Line of Fire

by W. E. B Griffin

  Cpl HJL Simpson, USMCR

  Then there were Marines; most of them were smiling. They were standing or sitting around, cleaning their weapons, sharpening knives, working ammunition-linking machines for machine gun belts, or writing letters home, stuff like that.

  George was getting just a little bored with this when the content changed. They were at the invasion beach.

  7 August 1942 0415

  Tulagi

  First Wave, 1st Raider Bn

  Cpl H.A. Simpson, USMCR

  The cameraman was in an invasion barge. You could see Marines with all their gear, hunched down, waiting for the boat to touch shore. They were no longer smiling.

  Then you could see the beach, a landing pier, burning Japanese seaplanes, and shellfire, and lots of smoke.

  And then guys were climbing over the sides of the barge, Then the camera was out of the barge and on top of the pier; parts of the pier had been destroyed.

  And then you started to see bodies. The first body was just lying there, with arterial blood pumping out his back. The camera was on that for maybe ten seconds; it seemed a lot longer.

  And then you saw two Marines running along the pier. Both of them, at the same time, just fell down.

  Not like in the movies, where people clutch their chests or their throats and spin around before they fall.

  These Marines just stopped in mid-stride, fell down, and were dead.

  There was a lot that was out of focus, and a lot of gray space, with no images; and then there were more bodies. Some of them now were Japanese.

  "I'd like a drink, please," The General said.

  "General," Lieutenant Moore said, "you said to remind you when you'd already had the day's ration."

  "Lieutenant, ask Sergeant Hart to get me an inch and a half of scotch, please."

  "Aye, aye, Sir. Hart?"

  "Aye, aye, Sir."

  "Help yourself, George, if you like," The General said.

  "You, too, John." There was a shot of some Japanese, in pieces, around a small hole in the ground. After a moment Hart decided it had been caused by the impact of a Naval artillery shell.

  There was a shot of a Marine lying on his back with his face blown off.

  Bodies. Bodies. Bodies.

  There was a shot of some Marine with more balls than brains standing up in the open and firing his rifle off hand, like he was on the goddamned rifle range at Parris Island, sling in the proper place and everything.

  And then a shot of a couple of Japanese with the tops of their heads blown off, and then a shot of the Marine with the rifle, closer up now, so close that Hart could see that he was an older guy, an officer, a major. He was gesturing angrily at the cameraman and Hart could tell that he was really pissed that the cameraman was taking his picture.

  It went on and on and on, Marines running and shooting their weapons, Marines down, with corpsmen bending over them; even a shot of a guy with blood on his face clinging for dear life to one of the supports of the pier, looking like he was hysterical. There was time enough for The General to ask for three more drinks. Hart made them, and two more for himself.

  The last two he made for The General were an inch and a half, straight up.

  Finally it was over; and Major Dillon told Hart to turn the lights on.

  "Your people did a fine job, Jake," The General said.

  "Yeah," Dillon said. "But there's not much I can put in newsreel theaters, is there?"

  "I'd like a copy of that," Colonel Rickabee said.

  "Colonel, that would he hard-" Major Dillon said.

  "Why, Rickabee?" The General interrupted.

  "I want to show it to my people-our people."

  "Get him a copy, Jake," The General ordered.

  "General Stewart wants to look at this right away."

  "Fuck General Stewart," The General said. "He'll have to wait until you get a copy of that for Rickabee."

  "OK, Flem. Whatever you say."

  "The Navy has a pretty good photo lab at Anacostia, Dillon," Rickabee said. "But I don't know if they can copy motion picture film."

  "I've got a pal, used to work in the Metro-Magnum lab," Dillon replied, "who's running the Army lab at the Astoria Studios on Long Island. I know he won't fuck it up, and he could do a quick edit and get rid of the garbage."

  "Call him," Fleming Pickering ordered. "See if he can-will-do it. If he will, we can send George to New York." Hart could see that Colonel Rickabee didn't like that. But he was not surprised that he didn't raise an objection. He had already learned that arguing with The General was usually a waste of breath.

