"No problem, Sir. Where?"
"Here. On the way to the airport. Is that going to be a problem?"
"No, Sir. I'll catch a ride out there as soon as I can."
"No. I called Moore and told him to pick you up on his way out here. He should be at the hotel in ten, fifteen minutes."
"I'll be waiting for him, Sir."
"Thank you, Pluto. I am really sorry to have to do this to you. But I think it's important."
"No problem, Sir."
I have just spoken to the only officer in the grade of Army captain or above at the Emperor's Court who would dream of apologizing for waking a lowly lieutenant up. I am really going to miss Captain Pickering.
Pickering was leaving Brisbane to join the Guadalcanal invasion fleet in time for the rehearsal in the Fiji Islands. Hon suspected he would not be back for a long time, if ever.
Pickering hadn't come right out and said so, but there was little doubt in Hon's mind that when the rehearsal was over, Pickering was going with the invasion fleet to Guadalcanal instead of resuming his duties as the Secretary of the Navy's personal representative to the Emperor. Hon thought it was entirely likely that Pickering wouldn't stop there-watching the landing from the bridge of the command ship USS McCawley-but would actually go ashore with the Marines.
Pickering's contempt for the brass hats-at least for their petty bickering-at SHSWPA and CINCPAC had been made clear in the reports he had written (and Hon had read in the process of transmission) to Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox. And Pickering had also taught Hon that there was still life in the old saw, "Once A Marine, Always A Marine." Pickering thought of himself as a Marine. He felt a tie of brotherhood with the men who were actually invading Guadalcanal and Tulagi. The notion of returning to the cocktail party circuit in Australia while they were going in harm's way was repugnant to him.
In Hon's opinion, it would not be at all hard for Pickering to convince himself that he could best discharge his duty by going ashore with the Marines. If he was actually on the scene, he'd be in a better position to keep Frank Knox informed than if he were back in Australia-or at least so he would rationalize. Hon half expected that Pickering would actually suggest this plan to Knox in one of his reports. When he didn't, Hon suspected it was because he knew Knox would immediately forbid him to go anywhere near Guadalcanal.
If he decided to go ashore with the invasion force, there was nobody in the Pacific with the authority to stop him. His orders made it absolutely clear that he was subordinate only to Frank Knox.
Lieutenant Pluto Hon got out of the narrow iron bed, with its lumpy mattress, and took a very quick shave over the tiny sink in his room. The toilet and bath, in separate rooms, were down the corridor. About the only good thing Hon could think to say about the Commerce Hotel was that it was only a block and a half from the new Supreme Headquarters, South West Pacific Area. After the move from Melbourne, that was established in an eight-story building from which an insurance company had been evicted for the duration.
Before the war, the Commerce Hotel had apparently catered to traveling salesmen on very limited expense accounts. It was, of course, good enough for company grade officers assigned to the Emperor's Court.
He dressed quickly, ran down the stairs rather than wait for the small, creaking elevator (which often did not answer the button, anyway), and was standing outside on the sidewalk when Sergeant John Marston Moore pulled up in the Studebaker President sedan Banning's sergeant had scrounged for them.
Hon got in the front seat beside him.
Moore had really been screwed by the move from Melbourne, he thought. In Melbourne, he'd lived in a large room at The Elms. In Brisbane, the only property Pickering could find was a small house, called Water Lily Cottage, out by the racetrack. There was not only no room for Moore there, but when Pickering had ordered Hon to find someplace decent for Moore to live in and give him the bill, Hon had been unable to find any kind of a room at all.
So Moore lived outside of town with the other headquarters enlisted men in an old Australian barracks. When he didn't have the Studebaker, he had to ride back and forth to work on Army buses, when they were running. Worse, in the barracks, a headquarters company commander and a first sergeant, who could not be told what Moore was doing, saw in him just one more sergeant who could be put to work doing what sergeants are supposed to do, like supervising linoleum waxing and serving as sergeant of the guard.
Captain Pickering spoke several times with the headquarters commandant about his needing Moore around the clock, which meant he would not be available for company duties. The last time he made such a call, he told the headquarters commandant he would register his next complaint with General Sutherland. And that worked. But with Pickering gone, it would happen again. Lieutenant Hon could not register complaints with MacArthur's Chief of Staff, "Dick, I'm having a little trouble with your headquarters commandant."
"I think we're going to miss Captain Pickering, Lieutenant," Moore said as they pulled away.
"Don't read my mind, please. Lowly sergeants should not be privy to the thoughts of officers and gentlemen."
"I went by the shop," Moore said, chuckling. "To see if there was anything for the boss. Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Two more of Feldt's Coastwatchers are-'no longer operational.'"
"Buka?"
"Buka's all right. Should I tell the boss?"
"Not unless he asks. What can he do anyway?"
There were lights on all over Water Lily Cottage when Moore turned off Manchester Avenue into the driveway. Pickering's borrowed Jaguar drophead coupe was parked in the driveway ahead of them.
