. «What's a nice girl like this one, a personal friend of the chaplain, doing with a guy like you?»
«What time does the dining room close?» Janice asked.
«You don't have much time before food service stops,» the desk clerk said. «But there will be dancing until two a.m.»
«Well, then,» Janice said. «Why don't we eat now, while we still can? Could you have our luggage taken to our rooms?»
«Yes, ma'am,» the desk clerk said, and handed them each a key.
«There's a Roman Catholic mass at six-thirty every morning,» the desk clerk said, and pointed to a sign announcing religious services. «And a Protestant non-denominational service at nine-thirty on Sunday morning.»
«Thank you,» Janice said. «We'll try to make the Sunday-morning service.»
«And I'm required to remind you not to open your window curtains or blinds at night,» the desk clerk said. «At least not while you're burning lights in your room.»
«What?» Weston asked.
«Submarines, sir,» the desk clerk said. «German submarines. They use lights ashore to locate ships.»
«Oh, of course,» Weston said.
They each had a cocktail before dinner, Janice a gin fizz, and Jim a bourbon on the rocks, there being no scotch. And with their «Shore Dinner,» they shared a bottle of New York State sparkling wine—made by the «champagne process,» according to the label.
Janice's first lobster had been with him at Bookbinder's in Philadelphia. This was her second. She really liked them, now that she'd found the courage to try one.
The band began to play while they were still eating; after their dessert, they danced. Jim very carefully maintained as much distance between their bodies as he could manage.
«I would really like to walk on the beach,» Janice said. «Could we do that before we go to bed?»
Our separate beds, of course.
«If there are no lights,» he said, practically, «how are we going to see?»
«By moonlight. It's a full moon.»
They walked perhaps half a mile down the wide boardwalk, and then Janice stepped over a chain barring access to stairs leading to the beach and motioned for him to follow her.
«The sign says, 'Access to the beach is forbidden during hours of darkness,' « Weston quoted.
«Oh, who'll know?» she said. «And we're in uniform.»
He followed her onto the beach.
She caught his hand.
«That's also against regulations,» she said. «They call it PDA.»
«They call what 'PDA'?»
«It stands for 'public display of affection,'» she said. «Officers will not show a PDA. Should we stop?»
«Hell, no.»
«I wasn't sure how you were going to answer that,» Janice said.
«Excuse me?»
«You've been,» she paused, considering her next words, «cool and distant, I guess—since I got in the car.»
«I thought the same thing about you,» he said.
«I thought maybe I scared you off when I told you I loved you,» Janice said.
«As I recall it—and the words are burned forever in my memory—you said, quote, I think I love you, unquote. I was afraid you'd had time to think it over and changed your mind.»
«I have had time to think it over, and when I saw you in the parking lot, I knew I could drop the 'I think.' «
«Jesus, Janice!»
He stopped and looked at her.
«Good evening, sir!» a male voice said, adding, «Ma'am.»
Weston turned and found himself looking at a Coast Guardsman. He was wearing a pea coat, puttees, and a web cartridge belt. A Springfield rifle was slung over his shoulder, and he was leading a very large German shepherd on a leash.
The Coast Guardsman saluted. Weston returned it in a reflex action, and saw, out of the corner of his eye, Janice doing the same thing.
She's adorable when she does thaT! And there's something somehow erotic about it, too!
«Sir, you're not supposed to be on the beach during hours of darkness,» the Coast Guardsman said.
What is this guy supposed to be doing? Repelling a landing party from a German submarine? Or is seeing him marching up and down with his rifle and killer dog supposed to remind people there's a war on!'
Janice dropped to her knees, made kissing sounds, and reached out to the dog, who was sitting on his haunches.
«Watch the goddamned dog, Janice!»
«Don't be silly, he's sweet!»
The killer dog nuzzled Janice's neck and sent sand flying with his tail.
«He's not as ferocious as he looks,» the Coast Guardsman said.
«Either that, or he's a very good judge of character,» Weston said, and then added: «Actually we have two very good reasons for being on the beach. One, I wanted to make sure for myself that no one has stolen the ocean, and two, this officer and I are trying very hard not to be seen engaged in a PDA.»
«PDA?»
«Public display of affection. The punishment for which, I'm told, is death by firing squad.»
The Coast Guardsman chuckled. «The thing is. Captain, the Chief rides along the beach in a jeep. If he sees you…«
«I'll sic the killer dog on him,» Weston said.
The Coast Guardsman laughed.
«No, you won't,» Janice said, standing up and brushing the sand off her uniform skirt. «We'll get off the beach. It's time we went to bed, anyhow.»
«Yes, ma'am,» the Coast Guardsman said, winking at Weston.
I
wish what you are thinking was true, but what the lady meant to say was, «It's time we went to our
separate
beds
.»
«I'll see you to your room,» Jim said, as they waited for the elevator.
«All right,» she said. She took her key from her purse, looked at it, and announced, «I'm on eight.»
He checked his key.
«So am I,» he said.
«Eight oh eight,» Janice said.
«Eight ten,» he replied.
Adjacent rooms? Probably not. Eight oh nine is probably next to eight oh eight, and eight ten is across the corridor
But close! Is that an omen?
No. It means that the hotel reserves a block of rooms for the chaplain's healthy and wholesome Weekend in Atlantic City program.
She stopped before the door to 808 and handed him the key. He put it in the lock and she raised her face to be kissed. He kissed her, gently, on the lips.
What that instant hard-on proves is that you are an oversexed sonofabitch, nothing more. She wasn't promising more than you got, and you really should be ashamed of yourself.
Considering how you spent last Saturday night, how could you even think of making love to this virgin ?
«Call me when you wake up,» Jim said. «And we'll have breakfast.» Janice nodded, touched his cheek, and slipped into her room. He stared at the closed door for a moment, forced from his mind a very clear mental image of Lieutenant (j.g.) Janice Hardison, NC, USNR, taking off her uniform, then went searching, across the hall, for Room 810.
It wasn't across the hall, it was adjacent to 808, where, at that very moment,
Janice was probably unbuttoning her crisp white shirt and getting ready for bed.
He stepped into his room, found his bag, and took from it a bottle of scotch whisky from the Greenbrier's liquor store, with every intention of taking at least one very stiff drink.
But when he poured it, he changed his mind.
Obviously, the last thing in the world you need is a drink. One drink will lead to another, and the next thing you know, you will be knocking at the connecting door to Janice's room and making a four-star ass of yourself.
You don't need a drink, you need a cold shower. A long, ice-cold shower
. A long ice-cold shower gave him goose bumps and the shivers but did little to erase from his mind the image of Janice taking off her uniform. He put on a terry-cloth bathrobe he found hanging on the bathroom door, went into the bedroom, and decided he really did need a drink, for medicinal purposes.
As he felt the scotch warming his body, there was a knock at the door. He opened it and looked out, but there was no one in the corridor.
Jesus Christ, that's Janice knocking at the connecting door
! He went to it. «Jim?»
«Yes.»
Who the hell did she expect
? «Open the door.» He unlocked the door.
She was wearing a terry-cloth bathrobe identical to his. He had a very clear mental image of her just before she slipped into it. «Turn off the lights,» she said. «What?»
«You heard what he said, about turning the lights off before you open the curtains.»
«Right,» Jim said, and went around the room, turning off the lights. When he had finished, he couldn't see his hand in front of his face, but then there was the sound of curtains being opened. And in a moment, his eyes adjusted to the light.
Janice was standing by the window.
He went and stood behind her.
She smelled now of soap, not perfume. Her hair was still wet.
He put his hand on her shoulder. He could feel the warmth of her body even through the thick robe.
«How beautiful,» Janice said, and leaned back against him.
He looked out the window. The sky was clear and the moon was full. He could see people walking on the boardwalk, and the surf crashing onto the beach.
«Yeah,» he said.
Her hand came up and caught his.
«Do you love me?»
«Oh, God. yes!»
She pushed herself erect and turned around and stood on her tiptoes to raise her face to his. He kissed her and wrapped his arms around her.
He thought for a moment, terrified, that he had gone too far with the kiss, with holding her so tight, for she struggled to free herself. He let her go.
And then he saw what she was doing. She was shrugging out of the terry-cloth robe. She had been wearing nothing under it.
«Don't say anything,» Janice said. «Just take me to bed.»
Chapter Thirteen
note 50
The Joint Chiefs of Staff
The Pentagon
Washington, D.C.
0805 15 March 1943
As Chief, Communications & Communications Security, Office of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Colonel H. (Hulit) A. (Augustus) Albright, Signal Corps (Detail, General Staff Corps), U.S. Army, had the day-to-day responsibility for the operation and the security of the Special Channel over which magic intelligence data was transmitted—a responsibility he had held virtually from the beginning of the Special Channel.
His immediate superior was Major General Charles M. Adamson, USA, the Secretary of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The title «Secretary» was somewhat misleading. In almost any other military organization. General Adamson would have been known as Chief of Staff. But someone had apparently decided that a Chief of Staff of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was going to be more than a little confusing, and his position was defined as «Secretary.»
General Adamson customarily signed interoffice memoranda and other material with his initials, CMA. Early on, Colonel Albright concluded that these letters actually stood for «Covering My Ass.» General Adamson's interoffice memoranda were quite skillfully written to ensure that if anything went wrong, the blame could be laid on any shoulders but his own.
Colonel Albright, a short, barrel-chested man, had been commissioned from the ranks. Specifically, he had served as an enlisted man in the Signal Corps, rising in two years to corporal. He had also sufficiently impressed several senior officers there with his unusual intelligence and character that they had encouraged him to study for and take the competitive examination for entrance to West Point, with the result that he was offered an appointment to the United States Military Academy.
He graduated from the USMA seventh in a class of 240, earning the right to choose his branch of service. Against the advice of his classmate, Cadet Charles M. Adamson, who reminded him that very, very few Signal Corps officers ever rose to be generals, he chose the Signal Corps.
Four years at the U.S. Military Academy in the company of Cadet Adamson had convinced Cadet Albright that Adamson was a pompous horse's ass who had arrived at the visionary conclusion that the key to a successful military career was never to make a decision of any kind without first finding someone to lay the blame onto if anything went wrong.
When the two met at a West Point class reunion in 1939, Albright was forced to admit that Adamson had indeed found a faster route to military advancement than he had. By dint of hard work (he'd taken a master's degree and then earned a Ph.D. in electrical engineering from MIT, among other things), Albright had earned the reputation of being one of the Army's most knowledgeable officers in radio communication, with a sideline specialty in cryptography. He had risen to major. Adamson, meanwhile, had spent the ensuing years shooting and polishing artillery pieces and making the right kind of friends. He was a full colonel.
At the reunion, Adamson somewhat grandly announced to Albright that if he was given command of a division—an outcome as inevitable as the rising of the sun, he seemed to think—he would see what he could do about having Albright assigned as his signal officer.
This was not at all a pleasant prospect for Major Albright. Having all his teeth extracted without novocaine seemed on the whole more desirable than serving under his old classmate. But he smiled and said nothing.
They next met several years later, at Fort Monmouth, New Jersey. Albright was by then a lieutenant colonel, and Adamson was a major general and the Secretary of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. «This means,» he explained to his old friend, «that I'm finally in a position to do something for you.»
«I truly appreciate the offer,» Albright replied, «but I'd like to think I'm really making a genuine contribution to the war effort doing what I've been doing.» At that time, he was involved in developing a more efficient and reliable Radio Ranging and Direction system, called «Radar,» as well as doing some work he considered important in the area of cryptography.
«Odd that you should mention that, Augie,» General Adamson said. «Cryptography's more or less what I came to see you about.»
Lieutenant Colonel H. (Hulit) A. (Augustus) Albright preferred to be informally addressed as «Hugh»; he despised «Augie.»
«Yes, sir?»
«What I'm about to tell you, Augie, is Top Secret, and not to leave this room,» General Adamson said.
«Yes, sir?»
«Navy cryptographers at Pearl Harbor have managed to break some of the most secret Japanese codes,» General Adamson announced.
That was not news to Colonel Albright. Not only had he learned from peers in the Navy Department that they were working hard on that problem, but he had arranged for a Korean-American mathematics professor named Hon Song Do, whom he had known at MIT, to be commissioned into the Signal Corps and assigned to the Pearl Harbor code-breaking operation. He hadn't actually been
told
, in so many words, that the codes had been broken, but he
knew
.
«Yes, sir?»
«Now, I have been charged by Admiral Leahy with setting up an absolutely secure transmission channel for the transmission of this data between Pearl Harbor, Washington, and General MacArthur's headquarters in Australia. And I think, Augie, that you're just the man to handle it.»
Oh, shit! I don't want to be a crypto officer. I'm overqualified to be a crypto officer, and too senior. That's a job for a captain, not a light colonel. What this sonofabitch is trying to do is cover his ass. Again.
«In this connection,» Adamson went on pontifically, «intelligence has managed to lay their hands on a German cryptographic device. To our good fortune, the Germans believe the device has been destroyed rather than compromised…«
This caught Lieutenant Colonel Albright's attention. He had heard some interesting things about the German device. For starters, it was such a clever design that decrypting material first encrypted on it was virtually impossible without using a device like it and a matching signal-operating instruction. And, if Adamson knew what he was talking about, and the Germans did not suspect thatthe device had fallen into the hands of the Allies, it was a major intelligence/cryptographic coup, with enormous implications.
«Yes, sir?»
«The question has been raised: could we—that is to say, could
you
duplicate this device, if you had your hands on it. It would be used solely for the transmission of the intelligence, code-named magic, which has been generated in Hawaii.»
«They call that reverse engineering, sir,» Albright replied. «Yes, sir. If I can get my hands on one, I can duplicate it.»
Before going on, General Adamson stared at Lieutenant Colonel Albright a long moment— obviously weighing whether or not to believe him.
«I'll have to get the go-ahead from Admiral Leahy, of course, Augie, but what I'm thinking is that we should fly you to London, so that you could physically bring this device to the United States. A destroyer has been made available for this purpose; flying it here is considered too risky.»
Maybe, with a little bit of luck, I can do everything he wants, and stay here, and not find my self working for the sonofabitch.
Three days later, Lieutenant Colonel Albright was on his way to England to bring the device to the United States. By the time the destroyer with the device aboard tied up at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, Adamson had arranged for his transfer to the Office of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, as Chief, Communications & Communications Security. He had additionally and not without difficulty, he said, arranged his promotion to full colonel and detail to the General Staff Corps. «Don't make me regret it, Augie,» he told him.
Within a month, Colonel Albright learned that he owed his promotion to the suggestion of the chief signal officer, not General Adamson, and that his detail to the General Staff Corps had been directed by Admiral Leahy himself, as a cover for his secret communications role. No one would pay much attention to one more GSC colonel on the Joint Chiefs; but people might wonder what a full bird colonel of the Signal Corps was actually doing.
In three closely guarded rooms at the Army's Signal Laboratories at Fort Monmouth, Albright immediately set up «the factory.» There the first machine was carefully reverse-engineered, and the devices based on it—naturally called magic devices, after the code name of the intelligence data itself—were put into production. The first two of these were installed in Washington and Pearl Harbor. The third went to Brisbane, Australia, for MacArthur's use, where it was placed in the care of Lieutenant Hon Song Do, Signal Corps, USAR. In time, the «factory» was capable of manufacturing two of the devices each month.
During the initial setup of the «Special Channel,» Major General Charles M. Adamson, USA, predictably proved to be a royal pain in the ass; but that was the price Albright knew he had to pay for being involved with an operation as important as magic… an importance confirmed to Colonel Albright on more than one occasion by Admiral Leahy himself. Leahy privately told Albright that the magic information transmitted over the Special Channel was one of the United States' two most important secret operations, the other being the Manhattan Project under Brigadier General Leslie Groves, USA. Under Groves, a team of physicists and mathematicians was engaged in developing a bomb that would release the energy Einstein theorized was contained in all matter. One such bomb, Admiral Leahy told Albright, would have an explosive force equivalent to that of twenty thousand tons of trinitrotoluene, better known as TNT.
It was now clear to Albright that he'd been wrong to worry about becoming an overqualified crypto officer, a colonel doing a captain's job. In fact, he sometimes wondered if he was qualified to protect the magic secret from compromise. The basic problem, as he saw it, was not technical or mechanical, but human. The magic devices worked flawlessly. The problem was that more and more people were being added to the loop.
The Special Channel was originally intended to provide an absolutely secure transmission channel for magic between the headquarters of Admiral Chester W. Nimitz, Commander in Chief, Pacific, in Hawaii; General Douglas MacArthur, Supreme Commander, South West Pacific Ocean Area, in Brisbane, Australia; and President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces of the United States in Washington.
On the surface, one might imagine that no more than half a dozen people would be involved. Such thinking proved to be overoptimistic. For starters, people had to actually operate the devices. That is, somebody had to actually push the typewriter-like keys that would encrypt or decrypt magic material. Originally, the cryptographers at Pearl Harbor did this. But it didn't take their superiors long to realize that their time could be better spent decrypting intercepted Japanese communications than doing work clerk-typists could do just as well. So a few cryptographers who had been handling routine cryptographic material had to be granted magic clearances, and their names were added to the very short list of people, headed by the President, authorized to know that magic existed.
In time other names were added to the magic list, starting with the Secretaries of the Navy (Frank Knox) and the Army (Henry Stimson). The Director of the Office of Strategic Services (William Donovan) obviously had the Need To Know what the Japanese were up to, and he had gone on the list, as had the Chief of Naval Operations, the Chief of Staff, U.S. Army, the Commandant of the Marine Corps, and the Chief of the USMC Office of Management Analysis. In Brisbane, MacArthur decided that his Chief of Intelligence, Brigadier General Willoughby, had to be on the list, and he was added. Navy Secretary Frank Knox, meanwhile, sent a personal representative to the Pacific, a commissioned civilian named Fleming Pickering. Since he did not wish the Navy brass to know what Pickering was reporting to him, Knox gave him a magic clearance so that his reports could be transmitted over the Special Channel. And Army Secretary Stimson had recently convinced the President that General Dwight D. Eisenhower, soon to command the Allied Invasion of the European Landmass, needed access to magic material; and a magic device had been authorized for his headquarters in England and flown to London. Eisenhower had immediately obtained permission for his Chief of Staff, General Walter Bedell Smith, to be added to the magic list.
The brass had quickly learned that the Special Channel provided them with an absolutely secure means of communicating with each other on matters having nothing to do with magic material. And it had the added bonus of being far speedier than standard Army or Navy communications. Sixty percent of total Special Channel traffic now had nothing to do with magic.
As Special Channel users proliferated, Albright grew increasingly worried that the necessary close control of the Special Channel would be lost. Brass worldwide would inevitably become aware of its existence, and come up with arguments why they, too, should be authorized access to magic material and the Special Channel. Experience had taught him that the more people with access to a secret, the greater its chances of compromise.
But once Eisenhower and Bedell Smith were included on the magic list, Admiral Leahy had drawn the line and refused all further requests for magic access. After that, few other magic devices were actually needed. The ones operating in CINCPAC headquarters in Hawaii, Supreme Headquarters, Southwest Pacific Ocean Area in Brisbane, and in the Navy Communications facility in Washington all had backup devices in case of equipment failure. So did the one recently sent to London. There were also four other devices. Two of these were under constant evaluation at the Signal Laboratories, and two were used for training, one at a secret Signal facility on a farm in Virginia, and the other now at the OSS training base in Maryland.
With the drying up of demand, Albright had been able to shut down the production line at the Factory at Fort Monmouth. He had six magic devices «on the shelf» (actually, in a bank-type vault in the Pentagon), and that was going to be enough.
Or so he thought until the President overrode Admiral Leahy: Generalissimmo Chiang Kai-shek, the Nationalist Chinese leader, and Admiral Lord Louis Mountbatten, the Allied Commander for China, Burma, and India, were to be brought into the magic loop. That meant that a magic device, with a necessary backup, had to be transported to them and set in operation.
