XI
(One)
The Willard Hotel
Washington, D.C.
30 April 1942
“General,” Congressman Emilio L. DiFranco (D., 8th N.J. Congressional District) said to Brigadier General D. G. McInerney, USMC, “I so very much appreciate your finding time for me in your busy schedule.”
The Congressman waited expectantly for the General to notice him; but General McInerney was listening to Congressman DiFranco with only half an ear. The rest of his attention was smitten by a hard rush of curiosity. It was the group sitting three tables away from him in the upstairs cocktail lounge of the Willard Hotel that had caught his eye, indeed his fascination. He had not in fact seen the Congressman making his way across the room to him.
“The Marine Corps always has time for you, Congressman,” General McInerney said, rising to his feet and with some effort working up a small smile. He cordially detested Congressman DiFranco, whom he had met a half-dozen times before.
Doc McInerney wasn’t sure that the tall, remarkably thin blond woman at the table was really Monique Pond, the motion-picture actress, but she sure as hell looked like her. A photograph of the actress wearing a silver lamé dress open damned near to her navel hung on every other vertical surface in the military establishment.
Two other people were at the table with Miss Pond, if indeed it was Miss Pond. One was another long-legged, long-haired blond female. McInerney wouldn’t have been surprised if that one was also a star of stage, screen, and radio. She was pretty enough. He didn’t recognize her, but he wasn’t all that familiar with movie stars.
Nor, for that matter, was he all that familiar with the upstairs cocktail lounge of the Willard Hotel. The Willard was an expensive hostelry, catering to high government officials and members of Congress—and, more important, to those individuals who wished to influence government policy and Congressional votes, and who did their drinking on an expense account.
The word lobbyist was coined around the time of the Civil War to describe those who hung around the lobby of the Willard Hotel, waiting for Congressmen whose vote they hoped to influence. Not much had changed since then.
The prices in the Willard were of such magnitude that few members of the military establishment, including general officers, could afford them. McInerney came here rarely—only when, as today, there was no way he could get out of it. He had been invited for a drink by the Hon. Mr. DiFranco; it does not behoove officers of the regular Marine Corps to turn down such invitations.
McInerney knew what the Congressman wanted. When the invitation had come, he had checked with the Congressional Liaison Office and learned that Congressman DiFranco had been in touch with them regarding the son of one of his more important constituents. After an initial burst of patriotic fervor that had led to his enlisting in the Marine Corps, this splendid young gentleman now found that he didn’t like the life of a Marine rifleman. He wanted instead to be assigned to duties that were more to his liking; specifically, he wanted to be an aircraft mechanic. He had apparently communicated this desire to his daddy, and his father had gotten in touch with Mr. DiFranco.
With all the courtesy due a Congressman, the Congressional Liaison Office had in effect told the Congressman to go fuck himself. At that point, Congressman DiFranco had apparently remembered meeting Brigadier General McInerney a number of times. He decided then to take his constituent’s problem directly to the second senior man in Marine Aviation, unofficially, socially, over a drink at the Willard.
It was not the first time this sort of thing had happened to Doc McInerney, nor even the first time with the Hon. Mr. DiFranco. Getting someone special treatment in the Corps because his father happened to know a Congressman rubbed McInerney the wrong way.
Congressman DiFranco sat down and started looking for a waiter. General McInerney looked again at the table where maybe Monique Pond sat with another good-looking blonde who might also be a movie star. Both ladies were with a young man about whose identity Doc McInerney had no doubts at all. His name was Charles M. Galloway, and he was a technical sergeant in the United States Marine Corps.
“I’ll have a dry martini with an onion,” Congressman DiFranco said to a waiter. “And you, General?”
“The same,” McInerney said, raising his glass. He was about through with his second Jack Daniel’s and water.
Congressman DiFranco handed General McInerney a slip of paper. On it was written the name of PFC Joseph J. Bianello, his serial number, and his unit, Company A, Fifth Marines, New River, North Carolina.
“What’s this?” McInerney asked, innocently.
“He’s the young man I want to talk to you about.”
McInerney saw that the waiter was busy at the other table. He delivered three fresh drinks and a small silver platter of hors d’oeuvres.
I hope you’re having a good time, Galloway. When the bill comes, you’ll probably faint.
“Oh?” McInerney said to Congressman DiFranco.
“I’ve known him all his life. He’s a really fine young man. His father owns a trucking firm, Bianello Brothers.”
“Is that so?”
The other blonde, the one who was not (maybe) Monique Pond, lovingly fed Technical Sergeant Galloway a bacon-wrapped oyster on a toothpick. He chewed, looked thoughtful, and then nodded his head approvingly, which obviously thrilled the blonde.
“What he did was act impetuously,” Congressman DiFranco said. “He’s young.”
“How do you mean, impetuously?”
“Without thinking before he leaped, so to speak.”
“You mean he now regrets having joined the Marine Corps?”
“No, not at all,” the Congressman said firmly.
The blonde who was maybe Monique Pond now fed Technical Sergeant Galloway something on a toothpick that Doc McInerney couldn’t identify. Galloway chewed, made a face, and valiantly swallowed. The blonde who was maybe Monique Pond leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Galloway drank deeply from his glass.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Doc McInerney said.
Squirm, you bastard.
“His father wants to get him out of the infantry,” Congressman DiFranco said.
The Congressman’s unexpected candor surprised McInerney. He met DiFranco’s eyes.
“The kid complained to Daddy, and Daddy came to you. Is that it?”
“The boy knows nothing about this,” DiFranco said.
McInerney decided he was being told the truth.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he said.
“The boy is eighteen years old, General.”
“I saw some statistics last week that said the average age of enlisted men in the First Marine Division—the Fifth Marines are part of the First Division—is eighteen-point-six years,” McInerney said. “He won’t be lonely.”
“Well, I asked,” DiFranco said.
“His father is important to you, huh?”
DiFranco shrugged, acknowledging that.
“OK. I’ll tell you what I’ll do—” McInerney said, and then stopped abruptly. Another Marine had entered the cocktail lounge and was making his way to the table where Technical Sergeant Galloway sat with maybe Monique Pond. This one was a major. He looked familiar, but Doc McInerney could not put a name to the face.
The Major shook Galloway’s hand, kissed maybe Monique Pond, then looked around for the waiter. When he had caught his eye, he mimed signing the check.
“General?” Congressman DiFranco said, puzzled by McInerney’s pause.
“You can tell this kid’s father that you talked to me; that I was difficult about special treatment, but in the end, as a special favor to you, I told you I would arrange to have him transferred into a battalion in the Fifth Marines which is commanded by a friend of mine, who happens to be one of the finest officers in the Marine Corps. That much is for the father. For you, I will add that I will do it in such a way that my friend will not learn why he is getting this boy, and will see that his records don’t get flagged as someone who has Congressional influence.”
Congressman DiFranco looked at General McInerney carefully.
“I really can’t ask for more than that, can I?” he said, finally.
“No, I don’t think you can,” Doc McInerney replied. “This way, everybody stays honest.”
“Then I’m grateful to you, General,” Congressman DiFranco said, putting out his hand.
“Any time, Congressman,” McInerney said, shaking it.
The waiter delivered a check to the Marine major, who scrawled his name on it, and then walked out of the cocktail lounge.
What the hell is that all about?
“Would you be offended if I cut this short?” DiFranco said. “I really have a busy schedule.”
“Not at all,” McInerney said. “So do I.”
DiFranco fished money from his pocket and dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table.
“Thank you again, General,” he said, and walked out of the room.
