Then he straightened it out, retarded the throttles, and set up a shallow climb.
It was just about 900 miles in a straight line from Henderson to Port Moresby on New Guinea, but Galloway was planning for at least a thousand-mile flight, in case he ran into weather, and because he knew that flying dead reckoning, the airfield was probably not going to be where he expected it to be.
To conserve fuel, he would cruise somewhere around 8,000 to 10,000 feet and at an indicated 180
knots. A thousand miles at 180 knots translated to right at six hours. That would give them an Estimated Time of Arrival at Port Moresby of 1700, 1710. The worst possible case-if they failed to find the field for another hour or so-would still see them on the ground at 1800. Before nightfall.
There was plenty of fuel. An R4D in this configuration could officially carry twenty-eight fully loaded paratroops, or 5,600 pounds. Galloway's experience during the C47/R4D acceptance tests had taught him that was a very conservative estimate of Maximum Gross Load.
Dillon had told him five people would be going into Buka.
That would be less than 1,000 pounds, because they would not be fully equipped paratroopers. But call it a thousand anyway.
And they would have with them an already weighed 950 pounds of supplies. So call that a thousand pounds, too. That left 3,600 pounds of cargo lift weight available.
More than that, really. Galloway had concluded that the Maximum Gross Weight erred on the side of caution by about 20 percent (a thousand pounds). So that left him 4,600 pounds.
AvGas weighed about seven pounds a gallon. And he had auxiliary fuel tanks mounted inside the cabin over the wing root. He'd ordered these filled with 600 gallons of gasoline.
One of the Rules for Over Water Flight that Captain Galloway devoutly believed in was that as long as you could get the airplane to stagger into the air with it, there was no such thing as too much fuel aboard.
If necessary, they could fly to Australia.
Galloway turned to Pickering.
"Can you hear me?" Pickering nodded.
"You've never been in one of these before?"
"Not sitting up front," Pickering said.
"They're a very forgiving airplane," Galloway said.
"That's nice," Pickering said. "May I ask a question?"
"Shoot."
"From the movies I've seen, people are supposed to be asked to volunteer for a mission they can't be told about." Galloway smiled.
"You volunteered the day you joined The Corps," he said.
"And again when you went through P'Cola. You had two chances to say no."
"Where are we going?"
Galloway threw the map into his lap. "First stop, Port Moresby. It'll take us about six hours-"
"We have that much fuel aboard?" Pickering asked, and then realized the stupidity of his question. "I guess we do, don't we?"
"-and then-turn the chart over-Moresby to Buka and return."
"The Japanese hold Buka, right? Where are we going to land? Or are we going to land?"
"We're going to pick up some people and equipment at Moresby and fly to Buka. We'll land on the beach, off-load the people and their equipment, and pick up three passengers." Pickering looked at him.
"Christ, you're serious!" Galloway nodded.
"There's something I think I should tell you, Captain," Pickering said. Charley picked up on the "Captain"; Pickering usually called him "Skipper."
"You're not Alan Ladd or Errol Flynn, right?"
"No," Pickering said. "I used to think I was a pretty good pilot."
"You are. With the Zeke you shot down this morning, that made five, you're officially an ace."
"That's not what I meant," Pickering said. "I mean, when I got my first ride in a Yellow Peril at P'Cola, the IP thought I was a wiseass-"
I can certainly understand that, Mr. Pickering.
"-and tried to make me airsick, and couldn't. So he turned it over to me and told me to take it back to the field and land it and I did; and then he was really pissed because he thought I already knew how to fly and hadn't told anybody."
"No kidding?"
"No kidding," Pickering said. "I had no trouble learning to fly the Wildcat, either, and... shit, just before I came over here, I took my grandfather's Stagger Wing Beech up, the first time I'd ever sat behind the wheel, buzzed Marin County, and then flew under the bridge."
"You flew under the Golden Gate Bridge?" Galloway asked incredulously.
Pickering nodded.
"Both ways, I flew in from the ocean, went under the bridge, did a one-eighty over Alcatraz, and flew back out under the bridge."
"That's a little hard to believe."
" I did it. And I wasn't scared. And I wasn't scared here until this morning."
