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The officer courier went aboard the USS Millard G. Fillmore (formerly the Pacific Princess of the Pacific & Far East lines) as soon as she was tied to the wharf. He was immediately shown to the cabin of Major General Alexander A. Vandergrift, the Division Commander.

  In the courier’s chained-to-his wrist briefcase, in addition to the highly classified documents he had carried from the States on a AAAAAA priority, there was a business-size envelope addressed to the First Division’s Deputy Commander, Brigadier General Lewis T. Harris, and marked “Personal.”

  Since it took a few minutes to locate the Division’s Classified Documents Officer, who had to sign for the contents of the courier’s briefcase, General Harris, who was in General Vandergrift’s cabin at the time, got his “personal” letter before the other, more official documents were distributed.

  The letter was unofficial—a “back channel communication” written by a longtime crony, a brigadier general who was assigned to Headquarters, USMC. Harris tore it open, read it, and then handed it wordlessly to General Vandergrift.

  Washington, 11 June

  Brig Gen Lewis T. Harris

  Hq, First Marine Division

  By Hand

  Dear Lucky:

  Major Jake Dillon, two officers, and six enlisted Marines are on their way to New Zealand to “coordinate Marine public relations.” The Assistant Commandant is very impressed with Dillon, who used to be a Hollywood press agent. He feels he will be valuable in dealing with the more important members of the press, and making sure the Navy doesn’t sit on Marine accomplishments.

  He will be on TDY to Admiral Ghormley’s Commander, South Pacific, Headquarters, rather than to the First Division, which takes him neatly out from under your command while he is there.

  If I have to spell this out: This is the Assistant Commandant’s idea, and you will have to live with it.

  Regards,

  Tony

  The Division Commander read the letter, looked at Harris, snorted, and commented, “I don’t have to live with this press agent, Lucky, you do. Keep this character and his people away from me.”

  The First Division was already prepared to deal with the public as well as the enemy. One of the Special Staff sections of the First Marine Division was “Public Information.” It was staffed with a major, a captain, a lieutenant, three sergeants, three corporals, and two privates first class. It was natural, therefore, that the question, “just what the hell is this about?” should arise in General Harris’s mind.

  “Aye, aye, Sir,” he said.

  Major Dillon, accompanied by two lieutenants, four sergeants, and two privates first class, arrived by air (priority AAA) in Wellington on Tuesday, 16 June 1942.

  He presented his orders to the G-1, who as Personnel Officer for the Division, was charged with housing and feeding people on temporary duty. The G-1 informed Major Dillon where he could draw tentage for the enlisted men, and in which tents he and his officers could find bunks. He told Major Dillon to get his people settled and to check back with him in the morning.

  The G-1 then sought audience with the Assistant Division Commander, who he suspected (correctly) would be curious to see Major Dillon’s orders, which included a very interesting and unusual paragraph: 3. Marine commanders are directed to give Major Dillon access to classified information through Top SECRET.

  The G-1, who had earned the reputation of not bothering the Assistant Division Commander with petty bullshit, was granted an almost immediate audience with General Harris. After he read Major Dillon’s orders, Harris inquired, “Where did you say you put this messenger from God? Get him in here right now.”

  This proved not to be possible. For Major Dillon and his officers were not at the Transient Officer’s Quarters. Nor were they engaged in helping the enlisted men erect their tents. Indeed, according to the Quartermaster, nobody asking to draw tentage had been to see him. When the G-1 somewhat nervously reported these circumstances to General Harris, the General replied, “You find that sonofabitch, Dick, and get him over here.”

  The G-1 and members of his staff conducted a search of the area, but without success.

  At 0915 the next morning, however, General Harris’s sergeant reported that a Major named Dillon was in the outer office, asking if the General could spare him a minute.

  “Ask the major to come in, please, Sergeant,” Harris replied.

  Major Dillon marched into Harris’s office, stopped eighteen inches from his desk, came to rigid attention, and barked, “Major Dillon, Sir. Thank you for seeing me.”