McInerney drained his glass and then stood up. He started to leave, but as he did, the waiter delivered the drinks Congressman DiFranco had ordered.
“Let me settle up now,” he said to the waiter. The four drinks and a ten-percent tip ate up most of the Congressman’s ten dollars; McInerney waved the rest of the change away, thinking, This has to be the most expensive booze in town!
Then he picked up the fresh drink and walked to Galloway’s table.
“Hello, Sergeant Galloway,” he said. “How are you?”
Galloway stood up.
“Good evening, Sir.”
“Keep your seat. What brings you to town?”
“I’ve got a VIP flight back and forth to New River in the morning, Sir. Miss Pond and some other people. Oh, excuse me, Sir. General McInerney, this is Miss Pond and Mrs. McNamara.”
So it is her. Of course! Now I know who that major is! Jake Dillon, the ex-Hollywood press agent. I met him when Colonel Whatsisname’s parachute didn’t open.
“I thought I recognized you, Miss Pond. And of course, you too, Mrs. McNamara. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“You recognized me?” Mrs. Caroline Ward McNamara asked, surprised. “Have we met?”
“Well, aren’t you an actress, too? Or should I say ‘the actress’?”
“No,” Caroline McNamara said, laughing throatily. “But thank you. I love your mistake. I’m just a friend of Charley’s.” She patted Charley’s hand fondly, possessively.
McInerney saw on her hand several thousand dollars’ worth of rubies set in gold.
Galloway didn’t meet this woman in the staff NCO mess at Quantico.
“Well, I just wanted to say hello,” McInerney said. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He walked back to his table and sat down.
Less than a minute later, Galloway and the two women got up and left the lounge. McInerney followed them. They walked across the lobby and got into an elevator.
This is really none of my business, McInerney decided, only to amend that decision a moment later: Fuck it! Watching out for the welfare of his Marines is always an officer’s responsibility.
He went to the desk and inquired whether Miss Monique Pond was registered in the Willard. The desk clerk took a moment to decide that a man in the uniform of a brigadier general of the United States Marine Corps was probably not a fan intent on bothering a movie star.
“I believe that Miss Pond is part of the party staying with Mr. Dillon, Sir.”
“You mean Major Dillon? And the rest of the party being the other Marine and the other lady?”
“Yes, Sir. They’re in the Abraham Lincoln suite.”
“Thank you,” McInerney said, and walked to the house phones and asked the operator to connect him with the Abraham Lincoln suite.
“Hello?”
“Major Dillon, please.”
“This is Jake Dillon.”
“Major, this is General McInerney. I’m in the lobby, and I’d like a moment of your time.”
There was a perceptible pause before Dillon asked, “Would you like to come up, General?”
“I think it would better if you came down. I’ll wait for you in the bar. The one on the second floor.”
“I’ll be right there, Sir.”
A waiter did not appear to serve General McInerney until after Major Dillon walked in the room. Then one appeared almost immediately, carrying on a tray a drink McInerney knew Dillon hadn’t had time to order.
“They do that,” Dillon said. “They know what I like. Should I just let it sit there?”
He had used neither of the words “Sir” nor “General,” McInerney noticed.
“This is not official,” McInerney said. “Bring me a Jack Daniel’s and water, please.”
Dillon pushed his glass across the table to him.
“Please,” he said. “Help yourself.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Please take it. I’m trying to be ingratiating.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Because I think this has to do with Charley Galloway, not with me. He told me you’d come up to him in here.”
“It has to do with both of you,” McInerney said.
“What’s the problem, General?”
“I don’t know if there is one. I am curious what one of my sergeants is doing in here, sharing an expensive suite with a movie star, a field-grade officer, and a woman with rubies on her hand worth more money than he makes in a year.”
“She’s good for him. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s in love with him. She keeps him on the straight and narrow.”
“What about the field-grade officer?” McInerney said.
“I thought that’s what this was about,” Dillon said. “I didn’t just come into the Corps, General. I just came back in the Corps. I know all about not crossing the line between officers and enlisted men.”
“Then why are you crossing it?”
“You did say, General, that this conversation isn’t official?”
“Not yet. I’m trying to keep Charley Galloway out of trouble. You too, if that can be arranged.”
“Well, if there’s going to be trouble about this, dump it on me. I invited Charley here, and when he said that might cause trouble, I told him we’d be careful, and that if something—like this—happened, I’d take the rap.”
“What’s your interest in Galloway?”
“I like him. We’re pals.”
“He’s a sergeant and you’re an officer.”
“I’m not really a major, I’m a flack wearing a Marine uniform.”
“A what?”
“A press agent. My contribution to the war effort is getting people like Monique Pond to go to New River so she can flash her boobs at the cameramen and get the Marine Corps in the newsreels. Charley, on the other hand, is one hell of a Marine. He told me about flying the Wildcat out to the carrier off Pearl Harbor. But instead of commanding a fighter squadron, the Corps has him flying a bunch of brass hats and feather merchants around in a VIP transport airplane. So what we have here is an officer who should be an enlisted man, and a sergeant who should be an officer. So we hang around together. My idea, not his.”
“What you’re doing, both of you,” General McInerney said, “is important.”
Why did I say that? I don’t believe it.
“General, I told Charley I would take the heat if something like this came up. I really would be grateful if you let me do that.”
“Major Dillon,” General McInerney said, after a long moment during which a few connections went click in his mind, “I really have no idea what you’re talking about. The reason I asked to have a word with you, when I saw you come in here alone, was that I know you are in charge of the public-relations activities marking the bringing of the 1st Marine Division to wartime strength at New River tomorrow. I want to know if there is anything, anything at all, that Marine Corps Aviation can do to insure that the ceremonies are a rousing public-relations success.”
Dillon’s eyebrows rose thoughtfully.
“I can’t think of a thing, Sir,” he said.
“And to make sure there is absolutely no problem at all flying the VIPs back and forth to New River, I wanted to tell you that I have personally assigned one of our finest enlisted pilots, Technical Sergeant Galloway, to the mission. If he has not reported to you yet, I am sure he will do so momentarily. I remind you that, as an officer, you are responsible for seeing that the Sergeant is properly quartered and rationed. If there are questions regarding how and where, in the necessarily extraordinary circumstances, you elect to do that, refer whoever raises them to me.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“That will be all, Major Dillon. Thank you.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Dillon stood up and started to leave. He had taken three steps when McInerney called his name.
“Yes, Sir?”
“Just between a couple of old Marines, Dillon, I don’t like flying my goddamned desk, either.”
(Two)
The Commandant’s House
United States Marine Corps Barracks
Eighth and “I” Streets, S.E.
Washington, D.C.
2230 Hours 9 May 1942
A glistening black 1939 Packard 180 automobile pulled into the driveway and stopped before the Victorian mansion. Mounted above its front and rear bumpers it had the three silver stars on a red plate identifying the occupant as a lieutenant general of the United States Marine Corps.
The driver, a lean, impeccably turned-out Marine staff sergeant, got quickly out from behind the wheel, but he was not quick enough to open the rear door before Thomas Holcomb, the first Marine ever promoted to lieutenant general, opened it himself. The Commandant was home.
“Early tomorrow, Chet,” General Holcomb said to his driver. “Five o’clock.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
The general’s senior aide-de-camp, a very thin lieutenant colonel, slid across the seat and got out.
“Goodnight, Chet,” General Holcomb said.
“Goodnight, Sir.”
“I don’t see any need for you to come in, Bob,” General Holcomb said to his aide. “I’m for bed.”
The porch lights came on. General Holcomb’s orderlies had seen the headlights.
