Behind the Lines

by W. E. B Griffin

  The last litter load was completely covered by a white sheet. It was loaded into the fourth ambulance, and then the doctor and the remaining nurse got in with the body, the doors were closed, and the ambulance drove off.

  A stocky, round-faced, tightly muscled, short, barrel-chested Marine in utilities appeared in the wide cargo door. He looked around the airport, dropped a nearly empty barracks bag from the door, and then, carefully, one hand clasping the leather sling of the 1903 Springfield rifle he had slung from his shoulder, climbed down the aluminum ladder.

  Lieutenant Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, walked up to the Marine and put out his hand.

  “I figured you’d be involved in this, McCoy,” Gunnery Sergeant Ernest W. Zimmerman, USMC, said. “What the fuck’s going on?”

  “I need you,” McCoy said. “So I sent for you.”

  “Shit!” Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman said, and then noticed a Navy lieutenant in khakis walking up behind McCoy. After visibly making up his mind whether or not to do so, he saluted.

  Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis, USN, returned the salute.

  “Zimmerman, this is Mr. Lewis,” McCoy said.

  Zimmerman just perceptibly nodded his head, then briefly and somewhat reluctantly shook Lewis’s extended hand.

  “Welcome to Australia, Sergeant,” Lewis said.

  Zimmerman nodded.

  “I’ve got to piss bad,” Zimmerman said. “The fucking relief tube was broke.”

  “Go behind the airplane,” McCoy said. “Nobody’ll see you.”

  Zimmerman nodded, unslung the Springfield from his shoulder, handed it to McCoy, and then walked around the tail of the airplane. Two minutes later, he returned, in the process of buttoning his trousers, and with a look of pleased relief on his face.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “We’ve got to run you past the hospital, and I thought you might be hungry. You want to go to the hospital first, or after?”

  “After. What I really would like is a cold beer.”

  “We’ve got beer in a bucket in the car,” McCoy said, pointing to General Pickering’s staff car.

  Zimmerman nodded, took his Springfield back, picked up his nearly empty duffel bag, and started to walk to the car.

  “What is that, a Studebaker? Where’d you get that?”

  “It belongs to General Pickering.”

  “Who the fuck is he?”

  “My boss. Your new boss.”

  “All I got to wear is what I have on, plus a change of socks and skivvies and a pair of boondockers. My gear is all in Hawaii.”

  “We can fix that,” McCoy said. “We’ll get you an issue.”

  They reached the car.

  “The beer is in the back, Ernie, get in the back.”

  “What about him?” Zimmerman asked, jerking his thumb in the direction of Lieutenant Lewis.

  “He will ride in front with Lieutenant Hart,” McCoy said.

  Zimmerman climbed in the back of the Studebaker, took a bottle of beer from an ice-filled bucket, took a K-Bar knife from the small of his back, opened the bottle and drank deeply, emptying it.

  When he finally took it from his mouth, he belched loudly and with obvious satisfaction.

  “Welcome to civilization, Gunny,” Lieutenant Hart said, a touch of laughter in his voice.

  “Who’s he?”

  “Lieutenant Hart works for General Pickering,” McCoy said. “Watch out for him. He used to be a cop.”

  Zimmerman took another beer from the bucket and flipped the top off expertly with his K-Bar.

  “And the swabbie?” he asked, either as if he believed Lieutenant Lewis was deaf and could not hear him, or simply didn’t care whether he did or not.

  “He’s going to give us a ride on a submarine.”

  “A ride to where?”

  “We’re going into the Philippines.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s an Army officer there, and some guys from the Fourth Marines who didn’t surrender. We’re going to take them radios, a little gear and medicine, see what kind of help they need, and figure out how to get it to them.”

  “We? You and me?”

  “You and me, a staff sergeant named Koffler, and Captain Robert B. Macklin.”

  “Macklin? Not the same sonofabitch who tried to fuck us—you and Lieutenant Sessions in particular—in China?”

  “One and the same.”

  “You’re working for him?”

  “No. He’s just going along.”