I'll be a sonofabitch if I don't believe him about flying under the Golden Gate.
"Maybe you grew up this morning," Galloway said.
"Could be. After I saw what happened to Dick Stecker, I was about to hand you my wings and take my chances with a rifle.
I don't want to end up like that." He means that, too.
"So why didn't you?"
"Because wherever you were going was away from Henderson, from Guadalcanal," Pickering said. "I figured I could hand you my wings wherever we landed."
"You're out of luck, Pickering. At least until this mission's over," Galloway said. "You want to turn in your wings, that's your business. But not until we get back."
"You can't make me get back in this airplane once we land."
"Yes, I can. You're a goddamned Marine officer, and you'll do what you're ordered to do."
"Or what?"
"There is no òr what,' " Galloway said. "The subject is closed, Mr. Pickering."
Pickering shrugged and folded his arms across his chest.
Galloway put his hand on the wheel and reached up and turned the automatic pilot off.
"Put your hands and feet on the controls," he ordered. Pickering looked at him. After a moment he unfolded his arms and put his left hand on the wheel.
"You have the aircraft, Mr. Pickering," Galloway said.
"Maintain the present course and rate of climb until reaching nine thousand feet." Pickering nodded.
They rode in silence for a minute or so. Galloway had enough time to judge that Pickering was telling the truth about that-the rate-of-climb and airspeed-indicator needles didn't even flicker, nor did the attitude of the aircraft change a half degree. He was one of those rare people you heard about but never actually saw: He was born with the ability to fly.
A glint of light at his left startled him. He snapped his head and looked out.
First Lieutenant William Charles Dunn, USMCR, Executive Officer-and at the moment, acting Commander-of VMF-229 waved cheerfully at him from his F4F.
Galloway furiously signaled him to return to base.
When Dunn brought the subject up before they left, Galloway expressly told him not to escort the R4D.
It would have been nice if a whole squadron of Wildcats could escort the R4D away from Guadalcanal, to protect it from Japanese bombers. They'd be delighted to shoot an R4D down if they saw it. But a whole squadron of Wildcats could not be diverted from their primary mission for that-they couldn't even divert two or three of them.
And a single Wildcat wouldn't do any good. Not only that, it would place itself in unnecessary jeopardy.
Bill Dunn continued to wave cheerfully, apparently choosing to interpret Galloway's furious signals as a friendly return of his own greeting. Galloway remembered that back at Henderson, Bill seemed to cave in to the logic of his arguments far easier than Galloway expected.
"We're at nine thousand feet, Sir," Pickering reported.
"See if you can trim it up for straight and level flight at an indicated 180 knots, Mr. Pickering, without running into Mr. Dunn."
Pickering looked at him in confusion, and then saw Dunn in the Wildcat. He took his left hand from the wheel and, smiling, waved a
t him.
Meanwhile, the R4D leveled off. The altimeter indicated 9,000 feet, and the rate-of-climb indicator needle stopped moving. It was right in the center of the dial.
In direct violation of a specific order to the contrary, Lieutenant Dunn remained on the wingtip of the R4D until he had only enough fuel, plus ten minutes, to return to Henderson Field.
Then he waved one more time and entered a slow 180-degree turn to the left.
When he was out of sight, Galloway unfastened his shoulder and seat belts and got up out of his seat.
Pickering looked at him.
"Piss call," Galloway said. Pickering nodded.
He'll be all right, Galloway thought. He had every reason in the world to go a little crazy. Bringing him along was the right thing to do.
[Three]
ROYAL AUSTRALIAN AIR FORCE STATION
PORT MORESBY, NEW GUINEA
1340 HOURS 7 OCTOBER 1942
RAAF Moresby was located too far forward to have the most advanced cryptographic equipment. It was necessary, therefore, to decrypt both incoming and outgoing classified messages by hand.
A loose-leaf notebook kept locked up in the safe of the cryptographic officer held a number of codes printed on chemically treated paper. It would readily burn-almost explode-if a match were applied.
Each day there was a new code. But the change did not follow the calendar. Rather, it occurred upon notification from RAAF Radio, Melbourne. In other words, a code might be valid for eighteen hours, or twenty-six, or two, depending on when RAAF Radio, Melbourne, decided to change it.