Giving a device to the Chinese and the Brits, in Colonel Albright's view, was tantamount to taking out a full-page advertisement in the
Washington Star
to announce to the world that some of the most secret Japanese messages were being read in Washington, Pearl Harbor, and Brisbane. But he was fully aware that it wasn't his responsibility to decide who received a magic device, it was the President's. His responsibility was limited to making sure that the devices reached Chungking and New Delhi, and were set up and put into operation without problems.
The immediate priority was to get devices to Chungking—under, of course, the close supervision of Major General Charles M. Adamson, USA, Secretary to the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
Colonel Albright was not at all surprised to pick up his telephone and hear ol' Cover My Ass Adamson's familiar voice on the line.
«Can you step in here a minute, Augie? I think we need to talk about China Clipper.»
«Be right there, sir.»
«Bring the China Clipper Opplan with you, please, Augie.»
«Yes, sir.»
Two minutes later, Colonel Albright walked into General Adamson's office and saluted. «Good morning, sir,» he said.
«Help yourself to some coffee,» the General said, holding up his own mug to show that he already had his, «and then tell me how it's going.»
Colonel Albright laid Opplan China Clipper on General Adamson's desk, then helped himself to a cup of coffee.
«Where would you like me to start, General?»
«At the beginning. I want every
t
crossed, and every i dotted.»
«Opplan China Clipper is sort of a carbon copy of Opplan London Fog,» Albright began, «suitably modified.»
Adamson nodded. London Fog, the plan to transport two of the magic devices to London, had gone off without any problems.
«I had people come up from Monmouth,» Colonel Albright went on. «They checked out two of the devices in the vault. When they were finished, I checked them out personally. They are now in crates marked «Personnel Records, Not To Be Opened Without The Specific Written Permission of the Adjutant General.»
«And the thermite grenades?»
«They» will be put in place once the crates are loaded aboard the C-46 at Newark Airport. Same system that we used to send the devices to London, except that the airplane will be a C-46 instead of a B-17.»
«By whom?»
«I offered General Pickering four CIC agents to handle that.» The Counter-intelligence Corps. «They'd go all the way to Chungking with the devices. Though Pickering initially seemed willing to go along with that, Colonel Banning thought that would unnecessarily complicate things, and Pickering went along with him.»
«Colonel Banning's giving you trouble?»
«I didn't mean to imply that, sir.» Albright really liked Ed Banning. For one thing, he was a professional, just as Albright was. For another, he had checked Banning out when his name had been ordered onto the magic list. According to Fritz Rickabee, Banning was as good as they came, and Hon Song Do in Australia had said the same thing.
He had been happy to be of service to Banning when Rickabee had called to tell him that Banning was going to Monmouth to find suitable shortwave radios for his current operation and to ask if he had anyone there who could help Banning with that. He himself had arranged to be at Monmouth when Banning got there.
«That's what it sounds like, Augie,» General Adamson said. «What does Banning have against CIC agents?»
«Sir, Colonel Banning made the point that you don't have to be a CIC agent to pull the pin on a thermite grenade, and I couldn't argue with that.»
«I want CIC agents to put the devices aboard the airplane at Newark,» General Adamson said. «Pickering can sign for them there.»
«General Pickering's not going with the devices,» Albright said. «He's going the long way around, via Pearl Harbor and Brisbane.»
«He tell you why?»
Albright shook his head, «no.»
«Who will sign for the devices?»
«Colonel Banning, sir. And he will have responsibility for them in Chungking.»
«Then
Banning
can sign for the devices
after
the CIC puts them on the airplane.»
«Yes, sir.»
«Your Opplan, Augie…« General Adamson opened the Opplan and found the applicable paragraph before proceeding. «… says that the devices, when not in a secure vault, will never be out of the sight of at least one person with a magic clearance. Colonel Banning apparently enjoys the confidence of General Pickering, but what about these other two? Lieutenant Easterbrook and Master Gunner Rutterman?»
Meaning, of course, that you have learned that you don't want to fuck with Pickering. You may outrank him, but the President doesn't call you by your first name.
«I'm sure they also enjoy General Pickering's confidence, sir.»
«That's not what I mean, Augie. For one thing, I happen to know that until very recently, Rutterman was an enlisted man who guarded the door at Colonel Rickabee's place of business.»
«He comes highly recommended by General Rickabee, sir, and he's been an alternate magic cryptographer for some time.»
General Adamson grunted. «I happened to be out at the OSS training with the OSS Deputy Director for Administration, Augie, and he pointed out Lieutenant Easterbrook to me.»
«Yes, sir.»
«You've seen him, of course?»
«Yes, sir.»
«Then wouldn't you agree that he's about nineteen years old, and looks like he belongs in high school?»
«Yes, sir, he looks very young. But on the other hand, he won the Silver Star on Bloody Ridge on Guadalcanal with the Second Raider Battalion.»
«That sort of service really doesn't have much relevance, wouldn't you say, Augie, with protection of a magic device?»
«I suppose not, sir. But may I point out, sir, there is nothing we can do about it?»
«I'd really like to know where the hell Pickering got Lieutenant Easterbrook.» General Adamson said. «Presumably, he has been satisfactorily trained in magic device operation?»
«I checked him out myself, sir.»
And he's a nice, really bright, kid. Unfortunately, ol' Cover My Ass is right. He is just a kid.
«Colonel Banning told me, sir, that General Pickering is flying another man, Lieutenant Moore, John M., who is a magic cryptographer slash analyst, from Australia to Chungking. I am not concerned, sir, about operation of the Special Channel once it's in place.»
«The operative words in that sentence, Augie, are 'once it's in place.' Our responsibility, your responsibility, is transporting the magic devices to Chungking.»
«Yes, sir.»
General Adamson checked the Opplan again.
«Frankly, I'm concerned about these two,» he said, pointing to a list of names. «Captain McCoy, Kenneth R., and Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman, Ernest W. What do we know about them?»
«They both enjoy the confidence of General Pickering and Colonel Banning, sir, and neither of them has a magic clearance.»
«The Deputy Director tells me that McCoy was commissioned from the ranks, where he was known as 'Killer McCoy' for his proclivity for stabbing people in drunken brawls. And the sergeant has a room-temperature IQ.»
He also speaks four or five languages, including two kinds of Chinese and Russian, but I don't think you want to hear about that.
«They're an interesting pair, sir,» Albright said.
«In other words, you would judge that, if necessary, either of them could pull the pin on a thermite grenade?»
And if it was a dud, Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman could chew both devices up and spit out tacks
. «Yes, sir,» Albright said.
General Adamson paused thoughtfully before asking, «What are you going to tell them about the «personnel records' crates?»
«Nothing, sir, of course.»
«You don't think they'll be curious?»
Frankly, I would be surprised if McCoy doesn't have a damned good idea of what's in them. He's very tight with Banning, and he's a very bright young fellow.
«No, sir.»
«You don't think Colonel Banning has told him?» General Adamson asked. «Or perhaps even General Pickering?»
«I think that is highly unlikely, sir.»
«I have a reason for asking this question, Augie,» General Adamson said. «So let me paraphrase. You think it over before answering. If it should come to pass that Captain McCoy or Sergeant Zimmerman were to fall into the hands of the enemy, do you think either of them knows, or has guessed, enough about magic to compromise it?»
«I don't
know
, sir,» Albright said. «But I think it's highly unlikely.»
That's not true. McCoy probably knows damned well what's in those crates, and if he does, Zimmerman probably does too. But what he's after from me is some reason he can get either McCoy or Zimmerman kicked off this operation. I don't know what that's all about, but I'll have no part of it.
Am I endangering magic because of my contempt for this man? I hope not. I don't think so. What I
do
know is if I could have anybody I wanted to guard the devices, I'd pick this Marine mustang captain and his room-temperature-IQ sergeant.
General Adamson grunted, and thought the matter over for a full thirty seconds before going on: «I'm sure Pickering and Banning have asked themselves the same question,» he said, «and decided that he doesn't know enough about magic to pose a risk to it in case of capture. But I don't want you, Augie, to even hint about what those crates contain.»
«No, sir,» Colonel Albright replied, very formally. «Is there any reason, in the General's opinion, why I should know why the General raised that question?»
General Adamson thought the question over before deciding to tell him, finally concluding that he might as well, because he was going to find out anyway. Albright spent a good deal of time in the Navy Communications facility where the magic device was in operation. No one there would—or should— question his right to read anything being encrypted or decrypted, including Special Channel material that would be coming to and from General Pickering. Albright might not have paid attention to it before, but now that he was curious about this whole business, he would be looking for something, and would find it.
«As you know, I've become rather friendly with the Deputy Director for Administration at the OSS,» General Adamson said.
Colonel Albright had first met the OSS Deputy Director (Administration)— whom he had immediately disliked—when he had been ordered to make magic material available to OSS Director Donovan. He had dealt with him again—and learned to like him even less—when he had been ordered to provide a magic device, for training purposes, to the OSS training camp in Maryland.
The magic device at the Congressional Country Club had nothing to do with magic material being exchanged between Hawaii, Brisbane, and Washington. It was instead shown to OSS agents who were to be sent into Europe. If they came across such a device, they all had orders to make every effort to steal it. The order had come from Admiral Leahy, but it had originated with Albright, who thought it entirely likely the Germans had come up with improvements to their devices that he wanted to know about.
That figures
, Colonel Albright thought.
You're two of a kind. Two asshole paper pushers, highly skilled in protecting your own asses
.
«You know what I'm talking about, Augie. He hears things, and passes them on to me, and I hear things…«
«Yes, sir.»
«This is one of those times when it is easier to go along than to say no, according to my friend. Admiral Leahy didn't want to say no to Admiral Nimitz; the President didn't want to say no to Admiral Leahy; and OSS Director Donovan, of course, couldn't say no to either the President or Admiral Leahy.»
«No about what, sir?»
«General Pickering has been charged with setting up a Navy weather station in the Gobi Desert.»
I
suppose it's dishonest of me not to tell him that Banning told me all about Operation Gobi when he went to Monmouth to pick radios for the operation
.
But then, Banning wasn't simply running off at the mouth. He needed my help to get radios and decided (a) that if Fritz Rickabee trusts me, he could trust me; and (b) authority or not, I had a bona fide Need To Know. I'm not going to get him in trouble because of that.
«In the Gobi Desert?»
«From what I've heard about this operation, it's really out of left field. Your two Marines are going to try to make their way to the Gobi Desert… masquerading as members of a camel caravan! The idea is to establish contact with a group of Americans supposedly wandering around in there, to be followed by the flying in of a weather station.»
«That sounds like a tough operation, sir.»
«My friend tells me his personal assessment of the chances of success range from one in a thousand to none.»
«It sounds pretty—«
«It sounds suicidal to me,» General Adamson said. «Not to mention the waste of assets that could better be expended elsewhere. General Pickering's reason for taking the long way around to Chungking is to stop off at Pearl Harbor to discuss getting a submarine for Operation Gobi. The submarine is to rendezvous in the Yellow Sea a hundred miles off the China coast with a couple of Catalinas. After being refueled by the submarine, the airplanes will then fly across China and land in the Gobi Desert. They will not fly out again, of course. The distances are too great.»
«It does sound more than a little risky, sir.»
«Risky's not the word for it. Insanity would be more accurate.»
«Yes, sir.»
«So it behooves you and me, Augie, in case Operation Gobi is not successful, to make sure no one can point a finger at us and say that
we
somehow dropped the ball.»
You don't give a damn about McCoy and Zimmerman, or the people who will fly the airplanes on a one-way mission, or the sailors trying to refuel airplanes on the high seas in the middle of winter. All you're worried about is covering your own ass.
«Yes, sir.»
«Every
t
crossed, Augie, a dot over every i.»
«Yes, sir.»
General Adamson dropped his eyes to Opplan China Clipper.
«Your Opplan states that the devices will be guarded by individuals who have qualified within the last six months with the weapon with which they will be armed. I presume you checked that?»
«No, sir.»
«Why not?»
«That paragraph came from London Fog. I found out that two of the CIC agents we used there were ex-cops who had gone directly into the CIC. I learned too late to do anything about it that neither of them had ever fired a Thompson submachine gun.»
«What's that got to do with this?»
«All of these people, including Colonel Banning, are (a) Marines and (b) have seen combat at least once. They know all about weapons.»
«Indulge me, Augie. When you go out there today, make sure they qualify with whatever weapons they are going to have with them.»
«Yes, sir.»
«You have another copy of this?» General Adamson asked, tapping Opplan China Clipper with his fingers. «Yes, sir.»
«Leave this one with me, then, please, Augie. I'll take a close look at it, and if I come up with something, I'll give you a ring out there.»
«Yes, sir.»
note 51
The Congressional Country Club
Bethesda, Maryland
0905 15 March 1943
Captain Kenneth R. McCoy was wearing a white button-down-collar shirt, no necktie, a gray V-necked woolen sweater, gray flannel slacks, and a week's growth of beard when he opened the door of his room and found Harry W. Rutterman, USMC—closely shaven, and immaculately attired in a new uniform—standing in the corridor.
«Hey, Harry,» McCoy said. «Come on in. What's up?»
«Banning just called. He's on his way out here with Colonel Albright, and he told me to make sure everybody was in the billiards room at ten. Where's the gunny?»
«In the armory,» McCoy replied. «Banning say what's going on?»
«No,» Rutterman said simply. He looked around the room and asked: «What the hell are you doing?»
The sitting room of the two room suite was furnished with a library table and a desk. Both were covered with books and maps.
«You mean you can't tell?» McCoy said. «I'm studying for sophomore geography. What do you want to know about Mongolia?» He leaned over the library table and read,» 'The average elevation is fifty-one hundred feet.' How about that? You want to know what goes on there? 'They'—they being the Khalkha Mongols, who speak a language called Khalkha Mongolian—'spend their time grazing sheep, goats, cattle, horses, yaks'—what the hell a yak is, I have no idea—'and of course, camels.' «
«Fascinating!» Rutterman said. «Can I have some of that coffee?»
«Help yourself,» McCoy said. «How's the Easterbunny doing?»
«Doing what?»
«Learning how to operate that machine I'm not supposed to know about. How's he doing?»
«Come on, McCoy, you know I can't talk about that.»
«Okay. Sorry. Changing the subject: The only camel I have ever seen up close was in a circus in Philadelphia when I was a kid. The sonofabitch looked me right in the eye and spit in my face.»
«No shit?» Rutterman chuckled.
«Would I lie to you, Harry?»
«Yes, you would, McCoy,» Rutterman said, and held up a coffee cup. «You want some of this?»
«Please,» McCoy said. «I shit you not, Harry. That goddamned animal leaned down to me—I thought he wanted me to pet him, or rub his ears—and when he was about five feet away, he hit me with a goober that was probably a quart.»
Rutterman laughed. «What did you do?»
«What do you mean, what did I do? Nothing. I was twelve years old. What the hell could I do? But I'll tell you this, I have never smoked Camel cigarettes.»
Rutterman chuckled, then asked, «What's Zimmerman doing in the armory?»
«He went nosing around and found they've got all sorts of weapons. He found some Chinese copies of Mauser Broomhandle machine pistols—they fire that Luger nine-millimeter Parabellum cartridge—and he's working them over to make sure they shoot.»
«What's that all about?»
«Zimmerman says that's what the camel drivers carry, and he wants to look like a camel driver.»
At ten minutes to ten, Gunnery Sergeant Ernest W. Zimmerman, USMC, walked into the billiards room of the Congressional Country Club. He was wearing a brown sport coat, brown gabardine trousers, and a yellow shirt with a polka dot (white on blue) necktie. He smelled of bore cleaner and Hoppe's #9. «I was going to test-fire them Broomhandles,» he announced somewhat indignantly.
«It will have to wait. Banning said he wanted everybody here at ten.»
«What's up?»
McCoy shrugged, indicating he didn't have any idea. He looked at his watch, then went to one of the tables and started folding the oilcloth that covered it.
Zimmerman examined a rack of cues mounted on the wall, rejecting three of them before finding one that matched his standards. Then he walked to the table.
«There's no fucking holes!» he announced, surprised and annoyed.
«They call this 'billiards,' « McCoy said.
«How the fuck do you play it?»
«I have no idea,» McCoy confessed. «I think you have to hit three cushions and then another ball.»
«Fuck that,» Zimmerman said. «I'll play you close-to-the cushion for a nickel a shot.»
«A quarter,» McCoy countered.
«You ain't that good, Killer.»
Why is Ernie the only man in the world who doesn't piss me off when he calls me «Killer»? Maybe because he was there and knows I only did what I had to do ? Or is it because he is such a simple sonofabitch that I hate to jump on him?
«Knowing you're playing for a quarter, are going to
lose
a
whole quarter
, will make you so nervous a six-year-old could beat you.»
«Fuck you, Killer,» Zimmerman said. «Get yourself a fucking cue stick.»
Ten minutes later, McCoy blew the shot he was making when Zimmerman suddenly barked, «Ten-hut!»
As he came to attention, he saw that Colonel Edward Banning, USMC, and Colonel H. A. Albright, USA, had entered the billiards room.
«Stand at ease,» Banning said. «Go on with your game. The others will be here in a minute.»
«Yes, sir,» McCoy said, and then, turning to Zimmerman, said in Wu, «Ernie, try to remember you don't call 'attention' when you're in civvies, will you?»
«Sorry,» Zimmerman said in Wu, sounding as if he meant it. Then he asked, «What's that fat doggie colonel got to do with us? That's the third time I've seen him with Banning.»
«I think he's in charge of getting us to China,» McCoy replied. «He must be all right. Banning seems to like him. My shot, right?»
«Your shot, my ass, Killer! You blew your fucking shot!»
«Only because you shouted 'attention' in my ear when Banning and the doggie colonel came in here,» McCoy replied.
Colonel H. A. Albright had learned to speak Wu (and some Cantonese and Mandarin) during a three-year tour with the 15th Infantry in China. Even though he understood what Zimmerman had said about him, he was not really offended. Neither Zimmerman nor McCoy had any reason to suspect that he spoke Wu; very few Americans did, even those soldiers, Marines, and sailors who had spent long years in China.
Their ability to speak Chinese probably explained why they were being sent into Japanese-occupied Mongolia. That and the fact that they had both worked for Banning in Shanghai before the war. He wondered if they knew—or, for that matter, if Banning knew—what the Deputy Director (Administration) of the OSS thought of their chances of getting back alive.
Five minutes later, Second Lieutenant Robert F. Easterbrook and Master Gunner Harry Rutterman entered the room.
Rutterman looks old enough to be Easterbrook's father
, Banning thought.
«Sorry to be late, sir,» Easterbrook said to Banning. «I was in the commo section.»
«Problem with the radios?» Banning asked.
«No, sir. We were testing the packaging.»
«How?»
Easterbrook looked uncomfortable.
» '
How'
?» Banning repeated.
«Actually, sir, we disassembled one of them—took the tubes out, like that— packed everything in the bags with foam rubber, and then I stood on a table and dropped all the bags onto the floor a half-dozen times. Then we put the radio back together to see if it would still work.»
«Did it?»
«Yes, sir.»
«At the Signal Corps Laboratories at Fort Monmouth, Lieutenant,» Colonel Albright said, «we call the 'drop it on the floor and see if we can bust it' testing technique, 'simulated extensive field use testing.' It's really the only way to do it.»
«Yes, sir,» the Easterbunny said.
Christ, he actually blushed!
«That's why I was late, sir,» the Easterbunny blurted. «I just had to see if it would work when I put it back together.»
«No problem, you're here,» Banning said. «Harry, you want to check the doors, please?»
Rutterman locked the door he had just passed through, then checked the other two doors to make sure they were locked, and finally drew blinds across the windows, after making sure the windows themselves were closed.
«This won't take long,» Banning began. «Making reference to Section Two, Paragraph Five(a) of Opplan China Clipper, you may consider that as of this moment, you are alerted for overseas movement. You will depart the United States by military aircraft from Newark, New Jersey, sometime in the morning of 17 March—that's Wednesday—for service in the China-Burma-India theatre of operations.»
Colonel Albright heard Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman mutter, in Wu,» 'China Clipper'? What the fuck is that?»