“General,” the aide said, “I took the liberty of telling Captain Steward to be prepared to brief you on the Coral Sea battle. He’s probably inside, Sir.”
“OK,” Holcomb said wearily. He was tired. It had been a long day, ending with a long and tiring automobile ride back to Washington from Norfolk, where there had been an interservice conference at Fortress Monroe. Whatever had happened in the Coral Sea had already happened; he didn’t have to learn all the details tonight. But young Captain Steward had apparently worked long and hard preparing the briefing, and it would not do right now to tell him it wasn’t considered important.
Besides, I’ll have to take the briefing sooner or later anyway, why not now and get it over with?
The Commandant raised his eyes to the porch, intending to order, as cheerfully as he could manage, that the orderly put on the coffeepot. There was someone on the porch he didn’t expect to see, and really would rather not have seen.
“Hello, Doc,” he called to Brigadier General D. G. McInerney. “Did I send for you?”
“No, Sir. I took the chance that you might have a minute to spare for me.”
Good God, a long day of the problems of Navy Ordnance and the Army’s Coast Artillery Corps is enough. And here comes Marine Aviation wanting something!
“Sure. Come on in the house. I was about to order up some coffee, but now that you’re here, I expect Tommy had better break out the bourbon.”
“Coffee would be fine, Sir.”
“Don’t be noble, Doc. God hates a hypocrite.”
“A little bourbon would go down very nicely, Sir.”
“I’m about to be briefed on a battle in the Coral Sea. You familiar with it?”
“Only that we lost the Lexington, Sir.”
“Yeah. Well, you can sit in on the briefing,” Holcomb said. He led the small procession into the house, handed his uniform cap to an orderly, and then went into the parlor.
“Good evening, Sir,” Captain Steward said. Holcomb saw that Steward had come with all the trappings: an easel, covered now with a sheet of oilcloth bearing the Marine Corps insignia; a large round leather map case containing a detailed map; and a dozen folders covered with TOP SECRET cover sheets—probably the immediate, radioed after-action reports themselves.
“Hello, Stew,” he said. “Sorry to keep you up this late. You know General McInerney.”
“Yes, Sir. Good evening, General.”
“Is there anything in there General McInerney is not supposed to hear?”
“No, Sir. General McInerney is on the Albatross list.”
The Albatross list was a short list of those officers who were privy to the fact that the Navy codebreakers at Pearl had broken several of the most important Japanese naval codes.
That’s a pretty short list, General Holcomb remembered now, a goddamned short list, and for very good reason. If the Japanese don’t find out we’re reading their mail, it’s hard to overestimate the importance of the broken codes. But the more people who know a secret, the greater the risk it won’t stay a secret long.
“How is that, Doc?” Holcomb asked evenly. “Why are you cleared for Albatross?”
“General Forrest brought me in on that, Sir.”
The Commandant considered that for a moment, and decided to give Brigadier General Horace W. T. Forrest, Assistant Chief of Staff for Intelligence, the benefit of the doubt.
If Forrest told Doc, he must have had his reasons.
The Commandant turned to one of the orderlies. “Coffee ready?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Well, bring it in, please. And a bottle of bourbon. And then see that we’re not disturbed.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“While we’re waiting, Stew, why don’t you pass around those after-actions. That’s what they are, right?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Captain Steward divided the half-dozen documents with the TOP SECRET cover sheets between Generals Holcomb and McInerney. Before they had a chance to read more than a few lines, the orderly pushed in a cart with a coffee service, a bottle of bourbon, glasses, and a silver ice bucket. It had obviously been set up beforehand.
“Tommy must have been a Boy Scout,” Holcomb said. “He’s always prepared. We’ll take care of ourselves, Tommy. Thank you.”
The orderly left the room, closing the sliding doors from outside.
Holcomb closed his folder.
“Let’s have it, Stew. I can probably get by without reading all that.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Captain Steward went to the easel and raised the oilskin cover. Beneath it was a simple map of the Coral Sea area. A slim strip of northern Australia was visible, as was the southern tip of New Guinea. Above New Guinea lay the southern tip of New Ireland and all of New Britain. Rabaul, which was situated at the northern tip of New Britain, was prominently labeled; it had fallen to the Japanese and was being rapidly built up as a major port for them.
To the east were the Solomon Islands. The major ones were labeled: Bougainville was the most northerly; then they went south through Choiseul, New Georgia, Santa Isabel, Tulagi, Guadalcanal, Florida, and Malaita, to San Cristobal, the most southerly.
“Keep it simple, Stew, but start at the beginning,” the Commandant ordered.
“Aye, aye, Sir,” Captain Steward said. “In late April, Sir, we learned, from Albatross intercepts, details of Japanese plans to take Midway Island, and from there to threaten Hawaii, with the ultimate ambition of taking Hawaii, which would both deny us that forward port and logistic facility and permit them to threaten the West Coast of the United States and the Aleutian Islands.
“Secondly, they planned to invest Port Moresby, on the tip of Eastern New Guinea. From Port Moresby they could threaten the Australian continent and extend their area of influence into the Solomon Islands. If they succeed in this intention, land-based aircraft in the Solomons could effectively interdict our supply lines to Australia and New Zealand.”
I’ve heard all this before, and I’m tired. But I’m not going to jump on this hardworking kid because I’m grouchy when I’m tired.
“Via Albatross intercepts we learned that there would be two Japanese naval forces. Vice-Admiral Takeo Takagi sailed from the Japanese naval base at Truk in command of the carrier striking force, the carriers Zuikaku and Shokaku, which represented a total of 125 aircraft, and its screening force.
“The second Japanese force, under the overall command of Vice-Admiral Shigeyoshi Inouye, and sailing from their base at Rabaul on New Britain, included the carrier Shoho and several cruisers, transports, and oilers.
“On 3 May, elements of this second force, which had apparently sailed from Rabaul several days earlier, landed on Tulagi, a small island here in the Solomons”—Steward pointed with what looked like an orchestra leader’s baton—“approximately equidistant between the three larger islands of Santa Isabel, Malaita, and Guadalcanal. They immediately began to construct a seaplane base.
“Based on the Albatross intercepts, Admiral Nimitz ordered Task Force 17, with Admiral Fletcher flying his flag aboard the carrier Yorktown, into the area. At the same time, Admiral Nimitz ordered Task Force 11, with Admiral Fitch flying his flag aboard the carrier Lexington, and Task Force 44, a mixed force of U.S. and Australian cruisers, under Admiral Crace, to join up with Task Force 11.
“Admiral Fletcher ordered a strike on the Japanese invasion force on Tulagi, which was carried out at 0630 hours 6 May. The after-action reports on the success of that attack, which are in the folder marked ‘Tulagi,’ have had to be revised.”
“What the hell does that mean?” the Commandant asked sharply.
“Sir, there are Australian Coastwatchers on Tulagi. Their radioed reports of the damage inflicted differed from that of the personnel involved in the attack. Admiral Nimitz feels that inasmuch as the Coastwatchers are on Tulagi, theirs are the more credible reports.”
“In other words,” the Commandant said angrily, “the flyboys let their imaginations run wild again, but the Coastwatchers produced the facts.”
“Yes, Sir,” Captain Steward said uncomfortably.
“Nothing personal, Doc,” the Commandant said.
“I know why it happens, Sir,” McInerney said evenly. “But that doesn’t excuse it.”
“Why does it happen? I’m really curious, Doc.”