The cryptographic officer's notebook also contained a number of codes for special use. A new set of these codes was sent in every two weeks by officer courier.
The RAAF Moresby Cryptographic Section consisted of a Flight Lieutenant and two Leading Aircraftsmen, RAAF.
When the message came in from RAAF Radio Melbourne for Lieutenant Commander Eric Feldt, RANVR, these men were frankly annoyed. Now that action against the Japanese on New Guinea was finally getting in gear, they had enough work as it was without having to handle the classified traffic for a goddamned sailor and his motley command-four American Marines and a Bushman wearing a RAN
Petty Officer's uniform.
So they decrypted the Commander's message as far as his name and address, and stopped there. It was their intention to let the rest of it wait until they'd taken care of the regular traffic. But that idea didn't work out. Air Commodore Sir Howard Teeghe, Commanding RAAF Moresby (his rank was equivalent to Brigadier, Commonwealth Ground Forces and Brigadier General, U.S. Army and Marine Corps), made the first visit anyone could remember to RAAF Moresby Cryptographic Section and informed the Lieutenant that Commander Feldt was expecting some rather important. Whenever that came, Air Commodore Teeghe said, he'd be grateful if they got right on it.
While the Air Commodore waited, the Lieutenant himself decrypted the rest of the message and handed it to him:
MOST URGENT
MELBOURNE 1250 7TH OCTOBER NUMBER 212
FROM ADMIRALTY MELBOURNE
VIA RAAF MELBOURNE
FOR OFFICER COMMANDING RAAF MORESBY
MOST SECRET
START
PART ONE
INFORMATION TO LT COMMANDER E. FELDT RANVR
PART TWO
START FOLLOWING FROM BANNING:
SUB A
SWIMMER WITH PATIENCE AS OF 1010 7OCT
SUB B
GREYHOUND DEPARTED STATION ABLE 1110M ETA STATION BAKER 1700M RPT
1700M
SUB C
STATION C COORDINATES 06 13 21 XXXX 14 16 07
RPT 06 13 21 XXXX 14 16 07
SUB D
RENDEZVOUS STATION C 0550M 9 OCT RPT 05SOM 9 OCT
END FROM BANNING
PART THREE
ADVISE ADMIRALTY MOST URGENT SIGNAL
SUB A ON ARRIVAL GREYHOUND
SUB B READINESS TO EFFECT SCHEDULED RENDEZVOUS
SUB C CAUSE OF AND EXPECTED TIME OF REMEDY ANY DELAY
SUB D ON DEPARTURE GREYHOUND FOR STATION C
SUB E RETURN OF GREYHOUND TO STATION B
BY AUTHORITY: SOAMES-HALEY, VICE ADM RAN
END
When the R4D With MARINES lettered along the side of its fuselage made a low approach from the sea and touched down smoothly, Lieutenant Commander Eric Feldt, RANVR, was standing outside RAAF
Moresby Base Operations. It was 1655 hours (Melbourne Time).
A BSA motorcycle with a sidecar onto which a FOLLOW ME sign had been bolted led the R4D to a sandbag revetment. The driver signaled the aircraft where to shut down, then a ground crew appeared and manhandled the airplane into the revetment.
The rear door opened and a ladder was lowered. Once that was done, Major Jake Dillon climbed down.
"Hello, Jake," Feldt said. "How are you, old man?" It was not the profane and/or obscene greeting Dillon expected.
"Can't complain, Eric. Yourself,?"
Captain Charley Galloway appeared and climbed down the ladder.
"Captain Galloway, Commander Feldt," Dillon said.
Galloway saluted.
"You're the Coastwatcher commander, Commander?" Galloway asked.
Feldt nodded.
"A lot of people where I come from have a lot of respect for your people, Commander," Charley said.
Feldt looked uncomfortable.
"I hope you had a good flight," he said after a moment. Then he put out his hand to Second Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering as he turned from climbing down the ladder. "My name is Feldt, Lieutenant.
Welcome to Port Moresby."
"Thank you, Sir."
"is the aircraft all right, Captain?"
"It ran like a Swiss watch, Sir. I'd like to go over it before we leave, of course."
