“Do you really?” Wagam said.
If Charley Willoughby does have a microphone in here—and I wouldn’t put it past him, come to think of it—that should ruin his whole day, Pickering thought, pleased.
“Der Chermans,” Pickering went on, “they are not too schmardt, but dey are thorough!”
Wagam laughed out loud.
“Would the Admiral be kind enough to join me for lunch at a place where I know there are no microphones?”
“Yes, of course. Thank you.”
“George, call out to the cottage and tell Mrs. Cavendish four for lunch as soon as we get there.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“I’ll drive the Admiral in the Studebaker, and you bring Lieutenant Lewis with you,” Pickering ordered, and then had another thought. “And I think it would be a good idea to drop by the dungeon and ask the Killer to join us. Would that pose a problem?”
“No, Sir. They’re just about through, General.”
“Tell him to leave the gold there, and then take it back after lunch.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“Admiral Nimitz told me to be careful if General Willoughby asked about OPERATION WINDMILL,” Admiral Wagam said when they were in the Studebaker, “but do—”
“About operation what?” Pickering interrupted.
“OPERATION WINDMILL,” Wagam replied, surprise in his voice, “the mission to Fertig.”
“I never heard it called that before,” Pickering said. “Where’d you get that?”
“It was in Admiral Leahy’s Special Channel Personal to Admiral Nimitz,” Wagam said, “in which he said that if we can’t provide the kind of a submarine you want—in support of OPERATION WINDMILL—and when you want it, he’ll want to know our reasons.”
“Nimitz’s Special Channel Personal to me suggested there was a problem with the submarine.”
“Not from your position, General, but from ours. My orders are to explain the problem to you, and pass on Admiral Nimitz’s thoughts on the subject, and then to give you whatever you think you need.”
Pickering grunted.
“I was about to ask if you really thought there might be a microphone in that conference room,” Wagam said.
“Charley Willoughby,” Pickering replied, “is not only about as smart as they come, and a thoroughly competent intelligence officer, but is also fiercely loyal to General MacArthur. That’s fine for SWPOA and El Supremo, but sometimes it gets in my way.”
“ ‘El Supremo’? Is that what you call him?”
“Only behind his back,” Pickering said.
Wagam laughed.
“We have a personal connection, General,” he said.
“We do?”
“My nephew, Lieutenant David Schneider, USMC, flew with VMF-229 on Guadalcanal.”
“Did he come out all right?” Pickering asked.
“With five kills, a DFC, and some injuries to his legs when he barely made it back to Henderson Field in a pretty badly shot-up Wildcat. He is now recovered.”
“My boy—thank God, luck was with him—wasn’t injured,” Pickering said. “Well, they’re both out of it now, at least for a while. An old pal of mine, General McInerney—”
“I know Mac,” Wagam interrupted.
“—told me The Corps plans to use those kids as instructors, hoping they can pass on what they learned the hard way to the new kids.”
“He told me the same thing,” Wagam said. “And that the two of you were in France together. That’s how I knew about your son.”
“Small world, Mac, me, and Colonel Jack (NMI) Stecker. At the time we were young enlisted men foolish enough to believe we were in the war to end war forever.”
“Me, too,” Wagam said. “My contribution to World War I was commanding a couple of three-inchers welded precariously to the superstructure of a freighter. I used to worry about my Naval career, now that there wasn’t going to be another war. I was afraid I would never get to be a commander, much less an admiral.”
The two men looked at each other for a moment.
“Admiral, would there be any problem having Jack Stecker and the Lieutenant who’s going into the Philippines—his name is McCoy—sit in on our little chat?”
“I was going to suggest that my aide sit in,” Wagam said. “He’s a submariner. He made three trips to Corregidor before it fell. He’s suggested that he go along on this operation to see if he could be useful.”
Pickering, you’ve just done it again. Another of your brilliant, snap judgments of character is one hundred eighty degrees off course.
“Fine with me,” Pickering said.
“And the OSS people?”