“I think it has to do with movement, Sir. Perspective. Two, or three, or four pilots report, honestly, what they have seen. But because they are looking at what they all see from different places, both in terms of altitude and direction, no two descriptions match. For example, one aircraft shot down, or one seaplane destroyed in the water, becomes three airplanes shot down, or four seaplanes destroyed, because there are four different reports from people who are, in fact, reporting honestly what they saw. You need a pretty good G-2 debriefing team to separate the facts. Or consolidate them.”
The Commandant grunted. “Bad intelligence is worse than no intelligence.”
“I agree, Sir,” McInerney said.
“We sent a special unit over there to work with the Coastwatchers,” the Commandant said. “Did you know about that?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Is that going to help this, do you think?”
“Sir, I don’t think it’s possible to overstate the value of the Coastwatchers. They will get us, quickly, valid intelligence from the islands, particularly about Japanese air activity, but also of course about ship movement. If we know as soon as it happens what the Japanese are launching against us, what type of aircraft, and how many, we can launch our own aircraft in time to have them in the air when and where it is to our advantage. As opposed to detecting the enemy with patrolling aircraft, or worse, learning about the attack only when it begins, which catches us on the ground. Or when we’re in the air almost out of fuel.”
The Commandant grunted.
“I recommended to General Forrest,” McInerney went on, “that he—we—should do whatever it takes, whatever it costs, to get our people tied in to the Coastwatchers. And I want some of our own people as quickly as possible to get onto the islands as Coastwatchers. I think I was preaching to the convinced, but he said he intended to do just that. But if you were asking, Sir, whether it will do anything about the confusing reports we get from pilots, I don’t think so. We’re just going to have to work on that. It’s inexperience, Sir, rather than dishonesty.”
“I didn’t mean to insult your people, Doc. You know that.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“OK, Stew. Pardon the interruption.”
“After the attack on Tulagi, Sir, Task Force 17 moved south to join up with Task Forces 11 and 14. They did so at 0930 6 May, and together steamed westward to intercept the Port Moresby invasion force.
“At 1030 hours, 6 May, Army Air Force B-17 aircraft from Australia bombed the carrier Shoho and her covering force, apparently without effect.
“The next day, 7 May, at 1135 hours, aircraft from the Lexington spotted the Shoho again. They attacked and sank her. Three of Lady Lex’s aircraft were lost in the attack.”
“But they got the Jap carrier? That wasn’t one of these perception problems General McInerney is talking about?”
“No, Sir. In addition to the pilot’s after-action reports, there has been confirmation of the loss via Albatross intercepts.”
“OK. Go on.”
“At noon, 7 May, Japanese bombers and torpedo bombers flying off Admiral Takagi’s carriers, the Zuikaku and Shokaku, found the fleet oiler Neosho, escorted by the destroyer Sims. The Sims was sunk and the Neosho damaged. The last word on that is that she will probably have to be scuttled.
“Just before noon the next day, Japanese aircraft from Admiral Tagaki’s carriers attacked the combined Task Force. Both Yorktown and Lexington were damaged. Yorktown’s damage was minimal, but Lexington was badly damaged, and she was scuttled at 1956 hours 8 May.”
“Damn!” the Commandant said.
“At that point, Admiral Nimitz ordered Task Forces 11 and 17 to withdraw to the south. Task Force 44, the cruiser force, steamed westward to intercept the Port Moresby invasion force.
“By that time, Albatross intercepts indicated that Admiral Inouye had called off ‘Operation Mo,’ which was the Port Moresby invasion, but inasmuch as this information could not be made available to Admiral Crace, his Task Force patrolled the Coral Sea south of New Guinea until word from the Coastwatchers confirmed the withdrawal of the Japanese invasion force.”
“That’s it, then, Stew?” the Commandant asked.
“Sir, the radio messages are in the folders, and I have precise maps—”
“No, thank you. That was first-class, Stew. I know how hard you had to work to get that up in the time you had. I appreciate it.”
Captain Steward beamed.
“My pleasure, Sir,” he said.
“Now go get some sleep,” the Commandant said. “And you too, Bob,” he added to his aide. “I’m going to have a quick drink with General McInerney and then hit the sheets myself.”
The Commandant waited until Captain Steward and his aide had gathered up all the briefing material before speaking.
“Was it worth it, Doc? One of our carriers for one of theirs?”
“Probably not,” McInerney said, after a moment’s thought. “They have more carriers to lose than we do. But if it—and it looks like it did—if it called off, or even delayed for any appreciable time, their invasion of Port Moresby, then it was. If they had taken Moresby, I don’t think we could have held Australia.”
“You don’t think they’ll be back?”
“I think they will. But we’ve bought some time. What worries me is that seaplane base on that island—what was it?—Tulagi. If they get a decent air base going in that area, we’re in deep trouble as far as our shipping lanes are concerned. We’re going to have to do something about that.”
“Such as?”
“Maybe take one of the other islands and put a dirt-strip fighter base on it.”
“With what? We don’t have anything over there. My God, we couldn’t even hang on to Corregidor.”
Three days earlier, on May 6, Lieutenant General Jonathan M. Wainwright, USA, had surrendered the fortress of Corregidor, in Manila Bay, to the Japanese.
“I know.”
“That’s the first time a Marine regiment ever had to surrender,” the Commandant said. “Ever!”
“They were ordered to surrender, Sir, by the Army.”
“That’s a lot of consolation, isn’t it?”
The Commandant walked to the whiskey tray and poured himself a drink. He held up the bottle to McInerney, who shook his head no and said, “No, thank you, Sir.”
“What’s on your mind, Doc?” the Commandant asked.
“General, I’m really desperate for qualified fighter squadron commanders.”
“I’ll bet if Al Vandergrift was here, he would say, ‘I’m really desperate for qualified company commanders.’”
Major General Alexander Vandergrift commanded the 1st Marine Division, which consisted of the 1st and 5th Marines, plus the 11th Marines, Artillery, and which had just been brought up to war strength on May 1 at New River, North Carolina.
“Sir, I have one Naval Aviation Pilot, Technical Sergeant Galloway, who is qualified by both experience and temperament to command a fighter squadron. I would like to commission him and give him one.”
The Commandant flashed him an icy stare.
“Galloway? That’s the young buck who flew the Wildcat onto the carrier off Pearl and enraged the Navy? I’m still hearing about that. Whenever the Navy wants an example of irrational Marine behavior, they bring up Sergeant Galloway’s flight onto the Saratoga.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You ever hear the story, Doc, of General Jubal T. Early in the Civil War? Somebody sent him a plan he turned down. So this staff officer sent it back, respectfully requesting that the commanding general reconsider his previous decision. Early sent that back, too, after he wrote on it, ‘Goddammit, I already told you “no.” I ain’t gonna tell you again.’”
“Yes, Sir.”
The Commandant looked at him thoughtfully, even disbelievingly.
“That’s the only reason you came here tonight? You sat out there on the porch for hours, waiting for me to come home just to ask me to do something you knew damned well I wouldn’t do?”
“Sergeant Galloway got a raw deal, Sir. And I need squadron commanders.”
“Loyalty to your men is commendable, General,” the Commandant said, “but there is a point beyond which it becomes counterproductive.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And goddammit, Doc,” the Commandant said, warming to his subject, “I’m disappointed that you don’t know what that point is.”
Well, I tried, McInerney thought. And really pissed him off. I wonder what that’s going to cost Marine Aviation somewhere down the pike?
He set his glass on the table.
“With your permission, Sir, I’ll take my leave.”
The Commandant glowered at him.
“Keep your seat, and finish your drink, you hard-headed Scotchman,” he said. “I can’t afford to lose any more old friends.”