Pickering came out onto the porch in his shirt-sleeves as Hon got out of the car.
"Come on in, the both of you," he said. "There's time for coffee, and I want you to meet someone."
There was a woman in Water Lily Cottage. She had apparently spent the night, for she was wearing a bathrobe. It covered her from her neck to her ankles. She was, Hon quickly judged, in her thirties. Her dark hair was parted in the middle, brushed tightly against her scalp, and drawn up in a bun at the back. She wore no makeup.
Jesus, what's the boss been up to? I can't believe he's been screwing this dame.
"Gentlemen," Pickering said, "I'd like you to meet Mrs. Ellen Feller. She got in last night from Pearl Harbor."
I would never have thought she was an American, Hon thought, and then revised his opinion of her sexual desirability. Even the padded bathrobe could not conceal an attractive breastworks, which was apparently unrestrained by a brassiere.
I still don't think he's been screwing her. But on the other hand, I was twenty before I was willing to admit that my parents hadn't had me via immaculate conception.
Ellen Feller's smile, which accompanied the hand she gave Hon, was somewhat the wrong side of being friendly and inviting.
"Ellen and I go back pretty far," Pickering said. "She was my secretary in Washington."
"We're old friends," Ellen Feller added, quietly demure. Then she turned to Moore. "I believe I know your father," she said. "The Reverend John Wesley Moore, isn't it? Of Missions?"
"Yes, Ma'am," Moore said, visibly surprised.
"Of what?" Pickering asked.
"Missions, Sir," Moore furnished. "The William Barton Harris Methodist Episcopal Special Missions to the Unchurched Foundation."
"My husband and I were in China before the war," Mrs. Feller said, "with the Christian and Missionary Alliance. I met your father, and your mother, too, I believe, in Hong Kong."
"Ellen will be working with you," Pickering said, obviously impatient with missionary auld lang syne. "She's a damned good linguist, and a damned good analyst, and more to the point, she's MAGIC cleared."
I'll be damned.
But then another thought struck him, It makes a lot of sense though.
The high-ups in the intermingled and confusing multiservice command structure of communications intelligence had to send someon
e else with a MAGIC clearance to MacArthur's headquarters. They didn't know that Pickering had brought Sergeant John Marston Moore in on the most important secret of the war in the Pacific, which meant they believed only two underlings, Hon himself and Major Ed Banning, even knew what MAGIC was.
That made a total of four people in the Emperor's Court who were cleared to read intercepted messages between the Japanese Imperial General Staff and Japanese Naval Headquarters and units at sea: The American Emperor himself, of course; MacArthur's G-2, newly promoted Brigadier General Charles M. Willoughby (who to Hon's private amusement spoke with an unmistakable German accent); and Banning and Hon.
Even taking very seriously the clich‚ that the more people in on a secret, the greater the chance the secret will soon be out, it just didn't make sense not to send at least one other person to Brisbane. For the most basic of reasons: If a Brisbane bus ran over Lieutenant Hon while Banning was up at Townesville, as he was most of the time, and a hot MAGIC came in, it would not reach MacArthur or Willoughby until Banning could fly down from Townesville to decrypt it for them.
As a practical matter, of course, Sergeant Moore would have filled in. Hon had given him a crash course in operation of the cryptographic equipment, and he knew what to do with MAGIC messages. But they didn't know that.
And so they sent someone else in; and not the kind of person Hon might have expected-a Navy Lieutenant Commander or an Army Signal Corps Lieutenant Colonel, the rank a sop to the rank consciousness of MacArthur's headquarters, where daily Hon was made to realize that a lowly lieutenant was of no consequence whatsoever. Instead, they sent a civilian, and even more incredibly, a female civilian.
"There was a chance for Ellen and me to talk last night," Pickering continued. "So it was fortunate that she came in when she did. I'm sure everybody would have been confused had she come in this afternoon." He stopped for a time to gather his thoughts. "Her coming," he went on after a moment, "might cause us a few minor problems. But let's deal with who's in charge first. Pluto, that's you. You're doing a fine job, and there's no one better qualified. Unfortunately, you're a lowly first lieutenant. I've been- punching pillows is what it feels like-trying to get you promoted to at least captain. For reasons that escape me, that has so far proven impossible. I left word with Ed Banning that he is to continue trying."
"That's very good of you, Sir, but..."
"Oh, bullshit... sorry, Ellen. Nonsense, Pluto. You're well deserving of promotion, and we all know it. But anyway, you are outranked not only by Ed Banning, obviously, but by Ellen as well."
"Sir?"
"What is it they said you are, Ellen?"
"An assimilated Oh Four, Captain."
"You know what that means, Pluto?" Pickering asked.
"Yes, Sir. Mrs. Feller is entitled to the privileges of a major, Sir. Or a Navy lieutenant commander."
"OK. That may come in handy for billeting, or whatever. And I don't give a damn who anyone at the Palace thinks is running things. But between you and Ellen, so far as MAGIC is concerned, you're in charge, Pluto. I have also left word with Ed Banning making that clear."