“There’s only one of them, and I’ll tell you about him later, ”Pickering said.
Mrs. Cavendish removed the luncheon plates from the dining-room table, brought in two pots of coffee, and left, closing the door softly behind her. General Pickering and Admiral Wagam were at opposite ends of the table. Lining the sides were Colonel Jack (NMI) Stecker, Captain Ed Sessions, Lieutenants McCoy and Hart, USMC, Lieutenant Lewis, USN, and a last-minute addition General Pickering sensed upset Lieutenant Lewis’s concept of Naval propriety, Staff Sergeant Steve Koffler.
The Navy’s wrong about the way they treat—and think about—their enlisted men, Pickering thought when he saw the shock on Lewis’s. face after he told Koffler he wanted him present at the meeting. And I wonder where it started? In the merchant marine, just about every master, every chief engineer, first goes to sea as an apprentice seaman, or an apprentice wiper. The ones with brains and ambition, the ones willing to accept responsibility, are encouraged to think about getting out of the forecastle. The Navy chains the forecastle port shut.
“The problem, gentlemen, I should say problems,” Admiral Wagam began, “are these: CINCPAC has available one submarine designed to carry cargo, the Narwhal. She is currently undergoing engine refit, and some other modifications, at Pearl. The operative word there is ‘one’ cargo sub. Her value to the Pacific fleet goes without saying.” He paused, and then went on. “There is a shortage of standard boats as well. We’ve taken some pretty bad losses, and the sub fleet isn’t half as large as we would like. We really can’t afford to lose any more.”
“Tell us what Admiral Nimitz thinks we should do,” Pickering interrupted.
“All right,” Wagam said. “And I am in agreement ... not only because I work for Admiral Nimitz, but because I’ve given this problem a good deal of thought. First of all, the risk posed to the Narwhal in this operation is unacceptable, in my opinion.”
“We need a submarine,” Pickering said. “What do you suggest?”
Wagam did not reply directly.
“As I understand it,” he said, “we do not have secure communication with Fertig, and will not have until we put ashore the first personnel and their communications equipment. Until we do that, until Fertig and his people can communicate directly, and securely, both with a submarine and with radio stations here and elsewhere, we have no reason to assume that the sub can safely surface, much less discharge cargo, off Mindanao. It’s entirely possible that the moment the conning tower breaks water, it will come under shore-based artillery fire.”
“We plan to go in at night, Admiral,” McCoy said.
“There are both artillery illuminating rounds, and aircraft parachute flares available to the Japanese, Mr. McCoy,” Admiral Wagam said reasonably.
“Let’s hear what you would like us to do, Admiral,” Pickering said, a touch of impatience in his voice.
“OK. A new boat, the Sunfish, can be made available for OPERATION WINDMILL—”
“Excuse me?” Captain Sessions asked.
OPERATION WINDMILL is what somebody in Washington is calling this operation,” Pickering replied. “I’m sure that sooner or later someone would have remembered to tell us.”
“As in tilting at windmills, like Don Quixote?” Sessions asked.
“I think that’s a good guess, Ed,” Pick
ering said. “Go on, please, Admiral.”
“The Sunfish can be made available to you at Espíritu Santo as of 10 December. If that decision is made today, or no later than tomorrow. She is a standard submarine. This means she is not capable of carrying all the cargo you intend to take with you, even with half of her torpedoes removed.”
“Looking the gift horse in the mouth, Admiral, why are you willing to give us a new submarine?” Pickering asked.
“Because this cruise for her would also serve as a shake-down voyage,” Wagam said. “Our experience has been that losses of submarines, from enemy action or other causes, are disproportionately larger when a boat is making its first combat patrol.”
Stecker snorted.
“In one sense, Colonel,” Wagam said, now a little coldly, “you’re right. CINCPAC would rather risk the Sunfish than the Narwhal. For one thing, the loss of the Sunfish would not be as damaging as the loss of the Narwhal. There are other Gato-class submarines in production. There are no Narwhal-class submarines on the way.”
