Behind the Lines

by W. E. B Griffin

  MacArthur nodded his head solemnly.

  “This headquarters, of course, and myself personally, stands ready of course to render any assistance we can to assist you in the accomplishment of your mission.”

  “I can’t think of anything I need right now, Sir.”

  MacArthur looked at him for a long moment, then nodded his head.

  “If something comes up, let me know.”

  “Thank you, General.”

  “Again, Fleming, I deeply appreciate your loyalty to me. But if there’s nothing else?”

  “No, Sir. Thank you for seeing me, Sir.”

  [THREE]

  Naval Air Transport Command Passenger Terminal

  United States Naval Base

  Pearl Harbor, Oahu, Territory of Hawaii

  1430 Hours 21 November 1942

  The plump, bland-faced officer—his desk plate identified him as Lieutenant (j.g.) L. B. Cavanaugh, USNR, Officer in Charge Passenger Seat Assignment—was simply a typical bureaucrat who had put on a uniform for the duration plus six months, Major James C. Brownlee III, USMCR, thought impatiently.

  It was not at all hard for Brownlee to picture Lieutenant Cavanaugh standing behind the Pan American Airways ticket counter in Miami offering the same argument he was offering here:

  “I’m sorry, I don’t make the regulations, and I have no authority to change them.”

  Lieutenant Cavanaugh had produced the rules with all the self-righteous assurance of Moses presenting the Ten Commandments on his descent from Mount Sinai: Here they are, God has spoken, there is no room for argument.

  U.S. Navy Base, Pearl Harbor, T.H., Circular 42-2, “Standing Operating Procedure, Naval Air Transport Command Passenger Terminal,” consisted of sixteen mimeographed pages, each protected by a celluloid envelope in a blue loose-leaf binder. From its battered condition, Brownlee concluded that the Lieutenant had found it necessary to produce the regulations frequently.

  Section Six, “Conflicting Priorities,” took two single-spaced typewritten pages to deal with the inevitability of two or more people showing up at the same time with on-the-face-of-it similar priorities to claim one seat.

  The point was that priorities were really seldom absolutely identical, although Lieutenant (j.g.) Cavanaugh was willing to grant that the priorities of Major Brownlee and Captains Sessions and Macklin were more nearly identical than was usually the case.

  All three carried the highest—AAAAAA—priority classification. Some time ago, Lieutenant (j.g.) Cavanaugh said, an AAAAAA priority would almost have guaranteed a seat on any plane going anywhere. But that had changed, as various headquarters realized the only way to be sure their travelers got on airplanes with the least possible delay was to issue them the highest priority possible.

  In consequence of that, authority to issue AAAAAA air-travel priorities had been removed from lesser headquarters. At the present time, only Commander, U.S. Naval Activities, West Coast (COMNAVACTWEST); Commander, U.S. Naval Activities, East Coast (COMNAVACTEAST); CINCPAC (Commander-in-Chief, Pacific); and SWPOA (Supreme Headquarters, South West Pacific Ocean Area) had the authority to issue AAAAAA air-travel priorities. Plus, of course, the U.S. Army Chief of Staff and the Chief of Naval Operations.

  Identical AAAAAA priorities issued by the Chief of Staff of the Army and the Chief of Naval Operations had priority over AAAAAA priorities issued by lesser headquarters.

  But inasmuch as the AAAAAA priorities issued to Major Brownlee and Captains Sessions and Macklin had all been issued by the Chief of Naval Operations, that was no help in determining who would occupy the one seat available on the Coronado departing Pearl Harbor at 1615 hours for Supreme Headquarters, SWPOA, Brisbane, Australia.

  The next selection criteria, given identical AAAAAA priorities issued by the same—or equal-level—headquarters, was the date and time of the issue. And this was the deciding factor here, Lieutenant (j.g.) Cavanaugh announced. Inasmuch as the AAAAAA priority issued to Captain Sessions was dated four days prior to the AAAAAA priorities issued to Major Brownlee and Captain Macklin, Captain Sessions was thus entitled to the seat.

