“The Americans could have infiltrated this man somehow,” General Kurokawa said. “Or it could be—what is the French phrase? A nom de guerre.”
“With all respect, Sir, based on the following messages, I have developed a theory. In my judgment, Sir, there was some doubt in the United States about this man’s identity. They asked the maiden name and date of birth questions to make him prove who he is.”
“And?” General Kurokawa asked impatiently.
“Immediately after the station here furnished the asked-for information, there was a message to Mrs. Fertig. Quote: Pineapples for breakfast. Love. End quote.”
“Which you think means what?”
“The Dole Corporation, as I am sure the General knows, had extensive operations on this island. Pineapples and Mindanao have a meaning. I think it is entirely possible that this Fertig fellow has a connection with the Dole Corporation; he very well might be an executive. He was both further identifying himself and telling his wife where he is.”
“Presumably, you have inquired into this? I was under the impression that we have detained a number of Americans who worked for the Dole Plantation. Was there a Dole employee named Fertig?”
“I have inquired, Sir, and the inquiries are continuing. We have fairly complete personnel records; the name Fertig does not appear on any of them. Which brings us to the General’s very perceptive theory about a nom de guerre. Fertig is a German word meaning finished, or the end, something like that. What we very well may have here is a Dole executive, either from here or one of the other Dole operations in the Philippines, who has assumed the name Fertig. And has undertaken to harass us by announcing that he is a general.”
The General, Saikaku thought, is not above reacting to flattery. He liked that “very perceptive theory” comment.
“That seems a possibility,” General Kurokawa said, “but I would not recommend that we dismiss the possibility that the Americans have either left behind someone—someone military—to cause us trouble, or sent someone in.”
“No such conclusion has been drawn, General,” Saikaku said.
“What about the radio station? Where is it?”
“Somewhere in the mountains, Sir,” Saikaku replied. “I have learned from Lieutenant Hideyori that location of a radio transmitter is not quite as simple as the Signals people would have us believe.”
“Explain that, please,” General Kurokawa ordered.
“I defer to Lieutenant Hideyori’s expertise, Sir,” Saikaku said, and waved his hand at the Signals Lieutenant.
Hideyori jumped to his feet, came to attention, and bowed to General Kurokawa.
“Sir, the enemy transmitter is in the mountains. The triangulation location technique requires two—preferably three—truck-mounted directional radio antennae. When a signal is detected, the operators rotate the antennae, using a signal-strength meter. That indicates the direction of the transmitting antenna. A line is drawn on a map from the truck antenna in the direction of the transmitting antenna. Each truck does this. Where the lines converge on the map, one expects to find the transmitter.”
“Yes?”
“In the mountains, Sir, it is very difficult to adjust the directional antennae. And the imprecision of the adjustment is magnified by distance. There are very few roads in the mountains which will take our trucks. The distance is great.”
“In other words, Lieutenant, you have not been able to locate the transmitter by triangulation?”
“Yes, Sir. Sir, another problem is that the transmitter is operating only infrequently, not, as in the beginning, every hour on the hour.”
“Find this radio station, Lieutenant,” General Kurokawa ordered, shutting him off.
Hideyori came to attention again, bowed again, and sat down.
“Has there been other communication between this radio station and the United States?”
“They are not in communication with the Americans in Australia, Sir,” Saikaku said. “Yes, Sir. They have sent out the names of several of their officers.”
“If they have ‘several officers,’ wouldn’t that suggest to you that this is not just one pineapple-company employee harassing us?” General Kurokawa asked sarcastically.
“Sir, we have checked the names against captured records. As you are aware, we do not have personnel rosters before the surrender; the Americans burned those. We have only rosters of personnel who entered captivity. Some of those subsequently escaped. None of the names of the escaped prisoners match those sent by this radio station. It is entirely possible that this man Fertig is transmitting names he has made up, for purposes of deception. And there have been no incidents of anything that might be construed as an attack against our forces. I do not believe,” he concluded, “that there is an irregular force, just this man annoying us.”