  Chapter Eleven

  [One]

  THE FOSTER LAFAYETTE HOTEL

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  0345 HOURS 22 SEPTEMBER 1942

  Sergeant George Hart let himself as quietly as possible into the small suite he shared with Lieutenant John Marston Moore.

  But as he walked on his toes into the bedroom, the lights came on. And when he opened the door, Moore was awake, holding himself up on his elbows.

  "I tried not to wake you, Lieutenant." Moore shook his head, signifying it didn't matter.

  "Everything go OK?" Moore held up a large film can.

  "I just dropped off the original with Major Dillon at the Willard," he said. "This is two copies."

  "Two?"

  "They asked me how many copies I wanted, so I said two."

  "Good man," Moore said. "I think The General wants one." Despite the differences in their ranks and backgrounds, Hart had come to think of Moore as a friend. And his story was too good to just keep, particularly since Moore was one of the very few people in the world who would believe it.

  "Veronica Wood has nipples the size of silver dollars," he announced.

  Veronica Wood was a motion picture actress. A photograph, showing her in a translucent negligee, her long blond hair hanging down to her waist, was pinned up on barracks walls around the world.

  "I'm sure you're going to tell me how you know that," Moore said.

  "She was in bed with Major Dillon," Hart said. "I knocked at the door, and he said come in, and I did, and there she was.

  She said `Hi!" and smiled at me. She didn't even try to cover herself.

  They were both stinko."

  "I would say that Major Dillon is entitled, wouldn't you?"

  "Yeah. Jesus, those movies!"

  "They were pretty awful, weren't they?" Moore said, and then added: "But you understand, George, that all they shot was... what you saw. It really wasn't all that bad."

  "Yeah, and that's why you walk around with a cane, right?"

  "Speaking of dollar-sized nipples, Sergeant," Moore said, "you had a telephone call from a lady."

  "I did?"

  "You did. At midnight. I answered the phone, and she said, in a very nice voice, `George?" and I said,

  `Sorry, he's not here right now, can I take a message?" and she said, no, she'd call back."

  "You're probably talking about my mother," George said.

  " I really don't think so. This lady didn't sound like a mother.

  And wouldn't your mother have said, `Tell him his mother called'?"

  "I have no idea-" `4Maybe it was Captain Sessions' secretary," Moore said innocently. "I've noticed the way she looks at you."

  "Thanks a lot, Lieutenant. Captain Sessions' secretary was at least thirty-five, weighed more than a hundred fifty pounds, and had a mustache.

  "Consumed with unrequited passion in the wee hours of the morning,"

  Moore went on. "Yearning for the feel of your strong arms around her-"

  "My arms wouldn't fit around her," George said. "Beats the hell out of me. The only person I gave this number to is my other."

  "Jesus, George. If it was your mother, I'm sorry-"

  "I don't think it was my mother," George said. "She would have asked where I was at midnight."

  "Speaking of midnight, the wee hours," Moore said, "The General called about ten. I am instructed to inf
orm you that he doesn't want to see you before thirteen hundred tomorrow."

  "What?"

  "You have the morning off. The General also said to remind you that you are not to waste your money eating at the Waffle House or Crystal Burger."

  "What does that mean?"

  "We are to take full advantage of hotel services. Booze, chow, laundry, whatever. He said I was to consider that an order."

  "That's nice," George said.

  "I think it's more than nice," Moore said. "I think it's important to him. You took care of his idiot son and now he wants to repay the favor."

  "You ever meet him?"

  Moore shook his head, no.

  "He's a really nice guy," Hart said. "A little wild, but a nice guy."

  "Somehow, when I heard he'd flown under the Golden Gate, I suspected he was not a shrinking violet,"

  Moore said.

  "Where's the car?"

  "Out in front. Just about out of gas. I couldn't find an open station."

  "Well, then, I'll take a cab to the hospital in the morning, and you get it gassed up before you come." He let himself fall back on the bed, and rolled on his side.

  "Turn out the light when you're finished," he said.