  Lieutenant (j.g.) Cavanaugh was deaf to Major Brownlee’s argument that the three officers were all on the same mission, that he was by virtue of his rank the commanding officer, and thus had the authority to determine which of the three would travel first, with the others to follow.

  “Priorities are not transferable,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Cavanaugh said. “Paragraph 14(b).” He indicated with his finger the applicable paragraph.

  “Lieutenant,” Sessions asked, “what if I was suddenly taken ill? It really is important that Major Brownlee reaches Brisbane before I do.”

  “You would really have to be sick,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Cavanaugh said. “Otherwise that would constitute ‘Absence Without Leave With the Intention of Avoiding Hazardous Duty.’ All air travel beyond here into the Pacific is considered Hazardous Duty. They’d take you to the dispensary, and you would have to prove you were sick.”

  He flipped the pages of “Standing Operating Procedure” until he came to the applicable paragraph, then held out the blue loose-leaf binder for them to see for themselves.

  “And I can’t just voluntarily give up my seat to Major Brownlee?” Sessions asked.

  “No, you cannot,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Cavanaugh said simply but firmly.

  “Have a nice flight, Ed,” Major Brownlee said. “I’ll see you in Brisbane.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir,” Ed Sessions said.

  “It’s not your fault,” Brownlee said. “This has all come down from Mount Sinai graven on stone.”

  Sessions chuckled.

  “I’ll tell you what you might do, Major, if it’s really important that you get to Brisbane,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Cavanaugh said.

  “It’s really important.”

  “You might go out to Hickam Field. The Army’s running Flying Fortresses through there to Australia. Sometimes, they can find a ride for people in a hurry. There’s no seats on a B-17, of course, and it’s a long ride....”

  “How would I get from here to Hickam Field?”

  “There’s a bus from the Main Gate. I think they run every hour on the quarter hour.”

  “You mind getting on the Coronado by yourself, Ed?” Brownlee asked. “Can you handle all that stuff by yourself?”

  He pointed to their luggage. In addition to their clothing, this included the obsolete Device, Cryptographic, M94; the new crypto device—which, to Sessions’s surprise, did not seem to have an official nomenclature; four small portable shortwave radios and several spare sets of batteries; and other items which Colonel Rickabee and Major Banning decided, before Brownlee and Macklin showed up, that McCoy might find useful.

  Sessions took Brownlee’s meaning: While Brownlee might be able to cajole space for himself and Macklin on a Flying Fortress, it was unlikely the Army Air Corps would be willing to carry along several hundred pounds of what looked like his personal baggage.

  “I can handle it,” Sessions said, and then looked at Lieutenant (j.g.) Cavanaugh to see if he had any objections.

  “Let me see your orders again,” Cavanaugh said. He studied them carefully, then announced: “No problem. Paragraph 5(b) says, ‘and such equipment and accessories as is considered necessary for the accomplishment of the assigned mission.’ I presume all that stuff is necessary?”

  “Absolutely,” Brownlee and Sessions said at the same instant.

  They looked at each other and chuckled. Then Brownlee put out his hand.

  “See you in Brisbane, Ed,” he said.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Macklin offered his hand. Sessions pretended not to see it.

  But he saw it, Brownlee thought, concerned. Sessions refused to shake Macklin’s hand. And since we reported to Management Analysis, he hasn’t said one word to him that was not absolutely necessary. I wonder what that’s all about? Resentment that we’re going in on what these people thought was their mission? That doesn’t soun
d likely. But there’s something.

  [FOUR]

  Headquarters, Marine Air Group 21

  Marine Airfield

  Ewa, Oahu Island, Territory of Hawaii

  22 November 1942

  Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins, USMC, noticed the staff car parked at the wooden Base Operations building when he passed over the field on the downwind leg of his approach. Dawkins, a tanned, wiry man of thirty-five, who was a career Marine out of Annapolis, commanded MAG-21.

  “Now what?” he asked rhetorically, somewhat disgustedly, and aloud, and then turned most of his attention to putting the Grumman F4F-4 Wildcat fighter onto the ground.