“I devoutly hope you are right, Captain Saikaku,” General Kurokawa said. “Thank you all for coming to see me.”
[TWO]
Naval Air Transport Command Passenger Terminal
United States Naval Base
Pearl Harbor, Oahu, Territory of Hawaii
0625 Hours 16 October 1942
In his own mind Brigadier General Fleming W. Pickering, USMCR, tended to see himself primarily as a reasonably competent ship’s master and businessman—in civilian life he had been the Chairman of the Board of the Pacific & Far East Shipping Corporation—dragged by force of circumstances into situations very little connected with his experience in either commanding a ship or running a Fortune 500 Corporation.
Shortly after the start of the war—like many other top-level corporate executives—he was offered a position at the newly formed Office of Strategic Services. When he arrived in Washington, he found the position offered was not only second-level but would leave him immediately subordinate to a man for whom he had virtually no respect. He furthermore believed this action was less an evaluation of his potential value to the OSS than a gratuitously insulting payback from Colonel William Donovan, head of the OSS. Donovan was a Wall Street lawyer with whom he had had several acrimonious business dealings.
He declined the position—in another acrimonious meeting with Donovan—and then volunteered his services to the United States Marine Corps. Despite the Distinguished Service Cross he had earned in the trenches in France in World War I, the Marines had no place for him, either. About to return to his San Francisco office, he had a chance meeting with Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox in the hotel suite of their mutual close friend Senator Richardson K. Fowler (R., Cal.). Over more than a couple of drinks, he suggested to Knox that after the unmitigated disaster at Pearl Harbor, the decent thing for him to do was resign.
That unabashed candor, and Pickering’s reputation in the upper echelons of the American business community, were enough to make Knox realize that Pickering was just the man he needed to be his eyes and ears in the Pacific. If he himself did not intimidate Pickering, Knox concluded, and if Wild Bill Donovan didn’t either, no admiral in the Pacific was likely to daunt him; nor, for that matter, was General Douglas MacArthur.
Knox’s character assessment had proved valid. On his initial trip to the Pacific—Knox had arranged for him to be commissioned as a Navy Captain—Pickering prepared clear-eyed reports detailing how bad the situation really was. These often differed significantly from the reports Knox had been getting from the admirals at CINCPAC (Commander-In-C hief, Pacific) headquarters—which confirmed Knox’s fears that he was being told only what the admirals wished him to hear. In addition, Pickering somehow established a strong personal relationship with General Douglas MacArthur. This, in Knox’s view, was extraordinary, for MacArthur was not only a notorious loner, but he was surrounded by a group of senior officers—“The Bataan Gang”—who had served with him in the Philippines and regarded it as their duty to keep their Supreme Commander isolated from outsiders.
Knox’s pleasure with his selection of Pickering turned out to be short-lived, however. Without any authorization, Pickering s
ailed with the invasion fleet to Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands. Shortly after the invasion, there was a message from him expressing, in precise detail, his dissatisfaction with the Navy’s role in the invasion. He then further manifested his displeasure by going ashore. Once there, he placed himself at the service of Major General Alexander Archer Vandegrift, the commander of the First Marine Division, and somewhat melodramatically volunteered to perform any duties he might be assigned, if only those of a rifleman.
Inasmuch as the Navy assault fleet had sailed away, leaving the Marines alone on their beachhead—the source of Pickering’s contempt—Vandegrift was not able to order the first Navy captain he had ever seen in Marine Corps utilities and carrying a Springfield rifle back aboard a ship with his polite thanks. Shortly afterward, the 1st Marine Division G-2 was killed in combat. By that time, Pickering had so impressed Vandegrift with his intelligence and competence that Vandegrift, short of senior officers, appointed him Acting G-2, until a trained replacement could be sent to the island.
