Of course the Pelican had torpedoes, but this did not give George much reassurance. He didn't think it would be very easy to hit a destroyer while it was twisting and turning at 30 knots and simultaneously shooting its cannons and throwing depth charges at you.
The Catalina suddenly began to make a steep descent toward the surface of the ocean. George grabbed one of the aluminum fuselage members. A moment later he saw blood dripping down onto his utilities.
The Catalina straightened out for a time, but then it made a really steep turn, after which it dropped its nose again.
A moment later there was an enormous splash, and then another, and then another. They were on the surface of the ocean. He looked around for the Pelican but couldn't see it.
The crew of the Catalina opened a hatch in the side of the fuselage and tossed out two packages. In a moment these began to inflate and assume the shape of rafts.
Lieutenant McCoy, wearing utilities, scrambled through the hatch and into one of the boats. A moment later Chief Signalman Wallace, wearing his skirt and his Chief Petty Officer's cap and nothing else, dropped into the other. Then two of the other three Marine members of the replacement team, a staff sergeant named Kelly and a corporal named Godfrey, got in the rafts.
That left Sergeants Doud and Hart in the Catalina. Because of their strong backs, they'd been chosen to transfer the equipment from the Catalina to the rafts.
Before they took off, Hart told McCoy that he suspected this would be a bitch of a job. And McCoy told him he thought it would be worse than a bitch of a job. He was right. One of the radios almost went in the water. And when a swell suddenly raised one end of McCoy's raft, one of the tar-paper-wrapped weapons packages did go in.
No problem, there was a spare.
Finally everything was loaded onto the rafts, and Sergeants Doud and Hart half fell, half jumped into them.
The Catalina's hatch closed and there was a cloud of black smoke as the pilot restarted his port engine.
The plane swung away from them, gunned its engines, and started its takeoff.
George felt a heavy sense that he was far removed from anything friendly. And he didn't get any relief from that when he finally spotted the submarine.
The Pelican's crew are not waving a friendly hello, he realized after a moment, but gesturing angrily for us to get our asses in gear and paddle over.
One of those thirty-knot Japanese destroyers with all those cannons and depth charges is charging this way.
Why am I not afraid?
Because this whole fucking thing is so unreal that I'm unable, to believe it. What the hell am I doing paddling a little rubber boat around in the middle of the Solomon Sea?
The Pelican was a lot farther away than it seemed. By the time the raft bumped up against her hull, he was breathing so hard it hurt. And the saltwater stung like hell on the slash in his hand he'd got in the Catalina.
The Pelican's crew threw lines down to them. These were fastened to the equipment they were taking aboard, and then the crew dragged that up to the submarine's deck. Finally, the raft paddlers crawled aboard-with considerable help from the crew.
Just before passing through a hatch into the conning tower, George took one last look around him. He was surprised to see that one of the rafts was drifting away from the Pelican.
Why're they loose? They were securely tied.
But then he saw that the other raft was loose, too.
And then there was a burst of machine-gun fire from above him.
Jesus Christ! They're shooting holes in the rafts! What the hell for?
What are we going to use to get ashore?
They're shooting holes in the rafts because they expect one of those thirty-knot Japanese destroyers, that's why they're shooting holes in them. It would take too much time to deflate them and bring them aboard.
He went inside the conning tower and down a ladder. He was almost on the main deck, thinking, Jesus, it stinks in here, when a Klaxon horn went off right by his ear.
Faintly, through the squawk of the Klaxon, he heard a loudspeaker bellow, "Dive! Dive! Dive!"
[Three]
OFFICER'S MESS, MAG-21
HENDERSON FIELD
GUADALCANAL, SOLOMON ISLANDS
0730 HOURS 5 OCTOBER 1942
The officer's mess of Marine Air Group 21 was pretty much the same as the enlisted mess. They differed mainly in location and in size. The officer's mess (a sandbag enclosure topped by an open-walled tent) was on the north side of the communal kitchen (a sandbag enclosure topped by an open-walled tent).
