Behind the Lines

by W. E. B Griffin

  Submarines, and thus the submariners aboard them, would inevitably get in some kind of trouble, and an attempt to escape from a disabled, and doomed, submarine would be necessary. In Lewis’s opinion, there was little chance that the Momsen Escape Procedure would work as well in combat as it did in New London—if it worked at all. If an enemy depth charge caused sufficient damage to a submarine to leave her without power, her crew might as well kiss their asses good-bye.

  The various possibilities of dying aboard a submarine ran vividly through his imagination at New London, and later at Pearl, and on patrol, and now in Australia.

  He graduated fifth in his class, and after an initial evaluation cruise aboard the Cachalot, a 298-foot, 1,500-ton submersible of the Porpoise class operating out of Norfolk, Virginia (SUBFORATL), he was transferred to SUBFOR-PAC at Pearl Harbor, and assigned to the Remora, another Porpoise-class submarine.

  By then he had, he thought, his terror under control. At the same time, he came up with a solution to his no-balls dilemma. If he applied for Naval Aviation while aboard the Remora, no action would be taken until he completed his assignment. His records would show that he was relieved to transfer to Naval Aviation, not because he quit. And completing his tour, holding his terror under control while he did so, would solve the moral question of whether he had enough balls to remain a Naval officer.

  He was on patrol, a long way from Pearl Harbor, when the Japanese struck on December 7. Remora immediately went on the hunt for Japanese vessels. She found six, and fired a total of fourteen torpedoes at them. Of the fourteen, nine missed the target—they ran too deep, something was wrong with the depth-setting mechanisms. Of the five which struck their targets, only one detonated—something was wrong with the detonators.

  When the Remora returned to Pearl Harbor, the crew were sent to Waikiki Beach Hotel for five days’ rest and recuperation leave. He spent the five days drunk in his room, not just tiddly, plastered, happy, but fall-down drunk.

  He made four more patrols. After each of them he drank himself into oblivion. And then there was a fifth patrol, the last—of three—that the Remora made to Corregidor to evacuate from the doomed fortress gold and nurses, and, on one of them, a dozen men blinded in the war. He woke up after that drunk in the hospital at Pearl Harbor with his head swathed in bandages. He had been found, they told him, in his hotel bathroom, where he had apparently slipped in the tub and cracked his head open. He had been unconscious for four days and had lost a good deal of blood. And it had been decided that his medical condition precluded his return to sea until there was time to determine the extent of the concussion’s damage to his brain. The Remora, he was told, had sailed without him.

  The memory of his enormous relief that he didn’t have to go out on her again, the shame that he was not sailing with his shipmates because he’d gotten fall-down drunk, made him literally nauseous. He was sorry they found him before he’d bled to death.

  Rear Admiral Daniel J. Wagam appeared in his hospital room three days later. There was good news and bad news, Admiral Wagam said. The good news was that he had been declared fit for duty; there was no permanent damage from the concussion. The bad news was that his aide had been promoted, and therefore he needed another aide. And unfortunately, Lieutenant (j.g.) Chambers D. Lewis, USN, not only met the criteria the Admiral had set for an aide, but was available.

  “Sir, with respect, I would prefer to go back to sea.”

  “So would I, Mr. Lewis,” Admiral Wagam said. “But unfortunately the Navy feels I am of more use behind a desk, and I have decided you will be of more use working for me. They’re going to discharge you tomorrow. Move into quarters, take seventy-two hours, and then report to me at CINCPAC.”

  “Admiral, I don’t know if you know why I’m in here.”

  “Officially, you slipped in the shower. Leave it at that, Mr. Lewis. You are not the first officer who had far too much to drink than was wise.”

  Despite the terrible temptation, Lewis did not so much as sniff a cork on his seventy-hour liberty. Afterward, he reported to Admiral Wagam at CINCPAC as ordered.

  Six weeks later, it was officially determined that the Remora, two weeks overdue for refueling at Midway, was missing and presumed lost with all hands at sea.

  The next day, Chambers D. Lewis was promoted lieutenant.

  It therefore followed, in Lewis’s mind, that if he were not a coward, he would not have gotten stinking, fall-down drunk in the Waikiki Beach Hotel, he would not have cracked his head, he would have gone on another patrol aboard Remora, and he would now be dead.

  He went to Admiral Wagam and asked to be returned to submarine service. The Admiral made it rather clear he thought the request was expected, and rather childish, and denied it.

  “And please, Chambers, do not make a habit of making such requests again and again in the belief you can eventually wear me down. If I get tired of hearing them, you’ll wind up at Great Lakes training boots, not going back to the submarines. I need you here; you’re good at what you do. You are, whether you think so or not, doing something useful to the Navy.”