(Three)
Headquarters, U.S. Marine Corps Parachute School
Lakehurst Naval Air Station
Lakehurst, New Jersey
15 May 1942
First Lieutenant Richard B. Macklin, USMC, heard the knock at the jamb of his open office door, and then his peripheral vision picked up First Sergeant George J. Hammersmith standing there with a sheet of teletype paper in his hand.
Macklin did not raise his eyes from the papers on his desk. First Things First made sense. If you interrupted your work every time someone appeared at your door, you never got anything done. And he certainly didn’t want Sergeant Hammersmith to form the opinion, as so many old Marines did, that a commanding officer had nothing to do but sit behind a desk and wait for payday while the sergeants ran the Corps.
He finished what he was doing, which was to consider a request from the Navy Commander of Lakehurst that he permanently detail two enlisted men a day to work with the Base Engineer on roads and grounds. He decided against it; Para-Marines had more important things to do than pick up trash and cut weeds. Then he raised his head.
“You wish something, First Sergeant?”
“Got a TWX here, Sir, I thought you’d want to see right away.”
Macklin made an impatient gesture for Hammersmith to give him the sheet of teletype paper. He judged in advance that the message would probably be of little genuine importance and could just as easily have been sent by mail. In his view, ninety-five percent of TWXs were a waste of time.
He was wrong.
HEADQUARTERS USMC
WASHDC 0755 15MAY42
ROUTINE
COMMANDING OFFICER
USMC PARACHUTE SCHOOL
LAKEHURST NAVAL AIR STATION
LAKEHURST NJ
1. ON RECEIPT, ISSUE NECESSARY ORDERS DETACHING 1ST LT RICHARD B. MACKLIN, USMC, FROM HEADQUARTERS AND HEADQUARTERS COMPANY USMC PARASCHOOL LAKEHURST NAS NJ FOR TRANSFER TO HQ & HQ COMPANY 1ST USMC PARA BN, FLEET MARINE FORCE PACIFIC.
2. LT MACKLIN WILL REPORT TO US NAVAL BASE SAN DIEGO CAL NOT LATER THAN 2400 HOURS 30 MAY 1942 FOR FURTHER SHIPMENT TO FINAL DESTINATION. TRAVEL BY FIRST AVAILABLE MIL AND/OR CIV RAIL, AIR, OR MOTOR TRANSPORTATION TO SAN DIEGO IS AUTHORIZED. TRAVEL BEYOND SAN DIEGO WILL BE BY US GOVT SEA OR AIR TRANSPORT, PRIORITY BBBB2B.
3. TIME PERMITTING LT MACKLIN IS AUTHORIZED NO MORE THAN SEVEN (7) DAYS DELAY EN ROUTE OVERSEAS LEAVE.
4. LT MACKLIN WILL COMPLY WITH ALL APPLICABLE REGULATIONS CONCERNING OVERSEAS TRANSFER BEFORE DEPARTING LAKEHURST. STORAGE OF PERSONAL AND HOUSEHOLD GOODS AND ONE (1) PRIVATELY OWNED AUTOMOBILE AT GOVT EXPENSE IS AUTHORIZED.
5. HEADQUARTERS USMC (ATTN: PERS/23/A/11) WILL BE NOTIFIED BY TWX OF DATE OF LT MACKLIN’S DEPARTURE.
BY DIRECTION:
FRANK J. BOEHM, CAPT, USMCR
The first thing that occurred to Lieutenant Macklin was that it was sort of funny that as the Commanding Officer of the Parachute School, he would be ordering himself overseas.
Then it no longer seemed amusing at all.
His promotion had not come through.
He was supposed to be in San Diego two weeks from tomorrow, and from there he was going to the Pacific—in other words, to war.
It didn’t seem fair. Just as he was getting the Parachute School shipshape, they were taking it away from him.
It seemed to him that he could make a far greater contribution to the Marine Corps where he was—as an expert in place, so to speak—than in a routine assignment in the 1st Parachute Battalion.
After some thought, he picked up the telephone and called Captain Boehm, who had signed the TWX and had presumably made the decision to send him overseas. He outlined to Boehm the reasons it would be to the greater benefit of the Marine Corps if the TWX was rescinded.
Captain Boehm was not at all receptive. He was, in fact, downright insulting:
“I heard you were a scumbag, Macklin. But I never thought I would personally hear a Marine officer trying to weasel out of going overseas.”
(Four)
The Officers’ Club
U.S. Marine Corps Base
Quantico, Virginia
1730 Hours 17 May 1942
When he entered the club, First Lieutenant David F. Schneider, USMC, was not exactly pleased to bump into First Lieutenant James G. Ward, USMCR, and Lieutenant Ward’s aunt, Mrs. Caroline Ward McNamara. But neither was he exactly unhappy. He reacted like a man for whom fate has made a decision he would rather not have made himself.
Now that he had accidentally bumped into them, so to speak, as opposed to having gone looking for them, he could now begin to rectify an unpleasant situation that it was his duty, as a regular Marine officer, to rectify for the good of the Corps.
Schneider had learned of Mrs. McNamara’s presence on the base the day before: He was looking for Lieutenant Ward; so he walked into the squadron office and asked the sergeant on duty if he had seen him.
“He took the lady over to the Officers’ Guest House, Lieutenant.”
The Guest House was a facility provided to temporarily house (there was a seventy-two-hour limit) dependents and friends of Quantico officers.
“What lady?”
“Didn’t get her name. Nice looking. First, she asked for Sergeant Galloway; and when I told her he wasn’t back yet, she asked for Lieutenant Ward, so I got him on the phone, and he came over and fetched her and told me he was taking her over to the Guest House.” There was a perceptible pause before the sergeant added, “Sir.”
There was little question that the lady was Mrs. Caroline Ward McNamara, but Schneider was a careful, methodical man. He called the Guest House later that day to inquire if there was a Mrs. McNamara registered. And, of course, there was.
Technical Sergeant Charles M. Galloway had gone to Washington in response to a telephone call from General McInerney’s office. But Washington was to be only his first stop. Schneider suspected that Major Jake Dillon, the Public Affairs Officer, was behind the mysterious call from General McInerney’s office. If that was the case, there was no telling where Galloway had gone after he left Washington.
“Hey, Dave,” Ward called to him. “I thought you would show up here.”
“Good evening,” Schneider said.
“You remember my Aunt Caroline, don’t you?”
“Of course. How nice to see you again, Mrs. McNamara.”
“Oh, call me Caroline!”
Dave Schneider smiled at her, but did not respond.
“Let’s go in the bar,” Jim Ward suggested. Schneider smiled again, and again did not reply.
The bar was crowded with young officers. With varying degrees of discretion, they all made it clear that they considered Mrs. Caroline Ward McNamara one of the better specimens of the gentle gender.
Dave Schneider wondered if they would register so much approval of the “lady” if they were aware that Mrs. McNamara was not only shacked up with an enlisted man but apparently didn’t much care who knew about it.
They found a small table across from the bar.
“Dave, do you have any idea where Charley Galloway is?” Jim Ward asked, as soon as the waiter had taken their order.
“I believe he’s in Washington,” Schneider said. “Specifically, with Major Dillon.”
“No, he’s not,” Caroline said. “We just called Jake. Jake said he hadn’t heard from him since Tuesday morning, when he left the Willard. He spent Monday night there with Jake.”
Reserve officer or not, Mustang or not, Lieutenant Schneider thought angrily, Major Jake Dillon should know better than to offer an enlisted man the freedom of his hotel suite.
“He called Caroline from Pensacola—” Jim Ward said.