  “I’m surprised somebody hasn’t shot that bastard by now,” Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman said. He took a long pull at his fresh bottle of beer, and belched again.

  “Good beer,” he said. “Where are we going now?”

  “I thought you could probably use a steak, maybe with fresh eggs. Hart knows a good place.”

  “What I really could use is a place to take a good dump,” Zimmerman said. “How far is this place?”

  [SEVEN]

  Office of the Military Governor of Mindanao

  Cagayan de Oro, Misamis-Oriental Province

  Mindanao, Commonwealth of the Philippines

  1450 Hours 8 December 1942

  “There has been a development in the Fertig matter,” Lieutenant Colonel Tange Kisho said to Brigadier General Kurokawa Kenzo, “which we feel should be brought to the General’s attention.”

  General Kurokawa nodded. Lieutenant Colonel Tange turned to Captain Matsuo Saikaku, who handed him a single sheet of paper. Tange handed this to General Kurokawa. He read it, and then looked at Tange, waiting for an explanation.

  “As the General can see, Signals Intelligence has broken the simple substitution code used by the Americans in Australia in their last message to Fertig. The message reads, ‘We’ll see you soon,’ signature ‘Killer.’ ”

  “And your interpretation of the significance of this, Colonel?”

  “After some thought, I have come to believe that Captain Saikaku’s interpretation, while it might be in error, is one that we cannot afford to ignore.”

  “And what is your interpretation, Captain Saikaku?” General Kurokawa asked, somewhat impatiently.

  “Sir, I believe we must proceed on the assumption that the Americans will soon attempt to infiltrate Mindanao and make contact with Fertig.”

  “Expand,” Kurokawa ordered.

  “It is my analysis, Sir,” Saikaku replied, “that Fertig is now accepted by the American command in Australia as legitimate, and that they are now going to attempt to establish physical contact with him.”

  “For what purpose? And how?”

  “If I were the American commander, General, I would first try to get in place a sophisticated communications set. An encryption system that we will not be able to break as quickly as the primitive one they are now using. And, since I don’t believe they will be able to send him much in the way of supplies, I believe they will send him gold. And perhaps some medicine and small quantities of small arms and ammunition.”

  “How? By air?”

  “I think by submarine, Sir. I don’t believe the risk to American long-range aircraft—what they have available is the Boeing bomber, primarily—would be justified by the amount of cargo they can carry. I also think that they would be unwilling to send a surface vessel, which would almost certainly be detected by our air patrols. That leaves only submarines. As I am sure the General will remember, the Americans used them successfully until almost the day Corregidor fell.”

  “Where?”

  “This of course is a guess, Sir, but I would say somewhere on the eastern shore of the island.”

  “They are succeeding, aren’t they?” General Kurokawa said.

  “Sir?”

  “In forcing us to divert personnel and equipment to watch for them. That’s one of the objectives of irregular forces, to cause their enemy to expend resources they otherwise would not have to expend.”

  “Yes, Sir, I’m afraid that’s true,” Saikaku said.

  “There mu
st be several thousand miles of shoreline on Mindanao. Obviously, we don’t have the aircraft or the people on the ground to patrol every foot of it waiting for a submarine which may or not attempt to put people ashore. So what would you suggest we do, Captain Saikaku?”

  “I have given that some thought, General, and Colonel Tange has been kind enough to offer me his counsel. I have prepared a map on which are marked what are in my judgment the ten most likely places where a submarine would attempt to put people ashore. May I show it to the General?”

  Kurokawa nodded, and Saikaku laid the map on his desk.

  “Very interesting,” Kurokawa said after examining it. “But we don’t have the forces available to patrol all these beaches.”

  “I am aware of that, Sir,” Saikaku said. “I suggested to Colonel Tange that we patrol these marked areas on a random basis, using aircraft and small—three- or four-man—patrols on the beaches themselves.”

  “That’s the best you can do?” Kurokawa asked, almost sadly.

  “Our best hope, General, is the interception and rapid decryption of the message Australia will send to Fertig, telling him when and where to expect the submarine.”

