“My compliments to Madame Koffler, Sergeant Koffler,” McCoy said. “Take a jeep. Then call Pluto about 2100 and see if Gimpy has a way home from the dungeon. The General does not, repeat does not, want him driving himself. If he needs a ride, you drive him. And we’ll see you at 0800.”
“Ken,” Lieutenant Hart said, “I’ll go fetch Gimpy.”
“You stay loose to drive the General. If Feldt shows up at the Gentleman’s Bar, they’ll probably need somebody to drive them.”
“Right,” Hart said. “Sorry, Koffler.”
“No problem, Mr. Hart,” Koffler said, and turned to McCoy. “Aye, aye, Sir.”
McCoy waited until Koffler had left the dining room, and then opened a drawer in a sideboard, took out a bottle of scotch, and held it up in a gesture of asking if anyone else wanted a drink.
Interesting, Lewis thought, the sergeant asked Lieutenant McCoy for his orders, not Captain Sessions. And McCoy gave the orders; and McCoy, not Sessions, announced the cocktail hour.
“Yes, please,” Lewis said.
“Me, too,” Sessions said.
“Thank you very much,” Hart said.
Hart took a tray of glasses from the sideboard. McCoy splashed whiskey into four of them, announced that only feather merchants used ice, and raised his glass.
“Welcome aboard, Swabbie,” he said.
“Thank you,” Lewis said.
“It will at least teach you something that every Marine learns in boot camp,” McCoy said.
“I already know how to tie my shoes, Mr. McCoy.” Lewis said.
“I was thinking about never volunteering for anything,” McCoy said.
“You volunteered, Ken,” Sessions said. “Pickering told me.”
“Knowing you’re the only guy available to do the job is not the same as volunteering,” McCoy replied.
“That’s splitting hairs.”
“I have to go, and you know it,” McCoy said.
“Can I ask a question?” Lewis asked.
“Depends on the question, whether you get an answer,” McCoy said.
“What about the OSS?”
“I’m deeply ashamed to confess the sonofabitch is a class-mate of mine,” Sessions said; and then, seeing McCoy had held up his hand like a traffic policeman, said, “What, Ken?”
“The General told me I was not to discuss that subject with the Navy until he brought it up with the Admiral. I think that includes you.”
“OK,” Sessions said.
“Do I look like a Japanese spy, or what?” Lewis asked.
“In that white uniform, you look more like a Good Humor man, I’d say,” McCoy said. “Next question?”
It was said jokingly, but Lewis knew that he was not going to learn anything more about the man from the OSS from either Sessions or McCoy.
“Tell me about ‘Pluto’ and ‘Gimpy’ and the ‘dungeon,’ ” he said.
“The dungeon is the Special Channel place, inside the SWPOA Comm Center,” McCoy said. “Unless you’ve got a MAGIC clearance, you can’t get in there. We’re not even supposed to know about it. Pluto, otherwise known as Major Hon Son Do, Signal Corps, USA, runs it. Gimpy is Lieutenant John Marston Moore, USMCR, who forgot to duck on the ’Canal and as a result limps. He works for Pluto. They live here; you’ll meet them. Next question?”
“Everybody lives here but the OSS man?” Lewis asked.
“Next question?” Sessions said.
“If I really wanted ice for the drink, where would I find it?” Lewis asked.
XIII
[ONE]
Gendemen’s Bar
The Maritime Club
Brisbane, Australia
1825 Hours 29 November 1942
“Nice place,” Admiral Wagam said to General Pickering, looking around the comfortably elegant room, furnished with dark-maroon leather couches and chairs, its paneled walls holding discreetly lighted oil portraits of men in merchant marine uniforms and sailing ships under full sail.
An elderly, white-jacketed waiter appeared immediately as Pickering, Stecker, and Wagam sat down.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said.
“Are you a scotch drinker, Admiral?” Pickering asked. Wagam nodded.
The waiter delivered glasses, a soda siphon bottle, a bowl of ice cubes, and a bottle.
