Behind the Lines

by W. E. B Griffin

  PART C—TO BE TRANSMITTED IN THE CLEAR, REPEATED TWICE

  END

  MXX CLEAR

  “ ‘K’ and ‘P’ does have a nice ring to it, doesn’t it, Sergeant?” General Fertig said.

  “Yes, Sir, it does,” Sergeant Koffler said. “Put a match to that, General. We don’t need it anymore.”

  Fertig shrugged, took out his lighter, and applied the flame to the small sheet of paper. There was a flash, a small cloud of smoke, and the paper disappeared.

  “I’ll be damned,” the Commanding General, USFIP, said.

  “Now let’s see if we can get this sonofabitch on the air,” Sergeant Koffler said, and put the earphones on his head.

  [SEVEN]

  Rocky Fields Farm

  Bernardsville, New Jersey

  2315 Hours 25 December 1942

  When the telephone rang, Miss Ernestine Sage had been standing for ten minutes, in her bathrobe, before the fireplace in the living room, leaning on the mantelpiece, toying with a poker at the vestiges of the fire that had blazed all day. She and her parents had gone to bed over an hour before.

  In a transparent effort to cheer her up, her father had kept the house filled with friends on Christmas Eve, and with a dinner for twelve on Christmas Day.

  “It’s been a long day for everybody,” her father had announced, “and getting to bed early won’t do anyone any harm.”

  Unable to sleep, she’d tossed around for a long time, then left the bed, wrapped herself in a bathrobe, and went downstairs. There she’d fixed herself a stiff drink and swallowed deep, then set the glass on the mantelpiece of the fireplace.

  She walked quickly to the telephone, feeling sick.

  That has to be bad news. Why the hell else would anyone call at this hour on Christmas?

  “Ernie?” She recognized the voice of Captain Ed Sessions.

  “Oh, no!”

  “Oh no, what?”

  “Oh no, what the hell do you think? Tell me, Ed. Oh, Christ, don’t tell me. I don’t want this goddamned call.”

  “Ken’s been heard from,” Sessions said.

  “And?”

  “He reached where he was going safely. They all did. An Operational Immediate to Knox, info us, came in just a few minutes ago from CINCPAC. I’m the duty officer here. I got it.”

  There was no reply.

  “I thought you’d like to know,” Sessions said, somewhat lamely.

  “I’d like to know that you’re surprised he got safely where he’s supposed to go? Exactly where he got safely to being another of your goddamn secrets. And from which you’ll be surprised again if he makes it safely out?”

  Captain Ed Sessions, who could think of nothing to say, said nothing.

  “Ed, I’m sorry. I had a premonition all day ...”

  “Ken can take care of himself. He’ll be all right.”

  “He said, comforting the near-hysterical female, and knowing goddamned well he doesn’t know any more than she does whether or not he’ll be all right.”

  “If I didn’t mean that, I wouldn’t say it. And you don’t sound hysterical.”

  “The only reason I’m not screaming and pulling out my hair is that it would embarrass my parents,” Ernie said. “My father is big on bad form.”

  “Ernie, Ken’s going to be all right.”

  “ ‘So how’s the baby?’ she said, to change the subject.”

  “Baby’s fine. Come down and have a look for yourself.”

  “I can’t do that. I get overwhelmed with jealousy. Ken wouldn’t give me one, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “Control your jealousy and come down,” Sessions said. “Jeanne would love to have you.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Ed, I’m sorry. I’ve been a bitch. I very much appreciate the call, and I have no right to jump all over you.”

  “You can get a little excited, Ernie, but you’ll never be a bitch.”

  “Have you a number for Pick?” she asked.

  “He’s living in the Peabody Hotel in Memphis, isn’t he?”

  “I tried there before. No answer.”

  “I’ve got his squadron number here someplace. Hold on.” She heard the phone being laid down, and then he came back on the line and gave her a number. “Maybe they can help,” he said.

  She heard another telephone ringing, so she knew he was not trying to get rid of her when he said, “Ernie., I have to go.”