  [Two]

  HENDERSON FIELD

  GUADALCANAL, SOLOMON ISLANDS

  1515 HOURS 23 SEPTEMBER 1942

  Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins had informed Captain Charles M. Galloway that part of a squadron of dive bombers was on its way-half a dozen of them, of VMSB-141s. These were under Lieutenant Colonel Cooley, an officer Galloway admired; he'd flown with Cooley years before.

  So Galloway was not surprised when he heard odd noises overhead. He was familiar with the peculiar sound made by half a dozen thousand-horsepower Wright R- 1 820-52 engined Douglas Dauntlesses.

  What did surprise him, when he stepped out of VMF-229's sandbag tent squadron office, was the sight of two Grumman Wildcats about to touch down ahead of the SBDS.

  He could tell that they, too, were replacement aircraft. Their fuselages glistened, unmarked by the mud carried by every airplane that landed at Henderson.

  Seeing them there-so new and fresh-should have pleased him. In fact, he wasn't at all pleased, he was hugely annoyed on two counts: First, nobody had told him two new Wildcats were coming-thus denying him the chance to plead for them for VMF-229. Second, they came in with the SBDS. And that meant the Navy had fucked up again....

  The SBDs were brought in toward Guadalcanal aboard one of the escort carriers. In order to protect the carrier from Japanese aviation and to permit it to return to other duties as quickly as possible, the SBDs took off for Guadalcanal at the farthest point possible from Henderson-after due consideration of the weather and reserve fuel requirements.

  Since the Dauntlesses had a much greater range than the Wildcats, and since the Dauntlesses and the Wildcats had obviously been launched from the same carrier, one of two things had happened: Either the Dauntlesses had been launched within Wildcat range of Henderson, thus endangering the escort carrier that much longer. Or-more likely-the Wildcats had been launched at Dauntless range and were landing with near empty tanks.

  Wildcats that ran out of fuel and ditched in the ocean were no different from Wildcats lost in action.

  Captain Galloway was again reminded that a lot of really stupid people were running around with a lot of rank on their collar points. There was nothing he could do about that, of course, but there was a chance he could talk Dawkins into giving VMF-229 the two new Wildcats.

  He took off at a trot for the sandbagged headquarters of MAG-21.

  When he walked into the MAG-21 office, Charley learned that Lieutenant Colonel Dawkins was in the air, taking his turn on patrol. Since the Coast watchers couldn't always give them warning that Japanese planes were coming, one- and two-plane patrols were always overhead.

  The two pilots of the new Wildcats came into the MAG-21 tent a few minutes after Charley Galloway got there. In Charley's judgment, they looked as if they'd graduated from Pensacola last week.

  One was wearing a ring knocker ring, Charley noticed without any special glee. The other looked like a troublemaker: Charley saw the spark of intelligence in his eyes... but also the far side of mischievousness.

  "I'm Captain Galloway," Charley said, putting out his hand "I've got VMF-229. That was you two coming in in the Wildcats just now?" The ring knocker came to attention and saluted. This did not surprise Charley.

  "Yes, Sir. Lieutenant Stecker, Sir. Reporting aboard, Sir. With Lieutenant Pickering."

  "To MAG-21, you mean, Mister?" Charley asked as he returned the salute.

  "No, Sir. We're on orders to VMF-229." He opened his canvas flight bag and handed Galloway a set of their orders. Galloway read them; they were indeed assigned to VMF-229. He managed to conceal his delight fairly successfully.

  Since they flew those airplanes in, and they're assigned to me, if I just take these guys-and the airplanes-to the squadron, I stand a much better chance of keeping the airplanes, too. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.

  "Welcome aboard, gentlemen," Charley said. "Will you come with me, please?" Lady Luck smiled on him. Fifty yards from MAG-21, he encountered Technical Sergeant Oblensky.

  "Sergeant Oblensky, these officers just delivered two F4F aircraft. As your first priority, will you see that those aircraft are moved to our squadron area? I'd like to have that accomplished before Colonel Dawkins returns from patrol."

  "Aye, aye, Sir," Big Steve said. "I'll do that immediately, Sir."

  Lieutenant Bill Dunn was in the squadron office when Galloway walked in.

  He looked with interest at the neat and shiny newcomers.