"Yes, Sir."
"You remain, Sergeant Moore," Pickering said, "low man on the totem pole, outranked by everybody."
"Yes, Sir. I understand."
"But since I suspect that moron at Headquarters Company will have you on a guard roster the moment he hears I've left, I want you to clear your things out of that barracks and move in here. I had to take a six month's lease on this place, and there's no sense letting it go to waste."
"Yes, Sir."
"Mrs. Feller will also be living here. I have assured her that you are a well-bred gentleman who will not be bringing any wild Australian lasses home for drinking parties late at night."
"No, Sir."
"There's only two bedrooms, Pluto," Pickering said. "I'm afraid you're stuck with the Commerce Hotel. The important thing, I think, is to keep Moore out of the hands of Headquarters Company-without calling attention to him."
"Absolutely, Sir," Hon said.
"Take Mrs. Feller to the bank later today or tomorrow and see that she is authorized to draw on our account," Pickering said. "And on that subject, Banning has been spending a lot of money. I have asked for more, and it should be coming quickly. If, however, one of the officer couriers does not bring you a check within the next week, radio Haughton. The one thing I do not want to do is run out of money for Banning and Feldt."
"Yes, Sir."
"Can you think of anything, Pluto? Or you, John?"
"No, Sir," Moore replied immediately.
"No, Sir," Hon said, a moment later.
"Ellen?"
"Credentials for me, Captain."
"Oh, yeah. There's a Major Tourtillott who handles that sort of thing. Ellen needs what you and Banning and Moore have. Anywhere in the building, at any time. If Tourtillott gives you any trouble, see Colonel Scott, who works for Sutherland. If he gives you trouble, radio Haughton."
"Yes, Sir," Hon said.
"The liaison officer, Captain," Ellen Feller said.
"Oh, yeah. Thank you. That's important. I suggested to Frank Knox that he send a liaison officer between here and CINCPAC. Ellen tells me that Colonel Rickabee found one. He should be coming in soon. He is not, repeat, not, to be made a member of your happy circle. He's not cleared for MAGIC, or for what Banning is doing. I mention that solely because Rickabee's name may come up. Or because I'm afraid the poor bastard may be another orphan around here and may seek company in his misery."
"I understand, Sir," Hon said. He looked at his watch. "Captain, what time is your plane?"
Pickering looked at his watch.
"Christ," he said. "And I didn't give you the coffee I promised."
"No problem, Sir."
"Moore can drive me to the airport, Pluto. You don't have to go."
"I'd like to see you off, Sir, if that would be all right."
"Why thank you, Pluto," Pickering said. He looked at Ellen. "Sorry to have to leave you in the lurch like this."
'Take care of yourself, Fleming," Ellen Feller said.
Why does the way she said that make me suddenly think that they have been making the beast with two backs?... Even after the modest declaration she just gave about how my-husband-and-I-were-missionaries-in-China and Fleming-and-I-are-just-old-friends?
Because you're a dirty-minded young man, Pluto Hon, who hasn't had his own ashes hauled in so long you probably wouldn't know what to do with an erection.
"Where's your bags, Sir?" Hon asked.
"I'll get them," Moore said.
"I'll carry my own damned bags, thank you," Captain Pickering said.
(Four)
HEADQUARTERS, VMF-229
EWA USMC AIR STATION
OAHU, TERRITORY OF HAWAII
1555 HOURS 25 JULY 1942
Corporal Alfred B. Hastings, USMC, followed Captain Charles M. Galloway, USMCR, into his office.
"Whatever it is, Corporal Hastings, fuck it," Captain Galloway said. "Your beloved commanding officer has had it for today."
Galloway's cotton flight suit was sweat soaked. His hair was matted on his skull, and his hands and face were covered with a film of oil. He looked exhausted. He settled himself like an old man in the chair behind his desk.
"It's the colonel, Sir," Hastings said. "He said for you to phone him the minute you got in."
"Did he say what he wanted?"
"No, Sir, but he's called three times."
Galloway pointed to the telephone on his desk. Hastings took the handset from the cradle, listened for a dial tone, handed the handset to Galloway, and then dialed a number.
"This is Captain Galloway, Sergeant. I understand the colonel wants to speak at me."
Hastings left the room. He returned a moment later with a bottle of Coke, which he set on Galloway's desk. Galloway covered the microphone with his hand.
"Bless you, my son," he intoned solemnly.
"Yes, Sir,
" Hastings said, smiling.
"Galloway, Sir," Charley said to the telephone. "I just got in."
"And how many hours is that today, Captain Galloway?" Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins asked, innocently. "I haven't checked my log book, Sir."
"But you can tell time and count, right? Up to say five hours and forty-five minutes?"
What the hell has he done? Gone and checked the goddamned board?
"Was it that much, Sir?"
"You know goddamned well it was," Dawkins said. "On the other hand, if you're dumb enough not to believe me when I say I don't want you flying more than four hours, maybe you are too dumb to count."
The Corps IV - Battleground Page 36