I do actually believe the above, but I must in candor tell you that I took great pleasure in telling them, especially Huff, to go to hell. I know I probably should not have taken pleasure in that, but I don’t like them. And they don’t like me. I’m convinced that their hostility mostly arises from MacA.‘s growing tendency to have me around, often alone with him. And I’m sure it is constantly exacerbated by that. Huff, in particular, sees himself as Saint Peter, guarding access to the throne of God. He simply cannot understand MacA. waiving the rules of protocol for anyone, and especially for a civilian/sailor.
I have spent a good deal of time wondering why MacA.does want me around, and have come up with some possible reasons, listed below,not in order of importance.
It began shortly after he was given office space for his headquarters. The Australians turned over to him a bank building at 401 Collins Street. He now occupies what was the Managing Director‘s office. The old board room is now the map room.
There was-is-a critical shortage of maps. I was able to help somewhat here when I learned about it.
Going off tangentially again: I learned about the map shortage at dinner, shortly after we arrived in Melbourne. My telephone rang, and in the Best British Man ner, one of the Australian sergeants they gave him as orderlies announced to me, "General MacArthur’s compliments, Sir. The General and Mrs. MacArthur would be pleased to have you join them for dinner in half an hour. "
I went downstairs to the restaurant half an hour later and found the Bataan Gang and an assortment of Australians having their dinner. But not MacA. I asked one of the entourage where MacA. was, and was informed that the General dines alone. When I went to the MacA. apartment, I was perfectly prepared to find myself the butt of a practical joke. But I was expected. We dineden famille ; in addition to MacA. and his wife, there were little Arthur and his Chinese nurse/governess.
Dinner was small talk-about people Mrs. MacA. knew in Manila, Honolulu, and San Francisco. The war wasn’t mentioned until after dinner. Brandy and a cigar were produced for me, and Mrs. MacA. left us alone. I had the feeling (I realize how absurd this sounds; and please believe me, I gave it a lot of thought before putting it down on paper) that MacA. regards me as a fellow nobleman, the visiting Duke of Pickering, so to speak-with himself, of course, as the Emperor. The rules that apply to common folk- everybody around here but us-naturally do not apply to the nobility. The common folk don’t get to eat, for example, with the Emperor,en famille.
Some of this, I am quite sure, is because I think I am one of the few really well-off individuals he has been close to. I think Mrs. MacA. told him that Pacific and Far East is privately held, and that Patricia is Andrew Foster’s only child, and this has made an extraordinary impression on him. In support of that thesis, I offer this: On 6 April, thePacific Duchess was part of the convoy that brought the 41stInfantry Division into Adelaide. MacA. informed me of this by saying, "Your ship, the PD, has arrived in Adelaide. "I responded that she was no longer mine, that she now belonged to the Navy. He asked me how much I had been paid for it, and what the taxes were on a transaction like that. I told him. The numbers obviously fascinated him.
On the other hand, most of the special treatment I am getting, I’m sure, is because I am your special representative. MacA.‘s clever. More than clever, brilliant. He knows how useful a direct line to your ear will be.
In any event, over my cigar and his cigarette, he discussed his intention to immediately return to the Philippines, and how he planned to do so. In the course of the conversation, he explained how very much aware he is of the vast distances involved, and of the problems that is going to pose. In that connection, he bitterly complained about the lack of maps. He is convinced that the Navy has better maps than he has, and that for petty reasons they are refusing to make them available to him.
I volunteered to look into that. The next day I spoke with Admiral Leary, and then with his intelligence and planning people. And it turned out that MacA. was wrong about the reason he didn’t have decent maps. The Navy was not being petty. The Navy doesn’t have decent maps either. I was astonished to see the poor quality of the charts they had, and equally astonished to see how few charts are available, period.
I don’t pretend to have solved the problem, only to have made a dent in it: but I did manage to gather together charts from the various ship chandlers around (a thought that apparently did not occur to the Navy). The charts I picked up, anyhow, were superior to any the Navy had. I then went to the PandFE agent here and borrowed, on a semipermanent basis, several of his people. They are going to all the masters of ships plying the Southwest Pacific trade, down to the smallest coaster, as they make port; and they’ll get them to update charts, especially for the small islands, based on the mariners own observations.
The PandFE agent here has arranged to have the updated charts printed. I offered to make them available to Admiral Leary, but he made it clear that (a) he is not interested, not having come from the appropriate Navy bureaucracy, they cannot be considered reliable; and that (b) there fore it is an effrontery on my part to ask that I be reimbursed for expenses incurred .
MacA., on the other hand, was really grateful for the maps. I think that was the reason I was invited to go with him on March 25, when he was invested with the Medal of Honor. His acceptance speech was brilliant; my eyes watered.
And the next day, for the first time, MacA. met John Curtin, the Prime Minister. Now, in case you don’t know it, Curtin is so far left that he makes Roosevelt look like Louis XIV. All the same, he and MacA. immediately began to act like long-lost brothers. I know for a fact (the PandFE agent here sits in the Australian parliament) that Curtin was flatly opposed to (a) abolishing the Australian Military Board and (b) transferring all of its powers to MacA.