  “Good night, Ed. Merry Christmas. Thank you. Happy New Year.”

  “Why don’t you come down for New Year’s? Think about it,” he said, and then the line went dead.

  “Newton 4-6761, Newton 4-6761,” she repeated over and over until she searched for and found a pencil and could write it down. Then she dialed the operator, said, “Long distance, please. In Memphis, Tennessee, Newton 4-6761.”

  “Is this call necessary?” the operator asked, in compliance with the government policy to lower the incidence of long-distance calls in order to keep lines free for essential war-connected business.

  “No. I’m a Nazi spy trying to tie up the lines so that we’ll lose the war,” Ernie said.

  “Is this call necessary?” the operator repeated.

  “Yes, it is.”

  The phone was answered on the second ring.

  “VMF-262, Sergeant Cadman, charge of quarters speaking, SIR!”

  “I’m trying to locate Lieutenant Pickering.”

  “Hold on, Ma’am,” Sergeant Cadman said, and she heard the phone being laid down, and then, faintly, “For you, Sir. A lady.”

  “Lieutenant Pickering.”

  “Relax, you don’t have to marry me, at least right now.”

  “Well, God, that’s a relief. I’m much too young for that sort of responsibility. What’s up?”

  “What are you doing in—what is that, your ofnce?—at this time of night?”

  “Well, before I was summoned to the telephone, I was trying to sleep. I’ve got the duty.”

  “You can sleep on duty?”

  “There’s a cot. What’s up, Ernie?”

  “Ed Sessions just called. Ken got wherever he went safely. Just where that is being another goddamned secret.”

  “If they won’t tell you where he is, he’s probably in the Philippines,” Pick Pickering said.

  “The Philippines? My God, the Japanese have captured the Philippines!”

  “On reflection, I don’t think I should have said what I just said.”

  “Well, you can’t leave me hanging, damn you!”

  “If you insist on swearing at me, I’ll never marry you, Ernie.”

  “Damn you, Pick!”

  “I really don’t know what I’m talking about. But Dad wrote Mom—and she told me—that he was trying to help some guerrillas in the Philippines—”

  “Gorillas? As in King Kong? What are you talking about?”

  “Guerrillas, with a ‘u’ and an ‘e.’ Irregular troops operating behind enemy lines. That sounds right down the Killer’s line.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “Hey, Ernie. Don’t underestimate him. He’s one hell of a Marine.”

  “Oh, yeah!” she said sarcastically.

  “Ernie, I’d love to chat, but this is an official line, and Little Billy Dunn, my noble squadron commander, is celebrating the joyous Yuletide season by taking our guys up to teach them how to fly in the dark.”

  “On Christmas Eve, Christmas Day night?”

  “Some of them shouldn’t be trusted with a tricycle, much less a Corsair. He may have to call.”

  “Billy has people flying tonight?” she asked incredulously.

  “Write this down, Ernie. There’s a war on.”

  “And I’m being hysterical, right?”

  “You said it, not me. Ken will be all right, Ernie. And if he isn’t, at least you get to marry me.”

  “You sonofabitch, you!” she flamed.

  “Now there’s my girl, back to normal. Nightie, night, Ernie!”
r />   The line went dead in her ear.

  She replaced the phone in its cradle.

  “Everything all right, honey?” her father asked.

  He was standing behind one of the couches, wearing his bathrobe. His usually slicked-back hair was askew.

  “How long have you been in here?”

  “I heard the phone,” he said.

  “It was from an officer who works for Uncle Fleming. He told me that Ken is safely where he’s going, but where that is is a big secret. So I called Pick, and Pick says he’s probably in the Philippines. Uncle Fleming wrote Aunt Patricia about helping guerrillas in the Philippines, and she told Pick, and Pick said that’s probably where Ken is. That’s right down the Killer’s line, is the way he put it.”

  “Ken’ll be all right, honey,” Ernest Sage said gently.

  “If one more person says that to me, I’ll throw up!” Ernie snapped, and then she ran into her father’s arms and wept.