“Pensacola?” Schneider interrupted.
“Pensacola. He called on Wednesday. He told Caroline he was going to the West Coast,” Jim Ward said.
“Actually, he said he had a week to get out there,” Caroline McNamara said, “and suggested we could drive out there together.”
Jim Ward looked a little uncomfortable when she said that, Schneider noticed.
And well he should. There is absolutely no suggestion that his aunt finds anything wrong with the idea that she has been asked to drive cross-country alone with a man to whom she’s not married. Having a shameless aunt like that should embarrass anybody.
“That sounds like he’s on orders,” Jim Ward said. “But when Caroline showed up here, and no Charley Galloway, I checked. No orders have come down on him that anyone knows about.”
“I can’t imagine what’s going on,” Schneider said. “Did anyone in the squadron office know he was in Pensacola?”
“All the squadron knows is that he went to Washington on the verbal orders of Colonel Hershberger. That was eight, nine days ago,” Jim Ward said.
“Is there a Lieutenant Jim Ward in here?” the bartender called, holding up a telephone.
Jim Ward got up and walked to the bar and took the telephone. Less than a minute later he was back at the table, smiling.
“Our wandering boy has been heard from,” he said. “That was Jerry O’Malloy. He’s the duty officer. I asked him to let me know the minute he heard anything about Galloway.”
“And?” Caroline McNamara asked excitedly.
“Charley just called the tower. He’s twenty minutes out,” Ward said, then turned to look at Schneider and added, “In an F4F.”
“In a what?” Caroline asked.
“A Wildcat,” Jim Ward said. “A fighter plane. I wonder where he got that, and what he’s doing with it?”
“Well, I intend to find out,” Lieutenant David Schneider said, and started to get up.
“Sit down, Dave. I told O’Malloy to have Charley call me here the minute he gets in.”
“I’m going to be at Base Operations when he lands,” Schneider said.
“What the hell is the matter with you?”
“You know damned well what’s the matter with me. For one thing, and you know it as well as I do, he is absolutely forbidden to fly fighters.”
“And for another?” Ward asked coldly.
“I would prefer to discuss that privately with you, if you don’t mind.”
“Sit down, Dave,” Jim Ward said.
Schneider looked at him in surprise.
“You heard me, sit down,” Jim Ward repeated firmly. “I don’t know what Charley is doing with an F4F, but I do know that it’s none of your business or mine. That’s between him and the squadron commander.”
Schneider sat down.
“When he calls, I’ll ask him what’s going on,” Jim Ward said. “In the meantime, we’ll pursue the legal principle that you’re innocent until proven guilty.”
“I don’t like the way this sounds,” Caroline said. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”
“Never worry about things you can’t control,” Jim Ward said. “So far as we know, nothing is wrong.”
Charley Galloway did not telephone. Half an hour later, he walked up to the table, leaned down, said, “Hi, baby,” to Mrs. McNamara, and kissed her on the lips.
He was wearing his fur-collared leather flight jacket over tropical worsteds. He had jammed a fore-and-aft cap in one pocket of the flight jacket, and thin leather flying gloves in the other. He almost needed a shave, and there was a light band around his eyes where his flying goggles had protected the skin from the oily mist that often filled a Wildcat cockpit. It was obvious that he had come to the club directly from the flight line.
“Where have you been, honey?” Caroline asked. “I was getting really worried.”
“That’s a long story,” he said.
“Charley,” Jim Ward asked uncomfortably, “should you be in here?”
“He knows damn well he shouldn’t,” Dave Schneider flared. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Galloway?”
“Are you talking to me, Lieutenant?” Charley asked pleasantly. He shrugged out of the leather jacket and dropped it on the floor.
“Yes, I am.”
“Then please use the words ‘Captain,’ and ‘Sir,’” Charley said. He faced Dave Schneider, smiled broadly, and pointed to the twin silver bars on each of his collar points.
“Jesus!” Jim Ward said. “Are they for real?”
“I got them from the Commandant himself, believe it or not,” Charley said. “Together with a brief, but memorable, lecture on the conduct expected of me now that I was going to be an officer and a gentleman.”
“What about the West Coast?” Caroline asked softly.
“I’m going to be given a fighter squadron, baby,” Charley Galloway said. “As soon as I can get out to the Pacific and organize one. They’re going to fly me at least as far as Pearl. I’ve got six days to get to San Diego.”
“Oh, God!”
“Can I go with you?” Jim Ward asked softly.
“With Aunt Caroline and me? Hell, no,” Charley Galloway said indignantly. “Didn’t you ever hear that three’s a crowd?”
“That’s not what I meant, Captain, Sir.”
“If, in the next three weeks or a month, you can scare up an IP here who is willing to check you out in that Wildcat I just brought up here, you can come along later. I’ve got authorization to steal five pilots from here,” Galloway said. Then he faced Dave Schneider. “That’s an invitation to you too, Dave. You’re a real horse’s ass sometimes, but you’re not too bad an airplane driver.”
(Five)
Melbourne, Australia
19 May 1942
The Martin PBM-3R Mariner made landfall on the Australian continent near Moruya, in New South Wales, seventy-five miles southeast of the Australian capital at Canberra. The PBM-3R Mariner was the unarmed transport version of the standard PBM Mariner, a deep-hulled, twin-engined gull-winged monoplane.
Aboard were a crew of six, nineteen passengers, and eight hundred pounds of priority cargo, including a half-dozen mail bags.
When the excitement of finally making landfall had died down—for most aboard, it was their first view of Australia—Captain D. B. Toller, Civil Engineer Corps, USN, permitted his curiosity to take charge. He walked to the forward part of the cabin, just below the ladder leading to the cockpit, and sat down beside a Marine Corps major.
“All right if I sit here?”
“Certainly, Sir.”
“I’m Captain Dick Toller, Major,” he said, offering his hand.
“Ed Banning, Sir.”
“Well, we’re finally here. Or almost. This has been a long flight.”
“Yes, Sir, it has. I’ll be glad to get off this thing and stretch my legs.”
“Now, if I’m asking something I shouldn’t, just tell me to mind my own business,” Captain Toller said. “But I’m really curious about something.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Him,” Captain Toller said, nodding his head to a small area to the left of the ladder of the cockpit, where Corporal Stephen M. Koffler was curled up asleep, under blankets he had removed from his duffel bag. Koffler had rolled around in his sleep and wound up with his arm around his Springfield 1903 rifle. It looked as if he was holding it protectively, affectionately, as a child holds a teddy bear.
Banning chuckled.
“Corporal Koffler. He’s got the right idea. He slept from ’Diego to Hawaii; and except to eat, he’s been asleep most of the way here.”
“I saw you get on the plane at Pearl,” Captain Toller said. “I mean to say, I saw a very annoyed lieutenant commander and an even more annoyed captain being told to give up their seats in favor of passengers with higher priorities. And then you two came aboard.”
Banning didn’t reply. He was not particularly surprised by the question. The bumped-from-the-flight captain and lieutenant commander had glowered at him with barely contained indignation when they climbed down from the airplane into the launch and he and Koffler climbed aboard. Getting bumped by a Marine major was bad enough; but to be bumped by a Marine corporal with a higher priority was a little too much of a blow to a senior officer’s dignity.
It was a question of priorities. Lieutenant Colonel F. L. Rickabee had set up their travel; and he apparently had easy—and probably unquestioned—access to the higher priorities. Special Detachment 14 had occupied most of the seats on the Mariner from San Diego to Pearl. The Air Shipment Officer at Pearl had been almost apologetic when he explained that seats were in even shorter supply from Pearl onward, and that all he could provide on this flight were two seats. The others in Special Detachment 14 would have to follow later. A lot of people with high priorities had to get to Australia.