«Having been so alerted,» Banning went on, «you are advised that under the Articles for the Governance of the Naval Service, any failure to appear at the proper place at the proper time in the properly appointed uniform until you have physically departed the Continental Limits of the United States will be regarded not as Absence Without Leave, but as Absence Without Leave With the Intent to Avoid Overseas and/or Hazardous Service, and will make you subject to the more severe penalties for that offense as a court-martial may prescribe.»
Colonel Albright heard Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman mutter in Wu, «What the fuck is that all about?» to which Captain McCoy hissed, in muttered Wu, «Put a fucking cork in it, Ernie!»
«Colonel Albright is in charge of the movement, which he will now explain to you, following which we will all go to the firing range and qualify with the weapons with which we will be armed.»
«What the fuck is that all about?» Captain McCoy asked in English.
«Did you say something, Captain McCoy?» Lieutenant Colonel Banning asked.
«Sir, did the Captain correctly understand the Colonel to say, sir, that we are going to the range to qualify with the weapons with which we will be armed?»
«You heard me correctly, Captain McCoy,» Banning said. «Do you have any problem with that, Captain?»
«No, sir.»
«Splendid! And to answer your first question, Captain McCoy, 'what the fuck is that all about?'—or words to that effect—we are going to do so because Colonel Albright here is under orders to ensure that every
t
in Operation China Clipper is crossed correctly and every last
i
has a dot in the proper place. Have you any further questions, Captain McCoy?»
«No, sir.»
«And you, Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman? Do you have any questions?»
Zimmerman popped to rigid attention. «Sir, begging the Colonel's pardon, sir. What the fuck is Operation China Clipper?»
«You've never heard of China Clipper, Sergeant?» Colonel Albright asked.
«No, sir. Not one fucking word.»
«Well, sit back down, Sergeant, and I'll tell you all about it,» Colonel Albright said.
The firing range of the OSS training facility was not much of a firing range by USMC standards: A U-shaped berm, no more than twenty feet high and perhaps a hundred feet long, had been built of sandbags on what had been the practice driving range before the OSS took over the Country Club. At the open end of the U were six firing positions. There were no pits. Target frames had been made from two-by-fours and plywood. Two were in position, and another four were lying on the ground. The «feet» of the erect frames sat in sections of pipe buried upright in the ground. Life-size silhouette targets had apparently been obtained from the FBI, for they showed a likeness of John Dillinger, the bank robber, clutching a .45 and glowering menacingly. These had been stapled to the plywood of the two target frames in use. Three-foot-long pieces of two-by-fours laid on the ground showed where the shooter was to stand.
The sandbags in the berm behind the targets showed evidence of the projectiles that had been fired downrange. McCoy noticed a lot of holes in sandbags not directly behind the targets.
Three men were waiting for them, standing by a rough table on which was placed two Mauser Broomhandle pistols, two Thompson submachine guns, and a rack holding five 1911 Al Colt .45 pistols with dowels in their barrels. Two of the men were in U.S. Army fatigues and the third was wearing an Army olive-drab woolen uniform.
He's probably the instructor
, McCoy decided,
and the other two are on labor detail
.
The man in ODs—on which McCoy now saw silver first lieutenant's bars and the crossed sabers of cavalry—saw them coming, called attention, and saluted Colonel Albright. «Good morning, sir,» he said.
«Good morning,» Albright said. «These are the weapons they'll be taking with them?»
«Yes, sir. And they've been checked over by both Gunny Zimmerman and myself.»
One of the GIs in Army fatigues handed the lieutenant a clipboard. «These are the hand receipts for the weapons, sir,» he said. «I'll need to have them signed.»
One by one, Banning and the others signed the hand receipts for the weapons. Banning signed for a 1911A1 .45-caliber pistol only; McCoy and Zimmerman both for a pistol and a Mauser machine pistol; and Easterbrook and Rutterman both for a pistol and a Thompson submachine gun.
Both Colonel Albright and Captain McCoy had private thoughts, which they did not express, about the Thompsons: Albright wondered, if it came down to it, how effectively Lieutenant Easterbrook could use his Thompson. Controlling their recoil was difficult even for a muscular man, and Easterbrook was anything but muscular.
McCoy, who had seen Easterbrook running around on Guadalcanal with a Thompson, was not concerned about his skill with the weapon, but with the weapon itself. These were civilian versions of the submachine gun, which he supposed the OSS had gotten from the FBI, like the John Dillinger silhouette targets. They had fifty-round «drum» magazines. In McCoy's opinion, the drum magazines were unreliable.
«How would you like us to do this, sir?» Lieutenant Colonel Banning asked of Colonel A. H. Albright.
«I don't think we have to bother about the pistols,» Albright said, and then changed his mind. He didn't want to have to lie to General Adamson unless he really had to. «But on the other hand, to go by the book, maybe we should. How about a magazine from each weapon at a silhouette? Five out of seven shots from a .45 anywhere in the torso will qualify. And how about one in three shots from the automatic weapons? Say seventeen out of fifty from the Thompsons? How many shots are there in the Mausers?»
«Twenty, sir,» Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman said.
«How about seven shots anywhere in the torso from the Mausers, then?»
«That sounds reasonable,» Banning said. He turned to McCoy. «Captain, you are the range officer. I will relieve you after I have fired.»
«Aye, aye, sir,» McCoy said.
Banning proceeded to the wooden table, examined the pistols until he found the serial number of the one he had signed for, stuck it in his belt, and then charged a magazine from a box of cartridges. «Gunny, would you charge the magazines of the automatic weapons, please?» he said.
«Aye, aye, sir,» Zimmerman said, then went to the wooden table and started loading cartridges into a Thompson fifty-round drum.
Banning walked up to the piece of two-by-four marking the firing line, turned, and looked at McCoy.
«The flag is up,» McCoy ordered. «With one seven-round magazine, lock and load.»
Banning slipped the magazine into the pistol and worked the action.
«The flag is waving,» McCoy said. «Commence firing!»
Everybody but Captain McCoy and Gunny Zimmerman put their fingers in their ears. Colonel Albright looked closely at Zimmerman and saw that he had inserted fired 9mm cartridges in his ears as protection against the noise, then saw that McCoy had done the same thing.
Banning raised the pistol and began to fire. The shots were evenly spaced. When the magazine was empty, he raised the pistol's muzzle.
«Cease fire,» McCoy ordered. «Clear your piece and step back from the firing line.»
Banning turned and walked to the wooden table and laid his pistol on it. Then he followed Colonel Albright to the silhouette target. All seven shots were in John Dillinger's torso.
«I suppose this makes you an expert,» Colonel Albright said.
«Colonel, you ain't seen nothing yet,» Banning said, then turned and raised his voice. «Can I have some target patches, please?»
One of the soldiers trotted out with a roll of black paper adhesive-gummed patches, and covered the holes in Banning's target.
With Colonel Banning serving as range officer, Lieutenant Easterbrook and Master Gunner Rutterman fired next. First they fired their pistols, both of them scattering all seven shots across the torso area of the targets.
When the holes had been patched, they fired the Thompson submachine guns. Colonel Albright was relieved to see that Easterbrook was familiar enough with the weapon not to lose control of it. He emptied the fifty-round magazine in two-and three-shot bursts. But he was actually surprised when he walked forward to count and patch the holes: Easterbrook had put forty-six of his fifty shots into John Dillinger, including three high (into the head) and five low (two in the crotch andthree in the upper leg). master gunner rutterman managed to get only forty-two of his fifty shots into Dillinger, but all but three high and one low were in the torso.
I
will report that splendid marksmanship to General Adamson with more than a little pleasure
.
«Actually sir, when they fired, Lieutenant Easterbrook, the officer who looks so young? He actually shot a little better with the Thompson than Master Gunner Rutterman did'.'
Captain McCoy and Gunny Zimmerman fired last. Both put all seven shots from their pistols into John Dillinger's torso, and when the holes had been patched, went to the wooden table and attached the removable stocks to the Broomhandle Mausers, then loaded the pistols.
Colonel Albright heard Captain McCoy quietly issue an order, in Wu, to Gunny Zimmerman: «Shoot him in the head, Ernie.»
They stepped to the firing line, and Banning went through his range officer's routine. Zimmerman finished firing a second or two before McCoy did.
McCoy checked to see that his Mauser was no longer loaded, then handed the weapon to Zimmerman. Then he walked to the targets, followed by Banning and Albright.
«It would appear that Gunny Zimmerman shot a little high, Colonel,» Banning said. «Most of his rounds seem to have struck John Dillinger in the face.»
He then began to count the holes out loud. There were nineteen. A twentieth hole was a quarter of an inch away from John Dillinger's ear.
«I wonder why he missed?» Captain McCoy asked innocently. «Usually he's a pretty good shot.»
«You have made your point, Captain,» Colonel Albright said, smiling at him.
Banning walked to McCoy's target. The .45 in John Dillinger's hand was no longer visible. Nor was the hand itself. McCoy's twenty shots had obliterated them. There was just one hole in the target, no larger than two balled fists held together.
«Colonel,» Banning said, «in the Marine Corps, that's what we call 'a nice little group.' «
«I'm suitably impressed,» Albright confessed.
«And does that mean we have crossed all your
t's
and dotted all your i's?»
«Yes, I think we can say that,» Albright said.
«If you're going back into Washington, Colonel, I think Captain McCoy would like a ride into Union Station.»
«You're not going?» McCoy asked evenly.
«He's not going where?» Albright blurted. He had naturally presumed that no one would leave the Country Club until, per Paragraph 12(d)(2) of Opplan China Clipper, the two station wagons departed at 0515 hours on Wednesday to drive everybody and their luggage and equipment to Newark Airport.
«I've decided the best thing for me to do, Ken, is stick around here.»
«Where are you going, McCoy?»
«I've decided, Colonel, there being no reason that Captain McCoy has to be here, that he can have a pass until 0900 Wednesday morning, when he will report to base operations at Newark airport. He's going to be in New York City, and I know where to reach him, if necessary.»
There is no reason General Adamson has to know that
, Colonel Albright decided.
«You want me to call somebody for you?» McCoy asked, and Albright understood that the conversation was now not between colonel and captain but between close friends.
«I don't think that would be a good idea, Ken,» Banning said, confirming this. «I may call her from here, but I think everything that has to be said has been said.»
McCoy nodded.
Chapter Fourteen
note 52
U.S. Army Air Corps Staging Area
Newark Airport, New Jersey
0845 17 March 1943
«Just so we understand each other,» Miss Ernestine Sage said, as the silver 1939 LaSalle convertible splashed through the slush of a now mostly melted early-morning snowstorm, «You are
not
just going to get out of the car at the gate and wave goodbye to me. I'm going to see you take off.»
«I'm not sure I can get you inside, Ernie,» McCoy said.
«Wave your goddamned magic wand,» she said. «Either that, or I'll throw an hysterical fit at the gate.»
«I'll try,» he said.
They had spent the night at Rocky Fields Farm. Though he had gone there more than a little reluctantly, Ernie had announced that if they spent the night at her apartment in New York City alone, she would go crazy. And in fact it had turned out better than he thought it would. Ernie's father and mother had not only been very nice, but he finally accepted that they were sorry to see him go. Maybe only because that was going to make Ernie unhappy, but so what?
Her mother had tears in her eyes when they loaded his suitcase—one of two farewell gifts from Ernie: a folding canvas Val-Pak and a leather toilet kit, the nicest he had ever seen, from Abercrombie & Fitch—into the LaSalle; and she had sounded as if she really meant it when she told him to hurry back and to take care of himself.
Her father had been uncomfortable, but McCoy understood that. Ernie hadn't made it easy for him when she ended the evening by announcing, «Ken and I are going to bed now.» No father wants to hear his only daughter announce that she's about to do what married people do with a man she is not married to.
But her father was already up the next morning when they went into the kitchen. He made steak and eggs for the both of them, then walked with Ken to the barn to get the LaSalle.
«Honey,» McCoy said, as he slowed to stop at the gate, «why don't you drive this thing while I'm away?»
«Because it's a gas guzzler,» she said.
«So what?»
An Army military policeman stepped out of his guard shack and looked very suspiciously at the civilian-who-really-needed-a-shave.
«This is a restricted area, sir,» he said.
«Magic wand time,» Ernie said softly.
McCoy produced his Office of Naval Intelligence credentials. They produced the expected result.
«And the lady, sir?»
«She's with me. Where do I find base operations?»
«I'll have to get you a sign for the car, sir,» the MP said. «And I'll get you a map.»
«See, I told you it would work,» Ernie said as the MP stepped back into the guard shack. «Why can't you wave it around, say the magic words, and stay home for a while?»
He didn't reply.
After a moment, she said, «Sorry, honey,» and took his hand.
«It's okay,» McCoy said.
«You want me to call Carolyn?»
«And say what? I think you better stay out of that, honey.»
«She loves him, Ken. I know what she's thinking.»
«She knew he was married when they started,» he said. «That something like this was likely to happen.»
«You think Ed's wife is alive?»
«I think he has to find out, one way or the other.»
«That's not what I asked.»
«No, I don't,» he said, then corrected himself. «I don't know. I think if she was going to get out, through India, it would have happened by now.»
«So you think she's dead?»
She's either dead, or sleeping with some Japanese officer, or officers, to stay alive.
«I can't root for Carolyn, Ernie. I like Milla.»
«I wasn't rooting for Carolyn,» Ernie replied.
Yes, I was. I like Carolyn, and I don't know Ed Banning's Russian refugee wife
.
«Is there somebody you left over there I don't know about?» Ernie was horrified to hear herself blurt.
«No,» he said, suddenly very angry, and then went on. «Actually, I have two Chinese wives, one in Shanghai and one in Peking. And seven kids, or is it eight? It's hard for me to keep track.»
The MP returned from his guard shack with the Official Visitor sign for the car and a mimeographed map of the airfield with the base operations building circled, just as the lady with the ONI agent called him, «You bastard!»
When they saw the LaSalle convertible pull into a visitor's parking slot, Colonel H. A. Albright, USA, and Lieutenant Colonel Edward Banning, USMC, were inside the base operations building, looking out the glass door. Banning was wearing a web belt with a holster .45 hanging from it.
«They were good cars,» Colonel Albright said. «I always wondered why they stopped making them.»
«That's McCoy's,» Banning said, and wondered aloud, «How did he get it onto the field?»
«There's someone with him,» Albright said, and added accusingly, «a woman.»
«Well, you know what they say about Marines, Colonel,» Banning said. «A girl in every port.»
After McCoy took his Val-Pak from the backseat of the car, he and Ernie walked up to the building.
«Well, McCoy's here,» Banning said, and then asked, in thick innocence, «I wonder whatever can have happened to the personnel records crates?»
«They'll be here,» Albright announced firmly. He checked his watch. «It's not 0900 yet.»
«Good morning, Captain McCoy,» Banning said. «And, Ernie, what a pleasant surprise, and I mean surprise, it is to see you here.»
«Hello, Ed,» Ernie said.
She's not amused. And not only because Ken is going away again. She's annoyed with me. In her shoes, I would be, too. She and Carolyn are friends.
«Colonel Albright, may I present Miss Ernestine Sage?» Banning said. «She and Captain McCoy are… what should I say?»
«Try 'lovers,' « Ernie said. «How do you do, Colonel?»
«How do you do, Miss Sage? Colonel Banning and I were just wondering how you managed to get on the base.»
«I gave Captain McCoy the choice: he could either get me in to watch his plane take off, or I would throw a fit at the gate,» she said.
Albright laughed politely. I
like this young woman. Very starchy. And a beautiful girl. And obviously in love with McCoy
.
«How, Ken?» Banning asked.
McCoy shrugged and tapped his jacket pocket. Banning understood he had used his ONI credentials.
«And have you given any thought to how she's going to get off the base?» Banning asked.
«Miss Sage can leave with me,» Albright heard himself saying. «No problem.»
«Thank you, sir,» McCoy said.
Banning touched Albright's arm and nodded toward the glass doors.
A small convoy, consisting of a Chevrolet sedan, a Ford panel truck, and a second Chevrolet sedan, was approaching the base operations building. The three vehicles stopped and a man in civilian clothing stepped out of the first car, trying with little success to conceal a Thompson submachine gun by holding it vertically against his body.
Albright turned to Ernie.
«I'll meet you here, Miss Sage, in just a few minutes,» he said, and walked out of the building.
Banning went to a door off the base operations foyer, opened it, and motioned to the people inside to come out. Then he walked back to where Ken and Ernie were standing.
«Five minutes, Ken,» he said. «It's the only C-46 in the second line of airplanes. You can't miss it.»
«Aye, aye, sir,» McCoy said. «Thank you.»
«Ernie, when you see Carolyn, tell her…«
«What, Ed?»
«That I'm sorry, I guess,» he said. «Tell her I never wanted to hurt her.»
«Yeah,» Ernie said. «I know.»
Banning walked out of the building.
Three men came out of the small room into the foyer. Two of them were Marines—a baby-faced lieutenant and an older man. Ernie had never seen either of them before. They were wearing belts with pistols hanging from them, and had Thompson submachine guns cradled in their arms.
«Good morning, sir,» they greeted McCoy.
The third man, who was bearded like Ken and wearing civilian clothing, looked vaguely familiar. He had two identical canvas weekend bags, one of which he handed to McCoy.
«You remember Gunny Zimmerman, Ernie?» McCoy asked.
«Oh, yes,» she lied, and smiled, and then did remember. She had met him one time in New York, in Pennsylvania Station.
«Ma'am,» Zimmerman said, and picked up McCoy's Val-Pak before following the others out of the building.
Ernie saw that the back of the panel truck had been opened. Everyone put their luggage in the back, then got into the Chevrolet sedans. The little convoy drove away.
Ernie looked into McCoy's eyes.
«Damn,» she said.
«Damn,» he agreed.
«They don't give you a gun?» she asked. It was all she could think of that was safe to say.
He raised the canvas weekend bag. «There's a machine pistol in here,» he said.
«I should have guessed,» Ernie said, and then she said what she was thinking. «Goddamn you, Ken, when you come back, you're going to marry me and we're going to make babies.»
«If I come back…«
«Don't use that goddamned word, 'if'!»
«Let me finish.»
«Finish.»
«If I come back, we'll get married,» McCoy said.
She threw herself into his arms and stayed there, even though, the way he was holding her and his bag, the barrel of his machine pistol was painfully jabbing into her upper leg.
And then he broke away.
«Jesus Christ, I love you!» he announced, his voice breaking toward the end, and then he walked out of the building.
In a moment, she followed him, and watched as he made his way to a very large twin-engine transport plane with air transport command painted along its fuselage. One of its engines was already running. Colonel Albright stood at the ladder leading down from the door in the fuselage. He shook McCoy's hand, and then McCoy climbed the ladder. As soon as he was inside, the door closed. The plane immediately began to move, taxiing with just one engine.
Albright walked to her, and they stood in front of the base operations building while the C-46 taxied to the end of the runway, then roared down it, lifting off and heading for the skyscrapers of Manhattan, just visible on the horizon.
«I understand your Captain McCoy is a very capable officer, Miss Sage,» Albright said.
«There has been a change in our status, Colonel,» Ernie said. «Three minutes ago, it went from 'lovers' to 'affianced.' «
«Then let me offer my best wishes.»
«Thank you,» Ernie said.
note 53
The Greenbrier Hotel
White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia
1645 18 March 1943
«Ah, there you are, James,» Commander T. L. Bolemann, MC, USN, said to Captain James B. Weston, USMC, as Weston slid into a chair at his table. «I was afraid I was either going to have to send out the bloodhounds or pay for my own drinks.»
«I was playing pool,» Weston said. «And winning. Never give a sucker an even break, as some wise man once said.»
«This will serve as your final psychological counseling session,» Dr. Bolemann said, «so be advised that I am watching you professionally.»
A waiter appeared and delivered two martinis. Weston signed the chit, then picked up his glass. «To your very good health, Commander,» he said.
«And to yours, my dear Captain Weston,» Bolemann said, and took a very appreciative swallow. «Tell me, James, have you plans for the weekend?»
«I'm not going to Philadelphia, if that's what you were thinking. Janice has the duty. And anyway, I'll be in Philadelphia on Wednesday.»
