The Corps IV - Battleground Page 40

  A platform had been built in the tree a hundred feet off the ground. It was large enough for three or four people to stand or sit comfortably. Reeves was sitting with his back against the trunk, when Steve Koffler stepped from a limb onto the platform.

  He handed Koffler his binoculars and pointed north. Steve followed the directions and thought he could pick out, far off and not very high in the air, specks that almost certainly were aircraft. He leaned his shoulder against the trunk to steady himself, and with some difficulty found the specks through the binoculars. They were still too far away to see clearly, but he could now see that they were flying in formation, a series of Vs.

  Lieutenant Howard touched his arm; he wanted the binoculars. Steve handed them to him.

  Howard hooked the eyepieces under the bones above his eyes, took a breath, let half of it out, and held the rest, much the same technique that a skilled rifle marksman uses to steady his sight picture before firing.

  "There's a bunch," he said. "What do you think they are, Steve?"

  "Too far away to tell," Steve replied.

  "If they were Bettys, for example, how could you tell?" Howard asked innocently.

  "Shit," Koffler chuckled, realizing that he was being tested. Since they had been on Buka, they had been training each other-not just because there wasn't much else to do. Koffler had rigged up a simple buzzer and taught Howard Morse code, and Howard had not only sketched various Japanese aircraft, but had called forth their characteristics from memory and passed them on to both Koffler and Reeves.

  "Well?" Howard went on.

  Koffler pushed himself away from the tree and came to attention-except for a broad, unmilitary smile.

  "Sir," he barked. "The Japanese Mitsubishi G4M1 Type 1 aircraft, commonly called the Betty, is a twin-engine, land-based bomber aircraft with a normal complement of seven. It has an empty weight of 9.5 tons and is capable of carrying 2200 pounds of bombs, or two 1700 pound torpedoes, over a nominal range of 2250 miles at a cruising speed of 195 miles per hour. Its maximum speed is 250 miles per hour at 14,000 feet. It is armed with a 20mm cannon in the tail, and four 7.7mm machine guns, one in the nose, one on top, and two in beam positions." He paused just perceptibly, and barked "Sir!" again.

  Lieutenant Reeves applauded.

  "Very good, Sergeant," he chuckled. "You win the prize."

  "I'm afraid to ask what the prize is," Steve said, leaning against the tree again.

  "How about Patience?" Howard asked innocently. "I've noticed the way she looks at you."

  "Shit!" Steve said. "You know what she did to me just now?"

  "Tell me," Howard said.

  "No. Shit!"

  "You might as well let her," Howard said. "You're going to have to sooner or later. And besides, you're a Marine sergeant now. It's time you lost your cherry."

  Reeves laughed. Steve Koffler glowered at Howard.

  Pretending not to notice, Howard put the binoculars back to his eyes. He studied the sky intently for thirty seconds, and then handed the binoculars to Reeves.

  "I make it Betty," he said. "Large Force. I count forty-five."

  "That's a bit, isn't it?" Reeves said, and put the binoculars to his eyes. Thirty seconds later, he took them away. "Vs," he said. "Five to a V. Nine Vs. Forty-five Bettys. Looks like they're climbing slowly."

  He handed the binoculars to Koffler, who waved them away.

  "You better see who you can raise, Steve," Howard said.

  "Aye, aye, Sir," Steve said, and left the platform for the limbs of the tree, and then started climbing down.

  "Why don't you go along with him?" Reeves said. "I'll stay and see if anything else shows up. Send Patience up."

  "All right," Howard said.

  "We can't have her distracting our operator, can we?" Reeves chuckled. "And if there's anything I don't recognize, I'll send her after you."

  Howard climbed out of the tree and walked quickly to the village. He saw two men tying the long wire antenna for the Hallicrafters radio in place in two trees on opposite sides of the cleared area. The antenna lead wire rose from the center of one hut.

