"Colonel Jack (NMI) Stecker, Captain,” the sergeant replied, and then, smiling, added, ”The NMI means ‘No Middle Initial.’ ”
“You find that amusing, Sergeant?”
Colonel Stecker is probably General Pickering’s deputy or chief of staff, something like that.
“I think it’s sort of interesting.”
“You ‘think it’s sort of interesting, Sir’,” Macklin corrected him.
“Yes, Sir.”
“I’ll be with you shortly,” Macklin snapped.
“I’ll wait for you in the jeep, Captain,” the sergeant said.
Except for his subtly disrespectful attitude, there was nothing he could find in the sergeant’s behavior to put a finger on, but his behavior was definitely annoying. He was reminded of the behavior of Corporal McCoy in China, and after a moment he decided that was probably the explanation. McCoy was here, McCoy was an officer, and young enlisted men tended to emulate the behavior of their officers.
He hadn’t seen McCoy. He hadn’t seen anyone, or heard from anyone, since the Asiatic major dumped him at the BOQ shortly after his arrival. Walking home from the 0800 morning prayer service at St. John’s Church that morning, he’d decided that if he didn’t hear anything by 1700, he would telephone the OSS people here in Brisbane.
He rather enjoyed the worship service. The familiar hymns and the words of the Book of Common Prayer in a church not unlike his own St. Paul’s were rather nice. Afterward, as he waited in line to shake the rector’s hand, he chatted with a stocky, well-dressed gentleman with a large mustache, who asked him to join him and his family for Sunday dinner if he had no other plans.
He had no other plans, of course, except to return to the BOQ and wait for something to happen. But he did not think he should run the risk of being away from the BOQ should Major Brownlee suddenly appear. So he declined, telling the kind gentleman that he had duty.
But the encounter had tipped the scales in favoring of calling the OSS station in Brisbane. He had been furnished—and had memorized—their number for emergency purposes. He wasn’t sure whether this was an emergency or not, but certainly the OSS would be interested to hear that he had not heard from anyone, most importantly from Major Brownlee, in seventy-two hours.
He checked his reflected image as well as he could in the dim mirror over the washbasin, tugged at the hem of his tunic, and then, carefully locking the door behind him, walked down the long, dark, and narrow corridor of the hotel, down the creaking stairs, across the sparsely furnished lobby, and outside.
The sergeant saw him coming, started the jeep’s engine, and waited for him to get in—somewhat impatiently, Macklin thought. It was apparent the sergeant hadn’t even considered stepping out of the jeep, saluting, and then waiting for the officer to be seated before getting behind the wheel.
“What is our destination, Sergeant?” he asked as Koffler backed the jeep away from its parking spot.
“We’re going out to the cottage, Captain.”
“And what is the ‘cottage,’ Sergeant?”
“Where the officers live, Captain.”
If “the officers” live there, why am I living in the Company Grade BOQ?
When they arrived at the cottage, Macklin’s first reaction was favorable. It could be something like the Country Club, he decided, a rather nice civilian facility requisitioned for the use of the OSS. That view was reinforced when the sergeant opened the door for him and motioned him inside, past an entrance hall, and into a large, comfortably furnished living room. Two young Marine officers—both second lieutenants—slid their rattan upholstered chairs closer to a coffee table, as a middle-aged woman in an apron—obviously some kind of servant—entered the room carrying a tray on which were a silver coffee set and a plate of pastries.
Both officers looked at him curiously, but neither rose to his feet.
“I am Captain Macklin. To see Colonel Stecker.”
“Steve’ll tell him you’re here. Captain,” one of the officers, a tall, good-looking blonde, said.
Steve is apparently this baby-faced sergeant who needs a refresher course in military courtesy. As do both of these young officers.
Macklin saw the Purple Heart ribbon among those on the blonde’s tunic; the other second lieutenant’s tunic carried the silver cords identifying an aide-de-camp to a general officer.
“Is General Pickering here?” Macklin asked.
