"I suppose that’s so," Pickering said, chuckling.
"To Haughton’s way of thinking, and to others like him, the Secretary of the Navy controls the very fate of the Navy. That being so, the information that is presented to him has to be carefully processed. And above all, the Navy must appear in the best possible light."
"I think I understand," Pickering said. "And I can see where that might be a problem."
Knox removed his pince-nez, took a handkerchief from the sleeve of his heavy woolen suit-now that he noticed it, Pickering was sure the suit was English-and polished the lenses. He put them back on his nose, stuffed the handkerchief back up his jacket cuff, and looked directly at Pickering.
"That might be an overstatement, but it’s close," he said. "And to that problem is added what I think of as the Navy’s institutional mind-set. From the very beginning, from the first Secretary of the Navy, the men in blue have been certain that the major cross they have to bear is that the man with the authority is a political appointee who really doesn’t know-is incapable of knowing-what the Navy is really all about."
"Huh," Pickering grunted.
"Their quite understandable desire is-and I suppose always has been-to attempt to manage the Secretary of the Navy. To see that he hears what they want him to hear, and that he does not hear-or at least is presented with in the best possible light- what they’d rather he didn’t hear at all."
"One doesn’t think of the Navy as an institution," Pickering said, "but of course that’s what it is."
"On October 13, 1775, Congress voted to equip seven ships to support George Washington," Knox said. "Less than a month later, on November 10, 1775, the Congress authorized the Marine Corps. And before that, there were states’ navies- Rhode Island’s in particular. In July 1775, Washington sent a frigate of the Rhode Island navy to Bermuda to get gunpowder for the Continental Army. In 167 years, a certain institutional mind-set is bound to occur."
Pickering chuckled. There was something professorial in the way Knox had precisely recounted the origin of the Navy, and about the man himself, with his pince-nez and superbly tailored English suit. It was difficult to imagine him during the Spanish-American War, a Rough Rider sergeant charging up Kettle Hill with Lieutenant Colonel Teddy Roosevelt’s 1stUnited States Volunteer Cavalry.
As it is difficult for me to accept that I once actually fixed a bayonet onto my ‘03 Springfield, and that when the whistle blew, I went over the top and into no-man ‘s-land in Belleau Wood.
"They had an interesting tradition, early on," Pickering said. "Privateers. I don’t suppose I could talk you out of a Letter of Marque, could I?"
Knox looked at him with annoyance, and then smiled. "You really think there’s a place in this war for a pirate?"
"A pirate is an outlaw," Pickering said. "A privateer was authorized by his government-and our government issued a hell of a lot of Letters of Marque-to prey on the enemy’s shipping. There’s a substantial difference."
"You sound as if you’re serious."
"Maybe I am," Pickering said.
Knox looked at him for a moment, his demeanor making it clear he was not amused that Pickering was proposing, even half-jokingly, an absurd idea. Then he went on, "I understand why you felt you couldn’t work for Bill Donovan, but I think you’ll have to grant that he has the right idea."
That was pretty stupid of me,Pickering thought. He’s going to think I’m a fool or a drunk. Or both.
"Excuse me? What idea?"
"The country will be better off-if the Army and the Navy let him get away with it, which is open to some doubt-if, that is to say, intelligence from all sources can be filtered through Donovan’s twelve disciples... and if they will use it as the basis for recommending to the President action that is in the best interests of the United States, as opposed to action recommended on the basis of the parochial mind-set of the Army or Navy."
"I agree," Pickering said. "I’m a little surprised-maybe ‘disturbed’ is the word-to hear you doubt the Army and Navy will ‘let him get away with it.’"
"I try to see things as they are," Knox said. "And I’m fully aware that in addition to being at war with the Germans, the Italians, and the Japanese, the Army and Navy are at war with each other."
Pickering chuckled again.
"I laugh, too," Knox said. "Even knowing that it’s not funny."
"Why do I think that the Navy is having a hard time managing you?" Pickering said.
"Well, they’re trying," Knox said. "And the odds would seem to be in their favor. Franklin Roosevelt is partial to the Navy. He was once an Undersecretary, for one thing. For another, he has a lamentable habit of calling in Ernie King-"
"Admiral King?" Pickering interrupted.
Knox nodded. "King replaced Admiral Stark as Chief of Naval Operations on December 31. Stark was a good man, but after Pearl Harbor he had to go. Anyway, Roosevelt has already started giving Admiral King marching orders without asking or telling me about it. And he’s about to throw Admiral Bill Leahy into the equation."
"Thatyou’ll have to explain," Pickering said.
"Leahy-and understand, Pickering, that I admire all the people I’m talking about-is functioning as sort of chief of military staff to Roosevelt, a position that does not exist in the law. They’re about to organize a committee, comprised of the Chief of Staff of the Army, the head of the Army Air Corps, the Chief of Naval Operations, and the Commandant of the Marine Corps. They’re going to call it the Joint Chiefs of Staff, or something like that. And Leahy will preside over that. Without any legal authority to do so, except a verbal one from Roosevelt."