  But it was different, of course, when OPERATION WINDMILL came up. OPERATION WINDMILL was important to the Navy, because it was important to CINCPAC. Because of his experience, he would be more useful to the Navy aboard the Sunfish representing Admiral Wagam (and thus CINCPAC) than he would be carrying Wagam’s briefcase and answering his telephone.

  If he had not volunteered to go aboard the Sunfish, he could not have looked at himself in the mirror.

  [THREE]

  After giving the matter a good deal of thought, Captain Robert B. Macklin, USMC, finally decided that going to the OSS Brisbane Station chief was the wise thing to do, even if the Station Chief was not happy to learn of the problem.

  That was to be expected, Macklin concluded. The Station Chief—he did not know his name, and it was not offered—was certainly going to be upset to learn of the death of Major Brownlee, both as a human matter and because Brownlee’s loss would adversely affect the mission.

  It was also understandable that the Station Chief was upset to learn that Macklin himself was not qualified by training or experience to step into Brownlee’s shoes—not to mention his physical condition. And on top of that, it was necessary to inform him of the situation vis-à-vis himself and Stecker, Sessions, and McCoy.

  If he were the Station Chief, Macklin decided, he would have been as upset as the Station Chief was; and in the circumstances, he would have done what the Station Chief almost certainly did, seek guidance from superior headquarters. In this case, that of course meant going directly to OSS Headquarters in Washington for direction.

  The station must certainly have some sort of high-speed communication link with Washington, Macklin theorized, perhaps even a shortwave radio system with no other purpose. It should be possible, in extraordinary circumstances like these, to get an answer from Washington in twenty-four hours, perhaps in even less time.

  Thus, when the knock came at his door, it was perfectly reasonable to assume that it was either a summons to the telephone at the end of the corridor, or that it would be someone from the OSS, perhaps the Station Chief himself.

  He opened the door and found himself looking at a tall, good-looking Naval officer wearing submariner’s dolphins on the breast of his khaki shirt and the twin silver bars of a full lieutenant on his collar points.

  “Hello, Bob,” Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis, USN, said, putting out his hand. “Long time no see.”

  It took a moment for Macklin to make the connection, to remember the Lieutenant as a midshipman at the Academy, to remember that they had served together on a Court of Honor matter that had seen three midshipmen dismissed in disgrace.

  “Lewis, isn’t it?” Macklin asked. “Lewis, Chambers D.? ’40?”

  “Right,” Lewis said. “May I come in?”

  “Of course,” Macklin said, and pulled the door fully open.

  I knew there would be an immediate
response.

  “I’ll be damned,” Macklin said, offering his hand. “I expected someone, but the last person in the world I expected was you.”

  “I’m a little surprised to be here myself,” Lewis said.

  He dipped his hand in Sessions’s musette bag and came out with a pair of swimming-trunks.

  “These are for you,” he said. “From Ed Sessions.” Macklin looked at them suspiciously.

  “No jockstrap,” Lewis said.

  “What are they for?”

  “We’re about to practice loading things into rubber boats,” Lewis said. “Sessions is waiting downstairs.”

  My God, maybe he’s not from the OSS!

  “Lewis, exactly what are you doing here?”

  “More or less the same thing you are,” Lewis said.

  “I’m here on a classified mission,” Macklin said. “For the OSS.”

  “OPERATION WINDMILL,” Lewis said. “So am I.”

  “Then you are in the OSS?”

  “No. Actually, I’m from CINCPAC.”

  “I don’t understand,” Macklin said. “What’s your connection with OPERATION WINDMILL? Who told you about it? It’s highly classified.”

  “Admiral Wagam,” Lewis said. “Of CINCPAC. I’m his aide. I’m being sent along to see if I can make myself useful.”

  He’s not OSS. He just made that perfectly clear.

  “How do you mean ‘useful’?”

  “To make sure the submarine goes where it’s supposed to go, and stays there as long as necessary.”

  “There may not be a submarine,” Macklin said.

  “Oh, there’ll be a submarine, all right,” Lewis said, chuckling. “You can bet on that.”

  “Things have happened,” Macklin said. “I’m not at all sure how much of any of this I’m in a position to tell you. But I can tell you this much: This mission may be scrubbed. Should be scrubbed.”

  “What sort of things have happened?”

  “I really don’t know if I should be talking about this to you,” Macklin said.

  “You’re worried, am I cleared for this? The answer is yes. If you have a question about that, check with Captain Sessions.”

  “He’s one of them.”

  “One of who?”

  “I’m not qualified to lead this mission, you know,” Macklin said. “The man who was supposed to lead it, who was qualified to lead it, crashed at sea.”

