Battleground

by W. E. B Griffin

  “This, obviously, is Guadalcanal,” General Vandergrift said, standing in front of the map and pointing to the island that always reminded Lucky Lew Harris of a tape worm. He had been infested with tape worms several times during his Marine service in Latin America. They had left an indelible, unpleasant memory with him.

  “While our intelligence, putting it kindly, ranges from lousy to nonexistent,” General Vandergrift went on, “we have reason to believe the Japanese are building an airfield here, on the Northern side of the island, near Lunga point.”

  He paused, and then said, “The comment vis-à-vis our intelligence was not intended as a criticism of Colonel Goettge. I meant to say that there is very little intelligence available to anybody over here, including Admiral Ghormley and General MacArthur.”

  “Not that MacArthur would give it to the Marines if he had it,” someone muttered.

  Vandergrift’s face tightened.

  “I will not ask who made that remark,” he said, icily furious. “But I will observe that anyone who makes a similar remark in the future does so at his own, considerable peril.”

  It had recently become rumored throughout the Marine Corps—and Lucky Lew Harris had taken the trouble to check it out and verify it—that MacArthur had not recommended the 4th Marines, who had fought on Bataan and Corregidor, for the Presidential Unit Citation. The citations had been passed out to almost every other unit in the area. MacArthur was reported to have explained his action, or lack of it, by saying, “The Marines have enough decorations as it is.”

  The crack, Harris thought, is understandable. And probably true.

  When Harris met General Vandergrift at the airport after his return from meeting Admiral Ghormley, Vandergrift told him that MacArthur was opposed to the Solomon Islands operation for two reasons, tactical and personal; he didn’t think it was the way to fight the war, and he wasn’t to be in command of it.

  Under those circumstances, MacArthur would be reluctant to give the Marines the time of day. And the General knows that. But he certainly had to say what he said. If that had been me, I would have called Motor Mouth to attention and really eaten his ass out.

  “Now, across this body of water, about twenty-three miles from the airfield we believe they are building near Lunga point,” Vandergrift went on, pointing again, “we find these tiny islands off Florida Island, Tulagi and Gavutu. We know the Japanese have built a seaplane base on Tulagi, and they have some other installations in the area. The seaplanes could raise hell with our landing craft, so we have to take Tulagi and Gavutu first, by which I mean several hours before we land on Guadalcanal itself, in the Lunga point area.

  “A few more points about my general thinking. I think we should divide the division into two regimental combat teams—there would be about 4500 men in each—for the main landing on Guadalcanal. We will use the Raiders and the Paratroops, probably reinforced by one of the battalions of the 5th Marines, for the Tulagi-Gavutu landings, and the RCTs for the landing on Guadalcanal itself.

  “What I’m going to do now is turn this over to General Harris and the G-3, and for the next hour—and no more than that—I want you to discuss the major problems as you see them. And then I want you to get to work. As I said before, we have a lot to do, and damned little time to do it in.”

  He turned from the lectern. Someone called, “Atten-hut!” and everyone came to attention. Vandergrift marched out of the room. General Harris walked to the lectern.

  “Take your seats,” he ordered. “Try turning the lights on to see if we can still see the map.”

  (Three)

  THE PRINCE OF WALES HOTEL

  MELBOURNE, VICTORIA, AUSTRALIA

  0930 HOURS 29 JUNE 1942

  Major Edward Banning had called Sergeant John Marston Moore, USMCR, at half past six, and somewhat brusquely ordered him to have a quick breakfast, settle his hotel bill, and be waiting for him in the lobby with his gear when he came to pick him up.

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  Banning had hung up without a further word.

  By 0715 Sergeant Moore had complied with his orders, by dressing hurriedly, gulping down a breakfast identified on the menu as “scrambled eggs with bangers,” and paying for his hotel room with a twenty-dollar bill. The cashier looked with great suspicion at that, but he reluctantly accepted it.

  When Major Banning did not show up by 0800, Moore checked with the desk to make sure there had been no calls or messages for him. He did so again at 0830, again at 0900, and was about to check again when he saw the Marine officer walking quickly across the sidewalk to the revolving glass door of the hotel. There was little doubt in his mind that it was his new commanding officer, so he stood up, almost in the formal position of Attention.

