"Fleming, don't look so guilt-stricken," Ellen said. "We both know you wouldn't do this if Mrs. Pickering were around."
He didn't reply for a moment. Then he pulled up on the park-ing brake, took the key from the ignition, got out of the car, and walked up to the house and unlocked the door.
The telephone rang. He walked across the living room to it.
"Pickering."
"Captain Pickering?"
"Yes."
"Sir, this is Major Tourtillott, Billeting Officer at the Lennon."
"Yes, Major."
"Sir, there was a Naval officer, a Captain Haughton, looking for you."
"Yes, I know, he found me."
"Sir, he was trying to arrange quarters for a Navy Depart-ment civilian, a lady, an assimilated Oh-Four."
"A what?"
"An assimilated Oh-Four, Sir. Someone entitled to the privi-leges of an Oh-Four, Sir."
"What the hell is an Oh-Four?"
"An Army or Marine Corps major, Sir, or a Navy Lieutenant Commander."
"The lady has made other arrangements for tonight, Major. I'll get this all sorted out in the morning. She is a member of my staff, and quarters will be required."
"Yes, Sir. I'll take care of it. Thank you, Sir."
Pickering hung the telephone up and turned to see what had happened to Ellen Feller.
She wasn't in the small living room. He found her in the bed-room, in bed.
"I've been flying for eighteen hours," she said. "I'm probably a little gamey. Will that bother you? Should I shower?"
Fleming Pickering shook his head.
(Three)
Aboard USS Lowell Hutchins Transport Group Y
17 degrees 48 minutes south latitude,
150 degrees west longi-tude
4 August 1942
Just about everyone on board knew that five months ago the USS Lowell Hutchins had been the Pacific & Far East passenger liner Pacific Enchantress; no one had any idea who Lowell Hutchins was, or, since Naval ships were customarily named only after the dead, who he had been.
She had been rapidly pressed into service, but the conversion from a plush civilian passenger liner to a Naval transport was by no means complete. Before she had sailed from the States with elements of the 1st Marine Division aboard, she had been given a coat of Navy gray paint. It had been hastily applied, and here and there it had already begun to flake off, revealing the pristine white for which Pacific & Far East vessels were well known.
The furniture and carpeting from the first-class and tourist dining rooms had been removed. Narrow, linoleum-covered, chest-high steel tables had been welded in place in the former tourist dining room. Enlisted men and junior officers now took their meals from steel trays, and they ate standing up.
Not-much-more-elegant steel tables, with attached steel benches, had been installed in the ex-first-class dining room. Generally, captains and above got to eat there, sitting down, from plates bearing the P&FE insignia.
Most of the former first-class suites and cabins, plus the for-mer first- and tourist-class bars, libraries, lounges, and exercise rooms, had been converted to troop berthing areas. It had been relatively easy to remove their beds, cabinets, tables, and other furniture and equipment and replace them with bunks. The bunks were sheets of canvas, suspended between iron pipe, stacked four high.
The bathrooms were still identified by porcelain bath plates over their doors, although they had now become, of course, Navy "heads." It would have taken too much time to remove the plates. And it would also have taken too much time to ex-pand them. So a "bath" designed for the use of a couple en route to Hawaii now served as many as thirty-two men en route to a place none of them had ever heard of a month before, islands in the Solomon chain called Guadalcanal, Tulagi, and Florida.
There was not, of course, sufficient water-distilling capability aboard to permit showers at will. Showers, and indeed drinking water, were stringently rationed.
The former tourist-class cabins had proved even more of a problem for conversion. To efficiently utilize space, the beds there had usually been mattresses laid upon steel frameworks, with shelves built under them. These could not be readily moved. These rooms had become officers' staterooms for cap-tains and above, sometimes with the addition of several other bunks. Because they afforded that most rare privilege of military service, privacy, the few single staterooms now became the pri-vate staterooms of senior majors, lieutenant colonels, and even a few junior full colonels.
The most luxurious accommodations on the upper deck had been left virtually unchanged. Even the carpets were still there, and the oil paintings on the paneled bulkheads, and the inlaid tables, and the soft, comfortable couches and armchairs. These became the accommodations of the most senior of the Marine officers aboard, the one general officer and the senior full colo-nels. These men took their meals with the ship's officers on tables set with snowy linen, glistening crystal, and sterling tableware.
It was almost taken as gospel by those on the lower decks that this was one more case of the brass, those sonsofbitches, taking care of themselves. But the decision to leave the upper-deck cab-ins unchanged had actually been based less on the principle that rank hath its privileges than on the practical consideration that to convert them to troop berthing would have required two hun-dred or so men to make their way at least twice a day from the upper deck to the mess deck through narrow passageways. That many men on that deck might actually interfere with the effi-cient running of the ship.
Brigadier General Lewis T. Harris, Deputy Commander, 1st Marine Division, and the senior Marine embarked, actually had a strong feeling of uneasiness every time he took his seat in the ship's officers' mess.