“Why don’t you sit down and have a cup of coffee and a doughnut?” the aide-de-camp said. “I’m sure Colonel Stecker will be ready for you in a minute or two.”
“I asked you if General Pickering was here, Lieutenant,” Macklin flared. “I am under orders to report to him.”
Lieutenant George Hart looked at Macklin long enough for Macklin to realize he would not get an answer, and to consider his next options. He was not forced to make a decision.
“The Colonel will see you now, Captain,” Sergeant Koffler announced. Macklin looked at him. He was standing by an open door. And then First Lieutenant Kenneth R. McCoy came through the door, in the act of stuffing an M1911A1
.45 Colt under his belt in the small of his back. He looked at Macklin, meeting his eyes.
“Captain Macklin,” he said.
“McCoy,” Macklin responded.
McCoy looked away.
“Anybody want to see how much a lot of gold actually weighs?” McCoy said to no one in particular.
“Yeah, I would,” the tall lieutenant said.
“I await my master’s call,” the aide-de-camp said, "damn it.”
“What can I use for wheels?” McCoy asked.
“You better take the Jaguar,” the aide said. “The Boss is either going to the Palace to meet some admiral, or I’m going to go to the Palace to bring the Admiral here; and I know the Colonel’s going to need his jeep.”
“In here, please, Captain,” a new voice said. Macklin followed the sound and saw a tall, muscular, tanned full colonel motioning him to enter the room McCoy had just left.
“Yes, Sir,” Macklin said.
“Did they offer you some coffee, Captain? Would you like some?”
“That would be very nice, Sir.”
“You better take somebody with you, Ken,” the Colonel said. “That’s a lot of gold. I’d hate to have to tell somebody we lost it in a stickup. And take the Jaguar, not a jeep.”
“Gimpy’s volunteered to ride shotgun, Colonel,” McCoy said, nodding toward the tall second lieutenant.
“Any reason you can’t go with them, George?” Stecker asked.
“I’m waiting to see what the Boss wants to do, Colonel.”
“You go with them. If the General needs wheels, I’ll drive him.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“Colonel, we’re only going to take it from the bank to the dungeon, wrap it, and take it back to the bank,” McCoy said.
“It is better to be safe than sorry,” Stecker said with a smile. “Write that down, McCoy.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“OK, Captain,” Stecker said. “Get yourself a cup of coffee, and then come in the library.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
As he poured coffee, Macklin understood why McCoy had referred to the tall second lieutenant as “Gimpy.” He walked with a visible limp, and was apparently in some pain.
Typical of McCoy. To mock an officer who had suffered honorable wounds in combat. One more reason people like that should not be officers.
Carrying his coffee and a sweet roll in his hands, Macklin went into the library. Colonel Stecker was at the door.
“Take a seat, Captain Macklin,” Stecker ordered, and then closed and locked the door behind them. Macklin sat down in an upholstered armchair near the desk. Stecker walked to the desk and rested his rump on it.
“I’m afraid there’s been some bad news, Captain,” he said. “The B-17 carrying Major Brownlee was forced to ditch at sea near Midway. There were no survivors.”
Mac
klin felt a chill.
My God! If I had been fully recovered from my wounds, I would have been aboard that B-17!
“I’m very sorry to hear that, Sir. Major Brownlee was a fine gentleman, a fine Marine officer.”
“So I have been led to believe.”
“Officially, that places command of the Fertig mission in your hands,” Stecker said.
My God!
“Colonel, may I inquire if the OSS has been notified of this terrible loss?”
“General Pickering notified Secretary Knox, and asked that the information be relayed to the OSS.”
“I’m sure they will issue new instructions,” Macklin said, half thinking aloud, and only at the last second remembering to add, “Sir.”
“Why should they do that?” Stecker asked.
“Colonel, the cold facts are that I am not qualified, in terms of training or experience, or physically—I was wounded at Gavutu with the 2nd Parachute Battalion, and am not yet fully recovered—to command such a mission.”
“God,” Stecker said, loathing in his voice. “I was half prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt. But you haven’t changed at all, have you, Macklin?”
