee is."
"Sir, Major Brownlee, to the best of my knowledge, should be in Aus-tralia. He was under orders to report to General Pickering."
"Well, I don't think he did, or General Pickering wouldn't have sent me down here in his car to meet him. When was the last time you saw him?"
"In Hawaii, Sir. At Hickam Field. He obtained passage for himself on a Flying Fortress."
"When was that?"
"Three days ago, Sir."
"Before or after Sessions left?"
"Several hours afterward, Sir."
Staff Sergeant Koffler, carrying Macklin's luggage, walked up.
"Steve, how fast is a B-17 compared to a Coronado?" Pluto asked.
"About eighty miles an hour faster. Why do you want to know?"
"Major Brownlee left Hawaii on a B-17 a couple of hours after Sessions, and he's not here yet."
"That doesn't sound right," Koffler said.
"I didn't think so, either."
My God, this Oriental major calls this sergeant by his first name, carries on a personal conversation with him, and seems blissfully oblivious to the fact that he hasn't said "Sir" once to him.
"You are some sort of expert, are you, Sergeant, on aircraft?"
Koffler shrugged modestly.
"Oh, yeah," Pluto said. "Steve is our resident expert. If it flies, he knows how fast and how far. And he's also a pretty good radio operator."
"Tell that to the General, please," Koffler said.
"You're not going, Steve," Pluto said. "Give it up." He turned to Macklin. "You might as well get in, Captain, since Brownlee's not here."
"My orders are to report to General Pickering," Macklin said. "Would you take me to him, please?"
"My orders from General Pickering are to set you up in the SWPOA BOQ. When he wants to see you, he'll send for you."
=TOP SECRET=
PROM: SUPREME HEADQUARTERS SWPOA
0925 26N0V42
BY SPECIAL CHANNEL
TO: CINCPAC HAWAII
EYES ONLY-CINCPAC
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
ORIGINAL TO BE DESTROYED AFTER ENCRYPTION AND TRANSMITTAL
FOLLOWING PERSONAL FROM BRIG GEN PICKERING TO ADM NIMITZ
DEAR ADMIRAL NIMITZ:
MAJOR JAMES C. BROWNLEE m USMC EN ROUTE USMC SPECIAL DETACHMENT 16 TO PARTICIPATE IN
FERTIG OPERATION BELIEVED TO HAVE DEPARTED HICKAM FIELD AS SUPERCARGO ABOARD USARMY
AIRCORPS B17 APPROXIMATELY 1830 21 NOVEMBER 1942 HAS NOT ARRIVED HERE.
REQUEST ANY AND ALL INFORMATION REGARDING THIS OFFICER'S LOCATION BE FURNISHED VIA SPECIAL
CHANNEL AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.
RESPECTFULLY PICKERING
END PERSONAL FROM BRIG GEN PICKERING TO ADM NIMITZ
BY DIRECTION:
HON SON DO MAJ SIGC USA
T O P S E C R E T
[SEVEN]
Headquarters, U.S. Forces in the Philippines
Davao Oriental Province
Mindanao, Commonwealth of the Philippines
0705 Hours 28 November 1942
Second Lieutenant Percy Lewis Everly, USFIP, walked down the dirt trail through the bush very slowly, followed by the other nine members of the pa-trol.
His loose-fitting dirty white cotton blouse and trousers-cut off at the knees-were sweat-soaked and filthy. His calves were bloody where they had been scratched by thorns; flies and other insects were feeding on the suppurat-ing wounds.
He carried a Thompson.45 ACP submachine gun in his hand. The leather straps of three Japanese Arisaka rifles and their leather accoutrements crossed his chest.
Behind him came two Filipino soldiers, carrying between them what at first looked like a body suspended from a pole on their shoulders. It was not a body, but the tunic and trousers of a Japanese soldier, stripped from his body and pressed into use as makeshift bags. The tunic held two five-gallon tin cans of gasoline (a total weight of seventy pounds). In the trousers was an estimated fifty pounds of rice, twenty pounds of Japanese canned goods, perhaps ten or fifteen more pounds of ammunition for the Arisakas, and an even dozen gre-nades. The load bearers also carried U.S. Army Caliber.30-06 Enfield rifles.