Banning had decided to take one of the two available seats himself, not as a privilege of rank, but because he was hand-carrying a letter from the Secretary of the Navy himself to Captain Fleming Pickering, and because he thought that, as commanding officer, he should get there as soon as possible. He had taken Koffler with him because he suspected that his most important personnel requirement immediately on reaching Australia would be for a typist. Koffler had boarded the Mariner carrying his portable typewriter as well as his rifle.
Banning had no intention of satisfying Captain Toller’s curiosity about Corporal Koffler’s presence on the Mariner. For one thing, it was none of Captain Toller’s business why Koffler was aboard the Mariner. And for another, it would only exacerbate the Captain’s annoyance if he told him the unvarnished truth.
“It’s a strange war, isn’t it?” Captain Toller went on, “when getting a major and his corporal to the theater of operations is of more importance to the war effort than getting a lieutenant commander and a captain there.”
Banning resisted the temptation to, politely of course, tell the Captain to go fuck himself.
“Our orders are classified, Sir,” Banning said. “But out of school, apropos of nothing at all, may I observe that there are very few people in the Naval Service, commissioned or enlisted, who were raised in Yokohama and speak Japanese fluently?”
Captain Toller nodded solemmly.
“I thought it might be something like that,” he said. “I wasn’t trying to pry, Major, you understand. Just curious.”
“Your curiosity is certainly understandable, Sir. But I think I’ve said more than I should already.”
Captain Toller put his finger in front of his lips in the gesture of silence, and winked.
“Thank you, Sir,” Banning said politely.
There was now a range of mountains off the right wing tip. When there was a break in their tops, Banning could see what was obviously a near-desert area on the far side. Below them, the terrain was either green or showed signs of fall cultivation.
I should have remembered that the seasons here are the reverse of those in America.
The plane began to let down an hour or so later. When the pilot corrected his course, Banning for a moment could see they were approaching a populated area. And then an enclosed body of water appeared.
Port Phillip Bay, Banning decided, pleased that he had taken the trouble to look at some maps.
He went to Koffler and pushed at him with the toe of his shoe. And then pushed twice more, harder, before Koffler sat up.
“Yes, Sir?”
“We’re here,” Banning said.
“Already?” Koffler asked.
The Mariner touched down several minutes later with an enormous splash, bounced airborne again; and then, with an even larger splash, it made final contact with the waters of Port Phillip Bay and slowed abruptly.
A launch carried them from the Mariner to a wharf. U.S. NAVY was stenciled on the wharf’s sides. There was a bus, an English bus, now painted Navy gray. But when Banning started toward it, someone called his name.
“Major Banning?”
A tall, handsome, distinguished-looking man in a Navy captain’s uniform was smiling at him.
“Yes, Sir.”
“I’m Fleming Pickering,” the Captain said, offering his hand. “Welcome to Australia.”
Steve Koffler came up to them, staggering under the weight of his duffel bag, rifle, and typewriter.
“I’ll get your bags, Sir,” he said, and walked back toward the launch.
“He’s with you?”
“Yes, Sir. I thought I was probably going to need a typist.”
“Good thinking,” Pickering chuckled. “But I didn’t know you would have him with you, so that’s one problem I hadn’t thought of.”
“Sir?”
“Putting him up,” Pickering said. “You’ll be staying with me. But having a corporal there would be a little awkward.”
“I understand, Sir.”
“Don’t misunderstand me, Major,” Pickering said. “I have nothing whatever against Marine corporals. In fact, I used to be a Marine corporal; and therefore I am well acquainted with what splendid all-around fellows they are. But you and I are in the Menzies Hotel, in an apartment directly over MacArthur and his family. We’ll have to get him into another hotel for the time being.”
“Sir, I have a letter for you from Secretary Knox.”
“Wait till we get in the car,” Pickering said, and gestured toward a 1939 Jaguar drop-head coupe.
“Nice car.”
“Yes, it is. I hate like hell having to give it back. It belongs to a friend of mine here. It annoys the hell out of MacArthur’s palace guard.”
Major Ed Banning decided he was going to like Captain Fleming Pickering, and his snap judgment was immediately confirmed when Pickering picked up Steve Koffler’s duffel bag and Springfield and started toward the Jaguar.
“It’s been a long time since I had a duffel bag in one hand and a Springfield in the other,” Pickering said, smiling. “You go help the Corporal with your bags, while I put these in the car.”
“Your tax dollars at work,” Captain Pickering said, chuckling, to Major Banning, when Banning came out of the bathroom in a bathrobe. He handed Banning a green slip of paper.
It was a check drawn on the Treasurer of the United States. It was payable to the bearer, and was in the amount of $250,000.
They were in Pickering’s suite in the Menzies Hotel. First they’d installed Corporal Koffler in a businessmen’s hotel (Pickering had handed him some money and told him to get something to eat, and to try to stay out of trouble). Then they’d come to the Menzies, where Pickering had made him a drink, then called the valet to have Banning’s uniforms pressed.
“The Commander-in-Chief dresses in worn thin khakis, no tie, and wears a cap I think he brought home from World War I. Naturally, if you know MacArthur, he consequently expects everyone else around him to look like a page from The Officer’s Guide.”
“Sir, what is this?” Banning asked, pointing to the check.
“Your expense money. Or our expense money. It’s from the Secretary’s Confidential Fund. It was in the letter you brought. Knox says that it’s unaccountable, but I think it would be wise for us to keep some sort of a record of where we spend it. Koffler’s hotel bill, for example. In the morning we’ll go around to the Bank of Victoria, deposit it, and arrange for you to be able to write checks against it. And you’d better take some cash, too. Six thousand-odd dollars of that is mine.”
“Sir?”
“I bought some maps that neither the Army nor the Navy could come up with on their own. I was happy to do it, but I want my money back. Whiskey all right?”
“I’m overwhelmed by your hospitality, Sir.”
“I’m delighted that you’re here. I sometimes feel very much the lonely soul. At least I won’t have to watch what I say to you after I’ve had a couple of drinks.”
“I’m carrying a message for you from Mrs. Feller, Sir, too.”
“Oh. She was my secretary in Washington when I first came in the Navy. And, of course, you know what she’s doing in Hawaii.”
“Yes, Sir. When I saw her there, she said to give you her best regards, and to tell you that she hopes you’ll soon have a chance to resume your interrupted conversation.”
“What?”
“She sends her regards and says she hopes you’ll soon have a chance to resume your interrupted conversation.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. Private joke.”
My God, she’s not only not embarrassed about what happened in the Coronado Beach Hotel, but wants me to know she meant what she said. Thank Christ she’s in Hawaii!
A bellman delivered a crisply pressed uniform and a pair of highly polished shoes.
Pickering followed Banning into the bedroom as Banning started to get dressed.
“Tomorrow, I’m going to take you around to meet Admiral Brewer,” he said. “Australian. Deputy chief of their naval intelligence. I want you to meet him and see if we can’t get a letter of introduction for you to the man who runs the Coastwatcher operation. They’re working out of a little town called Townesville, on the northeastern coast. The man in charge is a guy named Eric Feldt, Lieutenant Commander, Australian Navy. Nice guy. Until I met you, I was a little worried. He is not overly fond of the U.S. Navy officers he’s met. But I think he’ll get along with you.”
“That’s flattering, Sir, but why?”
“Just a feeling. I think you’re two of a kind.”