“We’ll pour, thank you,” Pickering said, and when the waiter left them, did so.
He picked up his glass.
“How about to ‘Interservice Cooperation’?” he asked.
“How about ‘The Corps’?” Admiral Wagam said. “Jack NMI and Fleming, I give you The Corps.”
They sipped their drinks.
“The Navy,” Stecker said, and raised his glass again.
“How about to the kids we’re sending off on OPERATION WINDMILL?” Pickering said. “God protect them.”
“Hear, hear,” Wagam said.
“Before we get really carried away,” Stecker said. “Are there any unanswered questions? Have we done everything we can?”
“I’ve got a question,” Wagam said, “about the OSS involvement.”
“Apparently,” Pickering said, “Colonel ‘Wild Bill’ Donovan got the President to order Frank Knox to order me to include two OSS agents in the Fertig operation. Which Donovan, apparently, has decided to name OPERATION WINDMILL. When my deputy in Washington, Colonel Rickabee—”
“I know Fritz,” Wagam said.
“When Fritz learned the identity of one of the agents, and was reliably informed what a—for lack of more forceful words—miserable sonofabitch he is, and protested to Knox, he got a nasty note saying in effect that the OSS, including the sonofabitch, goes on the mission, and no further discussion is desired.”
“Ouch,” Wagam said. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that the agent who was lost—”
“The good one is the one who went down with the B-17,” Pickering said. “Jack had a word with this chap—he’s a Marine captain named Macklin—and made it clear to him that McCoy is in charge of the mission, even if he is only a first lieutenant.”
“I’ll have a word with Chambers Lewis before I go back to Pearl,” Wagam said, “and make sure he understands that.”
“I think that would be a very good idea,” Pickering said. “Thank you.”
“I was very impressed with McCoy,” Wagam said.
“He’s a very impressive young man. And he has the experience. He made the Makin raid, and he ran the operation when we replaced the Marines with the Coastwatchers on Buka. There’s no question he should be in charge.”
“And we’re working on getting a Marine Raider to go along, a master gunnery sergeant who was with McCoy on the Makin raid,” Stecker said. “I think he’ll show up in time.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Fleming,” Admiral Wagam said carefully, “there is one thing wrong with McCoy. At least for your purposes.”
“And what would that be?” Pickering said coldly.
“He’s only a first lieutenant. I somehow don’t feel that General MacArthur will change his opinion about Fertig based on the judgment of a lowly first lieutenant.”
“The original plan was that Jack was going on the mission,” Pickering said. “He has guerrilla experience in the Banana Republics.”
“What happened?”
“The incoming Commandant of the Corps decided he needed him in Washington,” Pickering said.
Stecker looked uncomfortable.
“ ‘Incoming Commandant’?” Wagam asked, surprised. “I hadn’t heard that. Who? Vandegrift?”
“You didn’t hear that from me,” Pickering said. “And changing the subject, you’re right. McCoy’s rank is going to pose some problems. I’m wide open to suggestion.”
“Send somebody out right away who’s been with Fertig all along, the higher ranking the better. I mean, on the Sunfish.”
“That makes a lot of sense,” Stecker said.
“OK, we’ll do it,” Pickering said. “Presuming McCoy c
an find somebody to send.”
“I really wish I could go,” Stecker said.
“You’re too old and decrepit, Jack,” Pickering said, and reached for the bottle.
[TWO]
Naval Air Transport Passenger Terminal
Brisbane, Australia
0715 Hours 30 November 1942
Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis, USN, was not surprised when Brigadier General Fleming Pickering and Colonel Jack (NMI) Stecker showed up to see Admiral Wagam off. But he was a little surprised when Captain Ed Sessions, at the wheel of a jeep, drove up as the Pearl Harbor—bound Coronado , two of its four engines running, began to taxi away from the tie-down buoy.
Pickering—about to get into the Studebaker staff car with Stecker—changed his mind and walked up to Lewis as Sessions drove up.