  The antenna was erected only when they intended to use the radio. Otherwise, like the other parts of the radio, it was neatly stored and packed, ready to be carried into the jungle if the Japanese should send a patrol into the area.

  When he entered the hut, Howard saw that Koffler had the radio just about set up. A muscular native, named Ian Bruce, was already in place at the generator, which looked something like the pedals of a bicycle, waiting for orders to start grinding. Koffler was carefully checking his connections for corrosion. He glanced up at Howard when he sensed his presence, but said nothing.

  Howard walked to the set itself and glanced down at the message pad. There was nothing Koffler had written on it that needed correction. All the message consisted of was the time, the type and number of aircraft, and their relative course. In Australia, or if the connection to Australia could not be completed, in Pearl Harbor, there were experts who would understand this information and relay it.

  Koffler screwed a final connection in place, went outside to quickly check on the antenna, and then squatted on the floor by a packing case which held the transceiver, the key, and two sets of headphones. He picked up one set of headphones (which Howard now thought of as "cans," which is what Koffler called them) and handed them to Howard. He put the second set on and made a winding motion with his finger. Ian Bruce smiled and began to pedal the generator; there was a faint, not unpleasant whine.

  In a moment, the dials on the Hallicrafter lit up and their needles came to life.

  Koffler put his fingers on the key.

  The dots and dashes went out, repeated three times, spelling, simply, FRD6. FRD6. FRD6.

  The code name for the Coastwatchers Organization was Ferdinand. It was a fey title, chosen, Howard suspected, by Lieutenant Commander Eric Feldt himself. Ferdinand was the bull who would rather sniff flowers than fight. The Coastwatchers were not supposed to fight either.

  There was no response to the first call. Koffler's finger went back to the key.

  FRD6. FRD6. FRD6.

  This time there was a reply. Howard had learned enough code to be able to read the simple groups.

  FRD6.KCY.FRD6.KCY.FRD6.KCY.

  KCY, the United States Pacific Fleet Radio Station at Pearl Harbor, Territory of Hawaii, was responding to Ferdinand Six.

  That radio room leapt into Joe Howard's mind. Before the war, as a staff sergeant, he had been stationed at Pearl Harbor; and he had been sergeant of the guard at CINCPAC, Commander in Chief, Pacific. He saw the immaculate officers and the even more immaculate swabbies at their elaborate shiny equipment in a shiny, air-conditioned room with polished linoleum floors. Air-conditioned!

  Now Koffler's hand came to life. Howard could not read what was going out over the air. Koffler was proud of his hand. He could transmit fifty words a minute. He was doing so now. Even repeated three times, the message didn't take long. Then there was a reply, slow enough for Howard to understand it.

  FRD6, KCY. AKN. SB.

  Ferdinand Six, this is CINCPAC Radio. Receipt of your last transmission is acknowledged. Standing By.

  Koffler's fingers flew over the keys for a second or two.

  FRD6 CLR.

  Detachment A of Special Marine Corps Detachment 14 has no further traffic for the Commander in Chief Pacific Fleet and thus clears this communications link.

  Koffler put his fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly. When he had Ian Bruce's attention, he signed to him to stop cranking the generator. Then he looked at Howard.

  "No traffic for us, I guess," he said.

  Howard shrugged.

  "I mean, I guess if there was bad news at home or something, they'd let us know, right?"

  "Yeah, sure they would, Steve," Howard said.

  (Four)

  RADIO ROOM

  USS MCCAWLEY

  1033 HOURS 8 AUGUST 1942

  "Sir,
" the Radio Operator 2nd Class sitting at the console called out, "I've got a TOP SECRET Operational Immediate from CINCPAC." Operational Immediate is the highest priority message, taking precedence over all others. A tall Lieutenant Junior Grade went to his position and stood over him as the radio operator typed out the rest of the message. The moment the radio operator tore it from the typewriter, he snatched it from his fingers and took it to the cryptographic compartment.