The enlisted mess (an open-walled enclosure topped by an open-walled tent) was about twice as large as the officer's mess, -and it was on the south side of the communal kitchen.
Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins, USMC, in a fresh but already sweat-soaked cotton flight suit, sat on the plank seat of what looked like a six-man picnic table. Both hands were on a mug of coffee. The remnants of his breakfast tray (a steel tray holding mostly uneaten powdered eggs, bacon, toast and marmalade) were pushed to the side.
Before he spoke, Colonel Dawkins carefully considered what he intended to say.
"It's bullshit, Charley, is what I think," he finally said to Captain Charles M. Galloway, USMCR, commanding officer of VMF-229. Galloway was sitting on the other side of the picnic table.
Charley Galloway shrugged.
"And I'll tell you something else, I think your Major Dillon's orders are bullshit, too," Dawkins said.
"You don't mean phony?" Galloway asked, surprised.
"Not forged, " Dawkins said. "I think that there is a General Pickering, even if I never heard of him, and that he works for Admiral Leahy."
"I've got a kid named Pickering in my squadron," Galloway said. "He got two Bettys his first time out, a Zero the second." Dawkins ignored that aside. "It's the endorsement that I think is bullshit."
"I think you mean that," Galloway said, surprised.
"Think about it," Dawkins said, "Think about two things.
First ask yourself if it's reasonable that the President's Chief of Staff-Jesus, he used to be Chief of Naval Operations, and now he got promoted higher than that!- I find it hard to accept that Admiral Leahy is personally concerned with two guys on a tiny island he probably couldn't find on a map. He's got better things to do."
Galloway looked at him and shrugged again.
"For the second thing," Dawkins went on, "it wouldn't be the first time in the recorded annals of military history that an officer with a set of vague orders giving him lots of authority went ape shit."
Galloway did not reply.
"Did you know, for example, that just before the Spanish-American War, the American Ambassador to Spain went to the Spaniards and ordered them to get out of Cuba? He had absolutely no orders from Washington. Nada."
"Really?" Galloway found that fascinating.
"Really. He didn't have two cents' worth of authority; he just decided that's what he wanted to do, and did it."
"I don't think Dillon's that kind of guy. He used to be a sergeant with the Fourth Marines in China."
"And now he's a major running around with orders on White House stationery. You're making my point for me, Charley. I can easily see where that would go to an ex-sergeant's head, having orders to do just about anything he wants to do." He hesitated. "Present company excepted, of course."
"Yeah, sure," Galloway said. "I think it's just as reasonable to assume that this General Pickering... I agree, I doubt if Admiral Leahy knows where Buka is, or didn't-"
"I don't follow you," Dawkins interrupted.
"OK. This General Pickering. He knows that we have our ass in a crack here; that about the only reason the Japanese don't bomb this place into oblivion, and bomb the hell out of the supply ships coming here, is that the Coast watchers on the islands let us know when they've launched their aircraft from Rabaul; and that the Coastwatcher station on Buka is pretty fucking close to going out of business. I just thought of
another one: and that nobody here seems to give a damn.
Maybe because the Navy thinks it's MacArthur's responsibility, since the Coast watchers are under the Australians, and he's sort of in charge of the Australians. But MacArthur figures it's the Navy's business, since Guadalcanal and Buka are CINCPAC's concern; they're not in his SWPOA. So Pickering goes to Admiral Leahy and gives him a quick rundown, and Leahy says, ÒK, General, take care of it."
"That's possible, I suppose," Dawkins said reluctantly.
"I think that's more likely than what you're suggesting," Charley said.
"How about an URGENT radio from Leahy to both CINCPAC and SWPOA: `Settle it between yourselves, but make sure Buka stays in operation. Love and Kisses, Admiral Leahy'?"
Galloway chuckled.
"All Dillon asked me to do, Colonel, is make a quick trip up there and back. And only if they can't reinforce Buka by submarine."
