Line of Fire

by W. E. B Griffin

  The Navy pilots were from the carrier USS Hornet; they'd come to transfer to VMF-229 six F4F

  Wildcats, As Captain Galloway carefully examined the documentation accompanying the aircraft, they stood around uneasily; for he had a number of pointed questions about reported malfunctions that had been ostensibly repaired.

  But he was a happy man. As of that morning, VMF-229 was down to three operational aircraft. And six nearly brand-new aircraft, splendidly set up by skilled mechanics in the well equipped shops aboard Hornet, had just arrived.

  "You checked the guns?" he asked finally, looking at the full Lieutenant, the most senior of the Navy pilots.

  "Our SOP is to check weapons just before entering a threatening, or combat, situation."

  "In other words, you haven't checked the guns?"

  "No."

  "I nevertheless thank you from the bottom of my heart," said Galloway.

  "We were just about out of airplanes."

  "You're welcome," the Lieutenant said somewhat awkwardly.

  A small, thin, blond-haired First Lieutenant of Marines, attired in a flight suit quite as filthy as Captain Galloway's, staggered into the tent. He was loaded down with three Springfield rifles, three steel helmets, and three sets of web equipment, each consisting of a cartridge belt, a canteen, a first-aid pouch, and a bayonet in a scabbard. He was trailed by his crew chief, similarly loaded down.

  "Sir!" he said.

  "Gentlemen, my executive officer, Lieutenant Dunn," Captain Galloway said.

  "Sir, the skipper said there's some question of the R4D being able to make it in to take these gentlemen out," Bill Dunn said.

  "Really?" Galloway said.

  "Yes, Sir," Dunn said seriously. "And in view of the ground situation, he thought these gentlemen should be equipped so they can fight as infantry, if that should be required. I personally don't think that will be necessary."

  "But apparently the skipper does?"

  "Yes, Sir, but maybe he's just being careful." Dunn began to pass out the rifles to the Navy pilots. There was little question in Galloway's mind that the last time any of them had touched a rifle was before they'd gone to flight school.

  "And are they supposed to wait here until we know whether they'll be needed or not?"

  "No, Sir. The skipper seems concerned that Japanese infiltrators may sneak through the lines and attempt to damage our aircraft in their revetments. Unless the situation gets worse, he wants these officers to be placed in the revetments."

  "Lieutenant," the Navy pilot said, "what exactly was the word about the R4D?"

  "Essentially, Sir, that they don't wish to risk the loss of the aircraft if the Japanese break through our lines, and/or damage the runway with artillery. The aircraft will not be sent until they see how the ground situation develops."

  "I see," the Navy Lieutenant said solemnly.

  There have been just about enough rounds landing around here to make that credible, Galloway decided.

  And there's enough noise from the small arms and mortars a mile away to be scary as hell unless you know what it is.

  "Dunn, is there enough time to have these gentlemen fed before they go to the revetments?"

  "There's time, Sir, but Japanese Naval artillery has taken out the mess, Sir. I will get them some C

  rations, Sir."

  "Sorry about that, gentlemen," Galloway said. "And thank you once again, in case I don't see you again, for the aircraft."

  "Our pleasure, Captain," the Navy Lieutenant said with a weak smile as he adjusted the interior straps of his helmet.

  "Bill, that was a rotten fucking thing to do to those sailors," Galloway said, when Lieutenant Dunn, wearing a very pleased-with-myself grin, walked back in the tent ten minutes later.

  `Yeah, wasn't it?" Dunn replied. "But it will give them something to talk about when they get back to their air-conditioned wardroom. How they personally repelled mass attacks of sword-wielding Japanese."

  Àfter they have a nice shower and a nice shave and have put on nice clean clothes," Galloway said.

  The telephone rang.

  "Greengiant," Galloway answered it.

  "Yes, Sir. They're being serviced. They're brand new, Colonel. Somebody in the Navy must have screwed up."

  "I'll pass the word, Sir. Thank you." He put the field telephone back into its leather case.

  "That was the skipper. The ETA on the R4D to take those guys out of here is fourteen hundred."