«Good, then I won't have to tell you to forget going to Philadelphia, or whatever else you had planned to fritter away your time.»
«What I am going to do is spend the weekend here, watching the clock tick as it counts down on my time in your little rest home,» Weston said.
«Tomorrow, at zero nine hundred hours,» Bolemann said, «you will be at the Charleston Municipal Airport, to which destination I have been charged by the management to deliver you sober, shaved, shined, and in the properly appointed uniform.»
«What the hell are you talking about?»
«You will there be met by a Navy aircraft flying what was described to me as the Pensacola-Norfolk-Washington round-robin. I wonder where the hell that term came from?»
«I don't know where it came from and I have no idea what you're talking about.»
«You will be transported on silver wings to the U.S. Naval Air Station, Pensacola. From there you will be transported back to Charleston on Monday next, presumably on a similar pair of round-robin wings, with your estimated time of arrival here fifteen thirty hours.»
«Are you going to tell me what this is all about?»
«The flag officer commanding said Pensacola Naval Air Station, one Rear Admiral Sayre, spoke with our beloved commander, Captain Horace J. Johnson, early this afternoon. The Admiral requested, your schedule here and physical condition permitting, that you be allowed to visit the said Naval Air Station, Pensacola, round-robin transportation to be furnished, over the weekend. Our beloved skipper, who has never been known in thirty years of Naval service, most of it on shore behind a desk, to ever have said no to an admiral, was pleased to grant the Admiral's request.»
«I'll be damned!» Jim said.
«What's this all about?» Bolemann asked.
«I can only guess,» Jim said.
He had a sudden chilling thought.
Jesus, is Martha behind this? That seems unlikely. But on the other hand, what happened in the San Carlos was important to her. It was not a casual roll in the hay. She told me that she had fantasies, after Greg got killed, about me coming home to comfort her, and that she «died all over again» when she heard I was KIA
.
And she is, after all, Daddy's Darling Daughter.
«Daddy, Jim is bored out of his mind at that hotel in West Virginia. Is there any way we could get him here for the weekend?»
«Guess away. Curiosity consumes me,» Bolemann said.
«When I was down there before, he…«
«I gather you are personally acquainted with the Admiral?»
«When his daughter got married, I was the groom's best man,» Weston said. «And General Mclnerney called him about this idiotic pilot retraining. Anyway, he was going to talk to me about what's going to happen when I get to Pensacola when some admiral showed up…«
«It's amazing, isn't it, how these admirals tend to fuck up the best-laid plans of mice and men? Even those of other admirals?»
»… and he couldn't do it. Either he wants to do it this weekend, or he wants my advice on how to teach people how to fly.»
So instead of getting to talk to the Admiral, I took his daughter out, and then to bed, which is probably number one on the List of 100 Really Dumb Things I Have Done Since Turning Twelve.
Jesus, does
Admiral Sayre
see me as a suitable replacement husband for Greg Culhane
?
Oh, my God! Why couldn't you keep your pecker in your pants?
«Sounds logical,» Bolemann said.
«That's all I can think of,» Weston said.
He finished his martini and looked around for the waiter to order another.
note 54
Municipal Airport
Charleston, West Virginia
0855 19 March 1943
Weston was surprised to see a Consolidated Catalina PBY-5A turning on final to land at Charleston. It was a Navy airplane, and therefore very likely the one Admiral Sayre had ordered to pick him up at Charleston. But he would have expected that a Douglas R4D—a transport, not a long-range reconnaissance aircraft—would be used for Pensacola-Norfolk-Washington round-robin administrative flights.
Whoever was flying it, Weston judged professionally, knew what he was doing. The landing was a greaser.
The last Catalina he himself had been in was the one he'd flown from Pearl Harbor to Cavite in December 1941, shortly before he had been «without prejudice» taken off flight status and transferred to the 4th Marines. Then he saw that pensacola nas was painted on the vertical stabilizer, leaving little question that it was «his» airplane.
And then came another surprise. When the plane taxied up to the passenger terminal, he recognized the pilot, Major Avery R. Williamson, USMC.
The last time I saw him, I smelled of booze.
When Major Williamson climbed out of the Catalina, he was saluted with parade-ground crispness by Captain Weston.
«Good morning, sir,» Weston said.
Major Williamson's salute was far less crisp.
«I think I should tell you, Captain,» he said, «that I had planned to spend the day—after rising at a reasonable hour, say 0900—afloat on beautiful Pensacola Bay, alone with the sea, the sky, and my wife, who I see damned little of these days.»
«Yes, sir.»
«Instead of flying—since 0500—that ugly airplane at a hundred and fifty knots to Asshole, West Virginia, if you take my meaning.»
This is not an unscheduled stop on a round-robin; Williamson was sent here especially to pick me up.
«Yes, sir.»
«But on the other hand. Captain, when a lowly major is asked by a rear admiral—one of the good rear admirals—if he is willing to render a service, what is one to do?»
«Sir, I had nothing to do with this,» Weston said.
«Yeah, I know, Weston,» Williamson said. «And I owe Charley Galloway a couple of big ones. So we will make the most of this unfortunate situation. After I visit the gentlemen's rest facility, you will buy me a cup of coffee and tell me how much you know about PBY-5A aircraft.»
«Yes, sir.»
«It was put to me—not in so many words, of course—that the Admiral would not be displeased if you acquired some bootleg time at the controls of that ugly beast.»
«I've got about twelve hundred hours in one, sir,» Weston said.
«In the left seat?» Williamson asked dubiously. The pilot sat in the left cockpit seat, the copilot in the right.
«Most of it, sir,» Weston answered. «I was rated as an instructor pilot in it, sir.»
«I didn't know that,» Williamson said. «Where are your flight records?»
«They went up in smoke on December seventh, sir.»
«If I were you, Weston, and you still want to fly fighters, I'd keep the twelve hundred hours and IP rating in the Catalina to myself. They just put out a high-priority call for experienced Cat drivers for some classified mission, and most of us are scurrying for cover.»
«Thank you, sir,» Weston said. «I want to fly the Corsair.»
«Don't go so far as dumping the bird on our way back to Pensacola, but on the other hand, don't mention to anyone that you've got IP status and that much time in one.»
«What kind of a classified mission?» Weston asked in simple curiosity.
«They didn't say, and I didn't ask,» Williamson said.
The copilot, a Navy lieutenant, and the crew chief, a chief aviation mechanic, climbed out of the Catalina. Weston recognized the copilot. He was Admiral Sayre's aide-de-camp.
Weston wondered how the two of them had planned to spend Saturday before Admiral Sayre «asked» them to fly up to Asshole, West Virginia, in the Catalina.
«While it is true, of course, that any landing you can walk away from is a good landing,» Major Williamson said, as Weston applied the brakes and prepared to turn off the runway at Pensacola, «that wasn't too bad, Captain Weston.»
It was the eighth landing he had made in the Cat between Charleston and Pensacola. The others were touch-and-goes at an Army Air Corps training base near Midland City, Alabama, a little over one hundred miles from Pensacola.
«Thank you, sir.»
«So far as I'm concerned, you've just passed your flight check for recertification as pilot-in command of, and instructor pilot for, PBY-5A aircraft.»
«Thank you, sir.»
«Unfortunately for you, I'm going to have to make a record of that. I'll try to see if I can't get Flight Records to lose it for a while—there's a Marine sergeant who works there who owes me a couple of favors—at least until after General Mclnerney finds the eight unfortunate volunteers he's looking for.»
«Thank you,» Weston said, meaning it.
Admiral Sayre's aide drove him to Quarters Number One.
Mrs. Sayre and Martha—who was wearing white shorts and a T-shirt—came out to the drive to welcome him. Very warmly.
He was very careful to kiss Martha with slightly less passion and intimacy than he kissed Mrs. Sayre.
«You got here just in time,» Mrs. Sayre said. «We're having a few people over for shrimp and hamburgers, and when we heard you had to make a precautionary stop at Midland City, I was afraid we were going to have to drive up there to get you.»
«Major Williamson let me shoot some touch-and-goes,» Jim said.
«That's what Daddy said they were probably doing when he told you not to worry,» Martha said, and turned to smile dazzlingly at Weston. «How did you do?»
«Okay, I guess,» Jim said. «Everybody was able to walk away from the airplane.»
Martha and Mrs. Sayre laughed dutifully.
«Major and Mrs. Williamson will be here,» Mrs. Sayre said. «Together with some other people the Admiral wants you to meet before you actually report for duty.»
«That's very kind of you,» Jim said.
«Don't be silly. You're like family.»
»
Like family» is one step shy of «family»
he thought,
which I strongly suspect is next on everybody's agenda. I have been adjudged to be a suitable replacement for Greg Culhane
.
Why am I surprised?
Admiral and Mrs. Sayre are intelligent, perceptive people, and if Martha is telling the truth that until me she hasn't been interested in any man since Greg got killed
—
and I think she is
—
they've seen this and have naturally been concerned about it
.
And here comes Greg's best friend, back from the dead, delivered right into their laps, and Martha comes back from the dead herself.
How the hell am I going to get out of this?
The first step on what may turn out to be a very long journey is to keep my hands off her, and my pecker firmly tucked in my pocket.
«Martha will show you your room, and then come out on the patio,» Mrs. Sayre said. «Where you can admiringly watch the Admiral make his world-famous grilled shrimp.»
«Even funnier than that,» Martha said, «is watching people pretend to like them.»
«You should be ashamed of yourself!» Mrs. Sayre said.
Martha led him inside and to one of the bedrooms. «Remember this?» she asked.
He shook his head, «no.»
«This is the room where Daddy puts people he likes,» she said. «It has its own bath.» She walked to the bathroom door and opened it. «Everybody else gets a guest room with the bathroom down the hall.»
«I'm flattered,» he said.
«Are you going to kiss me, or what?» Martha asked. «I thought Mother made it perfectly clear we were to have a minute or two alone.»
«Of course,» he said.
I
will kiss her as a friend. No passion whatever. Maybe I can send her a subtle message
.
That noble intention lasted until he felt the pressure of her breasts against his abdomen and her tongue against his lips.
The next thing he knew, she was pushing him away. They were both breathing heavily. Martha leaned against the wall and pulled her brassiere back in position over her breasts.
«For a moment, I was afraid you weren't glad to see me,» she said.
«Don't be silly!»
«I don't know what we're going to do,» Martha said. «But I'll think of something. Now go wash the lipstick off your face.»
«Yes, ma'am,» he said.
«And as much as I hate to say this, I think it would be a good idea if you closed your fly.»
note 55
United States Submarine
Sunfish
159° 33» East Longitude 25° 42» North Latitude
Pacific Ocean
0705 20 March 1943
There were four officers in the tiny wardroom of the
Sunfish
when the chief of the boat, Chief Boatswain's Mate Patrick J. Buchanan, pushed the curtain aside and wordlessly, with raised eyebrows, asked permission to enter.
«Come on in, Chief,» said Lieutenant Commander Warren T. Houser, USN, the
Sunfish's
skipper. Houser was a stocky man in his late thirties who wore his blond hair in a crew-cut.
Buchanan, a wiry thirty-seven-year-old with twenty years in the Navy, fifteen of them in the Silent Service, nodded at the other officers and slid into an empty chair at the tiny table.
Lieutenant Amos P. Youngman, USNR, the executive officer of the
Sunfish
, pushed a silver coffeepot and a heavy china mug across the table to him. He was tall, thin, balding, and wore glasses, which gave him an intellectual look.
Before helping himself to coffee, Chief Buchanan made three gestures toward the skipper with his right hand. He balled his fist with the index finger extended upward. Then he turned his balled fist downward and described a circle. Finally, he balled his fist with the thumb extended upward.
Houser correctly interpreted the gestures to mean that the
Sunfish
was on position, making wide circles on battery power a hundred feet below the surface of the Pacific Ocean, and that everything was hunky-dory.
Commander Buchanan returned the thumbs-up gesture.
«You may be wondering why I have asked you in for this little chat, Chief,» Houser said.
Buchanan smiled at the one officer who was not a submariner. His name was Major Homer C. «Jake» Dillon, USMCR.
«I'm afraid to ask,» he said. «Where is the Marine Corps taking us this time?»
The
Sunfish's
last three combat patrols had all been to Mindanao. They had gone like clockwork, but Chief Buchanan was a devout believer in odds. The more times you did anything, the greater the odds that something would go seriously wrong.
«All we're going to do is run around in a circle,» Major Dillon said. «We should be back at Pearl Harbor before it gets dark.»
«As I recall, the Marines are pretty good at running around in circles,» Chief Buchanan said.
This prompted another hand gesture, this one from Major Dillon. He held his balled fist upward with the center finger extended.
Captain Houser chuckled.
«In ten minutes, Chief,» he said, sliding a sheet of typewriter paper stamped top secret across the table to Buchanan, «at 0715, we're going to take the boat to periscope depth. Then, presuming we don't find ourselves in the middle of a Japanese fleet, we are going to surface and Sparks will transmit the following identifier—Code Group One—on that frequency, for a period of five minutes. He will simultaneously monitor the specified frequency, listening for the phrase specified. If within five minutes he receives the phrase specified, he will transmit what is described on that as 'Code Group Two.' «
Chief Buchanan took the sheet of typewriter paper and read it carefully before looking at the skipper for further orders.
«Copy the data,» Captain Houser ordered. «That Top Secret goes right back in the safe.»
«Aye, aye, sir,» Buchanan said, took a small, wire-spiral notebook and pencil from the pocket of his khaki shirt, and wrote down the radio frequencies and code groups.
«I think, Major Dillon,» Captain Houser said, «that your obscene gesture to Chief Buchanan has so intimidated him—he is, of course, such a gentle person— that he's not even going to ask what this is all about.»
«The hell I'm not,» Buchanan said.
«With a little bit of luck, Chief,» the third submariner in the wardroom said, «a Catalina somewhere within a hundred miles of our position will be able to get a radio fix on us, and there will be a rendezvous at sea.»
The third submariner was Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis III, USN, a tall, good-looking member of the Naval Academy's class of 1940, and now aide-decamp to Rear Admiral Daniel J. Wagam, one of the more powerful members of the staff of Admiral Chester W Nimitz, Commander in Chief, Pacific. Lewis was on Chief Buchanan's very short list of very good officers. Before he had become Admiral Wagam's aide, he had served aboard the submarine
Remora
. Among other hairy patrols,
Remora
had three times run the Japanese blockade of the Philippines to Corregidor, taking in desperately needed medicine and evacuating the Philippine gold reserves as well as nurses and blinded soldiers and Marines. He had also been on the
Sunfish
on her first trip to Mindanao, had gone ashore with the Marines, and stayed with them until evacuated later by the
Sunfish
.
«We're practicing personnel movement?» Buchanan asked, sounding a little surprised.
The
Sunfish
had twice met with seaplanes on the high sea, transferring to them people evacuated from the Philippines.
«That, too,» Lieutenant Lewis said, waited for that to sink in, and then went on. «Following is Top Secret, Chief, to be shared with no one without my, or Major Dillon's, specific permission in each case.»
Buchanan nodded his understanding, but Chambers waited for him to say, after a long moment, «Aye, aye, sir,» before going on.
«The plan is that the
Sunfish
will rendezvous with two Catalinas in the Yellow Sea, a hundred miles northeast of Tientsin, China. She will then refuel these aircraft so they may complete their mission.»
«Where are they going?» Buchanan asked without thinking.
«That's… right now, Chief, you don't have the need to know,» Captain Houser said.
«The Gobi Desert, Chief,» Major Dillon said. «They are going to set up a weather station in the Gobi Desert.»
«Jesus Christ!»
«My sentiments exactly,» Dillon said. «But that's what we're going to do. Some Marines from the Peking Legation, guys retired from the Yangtze River patrol, the 4th Marines, the 15th Infantry stayed in China, roaming around the desert. We're trying to get some people into them now. With radios.»
«Jesus Christ!» Buchanan repeated.
«I decided you had the Need To Know, Chief,» Dillon said. «We're really not running around in circles. This is damned important.»
«I meant no offense, what I said before, Major.»
«I know,» Dillon said. «I didn't take any. Let me get back to the keeping this a secret business. This operation has to be kept quiet, no matter if this rendezvous/refueling works or not, and not just for the next six months. And it's the sort of thing the men are going to want to talk about. If the Captain gives them a speech, that—no offense, Captain—just makes it a better story. So you're going to have to keep the cork in the bottle, Chief.»
«Yeah,» Buchanan said thoughtfully, and then remembered to say, «Aye, aye, sir.»
The order is understood and will be obeyed.
«How do you plan to refuel the airplanes?» Buchanan asked.
«We haven't figured that out yet,» Dillon said. «All suggestions will be gratefully accepted.»
«That's going to be a bitch,» Buchanan said.
«According to Lieutenant Lewis, you submariners can do anything,» Dillon said.
«Captain,» Lieutenant Youngman said, «it's 0712.»
«Thank you, Mr. Youngman,» Captain Houser said. He reached behind him and pressed a lever on a communications box.
«This is the Captain speaking,» he announced. «Bring her to periscope depth.»
Four men were in the conning tower: Captain Houser, Major Dillon, Lieutenant Lewis, and a sailor serving as lookout and talker. All had large Navy binoculars hanging from their necks. Chambers Lewis had an electrically powered bullhorn in his hand, and Jake Dillon had a clipboard. The clean, fresh, early-morning air was very welcome, although they had been running underwater for only eight hours.
The
Sunfish
was making a slow, wide circle across the calm, deep-blue Pacific.
«This would be as good as it gets, Jake,» Captain Houser said. «It's winter in the Yellow Sea. It's not going to be nearly as calm as this.»
«Yeah,» Dillon said, as much a grunt as a word.
«Captain,» the lookout said. «Aircraft dead astern.»
Everyone turned to face the stern, binoculars to their eyes. A Catalina, at perhaps 2,000 feet, was making a slow descent toward the water.
«Chief of the boat to the conning tower,» Captain Houser ordered.
«Chief of the boat to the conning tower, aye,» the talker parroted into the microphone strapped to his chest.
Buchanan appeared through the hatch less than a minute later. He looked dubiously at Lewis's bullhorn, which he was seeing for the first time.
«The fewer radio transmissions, the better,» Lewis said, answering Buchanan's unspoken question.
«Are they going to be able to hear you? Over the sound of their engines?» Buchanan asked.
«That's one of the things we're going to find out,» Dillon said. «Option Two is running a telephone line out to the airplane in a rubber boat.»
«What rubber boat?»
«Today, the one on the plane. If we do this—«
«When we do this,» Lewis corrected him.
»
When
we do this, there will be rubber boats aboard the
Sunfish''
Dillon finished.
Buchanan had a thought as the Catalina approached the surface of the sea. «Give me the mike,» he said to the talker. «And go below.»
The talker's face showed he didn't like the order, but he raised the microphone over his head and gave it to Buchanan, who lowered it in place on his chest.
«What you say when you go below and they ask you what's going on up here,» Buchanan ordered, «is 'I don't have a clue.' And I want you to keep your guesses to yourself. Understood?»
The talker nodded his head.
«That's what they call an order, sailor,» Buchanan said firmly, but not unkindly.
«Aye, aye, Chief,» the talker said, and started down the hatch in the conning tower.
The Catalina touched down and then stopped. The pilot shut down the port engine, then revved the starboard and taxied toward the
Sunfish
. A sailor—Navy enlisted aircrewmen were known as «Airedales»—appeared in the forward gun position of the Catalina with an electric bullhorn.
«Ahoy, the Catalina,» Lewis said into his microphone.
Almost immediately the Airedale put his bullhorn to his lips. «Ahoy, the
Sunfish
.»
«I'll be damned, he heard you,» Dillon said.
«Welcome to the Pacific Ocean,» Lewis called cheerfully.
«Ahoy, the
Sunfish
,» the Airedale called again.
«Wave if you hear me,» Lewis called.
«Ahoy, the
Sunfish
,» the Airedale called again.
«Shit,» Dillon said.
«We can hear him, but he can't hear us,» Buchanan said. «We're getting drowned out by the sound of his engine.»
The Catalina was now a hundred yards off the
Sunfish
.