“Captain, I don’t know how soon, but probably within the next couple of days, the rest of my people will be coming in from Hawaii, probably in dribs and drabs. Should I make arrangements to put them into that hotel with Koffler?”
“How many?”
“One officer, a first lieutenant, and fifteen enlisted men.”
“I’m not trying to tell you how to run your operation, but presumably you’ll be moving them, or at least most of them, to Townesville?”
“If that’s where the Coastwatchers are, yes, Sir.”
“Open to suggestion?”
“Yes, Sir, of course.”
“I think you’d better go up there alone at first. If things work out, you can rent a house for them up there.”
“‘If things work out,’ Sir?”
“Commander Feldt can be difficult,” Pickering said. “Both the Army and the Navy have sent people up there. He told both groups to ‘sod off.’ Can you guess what that means?”
“I think so, Sir,” Banning said, smiling.
“I’m hoping that he will see you as someone who has come to be of help, not take charge. If he does, then you can rent a house for your people up there. In the meantime, it might get a little crowded, so we’ll put them up in my house, here.”
“Your house, Sir?”
“Against what I suppose is the inevitable—my being told to vacate these quarters—I rented a house.” He saw the confusion on Banning’s face. “A number, a large number, of MacArthur’s Palace Guard want me out of here; I am too close to the Divine Throne.”
“I understand, Sir,” Banning said, turning from the mirror where he was tying his field scarf to smile at Pickering.
“I’ll call. Right now, as a matter of fact, and have the house activated. If I had known you would have that kid with you, I would already have done it.”
“Activated, Sir?”
“It comes with a small staff. Housekeeper, maids, a cook. Since I’m not in it, I put them on vacation.”
“That sounds fine, but who pays for it? I’m not sure I’m authorized to put my people on per diem.”
“Frank Knox’s Confidential Fund will pay for it,” Pickering said, “but let me make it clear to you, Banning, that you’re authorized to do about anything you damned well please. You answer only to me.”
He went to a telephone and gave the operator a number.
“Mrs. Mannshow, this is Fleming Pickering. I’m glad I caught you in. Do you think you could get those people to come off Ninety Mile Beach and start running the house starting tomorrow?”
He looked at Banning and smiled, and gestured for Banning to make himself another drink.
(Six)
Eyes Only—The Secretary of the Navy
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
ORIGINAL TO BE DESTROYED AFTER ENCRYPTION AND TRANSMITTAL TO SECNAVY
Menzies Hotel
Melbourne, Australia
Wednesday, 20 May 1942
Dear Frank:
I thought it appropriate to report on the status quo here, especially the thinking of the General, insofar as the Battle of the Coral Sea and other events seem to have affected it.
But before I get to that, let me report the arrival of my own reinforcements. Major Ed Banning arrived yesterday, together with his advance party, one ferocious Marine paratrooper who must be all of seventeen. The balance of his command is still in Hawaii, trying to get on an airplane for the trip here. If it could be arranged to get them a higher priority without causing undue attention, I suggest that it be provided to them. In my judgment, it is more important to get Banning’s people here and integrated with the Australian Coastwatchers than it is to send more Army and Marine colonels and Navy captains here so they can start setting up their empires.
Banning, of course, carried your letter, for which I thank you (and the check, for which I thank you even more; if Banning has to start chartering fishing boats, etc., his operation can become very expensive, very soon). And he brought me up to date on Albatross operations in Hawaii, in particular their effectiveness vis-a-vis what happened in the Coral Sea.
I am very impressed with Banning, but fear that he is less than pleased with me. He made it clear that he considers himself to be under my orders, which I immediately made use of by forbidding him even to think about going behind Japanese lines himself. Because of his Japanese language skills and understanding of their minds, for one thing, and for another, because I think he knows too much about Albatross, he is too valuable to risk being captured.
Now to the General:
Until he learned that the Japanese had occupied Tulagi, I really didn’t think he paid much attention to the fact that the border between his area and Nimitz’s had been moved from 160 degrees east longitude, where the Joint Chiefs originally established it, to where it is now. But after the Japs took Tulagi, he became painfully aware that Nimitz now had responsibility for both Tulagi and Guadalcanal, the much larger island to the south.
He is now convinced that the new division of responsibility was established—the line changed—by his cabal of enemies, Marshall and King again, to deny him authority over territory he considers essential to his mission of defending Australia. I am finding it harder and harder to fault his logic and support that of the JCS.
The argument, I know, is that it is the Navy’s responsibility to maintain the sea lanes, and that was the argument for putting the border at 160 EL. MacArthur counters that this would hold water only if the Navy were occupying the land in question and using it for that purpose. And, of course, they are not, and have shown no indication that they intend to.
All of this was exacerbated when he learned that the day after he had surrendered Corregidor, General Wainwright went on the radio in Manila and ordered all forces in the Philippines to lay down their arms. This enraged him for several reasons, not necessarily in proportion to their importance to the war.
He seemed most enraged (and found it another proof that George Marshall stays awake nights thinking up new evil things to do to him) by the fact that Wainwright, apparently encouraged by Washington, no longer considered himself subordinate to MacArthur, and thus surrendered Corregidor on his own—without, in other words, MacA. ’s authority to do so.
Second, he is absolutely convinced that Wainwright, again encouraged by Washington, went even further than that, by assuming authority for all U.S./Filipino Forces in the Philippines, an authority MacA., with reason, believed he still retained, having never been formally relieved of it.
General Sharp, on Mindanao, was specifically ordered to surrender by Wainwright. According to MacA., Sharp had 30,000 U.S./Filipino troops, armed, and in far better shape insofar as ammunition, rations, etcetera, than any others in the islands. It is hard to understand why they were ordered to surrender. As it turns out, MacA. has learned that Sharp paid only lip service to Wainwright’s orders and encouraged his men to go to the hills and organize as guerrillas. He himself and most of his immediate staff felt obliged to follow orders, and they surrendered.
MacArthur feels a sense of shame (wholly unjustified, I think) for the loss of the Philippines. And he has an at least partially justified feeling that he is being treated unfairly by Washington in his present command.
Two days after Corregidor fell, he cabled General Marshall (ignoring the implication that Marshall couldn’t figure this out himself) that the Japanese victory in the Philippines will free two infantry divisions and a large number of aircraft that they will probably use to take New Guinea, and then the Solomons. They will then cut his supply routes to the United States, which would mean the loss of Australia.
MacA. proposed to go on the counterattack, starting with the recapture of Tulagi, and then establishing our own presence on Guadalcanal. In his mind (and in mine) he tried to be a good soldier and to “coordinate” this with South Pacific Area Headquarters. But he was (a) reminded that Guadalcanal and Tulagi are not “within his sphere of influence” and that (b) under those circumstances it was really rather presumptuous of him to ask for Navy aircraft carriers, etcetera, to conduct an operation in their sphere of influence, but that (c) he was not to worry, because Admiral Nimitz was already making plans to recapture Tulagi with a Marine Raider battalion.
There is no way that one small battalion can take Tulagi; but even if they could, they cannot hold it long—if the Japanese establish bases, which seems a given, on either Guadalcanal or Malaita.
What MacArthur wants to do makes more sense to me than what the Navy proposes to do, unless, as MacA. believes, the Navy’s primary purpose is to render him impotent and humiliated, so that the war here will be a Navy war.
I fight against accepting this latter theory. But what I saw at—and especially after—Pearl Harbor, with the admirals pulling their wagons into a circle to avoid accepting the blame, keeps popping into my head.
Respectfully,
Fleming Pickering, Captain, USNR