  XVI

  [ONE]

  Headquarters, U.S. Forces in the Philippines

  Davao Oriental Province

  Mindanao, Commonwealth of the Philippines

  0625 Hours 28 December 1942

  The first thing General Fertig noticed about the three officers and a Marine sergeant who had come to see him was that they all looked so well nourished, and that their sturdy-looking black clothing and boots were in such good shape.

  The second thing he noticed, as they approached his house, was that the two officers wearing the double silver bars of captains stood aside at the foot of the stairs to permit the youngest, and slightest—and most junior, to judge from the single silver bar pinned to his soft cap—to climb up the ladder first.

  That has to be Lieutenant “Killer” McCoy, who took it upon himself to order Captain Weston away on the submarine. That young man is about to be put in his place.

  The lieutenant saluted as he walked across the porch to Fertig.

  “Lieutenant McCoy, Sir, USMC,” he said.

  Fertig returned the salute.

  “And these gentlemen?”

  “Lieutenant Lewis, Sir, of CINCPAC,” McCoy said. “Captain Macklin of the OSS, and Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman.”

  I have no idea what the OSS is, but I’m not going to ask. “Welcome to U.S. Forces in the Philippines, gentlemen. My name is Fertig.” He shook hands with everybody, and motioned for them to sit in the rattan chairs.

  “We’re a little surprised to find you here, General,” McCoy said. “Everly said that you were—on the run?”

  “A precautionary measure,” Fertig said. “In case the Japanese captured one of my officers. When I learned that didn’t happen, we came back home.”

  “Yes, Sir,” McCoy said.

  “Just to clear the air, who is in command of this mission?”

  “Lieutenant McCoy is, General,” Lewis said. “Captain Macklin and myself are observers.”

  “I understand you took it upon yourself, Lieutenant, to order one of my officers aboard the submarine?”

  “Yes, Sir. Acting on orders, Sir,” McCoy said.

  “And what precisely are those orders, Lieutenant? Do I get to see a copy of them?”

  “My orders were verbal, Sir. From General Pickering. They were to find you; to provide you with communications equipment and a Signal Operating Instruction; to bring you a few supplies, including some gold; to evaluate your potential—”

  “You consider yourself qualified to evaluate my forces?” Fertig interrupted.

  “—and to send one of your senior officers back on the Sunfish,” McCoy went on. “Sir, it doesn’t matter what I think of my qualifications. You’re sort of stuck with me.”

  “Presumably you’re on General MacArthur’s staff?”

  McCoy smiled.

  “No, Sir. I’m assigned to the USMC Office of Management Analysis, Sir.”

  “And you’re here to analyze my management, is that what you’re saying?”

  “General,” Lewis said. “If I may?”

  Fertig nodded.

  “Among those officers available to General Pickering, Lieutenant McCoy was determined to be the one most familiar with irregular operations. He’s done this sort of thing before.”

  “Conducted guerrilla operations, you mean?”

  “Operated behind the enemy’s lines, Sir.”

  “And who is General Pickering? He, presumably, is on General MacArthur’s staff?”

  “No, Sir. He’s Chief of the Office of Management Analysis,” McCoy said.

  “So you’re not here representing General MacArthur and SWPOA?”

  “No, Sir,” McCoy said.

  “General,” Lewis said. “I’m on the staff of CINCPAC. CINCPAC was directed by Admiral Leahy, the President’s Chief of Staff, to provide whatever assistance General Pickering required to mount this mission.”

  And that assistance is three junior officers and a sergeant, apparently.

  “I had hoped that what we’re trying to do here had finally attracted General MacArthur’s interest and concern,” Fertig said. “Apparently, that is not the case.”

  “El Supremo went on record, General,” McCoy said, “saying ‘guerrilla operations in the Philippines are impossible. ’”

  Is that what you call him, Lieutenant? El Supremo?

  “I presume you are referring to General MacArthur?”

  “And you made it worse when you promoted yourself, General,” McCoy went on, unabashed.

  “I considered that necessary,” Fertig said. “I didn’t think anyone would pay attention to a lieutenant colonel.”