  Each man examined the other carefully. Moore would have been flattered to know that Banning was pleased with what he saw, a tall, good-looking, physically fit kid with intelligent eyes, who really didn’t look as if he was fresh from boot camp at Parris Island.

  And Moore saw a tall, stocky, tanned man who met his expectation of what a Marine field grade officer should look like. But as a recent graduate of Parris Island, where the only major he had ever seen was on the reviewing stand at a parade, this was not a comforting appreciation. He was more than a little in awe, something approaching fear, of Major Banning.

  “Sergeant Moore?” Banning asked.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Banning offered his hand. There was a momentary test of grip-strength, which Banning, surprising neither of them, won. Banning was further pleased that when he looked intently into Moore’s eyes, the kid didn’t blink.

  “You’ve had breakfast? Got your bill paid?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Grab your gear, then. I’m parked illegally.”

  He marched out of the hotel lobby. Moore grabbed his gear and scurried after him.

  Banning led him to a Studebaker parked in a No HALTING zone. Marine insignia were on the hood and doors. Banning held open the back door and gestured for Moore to put his gear in the back seat. When he had done so, Banning slammed the door, pointed to the front seat, and said, “Get in.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Banning got behind the wheel, punched the ignition button, and then looked at Moore.

  “Sorry to be late, Sergeant. Captain Pickering had an appointment with General MacArthur at 8:30 and his car wouldn’t start. So I had to drive him over there before I came for you.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Banning had expected to see more of a reaction to the words “General MacArthur” than he got.

  Either he’s stupid, which I doubt. Or he didn’t hear me, which is unlikely. Or he is simply unable to comprehend what I said. It’s like being told that someone you know has just had lunch with Saint Peter, if not God himself.

  Moore did indeed hear what Banning said. He had also noticed that Banning was wearing the Purple Heart ribbon, making him the second man he’d met (Lieutenant “Killer” McCoy was the first) who had actually seen combat in this war. He supposed that Banning had been wounded in the Philippines, which, aside from Wake Island, was the only place the Marines had seen ground combat so far. But if that was so, he wondered, how had Banning escaped when the Philippines fell?

  It was at once possible and incredible to consider that the man driving him around in a Studebaker had actually escaped from Corregidor.

  He had not made a response because he could think of none to make.

  Banning drove to a hill outside Melbourne overlooking Port Philip Bay and pulled the Studebaker off the road.

  “There goes your plane,” Major Banning said, pointing. Moore followed the finger and saw a Navy Martin PBM-3R Mariner moving across the blue waters of the bay.

  I’ve ridden on a plane like that, he thought, and then, Major Banning said, “your plane, ” so that must be the very plane, headed back for Hawaii.

  The Mariner rose into the air, and then with a tremendous splash fell back into the water. It r
epeated this twice more before it rose finally into the air. Then it banked, and passed right over them.

  Banning offered Moore a cigarette, and then held his Ronson out to light it for him.

  “I don’t think anyone has to tell you that you’re now on the perimeter of the intelligence business, Moore, do they? I mean, you’re a bright young man, you did think there was something a little odd about the way they took you out of Parris Island and sent you here? Flew you here, ahead of some pretty senior officers?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And would it be a reasonable statement that you don’t know diddly-shit about the Intelligence business? Or for that matter, about the Marine Corps?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “You have seen the spy movies, of course, where the sneaky little Jap with the buck teeth and the thick glasses has the plans for the latest aircraft carrier in his briefcase? And is foiled at the last moment by Commander Don Winslow of the U.S. Coast Guard?”

  Moore chuckled. “Yes, Sir.”

  “Commander Winslow of the Coast Guard” was a popular children’s radio program.

  “Well, for openers, you couldn’t get the plans for an aircraft carrier in a boxcar, much less a briefcase. And then, in the real world, I have come to know a number of Japanese Intelligence types who are as large as I am, have perfect teeth and eye sight, and are probably a lot smarter than I am. And I know from personal experience that our Intelligence, and Counterintelligence, fucks up by the numbers far more often than it works at all.”