Behind them came three more pairs of what Everly somewhat unkindly thought of as coolies-two more Filipinos and four Marines, also carrying captured food and equipment suspended in Japanese uniforms converted into bags.
How the slight Filipinos managed their loads, Everly had no idea. It seemed to be a matter of pride with them to carry at least as much as the Ma-rines. Bringing up the rear was a Filipino making his painful way using a forked stick as a crutch. He had sprained-Everly suspected broken-his ankle in a fall just before they ambushed the Japanese vehicles. Somehow, he had managed to keep up with the others. They had been walking all night, in the light of a half-moon.
Everly walked up to the small building on stilts that was both the G-2 Sec-tion, Headquarters, USFIP, and the quarters he shared with Captain James B. Weston.
He turned and faced his men.
"Just drop that stuff where you are," he ordered. "Somebody'll take care of it. Somebody go get the Chief and have him look at Zappo's leg. Get some-thing to eat and some sleep."
There were nods in acceptance of the orders, but no one responded out loud. They just lowered their loads onto the ground.
Everly looked at the steps leadi
ng to the verandah of the house. Although he really disliked doing this-it was a mortal sin for a Marine, permitting weapons to touch the ground-he decided there was no way he could negotiate the stairs loaded down as he was.
He put the butt of the Thompson on the ground, leaning the barrel against his leg, and started to remove the leather straps around his chest. When he had the first one off and tried to lower it gently to the ground, the Thompson fell off his leg.
"Shit!" he said, and angrily pulled the other straps over his head and let the rifles fall. Then he picked up the Thompson and brushed the dirt from it as well as he could.
Then he slowly climbed the ladderlike stairs to the verandah. Captain Weston was not in the "office" or their "quarters," the two rooms into which the house was divided.
"Fuck it," Everly said aloud to himself. "He'll be back."
He walked to his bed (constructed of bamboo poles, with a combination spring and mattress made of woven leaves) and lay down. He lay immobile for a minute or two, then sat up and took his boondockers and socks off. The socks were in tatters, and the sole of the right boondocker would not last much lon-ger; it was about to tear free of the nearly rotten leather.
He lay back down and considered that problem a moment. He had big feet, eleven-and-a-halfs, and so far no Japanese he had come across had feet nearly that big. The Filipinos were well shod, courtesy of the Japanese Imperial Army, but the footgear of all the Marines was just about shot.
They were going to have to find a shoemaker. Or something else would have to be done.
The house shook, signaling that someone was climbing the stairs. Everly didn't move his head, but looked at the open door.
"Welcome home," Weston said.
Everly did not reply. He disapproved of Weston's beard. An officer should be shaved, not wearing a goatee like General Fertig, or a full beard like Weston.
"How did it go?"
"We got some stuff. Including fifteen gallons of gas-"
"I saw that," Weston interrupted.
"And I marked some stuff on a map," Everly said, reaching into his trou-sers pocket and handing it to Weston. "We didn't lose anybody-Zappo hurt his ankle, it's probably broken-and I am down to twenty-six rounds for my Thompson."
"Good job, Everly," Weston said.
"How about a three-day pass?" Everly said.
Weston chuckled.
"You'd just spend it on whiskey and wild women."
"You better believe it!"
"We had an interesting message from Australia," Weston said.
"What did they say this time? 'Your request under advisement'? For a change?"
"Do you remember the name of the first sergeant of Baker Company, 4th Marines, in China?"
"What?"
"The name of the First Sergeant of Baker Company of the 4th Marines in China. Do you remember it?"
"How could I forget it? That fat fucker was one mean sonofabitch."
"What was his name?"
"It was..." Everly began, and then drew a blank, even though he had a very clear mental image of First Sergeant Whatthefuckishisname? standing with his hands on his hips, his beer belly straining the buttons of his stiffly starched khakis.
"Shit, I can't remember. I can see the sonofabitch.... Why do you want to know?"
"Australia wants to use his name in a simple substitution code."
"What for?"
"I have no idea."
"Give me a minute, I'll think of it."