"In an unarmed transport, landing right under the nose of the Japanese on a beach that may or may not take the weight.
"They'll know if the beach will take the weight before I go," Galloway said.
"You and Finch, from our vast pool of qualified squadron commanders who are otherwise unoccupied,"
Dawkins said sarcastically.
"We have more time in the R4D than most people," Galloway said.
"Speaking of the R4D. Why the R4D?"
"You saw the skis. I think they'll work. The problem with the regular landing gear, I think, is not that the airplane might stick in the sand while it's landing or taking off. But when it's stopped. If it's not moving, it might sink. The skis will fix that, I think."
"You think," he said, and gave him a look. "But I meant, why the R4D in the first place? Specifically, why not a Catalina? It could land in the water, for one thing. For another, it has.50 calibers in the blisters and a.30 in the nose. The R4D has zero armament."
"Dillon said they considered the Catalina-"
"Who's `they'?"
"I guess Dillon and this General Pickering."
"And?"
"Decided against it. Dillon said that getting rubber boats through the surf on the Makin Island raid wasn't as easy as it came out in the newspapers. And the Japanese don't have an airplane that looks like the Catalina. But they do have a bunch of R4Ds...,actually, they're not R4Ds but DC-2s; Douglas licensed the Japs to make DC-2s before the war. But they look like R4Ds from a distance."
"And your General Pickering thinks the Japanese will think your R4D is one of their DC-2s and leave it alone?"
"The Japanese would not think a Catalina was one of theirs," Galloway said.
Colonel Dawkins decided not to argue the point. Charley Galloway had volunteered for this idiotic mission because he was gallant. There was no other word for it. That also applied to Major Jack Finch.
Major Finch and Captain Galloway were both gallant. They fit the classic definition of gallant: warriors who knew goddamned well they were likely to be killed, and were willing to take that risk, (a) because the mission was important, and (b) because they might possibly save the lives of other warriors.
But as a responsible commander, Lieutenant Colonel Dawkins decided, the cold reality was that he could not indulge their gallantry. If they remained in command of their squadrons, they would ultimately be of greater value to the overall mission, and would ultimately be responsible for saving more lives, than if they soared nobly off into the wild blue yonder on an idiotic mission dreamed up by an ex-China Marine sergeant and a paper-shuffling rear-echelon brigadier general back in Washington.
He also decided it would do no good to take the matter up with either Lieutenant Colonel Stanley N.
Holliman, USMC, Executive Officer of MAG-25, or Brigadier General D. G. McInerney, the senior Marine Aviator on Guadalcanal. While he had a great-in the case of General McInerney, nearly profound- professional admiration for these officers, both men were also awash in the seas of gallantry.
They would not understand why Dawkins did not wish this idiotic mission to take place.
They will understand the gallantry. They will be touched by the gallantry.
If they can find the time, they will be standing at attention, saluting and humming the Marine Hymn as Galloway and Finch and their goddamned R4D on goddamned skis roar down the runway.
There is only one man who can bring this idiocy to a screeching hall, Colonel Dawkins decided, and therefore it is my duty to go see him.
"When are you going, Charley?" he asked Galloway.
"Whenever they send word. Here to Port Moresby, then to Buka, then back here."
"Why Moresby? It's just as close, direct from here."
"Moresby has landing lights," Galloway explained. "We want to make the leg up there in the dark."
"I see," Dawkins said. He stood up. "I've got to go see G-3 Air at the Division CP. You need a ride anywhere?"
"No, Sir. Thank you."
"Well, hello, Dawkins," Major General Alexander Archer Vandergrift, Commanding General of the First Marine Division, said when he came out of his office and saw Dawkins sitting on a folding chair. "We don't see much of you."
Colonel Dawkins rose to his feet.
"Sir, I'd hoped the General could spare me a few minutes of his time."
Vandergrift's eyebrows rose in surprise. He glanced at his watch.