“What are the ‘disproportionate’ losses of submarines on their first combat patrol?” Pickering asked.
“Eighteen percent,” Wagam replied.
“One in five doesn’t make it back? God, I had no idea it was that bad!” Pickering replied, visibly shocked.
“CINCPAC’s thinking,” Wagam said, “is that the Sunfish could make its first combat patrol with a lesser risk of loss than a full combat patrol would entail—despite the hazards incident to surfacing a thousand yards off an enemy-held shore for the hour or so it would take to off-load your men. That would both put your men ashore and get Sunfish back to Pearl with the experience of a first combat patrol under her belt. On the return voyage, after the off-loading, she could continue her patrol with the available fuel and half her normal complement of torpedoes.”
“Jack?” Pickering asked.
“I see their reasoning,” Stecker said thoughtfully. “But I don’t like cutting the material we want to take to Fertig. Correct me if I’m wrong, Sir, but you want to give us the space normally taken up by half of the torpedoes normally carried?”
“Correct.”
“And if the Sunfish carried no torpedoes at all?” Pickering asked.
He directed the question to Admiral Wagam, but Stecker answered:
“We would still be able to carry only about half of what we could take on the Narwhal, right?”
“That is correct,” Wagam said.
“Which means we could carry only one-quarter of what we planned to carry on the Narwhal,” Pickering said.
“Correct,” Wagam said.
“That’s not very much,” McCoy said, thinking out loud.
“I ask you to consider this,” Wagam said. “There would be room for the communications and cryptographic equipment, a certain amount of small arms and ammunition, medical supplies, and most important, I would suggest, the gold. All of which, I suggest, should convince Colonel Fertig—”
“We think of him as ‘General’ Fertig,” Pickering interrupted.
“—should convince General Fertig,” Wagam corrected himself, “that help is on the way.”
“When?” Pickering asked.
“CINCPAC has directed me to tell you that you have his personal word that, once secure communications have been established, a supply mission, using the Sunfish, will have the highest priority.”
“The highest priority? Or a high priority?” Pickering asked.
“The. Absolutely, The.”
“But I have that already, don’t I?” Pickering said.
“Yes, General,” Wagam said. “You do.”
“Ken, you’re the one going in,” Pickering said. “What do you think?”
“Sir, I’m a little over my head talking about something like this.”
“I’ll decide that,” Pickering said. “What do you think? What’s wrong with what they’re proposing?”
McCoy cocked his head to the side, as if gathering his thoughts, then wondering if he dared offer them.
“Nothing against the Navy, Admiral,” he said finally. “They did a hell of a job putting us onto Makin and then getting us off.”
“You were on the Makin raid?” Wagam asked.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Drop the other shoe, Lieutenant,” Wagam said. “We ‘did a good job at Makin, but’?”
“This is going to be the Sunfish’s first patrol,” McCoy said. “Whoever’s running the submarine, by definition, and understandably, is going to be a little nervous. We’re in the middle of going ashore. There is a sign that the Japs are onto us ...”
“And you don’t want to be left floating around in a rubber boat between the shore and a submarine in the process of submerging, right?” Pickering finished for him. “OK, Admiral. We haven’t addressed that. How do we know the crew of this new sub will be up to doing what they’ll have to do?”
“I’m going to give Lieutenant McCoy the benefit of the doubt that he’s not questioning the courage of the Sunfish’s crew—”
“Permission to speak, Sir?” Lieutenant Lewis interrupted.
Admiral Wagam visibly did not like being interrupted. But after flashing his aide a withering look, he said, “Certainly, Lewis.”
“McCoy, would it allay your reservations if an officer were aboard the Sunfish who was experienced in making runs like the one we’re talking about and was also fully aware of CINCPAC’s personal interest in this mission?”
“We’re back to that, are we, Chambers?” Admiral Wagam asked.
“Back to what?” Stecker asked.