  General Harris’s first thought vis-à-vis Major Jacob Dillon was: The fit of that uniform is impeccable. He didn’t get that off a rack at an officer’s sales store. Give the devil his due. At least the sonofabitch looks like a Marine.

  General Harris let Major Dillon stand there for almost a minute—which seemed like much longer—examining him.

  “Stand at ease, Major,” Harris said, and Dillon snappily changed to a position that was more like Parade Rest than At Ease, with his hands folded in the small of his back.

  “Colonel Naye finally found you, did he?” Harris asked softly.

  “Sir, I wasn’t aware the colonel was looking for me.”

  “Where the hell have you been, Dillon? Where did you lay your head to rest, for example?”

  “At the Connaught, Sir,” Dillon said.

  “At the where?”

  “The Duke of Connaught Hotel, Sir.”

  “A hotel?” Harris asked, incredulously.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Just to satisfy my sometimes uncontrollable curiosity, Major, how did you get from here to town? And back out here?”

  “A friend picked us up, Sir. And arranged for the rooms in the Connaught. And has arranged a couple of cars for us.”

  “‘Rooms’? ‘Us‘? You took your officers with you?”

  “Yes, Sir. And the men. I thought they needed a good night’s sleep. It’s a hell of a long airplane ride from Hawaii, Sir.”

  It had previously occurred to General Harris that if Major Dillon and his two commissioned and six enlisted press agents, and their 1240 pounds of accompanying baggage and equipment had not traveled to Wellington, New Zealand, by priority air it would have been possible to move nine real Marines and 1240 pounds of badly needed equipment by air to Wellington.

  With some effort, General Harris restrained himself from offering this observation aloud.

  “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “We came by ship. Who’s going to pay for the hotel, just out of curiosity?”

  “That’s going to require a sort of lengthy answer, Sir.”

  “My time is your time, Major. Curiosity overwhelms me.”

  “For the time being, Sir, those of us who are still on salary are splitting the expenses for everybody.”

  “Still on salary?”

  “Most of us are from the movies, Sir,” Dillon said.

  What the hell does that mean? Tony’s letter, come to think of it, said this guy was a Hollywood press agent.

  “But one of the photographers and two of the writers came from Pathe—the newsreel photographer—and the wires. AP specifically. Their salaries stopped when they came in the Corps. The rest of us are still getting paid, so we decided to split the tab for Sergeant Pincney and the lieutenants.”

  “Let me be sure I have this right,” Harris said. “Your two officers are having their hotel bills paid by your enlisted men?”

  “General, it sounds a lot worse than it is,” Dillon said.

  “Fortunately, it’s none of my business, since you’re not in the 1st Marines,” Harris said. This had just occurred to him; it was a little comforting. “But what is my business is your mission here. Can you explain that to me?”

  “Well, Sir. When we—the 1st Marines—make their first landing, the men I have with me, broken down into two teams, will go ashore with the first wave. Each team will have a still and a motion picture photographer and a writer. The film they shoot, and the copy the wr
iter writes, will be made available to the press on a pool basis ... and flown to the States, to see what mileage they can get out of it in Washington.”

  “You’re aware, of course, that we have our own PIO people?”

  “Yes, Sir. I tried to make that point to General Frischer. I didn’t get very far. And to tell you the truth, Sir, I didn’t mind getting shot down. I wanted to come over here.”

  “You did? Why?”

  “I’m a Marine, General,” Dillon said.

  “I was about to ask about that. I heard you were a Hollywood press agent.”

  “Yes, Sir. Before that I was a Marine. A China Marine. Then I got in the movie business, and then I came back in the Corps.”

  “To be a press ag—a public information officer?”

  “That was the Deputy Commandant’s idea, Sir. I thought, still think, that I could be of more use with stripes on my sleeve.”

  I like the sound of that. Maybe this character isn’t a complete asshole after all.

  “Well, Major, I’m sure the Deputy Commandant is right. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “Not a thing, Sir. I’m going to try to stay out of your hair as much as possible.”