  “Major Brownlee. I heard about that. Sorry.”

  “He was a good man, a fine officer. I was his deputy.”

  “Well, unless they send somebody to replace him, it looks like you will have to take his place.”

  “Not only am I not qualified to lead this mission, but I haven’t fully recovered from my wounds. I’ve reported this to the proper authority, and they said they’d be in touch. That’s who I thought you were. My replacement.”

  “No,” Lewis said. “A reinforcement, maybe, but not a replacement.”

  “It’s not, you understand, that I’m trying to get out of anything; it’s simply that I don’t have the training to lead a mission like this.”

  “According to Sessions, one of Pickering’s Marines, Lieutenant McCoy, is going to lead it.”

  “McCoy is a first lieutenant, and I’m a captain. The responsibility will be mine.”

  “I don’t think so,” Lewis said. “Not if competent authority—and General Pickering is certainly a competent authority—places someone else in command.”

  Macklin looked at him with fresh interest.

  “That would be so, wouldn’t it? If I am formally relieved of command, then I no longer can be held responsible, can I?”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” Lewis said. “Listen, Macklin, I don’t know what’s going on between you and Sessions and the others, and I don’t think I want to know. All I know for sure is that until further orders, I’m taking my orders from General Pickering. My orders from him are to do what Sessions tells me, and Sessions is waiting downstairs for us.”

  “There is no reason for you to become involved in this, Lewis. It’s an OSS matter. The OSS will deal with it.”

  “Sessions is waiting for us,” Lewis said.

  I have no choice but to go along with this until the OSS acts.

  “I would be grateful, Chambers, if you were to keep the conversation we have just had between us.”

  “Certainly. Are you about ready to go? Would you like me to wait downstairs?”

  “I’ll be right with you,” Macklin said. “Just give me a minute.”

  This man is a coward, Chambers D. Lewis thought. What is it they say? “It takes one to know one.”

  [FOUR]

  Office of the Director

  Office of Strategic Services

  National Institutes of Health Building

  Washington, D.C.

  0830 Hours 3 December 1942

  L. Stanford Morrissette was a fifty-five-year-old Yale-trained attorney who had left his San Francisco law firm and his three-hundred-thousand-dollar annual income to serve for an annual stipend of one dollar as OSS Deputy Director, Special Projects. Though he had a good deal of respect for Colonel William J. Donovan, the Director of the OSS, he was not awed by him.

  Moreover, in his view Donovan was in error vis-à-vis what he privately thought of as “the Pickering/Fertig mess.” Morrissette happened to know Fleming Pickering rather well—his firm had done a good deal of business with Pacific & Far East Shipping—and thought that Donovan had made a monumental error in refusing Pickering’s services almost a year before. He also believed that if Fleming Pickering was unable to convince General Douglas MacArthur of the value of the OSS to his SWPOA operation, no one could.

  And he believed that Donovan’s clever little plan to circumvent MacArthur by sending OSS agents to participate in Pickering’s Fertig mission—without asking Pickering—was very liable to blow up in his face. And to cause trouble somewhere down the pike.

  One did not cross someone like Fleming Pickering. Donovan should be smart enough to recognize this, Morrissette believed, and didn’t.

  Morrissette walked past Donovan’s secretary to his open door. In his judgment, Donovan’s secretary, like doctors’ and dentists’ receptionists, had assumed to herself entirely too much of her employer’s prestige. Morrissette did not like to be a supplicant before her desk for permission to seek The Great Man’s attention.

  “When you have a moment, Bill,” Morrissette said. “There’s something I think you should see.”

  Donovan’s eyes showed annoyance when he looked up from his desk, but a moment later, his face broke into a charming Irish smile.

  “Unlike some people around here, you rarely waste my time, Mo. Come in. What have you got?”

  Morrissette walked to Donovan’s desk and laid a long sheet of teletypewriter paper on it.

  “This just was decrypted,” he said.

  “Let me see,” Donovan said.

  TOP SECRET

  URGENT URGENT

  BRISBANE NUMBER 107

  0900GREENWICH2DEC42

  FROM CHIEF OSS STATION

  BRISBANE AUSTRALIA

  TO DIRECTOR OSS

  NATIONAL INSTITUTES OF HEALTH

  BLDG

  WASHINGTON DC

  SUBJECT OPERATION WINDMILL

  (1) YOUR MESSAGE NUMBER 403 0845 GREENWICH 31NOV42 RE LOSS BROWNLEE RECEIVED 0715GREENWICH 2DEC42 XXX THIS STATION NOT REPEAT NOT PREVIOUSLY ADVISED OF INCIDENT BY OSS LIAISON OFFICER SWPOA XXX OSS LIAISON OFFICER SWPOA ADVISES YOUR 403 RECEIVED BY SWPOA 1905GREENWICH 31NOV42 XXX DELAY IN DELIVERY TO OSS BRISBANE ATTRIBUTED TO QUOTE LARGE VOLUME OF CLASSIFIED TRAFFIC REQUIRING DECRYPTION ENDQUOTE XXX SITUATION POINTS OUT ABSOLUTE NECESSITY THIS STATION BE AUTHORIZED ACCESS TO SPECIAL CHANNEL COMMUNICATIONS FACILITIES FOR URGENT TRAFFIC XXX