“Sir?”
“Do I look familiar to you, Captain?”
“No, Sir. I don’t believe I’ve previously had the privilege of the Colonel’s acquaintance.”
“The first time we met was at Quantico, Captain. You were at the time engaged in several slimy schemes to keep McCoy from getting a commission.”
“Sir, I have no idea—”
“The second time we met was on Gavutu. I commanded 2nd Battalion, Fifth Marines, during the invasion. I went to the aid station to see some of my men, and the battalion surgeon of the 2nd Parachute Battalion pointed out to me the officer his corpsmen had to pry loose from a pier piling. You were a disgrace to The Corps on that occasion, too, Captain Macklin.”
“Sir, the only thing I can say is that the Colonel has been grossly misinformed.”
“Shut your lying mouth, Captain,” Stecker said, almost conversationally. “Open it again only when I give you specific permission.”
He looked at Macklin for a full minute before continuing.
“For a number of reasons that are none of your concern—though they include General Pickering’s belief that The Corps has a deep responsibility to do all it can to assist the Marines with General Fertig—the mission will proceed with you as its nominal commander. He has so informed Secretary Knox, and thus the OSS. Actual command of the mission will be vested in Lieutenant McCoy. If I were McCoy, you would not leave the beach in the Philippines alive. Not because of your actions toward him at Quantico, but because a lying coward like you threatens both the lives of the men on this mission and the mission itself. Do I make myself clear, Captain Macklin?”
“Sir, I must protest in the strongest possible terms your characterization of my—” .
With a swift, seemingly effortless motion, Stecker leaned down to Macklin, grabbed his necktie, and pulled him half out of the chair.
My God, he’s going to spit in my face!
As quickly as he had pulled Macklin from his chair, Stecker shoved him back into it.
“You have one chance of coming out of this mission alive, Macklin,” he said, his voice and his temper back under control. “And that is to do exactly what McCoy tells you to do, when he tells you to do it. You are two inches away from me ordering McCoy to remove you as a threat to the mission the moment you touch the beach in the Philippines. Do you understand me, Captain Macklin? Answer ‘Yes, Sir’ or ‘No, Sir.’ ”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Sergeant Koffler will now return you to the BOQ. You will stay there, prepared to make yourself available at any time McCoy feels he needs you.”
As soon as I get out of here, I’m going to get in touch with the OSS. This is outrageous!
“The proper response to an order, Captain, is ‘Aye, aye, Sir.’ ”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” Captain Macklin said.
[EIGHT]
Conference.Room II
Supreme Headquarters, SWPOA
Brisbane, Australia
1225 Hours 29 November 1942
Just before noon, Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis III, USN, appeared, unannounced, at Water Lily Cottage. When the doorbell rang, Pickering was close to it, so he opened it. It was clear from Lewis’s face that he was a little surprised that a general officer would open his own door.
“General Pickering?” Lewis asked, and when Pickering nodded, went on, “Admiral Wagam’s compliments, Sir. I am the Admiral’s aide-de-camp.”
“I’ve been expecting to hear from him.”
“Admiral Wagam would be pleased if it were convenient for the General to meet with him at Supreme Headquarters,” Lewis said. “General Willoughby has been kind enough to offer accommodations.”
“When?”
“Admiral Wagam hopes that it would be convenient for the General now, Sir.”
“Why not?” Pickering thought aloud. And then, somewhat annoyed with himself, two thoughts came: First, this was really a summons—if the circumstances were reversed, he would have personally called Nimitz’s admiral, he wouldn’t have had Hart call him. And second, he didn’t like Willoughby putting his two cents in.
He turned and saw Jack Stecker.
“General Willoughby,” he explained, “has kindly provided a place for Admiral Wagam and me to meet, and the Admiral sent his aide to fetch me.”
“Really?” Stecker replied, both his tone of voice and his face showing that he read the situation exactly as Pickering did.
Pickering turned back to Lewis. “Where exactly are these accommodations, Lieutenant?”