Lewis called, «Shut down your engine!» and waited a moment, then made a cutting motion across his throat.
«I don't think I would want to shut down my engines on the high seas off China,» Captain Houser observed.
«The wind is going to blow him away from us,» Buchanan said.
«Well, then we won't collide with him,» Captain Houser said.
The Catalina pilot shut down his starboard engine. Immediately, just perceptibly, the wind began to turn the Catalina's nose, which had been pointed directly at the
Sunfish'
's conning tower.
«Shit!» Jake Dillon said again.
«Welcome to the Pacific Ocean,» Lewis called.
«We're going to have to stop meeting like this,» the Airedale called back. «People will talk.»
«You couldn't hear me before?» Lewis called.
«No, sir,» the Airedale called back.
«Not over the sound of that aircraft engine,» Buchanan said. «Damn!»
«Put the rubber boat in the water,» Lewis called. «When it's in the water, it might be a good idea to start an engine and maintain your position.»
«Understood,» the Airedale called back.
«What happens now, Chief,» Lewis said, «is that the rubber boat is going to bring us two hundred feet of half-inch hose. We'll need two people on deck to take the end of it and tie it to the
Sunfish
. I volunteer. Can you give that talker microphone to somebody else?»
Buchanan replied by speaking into the talker microphone.
«Talker to the bridge,» he ordered.
The talker appeared so quickly that it was evident he had been waiting at the foot of the ladder to the conning tower bridge.
«You and Mr. Lewis are going to climb down, meet that rubber boat,» Buchanan ordered, pointing toward the Catalina, «which will have some hose on it, and tie the end of the hose to one of the conning tower ladder steps.»
The talker looked at the Catalina, which was parallel to the
Sunfish
. As he did, the Plexiglas bubble on the portside of the fuselage rolled upward on its tracks. A black package was tossed through it. The package quickly unfolded and expanded into a small rubber boat, held to the airplane with a line.
An officer climbed into the boat, and then the half-inch hose was fed into the boat and coiled on the bottom. Finally, an Airedale joined the officer in the boat and paddles were handed to them from the airplane.
The talker waited until they had started paddling, then started down the ladder. Lewis handed his bullhorn to Buchanan and followed the talker down the steps— steel rods welded to the side of the conning tower.
«We'll have the hose, as well as the boat,
boats
, aboard the
Sunfish
, right?» Captain Houser asked.
«Yes, sir,» Jake Dillon replied.
It took what seemed like a very long time for the two men in the small rubber boat to paddle to the side of the
Sunfish
. Once there, it bobbed beside the curved hull of the submarine.
After three tries, a thin line was thrown and caught by the talker, who, with Lieutenant Lewis holding him by his waist belt, leaned as far down toward the rubber boat as he could.
A more substantial line was then hauled aboard, followed by the end of the half-inch hose.
«One of the questions when we actually do this,» Jake said, «is whether it will be wiser to load all the hose aboard the rubber boat and then pay it out from the boat as it returns to the plane, or whether just the end should go with the boat, and the hose paid out from the submarine.»
Captain Houser grunted.
«Right now, because the hose is already in the boat, we're going to try paying it out from the boat,» Jake added.
«How are you going to pump the fuel?» Captain Houser asked.
«That's another of the questions,» Dillon said.
The Catalina's pilot started one of the engines and moved the airplane back to where its nose was again pointed at the
Sunfish
. He then shut the engine down again. And the Catalina immediately began to move from the force of the wind. By the time the rubber boat was halfway to the Catalina, the Catalina was again parallel to the
Sunfish
. And the pilot again started an engine, maneuvered back into position, and shut down the engine. He did this a third time when the rubber boat was fifty feet away.
The rubber boat's return trip to the Catalina took an even longer time than the trip to the
Sunfish
. And there was a lever effect. That is to say, the weight of the hose in the water raised the bow of the rubber boat. By the time they reached the Catalina, the two men paddling it were both perched precariously on the bow.
«That's going to be fun in, say, six-foot swells,» Captain Houser observed.
«Well, maybe we can do it with just a light line and pull the hose from the airplane,» Jake said, without much conviction. «This—what do I call it?—dry run is to see what the problems are.»
One of the other problems became immediately apparent: With enormous effort, the end of the half-inch hose was taken to the wing of the Catalina where the fuel fill ports were located.
The first Airedale who tried this was dragged off the wing and into the water, together with the hose, when the weight of the line and the stress of a small swell stretching the hose proved too much for him.
Some of the hose was still in the bottom of the rubber boat. When the Airedale was hauled from the water, he tried dragging the hose onto the wing again, this time with an assist from another Airedale. It took their combined strength to keep the hose from being pulled away again.
«That's not going to work in heavy seas, Dillon,» Captain Houser pronounced.
«Like I said, this little exercise was intended to find the problems,» Dillon said.
He leaned over the side of the conning tower.
«That hose is about to be lost at sea,» he called to Lieutenant Lewis. «Unless you want to try to haul it back aboard.»
Lewis cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, «You sign the Certificate of Loss, right?»
«Cut it loose,» Dillon ordered. He turned to the Catalina. «If you can't get that boat back through the hatch,» he called over the bullhorn, «slash it with a knife.»
«Pilot wants to know: 'Are we through?' « an Airedale called back from the forward gun position.
«We're through,» Dillon called. «Tell the guy who took a swim he has his choice of a case of beer or a bottle of booze. See you at Pearl.»
The half-inch hose immediately disappeared from the wing of the Catalina. It was partially buoyant. From the bridge of the conning tower, it could be seen snaking four or five feet below the surface. Its weight was so great, however, that it had pulled the simple knot that Lieutenant Lewis had tied to one of the steps on the conning tower too tight to untie. It was necessary to send for a fire ax from the submarine, then carefully lower it to the deck in order to cut the hose free.
By the time that was done, the Catalina had taken off and vanished from sight in the direction of Pearl Harbor.
Lewis and Dillon climbed back onto the bridge.
«I'm at your orders, Major Dillon,» Captain Houser said.
«Take us home, please,» Dillon said.
«Set course for Pearl Harbor, make turns for fifteen knots,» Captain Houser ordered.
«Set course for Pearl Harbor, make turns for fifteen knots, aye,» Chief Buchanan ordered, then took the talker's microphone off and gave it back to the talker.
After a moment, the
Sunfish'
's diesels revved and water boiled at her stern.
«I'm sorry, Jake,» Houser said, «but I think you're trying the impossible.»
«If at first you don't succeed, fuck it, right?» Dillon replied.
«What now, Jake?» Lewis asked.
«I think I know a guy who could solve this problem,» Dillon said thoughtfully. «Lewis, how hard would it be (a) to find a guy in the Seabees somewhere in the Pacific, and (b) get him here?»
«It could be done, Jake,» Lewis replied. «Who is this guy?»
«A Best Boy I know,» Dillon said.
«A what?»
«Did you see
Culligan's Raid
?» Dillon asked.
«The movie?» Lewis asked, obviously confused. «Yeah, sure, didn't everybody?»
«You remember the scene where the train tries to make it across the burning bridge, and doesn't? Where the bridge collapses? The train goes into the gorge?»
«Sure.»
«The first time they shot that, something happened to the stock—the film. They had to shoot it again. It took this guy five days to clean the location, rebuild the bridge, and get another train.»
«And you think he would know how to refuel a Catalina on the high seas?»
«Yeah, now that I think about it, I think he could figure out a way to do it.»
Chapter Fifteen
note 56
Naval Air Station
Pensaeola, Florida
0830 21 March 1943
Without intending to, Major Avery R. Williamson, USMC, watched Mrs. Martha Sayre Culhane enthusiastically kissing Captain James B. Weston, USMC, goodbye. Without really thinking about it, he immediately decided not to bring the subject up to Weston. An officer and a gentleman does not discuss the romantic affairs of a fellow officer and gentleman, especially when the lady involved is the daughter of a senior officer and gentleman and the widow of a fellow Marine and Naval Aviator.
But he approved this particular romantic involvement.
Since he had first met Weston, he had learned from Brigadier General D. G. Mclnerney much more about Weston's service in the Philippines than Weston himself had provided. The conclusions he had drawn—obviously shared by General Mclnerney and by Charley Galloway—was that Jim Weston possessed very desirable characteristics for a Marine officer. He was not at all averse to sailing in harm's way. And once there, he had proved he had the balls to do whatever was necessary, despite the risk posed to his life. And finally, he was extraordinarily modest about his exploits.
That entitled him to a little extra consideration. The unfortunate truth was that officers like Jim Weston were not as common in the Marine Corps as the public-relations people would have people believe.
With that in mind, and not without difficulty, Major Williamson had arranged for a Douglas R4-D aircraft to return Weston to West Virginia, in place of the PBY-5A Catalina scheduled. Weston had already proved himself to be a skilled PBY-5A Catalina pilot. It would be a waste of time for him to shoot any more touch-and-goes in a Catalina.
Getting the Gooney Bird had required spending several very large favors that Major Williamson had been saving for a good cause. This was a good cause. Unless he was very sorely mistaken, he could return from Asshole, West Virginia, able to certify in good conscience that Captain James B. Weston, USMC, was fully qualified to serve as pilot-in-command of R4-D-Series Aircraft.
Being current in the Cat and the Gooney Bird might not be important in the immediate future (Weston seemed determined to go into the cockpit of an F4U Corsair and General Mclnerney seemed determined to put him there), but it would be a consideration, say, six months down the line when they were selecting captains to be squadron commanders.
Captain Williamson had not had the privilege of knowing the late Lieutenant Gregory Culhane, USMC, but everything he had heard about him was favorable. Proof of that seemed to come from Weston, who had been the best man at his wedding to Admiral Sayre's daughter, Martha. Major Williamson believed it to be absolutely true that birds of a feather flocked together.
In the highest traditions of the Marine Corps, Lieutenant Culhane had died fighting in the valiant—if hopeless—defense of Wake Island. Likewise in the highest traditions of the Marine Corps, then Lieutenant Weston had fought in the valiant—if hopeless—defense of Luzon and Corregidor. And when he had not died, he'd gone on fighting as a guerrilla.
It was not surprising to Major Williamson that Admiral Sayre's daughter was strongly attracted to Captain Weston. And, clearly, Admiral Sayre was not at all displeased that Weston had become a suitor of his daughter.
Forty-five minutes after Captain James B. Weston had waved goodbye to Mrs. Martha S. Culhane from the left seat of the R4-D, he had proved to Major Williamson that his previous, though admittedly limited, experience in the Gooney Bird, plus all of his PBY-5A time, plus his natural ability as a pilot, had combined to turn him into a pilot capable of performing any maneuver within the envelope of the R4-D's capabilities.
An hour after that, after eight touch-and-go landings at the U.S. Army Air Corps field near Midland City, Alabama, Major Williamson was convinced that Weston could fly the Gooney Bird at least as well as most Gooney Bird drivers he knew, and far better than a lot of them. He based this professional judgment not only on the fact that all of Weston's touchdowns, including the first one, had been greasers, but also on the fact that both times he had without warning shut down one of the Gooney Bird's engines on takeoff—a maneuver that caused the aircraft to want to turn abruptly in the direction of the shut-down engine—Weston's response had been immediate, calm, and skillful.
And neither was he worried about Weston's ability to navigate. It was more than reasonable to presume that anyone who had acquired 1,200 hours in a PBY-5A, most of it in the left seat flying over the Pacific Ocean, knew how to navigate.
On his eighth landing at the Midland City Army Air Corps field—again a greaser—Weston touched down within ten yards of the end of the runway. When the speed of the landing roll had decreased enough to put the tail wheel on the ground—the end of the «touch»—meaning, he could either slow further and turn off the runway or apply throttle and take off again—«go»—he looked at Major Williamson for orders.
«Ascend again into the heavens, Mr. Weston,» Major Williamson ordered, «and set course for Asshole, West By God Virginia.»
«Asshole, West Virginia, aye, aye, sir,» Weston replied.
With a skilled hand he advanced both throttles. The Gooney Bird accelerated and the tail came off the ground. A few seconds later, the R4-D was airborne again.
«Wheels up,» Weston ordered. «Dump the flaps.»
And then he remembered he was a student pilot.
«Wheels up, please, sir,» he said. «Reduce flap angle to zero, please, sir.»
Williamson didn't reply until the green wheels up and locked light came on, and the arrow on the flaps control was pointing to zero.
«Wheels up, flaps dumped,» he said.
«Midland, Navy Six Niner Niner,» Weston said to the microphone, as he simultaneously set up his rate of climb and turned the Gooney Bird onto a course that would take them just to the east of Atlanta.
«Six Niner Niner.»
«Thank you for the use of your facility, Midland. We are now going to try —desperately— to find first Fort Benning and then Atlanta. Would you be so kind as to ask them to keep an eye out for us? ETA Benning thirty-five minutes, ETA Atlanta unknown. I can't count that high on available fingers.»
«You're welcome, Navy. We will advise Benning to keep an eye out for you.»
«Thank you again, Midland, and a very good day to you.»
Major Williamson was not surprised to note how skillfully Weston trimmed up the Gooney Bird. Weston was obviously a skilled and experienced pilot.
Birds of a feather, et cetera.
Twenty minutes later, making 170 knots at 7,000 feet over Eufala, Alabama, Major Williamson spoke again. «She's really a nice girl, Weston,» he said.
«Sir?»
«Oh, come on, Jim. I saw you two say goodbye.»
«Oh.»
«She's a really nice girl,» Williamson repeated.
«Yes, sir, she is.»
«And a stunning female!»
Weston looked over at him.
«When you get married, you don't take a solemn vow not to look,» Williamson said.
«Stunning is an understatement,» Weston said.
«In fact, if she wasn't an admiral's daughter and a Marine Aviator's widow, one might go so far as to say she's built like a brick shithouse,» Williamson said.
«Oddly enough,» Weston said, with a clear mental picture of Martha standing naked in the cabin of her father's sailboat, «a somewhat similar thought passed through my head.»
«I probably shouldn't tell you this, Jim—you're not undersupplied with ego— but you're the first guy she's shown any serious interest in as long as I've known her.»
«Is that so?»
«Pensacola is a buyer's market for a girl like Martha. One hell of a lot of eligible young officers have taken their best shots at her. And gotten Maggie's Drawers.» When a marksman—and every Marine is trained to be a rifleman— completely misses his target on a known-distance range, a red flag, «Maggie's Drawers,» is waved in front of the target. «You're the first one to even come close to getting the brass ring.»
«With all respect, sir, is your real name John Alden?»
«Not the last time I looked.»
«You sound as if you're trying to match me up with the lady.»
«It seems to me that Mother Nature has already done that,» Williamson said. «I'm just letting you know Mother Nature rarely makes a mistake.»
Weston didn't reply.
'"Lieutenants should not marry; captains may marry; majors should. You ever hear that, Jim? Or am I putting my nose in where it doesn't belong?»
«As a matter of fact…«
«Don't be impertinent, Captain. You are a very young captain; I am a senior major. It therefore behooves me to counsel you on a matter of importance to your career.»
«With all due respect, Major, sir, go fuck yourself.»
«I was a lieutenant when Margie and I got married,» Williamson said. «I didn't want to get married either. October '41. I was on orders to VMF-219. I thought, Christ, we're going to war. The last thing I wanted to do to Margie was make her a widow. But I couldn't tell her no.»
Weston looked at him.
«We had a seven-day honeymoon,» Williamson went on. «Then I reported to 'Diego, went aboard the
Lexington
—change of orders—and wound up on Midway. I was lucky there. I was determined to go home to Margie. I got six Japs, and that got me railroad tracks, and then I went to VMF-229 on Henderson Field on the 'Canal. Charley Galloway was the skipper. Colonel Dawkins—you know this—was the MAG commander, and he asked Charley which of his pilots should get a squadron, and Charley said me. And I got lucky there, too. I was determined to go home to Margie. And I did, with major's leaves on my collar. I went home to Margie and our brand new son. Marrying her was the best and smartest thing I have ever done.»
«You think you're going to be as lucky the next time?» Weston asked.
«Who knows? On one hand, the statistics suggest that if you live through the first thirty days, you have a good chance of finishing the tour. On the other hand, everybody dies sooner or later. But in the meantime, Jim, I've had Margie and the boy. That's what it's all about.»
«Yeah, I guess.»
«End of speech,» Williamson said. «Except to say, when you're on the merry-go-round and a brass ring like Martha's is within reach, grab it.»
Weston shrugged.
Then he pointed ahead, out the window. A flight of perhaps twenty Army Air Corps C-47s—essentially identical to the Navy R4-D they were flying—was 2,000 feet below them, making a wide turn toward Fort Benning.
«What they're going to do,» Williamson explained, «is go down to about thirty-five hundred feet and drop their parachutists. There's drop zones all over this area.»
«I don't think I'd want to do that,» Weston said. «Jump out of an airplane.»
«You ever see a drop?»
«No, sir.»
«Why don't you drop down to about forty-five hundred feet, and stay behind that formation and watch? It's something you should see.»
Weston reached the trim tab to lower the R4-D's nose, then reached for the throttle quadrant to retard power.
With a little bit of luck
, he thought,
the «why don't you marry Martha» speech is really over
.
The thing is, he's absolutely right. If it wasn't for one small problem
—
Janice, who I also really love
—I
would marry Martha in a minute
.
note 57
Espiritu Santo Island
New Hebrides, Southern Pacific Ocean
1505 22 March 1943
Chief Boatswain's Mate William Haber, USN, a lithe, muscular, natty thirty-nine-year-old with twenty-two years of Naval service, happened to be standing before the skipper's desk when the telephone rang.
Lieutenant Commander J. K. Sloane, Civil Engineer Corps, USNR, commanding officer of the 3rd Naval Construction Battalion, pointed at the telephone, indicating that Chief Haber should take the call, rather than the clerk in the outer office.
«Third CBs. Chief Haber speaking, sir.»
«This is Lieutenant Stevens, Chief, Admiral Henton's aide.»
Rear Admiral Jerome J. Henton, USN, commanded U.S. Navy Base (Forward) Espiritu Santo.
«How may I help the Lieutenant, sir?» Chief Haber said, very courteously. He almost came to attention.
Chief petty officers with twenty-two years of service are not normally very impressed with lieutenants. Lieutenants who are aides-de-camp to flag officers— who sit, so to speak, at the foot of the throne of God—are an exception.
Commander Sloane, who looked very much like Chief Haber, lithe, muscular, and natty, picked up on the change of voice. While a mere reservist, he
was
a graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis. He looked up at Chief Haber in interest.
«Yes, sir, we have a Chief McGuire aboard,» Chief Haber said.
Now Commander Sloane was really interested.
Chief Carpenter's Mate Peter T. McGuire, USNR, known popularly as «Chief Hollywood»—if he was to be believed, and Commander Sloane was among the dubious, he not only was acquainted with many Hollywood stars, but also had carnal knowledge of many of them—was not only a reservist but had never worn a uniform, much less been to sea aboard a man-of-war, until the day he had raised his hand and been sworn into the Naval Service as a chief petty officer.
In order to form its construction battalions—the Seabees—the Navy had tried to recruit highly skilled civilian construction workers and other civil engineering specialists. Construction foremen, demolition experts, and heavy-equipment operators were not, however, about to swap ajob that was high-paying and almost always essential to the war effort, and thus exempt from the draft, in order to become seaman apprentices at twenty-one dollars a month. The solution was threefold: an appeal to patriotism, an assurance that their skills would be utilized by the Navy— that they would not find themselves mopping decks or peeling potatoes—and enlistment in a grade appropriate to their civilian skills and years of experience.
Peter T. McGuire more than met all the requirements for enlistment as a chief petty officer. If his application was to be believed—and again Commander Sloane was among the dubious—he could not only operate just about every piece of heavy construction and road-building equipment known to engineering, but was also licensed by the state of California as an «unlimited explosives technician»
and
as a master electrician. Commander Sloane would be the first to admit that whenever he told McGuire what he wanted done, it had been done—and done well—with astonishing speed. But Chief McGuire did not conduct himself as Commander Sloane—or Chief Haber—thought a chief should. Chiefs are supposed to supervise, not do the necessary manual tasks themselves. Chief McGuire did not seem to understand this. Although he had been told, time and time again, with increasing firmness, that he was to
supervise
his men, Sloane knew that the minute he or Chief Haber turned their backs, Chief McGuire was wielding a sledgehammer, or, more frequently, operating a Caterpillar D-6 bulldozer or a road grader—or some other kind of heavy equipment—most often with his shirt off.