  He took a closer look at the staff car as he taxied past Base Ops. It was a nearly new Buick Special sedan, and thus was engaged in the transportation of not only a brass hat but a senior brass hat. There were only a couple of Buicks in the hands of Marines in Hawaii, and they were—rank hath its privileges—reserved for general officers.

  Dawkins searched his mind but could come up with no reason why a general officer would show up at Ewa on Sunday, unless he was either the bearer of bad tidings or really enraged about something and wished to make his displeasure known personally and immediately to the Commanding Officer of MAG-21.

  Dawkins taxied the Wildcat to a sandbag revetment, turned it around so it could be pushed backward into the revetment after refueling, shut it down, and then turned to the paperwork. It had been a test flight, following 100-hour maintenance, and he had found several items that needed either investigation or repair.

  He was aware that someone had climbed onto the wing-root, but didn’t look up.

  “I didn’t know they let worn-out old men like you play with hot airplanes like this,” a male voice said, causing him to look up into the face of a large-boned, ruddy-faced man in his forties. Without realizing he was doing it—truly a Pavlovian reflex—Dawkins raised his right hand to his eyelid in a salute and simultaneously tried to stand up.

  The uniform of the man standing on Dawkins’s wing was adorned with both the golden wings of a Naval Aviator and the silver stars—one on each epaulet and one on each collar point—of a brigadier general.

  “I think you have to take the harness off before you can do that,” Brigadier General D. G. McInerney, USMC, said innocently, as he sort of patted Dawkins’s shoulder.

  “Yes, Sir,” Dawkins said, chagrined. “Thank you very much, Sir.”

  General McInerney jumped off the wing, then waited until Dawkins unstrapped himself and climbed out of the cockpit. As Dawkins joined him, he extended his hand.

  “Good to see you, Sir,” Dawkins said. “I thought you were in Washington.”

  “I got in a couple of hours ago,” McInerney said. “How’s things, Dawk?”

  “There’s a lot more creature comforts around here,” he said. The last time they were in each other’s company, they’d been in a tent at a paved-with-pierced-steel-planking airstrip called “Fighter One” on the island of Guadalcanal in the Solomons.

  “Do you know General Forrest, Dawk?”

  “I know who he is, Sir.”

  “ACofS Intelligence,” McInerney said. “An old friend. He knew I was coming here, and asked me to do would I could about this.”

  He dipped into the pocket of his tunic again and handed Dawkins a flimsy carbon copy of an internal USMC memorandum:TELEPHONE MEMORANDUM

  CLASSIFICATION: NONE

  DATE AND TIME: 1625 16 Nov 1942

  FROM: Commandant, USMC

  TO: Maj Gen Forrest

  SUBJECT: Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman, Ernest

  SYNOPSIS:

  (1) The Commandant has received from SecNav personally SecNavʹs desire that Gunnery Sergeant Ernest Zimmerman, Serial Number Unknown, USMC, presently assigned VMF-229 be immediately transferred to USMC Special Detachment 16, with duty station Brisbane, Australia.

  (2) The Secretary desires that Sergeant Zimmerman’s travel to Brisbane be by the most expeditious means, and that he be advised by Special Channel Communication of Sergeant Zimmerman’s estimated time of arrival in Brisbane. The Secretary further desires that the Commanding Officer, USMC Special Detachment 16, be similarly advised, also by Special Channel Communication.

  (3) The Commandant desires that Maj Gen Forrest personally accomplish the foregoing as a matter of the highest priority.

  “What I would like to do at any time within the next fifteen minutes, Dawk,” General McInerney said, “is send a message to General Forrest, telling him that Gunny Zimmerman is on his way to Brisbane.”

  Dawkins looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  “Sir, he’s not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I think he’s on Guadalcanal.”

  “You think he’s on Guadalcanal?”

  “Sir, he didn’t leave the ’Canal when the ground personnel got on the ship.”

  “Why not?”

  “I think Captain Galloway is carrying him as being on temporary duty with the 2nd Raider Battalion.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Big Steve had him—Zimmerman’s a Browning expert—transferred from the Raiders to VMF-229 when they were having weapons trouble. When the Squadron was relieved, Zimmerman went back to the Raiders.”