  "They'll be glad to hear that," Dunn said.

  "They would be even gladder if you told them at say, thirteen fifty-five."

  "Has anyone ever told you, Skipper, that you can be just as much a prick as any of us?" The telephone rang again.

  "Greengiant.

  "Yes, Sir.

  "I'll send the three remaining aircraft, Sir, and with your permission, Dunn and I will take two of the new aircraft.

  That'll let us kill two birds with one stone. I don't want to turn them over to somebody else without a test flight.

  "Aye, aye, Sir." He put the phone back in its leather case.

  "Coast watchers report a flight of three twin-engine bombers from Rabaul. Destination unknown, but where else than here?"

  "I heard," Dunn said. "It will be a pleasure flying an airplane fresh from the showroom floor."

  "Just don't break it," Galloway said as he got up from his chair. "I don't think there's any more where these came from." When they reached their plane revetments, they found Navy pilots guarding them.

  Each wore a helmet and firmly clutched a Springfield, as he peered warily over the sandbags toward the general direction of the sound of the small arms and mortar fire.

  Three minutes after that, Dunn and Galloway were airborne, climbing slowly, so as to conserve fuel, to a final altitude of ,000 feet.

  No Japanese aircraft appeared.

  When their fuel was gone and they were making their descent to Henderson, they encountered a large flight of mixed Navy and Marine F4Fs climbing upward.

  "Cactus Fighter leader, Galloway."

  "Go ahead, Galloway."

  "What's up?"

  "There's supposed to be three recon aircraft and twenty Zeroes up here someplace."

  "Haven't seen a thing."

  "Lucky you." Galloway pushed the nose of the Wildcat over and down. If there were twenty Zeroes in the air-and if the Coast watchers said there were, you could bank on it-the worst situation to be in was nearly out of gas and trying to get on the ground.

  He allowed the airspeed indicator to come close to the red line before retarding the throttle. When he glanced out the window he could see Bill Dunn.

  Dunn-apparently holding the stick with his knees-had both hands free to mimic some guy holding a Springfield rifle to his shoulder and wincing in pain and surprise at the recoil.

  Galloway, smiling, shook his head.

  {Three]

  HEADQUARTERS,

  FIRST MARINE DIVISION

  GUADALCANAL, SOLOMON ISLANDS

  1605 HOURS 13 SEPTEMBER 1942

  Looking something like a schoolteacher, Major General Archer Vandergrift, commanding the First Marine Division, stood with an eighteen-inch ruler in his hand in front of the situation map in the G-3

  Section. A technical sergeant was nearby, armed with a piece of cloth and a red and black grease pencil, prepared to make corrections to the map as necessary.

  The "students" were the general staff. the G-1 (Personnel), the G-2 (Intelligence), the G-3 (Plans & Operations), the G-4 (Supply), plus Lieutenant Colonel William Whaling, executive officer of the Fifth Marines; Lieutenant Colonel Hayden Price, commanding 5th Battalion, Eleventh Marines (the artillery); and Lieutenant Colonel Merritt Edson, commanding 1st Raider Battalion.

  "I realize you all would rather be with your units, so I'll make this as quick as I can," General Vandergrift said. "I just want to make absolutely sure the left hand knows what the right hand is doing." He turned to the map.

  "Red Mike sent
his people out at sunrise to recover what he had lost during the night," he said, using the pointer. "There was not much resistance, and they were able to regain their fighting positions. When the Raiders withdrew last night, they had to leave the food they took from the Japanese at Tasimboko. The Japanese now have it back." He moved the pointer. "The Parachute Battalion's Able Company, which was here, had no contact with the Japanese last night. We moved it down here, to the level area, so they could support the Raiders when they went out to take back their positions. They got this far when they were taken under fire from concealed positions. The company commander... who was that, Mike?"

  "McKennan, General. Captain William."

  "Right. Good man. He made the correct decision not to get into a major scrap on what was a very narrow front. So he moved around here, got some artillery support, and this time only ran into some sniper opposition. He was where he was supposed to be by about 1500.