Because he often went twice a day to see it, he knew what was being served in the troop messes. The troop mess-jammed full of men, some of them seasick, standing at tables with food slopped around steel mess trays-offered a vivid contrast to the neatly set table at the officers' mess, with its baskets of freshly baked rolls and bread, and white-jacketed stewards hovering at his shoulder to make sure the levels in his delicate china coffee cup and crystal water glass never dropped more than an inch, or to inquire How the General Would Like His Lamb Chop.
General Harris tried to live the old adage that an officer's first duty was the welfare of the men placed under his command. If it had been within his power, Marines on the way to battle would all be seated at a linen-covered table, eating steaks to order. That was obviously out of the question, a fantasy. He had done the next best thing, however. He told his officers that he expected the men to be fed as well as humanly possible under the circum-stances, and then he repeatedly went to see for himself how well that order was being carried out. He was convinced that the mess officers and sergeants were indeed doing the best they could.
He could, he knew, take his meals with the troops in that foul-smelling mess; and if he did, his officers would follow his exam-ple. But the only thing he would accomplish-aside from being seen there, implying that he was concerned about the chow- would be to strain the facilities that much more.
The ship's officers-and why not?-would go on eating well, no matter where he and his officers ate. The officers' mess cooks and stewards were not being strained by feeding the Marine se-nior officers. And every meal they fed to a senior Marine officer was one less to be prepared down below.
So, in the end, after making sure the senior officers knew he expected them to check on the troop mess regularly and person-ally, General Harris continued to eat off bone china and a linen tablecloth; and he continued to feel uneasy about it.
There was a table by the door to the ship's officers' mess, on which sat a coffee machine and three or four insulated coffee pitchers and a stack of mugs. Between mealtimes, it was used by the stewards to take coffee to the bridge and to the cabins on the upper deck.
When General Harris left the mess, he stopped by the table, filled a pitcher a little more than half-full of coffee, and picked up two of the china mugs.
"General," one of the stewards said, "can I carry that some-where for you?"
"I can manage, thank you," Harris said with a smile. He left the mess and went to his cabin.
In one of the drawers of a mahogany chest, there were a dozen small, olive-drab cans. Each was neatly labeled bore cleaner, 8OZ. They looked like tiny paint cans, and there was a neat line of red candle wax sealing the line where the top had been forced tight on the body of the can. Anyone seeing the cans would un-derstand that General Harris did not want the bore cleaner to leak.
He took a penknife from his pocket and carefully scraped the wax seal from one of the cans, and then switched to the screw-driver blade. He pried the lid carefully off, then poured the brown fluid the can held into the coffee pitcher.
After that, he left his cabin, headed aft, and passed through a door opening onto the open deck. This deck had previously been a promenade where the affluent could take a constitutional or sit on deck chairs in an environment denied to the less affluent down below. Now he had trouble making his way past the bulky life rafts that had been lashed on the deck to provide at least a shot at survival, should the USS Lowell Hutchins be torpedoed.
There was still enough light to see several of the ships of the Amphibious Force. There were eighty-two ships in all, sailing in three concentric circles. The twelve transports, including the USS Lowell Hutchins, formed the inner circle. Next came a cir-cle of cruisers and, outside that, the screening force of destroy-ers.
General Harris stared at the ships long enough to reflect (again) that although it appeared to be a considerable armada, it was not large enough to accomplish their mission with a rea-sonable chance of success. He then made his way down three ladders to what had once been the second of the tourist decks, and through a passageway to cabin D-123, where he knocked at the door.
When there was no response, he put his mouth to the slats in the door and called, "Stecker!"
"Come!"
He pushed the door open. Major Jack NMI Stecker, Com-manding Officer, 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines, wearing only his skivvies, was sitting on the deck of the tiny cabin beside the nar-row single bunk that formed part of the bulkhead.
"Jack, what the hell are you doing?" Harris asked.
Stecker turned and, seeing the General, jumped to his feet.
"At ease, Major," Harris said, just a trifle sarcastically. "What the hell were you doing down there?"
"I was cleaning my piece, Sir," Stecker said, gesturing at the bunk.
Harris went to look. There was a rifle, in pieces, spread out on the bunk.
Harris snorted, and then extended the coffee pitcher.
"I thought you might like some coffee, Jack," he said.
"I'm pretty well coffeed out, Sir."
"Jack. Trust me. You need a cup of coffee."
"Yes, Sir," Stecker said.
Harris set the cups down on a steel shelf, filled each half-full of the mixture of "bore cleaner" and coffee, and handed one to Stecker.
Stecker sipped his suspiciously, smiled, and said, "Yes, Sir, the General is right. This is just what I needed."
Harris smiled back. "We generals are always right, Jack. You should try to remember that. What are you doing with the Garand? And now that I think about it, where the hell did you get it?"
"I found it on post at Quantico, General," Stecker said. "And just as soon as I can find time, I will turn it in to the proper authorities."