Apparently, neither Willoughby (his G-2) nor our State Department explained to MacA. just who Curtin is or what he’d done. Indeed, MacA. seems to believe exactly the opposite, i.e., that Curtin was responsible for his being named commander-in-chief and given all the powers of the former Military Board. Or else MacA. was told, and regally decided to ignore the implications. With a massive effort, I have obeyed your orders not to involve myself in something like this.
Or-an equally credible scenario-he knows all about Curtin and his politics, and his publicly professed camaraderie and admiration for Curtin is a sham intended for public consumption to bolster the very much sagging Australian morale. The people believe, with good reason, that they are next on the Japanese schedule. Curtin has complained bitterly that Australian (and New Zealand) troops are off in Africa fighting for England when they are needed to defend their homeland. He consequently stands high in the public esteem, even of those who think he is a dangerous socialist.
Into this situation comes MacArthur, promising to defend the Australian continent. The words he used in his Medal of Honor acceptance speech "we shall win or we shall die; I pledge the full resources of all the mighty power of my country, and all the blood of my countrymen" were reported in every newspaper, and over the radio . . . again and again. There was hope once more.
And right on top of that came word of Colonel Doolittle ‘ s raid on Tokyo. From my perspective here, I think it1s impossible to overestimate the importance of that raid. Militarily, MacA. Told me, it will require the Japanese to pull back naval and aerial forces, as well as antiaircraft artillery forces, to protect the homeland. Politically, it is certain to have caused havoc within the Japanese Imperial Staff. Their senior officers are humiliated. And it will inevitably have an effect on Japanese civilian morale.
Since MacArthur, not surprising me at all, immediately concluded that the attack had been launched from an aircraft carrier, I decided that the Commander-in-Chief SWPAC was entitled to hear other information the Japanese probably already knew. I there fore provided him with the specific details of the attack as I knew them. An hour or so later, when Willoughby came to the office and provided MacA. with what few details he had about t
he raid, MacA. delivered a concise lecture to him and to several others, based on what I had told him. It was of course obvious where he’d gotten his facts. The unfortunate result is I am now regarded as a more formidable adversary than before.
But Doolittle‘s bombing of Tokyo, added to MacArthur’s presence here and his being named Commander-in-Chief, and his (apparently) roaring friendship with Curtin, gave Australian morale a really big boost just when one was needed. And that surge of confidence would have been destroyed if MacA. had started fighting with Curtin-or even if there was any suggestion that they were not great mutual admirers or were not in complete agreement .
The more I think about it, I think this latter is the case. MacArthur understands things like this.
Turning to the important question "Can we hold Australia?" MacArthur believes, supported to some degree by the intelligence (not much) available to us, that the following is the grand Japanese strategy: While Admiral Yamamoto is taking Midway away from us, as a stepping-stone to taking the Hawaiian Islands, the forces under Admiral Takeo Takagi will occupy Australia’s perimeter islands, north and west of the continent.
We have some pretty good intelligence that Takagi intends to put "Operation Mo" into execution as soon as he can. That is the capture of Port Moresby, on New Guinea. Moresby is currently manned, I should say undermanned, by Australian militiamen with little artillery, etcetera. They could not resist a large-scale Japanese assault. Once Moresby falls, all the Japanese have to do is build it up somewhat and then use it as the base for an invasion across the Coral Sea to Australia. It1s about 300 miles across the Coral Sea from Port Moresby to Australia.
Both to repel an invasion and to prevent the Japanese from marching across Australia, MacA. has two divisions (the U.S. 32ndInfantry, arrived at Adelaide April 15); one brigade of the 6thAustralian Division; and one (or two, depending on whom one chooses to believe) Australian divisions being returned "soon" from Africa. He has sixty-two B-17 bombers, six of which (including the "Swoose," which carries no bombs) are airworthy. Some fighter planes have begun to arrive, but these are generally acknowledged to be inferior to the Japanese Zero.
MacA. believes further that the Japanese intend to install fighter airplane bases in the Solomon Islands. We have some unconfirmed (and probably unconfirmable) intelligence that major fighter bases are planned for Guadalkennel (sp?) and Bougainville. Fighters on such strips could escort Japanese Betty and Zeke bombers to interdict our ships bound for Australia, cutting the pipeline . We don’ t have the men or materiel to go after them at either place.
On top of this, we have had what MacA. feels is an unconscionable delay in reaching an interservice agreement about who is in charge of what. I found myself wondering too, frankly, just who the hell was in charge in Washington. MacA. was not named CIC SWPA until April 18. And even when that happened, it violated a rule of warfare even Fleming Pickering understands: that it is idiocy to split a command. Which is exactly what appointing Admiral Nimitz as CIC Pacific Ocean Areas does.
It means that from this point on, we have started another war. In addition to fighting the Japanese, the Army and the Navy are going to be at each other’ s throats. A sailor, or a soldier, Mac-Arthur or Nimitz, should have been put in charge. Somebody has to be in charge.