  "Charley Company of the Raiders was pretty badly hurt last night, here on the right. They were withdrawn and replaced by Able Company, plus what was left of Dog Company, which we have disbanded.

  "Edson has pulled his line back about one hundred yards, to here," Vandergrift said. "That shortened it, and it will force the Japanese to attack the open ground here. We have moved the machine guns around to take advantage of that field of fire, and the rifle positions have been built up all along that area.

  "I called Mike about three o'clock and told him that I was going to send in the 2nd of the Fifth to back him up, and that as soon as I could find Jack Stecker, I was going to send him up there to look around.

  He told me that Jack was up there first thing this morning. Why wasn't I surprised?" There was dutiful laughter.

  The problem of getting 2nd of the Fifth into position is that have to cross the Henderson runway to get there," Vandergrift continued. "And the runway, obviously, has been about as busy as it can get. Whaling, have you got an estimate from Jack Stecker about when he'll be in position?" Colonel Whaling stood up.

  He did not appear happy.

  "Sir, I talked to him a few minutes ago. He says it will be long after dark."

  "Can't be helped," Vandergrift said. "Jack will do the best he can." He turned to the map and used the ruler as a pointer again.

  "Price has moved his 105s out of the woods here and into firing positions here south of the Henderson runway. Are your guns laid in, Price?" Since the Division's 155mm cannon had not been off-loaded during the invasion, the 105mm howitzer was the largest artillery piece available.

  Colonel Price stood up.

  "If they're not, Sir, they will be within minutes."

  "OK. As soon as that happens, everybody but the gunners will move back to about here," Vandergrift said, pointing, "where they will form a secondary line in case the Japanese get through the Raiders and the Parachutists. If that happens, gentlemen, the artillery will be lost, and there won't be very much to keep the Japanese from taking Henderson." There was no response.

  "Are there any additions, corrections, or observations that anyone wishes to make?" Vandergrift asked politely.

  There were none.

  "That will be all, gentlemen, thank you," General Vandergrift said.

  The Japanese attacked at 1830. They directed their major effort to the right of the Raider defense line at almost exactly the point where they'd attacked the previous night.

  [Four]

  POLICE HEADQUARTERS

  SAINT LOUIS, MISSOURI

  1405 HOURS 15 SEPTEMBER 1942

  When the knock on the frosted glass panel of his office door destroyed his concentration, Captain Karl Hart, commanding officer of the Homicide Bureau, was trying to make sense of a police officer's report of a death the previous evening by gas asphyxiation.

  He had just concluded that the reporting officer was not only a functional illiterate, but a genuine goddamn moron to boot.

  He ignored the knock and tried to make sense of a sentence that read, so far as he could make out,

  "body dispozd by coronary's office." Coronary's obviously was supposed to mean Coroner's, but what the hell was dispozd?

  There was another knock on the frosted glass panel of his door, this time an impatient knock.

  "Wait a goddamned minute!" He reached for his telephone and placed it on his shoulder.

  Holding it in place with his chin, he started to dial a number.

  The doorknob turned, followed by the faint rattling noise it always made when it was being opened. In fury, he turned to face it.

  Goddamn it, I said to wait a goddamned minute!

  "Is this where I go to have somebody homicided?" Sergeant George Hart asked innocently.

  "George," Captain Hart said.

  "Hi, Pop."

  "George," Captain Hart repeated, and then got up and walked around the desk and put out his hand.

  His son shook it.

  "Damn," Captain Hart said. "You could have let us know you were coming."

  No, I couldn't. That would have required explanations.

  "You been out to the house? Seen your mother?"

  "I went there from the airport."

  "What did she say?"

  "She asked was I here, and had I seen you," George reported truthfully.

  "Jesus H. Christ!" Captain Hart said. And then, though it had been a long, long time since he'd done it: What the hell, why not? he asked himself as he put his arms around his son and hugged him. "Damn, it's good to see you!" It's the first time in God knows how long, George realized, since I was a kid, that Pop's hugged me.

  He felt his eyes water, and that surprised him.