After a month Pickering reluctantly left Guadalcanal, and then only on the direct orders of Secretary Knox, who had ordered the captain of a Navy destroyer making an emergency supply run to Guadalcanal not to leave unless he had Pickering safely aboard. En route to Espíritu Santo, from where Pickering was to be flown to the United States, the destroyer was attacked by a Japanese bomber and her captain killed. Although seriously wounded himself, Pickering assumed command of the destroyer, not because he was the senior Naval officer aboard, but because he believed himself to be the best-qualified mariner aboard—with some justification: he had been licensed as a Master Mariner, Any Tonnage, Any Ocean, at twenty-six.
Pickering’s exploits, meanwhile, came to the attention of President Roosevelt, not only through Secretary Knox but also through the Commander-in-Chief, Pacific, who wanted him decorated for his behavior aboard the destroyer, and through Senator Richardson K. Fowler, Pickering’s lifelong friend and the man the President described privately as the “leader of my none-too-loyal opposition.”
Roosevelt saw in Pickering the same qualities Knox did. Moreover, he felt a certain personal kinship with him, despite their political differences: Both had sons serving in combat in the Marine Corps. Thus, he overrode the strong, if politely expressed, objections of the Marine Corps establishment and commissioned Pickering a brigadier general, USMC Reserve.
Shortly after that, he was named Chief, USMC Office of Management Analysis. This was done—at Secretary Knox’s “suggestion”—primarily because it gave Management Analysis a general officer, essential in the waging of bureaucratic wars in Washington. It also gave him a billet on USMC manning charts. At the same time, it was presumed that Pickering would permit Colonel F. L. Rickabee, a career intelligence officer and the previous Chief, to run things as they had been run. This was an error in judgment. Having been placed in charge, Pickering assumed command.
To everyone’s surprise, Rickabee was not outraged. In fact, he seemed delighted with Pickering’s leadership. This proved true even after Pickering ignored all advice and ordered, from his hospital bed, the evacuation of two Marines operating a Coastwatcher Station on the Japanese-held island of Buka and were in imminent danger of death either from Japanese action or starvation. The operation was successfully completed before formal objections to it could work their way through the military hierarchy.
“I have something to say,” Brigadier General Pickering said softly. Pickering was in his early forties, tall, distinguished looking, and he wore a superbly tailored uniform, the breast of which displayed an impressive array of colored ribbons attesting to his valor both in World War I and the current conflict.
Four Marines turned to look at him: Major Homer C. “Jake” Dillon, USMCR, a stocky, crew-cutted man in his middle thirties; First Lieutenant Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, a well-built, lithe, even-featured young man in his early twenties; Sergeant George F. Hart, USMC, a twenty-four-year-old with the build of a circus strong man; and Corporal Robert F. Easterbrook, who weighed 132 pounds, was nineteen years old, and looked younger.
“I want to say thank you,” General Pickering said, “to you three”—he indicated the Major, the Lieutenant, and the sergeant—“for the Buka Operation. You carried it off without a hitch. It couldn’t have been done without you. You’re a credit to The Corps.”
“Yeah, we know, Flem,” Major Dillon replied. “You really didn’t have to get out of bed at this time of the morning to tell us.”
Majors do not normally address general officers by their first names, nor mock them, no matter how softly. But the relationship between these two was a bit out of the ordinary. Before they had donned Marine uniforms for the second time in their lives, Jake Dillon, Vice President, Publicity, Metro-Magnum Studios, and Fleming Pickering had been friends.
Pickering shook his head in tolerant resignation, not indignation.
“Shut up, Jake,” he said. “I’m serious about this.”
“You’re embarrassing the Killer,” Dillon said, unrepentant, nodding at Lieutenant McCoy. “The next thing you know, he’ll be blushing.”
“Fuck you, Jake,” Lieutenant McCoy snapped unpleasantly.
“You never know when to stop, do you, Jake?” General Pickering said. “You know he hates to be called ‘Killer.’ ”
“Flem, you gave us a job to do, we did it. Leave it at that.”
“No, I won’t,” Pickering said. “As soon as I can find somebody who knows how to fill out the forms, I’m going to do my level best to see that you’re all decorated.”