"Huh," Pickering snorted, and added, "You seem to be outnumbered, Mr. Secretary. But I don’t see what any of this could possibly have to do with me."
"My responsibility to the President, as I see it, is to present him with the most accurate picture that I can of the Navy’s strengths . . . and, more importantly, its weaknesses. His decisions have to be based on the uncolored facts, not facts seen through parochial, rose-colored glasses. I cannot, in other words, let myself be managed by Ernie King, or Bill Leahy, or the Association of Annapolis Graduates."
Knox looked at Pickering, as if waiting for his reaction. When there was none, he went on, "I’ve come to the conclusion that I need some-more than that, several-people like Bill Donovan’s disciples."
"And that’s where I come in? As one of them?"
Knox nodded. "Interested?"
"I don’t know what you’re really asking of me."
"I want you to be my eyes and ears in the Pacific," Knox said. "You know as much about maritime affairs in the Pacific as anyone I know, including all of my admirals."
"I’m not sure that’s true," Pickering said.
"I’m not talking about Naval tactics, about which I am prepared to defer to the admirals, but about logistics, by which I mean tonnages and harbors and stevedoring and time/distance factors. I don’t want my admirals to bite off more than they can chew as they try to redeem themselves in the public-and their own-eye after Pearl Harbor. Logistics affects strategy, and advising the President on strategy is my business. I want the facts. I think you’re the man who can get them for me."
"Yeah," Pickering said thoughtfully. "I could do that, all right."
"My original thought was to offer you an assistant secretaryship, but I don’t think that would work."
Pickering looked at him curiously.
"You’d be political. Both the political appointees and the Navy would hate you and try to manage you. And they’d probably succeed. If you were in uniform, however, the political appointees would not see you as a threat. As a naval officer, as a captain on the staff of the Secretary of the Navy . . ."
"A Navy captain?"
"Yes."
"How’s the Navy going to react to an instant captain?"
"We’re commissioning a lot of ‘instant captains.’ Civil engineers, doctors, lawyers, all sorts of professionals. Even a few people who are
already entitled to be called ‘captain,’ like yourself." Knox paused and smiled at Pickering. "Since you already know the front of the ship is the bow and the floor is the deck, you’ll be way ahead of most of them."
Pickering chuckled.
"Does this interest you, Pickering?"
"You think I could do something worthwhile?"
"Yes, I do. I really do."
"Then I’m at your service, Mr. Knox," Pickering said.
Knox walked up to him and offered his hand. "I’d like to have you as soon as possible. When do you think . . . ?"
"Tomorrow morning be all right?" Pickering replied.
Now it was Knox’s turn to chuckle.
"Things don’t move quite that quickly, even for the Secretary of the Navy," he said. "Could you call Captain Haughton back in here, please?"
Pickering picked up one of the telephones.
"Would you ask Captain Haughton to come in here, please, Mrs. Florian?"
The slim Navy officer, his eyes wary, appeared a moment later.
"David, Mr. Pickering has kindly offered me a case of this excellent Scotch. Would you see that it gets on the plane?"
"Yes, of course, Mr. Secretary."
"And before we get on the plane, I want you to find out who handles officer procurement out here. Then call them and tell them I want a suitable officer assigned to walk Mr.- Captain- Pickering through the processing. Make it clear to them that this is important to me. As soon as we can get him sworn in, Captain Pickering will be joining my staff."
"Aye, aye, Sir," Haughton said. He looked at Pickering, briefly but intently. He was obviously surprised at what he had just heard.
"And stay on top of it when we get back to Washington," Knox ordered. "I don’t want the process delayed by bureaucratic niceties. Tell them they are to assume that if any waivers are required, I will approve them. And while I’m thinking about it, tell the Office of Naval Intelligence that while we’ll go through the normal security-clearance process with Captain Pickering, I have-based on my own knowledge of Captain Pickering, and on the unqualified recommendation of Senator Fowler-already granted him an interim top-secret clearance. Have that typed up. Make it official."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
Knox turned to Pickering. "That should get the ball rolling. Haughton will be in touch. Thank you, Pickering. Not only for the Scotch. And now I have to get out of here. They’re waiting for me at Alameda."
"May I send someone for the Scotch, Captain Pickering?" Haughton asked.
"It won’t take a minute to get it. You can take it with you."
"Whatever you say. I’ll get the driver."
"It doesn’t weigh all that much," Pickering said, without thinking. "I’ll get ii."
Haughton gave him a quick, dirty look.
Well, here you go, Fleming Pickering, not five minutes into your naval career, and you’re already pissing people off.