Harris snorted. He walked to the bunk and picked up the stripped receiver. His expert eye picked out the signs of accurizing.
"I forgot," he said. "You think this a pretty good weapon, don't you?"
"It's a superb weapon," Stecker said. "I've shot inch-and-a-half groups at two hundred yards with that one."
"Bullshit."
"No bullshit. And the kid-I shouldn't call him a kid-Joe Howard. He took a commission, and is now off doing something hush-hush for G-2-the man who did the accuracy job on that one had one that was more accurate than this one."
"You realize that ninety-five percent of the people in the Corps think the Garand is a piece of shit that can never compare to the Springfield?"
"Then ninety-five percent of the people in the Corps are wrong."
"Ninety-five percent of the people in this Amphibious Force think that Guadalcanal is going to be a Cakewalk, a live-fire exer-cise with a secondary benefit of taking some Japanese territory."
"Ninety-five percent of the people in this Amphibious Force have never heard a shot fired in anger," Stecker said.
"Is that the same thing as saying they're wrong, too?" Harris asked.
"You're putting me on the spot," Stecker said uncomfortably.
"That's why I'm sharing my bore cleaner with you," Harris said. "I want to get you drunk, so you'll give me a straight an-swer."
Stecker looked at him without replying.
"Come on, Jack," Harris said. "We go back a long way. I want to know what you're thinking."
Stecker shrugged, and then asked, "You ever give any thought to why the brass are going ahead with this, when they damned well know we're not ready?"
"You're talking about the drill?" Harris asked.
The "drill," the practice landings in the Fiji Islands that the convoy carrying the Amphibious Force had just come from, had been an unqualified disaster. Nothing had gone as it was sup-posed to.
"That's part of it, but that's not what I meant," Stecker said. "The brass knew before the Fiji drill that the LCP(L)s were no fucking good."
There were 408 landing craft in the Amphibious Force. Of these, 308 were designated LCP(L), a thirty-six-foot landing craft with a fixed bow. In other words, when the craft touched shore, personnel aboard would have to exit over the bow and sides, rather than across a droppable ramp. Similarly, supplies would have to be manhandled over the sides. And, of course, LCP(L)s could not discharge vehicles or other heavy cargo onto the beach.
"They're all we have, Jack. We can't wait to re-equip with LCP(R)s or LCMs."
Both the thirty-six-foot LCP(R) and the forty-five-foot LCM had droppable ramps. The LCP(R) could discharge over its ramp 75mm and 105mm howitzers and one-ton trucks. The LCM could handle 90mm and five-inch guns and heavier trucks.
"Ever wonder why we can't?" Stecker asked softly.
"Because the Japanese are almost finished with their air base on Guadalcanal. We can't afford to let them do that. We have to grab that air base before they make it operational."
"That's what I mean. The Japanese know how important that air base is. To them. And to us-if we take it away from them and start operating out of it ourselves. So they're going to fight like hell to keep us from taking it; and if we do, they're going to fight like hell to take it back."
"That's what we're paid to do."
"No cakewalk. No live-fire exercise. An important objective. If it's important to them, they're going to be prepared to defend it. We're going to have three-fourths of our landing barges ex-posed as the troops try to get over the sides and onto the beach. And once we start manhandling cargo out of those damned boats... Jesus, if they have any artillery at all, or decent mortar men, or, for that matter, just some well-emplaced machine guns, we're going to lose those boats! No boats, no reinforcements, no ammunition, no rations."
"You don't sound as if you're sure we can carry it off," Harris said. "Is that what you think?"
"I wouldn't say this to anyone but you, but I don't know. I've got some awful good kids, and they'll try, but balk-courage, if you like-sometimes isn't enough."
Brigadier General Lewis T. Harris and Major Jack NMI Stecker had known each other for most of their adult lives. They had been in combat all over the Caribbean basin together. Harris didn't have to recall Stecker's Medal of Honor for proof of his personal courage. Stecker was no coward. He was calling the upcoming battle for Guadalcanal as he saw it.
Harris was afraid Stecker's analysis was in the X-ring.
"Have some more coffee, Jack," Harris said.
" `No, thank you'? You getting old, Jack? Taken up religion?"
"Yes, Sir, I'm getting old," Stecker replied. He pulled a can-vas rucksack from under the mattress of his bunk, and took from it a large pink bottle which bore a label from the Pharmacy, Naval Dispensary, Quantico, Virginia. Under a skull and cross-bones, it read, caution!! highly toxic!! for treatment of athlete's foot only, if fluid touches eyes or mouth, flood copiously with water and seek immediate medi-CAL attention!!
He put the bottle to his mouth and took a healthy pull, then exhaled in appreciation.
Harris chuckled.
"I'm giving some serious thought to religion, General, but I haven't said anything to the chaplain yet," Stecker said. "Do you have to go, or can we sit around and drink coffee, cure my athlete's feet, and tell sea stories?"
W E B Griffin - Corp 03 - Counterattack Page 56