«Aye, aye, sir,» Chief Haber said. «I'll have Chief McGuire report to you immediately, sir. Sir, it may take a little while. Chief McGuire is at Auxiliary Field Two, sir.»
In addition to other assigned construction tasks, the 3rd Seabees had been ordered to remove the pierced steel planking that «paved» the runway of Auxiliary Field #2 and to extend the length of the runway and then pave it with concrete. Chief McGuire had been charged with removing the pierced steel planking and then with site preparation of the new runway.
Admiral Henton's aide said something else Commander Sloane could not overhear.
«Aye, aye, sir, thank you, sir,» Chief Haber said, very courteously, and hung up. He looked at Commander Sloane. «The Admiral wants to see McGuire right now.»
«What the hell is that all about?» Commander Sloane wondered aloud.
Chief Haber shrugged.
«Well, you better go out to Auxiliary Two and get him,» Commander Sloane ordered, and then changed his mind. «Tell you what, Chief, I'll go get him, and
you
get on the horn to your pal in the Admiral's office and see if you can find out what the hell this is all about. What the hell has McGuire done now?»
Although no witnesses could be found to testify against Chief McGuire in a court-martial, it was common knowledge that Chief McGuire, who was six feet three inches tall and weighed 230 pounds, had thrown two fellow chief petty officers through the screen enclosed verandah of the Chiefs' Club after they'd made remarks about the Seabees that he'd considered disparaging.
«Aye, aye, sir,» Chief Haber said.
When his aide informed him that Chief McGuire was at Auxiliary #2 and it might take a little while to get him to the Admiral's office, the Admiral also changed his mind about the best place to meet with the Chief:
«Okay,» the Admiral said. «The minute he gets here, bring him in.»
«Aye, aye, sir.»
«Oh, hell, Charley. I've been in the office all day, and I would really like to know how long Auxiliary Two will be down. Find the driver, and we'll take a run out there.»
«Aye, aye, sir.»
When Commander Sloane's jeep approached Auxiliary Field #2, he was surprised and annoyed to find that the road was blocked by a Caterpillar D-6 bulldozer. He stood up in his jeep, holding on to the windshield. «Get that thing off the road!» he ordered.
The driver of the bulldozer shook his head, «no.» He was a stocky, barrel-chested, shirtless Seabee who wore his white cap with the rim turned all the way down and looked like a beach bum. Then, taking his good sweet time about it, he climbed off the 'dozer and walked to Commander Sloane's jeep, remembering at the last minute the quaint Navy custom that you were supposed to salute officers. «Good morning, Commander,» he said pleasantly.
«Couldn't you hear me, sailor? Get that 'dozer off the road!»
«It'll be a minute. McGuire's about to blow the pierced steel planking.»
«McGuire's about to do what?»
«Blow the runway,» the sailor replied.
«You mean dynamite it?»
«Yes, sir. He decided that would be the quickest way to get it up.»
Commander Sloane's attention was diverted when he heard the sound of wheels on the dirt road behind him. He turned and saw Admiral Henton's Plymouth staff car, his blue, two-starred flag flapping from a pole mounted to the fender.
Oh, my God.
Admiral Henton and his aide-de-camp got out of the car.
«Good afternoon, sir,» Commander Sloane said, and saluted.
«What's going on here?» Admiral Henton said, returning the salute and then shaking Commander Sloane's hand.
When in doubt, tell the truth. When in great doubt, tell the truth, but as little of it as possible.
«We're about to blow the runway, sir,» Commander Sloane said. «I was about to walk to the crest of the hill and see how things are going.»
»
Blow
the runway?» Admiral Henton asked. «Won't that make salvaging the pierced steel planking a little difficult?»
He had expected to see a crew of Seabees, armed with sledgehammers. They would sledgehammer the interlocking parts of one piece of pierced steel planking free from the adjacent piece of planking. The freed piece would then be loaded onto a truck and carted off for future use.
«Yes, sir, it will,» Sloane said.
This maniac McGuire is going to cost me my promotion!
Admiral Henton made a gesture indicating that Commander Sloane should lead the way to a place where they could see what was going on.
«Admiral,» the Seabee said, «I wouldn't go too far down the slope, if I was you.»
Admiral Henton turned and looked at him. «Thank you very much,» he said. «I'll be careful.»
«You never can tell how far some of that shit will fly when you do something like this,» the Seabee added.
The Admiral nodded, then gestured to Commander Sloane to again lead the way.
From the crest of the hill, the entire three thousand feet of runway could be seen.
Chief McGuire's complement of Seabees were scurrying all up and down the runway, some of them carrying sandbags. Lines of sandbags were laid across the runway at fifty foot intervals.
Neither Admiral Henton nor Commander Sloane could imagine what was going on. When Sloane looked around for Chief McGuire, he was annoyed—but not surprised—to find him standing on the canvas seat of a Caterpillar D-6 bulldozer parked fifty yards off the near end of the runway.
Chief McGuire was naked, except for a pair of khaki trousers cut off above the knees. A disgracefully beat up and dirty chief's brimmed cap on his head was the only symbol of his rank.
«Chief McGuire?» Admiral Henton inquired. «Is he the fellow on the bulldozer?»
«Yes, sir. Sir, in consideration of the heat, and the labor the men are performing, I allow considerable leeway in the way they dress.»
«I'm sure it gets hot as hell out here,» the Admiral said.
Chief McGuire got off the seat of the bulldozer and crawled up on the hood over the engine. «Clear!» he bellowed.
Faintly, Commander Sloane saw all the Seabees down the length of the runway run off the runway to seek shelter wherever they could find it, most often behind the bulk of eight bulldozers that were parked to the side of the runway.
Chief McGuire then jumped off his own bulldozer and disappeared from sight. He emerged a moment later at the wheel of a jeep that had been parked out of sight beside the 'dozer. He drove down the runway, slowing at each pile of sandbags. When he reached the end of the runway, he drove the jeep into a depression.
Very faintly at first, then more loudly and more clearly as it was repeated by Seabees along the edge of the runway, came the call: «Fire in the hole!»
The first muffled roar came a moment after the last «fire in the hole!» call was shouted, soon followed by a series of roars. Clouds of smoke then appeared at regular intervals down the runway where there had been lines of sandbags.
«My God!» Admiral Henton exclaimed.
Before the smoke cleared, Chief McGuire reappeared in his jeep and started back down the runway toward them. Soon after that, 'dozer engines were revving, and all of the 'dozers started to back up to the side of the runway. Eye hooks were fastened to holes in the pierced steel planking, then to the bulldozers. An engine revved, and a section of runway one hundred feet wide and fifty feet long began to slide off to the side.
«By God, that's clever!» Admiral Henton exclaimed. «You are to be complimented on your initiative, Commander!»
«Thank you, sir.»
«I suppose that trucks will now—« the Admiral said, and interrupted himself as trucks appeared. «Very clever,» he said. «One crew can salvage the pierced steel, while another starts laying the runway foundation. I'll bet you didn't get that out of a book, did you, Commander?»
«We pride ourselves on innovation, sir,» Commander Sloane said.
Admiral Henton started down the hill. Commander Sloane and the Admiral's aide followed him. They arrived just as Chief McGuire reached the end of the runway.
He looked curiously at the Admiral, the Commander, and the Admiral's aide, then drove up to them. He saluted, but did not leave the jeep.
«That was very impressive, Chief,» the Admiral said. «How soon can you start preparing the runway?»
«The dump trucks with the gravel will be here any minute,» McGuire said. «While they're dumping, we'll start laying the forms. As soon as the 'dozers get the pierced steel out of the way, they'll start scraping. Then we'll get the graders going. With a little bit of luck, we should be able to pour maybe a hundred feet by the time it's dark. It'll be slower at night, of course, and I don't like to pour unless I can really see what I'm doing.»
He did not once use the term «Sir,» Commander Sloane noticed. If the Admiral noticed, he did not take offense.
«Well done, Chief,» the Admiral said.
«Commander Sloane said you needed this runway in a hurry,» McGuire said.
«Tell me, Chief, do you happen to know a Major Dillon, of the Marine Corps?»
«Sure, we're old buddies. He a friend of yours?»
«I don't have that privilege, I'm afraid,» Admiral Henton said. «May I ask where you and the Major know each other?»
«L.A.,» Chief McGuire said. «We both used to work for Metro-Magnum.»
«The motion picture studio?»
«Yes, sir…«
That's the first time he said «Sir»
! Commander Sloane thought.
»… I was chief of construction,» Chief McGuire went on, «and ol' Jake was the publicity guy.»
«Well, Chief, I'm sure you'll be happy to hear that you're soon going to see you friend again.»
«Really?»
Admiral Henton handed Chief McGuire a sheet of teletypewriter paper.
P R I O R I T Y
S E C R E T
CINCPAC
1005 21 MARCH 1943
FLAG OFFICER COMMANDING US NAVY BASE (FORWARD) ESPIRITU SANTO
1. CINCPAC RECORDS INDICATE THAT CHIEF PETTY OFFICER PETER T. MCGUIRE, USNR, IS ASSIGNED TO 3RD USN CONSTRUCTION BATTALION ON ESPIRITU SANTO. YOU PERSONALLY OR A SUITABLY SENIOR OFFICER IF YOU ARE NOT AVAILABLE WILL ON RECEIPT OF THIS MESSAGE INTERVIEW CHIEF MCGUIRE AND DETERMINE IF HE IS PERSONALLY ACQUAINTED WITH MAJOR HOMER C.(NICKNAME) QUOTE JAKE ENDQUOTE DILLON, USMCR.
2. IF THE ANSWER IS IN THE AFFIRMATIVE, CHIEF MCGUIRE WILL BE IMMEDIATELY DETACHED FROM 3RD USN CONSTRUCTION BATTALION AND TRANSFERRED CINCPAC. AIR TRAVEL IS DIRECTED PRIORITY AAAAA.
3. CINCPAC WILL BE NOTIFIED BY SEPARATE PRIORITY MESSAGE CLASSIFICATION SECRET WHETHER CHIEF MCGUIRE IS OR IS NOT ACQUAINTED WITH MAJOR DILLON, AND IF HE IS, THE DATE AND TIME OF HIS DEPARTURE FROM ESPIRITU SANTO.
4. IF FEASIBLE CHIEF MCGUIRE SHOULD TRAVEL TO US NAVY BASE PEARL HARBOR ABOARD A PBY-5A AIRCRAFT. IN THIS CASE, CREW OF PBY-5A SHOULD FAMILIARIZE CHIEF MCGUIRE WITH ALL CHARACTERISTICS OF THE AIRCRAFT, WITH EMPHASIS ON REFUELING, ENROUTE.
BY DIRECTION NTMITZ, ADMIRAL, USN,
CINCPAC OFFICIAL: D.J.WAGAM, RADM USN
S E C R E T
«Jesus, I wonder what the hell this is all about,» Chief McGuire said.
«I thought perhaps you could tell me.»
«'I haven't a clue, Admiral. Do I have to go?»
«One of the quaint customs of the Navy, Chief,» Admiral Henton said, smiling, «is that when the Commander in Chief, Pacific Fleet, says 'go,' we go.»
«I really hate to fly,» Chief McGuire said.
«So do I, Chief,» Admiral Henton said. «Why don't you give that TWX to Commander Sloane, so he'll know what's going on?»
«Sure,» Chief McGuire said. «Here you go, Commander.»
note 58
Office of the Chief Signal Officer
Headquarters, U.S. Military Mission to China
Chungking, China
25 March 1943
The dusty GM six-by-six truck jerked to a halt before the entrance to a tunnel. Outside was a wooden sign reading, «Signal Section, USMMCHI.» Lieutenant Colonel Edward J. Banning, USMC, holding a Thompson submachine gun in his hand, climbed down from the cab and walked to the rear of the truck. «We're here,» he announced, as he began to remove the chain holding the two-foot-high rear «gate» in place.
With a grace surprising for his bulk, Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman jumped out of the truck. «I'll get that, Colonel,» he said.
When the gate was down, Captain Ken McCoy and Master Gunner Harry Rutterman jumped off the truck and started unloading their luggage and the crates marked «Personnel Records, Not To Be Opened Without The Specific Written Permission of the Adjutant General.»
Banning entered the tunnel. After his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could see signs identifying the various offices the tunnel contained. It reminded him of Corregidor, except that on Corregidor the tunnels were lined with concrete; here the tunnel was naked rock. He found a wide area in the tunnel, a place where it looked like someone had decided to carve another lateral and then changed his mind.
He walked back to the mouth.
«Ken,» he called, «there's a wide place inside. Put everything there and wait for me. I'll go see what happens next.»
McCoy, holding one of the «Personnel Record» crates, nodded and started to carry it into the tunnel.
Banning turned back inside. After proceeding quite a long way, he found what he was looking for, a sign announcing the space off the main tunnel that housed the office of the Signal Officer, USMMCHI. There was a door in a wooden wall; he opened it and walked though, finding himself in a perfectly ordinary military office—except of course, there were no windows. It held four desks, filing cabinets, a safe, and a rack for clothing. At the largest desk sat an Army Signal Corps lieutenant colonel. Banning walked up to the desk, and after a moment the officer raised his eyes from the papers on his desk.
«Good morning,» Banning said. «I'm Ed Banning. I'd like to see the Signal Officer, please.»
«The General is not available at the moment, Colonel,» the army lieutenant Colonel said. «Perhaps I can help you?»
«I have to see him, I'm afraid,» Lieutenant Colonel Edward J. Banning, USMC, replied. «When could I do that?»
«Why do you want to see the General, Colonel?» the Army lieutenant colonel said. There was a touch of impatience in his voice.
«I'm not at liberty to discuss that,» Banning replied.
«The General is a very busy man.»
«I'm sure he is,» Banning said.
His temper was a little short too. It had been a very long flight from Newark. The original idea had been to spend only enough time on the ground to take on fuel and perform necessary minor maintenance. That had worked. This meant they had spent long hours trying to sleep on the floor of the Curtis Commando's fuselage, with the roar of the engines as background, three quarters of the way around the world until, after «Flying the Hump,» they had arrived in Kunming, China. There the weather had been so bad, they had to spend two days in a flea-infested transient billet until they could make the final leg into Chungking.
No one came to meet them at the airport—which was, of course, to be expected. But the Air Corps personnel running the terminal did not consider it their responsibility to see that incoming passengers got from the airfield to wherever they were going. Gunner Rutterman and Gunny Zimmerman had finally commandeered an Air Corps General Motors six-by-six truck by offering its PFC driver the choice of helping them out or having his arms pulled off at the shoulder.
«My job,» the Signal Corps lieutenant colonel said, «is to see that people don't waste the General's time.»
Banning was tempted to show his orders to the officer—he quickly came to think of him as «this idiot»—but decided that wouldn't be wise. This idiot was the type who wouldn't be able to wait until he got to the Officers' Club to start telling his pals about the Marines who had just arrived on Top Secret orders issued by the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
The door to the chief signal officer's outer office suddenly opened and a major general marched in. He was a short, stocky man, with a pencil-line mustache. He was wearing a brimmed cap with the crown stiffener removed, a la Air Corps pilots, and an open necked khaki shirt with two silver stars on each collar point. Over that he was wearing a jacket that looked like something Ernest Hemingway would wear while shooting lions in Africa. There were two stars on each epaulet. He had a swagger stick clutched in his hand.
He smiled at Banning. «Colonel Banning, I presume? Welcome to the mysterious East.»
How the hell does he know my name?
«Yes, sir,» Banning said, and saluted.
The General returned the salute by touching the brim of his cap with his swagger stick. «Well, come on in,» the General said, and turned to the lieutenant colonel. «Ask General Newley to come in chop chop, will you, please?»
«Yes, sir.»
«Sir, I had hoped to see the General alone,» Banning said.
«I have no secrets from General Newley, Colonel, something you should understand from Step One. He's my deputy.»
«Yes, sir.»
He motioned with the swagger stick for Banning to follow him into his office. Inside, he walked behind his desk and sat down. On the ornately carved desk was a nameplate adorned with his name—Frederick T. Dempsey—inlaid in some sort of shell above a painted fire-breathing dragon. On either side of his name were the tw6 silver stars of a major general.
He did not offer Banning a chair. Banning assumed the position of Parade Rest.
«Those were your men I passed in the main lateral?» General Dempsey asked.
«Yes, sir.»
«I couldn't help but notice the civilians are wearing beards. They're probably not civilians, are they, but CIC agents? What's that all about?»
Before Banning could reply, another officer entered the office. He was dressed like General Dempsey, except that he had only one silver star on each collar point and epaulet. He took a very good look at Banning.
«Colonel Banning, obviously,» he said. «Right?»
«Yes, sir.»
And this one knows my name, too! How come? Did General Pickering send them a heads-up? He's pretty casual about classified matters, but I can't believe he would do that.
«I'm General Newley, Colonel. Welcome to USMMCHI.» He pronounced the acronym, «U.S. Double M Chi.»
«Thank you, sir,» Banning said, and shook General Newley's offered hand. Then he turned to General Dempsey. «General, may I show you my orders?»
«You can if you like,» General Dempsey said. «But we already know what they are.
«Thank you, sir,» Banning said. He took a sealed envelope from his tunic pocket, tore it open, removed a sheet of paper, and handed it to General Dempsey.
TOP SECRET
The Joint Chiefs of Staff
The Pentagon
Washington, D.C.
19 March 1943
SUBJECT: Letter Orders
TO: Lieut. Col. E.J. Banning, USMC
Capt K.R. McCoy, USMCR
Second Lt R.F. Easterbrook, USMCR
Master Gunner H.W. Rutterman, USMCR
Gunnery Sergeant E.W. Zimmerman, USMC
1. You will proceed at the earliest possible time by air transportation to Headquarters, U.S. Military Mission to China (USMMCHI), Chungking, China, or such other places as may be deemed necessary in connection with your mission. Priority AAAAAA is assigned.
2. While enroute you will serve as guards of certain classified material which will be entrusted to you at your port of aerial departure.
3. On arrival at USMMCHI, Lt, Col. Banning will explain the nature of his mission to Commanding General, USMMCHI, and Signal Officer, USMMCHI, and ONLY such other senior officers who he, in his sole discretion, believes have the Need To Know in order to facilitate the carrying out of his mission.
4. On arrival at U8MMCHI, Lt. Col. Banning will detach, at such time and under such circumstances as he deems appropriate, Captain McCoy and Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman so they may undertake the execution of their mission as directed by the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
FOR THE JOINT CHIEFS OP STAFF:
Charles M. Adamson
Major General, USA
Secretary, JCS
TOP SECRET
General Dempsey read the orders.
«As I said, we were expecting you, Colonel. But I was under the impression that the devices would be guarded by CIC agents. Are they on separate orders? Don't tell me those two bearded characters I just saw are Marines?»
He knows about the magic devices. Jesus H. Christ!
«I'm not sure I know how to answer the General's question, sir,» Banning said.
«Actually, Colonel, there were two questions. The first was 'where are the CIC agents I expected to be guarding the magic devices?' and the second was 'are those two bearded characters Marines?' «
«I know nothing about CIC agents, sir.»
«Then you guarded the magic devices?»
Banning did not reply.
«Something wrong with your hearing, Colonel?» General Dempsey asked, a touch of unpleasantness in his voice.
«Sir, may I speak to the General alone?»
«I thought we'd already been down that path,» General Dempsey said. «To answer
your
question, Colonel, when we have finished our business here, yes, I will have a word with you in private if you insist. Now to
my
question… Let's get down to basics. Do you have the magic devices?»
«Sir, as I'm sure the General understands, I am not at liberty to discuss anything of that nature with anyone who does not hold the proper security clearance.»