“One of the conference rooms at Supreme Headquarters, Sir.”
“Please present my compliments to the Admiral, Lieutenant, and tell him that I’m on my way.”
“General, I have a car.”
“So do I, Lieutenant,” Pickering said. “Jack, is George in the dungeon by now, do you think?”
“Yes, Sir. I would think so.”
“Call the dungeon, please, Jack, and ask George to meet me in the lobby.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” Stecker said with a smile.
“Right this way, General, if you please,” Lieutenant Lewis said to Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMC, as he pushed open a door.
Then he raised his hand to block the passage of Second Lieutenant George F. Hart, USMCR, and added, “I believe, Sir, with your permission, that the Admiral would prefer to confer in private.”
"Oh, George goes everywhere with me, Lieutenant,” Pickering replied. ”That way we can both recall who said what to whom in one of these meetings.”
It was obvious that Lieutenant Lewis did not like that response. This, Pickering decided, was fine with him, because he did not like what little he had seen of Lewis. The first moment Pickering saw him, he concluded he was a self-important young man; it was not a surprise to see an Annapolis ring on his finger.
“Yes, Sir, of course,” Lieutenant Lewis said.
As Lewis held open the door for him, Pickering remembered that he was perversely pleased at Lieutenant Lewis’s obvious confusion in Water Lily Cottage. Who was George, and what was the dungeon?
Lieutenant Lewis then announced him:
“Admiral, Brigadier General Pickering.”
Admiral Wagam rose smiling from his chair at the head of the table. He was a tall, handsome, silver-haired officer in a well-fitting, high-collared white uniform.
“General Pickering,” he said, putting out his hand. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
“I realize that you’re a busy man, Admiral,” Pickering replied.
But I don’t like this. I don’t like you sitting at the head of the table; no one has appointed you chairman of this conference. And I don’t like being summoned here—no matter how politely your aide phrased it.
“General Willoughby was kind enough to offer us this place
for our talk,” Wagam said. “He said you have declined the offer of an office at SWPOA?”
“How kind of General Willoughby,” Pickering said. “Yes, I did. If I took an office here, I thought it might look as if I were a member of the SWPOA staff.” When he saw that Wagam was taken a little aback by the remark, Pickering added, with a smile, “I didn’t want to wind up on some SWPOA duty roster. Flag officer of the day, or somesuch.”
Wagam chuckled.
“Your precise status is the subject of some conversation,” Wagam said.
The two men were evaluating each other.
“So I understand,” Pickering said.
The truth was, he liked his first impression of Wagam. This at first surprised him, until he reminded himself that he really liked and admired Admiral Chester Nimitz, for whom Admiral Wagam worked. He doubted that Nimitz would tolerate a fool on his staff for more than sixty seconds.
That triggered the thought, the realization, that he was in a lousy mood. And he knew the reasons for that: He didn’t want to send McCoy into the Philippines at all, much less with the albatross of Macklin hanging around his neck. And he didn’t want to send Koffler along with him either, even if he had no choice. El Supremo had refused to give him a qualified radio operator.
“I’m just a simple sailor, Admiral, sailing in uncharted waters,” Pickering said.
“You’re an any-tonnage, any-ocean master mariner, General,” Wagam said. “Not a simple sailor. I’m sure that you can navigate safely through any array of rocks and shoals.”
Pickering was surprised—and somehow pleased—that Wagam knew that he had spent time on the bridge of a ship.
“When I use somebody else’s room, I always worry whether or not there’s hidden microphones,” Pickering said, now smiling.
Wagam’s face showed his confusion. He wasn’t sure at first if Pickering was serious or not.
“You think the Japanese have placed a microphone in here?”
“I’m not sure about the Japanese,” he said, and switched to a thick but credible German accent. “But the Germans”— he pronounced it Cher-mans—“you haff to vatch out for dem.”
Wagam had picked up on the smile. He smiled back. Despite the English-sounding name, General Charles Willoughby had a Germanic background, and sometimes spoke with a perceptible German accent.
Behind the Lines Page 36