"Our torpedoes don’t work," Pickering said simply.
"What do you mean, they don’t work?"
"They don’t work. They either don’t reach the target, or they do and don’t explode."
"I’d never heard that," Fowler said, shocked. "Not all of them?"
"No, of course, not all of them. But apparently many. A hell of a lot, maybe half, maybe even more. The submarine brass, obviously, are not talking about it much. The story goes that submarine captains returning to Pearl Harbor who complained have been ordered to keep their mouths shut. I’m going out there to see for myself."
"I can’t understand that," Fowler said. "Didn’t they have any idea they wouldn’t work?"
"I don’t know. I understand it has something to do with the detonators. And since the detonators are the brainchildren of some highly placed admirals, obviously the submarine captains, not the detonators, are at fault."
"How can you hide something like that? In training, I mean. A torpedo that doesn’t explode?"
"They didn’t fire many of them in training, apparently. I asked that question. It cost too much," Pickering said. "The admiral I asked also made it rather clear that he objected to a civilian, even one wearing a captain’s uniform, asking questions like that of a professional sailor."
"How did that go down?" Fowler asked.
"I told him I had been master of a ship when he was still a midshipman."
"You didn’t!"
"No, I didn’t. I was tempted, Christ, how I was tempted. But I kept my mouth shut."
"I’m impressed, Flem," Senator Fowler said.
"OK. Let’s get on with this. The Japanese were already in French Indochina. The French-I don’t suppose they had much choice, with the Germans occupying France-permitted them to station troops and aircraft in Hanoi, Saigon, and other places, and there was a naval presence as well. From French Indochina, the Japs moved into Thailand. The Japanese have been in Korea for years.
"They landed in Malaya and conquered Singapore, our British allies having cleverly installed their artillery pointing in the wrong direction. The British surrendered seventy thousand men. That’s the largest Allied surrender so far-Frank Knox told me it was the worst defeat the English had suffered since Burgoyne surrendered at Saratoga-but it will lose its place in the history books when the Philippines fall."
"There’s no way we can hang on to the Philippines? Not even Mindanao? What about General Sharp and his thirty thousand men?"
"We probably could-hang on to Mindanao, I mean. But Roosevelt has decided the first stage of the war has to concentrate on Europe. That means no reinforcement for the Philippines."
"You sound as if you disagree."
"So far as I’m concerned, we should let the Germans and the Russians bleed each other to death," Pickering said. "But my theories of how the war should be fought have so far not been solicited."
"So what happens now?" Fowler asked.
"Well, we try to keep the Japanese from taking both Australia and New Zealand, which are obviously on their schedule. And we try to establish bases in Australia and New Zealand from which we can eventually start taking things back. It’s six thousand five hundred miles from San Francisco to Brisbane. At the moment that sea lane is open. MacArthur has already been asked, politely, to leave the Philippines and go to Australia."
"What do you mean, ‘asked’?"
"I mean asked. If he doesn’t go, I suppose Roosevelt will eventually make it an order. General Marshall’s been urging him to do it right away. MacArthur and Marshall hate each other, did you know that?"
"I’d heard rumors."
"When George Marshall was a colonel at Fort Benning, MacArthur was Army Chief of Staff. He wrote an efficiency report on Marshall, saying he should never be given command of anything larger than a regiment. MacArthur thinks Marshall- who’s now in MacArthur’s former position, of course-was returning the compliment when he recalled MacArthur as a lieutenant general."
"I don’t understand."
"MacArthur retired as a general, a full four-star general, when he was Chief of Staff. Then he got himself appointed Marshal of the Philippine Armed Forces. When Roosevelt called MacArthur back from retirement to assume command in the Philippines, he called him back as a lieutenant general, with three stars-junior to a full general, in other words. MacArthur thinks Marshall was behind that. I frankly wouldn’t be surprised if he was. Anyway, their relationship is pretty delicate.
"So the idea is that MacArthur will go to Australia. And that we will stage out of Australia and New Zealand. That’s presuming we can hang on to New Zealand and Australia. There are no troops there to speak of. They’re all off in Africa and England defending the Empire.
"And the Japanese know they can take it unless we can maintain a reasonably safe sea route to Australia and New Zealand, and they have already made their first move. On January twenty-third-which is what, three weeks ago?-they occupied Rabaul. Here."
He pointed at the map, at the Bismarck Archipelago, east of New Guinea.
"They’ve already established forces on New Guinea, and if they can build an air base at Rabaul, they can bomb our ships en route to Australia and New Zealand. And, of course, they can bomb New Zealand and Australia."
"And we’re doing nothing about that, either?"
"In that briefcase you won’t look at-"
"I told you why."
"-there is just about the final draft of an operations order from Admiral King. Unless somebody finds something seriously wrong with it, and I don’t think they will, he’ll make it official in the next couple of days. It orders the soonest possible recapture of Rabaul. To do that, we’ll have to set up a base on Efate Island, in the New Hebrides."