Thirty minutes later, he was still unable to call the name from memory. Although one of the other Marines vaguely remembered the first sergeant of Baker Company, Fourth Marines, no one could come up with his name.
By that time, Captain Weston and Lieutenant Everly had been joined by Lieutenant Ball, Captain Buchanan, and General Fertig.
"I'm sorry, General," Everly said. "Maybe if I stop trying so hard; maybe after I get some sleep..."
"The problem, Lieutenant, is that I promised Australia I would respond today," Fertig said.
"General, I'm sorry," Everly repeated.
"Those bastards are probably looking for an excuse to break off contact with us," Weston said, putting into words what was in the minds of everybody in the small room.
"Captain," Fertig said sharply. "Please keep thoughts like that to your-self."
"Sorry, Sir."
"Let's try another tack," Fertig said. "Who would want this information? Why?"
Everybody shrugged, but after a moment Lieutenant Ball said, "Maybe they want to know if Everly is really Everly. I mean, the one who served with the 4th Marines."
"What the hell is the difference?"
"Let's go with Ball's idea. Unless he had also served with the Fourth Ma-rines, who else would know about this first sergeant, and know that Everly would know."
"Anybody in the 4th Marines."
"But this chap is in Australia," Fertig said. "So it would be someone who served with the 4th Marines and did not come to the Philippines when they did."
"The Killer," Everly said.
"What?"
"And he would know about Zimmerman," Everly said, now excited. "It's got to be the Killer."
"Who's the Killer?" Fertig asked.
"Corporal Killer McCoy," Everly said. "He used to work for Captain Banning, who was the S-2 of the Fourth. Him and Zimmerman were pals."
Fertig looked at Buchanan.
"What have we got to lose, General?" Captain Buchanan said.
Chapter Twelve
[ONE]
Radio Room
Supreme Headquarters SWPOA
0910 Hours 28 November 1942
"You've got something for me?" Major Hon Son Do asked, as he entered the crowded room.
"I can't imagine who else it would be for, Major," said Captain Edward D'Allesandro, the somewhat prissy Signal Corps Captain on duty. Captain D'Allesandro had not stopped smarting under the injustice of a system that had suddenly promoted to field grade the Asiatic lieutenant with the mysterious duties that kept him off the duty roster, while he himself had been a captain with outstanding efficiency reports for nearly eighteen months and was still waiting for his promotion.
He handed Hon the message.
"It came in in the clear," Captain D'Allesandro said as Hon read the brief message.
MFS TO GYB
CANNOT RECALL FAT BASTARDS NAME. THE KILLER SHOULD KNOW IT. REMEMBER THE KRAUTS NAME. DO YOU WANT IT IN THE CLEAR
FERTIG BRIG GEN
MFS STANDING BY
Hon smiled.
"Call them back, please, Captain," he said. "Message is 'Negative Krauts Name in Clear. Stand by.'
"I think I have the right to know what this is all about," Captain D'Al-lesandro said. " 'Highly irregular' doesn't begin to cover it."
"You don't have the right to know, Captain," Hon said evenly, and reached for the telephone on the Captain's desk.
"General, this is Pluto," he said, and interrupted himself. "Captain, reply to MFS now/"
"Yes, Sir," Captain D'Allesandro said.
"Sorry, I was interrupted. Sir, we've just heard from Fertig. Addressed to the Killer. I suggest, Sir, that you send him and Sessions, and the Model 94 here. I'm in the SWPOA radio room."
Captain D'Allessandro returned from responding to MFS.
"We have an acknowledgment of your message to MFS, Sir."
"Thank you. We will be communicating with MFS some more. I'm going to need either your desk or a table, a typewriter, and several chairs."
"I'm sure the Major is aware that he is disrupting my operation. I'm going to have to bring this to the attention of the SWPOA Signal Officer."
"That's Colonel... ?"
"Ungerer, Sir. Colonel Jason Ungerer."
"I suggest, Captain, that you hold off on calling Colonel Ungerer for ten or fifteen minutes. By then, General Pickering will be here, and your boss and my boss can sort this disruption out between them."
W E B Griffin - Corp 07 - Behind the Lines Page 35