  “I believe both General Pickering and Admiral Nimitz understand that, General,” Lewis said. “I believe Lieutenant McCoy is trying, Sir, to make you aware of certain problems we all have to deal with.”

  “I am here, with several hundred courageous men, American and Filipino, living on the edge of starvation, like hunted animals in the jungle, attempting to wage war against the Japanese, and I find myself a humble supplicant, on my knees, begging for the tools to do that,” Fertig said. “I confess that from time to time I find myself growing a little bitter.”

  “May I suggest, Sir,” Lewis said, “that first, what. you have been doing here has not gone unappreciated, and second, that your supply situation has already begun to change? We’ve brought some supplies with us—at least a token shipment—and more will very likely follow.”

  “Depending on a lieutenant’s analysis of my management? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Sir, I have reason to believe,” Lewis said, “that whatever Lieutenant McCoy’s report happens to be, it will be accepted at face value at the highest levels.”

  “Is that so? What are your reasons for believing that?”

  “Sir,” Lewis said, “I don’t think you have been in a position to know that early on, the President ordered the formation of a special unit within the Marine Corps, the Marine Raiders, something like the British Commandos, with the mission of attacking the Japanese in an irregular manner. In August, ten days after the First Marine Division landed at Guadalcanal, elements of the 2nd Raider Battalion, operating off a submarine, successfully attacked Makin Island.”

  “Very interesting,” Fertig said. “If they could send a submarine to—what did you say?—Makin Island in August, why couldn’t they send one here?”

  “Sir, with respect,” Lewis said. “The first indication anyone had that you had established a guerrilla operation here was in early October.”

  Goddammit! I’m making a fool of myself. What the hell is the matter with me? Why am I being such a horse’s ass to these people? Possibly because I am losing my mind. Or because, in some perverted manner, these well-fed, well-shod, self-confident—especially that damned Killer McCoy—young officers anger me.

  “As I was saying, Sir,” Lewis said, “the Marine Raiders successfully attacked Japanese positions on Makin Island. Lieutenant McCoy and Sergeant Zimmerman were on that operation, General.”

  “Lieu
tenant, please don’t get the idea that my anger at the powers that be is in any way directed at you,” Fertig said. “I am overjoyed to see you here, and fully appreciative of the enormous risks you all took to come here.”

  “I’m a Marine, General,” McCoy said, visibly embarrassed. “I go where they send me.”

  “If I may continue, General,” Lewis said. “Captain James Roosevelt, USMC, the President’s son, was also on the Makin Island raid. Captain Roosevelt is known to be another of Lieutenant McCoy’s admirers. I submit, Sir, that whatever Lieutenant McCoy has to say about your operation here and its potential will receive a very sympathetic ear from the President.”

  “I take your point,” Fertig said. “I hope to convince you, then, Lieutenant, that what we have here is potentially a very valuable force with which to wage war, and that we are not a motley crew of insubordinate lunatics headed by a self-promoted egomaniac.”

  “I’m ready to be convinced, Sir,” McCoy said with a smile.

  “You haven’t said anything, Captain,” Fertig said to Macklin. “What’s your role in this operation? Starting at the beginning, what is the OSS?”

  “It’s the Office of Strategic Services,” Macklin said. “Headed by Colonel William Donovan. It is directly under the President. It is charged with intelligence gathering, sabotage, and guerrilla operations worldwide. I was sent on this mission as an observer. It—”

  “MacArthur, and the people around him, don’t want anything to do with the OSS,” McCoy interrupted. “General Pickering thinks that Colonel Donovan thinks that MacArthur can be forced to accept OSS if somebody from the OSS is in on this operation. Anyway, he was ordered to send Captain Macklin along with us.”

  And you don’t like that at all, do you, Killer McCoy? And from your tone of voice, you don’t like Captain Macklin either. I wonder what’s behind that?

  “Let’s get down to business,” Fertig said. “In this ‘token shipment’ of supplies, what exactly have you brought us?”

  McCoy reached in the billowing pocket on the side of his camouflage utilities and came out with an oilskin envelope.