"Let’s get it now," Knox said. "Before he has a chance to change his mind."
Pickering led them to the storeroom on the ground floor that held the greater part of the whiskey removed from the sold Pacific passenger liners. He pulled a case of Old Grouse off a stack. When he started to carry it out, he saw that Haughton was uncomfortable, visibly unable to make up his mind whether he should volunteer to carry the case of whiskey himself-or to insist on it.
A sailor who had been leaning against the front fender of a 1941 Navy gray Chrysler quickly stood erect when he saw them coming out of the building. He opened the rear door, then quickly moved to take the case of whiskey from Pickering.
At leasthe knows what he’s doing, Pickering thought.
Knox nodded to Pickering and got in the car. Haughton, at first hesitantly, and then enthusiastically, offered his hand to Pickering.
"Welcome aboard, Captain," he said.
"Thank you," Pickering said. He did not like the feel of Haughton’s hand.
He watched the Chrysler move down Nob Hill, and then went back to his office.
He made himself another drink, and drank it looking out his window at San Francisco bay. Then he looked for a moment at his father’s picture. He wondered what the Old Man would have said: Hooray for you for enlisting! or, You damned fool! Then he sat on the edge of his desk and called his home.
"Hi!" he said, when Patricia’s cheerful voice came on the line.
"You’ve heard, haven’t you?" Patricia Pickering said.
"What?" he replied, only afterwards remembering that she was talking about the overdue Endeavor, Volition, and Venture. They had, shaming him, slipped from his immediate attention.
"What’s on your mind, Flem?" Patricia asked.
"Frank Knox, the Secretary of the Navy, was just in to see me."
"About the ships? Oh God, that sounds ominous!"
"He wants me to go into the Navy," Pickering said.
There was a pause before Patricia replied, "If you had turned him down, you would have said ‘wanted.’"
"Yes, that’s right."
He heard her inhale deeply; it was a moment before she spoke.
"When do you go? What are you going to do?"
"Soon. Work for him. He’s arranging for me to be commissioned as a captain."
"Oh, goddamn him!"
"I suppose I should have discussed this with you," Pickering said.
"Why should you start now, after all these years?" It was a failed attempt at lightness; a genuine bitterness came through.
"I’m sorry, Pat," he. said, meaning it.
"My father would say, ‘Never be sorry for doing something you want to do.’ And you do want to go, Flem, don’t you?"
"Yes. I suppose I do."
"Don’t come home now. I’d say things I would later regret."
"OK."
"Give me an hour. Make it an hour and a half. Then come."
He heard the click as she hung up.
(Three)
Building "F"
Anacostia Naval Air Station
Washington, D.C.
30 January 1942
First Lieutenant Charles E. Orfutt, aide-de-camp to Brigadier General D. G. Mclnerney, stepped inside Mclnerney’s office, closed the door quietly behind him, and waited until the General raised his eyes from the paperwork on his desk.
"Sergeant Galloway is outside, Sir."
That the news did not please General Mclnerney was evident on his face. He shrugged, exhaled audibly, and said, "Give me two minutes, Charlie, and then send him in."
"Aye, aye, Sir," Orfutt said, and quietly left the office.
Precisely two minutes later, there was a polite knock at Mclnerney’s door.
"Come!"
Technical Sergeant Charles M. Galloway, USMC, in greens, marched into the office, stopped precisely eighteen inches from Mclnerney’s desk, and came to attention. Then, gazing twelve inches over Mclnerney’s head, he said, "Technical Sergeant Galloway reporting to the General as ordered, Sir."
General Mclnerney pushed himself backward in his chair, locked his fingers together, and stared at Galloway for a full thirty seconds before he spoke.
"Look at me," he said.
Oh, shit. Here it comes,Charley Galloway thought. He dropped his eyes to meet Mclnerney’s.
"Do you have any idea how much goddamned trouble you’ve caused?"
"Yes, Sir. I think so."
"You don’t look especially penitent, Sergeant."
"Sir, I’m sorry about the trouble I caused."
"But you think it was really caused by a bunch of chickenshit swabbies, and in your heart of hearts you don’t think you did anything wrong, do you?"
The old bastard can read my mind.
Galloway’s face went pale, but he didn’t reply.
"You’re thinking that you were almost a Marine Corps legend, is that it? That you’d be remembered as the guy who fixed up a shot-up fighter with his own hands, flew it without orders onto the Saratoga, and then on to Wake, and died gloriously in a battle that will live for
ever in the memory of man?"
Again, Galloway’s face paled momentarily, but he didn’t say anything.
That’s not true. I wasn‘t trying to be a fucking hero. All I was trying to do was get that Wildcat to Wake, where it was needed.
"What the hell were you thinking, Galloway? Can you at least tell me that?"
"I was thinking they needed that Wildcat on Wake, Sir."
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