  It was an ill-chosen figure of speech. General Harris suffered from advanced male pattern baldness and was somewhat sensitive on the subject. Major Dillon promptly made it worse:

  “The only thing on my schedule right now is to see your Division PIO,” he said. “To assure him that I’m going to stay out of his hair, too. And then I want to see Jack NMI Stecker. Major Stecker.”

  “I’m acquainted with Major Stecker,” Harris said. “What do you want from him?”

  General Harris was more than “acquainted” with Major Jack NMI Stecker. Given the chasm between officer and enlisted ranks, they were—as much as possible—lifelong friends. For nearly a quarter of a century, Harris had believed that one of the few mistakes Jack Stecker made in his Marine career was turning down the appointment he was offered to Annapolis in 1918.

  At nineteen, Stecker won the Medal of Honor ... for really incredible valor in France. With the Medal came the Annapolis appointment. But Stecker turned it down to marry his childhood sweetheart, which meant that he would spend his Marine Corps career as an enlisted man.

  It was folklore in the Marine Corps that many senior non-coms were just as qualified to command companies and battalions as any officer. Harris believed that one of the few men of whom this was really true was Jack NMI Stecker. And Harris put his belief in action; he went to Marine Corps Commandant Slocomb to make this announcement—a dangerous deviation from the sacred path of chain of command. Even so, his move resulted in the gold leaf now on Jack NMI Stecker’s collar points, and his assignment as a battalion commander in the 5th Marines.

  “Jack and I were pretty close when he was Sergeant Major of the 4th Marines in Shanghai ...”

  If you and Jack NMI Stecker were really close, that means you really aren’t an asshole, Major, after all. I’ll call Jack and ask him about this guy.

  “... and I hope to talk him into letting me send some of my people down to his battalion to see if he can make Marines out of them.”

  Good thinking. If anyone can turn feather merchants into Marines, Jack Stecker can.

  “The PFCs, you mean?”

  “No, Sir. Everybody but the PFCs. They at least went through boot camp at San Diego. I mean the sergeants and the lieutenants. Some of them have only been in the Corps a month.”

  “And they haven’t been—the officers—to Basic School? Or the others to boot camp?”

  “No, Sir. General Frischer said that since they wouldn’t be commanding troops, it wouldn’t matter.”

  “They were commissioned, or enlisted, directly from civilian life, to do this? And they were sent here without any training whatever?”

  “Yes, Sir, that’s about the size of it.”

  I don’t think I will bother General Vandergrift with the details of this operation. He has enough to worry about as it is; he doesn’t need this proof positive that the rest of the Corps has gone insane. He told me to keep this press agent and his people away from him, and I will.

  “Thank you for coming in to see me, Major,” General Harris said. “Unless you have something else?”

  “Just one thing, General. I know that I must look like a feather merchant to you, but to do my job, I have to know what’s going on.”

  “I will see that you are invited to attend all G-3 staff meetings, Major. And anything else I think would interest you.”

  “Sir, with respect,” Dillon said, even more uneasily, “the general doesn’t really know what would interest me or wouldn’t.”

  You arrogant sonofabitch!

  “What are you suggesting, Major? That you be given carte blanche to just nose around here wherever you please?”

  “I’ll try to stay out of people’s hair as much as possible, General.”

  There was a perceptible pause as Harris thought that over. Finally, remembering that Dillon’s orders had as much as authorized him to put his goddamned feather merchant’s nose into any goddamned place where he goddamned pleased, and that Tony had written that this whole goddamned cockamamie operation was the Deputy Commandant’s own personal nutty goddamned idea, he said, calmly and politely, “Very well, Major. I’ll have a memo prepared authorizing you to attend any staff conferences that you desire to attend.”

  (Three)

  BUKA, SOLOMON ISLANDS

  16 JUNE 1942

  Buka is an island approximately thirty miles long and no more than five or six miles wide. The northernmost island in the Solomons chain, it lies just north of the much larger Bougainville; and it is 146 nautical miles southeast of Rabaul, on New Britain.