"Where the hell is that?"
Pickering pointed to the map. Fowler saw that Јfate was a tiny speck in the South Pacific, northwest of New Caledonia, which itself was an only slightly larger speck of land east of the Australian continent.
"Why there?"
"It’s on the shipping lanes. Once they get an airfield built, they can bomb Rabaul from it. And again, once the airfield is built, they can use it to protect the shipping lanes."
"Have we got any troops to send there? And ships to send them in?"
"Army Task Force 6814, which isn’t much-it’s much less than a division-is already on the high seas, bound for Efate," Pickering said.
"Not even a division? That’s not much."
"It’s all we’ve got, and it’s something."
"What about the Marines?"
"What about them?"
"Where are they? What are they doing?"
"The day the Japanese landed at Rabaul, the 2ndMarine Brigade landed on Samoa, reinforcing the 7thDefense Battalion. The 4thMarines, who used to be in China, are on Bataan. They’re forming Marine divisions on both coasts, but they won’t be ready for combat until early 1943."
"This is all worse than I thought. Or are you being pessimistic?"
"I don’t think so. I think ... if we can keep them from taking Australia, or rendering it impotent, we may even have bottomed out. But right now, our ass is in a crack."
"I heard ... I can’t tell you where . . ."
"Can’t, or won’t?"
"Won’t. I heard that Roosevelt has authorized the launching of B-26 bombers from an aircraft carrier to bomb Japan."
"B-twenty-fives," Pickering corrected him. "The ones they named after General Billy Mitchell. They’re training right now on the Florida Panhandle."
"What do you think about that?"
"I think it’s a good idea. It may not do much real damage, but it will hurt the Japanese ego, and probably make them keep a much larger home defense force than they have at home; and it’s probably going to do wonders for civilian morale here. That’s probably worth the cost."
"What cost?"
"I talked to Jimmy Doolittle. He used to be vice-president of Shell. Very good guy. He left me with the impression he doesn’t really expect to
come back."
"Jesus!"
"There are lieutenant colonels and then there are lieutenant colonels," Pickering said.
"You’re talking about the one you buried?"
"You accused me of being cold-blooded."
"OK. I apologize."
"I wish I was," Pickering said. "Cold-blooded, I mean."
"I was going to use my knowledge of Jimmy Doolittle and the B-25s to dazzle you, and get you to tell me about the Marine Raiders."
"Same sort of thing, I think. Roosevelt is dazzled by all things British, and thinks we should have our own commandos. We have to have some kind of military triumph or the public’s morale will go to hell."
"You think that’s all it is? A public-relations stunt, for public morale?"
"I think there’s more, but I don’t find anything wrong with doing something to buttress public morale. And Roosevelt’s at least putting his money where his mouth his. His son Jimmy is executive officer of one of the Raider battalions, the 2nd, now forming at San Diego."
"Tell me about it," Senator Fowler said. "You say you were out in San Diego?"
"After dinner. I didn’t have any lunch."
"You buying?"
"Why not?"
They ate in the hotel’s Grill Room, lamb chops and oven-roast potatoes and a tomato salad, with two bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon.
"Did I tell you," Pickering said, as he selected a Wisconsin Camembert from the display of cheeses, "that the 26thCavalry in the Philippines just shot their horses? They needed them for food."
"Jesus Christ, Flem!" the Senator protested.
"Why don’t I feel guilty about eating all this? Maybe you’re right, Dick. Maybe I really am cold-blooded."
"I don’t know whether you are or not, but that’s the last you get to drink. I know you well enough to know there are times when you should not be drinking, and this is one of those times."
After dinner, Captain Fleming Pickering, USNR, returned to his suite, took a shower, had a nightcap-a large brandy-and went to bed.
Something happened to him that had not happened to him in years. He had an erotic dream; it was so vivid that he remembered it in the morning. He blamed it then on everything that had happened the day before, plus the Camembert, the wine, and the cognac.
He dreamed that Mrs. Ellen Feller, the missionary’s wife, had come into his bedroom wearing nothing but the black lace underwear she had been wearing the day he met her, and then she had taken that off, and then he had done what men do in such circumstances.
(Two)
Office of the Chief of Staff
Headquarters, 2ndJoint Training Force
San Diego, California
21 February 1942
Captain Jack NMI Stecker, USMCR, knocked at the open door of Colonel Lewis T. "Lucky Lew" Harris’s office and waited for permission to enter.
"Come," Colonel Harris said, throwing a pencil down with disgust on his desk. "Why the hell is it, Jack, that whenever you tell somebody to put some simple idea on paper, he uses every big word he ever heard of? And uses them wrong?"
"I don’t know, Sir," Stecker smiled. "Am I the guilty party?"
"No. This piece of crap comes from our beloved adjutant. They’re worse than anybody, which I suppose is why we make them adjutants." He raised his voice: "Sergeant Major!"