“Lieutenant Lewis feels he could make a far greater contribution to the war by going on this mission than by opening doors for me,” Wagam said. “Is that about it, Chambers?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Mr. Lewis is a submariner, Mr. McCoy,” Admiral Wagam said. “Before he came to work for me, he was on three missions to Corregidor.”
“What I’m thinking, Ken,” Pickering said, “—and I don’t want to question the courage of the sub crew either, Admiral—is that knowing—”
“That my aide is aboard,” Wagam interrupted, “with orders to report to CINCPAC personally when, and under what circumstances, the Sunfish left Lieutenant McCoy and party, might keep them on position until they absolutely had no choice but to leave or be sunk?”
“No offense, but that’s what I was thinking,” Pickering said.
“I also know a little something about how to launch rubber boats from submarines, Mr. McCoy,” Lewis said.
“How are you at paddling one of them?” McCoy asked.
“Probably a little better at it than you are,” Lewis said. “I can also walk and chew gum at the same time.”
McCoy laughed.
“You can’t be too smart,” McCoy said. “It sounds to me like you’re volunteering.”
“You are volunteering, Chambers,” Admiral Wagam said. “You understand that?”
“Yes, Sir. I understand.”
Wagam looked at Pickering.
“Have we an understanding, General?”
“Ken?” Pickering asked.
“If General Fertig is what he says he is, we’re going to need the Narwhal,” McCoy replied. “I’d rather see her surface a month from now, two months from now, and be able to unload a couple of tons of equipment, than take a chance on losing everything now—which would also blow our chances to help Fertig for a long time.”
Pickering nodded.
“We have an understanding, Admiral,” he said.
“Lieutenant Lewis, from this moment, you are detached until further orders to OPERATION WINDMILL,” Wagam said.
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“Can you really, Lewis?” McCoy asked.
“Can I really what, McCoy?”
“Chew gum and walk at the same time?”
“Presuming the ground is reasonably level,” Lewis replied.
I’ll be damned, Pickering thought. McCoy likes him. And vice ve
rsa. I wonder what Sessions thinks of him; I’ll have to ask.
“Ed,” he said. “You’ll take care of Lewis? Find him a place to stay, et cetera? There’s no more room here, unfortunately.”
“My pleasure, Sir,” Sessions said.
“Colonel Stecker and I are now going to take the Admiral on a tour of Brisbane’s famed tourist attractions,” Pickering said. “Starting with the Gentlemen’s Bar at the Maritime Club.”
“If Commander Feldt calls, General, shall I tell him where you are?” McCoy asked.
“By all means, Mr. McCoy,” Pickering said. “Commander Feldt is one nautical experience that I’m sure the Admiral, despite his long career, has not yet experienced.”
“Feldt?” Wagam asked. “The Coastwatcher man?”
“Right,” Pickering said. “As a matter of fact, Ken, see if you can get Feldt on the horn and ask him to join us. And if Colonel DePress calls, ask him to join us, too ... if he calls. I hope he does, but do not call him; I don’t want Willoughby to accuse me of arranging secret meetings with somebody on his staff.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
[NINE]
“Captain,” Lieutenant Lewis said to Sessions almost as soon as Pickering, Wagam, and Stecker were out the door, “don’t we know each other?”
“You’re ’40, right?”
“Right,” Lewis answered, immediately understanding that Sessions meant the class of 1940 at the United States Naval Academy, Annapolis. He was unable to keep himself from looking at Sessions’s hand. There was no Annapolis ring.
“Thirty-nine,” Sessions said. “I think we had a class in steam generation together.”
“And then the Navy wouldn’t take you and you had to join the Marines?”
“Why do I think we’re going to have trouble with this swab-jockey?” McCoy asked.
“They start out all right, Ken,” Sessions said. “But then they send them down in submarines, and all that pressure squeezes their brains.”
“Can I go home, Mr. McCoy?” Staff Sergeant Koffler asked. “Or are you going to need me for something?”
Behind the Lines Page 37