  "Lieutenant Dunn," Captain Galloway said, "these two officers just arrived for duty with us. In new Wildcats. Sergeant Oblensky is moving one of them to our area. Would you please go move the other one, right now?"

  "Your wish is my command, Skipper," Dunn said, and quickly left the tent.

  Galloway waited until Dunn left the tent, then said, "Lieutenant Dunn is working on being a double ace.

  He's my executive officer." He saw increased interest in the eyes of both of his new officers.

  "Stecker, you said?"

  "Yes, Sir." `You're an Annapolis man, I see, Mister Stecker?" `No, Sir. West Point."

  West Point? You don't see many of those in The Corps.

  "And you, Mr.-"

  "Pickering, Sir."

  "-Pickering. Where did you get your commission?"

  "Quantico, Sir. Officer Candidate School."

  "And your flight training?

  "P'Cola, Sir. Both of us."

  "And how many hours do you have? You first, Mr. Pickering."

  "Four hundred sixty-eight, Sir." That was a good deal more than Charley expected to hear.

  The last half-dozen replacements to VMF-229 had averaged about 250 hours total time, very little of that in Wildcats.

  "How much in Wildcats?"

  "Two twenty-eight, Sir."

  "This is not, then, your first squadron assignment?"

  `Yes, Sir, it is."

  "How did you get so much time in Wildcats, then?"

  "They had us ferrying them, Sir, from Bethpage all over the country."

  "Both of you, you mean?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "You answer this, Mr. Stecker. I want a straight answer. What was your last thought when you took off from the escort carrier?"

  "Sir," Stecker hesitated a moment, and then blurted, "that had better run the engine as lean as possible, Sir, or prepare to take a swim."

  "How much fuel remaining when you touched down?"

  "About fifteen minutes, Sir."

  "You, Pickering?"

  "My fuel warning light was lit, Sir."

  "And what was your reaction to that?"

  "I was scared shitless," Pick said, remembering a moment later to add, "Sir."

  "In other words, you're telling me that you knowingly took off with inadeq
uate fuel?"

  "It didn't turn out to be inadequate, Sir."

  "You're not being flip, are you, Pickering?"

  "Sir," Stecker said, "Mr. Pickering raised the question of fuel just before we were to launch and was told to man his aircraft."

  "Sir, I think it was a question of getting the carrier turned around as quickly as possible."

  In other words, I was right, there was an asshole on that escort carrier, probably wearing commander's boards.

  "Where are you from, Pickering? Are you married?"

  "San Francisco, Sir. No, Sir, I'm not married." Galloway looked at Stecker.

  "No, Sir. I'm not married. I'm from eastern Pennsylvania, Sir."

  "Philadelphia?"

  "About seventy miles north of Philadelphia, Sir."

  "My girl's from Philadelphia," Galloway said.

  Why the hell did I offer that information?

  "Yes, Sir," Stecker said.

  "And just before I came over here, I was in San Francisco," Galloway said. A quick, entirely pleasant memory of Caroline came into his mind. They'd spent a fair amount of time together in their marble-walled, multiple-showerhead bath. "Had a hell of a time in the Andrew Foster Hotel. You know it?"

  "Yes, Sir," Pick said. "We've been there." Galloway picked up on a look the two of them exchanged.

  The Andrew Foster Hotel touched a nerve, he decided. They probably got really shit-faced there. In due course a report of conduct unbecoming officers and gentlemen will be forwarded through channels for my attention. I hope they had a good time.

  "What we do here is try to protect the field and the area around it from the Japanese," Galloway explained. "Most of the time-nine times out of ten-we have advance knowledge that they're coming.

  When we do get it, we get in the air as fast as we can and try to intercept them as far from here as we can."

  "May I ask how we get the advance knowledge, Sir?" Stecker asked.

  "Primarily from the Coast watchers. They're Australians who stayed behind when the Japs occupied the islands to the north of us. Guys with real big balls. They radio Pearl Harbor and it's relayed to us here.

  Other times we get word from our own patrolling aircraft or from carrier-launched patrols. But mostly it's the Coast watchers who alert us."