The Sergeant Major, a very thin, very tall, leather-skinned man in his late thirties, quickly appeared at the office door.
"Sir?"
"Sergeant Major, would you please give this to the Adjutant? Tell him I don’t understand half of it and that it needs rewriting. Tell him I said he is forbidden to use words of more than two syllables."
"Aye, aye, Sir," the Sergeant Major said, chuckling, winking at Stecker, and taking the clipped-together sheaf of papers from Colonel Harris’s desk. "Sir, I presume the Colonel knows he’s about to break the Adjutant’s heart? He really is proud of this."
"Good," Harris said. "Better than good. Splendid! Tell him I want it in the morning. Anybody who writes crap like that doesn’t deserve any sleep."
"Aye, aye, Sir," the Sergeant Major said, smiling broadly, and left the office.
"Close the door, Jack," Colonel Harris said. Stecker did so. When he turned around, there was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s bourbon and two glasses on Harris’s desk. "A little something to cut the dust of the trail, Jack?"
"It’s a little early for me, Sir."
"We’re wetting down a promotion," Harris said. "And now that I am about to be a general officer, I will decide whether or not it’s a little early for you."
"In that case, General, I would be honored," Stecker said.
"I said ‘about to be a general.’ Not ‘am.’ You listen about as closely as that goddamned Adjutant. You’re going to have to watch that, Jack, now that you’re a field-grade officer."
"Sir?"
"Now I’ve got your attention, don’t I?" Harris said, pleased with himself. He handed Stecker an ex-Kraft Cheese glass, half-full of whiskey.
"Yes, Sir."
"Mud in your eye, Major Stecker," Colonel Harris said.
"I’m a little confused, Sir," Stecker said, as he raised the glass to his mouth and tossed the whiskey down.
"General Riley was on the horn just now," Harris said. He drained his glass and returned the bottle to the drawer before going on. "He said that my name has gone to the Senate for B.G., and presumably, as soon as they can- ifthey can-gather enough of them, sober enough to vote, for a quorum, the orders will be cut."
"It’s well deserved," Stecker said sincerely.
"I’m glad you think so," Harris said softly. "Thank you, Jack."
Harris touched Stecker’s arm in what was, for him, a gesture of deep affection.
Then the tone of his voice changed.
"But we were talking about your promotion, weren’t we, Major Stecker? You owe me a big one for this, Major."
"I didn’t realize that I was even being considered," Stecker said.
"Let me tell you what happened," Harris said. "You ever know a guy named Neville? Franklin G. Neville?"
"Yeah. The last I heard, he was on a tailgate assignment as a Naval attach? somewhere."
"In Finland. Well, he came back, got involved with parachute troops of all things, and made lieutenant colonel. A couple of days ago, he jumped out of an airplane at Lakehurst without a parachute, or at least with one that didn’t work, and killed himself."
"I’m sorry to hear that."
"Well, they need a replacement for him. I remain to be convinced that paratroops have any place in the Corps, but we have them. I think if the Army came up with an archery corps, some wild-eyed sonofabitch in Headquarters would start buying bows and arrows and claiming it was our idea in the first place."
He looked at Stecker for a little appreciation of his wit, and found instead concern-perhaps even alarm-in his eyes.
"No, Major Stecker," he said, chuckling. "You are not going to the Para-Marines, or whatever the hell they call them. You are going to the 1stDivision at New River, North Carolina, to replace the guy who is going to jump into-pun intended-the shoes of the late Colonel Neville."
"You had me worried for a moment," Stecker confessed.
"I could see that," Harris said. "Here’s what happened: General Riley asked me if I had a major I could recommend to take this guy’s place in the 5thMarines. He’s the Exec of Second Battalion. I told him no, but that I did have a captain I knew for a fact could find his ass with either hand . . ."
"Battalion Exec? Christ, I don’t know . . ."
"Come on, Jack. When I was a battalion commander, I had a master gunnery sergeant who made it pretty clear that he thought he could run the battalion at least as well as I could. His name was Jack Stecker."
"That attitude goes with being a gunny," Stecker said. "I’m not sure how it really works."
"Well, you’re about to find out," Harris said. "The original idea... Riley is one of your admirers, Jack, did you know th
at?"
Stecker shook his head.
"Well, he is. The original idea was to send you there as a captain. But then, genius that I am, it occurred to me that, A, you’re junior as hell, and that, B, if I had the battalion, I would assign an ex-master gunnery sergeant, now a captain, as a company commander."
"I’d like to have a company," Stecker said. "You know that."
"Yeah, well, we have nice young first lieutenants who can be trained to do that. By a battalion exec who knows what it’s like in a battalion. So I told this to the General, and he said, ‘Well, I guess we’ll have to make him a major before we cut the orders sending him to New River.’ "
The Corps 03 - Counterattack Page 31