  Five minutes later, a Marine corporal in stiffly starched khakis stepped onto the bridge of the McCawley. He was armed with a.45 pistol, its holster suspended from a white web belt with glistening brass accoutrements.

  He walked to Rear Admiral Richmond K. Turner, Commander, Amphibious Forces, South Pacific.

  "Sir, a message, Sir," he said.

  "Thank you," Admiral Turner said, and took it and read it.

  OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE

  TOP SECRET

  FROM CINCPAC

  TO COMAMPHIBFORSOPAC

  INTELSOURCE 1 INDICATES YOU MAY EXPECT ATTACK BY

  FORTY FIVE BETTY AIRCRAFT AT APPROXIMATELY 1200

  YOUR TIME. END

  Admiral Turner handed the sheet of paper to his aide-decamp.

  "See that the word is passed to the fleet," he said. 'Tell the carriers I want to know when they launch their fighters. Tell them I think this is reliable, and I want to go with it"

  "Aye, aye, Sir."

  (Five)

  USS MCCAWLEY

  OFF BEACH RED

  GUADALCANAL, SOLOMON ISLANDS

  8 AUGUST 1942

  At 1600 Admiral Fletcher received word from General Vandergrift that the 1st Battalion, First Marines had captured the Japanese airfield on Guadalcanal, relatively intact. The field was renamed Henderson Field in honor of Major Lofton R. Henderson, USMC, who had died at Midway. In Vandergrift's opinion, the airfield could be repaired enough to accept fighter aircraft within forty-eight hours.

  At 1807, Admiral Fletcher radioed Admiral Ghormley stating that in repelling the Japanese aerial attack at noon, he had lost twenty-one of his ninety-nine aircraft. He stated further that the necessary maneuvering of the ships of the invasion fleet during the invasions had reduced his fuel supply to a level he considered inadequate. He further stated that there was a strong probability that a second Japanese attack by air or sea would be made against his fleet. Unless permission to withdraw the invasion fleet was immediately granted, this attack would result in unacceptable losses to his Task Force.

  At 2325 hours, General Vandergrift, having been-ordered to report to Admiral Fletcher, came aboard the McCawley. There Admiral Fletcher informed General Vandergrift that he had received permission from Admiral Ghormley to withdraw from the Guadalcanal area. At 1500 9 August (the next day), he went on to say, ten transports, escorted by a cruiser and ten destroyers, would depart from the beachhead. The balance of the invasion fleet would sail at 1830.

  General Vandergrift is known to have protested that the off-loading of the 1st Marine Division and its supporting troops-including the heavy (155mm) artillery, along with considerable quantities of ammunition and supplies, including rations-had not been completed. Admiral Fletcher's reply to the protest has not been recorded.

  General Vandergrift returned to the invasion beach on Guadalcanal shortly after midnight.

  (Six)

  HEADQUARTERS, FIRST MARINE DIVISION

  BEACH RED

  GUADALCANAL, SOLOMON ISLANDS

  1830 HOURS 9 AUGUST 1942

  Division Sergeants Major have far more important things to do than escort individual replacements to their assigned place of duty. But in the Marine Corps, as elsewhere, there is an exception to every rule, and this was an exceptional circumstance.

  For one thing, Major General A.A. Vandergrift had personally told his sergeant major to "take this gentleman down to Colonel Goettge and tell him I sent him."

  The gentleman in question was more than a little out of the ordinary, too. He was in his forties, silver-haired, tall, erect, and with a certain aura of authority about him that the sergeant major's long military service had taught him came to men only after a lifetime of giving orders in the absolute expectation that they would be obeyed.