“With respect, Sir,” McCoy said. “Howard and Koffler deserve a medal, not us.”
“The way things are run in The Marine Corps, Lieutenant, generals make decisions like that,” Pickering said.
“Yes, Sir.”
A loudspeaker went off, harshly but audibly ordering all passengers for the San Diego flight to proceed to the motor whaleboat for boarding of the aircraft.
“Have a nice flight,” General Pickering said. “And whether you like it or not, you have my gratitude and my admiration.”
He shook hands with McCoy first, and then Dillon. And then he turned to the boyish corporal.
“Easterbrook, you did one hell of a job on Guadalcanal,” he said. “Your pictures are probably going to influence this war in ways you can’t imagine. I’ve told Major Dillon—Jake, listen to me—to make sure the proper people know what you did, and how well you did it.”
Corporal Easterbrook blushed.
Finally, Pickering turned to Sergeant Hart.
“It’s not too late to change your mind, George,” he said. “You still have a priority to get on that airplane, and you certainly deserve a couple of weeks off.”
“No, Sir. I’ll go to Australia with you, Sir.”
“Try not to fall out of the whaleboat, Jake,” General Pickering said, and turned and walked out of the passenger lounge.
“Hart’s the one who falls out of boats, General,” Dillon called after him.
A 1939 Cadillac Fleetwood with civilian license plates was parked outside the building. Pickering got behind the wheel, started the engine, waited for Sergeant Hart to get in, and then drove off. Five hundred yards down the road, he made a sudden U-turn and headed back to the passenger terminal.
“You never know those damned things are airborne until they’re airborne,” he said. “Let’s wait and see if they really get off.”
“Yes, Sir,” Sergeant Hart said.
Pickering had several reasons for coming to the Navy base to see the four off. One of them was that he feared that the Navy would ignore their AAAAA travel priority, and give their seats on the plane to some deserving—read highranking—Navy officer.
They couldn’t do so officially, of course, but in the minds of most people in the Navy, any Marine—not just a lowly corporal—was of far less importance than a fellow sailor with the four stripes of a captain or the solid gold stripes of an admiral on his tunic sleeves. There was far less
chance that a “mistake” or an “unfortunate misunderstanding” would occur—leaving an admiral sitting in the seat reserved for Corporal Easterbrook when the plane took off—if the Navy was aware he was being seen off by a Marine general.
Oddly enough, in Pickering’s mind, the boyish corporal had the greatest justification for a priority seat to Washington. It was entirely possible that the Secretary of the Navy—for that matter, the President himself—would want to talk to him.
The day before, Major Edward Banning, USMC, had carried still and motion-picture films Easterbrook had shot on Guadalcanal to the States. By now, Banning was either in Washington or soon would be. On his arrival he would brief Secretary Knox and, Pickering believed, the President and his Chief of Staff Admiral William Leahy as well.
A picture was indeed worth a thousand words, and Easterbrook’s film showed the situation as it was far better than any thick report could possibly show it. It was impossible to get more than one seat on yesterday’s plane, and Pickering decided it had to go to Banning; Easterbrook obviously was not equipped to handle a briefing.
But there would be questions asked today about specific details of the photographs or 16mm film, if not by Roosevelt, Knox, or Leahy, then certainly by Major General Horace W. T. Forrest, the intelligence officer on the staff of the Commandant of the Marine Corps, by Colonel F. L. Rickabee, of the USMC Office of Management Analysis, and by others. These questions could only be answered by the photographer himself, or possibly by Jake Dillon.
On the other hand, there was no real reason why Lieutenant McCoy had to be rushed to Washington. The polite fiction was that he would be useful in helping Dillon and Easterbrook. But the real reason he was going was that Pickering had decided McCoy had a moral right to a seat on the plane. McCoy—and Hart—had paddled ashore from a submarine onto the enemy-held island of Buka, carrying with them a desperately needed radio and some other supplies for a Coastwatcher team that was supplying information concerning Japanese sea and air movements critical for the battle of Guadalcanal.
Behind the Lines Page 12