"I can give you a couple of minutes right now," he said, then held open the piece of canvas tenting that served as the door to his office.
Vandergrift went to his desk (a folding wooden table holding a U.S. Field Desk, a cabinet like affair with a number of drawers and shelves), sat down on a folding chair, crossed his legs, and looked at Dawkins.
Dawkins assumed the at-ease position. He put his feet twelve inches apart and folded his hands together in the small of his back.
The formality was not lost on Vandergrift.
"OK, Colonel, let's have it," he said.
"Sir, there's an officer visiting, Major Dillon-"
"Jake came by to make his manners," Vandergrift interrupted. "What about him?"
"Did the General happen to see Major Dillon's orders?"
"The General did," Vandergrift said dryly. "Interesting, aren't they?"
"He has laid a mission on one of my squadron commanders, and on Major Finch of MAG-25-"
"I'm familiar with it," Vandergrift said. "You obviously don't like it. So make your point, Colonel."
"That's it, Sir, I don't like it."
"Because of the risk?"
"Yes, Sir."
"I don't think you've been to see General McInerney about this, have you, Colonel?"
"No, Sir. I'm out of the chain of command."
"I won't give you the standard speech about the chain of command. You're a good Marine and you know all about it.
And, in a way, since you do know the consequences of violating it, I admire your conviction in coming to see me directly."
"Sir, they have one chance in five of carrying this off."
"When he came to see me, it was General McInerney's judgment that they have one chance in ten,"
Vandergrift said.
"Yes, Sir. General McInerney is probably right. It borders on the suicidal, and it will deprive us of two good squadron commanders."
Raising his eyes to meet Dawkins', Vandergrift started to say something, stopped, and then went on:
"After we'd accepted the obvious fact that we've gotten an order and we have no choice but to obey it, General McInerney and I also concluded that General Pickering was certainly aware of the risk and that he considers it acceptable."
"I don't know General Pickering, General. I've been searching my mind, and-"
"He and General McInerney were together in France. With Jack (NMI) Stecker, by the way. At about the same time Jack got his Medal of Honor, Pickering got the Distinguished Service Cross. I met him here. When Colonel Goettge was killed, he filled in as G-2 until they could send us a replacement. I was impressed with his brains, and his character."
"Yes, Sir."
Well, I tried and I lost.
"He was then a Navy captain," Vandergrift went on, "on the staff of the Secretary of the Navy. He showed up here the day after the invasion and told me he just couldn't sail off into the sunset with the Navy when they left us on the beach. I tell you this because..."
He paused a moment, then began again.
"While I don't know how he got to be Brigadier General of Marines, General McInerney and I both think it was a wise decision on somebody's part."
"Yes, Sir."
"Have you any other questions, Colonel?"
"No, Sir."
"I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt, Colonel, and conclude that before you went over General McInerney's head, you gave it a lot of thought. So far as I'm concerned, this discussion never took place."
"Yes, Sir. Thank you."
"One more thing, Dawkins. One of the Wildcat pilots in VMF-229 is General Pickering's only son. I think we may presume that the lives of Marine Aviators on Guadalcanal are never out of General Pickering's mind for very long."
"General, I knew none of this."
"There's no way you could have. That's why I have decided to forget this conversation. That's all, Dawkins."
[Four]
THE OFFICE OF THE SUPREME COMMANDER
SOUTH WEST PACIFIC OCEAN AREA
BRISBANE, AUSTRALIA
1625 HOURS 5 OCTOBER 1942
Double doors led into the Supreme Commander's office. Master Sergeant Manuel Donat, of the Philippine Scouts; pushed open the left-hand one of these, waited until the Supreme Commander looked up, and then announced: "Lieutenant Hon is here to see you, General
"Ask the Lieutenant to come in, Manuel," General Douglas MacArthur said. He was slouched down in his chair, reading a typewritten document.
"Good afternoon, Sir," Pluto Hon said, saluting. He had a large manila envelope tucked under his arm.
Line of Fire Page 43