“Everything go all right, Ed?”
“McCoy’s all set up, and I’ve got Lewis the room right next to Macklin, but the telephone’s going to take some time,” Sessions replied.
Macklin? Lewis wondered. Why does that name ring a bell? There was a guy at the Academy by that name. That would be too much of a coincidence.
“Maybe Pluto knows somebody in the Signal Corps,” Pickering said. “I’ll work on it.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Lewis, Sessions is going to set you up in the BOQ.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Did Admiral Wagam have a chance to discuss the ... who’s in charge of arrangements ... for this mission?”
“Yes, Sir. I’m to take my orders from Lieutenant McCoy .”
“If you’ve got any problems with anything, bring them to either Colonel Stecker or me.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
“I hope you brought some bathing trunks with you,” Pickering said.
“Sir?”
“I got some for him, Sir.”
“Well, then, I’ll see you both later at the cottage. Have fun.”
“I’ll try to see that he does, Sir,” Sessions said.
Pickering walked to the Studebaker.
“How’s your head?” Sessions asked when Lewis slid into the jeep beside him.
“I am a Naval officer, Captain. Naval officers know how to hold their liquor. What gets The Marine Corps up at this early hour? And what was that about swim trunks?”
“First, we’re going to get you settled in the BOQ, and next we’re going to show you—or maybe you’ll show us—how to get heavy and awkward objects down a curved, wet, and very slippery surface into rubber boats. And then you’re going to practice paddling a rubber boat overloaded with heavy and awkward things around the harbor. And presuming you don’t drown today, you’ll do it again tonight, or before daylight tomorrow.”
“Really? Where are you going to get a curved and slippery surface?”
“McCoy found an old coastal freighter that went belly-up at a pier,” Sessions replied. “He rented it for a week from the Aussies.”
“What do you mean, ‘rented it’?”
“When he asked if he could use it, the owners said, ‘Certainly, and exactly how much were you thinking of paying?’ ”
“I don’t think you’re kidding.”
“I’m not. Anyway, he and Koffler and Hart have been over there since daylight, setting things up. I hope you remember how to swim?”
“Are you involved in this exercise?”
“No. I’m not going on the mission, therefore I don’t have to practice. But I thought I would watch. With a little bit of luck, the OSS might drown himself.”
“You’ve really got it in for this guy, don’t you?”
“Let’s say it wouldn’t break my heart if he did drown this morning.”
“You going to tell me why?”
“What did your admiral tell you?”
“He said McCoy’s in charge, and to conduct myself accordingly.”
“If that’s all he said, then one of two things is true. Either the General didn’t tell him about the OSS, which means that I can’t tell you; or he did tell him, and your admiral decided he didn’t want to tell you, which also means I can’t tell you.”
“If you hate this guy so much, why don’t you just drown him?”
“I think that’s probably been considered. If anyone had asked me, I would have voted ‘yes.’ ”
Sessions reached into the back of the jeep, dipped his hand into a musette back, and came out with a pair of blue swimming trunks.
“Don’t let it be said the Marine Corps never gives the Navy anything,” he said as he handed them to Lewis.
“General Pickering used the name ‘Macklin,’ ” Lewis said, making it a question. “The OSS officer’s name.”
“That’s his name.”
“I think I may know him.”
“I don’t think so,” Sessions said.
“Why not?”
“If you knew him, you’d try very hard not to let anybody know,” Sessions said.
Chambers Lewis examined the swim trunks. According to a Royal Australian Navy label on the inside waistband, they were four inches too large, and they did not have a built-in jockstrap.
“They don’t have a jockstrap.”
“They’re Navy trunks,” Sessions said. “Sailors have no balls, and therefore a jockstrap is unnecessary.”
“Screw you, Captain Sessions.”
But you’re right. Some sailors don’t have balls. This sailor in particular doesn’t have balls.
Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis, USN, Annapolis ’40, had been forced to the conclusion that there was serious question whether he had the balls—the intestinal fortitude, the courage, however more politely the condition might be phrased— to wear the uniform he was wearing, to represent himself as an officer of the Naval Service.
He was also alive, he believed, because he was a coward.
The first indication that he was equipped with something less than the necessary balls came—as one hell of a surprise—shortly after he reported to the Submarine School at New London, Connecticut, six months after he graduated from the Naval Academy.
During an orientation ride on a fleet submarine before beginning their training, Lieutenant Commander Thomas B. Elliott, USN, Annapolis ’32, gave them a little talk, explaining that the makeup of some people simply disqualified them for the silent service. These individuals had nothing to be ashamed of, Lieutenant Commander Elliott said, any more than they should be ashamed of having blue eyes, or red hair. It was the way God had issued them.
The Navy’s intention with the orientation ride was to save both the Navy and the individual whose makeup was such that he couldn’t take submarine service time and money by sending him back to the surface Navy now—and without any sort of stigma attached—before the lengthy and expensive training began.
That, Ensign Chambers D. Lewis knew, was bullshit pure and simple. Any officer who couldn’t handle being in a submarine shouldn’t be in the Navy at all. And certainly a notation on a service record that an officer who volunteered for submarine training, and was accepted, and then left New London within a week of his arrival would be tantamount to stamping the record in three-inch-high letters, COWARD. Cowards not only deservedly enjoy the contempt of non-cowards, but are unfit to command men, which is the one basic function of a Naval officer.
Lewis remembered very clearly the first time he heard a submarine skipper give the order to “take her down.” He had nightmares about it, waking up from them in cold sweats.
He was standing not six feet from the skipper when he heard that command. And the moment the Klaxon horn sounded, and the loudspeakers blared, “Dive! Dive! Dive!”, he was bathed in a cold sweat, virtually overcome by a mindless terror. For a time he thought his heart stopped and that he was going to faint. He remembered little else about his first voyage beneath the sea except that he was aware they were under it; that just a foot or two away the sea was doing its best to break through the flimsy hull and crush and smother everyone inside, including him.
Lieute
nant Commander Elliott gave them another little chat after they tied up back at New London—and Lewis had a clear picture of Elliott, too. He looked competent and professional, everything an officer, an officer of the silent service, was supposed to be.
He wanted to emphasize, Lieutenant Commander Elliott told them, that absolutely no stigma would be attached if anyone decided now that the submarine service was not for them. To the contrary, it was their duty to make their uneasiness known, to save themselves and the Navy a good deal of difficulty down the line. The lieutenant commander went on to say that he knew of a dozen young officers who had the balls to speak up, and were now doing very well elsewhere in the Navy, in both the surface Navy and in Naval Aviation.
He would be in his office from 1900 until 2200 that night, Lieutenant Commander Elliott said. If anyone wished to speak with him regarding a release from the silent service, they should come see him. Anyone who did so would be off the base within two hours, and there would be absolutely no stigma attached to their transfer. He would also be in his office for the same purpose every Saturday morning from 0800 until 1100, so long as they were in training.
Ensign Lewis talked himself out of seeing Lieutenant Commander Elliott that night by telling himself that the mindless terror he experienced on the dive was an aberration, an isolated incident that would not be repeated, and that it would be the highest folly to throw away his Naval career—and the tough four years at Annapolis that preceded it—because of one incident, an aberrational incident that would not be repeated.
And he got through the rest of his training at New London in much the same way, one week at a time, telling himself that this Saturday he was going to bite the bullet and see Lieutenant Commander Elliott and tell him that he’d tried, he just didn’t have the balls to be a submariner.
And every Saturday morning he decided to wait just one more week. He came closest to seeing Commander Elliott after the Momsen Lung training. The training itself—you’re inserted at the base of the famous water-filled tower, you put the lung in place, and then you make your way up a knotted rope to the surface—didn’t bother him as much as what it implied:
Behind the Lines Page 38