  “Without orders?”

  “I believe it was on Galloway’s verbal orders, Sir, with official orders to follow when that became possible.”

  “Where did you say Galloway is?”

  “At Muku-Muku, Sir.”

  “Where’s that?” General Mclnerney asked, and then, before Dawkins could reply, went on. “You know where to find it?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Get in the car, Colonel,” General McInerney ordered. “Curiosity overwhelms me.”

  A silver-haired, elderly, dignified black man in a crisp white steward’s coat walked out onto the flagstone patio of the sprawling mansion on the coast. Five hundred yards down the steep, lush slope, large waves crashed onto a wide white sand beach.

  Three people were on the patio, stretched comfortably out on upholstered rattan chaise lounges under a green awning. One was a statuesque, Slavic-appearing blond woman in her forties. Makeup-less, pale-skinned, she had her blond hair piled upward on her head. She was wearing a loose-fitting, gaudily flowered dress, called a “muumuu.” Her feet were in woven leather sandals.

  One of the men, a good-looking, slim, deeply tanned and brown-haired young man of twenty-six, was wearing swimming trunks and a loose-fitting shirt quite as loud as the lady’s muumuu. The other, a large, nearly bald, barrel-chested man in his forties, was wearing stiffly starched Marine khakis, the collar unbuttoned. The collar points held the gold and brown bar of a master gunner, and there were gold Naval Aviator’s wings on his chest.

  “Captain Galloway,” the steward said. “Colonel Dawkins is here to see you. With another gentleman, a general.”

  “Denny,” Charley Galloway said, “I’ve had a bad week. Do not pull my leg.”

  The steward raised his right hand, palm outward, to shoulder height as if swearing that he was telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

  “God, Denny, let them in!” Galloway said, rising to his feet. “It wouldn’t hurt to bow or something.”

  Smiling, the steward bowed with great dignity.

  “Not to me, not to me, at the General!”

  “Your wish is my command,” Denny said.

  “My God,” the woman said anguished. “Look at me!”

  Twenty seconds later, Brigadier General D. G. McInerney and Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins walked onto the patio. The master gunner came to a position very much like attention.

  “Good afternoon, Sir,” Galloway said.

  “Ah, Captain Galloway,” McInerney said. “And Mr. Oblensky!”

  “Good afternoon, Sir,” Oblensky said formally.

  “Marine Corps legends in their own time!” McInerney went on. “Why am I not surprised to find you two in such an environment
of primitive squalor?”

  “General, I don’t believe you know Mrs. Oblensky?” Galloway said.

  “No, but I am genuinely honored to meet you, Commander,” General McInerney said, then walked to her and shook her hand.

  When she was not playing the role of Mrs. Master Gunner Oblensky, USMC. she was Commander Florence Kocharski, Chief Surgical Nurse, U.S. Navy Hospital, Pearl Harbor. She had been awarded the Silver Star for her valor—“with absolute disregard for her own life”—going aboard a sinking battleship to treat the wounded on December 7, 1941.

  “Commander, how’s the Stecker boy doing?” McInerney asked.

  “He’s a long way from well, Sir,” she said. “But, considering the shape he was in when we got him, he’s doing fine.”

  “I saw the crash,” McInerney said. “It wasn’t pleasant.”

  “Steve told me,” she said.

  “That’s another item on my agenda,” McInerney said. “When can I see him?”

  She smiled.

  “They generally waive visiting hours for general officers, General.”

  “I meant, when would it be convenient for you and your people?”

  “Anytime would be fine, Sir.”

  “His father and I are old friends,” McInerney said. “We were in France together in the last war. And so, incidentally, was our host.”

  “May I offer the General something to drink?” Galloway asked.

  “Hawaiian hospitality, right?” McInerney said. “Goes with the rope of flowers around your neck? Second time today I’ve had that offer. Colonel Dawkins offered me something to drink, pineapple juice and gin. I was about to accept, and then the Colonel told me you’d put Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman on TDY to the 2nd Raider Battalion, and I thought I’d hold off until I heard all about that.”