Under these circumstances, I was not at all surprised, the day Bataan fell, when MacA. radioed Marshall asking for permission to return to the Philippines to fight as a guerrilla. I could hear the snickers when that radio arrived in Sodom-on-Potomac.
He showed me the cable before he sent it. I told him what I thought the reaction would be. He said he understood that, but thought there was a slight chance his "enemies" (George Marshall, Ernie King, and the U.S. Navy) would see that he was given permission as a way to get rid of him.
I think I should confess, Frank, that if he had been given permission, I think I would have gone with him.
Colonel Newcombe just called from the lobby. I have to seal this up and give it to him.
Respectfully,
Fleming Pickering, Captain, USNR
Chapter Eleven
(One)
The Willard Hotel
Washington, D.C.
30 April 1942
"General," Congressman Emilio L. DiFranco (D., 8thN.J. Congressional District) said to Brigadier General D. G. Mclnerney, USMC, "I so very much appreciate your finding time for me in your busy schedule."
The Congressman waited expectantly for the General to notice him; but General Mclnerney was listening to Congressman DiFranco with only half an ear. The rest of his attention was smitten by a hard rash of curiosity. It was the group sitting three tables away from him in the upstairs cocktail lounge of the Willard Hotel that had caught his eye, indeed his fascination. He had not in fact seen the Congressman making his way across the room to him.
"The Marine Corps always has time for you, Congressman," General Mclnerney said, rising to his feet and with some effort working up a small smile. He cordially detested Congressman DiFranco, whom he had met a half-dozen times before.
Doc Mclnerney wasn’t sure that the tall, remarkably thin blond woman at the table was really Monique Pond, the motion-picture actress, but she sure as hell looked like her. A photograph of the actress wearing a silver lame dress open damned near to her navel hung on every other vertical surface in the military establishment.
Two other people were at the table with Miss Pond, if indeed it was Miss Pond. One was another long-legged, long-haired blond female. Mclnerney wouldn’t have been surprised if that one was also a star of stage, screen, and radio. She was pretty enough. He didn’t recognize her, but he wasn’t all that familiar with movie stars.
Nor, for that matter, was he all that familiar with the upstairs cocktail lounge of the Willard Hotel. The Willard was an expensive hostelry, catering to high government officials and members of Congress-and, more important, to those individuals who wished to influence government policy and Congressional votes, and who did their drinking on an expense account.
The word lobbyist was coined around the time of the Civil War to describe those who hung around the lobby of the Willard Hotel, waiting for Congressmen whose vote they hoped to influence. Not much had changed since then.
The prices in the Willard were of such magnitude that few members of the military establishment, including general officers, could afford them. Mclnerney came here rarely-only when, as today, there was no way he could get out of it. He had been invited for a drink by the Hon. Mr. DiFranco; it does not behoove officers of the regular Marine Corps to turn down such invitations.
Mclnerney knew what the Congressman wanted. When the invitation had come, he had checked with the Congressional Liaison Office and learned that Congressman DiFranco had been in touch with them regarding the son of one of his more important constituents. After an initial burst of patriotic fervor that had led to his enlisting in the Marine Corps, this splendid young gentleman now found that he didn’t like the life of a Marine rifleman. He wanted instead to be assigned to duties that were more to his liking; specifically, he wanted to be an aircraft mechanic. He had apparently communicated this desire to his daddy, and his father had gotten in touch with Mr. DiFranco.
With all the courtesy due a Congressman, the Congressional Liaison Office had in effect told the Congressman to go fuck himself. At that point, Congressman DiFranco had apparently remembered meeting Brigadier General Mclnerney a number of times. He decided then to take his constituent’s problem directly to the second senior man in Marine Aviation, unofficially, socially, over a drink at the Willard.
It was not the first time this sort of thing had happened to Doc Mclnerney, nor even the first time with the Hon. Mr. DiFranco. Getting someone special treatment in the Corps because his father happened to know a Congressman rubbed Mclnerney the wrong way.
Congressman DiFranco sat down and started looking for a waiter. General Mclnerney looked again at the table where maybe Monique Pond sat with another good-looking blond
e who might also be a movie star. Both ladies were with a young man about whose identity Doc Mclnerney had no doubts at all. His name was Charles M. Galloway, and he was a technical sergeant in the United States Marine Corps.
"I’ll have a dry martini with an onion," Congressman DiFranco said to a waiter. "And you, General?"
"The same," Mclnerney said, raising his glass. He was about through with his second Jack Daniel’s and water.
Congressman DiFranco handed General Mclnerney a slip of paper. On it was written the name of PFC Joseph J. Bianello, his serial number, and his unit, Company A, Fifth Marines, New River, North Carolina.
"What’s this?" Mclnerney asked, innocently.
"He’s the young man I want to talk to you about."
Mclnerney saw that the waiter was busy at the other table. He delivered three fresh drinks and a small silver platter of hors d’oeuvres.
I hope you’re having a good time, Galloway. When the bill comes, you‘ll probably faint.
"Oh?" Mclnerney said to Congressman DiFranco.
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