  “Unless, of course, the Americans don’t send such a message, and simply put their people ashore to find Fertig by themselves.”

  “We must accept that as a possibility, General,” Tange said. “But still, it is my respectful recommendation that we increase our shore-patrol efforts on the eastern shore.”

  General Kurokawa considered that for a moment.

  “See my Operations officer, Tange, and work out a plan with him. Bring it to me for my approval.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And you, Saikaku, make sure that if there is a message from Australia announcing the arrival of a submarine, we intercept it.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  XIV

  [ONE]

  Water Lily Cottage

  Brisbane, Australia

  2105 Hours 9 December 1942

  Major Hon Son Do, Signal Corps, USA, muttered an obscene and vulgar word not ordinarily in his vocabulary, rose from the paper-cluttered dining-room table, went to the sideboard, picked up a bottle of Famous Grouse, poured an inch and a half into a water glass, and drank it straight down.

  Sitting at the table were Captains Robert B. Macklin and Edward Sessions, USMC; Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis, USN; Lieutenants K. R. McCoy and John Marston Moore, USMCR; and Sergeant Stephen Koffler, USMC. Hon turned to them, met McCoy’s eyes, and announced, in his thick Boston accent, “Just between thee and me, Kenneth my lad, when I was recruited to apply the ancient and noble art of cipher to the detriment of our enemy, this was not what I thought they had in mind.”

  “Why don’t we just give up? We’ve been at this for hours. And all we’ve come up with is that bullshit,” McCoy said, pointing at the typewriter on the table in front of Koffler. “And hand me that bottle when you’re through with it.”

  “The Boss said come up with a way to communicate with Fertig—” Lieutenant John Marston Moore began, to be interrupted by Captain Macklin’s bark:

  “General officer on the deck!”

  Both McCoy and Sessions flashed Macklin a look of mingled disbelief and contempt—this was Water Lily Cottage, not Headquarters, Parris Island. But their response, and that of the others, was Pavlovian: There was the sound of chair legs scraping on the floor as everyone started to rise to their feet and come to attention.

  “As you were, gentlemen,” Brigadier General Fleming Pickering said as he and Colonel Jack (NMI) Stecker walked into the room. “Keep your seats.”

  Pickering and Stecker found seats at the table.

  “Pass him the bottle, Pluto,” Pickering ordered. “And when he’s had what I’m sure is a well-deserved taste, he can explain exactly what bullshit it is you’ve come up with.”

  “Sorry, Sir, I didn’t expect you back so early,” McCoy said.

  “Obviously,” Pickering said. “Colonel Stecker and I just took eleven dollars of El and Madame El Supremo’s money at bridge. If you have the bad manners to do that, you are not invited for postgame drinks.”

  Pluto chuckled, then walked to where Koffler was sitting before a typewriter, jerked a sheet of paper from the platen, added several other sheets to it, and laid them before Pickering and Stecker.

  “I’m embarrassed to show you this, Sir,” he said. “Koffler just made a clean copy. Most of it’s Moore’s idea.”

  “Thanks a lot, Pluto,” Moore said.

  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, Johnny, sorry. None of us had any better ideas, Sir. And this just may work.”

  McCoy snorted.

  Pickering read the top sheet of paper, and then handed it to Stecker.

  Message One

  Hour 0000

  “OK, John,” Pickering said. “Explain this to me. Start at the beginning, and explain everything carefully. Colonel Stecker and I are old men, and we don’t absorb things as quickly as you bright young fellows.”

  “We were about halfway through this, General,” Lieutenant John Marston Moore said, “when Pluto brought up that we have to presume the Japanese (a) are listening to our traffic, and (b) by now have broken the Ludmilla Zhivkov Zanesville simple substitution code, and thus (c) we need another one.”

  “OK,” Pickering said. “So tell me what will the Navy find in heaven?”

  “ ‘If the Army and the Navy ever look on heaven’s scene,’ ” Captain Ed Sessions said, “ ‘They will find the streets are guarded by United States Marines,’ ” he continued. “From the Marine Hymn.”