"There's plenty of time for that. You're not due at Buka until six the day after tomorrow. Major Banning sent some steaks and whiskey. The rest of the lads are guarding it from the RAAF boys. I've got a car whenever you're ready."
MOST URGENT
RAAF MORESBY 1705 7Th OCTOBER NUMBER 107
FROM OFFICER COMMANDING RAAF MORESBY
FOR ADMIRALTY MELBOURNE FOR VICE ADMIRAL SOAMES-HALEY
VIA RAAF MELBOURNE
MOST SECRET
START
PART ONE
REFERENCE YOUR 212 7 OCT PART THREE SUB A: 1655M RPT 1655M
PART TWO
REFERENCE YOUR 212 7 OCT PART THREE SUB B: NO RPT NO PROBLEM ANTICIPATED
END FELDT LT COMM RANVR
[Four]
FLIGHT OPERATIONS BRIEFING ROOM
ROYAL AUSTRALIAN AIR FORCE STATION
PORT MORESBY, NEW GUINEA
1800 HOURS 8 OCTOBER 1942
The four Marines and the RANVR Signalman First who were to land on Buka, along with Major Jake Dillon, Captain Charles M. Galloway, and Lieutenant M. S. Pickering, were sprawled in chairs in the small, airless, steaming hot room.
Most of them clutched beer bottles.
"I rather doubt if any of you people are sober enough to understand any of this, but permit me to go through the motions," Lieutenant Commander Feldt said.
Their laughter sounded just a bit forced.
"The last word we had from Ferdinand Six was at 9:55 this morning. Chief Wallace reports that the party that will carry the supplies up to Ferdinand Six from the beach, and the people who are being extracted, all departed at noon yesterday, that is, 7 October. Using as a guide the time it took Wallace to get from the beach to Ferdinand Six, it should take them about thirty hours to reach the beach. That means, barring any trouble, they should be getting there right about now.
"Of course they may not have been able to move as quickly as Wallace did alone. We don't know what shape Reeves, Howard, and Koffler are in. That may delay them, On the other hand, since they know where they were going, and Wallace had to look for Ferdinand Six, they may have got to the beach hours ago. Either way, we have just about twelve hours in the schedule to t
ake care of the unexpected; the pickup is scheduled for ten minutes to six tomorrow morning.
"There are several potential problems. One is that they will run into our Nipponese friends; that could delay them beyond the twelve-hour cushion-"
"Or forever," one of the Marines said.
There was more forced laughter.
"Thank you ever so much, Sergeant, for that encouraging observation," Feldt said.
The sergeant held up his beer bottle.
"My pleasure, Commander."
"If I may continue?"
"Certainly, Sir."
"Or, as you have so cleverly deduced, Sergeant, it could well keep them from reaching the beach at all,"
Feldt said. "Second, since we were unable to land a Hallicrafters through the surf, the only radio now on the beach is the hand-held, battery-powered voice radio. That has a limited range and a limited battery life.
"In other words, Captain Galloway can't use that radio as a radio direction-finder; it's not powerful enough. Thus he'll have to find the beach on his own. If-and when-he finds it, he'll attempt to contact the beach, code name Greyhound Base, by radio.
"Now, if the radio is working, the officer in charge there, Lieutenant McCoy, will radio-"
"Sir, what if he's not on the beach?" another Marine sergeant asked; he sounded both very concerned and completely sober. "I thought he was supposed to go to Ferdinand Six. And you just said that they may not make it back to the beach."
"Sorry, I should have got into that. When they landed from the sub, they decided that Wallace could make better time to Ferdinand Six traveling alone. So Lieutenant McCoy stayed with Sergeant Hart."
"Did you say McCoy?" Pick Pickering asked.
"Yes, I did."
"Is he one of your people?" Pick asked.
"As a matter of fact, Lieutenant, no, he is not. He's sort of a rubber-boat expert they sent from Washington."
"Is that Killer McCoy?"
"Yes, but when you meet him, Lieutenant, I strongly suggest that you do not so address him."
"Aye, aye, Sir," Pick said.
"You know this guy?" Charley Galloway asked; they were sitting together.
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