  (2) UNDERSIGNED HAD BEEN INFORMED OF BROWNLEE LOSS 1615 LOCALTIME 29NOV42 AS FOLLOWS:

  A 1440 LOCAL TIME 29NOV42 MACKLIN TELEPHONED EMERGENCY CONTACT NUMBER AND REQUESTED IMMEDIATE CO
NFERENCE WITH STATION CHIEF XXX DUTY OFFICER SUGGESTED RENDEZVOUS POINT XXX MACKLIN REFUSED TO LEAVE HIS SWPOA BOQ STATING HIS LIFE WAS IN DANGER XXX DUTY OFFICER UNABLE TO CONTACT UNDERSIGNED DISPATCHED AGENT TO MACKLINS BOQ XXX

  B 1550 AGENT CONTACTED UNDERSIGNED AND STRONGLY RECOMMENDED PERSONAL VISIT TO MACKLIN AT BOQ XXX UNDERSIGNED MET WITH MACKLIN AT BOQ 1615 LOCALTIME XXX FOUND HIM IN HIGHLY EXCITABLE STATE XXX DURING MEETING MACKLIN:

  1 STATED HE HAD BEEN INFORMED OF BROWNLEE LOSS BY COLONEL JACK NMI STECKER USMC AT APPROXIMATELY 1130 LOCALTIME 29NOV42 XXX STECKER INFORMED HIM THAT BRIGGEN PICKERING INTENDED TO CONTINUE OPERATION REGARDLESS XXX

  2 STATED THAT HE HAD REQUESTED TO SEE PICKERING AND THIS REQUEST WAS DENIED XXX

  3 STATED THAT HE THEN INFORMED STECKER THAT HE DID NOT FEEL QUALIFIED TO LEAD OPERATION BECAUSE OF LACK OF TRAINING AND ALSO BECAUSE HE HAS NOT FULLY RECOVERED FROM WOUNDS SUFFERED AT GAVUTU XXX

  4 STATED THAT STECKER HAD THEN TOLD HIM THAT ALTHOUGH MACKLIN WOULD BE SENIOR OFFICER MISSION WOULD ACTUALLY BE UNDER COMMAND OF FIRST LIEUTENANT K R MCCOY USMCR WHO HE SAID WAS QUOTE KNOWN AS KILLER MCCOY

  BECAUSE HE HAD BRUTALLY KNIFED TO DEATH FOUR ITALIAN MARINES IN INTERNATIONAL SETTLEMENT IN SHANGHAI IN 1941 ENDQUOTE XXX

  5 STATED THAT HE HAS HAD TROUBLE IN PAST WITH BOTH STECKER AND MCCOY AND THAT BOTH WERE FORMER ENLISTED MEN CONSPIRING AGAINST HIM TO RUIN HIS NAME AND PROFESSIONAL REPUTATION XXX

  6 STATED THAT STECKER HAD THREATENED TO HAVE MCCOY KILL HIM AS SOON AS MISSION LANDS AT DESTINATION XXX

  (3) INASMUCH AS COLONEL STECKER WAS UNKNOWN TO UNDERSIGNED DISCREET INQUIRIES WERE MADE OF COLONEL LEWIS R MITCHELL USMC SPECIAL LIAISON OFFICER BETWEEN CINCPAC AND SWPOA XXX MITCHELL ADVISES THAT ALTHOUGH HE DOES NOT KNOW NATURE OF PICKERING STECKER RELATIONSHIP HE KNOWS STECKER WHO WON MEDAL OF HONOR IN WWI IS HIGHLY REGARDED BY MAJ GEN A A VANDEGRIFT OF US FIRST MARINE DIVISION UNDER WHOM HE COMMANDED BATTALION IN GUADALCANAL INVASION XXX MITCHELL STATES THAT FROM PERSONAL KNOWLEDGE LIEUTENANT MCCOY IS HIGHLY REGARDED BY BRIGGEN PICKERING AND THAT STECKER TOLD HIM THAT MCCOY PARTICIPATED IN MARINE RAIDER OPERATION ON MAKIN ISLAND