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Colonel Stecker said, in mingled disbelief and disgust. “That’s the best you so-called experts can come up with?”

  “Yes, Sir, Colonel Sir,” McCoy agreed. “My thoughts exactly.”

  “With respect, Sir,” Pluto said. “Moore said we needed something that any Marine would know and that would not be immediately familiar to the Japanese. This meets that criteria. We tested it on nine of the Marines in Townsville, Joe Howard in the hospital in Melbourne, and Colonel Mitchell at SWPOA.”

  “Since you obviously couldn’t tell them why you were asking, those must have been interesting conversations,” Pickering said with a chuckle.

  “They were, Sir. But all but one Marine knew—almost immediately—what was meant.”

  “Who didn’t?”

  “Colonel Mitchell, Sir,” Moore said. “He asked me if I had been drinking, and said that he intended to bring the conversation to your attention.”

  “It sounds as if you were,” Stecker said, pointing to the quart of Famous Grouse in front of McCoy. “How many bottles of that stuff have you people been into?”

  “Take it easy, Jack,” Pickering said. “If it works, don’t laugh at it. OK. We now have a fresh simple substitution code. What’s ‘Hour 0000’ mean?”

  “The Sunfish will surface thirty minutes after nightfall the day before the landing is attempted, Sir,” Pluto said. “And transmit Message One. The clock will start to run—Hour 0000—when receipt of Message One is acknowledged. If you’ll look at the second sheet, Message Two?”

  “Message One will be transmitted from the Sunfish? Is that what you’re saying?” Pickering asked, as he read the second sheet of paper.

  Message Two

  Hour 0200

  “Lieutenant Lewis suggested, Sir, and we’re agreed it’s a good idea, that Message One will first be transmitted from the Sunfish, and then, when the radio stations here and at Pearl hear it (they will be alerted to listen for it), it will be repeated by them. The greater strength of their signals will more or less guarantee reception by Fertig.”

  “If Fertig happens to be listening,” McCoy said.

  “The possibility of course exists, Ken, that they will not be listening,” Pluto said. “But I think they will be.”

  “And if not?” Pickering asked, handing Stecker Message Two. “If you don’t get acknowledgment?”

  “We�
�ll keep trying—the stations at Pearl Harbor and here, not the Sunfish—on an hourly basis, until midnight,” Pluto said. “I really think we’ll get through.”

  “And if you do?” Pickering asked.

  “Two hours after we get acknowledgment, we send Message Two. That gives them two hours to figure out what the Marine Hymn substitution is.”

  “Speaking of which,” Stecker said. “Will somebody please translate this for me?”

  “This is where it really gets far out, Colonel,” McCoy said.

  “Who is ‘Lille’? What is this?” Stecker asked.

  “The Marine Hymn substitution code doesn’t have a ‘K’ or an ‘O,’ Colonel,” Moore said. “We are using an ‘L’ when a ‘K’ is needed—it’s the next letter, and a consonant. Where an ‘O’ is required, we are using a ‘U.’ We think the substitution will be self-evident.”

  “Right,” McCoy said sarcastically. “The substitution will be self-evident. These guys are hiding out in the boondocks, and we want to play word games with them.”

  “If you can’t handle the whiskey, McCoy, leave it alone,” Pickering snapped. “What we’re trying to do here is keep you alive.”

  He was immediately sorry, not because of his own words (they needed to be said), but because of the look of approval on Captain Macklin’s face.

  “Message Two, Colonel,” Moore said, “reads ‘Killer And Erny Will Eat Beans Thirty Miles South This Morning. ’ ”

  “ ‘Eat Beans’? What does that mean? South of what?” Stecker asked. “This doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  “You weren’t here, Jack, when Lewis and I went over the charts,” Pickering said. “Where’s that chart, Pluto?”

  “Right here, Sir,” Pluto said, and pushed the chart across the table.

  “Show him, Lewis,” Pickering said.

  “Aye, aye, Sir,” Lewis said. “Colonel, I suggested to General Pickering that the best place to try to land McCoy and party would be on the east coast of Mindanao.”