  In June of 1942 the Japanese had at Rabaul a large, well-equipped airbase, servicing fighters, bombers, seaplanes, and other larger aircraft. There was, as well, a Japanese fighter base on Buka, and another on Bougainville.

  When the Japanese invaded Buka in the opening days of the war, an Australian, Jacob Reeves, who had lived on the island, volunteered to remain behind as a member of the Coastwatcher Service. He was commissioned into the Royal Australian Navy Volunteer Reserve and given a radio, a generator, and some World War I small arms. Thus equipped, he was expected to report on Japanese ship and air movement, from Rabaul down toward the Australian continent. Prior to his commissioning, Reeves had no military experience; and he knew nothing about the shortwave radio except how to turn it on and off.

  Inevitably—in early June—what he called the “sodding wireless” failed. Following the orders he had been given for such an occurrence, he—actually he and the girls—stamped flat the grass in a high meadow, forming enormous letters thirty feet tall, R A.

  He’d been told that if he went off the air, the Coastwatcher Service would fly over his hideout as soon as possible to look for indication that he was still alive and needed help. There were ten codes in all (Lieutenant Commander Eric Feldt, Royal Australian Navy, commanding the Coastwatcher Service, did not believe his men could remember more than that): R A stood of course for radio; P E would indicate his supply of petrol for the generator which powered the wireless was exhausted; and so on.

  As he waited for the Coastwatcher Service to act on his stamped-in-the-grass message, Reeves wondered what the response would be.

  His reports on Japanese activity, he knew, had been of great value both tactically and for planning purposes. Now that they were interrupted, getting his wireless station up and running again would be a matter of some priority.

  He was well aware that they did not have many options. The only way he could see to get him up and running again was to send him another radio. There were a number of problems with that; most notably: The only way to get him one would be to drop it by parachute. But if the airplane was seen by the Japanese, they would certainly launch fighters to shoot it down.

  And even if the plane made it to the meadow, the odds that the dropped radio woul
d survive the shock of landing were slim. If, indeed, he could find it at all.

  All the same, he was not surprised on 6 June to hear the sound of the twin engines of a Royal Australian Air Force Lockheed Hudson transport. Five minutes later, he saw the Hudson make a low level pass over the meadow. As it passed, four objects dropped from the aircraft. A moment later these were suspended beneath white nylon parachute canopies.

  He was surprised when he made out human forms beneath two of the parachutes. He had mixed emotions about that. On one hand, it probably meant they were sending him people who knew something about how the sodding wireless and its sodding generator worked. And that, of course, would be helpful.

  But on the other hand, it would mean he would have to care for two men who had probably never in their lives been out of Sydney or Melbourne, much less been in a jungle. How can I feed them? he asked himself. More important, how can I conceal them from the sodding Nips?

  And then when he made his way to the first one, what he found was a sodding American Marine—a boy!—wearing, in the American way, the upside down stripes of a sergeant. The other one turned out to be an American Marine officer, a lieutenant. That one managed to go into the trees, breaking his arm in the process. These two were the first Americans Sub Lieutenant Reeves had ever met. It didn’t take him long to conclude that they were an odd, childish lot.

  When he reached the boy sergeant, Reeves told him there were Nips snooping around the area, and that they would, unfortunately, have to count as lost the one who landed in the trees.

  “We’re Marines,” the boy told him. “We don’t leave our people behind.”

  It never came to a test of wills; for one of the girls found Lieutenant Howard. As far as Reeves was concerned, that was fortunate. For he not only subsequently grew rather fond of the boy, Steve Koffler, but at the time Reeves was reasonably sure that Koffler would have insisted on looking for his lieutenant even to the point of turning his submachine gun on Reeves.

  Not long after that, they found they had to get rid of a Nip patrol who’d heard the Lockheed and probably seen the parachutes; and Koffler did what had to be done then with skill and courage. But the boy threw up when it was over ... after he looked down at the corpse of a Japanese he’d wounded, and then, because it was necessary, killed.