«Frankly, Colonel, I am rapidly moving from appreciation of your concern for security to annoyance. Your own orders direct you to inform me of the nature of your mission. I already know the nature of your mission. You are to serve, as a member of my cryptographic staff, as officer-in-charge of the magic devices.»
«Then the General possesses a magic clearance? I was not so informed.»
«I'm sure there are many things about which you are not informed, Colonel. Do I have a magic clearance? No. I expect one momentarily. I would have thought you would have brought that with you.»
«No, sir.»
«Do you, sir?» Banning asked General Newley.
«Not at this moment, Colonel.»
«Sir, under these circumstances, I would be in violation of my orders to discuss magic in the presence of General Newley,» Banning said.
«Now, listen to me, Colonel, and listen carefully, for I have had just about enough of your word-bandying. I am the person who decides who in this headquarters is cleared for magic. And when I ask you a question about magic, you will answer it. Is that clear enough for you, Colonel?»
«Sir, I respectfully protest you are ordering me to disobey my previous orders.»
«I don't give a good goddamn about your previous orders, Colonel. Get that though your head. You are now attached to the Signal Section of Headquarters USMMCHI You take your orders from me. Got that?»
«Yes, sir.»
«Now, for the last goddamned time, do you have the magic machines?»
«Yes, sir.»
«How long will it take you to set them up?»
«Once I have a secure area, sir, I can be up and running in about eight hours.»
«You will set them up in my crypto area.»
«Yes, sir.»
«Now, who are those two bearded characters I saw in the main lateral?»
«Captain K. R. McCoy, USMCR, and Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman, sir.»
«And why are they wearing beards and civilian clothing?»
«Sir, it is in connection with their mission.»
«Which is?»
«Sir, with respect, Captain McCoy and Sergeant Zimmerman are on an OSS mission that I am not at liberty to discuss.»
«You are refusing to answer my question?»
«Sir, with respect, I do not believe the General has the Need To Know.»
«We'll see about my Need To Know just as soon as you have magic up and running,» General Dempsey said. «In the meantime, I am going to give you two simple orders. One, get magic up and running and tell me the moment we have a link with Washington. Two, have those two characters report to Colonel Platt at the OSS station. I'm sure he'll see that they are shaved and into uniform.»
«Sir, with respect, I don't believe you have the authority to issue orders to Captain McCoy or Sergeant Zimmerman.»
«Goddamn you! How dare you question my authority? Don't you ever again question any order I give you!»
«Yes, sir.»
«You are dismissed, Colonel. Report to me, whatever the hour, when you have established a magic link with Washington.»
«Yes, sir.»
Banning snapped to attention, saluted, performed a crisp about-face maneuver, and marched out of General Dempsey's office.
Over his shoulder, he heard General Dempsey furiously demand of General Newley, «Jack, can you believe that? Goddamned arrogant Marine!»
He walked back to the wide area in the tunnel and motioned for McCoy to join him.
«Captain,» he said, formally, «you may consider yourself and Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman detached.»
«Aye, aye, sir,» McCoy said. «What's going on?»
«You've got the gold?» Banning asked.
McCoy tapped his waist. A money belt heavy with U.S. twenty-dollar gold coins was strapped around it.
«There's an OSS station here. Do you know anything about that?»
McCoy shook his head negatively. «First I've heard of it.»
«The signal officer here has ordered me to order you to report there, to a Colonel Platt.»
«What gives this Army Signal Corps officer the right to give you orders?»
«That's a very interesting question, Captain.»
«Is that what you're doing? Ordering me to report to the OSS here?»
«You're detached,» Banning said. «I am no longer authorized to give you orders.»
«What went on in there?» McCoy asked. «What's going on?»
«I can't go into that, Ken,» Banning said. «Sorry.»
McCoy looked at him very thoughtfully.
«Correct me if I'm wrong, Captain, but I seem to recall that your last valid order from Brigadier General Pickering was, upon detachment from the team bringing personnel records here, to make preparations to move into the Gobi Desert.»
«Yes, sir, that is correct.»
«Having been detached, Captain, those orders remain valid unless countermanded by an officer senior to Brigadier General Pickering, such as the major general who is the signal officer here.»
«I'm getting the message,» McCoy said.
«I don't know what's going on around here, Ken, but whatever it is, you shouldn't be involved with it.»
«Yes, sir,» McCoy said, and put out his hand to Banning.
«Grab your gear, Ernie,» he said. «We're leaving.»
«Don't go into the desert, Ken, until Pickering tells you to.»
«I'll be around,» McCoy said, and motioned for Zimmerman to precede him out of the tunnel.
note 59
U.S. Navy Hospital
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
1615 25 March 1943
«Well, look what's washed up on my beach again,» Commander Jerome C. Kister, MC, USNR, greeted Captain James B. Weston, USMC, when he walked into his office and found Weston waiting for him. He touched Weston's shoulder.
«Good afternoon, sir.»
«Come on in. Rest your weary bones. It's a long drive from West Virginia, isn't it? Even in your gas guzzler?»
«It's a long ride,» Weston agreed.
During which I had a lot of time to think about what I'm going to do about Janice. And did not come up with any answer, except perhaps suicide.
«Sit,» Dr. Kister said, indicating an upholstered chair facing his desk.
«Thank you, sir.»
«And how was your recuperative leave? Are you appropriately grateful to the grateful taxpayers who picked up the tab for your month in the lap of luxury?»
«I wish they just gave me the money,» Weston said.
«But—a little bird told me—you did find the time to work in a little romance. So all was not lost time, was it?»
«I also found time to go to Pensacola,» Weston said. «I don't think I'm going to have to learn to fly all over again.»
«I heard. Tubby Bolemann has been keeping me up to date.»
Weston smiled. Although it made sense, it was the first time he had heard the corpulent psychiatrist called that. «He's a good guy,» Weston said.
«Yeah. They offered him retirement—a hundred percent to start, and fifty percent guaranteed for the rest of his life—but he decided to stick around. Now he's trying to go back to sea.»
«A good guy,» Weston repeated.
«He's also made it official that you are no crazier than any other Marine Aviator. So what happens now is we run you though another quick physical, which I'll schedule for tomorrow morning. And then you can go back to full duty.»
«A flight physical, I hope?»
«Since you're not on flight status, I'm not technically supposed to give you a flight physical. But—don't be shocked by this confession—I have made administrative errors before. I don't know if Pensacola will accept a flight physical from here, but you never know.»
«Thank you.»
«You can spend the rest of the day tomorrow putting your affairs in order— pay, that sort of thing—and then I'll discharge you from here as of the day after tomorrow. I think you get five days to drive to Pensacola.»
«Fine,» Weston said.
«It's one hell of a drive from here to Pensacola,» Dr. Kister said. «I suppose you have been thinking about that.»
«Sir?»
Dr. Kister didn't reply. He reached for his telephone and dialed a number.
«Ah, Lieutenant,» he said to whoever answered the phone. «Just the Naval officer with whom I wished to communicate. And how are you this afternoon?»
He's scheduling my physical
, Weston decided.
There was a reply, and then Kister said, «Yes, by a wild happenstance, he's sitting right here with me.»
He handed the phone to Weston, who took it.
«Captain Weston.»
«Hi,» Janice said.
His heart jumped. «Hi, yourself.»
«How was the drive?»
«Long.»
«Listen, I have the duty until 2000.»
«Damn!»
«Can you meet me in the Benjamin Franklin Hotel at eight-thirty?»
«Sure.»
«You can find it all right?»
«I know where it is.»
«Eight thirty at the bar,» Janice said. «Don't drink too much.»
«Yes, ma'am.»
Janice hung up.
Weston put the handset in its cradle.
«Thank you,» he said to Dr. Kister.
«Nice girl. If I had something like that waiting for me at the end of the long trail, I don't think I'd mind driving all the way up here from Pensacola myself.»
«Yeah,» Jim said thoughtfully.
«Okay, James,» Kister said. «Get out of here. Spruce yourself up. Get a shave and a shower.»
«Aye, aye, sir.»
«I want to see you before you actually leave, Jim,» Kister said.
«Yes, sir. And thanks. Commander.»
«I think of myself as Cupid's Little Helper."' Kister said.
note 60
The Lobby Bar
The Benjamin Franklin Hotel
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
2045 25 March 1943
«Hi, honey,» Lieutenant (j.g.) Janice Hardison, NNC, USNR, said to Captain James B. Weston, USMC, as she slid onto the barstool beside him. She kissed him, chastely.
«My God, you're beautiful!»
«How many of those have you had?» she asked, nodding at the glass in his hand.
«This is the second,» he said.
«Since 1600?» she challenged.
«I took in a movie,» he said.
«What did you see?»
«Tyrone Power,» he said. «
A Yank in the Royal Air Force
. He doesn't make a very convincing pilot.»
She laughed. «But he
is
.» she said. «You don't know?»
«Know what?»
«Tyrone Power is a pilot. He's a
Marine Aviator
.»
«No shit?» Weston exclaimed, truly astonished. Then he heard what he had said. «Sorry.»
«No shit,» she confirmed, then blushed when she realized the approaching bartender had heard her.
God, she's adorable when she blushes.
«Nothing for me, thank you,» Janice said to the bartender. «I won't be staying.»
«I don't have to finish this,» Weston offered. «Where are we going?»
«You're staying. I'm going,» Janice said, then waited for the bartender to move down the bar before continuing. «I've got a present for you,» she said. «Actually two.»
«I didn't get you anything,» he said.
She went into her purse and then pressed something into his hand. It was a hotel key.
«Jesus!» Jim said.
Janice blushed again.
«Stay here. Finish your drink slowly. Give me ten minutes.»
«Yes, ma'am,» he said.
«Nice to see you again, Captain,» Janice said, loudly enough so that the bartender could hear her. Then she slid off the stool and walked out of the bar into the lobby.
Weston watched her go, then turned back to the bar. The bartender was there.
«Very nice,» the bartender said. «Sorry you struck out.»
«The story of my life,» Weston said.
«You want another one of those?»
«One more,» Weston said. «And then I'll have to go.»
«I liked the second present better than the first,» Captain Weston said to Lieutenant Hardison. «But of course without the first, I wouldn't have gotten the second, would I?»
They were in one of the two single beds in Room 416. Weston's uniform and the white negligee Janice had been wearing when he came into the room were on the other bed.
«That wasn't a present.» Janice said. «Except maybe from God. That's what two people do when they're in love.»
«Sorry,» he said. «You said 'two presents.' «
«You get the second present in about two weeks,» Janice said.
«In two weeks, I will be in Pensacola, Florida,» he said.
More than likely in bed with another nice beautiful young girl who thinks she's in love with me. And vice versa.
«And so will I be,» Janice said.
«What?»
«Dr. Kister arranged it,» she said. «The Navy Hospital at Pensacola had a requirement for a psychiatric nurse, and Dr. Kister got the billet for me.»
«Wonderful!» Captain Weston said.
note 61
Naval Air Transport Command Terminal
Pearl Harbor, Oahu, Territory of Hawaii
1615 26 March 1943
The PBY-5A Catalina slowly and carefully approached the ramp until the pilot felt the wheels touch. Then, as the engines revved just slightly, the amphibious aircraft rose from the water and taxied onto the concrete parking area.
The area had been famous right after December 7, 1941, when photographs showing it littered with smashed and burning aircraft had been on the front pages of newspapers around the world. Many of the aircraft had been Catalinas.
There was still some evidence of that mess, Major Homer C. Dillon, USMC, had thought, waiting for this PBY-5A to arrive. The hangars were scarred where flames and smoke had reached them, and many of the windows in the hangars were still broken.
What did the Navy do with all the wrecked airplanes
? he had wondered idly.
Try to salvage what they could, maybe save the metal to be melted down? Or just load them onto a barge, take them offshore, and push them over the side
?
A team of white hats under the supervision of a chief began to hose down the Catalina's fuselage and landing gear even before the crew climbed out of the airplane.
The first person off it was Chief Carpenter's Mate Peter T. McGuire, USNR, who was wearing a mussed khaki uniform with a white cap cover. Even Major Dillon recognized that that made him out of uniform.
Chief McGuire immediately saw Major Dillon standing alongside a gray Navy Plymouth staff car. Beside him was a tall, good-looking Navy officer in impeccable whites, with some kind of a gold rope hanging from his shoulder. McGuire wondered what the hell that was.
The driver of the staff car started toward him.
«Your gear, Chief?»
«Oh, God, I forgot about it,» McGuire said. «It's on that goddamned airplane.»
«I'll get it for you, Chief,» the white hat said.
«No, I'll get it.»
«I don't mind,» the white hat said.
«I puked all over it,» Chief McGuire said. «I'll get it.»
He went back to the Catalina. As he reached it, a fellow chief, this one a chief aviation pilot with the wings of a Naval Aviator on his shirt, appeared in the fuselage bubble gingerly holding a canvas suitcase in his fingers.
«This what you're looking for, Chief?» he inquired with infinite disgust, then dropped it onto the tarmac.
«Hey, buddy, I'm really sorry,» McGuire said, sounding as if he meant it. «It wasn't as if I was at the sauce or something. Every time I get in an airplane, I get sick.»
«A word of wisdom, Chief,» the chief aviation pilot said. «Don't get into airplanes.»
McGuire picked up the well-stuffed canvas suitcase and, holding it at arm's length, walked to Dillon and the Navy officer.
«Welcome to beautiful Hawaii, Pete,» Dillon said. «What's with the suitcase?»
Chief McGuire finally realized he was supposed to salute, dropped the bag to the tarmac, and saluted.
«I threw up on the airplane,» McGuire said. «I threw up a lot on the airplane. A couple of times it didn't make the bucket they gave me.» He paused a moment, then added: «Goddamn you, Jake, you know I can't fly!»
«Mr. Lewis, may I introduce Chief Petty Officer McGuire?» Jake said. «Peter, this is Lieutenant Chambers Lewis.»
McGuire saluted again and put out his hand. «I used to say, 'any friend of Jake's,' but now I'm not so sure,» he said. «I used to think the bastard was a friend of mine.»
«The pleasure is all mine, Chief,» Lewis said.
«Christ, I can smell the bag from here,» Dillon said. «What are we going to do with it?»
«Paul,» Lewis said to the driver, «is there a piece of line in the trunk? Or can you get one? Let's tie the chief's luggage to the bumper. Air it out on the way to Muku-Muku.»
«I think the Admiral would like that, sir,» the driver said, smiling, and went into the trunk.
Jake Dillon leaned forward toward Chief McGuire and sniffed.
«Him, too?» Lieutenant Lewis said. «I'm not sure he'd fit on the bumper.»
«You're kidding, right?» Chief McGuire asked.
«Why don't you help him tie your bag to the bumper and then get in the front seat?» Jake ordered.
«Where the hell are we going, anyhow?» Chief McGuire asked.
«Muku-Muku,» Jake replied.
«What is that, Hawaiian?» McGuire asked, fascinated.
«Yes it is,» Dillon replied, straight-faced. «It means 'Place of Hot Waters.'You need a shower, Pete.»
«Goddamn right I do,» Chief McGuire agreed.
They drove up to Muku-Muku as Master Gunner Stefan Oblensky, USMC, was walking up the wide stairs to the verandah. He turned and went back down the stairs.
Although Jake was personally glad to see Big Steve, he was sorry he was there right now. Operation Gobi was classified, and Big Steve did not have the Need To Know.
Big Steve saluted, and Jake and Lewis returned the salute.
«What's with the suitcase?» Big Steve asked.
«We had a little airsickness,» Jake said.
Chief McGuire stepped out of the front seat. «I threw up all the way from Espiritu Santo,» he announced.
«I'm Steve Oblensky,» Big Steve announced. «My wife's inside. She probably has something that'll help.»
«Help what?» McGuire asked.
«She's a nurse,» Big Steve said. «You're sick, right?»
«Not since I got off that fucking airplane I'm not.»
As if on cue, Commander Florence Kocharski, NC, USN, attired in a billowing Muumuu, descended the steps from the veranda. «Watch your goddamn mouth around here, Chief!» she said firmly.
Chief McGuire looked at Commander Kocharski in confusion.
«Good afternoon, Commander,» Dillon said. «I was just explaining to Mr. Oblensky that Chief McGuire has a little airsickness problem.»
«Every time I get in one and they tilt it,» McGuire confirmed, and demonstrated with his hand what he meant by tilt, «I get sick.»
«They gave him a bucket on the Catalina, Commander,» Lieutenant Lewis said. «But he apparently didn't always make the bucket, so to speak.»
«I'm really embarrassed about that,» McGuire said. «What I really should have done with my clothes was deep them.»
«What?» Big Steve asked, confused.
«Deep them,» McGuire repeated. «You know, just throw them in the water.»
«I think the Chief means 'deep-six them,' « Chambers Lewis said, not unkindly, but smiling. «As in 'over the side.' «
«I guess,» McGuire said agreeably.
«Chief, why don't you tell Commander Kocharski and Mr. Oblensky how long you have been in the Navy?» Dillon suggested.
McGuire thought carefully before replying: «It will be nine months the first of April.»
«Nine
months
? How the hell did you get to be a chief in nine months?» Commander Kocharski asked in disbelief.
«I signed up as a chief,» McGuire said. «Why do they call you 'Commander'?»
«Because I happen to be a commander,» Flo said.
«I'll be damned!» McGuire said wonderingly.
«How many times in the last eight hours have you been nauseous?» Flo asked.
«Jesus, I don't know,» McGuire said. «Eight, ten times. Maybe more. I didn't count.»
«You're probably dehydrated,» Flo said. «We'll get some liquid into you.» She turned to the other men. «You may think this is funny, but it's not. Get those goddamned smirks off your faces.»
Chief McGuire looked at Commander Kocharski through eyes filled with gratitude.
Forty-five minutes later, Captain Charles M. Galloway, USMCR, arrived at Muku-Muku. By then Chief Petty Officer Peter McGuire, USNR, was well along on the road to rehydration: At Commander Kocharski's order, he had consumed over a quart of freshly prepared pineapple juice, mixed three-to-one with soda water to prevent further upsetting his stomach, and he was now working on his second bottle of beer. He had also had a shower and was wearing a clean khaki uniform, which Commander Kocharski had provided for him from her husband's closet.
«Charley,» Commander Kocharski made the introductions, «Chief Peter McGuire, a friend of Jake's. Pete, Captain Charles Galloway, skipper of VMF-229, and Big Steve's boss man.»
Galloway was in his late twenties, slim, deeply tanned, and lanky. His light brown hair was just long enough to part. The two men shook hands, then Charley collapsed into one of the upholstered rattan chairs on the patio and helped himself to a bottle of beer from an ice-filled bucket. «What kind of a chief, Chief?» he inquired politely.
«Carpenter's mate.»
«That make you a Seabee?» Galloway asked.
«With nine months in the Navy,» Big Steve volunteered, which earned him a dirty look not only from Commander Kocharski but from Galloway himself.
«Yes, sir,» Pete replied.
«Well, that's two brownie points,» Galloway said. «A Seabee and a friend of Jake's. Welcome to Muku-Muku.»
«Thank you.»
«Just passing through Pearl?» Galloway asked.
«I don't know what the hell I'm doing here, Captain,» McGuire said.
«Really?» Charley replied, chuckling.
«I was minding my own business on Espiritu Santo—«
«You're with the Third Seabees?» Charley interrupted.
«Yes, sir.»
«You know anything about Auxiliary Field Two? How long is it going to be out of operation?»
«That's what I was doing, Captain. That's what I still would be doing if this so-called friend of mine hadn't sent for me.» McGuire pointed at Jake Dillon.
«Really?» Galloway asked.
«I'd just finished pulling the pierced steel planking,» McGuire explained, «when some admiral shows up and asks if I know Jake Dillon. I should have said no.»
«But you said yes, right?» Galloway asked, smiling.
«And the next thing I know, I'm on a goddamned airplane here—sick every goddamned mile of the way.»
«Pete is unusually sensitive to change of attitude.» Commander Kocharski said. «Possibly it has to do with his inner ear, but there are other—«
«Which means what, Flo?» Charley interrupted.
«He gets sick on airplanes,» Big Steve said.
«And stays sick,» McGuire confirmed.