  The gentleman was wearing Marine utilities, loosely fitting cotton twill jacket, and trousers already sweat stained. The outline of a Colt.45 automatic pistol and two spare magazines for it pressed against one of the baggy pockets of the utilities. The outlines of two "Grenades, Hand, Fragmentation" bulged the other trousers pocket. A Springfield Model 1903A3.30-06 caliber rifle hung with practiced ease from his shoulder on a leather strap. And the outline of a half dozen five-round stripper clips of rifle cartridges pressed against the material of the right breast pocket of his utility jacket.

  There was a small silver eagle pinned to each of the utility jacket's collar points. Fleming Pickering looked for all the world like a Marine Colonel engaged in ground combat against the enemy. Considering his age and rank and his casual familiarity with the Springfield, other Marines would probably guess that he was a regimental commander, rather than a staff officer.

  But the Sergeant Major had learned that he was not a Marine. The silver eagles on his collar points were intended to identify him as a Navy Captain. And the Sergeant Major had also heard that Captain Fleming Pickering was the only man in the United States Naval Service on Guadalcanal, sailor or Marine, who had not been ordered there. He was on Guadalcanal because he wanted to be. According to the General's orderly, who overheard a great deal, and who was a reliable source of information for the Sergeant Major, no one-not General Vandergrift, not even Admiral Chester W. Nimitz, the overall Pacific Ocean Areas (POA) Commander-in-Chief back in Pearl Harbor-could order him off, or for that matter, order him to do anything.

  The Sergeant Major was just about convinced that he liked this Navy VIP. This was unusual for him. His normal reaction to Naval officers generally, and to Naval VIPs specifically, was to avoid the sonsofbitches as much as possible.

  One reason he sort of liked this one was because he was here on the beach, in Utilities, carrying a Springfield over his shoulder, and a couple of grenades in his pocket. The rest of the fucking Navy was already over the horizon and headed for Noumea... after leaving Marines on the beach, less their heavy artillery and most of their rations and ammunition.

  But the primary reason that the Sergeant Major decided that this Navy captain was the exception to the general rule that Navy captains are bad fucking news was that this captain enjoyed the friendship and respect of one of the sergeant major's few heroes, Major Jack NMI (for "No Middle Initial") Stecker.

  Major Stecker, who had commanded the 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines, in the invasion of Tulagi the day before, came into the Division Command Post on Guadalcanal a few minutes after Captain Pickering showed up on the island.

  There is, of course, by both regulation and custom, a certain formality required in conversation between Sergeants Major and Majors, but the Sergeant Major and Jack NMI Stecker had been Sergeants Major together longer than Jack Stecker had been an officer. When the Sergeant Major inquired of Major Stecker vis-…-vis Captain Fleming W. Pickering, he was perhaps less formal than Marine regulations and custom required.

  "Jack," the Sergeant Major inquired, "just who the fuck is that swabbie trying to pass himself off as a Marine?"

  Stecker's voice and eyes were icy: "He's someone an asshole like you, Sergeant, better not let me hear calling a swabbie."

  "Sorry, Sir," the Sergeant Major replied, coming to attention. Stecker's temper was a legend. It was always spectacular when aroused, and it usually lasted a long time.

  This time it began to pass almost immediately.

  "Captain Pickering, Steve," Major Stecker went on, "won the Croix de Guerre at Belleau Wood. Everybody in his squad was dead, and he had an 8mm round through each leg when we got to him, and twenty-four German Grenadiers needing burying."

  "He was a Marine?" the Sergeant Major asked, so surprised that t
here was a perceptible pause before he remembered to append, "Sir?"

  Stecker nodded. "You ever hear what they say, Steve, 'Once a Marine, always a Marine'?" he asked, now conversationally.

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Captain Pickering is one of the good guys, Steve. Don't forget that."

  "I won't, Sir."

  "If you had taken a commission when they offered you one, you stupid sonofabitch, you wouldn't have to call me 'Sir.' "

  "Calling you 'Sir' doesn't bother me, Major."

  "Do what you can for Captain Pickering, Steve," Stecker said. "Like I said, he's one of the good guys."