  "How much leave they give you?"

  "Five days."

  "That's all?"

  "That's all they give you."

  "Jesus, you can hardly get from down there and back in five days," his father said. Then he saw the chevrons on George's tunic.

  "You're a sergeant? Jesus, that was quick."

  "The Marines recognize good men when they see one," George said.

  "Look," his father said, "I got a report on a citizen stuck his head in the oven that's so bad I don't even believe it."

  "Since when do you handle suicides?"

  "When the guy's brother's a Monsignor and the Commissioner told me he don't want to hear the word suicide. You know the Catholics, they won't bury a suicide in holy ground-"

  "Consecrated, " George corrected him automatically.

  "Consecrated, holy, whatever. I got to talk to the cop - I can't believe this guy, he's so dumb-and then talk to the coroner, and then report to the Commissioner."

  "Just out of idle curiosity, what are you going to find out really happened?"

  "He slipped on a wet kitchen floor as he was about to light the oven," Captain Hart said, "bumped his head and knocked himself out. And then the gas got him."

  "Brilliant." George laughed.

  "It was all I could think of," Captain Hart admitted. "Anyway, you don't want to hang around here. I'll meet you in Mooney's in thirty minutes."

  "OK."

  "Maybe you better call your mother and ask her does she want to eat out someplace?"

  "She said she was going to make a pot roast, and I was to bring you home no later than half past six."

  "OK. So we'll have a couple of snorts and go home."

  "OK, Pop."

  "You got some money?"

  "Yeah, sure."

  "You said you went home from the airport. So what did an airplane ticket cost you? Where'd you get the money?" Captain Hart said, as he took a wad of bills from his pocket and peeled off two five-dollar bills.

  "Don't argue with me, I'm your father."

  "OK, Pop. Thank you."

  "Thirty minutes, George," Captain Hart said, and then there was another unexpected gesture of affection.

  He rubbed his hand over his son's head, but masked the affection by saying, "Jesus, I love your haircut."

  Mooney's was crowded. Cops who had come off the four-in
-the-afternoon shift change mingled with courthouse people who seldom waited until the clock said five before closing up.

  George smiled at familiar faces and even shook a couple of hands, but there was no one in the bar he knew well enough to sit down with.

  He found a stool toward the back of the room, near the Wurlitzer jukebox. Before he sat down, he reached behind the Wurlitzer and turned the volume control way down.

  "Welcome home, George," Jerry the bartender said, offering his hand. He was a plump young man wearing a black vest and an immaculate white shirt with the cuffs turned up. "Your Uncle George was in a while ago, and Ramirez just left."

  "I'll be around a while. My father's coming in."

  "Seagram's & Seven? Or a beer?"

  "Jerry, you got any Famous Grouse?"

  "What the hell is that?"

  "Scotch." The bartender shook his head, no. "I got some Dewar's and there's some..." He turned, searched the array of bottles against the mirror and put a bottle of Haig & Haig Pinch Bottle on the bar...

  of this."

  "That. Straight. Water on the side."

  "When'd you start drinking that?" Jerry the bartender asked as he poured a very generous shot in a small, round glass.

  "As soon as I found out about it," George said. He took out his wallet and laid a ten-dollar bill on the bar.

  "Put that away," Jerry said. "Your money's no good in here."

  "Thanks, Jerry," George said, and started to put the twenty back in his wallet. Then he remembered the two fives his father had given him, and took them from his pocket.

  The truth of the matter, Jerry, is that I was having a couple Of drinks with my pal Pick Pickering-you know, the guy whose grandfather owns Saint Louis' snootiest hotel, the Foster Pierre Marquette, and forty other hotels-right after we flew under the Golden Gate Bridge in his grandfather's airplane; and Ol'

  Pick said, "George, if we're going to drink as much as I think we are, you better get off that Seagram's & Seven and onto The Bird. " So I got onto The Bird, which is what my pal Pick calls Famous Grouse; and I got to like it, right from the first.

  Would I bullshit you, Jerry?

  He took a swallow of the water on the side and then poured scotch into it.