«I knew a sergeant major at Quantico like that,» Galloway said. «He used to get sick before we finished the climb-out. Isn't there anything that can be done?»
Commander Kocharski hesitated, just perceptibly.
«Yes, there is,» she said. «There's a pill. A little yellow pill. I'll get some at the hospital tomorrow.»
«That's very nice of you, Commander,» Chief McGuire said. «But don't bother. I am never ever again going to get on an airplane. Alive.»
«So tell me, Jake,» Galloway asked, smiling, «Why did the chief have to leave Espiritu Santo, where he was doing something useful, and come here?
Fly
here?»
Major Dillon and Lieutenant Lewis exchanged looks.
«Yeah, Jake, what the hell is going on?» McGuire asked.
«It's classified,» Jake said.
«What the hell does that mean? 'Classified'?» McGuire asked.
» 'Classified'?» Galloway parroted.
«We're doing a job for Flem Pickering,» Dillon said.
«I don't understand that either,» McGuire said.
«A job involving a submarine and a Catalina rendezvousing at sea?» Galloway asked.
«Where did you hear that, Charley?» Lieutenant Lewis asked.
«At the O Club bar at Ewa,» Charley said.
«Tell me exactly, Charley,» Lewis said softly.
There was something in Lewis's voice that told Galloway he had touched a nerve. He shrugged and provided the detail. «A Catalina sat down with radio trouble. He couldn't talk to the tower at Pearl, so he landed at Ewa because there's less traffic. And then Big Steve told him we couldn't fix the radios until the next day. So he went to the club, had a couple of drinks, and told everybody, including me, what a lousy day he had had. First he had to take off before zero dark hundred and fly out over the ocean. Then he landed and met a submarine, and after fucking—excuse me, Flo—fiddling around for an hour or so, which included one of his Airedales falling off the wing into the sea, the morons on the submarine—one of them an admiral's aide and the other a Marine major— finally realized what he could have told them all along, that you have a hell of a lot of trouble running a half-inch fuel line across the high seas from a submarine to a Catalina.»
«Oh, shit,» Jake Dillon said.
«I'll have his ass,» Lewis said furiously. «Excuse me, Flo.»
Commander Kocharski made a gesture with her hand showing the apology was readily accepted.
«I don't want to get that pilot in trouble,» Galloway said.
«He was told what we were doing was secret and to keep his mouth shut. He's in trouble and he deserves to be,» Lewis said coldly. «Damn it!»
«I don't know what anybody's talking about,» Chief McGuire complained.
«You're not supposed to, Pete,» Commander Kocharski said. «That's what 'classified' means. We don't have the Need To Know.»
Major Dillon and Lieutenant Lewis exchanged another look, this one a lot longer than the first.
«My decision, Lieutenant Lewis,» Jake said formally. «In case anyone asks.»
«For the record, I concur in your decision,» Lewis said. «And let the record show it came
after
it came to our attention that the
Sunfish/Catalina
operation had already been compromised by a Naval Aviator with a big mouth.»
Dillon nodded.
«The following is Top Secret,» Jake said, looking first at Charley Galloway and then at Chief McGuire. «Understood?»
Galloway nodded his understanding. After a moment, McGuire said, «Okay, Jake.»
«Would you like me to take a walk, Jake?» Commander Kocharski asked.
«As far as I'm concerned, Flo, you're the only one I really trust to keep her mouth shut.»
«I don't mind,» Flo said.
«Stay,» Jake said. «Okay, what we're doing,» he began, «what Flem Pickering is doing, with the blessing of CINCPAC—is sending a weather team into the Gobi Desert.»
It took him five minutes to explain exactly what they had been doing aboard the
Sunfish
when it met the Catalina at sea. Lewis was impressed. Jake's briefing was just as good a briefing as any given to CINCPAC by senior officers with years of experience.
If not as formal.
«The pilot with the big mouth was right,» he said. «Getting fuel aboard a Catalina from a submarine on the high seas is going to be a bitch. It may not be possible at all, which is really going to fu—foul—things up by the numbers. I've seen Pete find answers to problems when nobody else had a clue, so I sent for him.»
«Jake, not only do I hate airplanes, but I don't know the first goddamned thing about them,» Chief McGuire said. «
Or
submarines. So why send for me?»
«Like I said, Pete, I'm desperate. And I've seen you solve problems when no one else had a clue. I thought it was worth a shot.»
«Can I ask a question?» McGuire asked.
«Shoot.»
«Let me be sure I've got this straight,» McGuire said. «What you want to do is load people and equipment on an airplane—«
«Airplanes. Two airplanes,» Dillon interrupted. «Catalinas. The same kind of airplane that you flew on here.»
«Thanks to you, you bastard,» McGuire said. «Then you're going to land on the ocean, meet a submarine, and refuel the airplanes. Right?»
«Right.»
«And the problem is refueling the airplanes from the sub, right?»
«Right.»
«Okay. I don't know from zilch about airplanes, so I'll ask what will probably sound like dumb questions.»
«Shoot,» Jake said.
«How much of a problem would it be to move the people and the equipment from the submarine to the airplanes in rubber boats?» Chief McGuire asked.
«A lot less of a problem,» Lewis said, and then understood the implications. «Damn it!»
«I say something wrong?» Chief McGuire said.
«Steve,» Dillon said. «Tell me about auxiliary fuel tanks carried inside a Catalina.»
«It's been a long time since I flew a Cat, or had anything to do with one,» Big Steve said. «But the last I heard, there aren't any designed for the Cat.»
«Damn,» Jake said.
«But you could build them without much trouble,» Big Steve said. «BuAir would have a fit. It would be an unauthorized modification; but it could be done.»
«You're saying you could build such tanks?»
«If I had the stuff, aluminum, aluminum stringers, something to seal them. Sure.»
«And that fuel could be pumped up into the wing tanks?» Lewis asked.
«It could, sure. Or you could add pumps and valves to feed the engines directly.»
»
You
could do that, Steve?» Dillon asked softly.
Big Steve nodded.
Lieutenant Lewis pushed himself out of his chair and walked to the low wall that bordered the flagstone patio. He sat on the wall and dialed a number.
«Let me speak to the AAOD, please,» he said, referring to the Air (or Aviation) Officer of the Day. After a short delay, Lewis went on. «Sir, this is Lieutenant C. D. Lewis, aide-de-camp to Admiral Wagam, and speaking at his direction. There are two Catalina aircraft at Pearl reserved for a mission of the Admiral's. Both of them are to be at the Ewa Marine Air Station at the earliest possible time tomorrow morning. And please arrange ground transportation to return their crews topearl harbor. and, sir, you may consider this an order from Admiral Wagam: the crews are to be informed that they will not, under penalty of court-martial, tell anyone where they took the Catalinas.» There was another pause, and then Lewis said, «Thank you very much, sir,» and hung up.
«It would have been nice, Lieutenant Lewis,» Galloway said, «if you had
asked
me for the services of Mr. Oblensky.»
«I knew in my heart, Captain Galloway, that you would readily volunteer anything you could to this noble purpose of ours.»
«Screw you.»
«You can fly Catalinas, right?» Dillon asked.
«I can, but I'm hoping nobody remembers that I can,» Galloway said.
«Why?»
«You don't know about Mclnerney's little TWX? Seeking volunteers with Catalina pilot-in-command time for a classified mission involving great personal risk?»
«Oh, yeah,» Dillon said.
«Jake, I like what I'm doing. I don't want to fly a Catalina into the Gobi Desert,» Galloway said.
«Mclnerney's asking for volunteers. Don't volunteer.»
«If Mclnerney doesn't get the volunteers he needs, he'll go looking.»
«Charley, you're safe. When I saw Mclnerney, he told me you're the only man in the Corps who could command your squadron of bums.»
Galloway looked at Dillon long enough to be assured that he was hearing the truth.
«I'll feel safe when I see the Cats take off for the Gobi with somebody else flying them,» he said.
«Chief,» Big Steve asked, «you got any experience working with aluminum?»
«Not much,» McGuire said. «I've made car bodies out of it. Stuff like that. And once a motorboat. With a V-8 Cadillac in it.»
«For Clark Gable, right?» Dillon said, remembering.
«Yeah. I owed him a big one.»
«Jake, do I get to use the chief?» Big Steve asked.
«He's yours,» Jake said.
«I want one thing understood from right now,» Chief McGuire said. «I am not going to get in another goddamned airplane. Not now. Not ever.»
«I will take your desires under consideration, Chief McGuire,» Major Dillon said.
Chapter Sixteen
note 62
The Gentleman's Bar
The Country Club
Memphis, Tennessee
1730 27 March 1943
«I have a matter of some delicacy to discuss with you, Jesse,» Braxton V. Lipscomb, President of the Planter's Bank & Trust Company of Memphis, announced to Rear Admiral Jesse R. Ball, USN, Flag Officer Commanding Naval Air Station, Memphis. The two men were in golf clothing, sitting in leather-upholstered captain's chairs at one of the dozen or so tables in the paneled barroom. It had been chilly on the links, and they had decided to have a little taste before taking a shower.
«I didn't think you invited me out here just to give me your money,» Admiral Ball replied. At five dollars a point, their scores had been 85 for the Admiral and 97 for the banker, who just couldn't seem to get out of the sand trap on the fourteenth hole. «What's on your mind, Braxton?»
«Let me set the stage,» Lipscomb said. «Identify the players, so to speak.»
Admiral Ball nodded, took a sip of his Jack Daniel's, and waited for the banker to proceed.
«The first vice president of Planter's Bank and Trust is a fellow named Quincy T. Megham, Jr. They call him 'Quincy Junior.' I don't suppose you know him?»
Admiral Ball shook his head, «no.»
«The main reason they call him Quincy Junior is that his father, the president before I took over, was naturally Quincy Senior.»
«Makes sense,» Admiral Ball said.
«The main reason Quincy Senior was president was that he and his family are the largest stockholders in the bank.» He clarified: «Not the majority, but the largest.»
«That makes sense too.»
«Now, Quincy Senior was a
banker
,» Lipscomb said. «He taught me just about everything I know about banking.»
Admiral Ball nodded again, and waited somewhat impatiently for the banker to go on. Admiral Ball was a Yankee. He had been appointed to the Naval Academy from Rhode Island, and his assignment to command the Memphisnas had been the first time he had ever been stationed in the South. It had taken him two weeks to decide that civilian Rebels were just like the Rebels he had known in the Navy. They never got to the point without looking for at least two bushes to beat around.
«Well, he apparently did a good job,» Admiral Ball said.
«Quincy Junior is not really a chip off the old block, unfortunately. He was not prepared to take over the bank when his daddy went to his reward.»
«But he still owned a good deal of stock in the bank?»
«So we named him first vice president,» Braxton Lipscomb said. «And I stepped into his daddy's shoes. The arrangement works. Quincy Junior is not really all that interested in the bank. But he has a title and an office, and it's something for him to do, somewhere for him to go, when he wakes up in the morning.»
«I see.»
«He does 'public relations' work, I guess you'd call it. He's a good-looking fellow, and he gives a pretty good speech, and the bank needs something like that.»
«I understand.»
«About a year ago, when the Tennessee Bankers Association needed someone to head up the Governmental Relations Committee, everybody agreed that Quincy Junior was just the man to head it up. Like I said, he gives a good speech, and he is the first vice president of Planter's Bank and Trust.»
«What exactly does this Governmental Relations Committee do?»
«Most of it has to do with helping the war effort. Getting school kids to invest part of their allowances in War Bond Savings Stamps.»
«They glue twenty-five-cent stamps in a book, and when they get twenty-five dollars' worth, they turn them in and get a twenty-five-dollar War Bond?»
«Actually, they get a twenty-five-dollar War Bond for eighteen dollars and fifty cents' worth of stamps. In ten years when they cash in the bond, they get the full amount, twenty-five dollars.»
«I see.»
«Quincy Junior also handles War Bond tours. You know, when Hollywood stars come around, or war heroes? He sets up the tour and handles the details.»
«Sounds like valuable work,» Admiral Ball said.
«It is. It is valuable, and it's right down Quincy Junior's alley.»
«I can see where it would be.»
Especially since good ol' Quincy Junior is not, unfortunately, a chip off Quincy Senior's block.
«It gets him out of town a good deal,» Lipscomb said.
«I can see where it would.»
«That's probably got something to do with the problem we have, him being away from home so much.»
«What problem are we talking about?»
«Elizabeth-Sue Megham, Quincy Junior's wife. I can see where she would get lonely. It's natural.»
«I don't think I'm following you, Braxton.»
«Elizabeth-Sue is considerably younger than Quincy Junior. He's forty-five, she's thirty-three, maybe thirty-two.»
«I see.»
«To get right to the point, Jesse…«
Finally?
»… Elizabeth-Sue seems to have gotten herself involved with one of your officers from the air station.»
«I'm sorry to hear that.»
«It's a delicate situation for all concerned.»
«Do you have a name?»
«Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering. He's a Marine.»
«He's a fine young officer, Brax. He served with distinction on Guadalcanal. He's an aviator. An ace, as a matter of fact.»
Who is obviously screwing this female, who is at least ten years younger than her husband, who is apparently a jerk
. Admiral Ball thought of something else.
«His father is a Marine general,» he added.
«I'm sure he's a fine young man,» Lipscomb said. «And—I like to think of myself as a man of the world—these things happen between young people. But the potential for real trouble—«
«I'll deal with it, Braxton,» Admiral Ball interrupted.
»—is there, and we're going to have to do something about it, you and I.»
«I said I'd deal with it,» Admiral Ball said.
«I knew I could count on you,» Braxton Lipscomb said.
note 63
The Marquis da Lafayette Suite
The Foster Lafayette Hotel
Washington, D.C.
1140 28 March 1943
Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, was sitting in a red leather armchair in the library, a long thin black cigar in his mouth, his feet up on a matching footstool, and reading the
Washington Star
. Except for his tunic, he was in uniform. Hart had that laid out on a library table, making sure that all of its insignia, plus the three-by-five-inch array of ribbons, were precisely in position.
Hart's own uniform, complete to the cord identifying him as an aide-de-camp to a general officer, was fresh from the hotel valet.
Four new, identical canvas suitcases had been placed in a row by the door to the sitting room. When they returned from lunch, they would immediately leave for Anacostia Naval Air Station. A Naval Air Transport Command R4-D had been provided to take Pickering to the West Coast. It would also carry just over two tons of meteorological equipment and shortwave radios, plus two Navy meteorologists. They would pick up three more Navy meteorologists at the Great Lakes Naval Training Station outside Chicago.
They were all enlisted men. One of those waiting at Anacostia was a chief weatherman, an old salt with eighteen years in the Navy. With him was a weatherman third class who had been a meteorologist before being drafted into the Navy eight months previously. The men they would pick up en route to San Diego were apprentice seamen who had been meteorologists before they were drafted into the Navy. All had volunteered for a «classified mission outside the continental United States involving great personal risk.» None of them yet knew they were going into the Gobi Desert to operate a weather station—more accurately, that it was
hoped
they could be sent there. Pickering planned to tell them what they had volunteered for on the long flight from San Diego to Pearl Harbor.
Since their route to Chicago would make a stop at the Memphis Naval Air Station almost convenient—they had to refuel someplace en route, and Memphis was a good choice—Pickering had told Captain David Haughton, Navy Secretary Frank Knox's administrative assistant, to schedule an overnight stop at Memphis.
He wanted to have dinner with Pick before departing again for the Pacific. After wondering whether he was taking advantage of his position in arranging it, he decided to hell with it. He wanted to have dinner with Pick. There was no telling when they would get together again. There was also no telling, in fact, when he'd see his wife again. She was too tied up in San Francisco, she told him, to come to San Diego to see him off.
The chime sounded. Pickering looked up at Second Lieutenant George F. Hart, USMCR. «With a little bit of luck, that will be someone regretting that lunch is off,» he said, «and we can get the hell out of here now.» He immediately regretted saying that. Hart was really looking forward to the luncheon. He had even told his father and mother about it.
Hart walked quickly out of the library to answer the door. A moment later, Brigadier General F. L. Rickabee, USMC, entered the library, wearing his customary mussed and somewhat ill-fitting suit. He carried a briefcase chained to his wrist, and there was a bulge in his left armpit Pickering knew was a .45 pistol in a shoulder holster.
«Hello, Fritz,» Pickering said cordially. «What's up?»
«I'm glad I caught you,» Rickabee said, setting the briefcase on the library table and unlocking the handcuff.
«I was hoping you were a messenger telling me I didn't have to go,» Pickering said without thinking.
Rickabee worked the combination lock on the battered briefcase, took from it a single sheet of paper, and handed it to Pickering. «I don't like to think how this came into my hands,» Rickabee said.
«What is it?» Pickering asked, as he started to read it.
T O P S E C R E T
SPECIAL CHANNEL
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
US MILITARY MISSION TO CHINA
CHUNGKING
1730 25 MARCH 1943
VIA SPECIAL CHANNEL
EYES ONLY
BRIG GEN FLEMING PICKERING USMCR
DEPUTY DIRECTOR PACIFIC OPERATIONS
OSS WASHINGTON DC
1. ALL PERSONNEL AND EQUIPMENT ARRIVED HERE SAFELY AND WITHOUT INCIDENT 0830 LOCALTTME 26MAR43.
2. MAJGEN FT. DEMPSEY, USA, CHIEF SIGNAL OFFICER HQ USMMCHI AND HIS DEPUTY BRIGGEN J.R. NBWLEY, USA HAD PREVIOUS KNOWLEDGE OF ARRIVAL PERSONNEL AND EQUIPMENT AND PURPOSE THEREOF. MAJGEN DEMPSEY HAS INFORMED THE UNDERSIGNED HIS AND BRIGGEN NEWLEY'S MAGIC CLEARANCES ARE EXPECTED SHORTLY.
3. MAJGEN DEMPSEY HAS STATED UNDERSIGNED IS TO CONSIDER HIMSELF CRYPTOGRAPHIC OFFICER ATTACHED TO HIS STAFF WITH RESPONSIBILrrY FOR MAGIC AND SPECIAL CHANNEL. PRESUMABLY SAME APPLIES TO LT EASTERBROOK, GUNNER RUTTERMAN AND ON HIS ARRIVAL LT MOORE.
4. MAJGEN DEMPSEY HAS DIRECTED THAT ALL MAGIC AND SPECIAL TRAFFIC COMMUNICATION BE ROUTED THROUGH HIM OR HIS DEPUTY.
5. WHEN UNDERSIGNED RESPECTFULLY DECLINED TO ANSWER MAJGEN DEMPSEY"S QUESTIONS REGARDING MISSION OF MCCOY AND ZIMMERMAN, MAJGEN DEMPSBY ORDERED THE UNDERSIGNED TO ORDER MCCOY AND ZIMMERMAN TO REPORT TO STATION CHIEF OSS CHUNGKING.
6. COMPLIANCE WITH THIS ORDER WAS NOT POSSIBLE INASMUCH AS UNDERSIGNED HAD, PRIOR TO REPORTING TO MAJGEN DEMPSEY, DETACHED MCCOY AND ZIMMERMAN WITH ORDERS TO PROCEED ON THEIR MISSION. THEIR PRESENT WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN, BUT STRONG POSSIBILITY EXISTS THEY WILL CONTACT UNDERSIGNED BEFORE LEAVING CHUNGKING SOMETIME WITHIN NEXT SEVEN TO TEN DAYS.
7. IN COMPLIANCE WITH ORDERS OF MAJGEN DEMPSEY, ALL FUTURE TRAFFIC UTILIZING SPECIAL CHANNEL WILL BE BROUGHT TO HIS OR BRIGGEN NEWLEY'S ATTENTION.
BANNING, LTCOL, USMC
T O P S E C R E T
«What the hell is this all about?» Pickering asked. He passed the document to Hart.
«It means magic may damned well be compromised,» Rickabee said.
«Yeah,» Pickering agreed thoughtfully.
«Who told this General Dempsey?» Pickering asked, then warmed to his anger. «And where did he get the idea he has the authority to tell my people what to do? And what the hell is this 'OSS station Chungking'?
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