  Moore looked at him, expecting Banning to be smiling. He was not.

  “For example,” Banning said, “all that effort by all those people to get you over here as soon as humanly possible was a waste of time, money, and airspace. I can’t use you.” He waited for a moment until that announcement had time to sink in, and then added, “Comment?”

  Oh, shit! What happens to me now?

  “I don’t know what to say, Sir.”

  “But finding you and sending you here the way they did was sound, a good idea, and well carried out.”

  “Sir?” Moore asked, wholly confused.

  “What I’m doing, what Special Detachment 14 is doing, in other words, is very important. Importance is normally judged by how many American lives can be saved, or how many of the enemy can be killed, by what you’re doing. Are you still with me?”

  “You’re saying, Sir, in effect, ‘damn the expense’?”

  “Just about. When something important is at stake, you can’t worry about what it costs, or anything else. So here you are, and I can’t use you.”

  “Sir, what happens to me now?”

  “I wondered when you were going to get around to asking that,” Banning said. “One of two things: We send you down to the First Division, the initial elements of which just arrived in New Zealand. Your Japanese language skills can be put to good use there.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Or, we keep you here,” Banning said.

  “Sir, I thought you said you don’t need me.”

  “You might be of value working for Captain Pickering, or more precisely, for an officer who works for Captain Pickering.”

  “May I ask doing what, Sir?”

  “It has to do with intelligence, and it has to do with your knowledge of Japanese, and the Japanese culture.”

  “Sir, I don’t understand.”

  “I said before, if you remember, that importance is usually judged by how many American lives can be saved, or how many of the enemy can be killed. Do you remember that?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “What you would be involved in could literally affect the outcome of the war,” Banning said evenly.

  “I still don’t understand, Sir.”

  “No, you don’t. And I will not entertain any questions about what that is.”

  “Sir, I don’t really ...”

  “That’s the whole idea, Moore. You’re not supposed to know what’s going on. You would be expected to do what you were told, and not only not ask questions, but not try to guess. It’s that important.”

  “Wow!”

  “No romance. Nobody in a trench coat, but—and I tell you this because it would be self-evident—real world intelligence at the highest level. There would be a high degree of risk to you.”

  “May I ask how, Sir?”

  “If I, or anyone else, ever learned that you had run off at the mouth about any aspect of this operation, you’ll be shot. There would be no court-martial, nothing like that. The burden of proof of innocence would be on you. You would be shot out of hand, and your family would get a telegram from the Secretary of the Navy expressing his deep regret that you had been lost at sea. Something like that.”

  Moore, his eyes wide, looked at Banning for confirmation that he had correctly heard what Banning had just said.

  “Yes,” Banning said, reading Moore’s mind. “I’m serious. Deadly serious, pun intended.”

  “Sir, when they took me out of Parris Island, they—Captain Sessions—led me to believe that I could ultimately get a commission.”

  “Maybe you could in the 1st Division,” Banning said. “But no way in the billet I’m talking about.”

  Moore exhaled audibly.

  “You want some time to think this over?” Banning said.

  If I was this kid, I would think, “Fuck you, Major. Send me to the 1st Marine Division and give me that gold bar I was promised.”

  “No, Sir,” Moore said. “If you think I could do what you want me to do, I’ll try. I think I can keep my mouth shut.”

  “So does Captain Pickering,” Banning said. “Don’t disappoint him. He told me that you remind him of his son, who’s a Marine officer. He wouldn’t like to have you shot. But he would, and I’d probably have to do it.”

  “I understand, Sir.”

  “The mission of Special Detachment 14 is classified TOP SECRET,” Banning said. “What we do is support the Australian Navy’s Coastwatcher Operation. What they do is have people on Japanese occupied islands. What they do is furnish intelligence information, generally about Japanese air and sea activity, but also about Japanese troop installations, and that sort of thing.”

  “Am I going to be working with the Coastwatchers, Sir?”

  “No. I don’t need you. I need radio operators and radio technicians. Who are parachutists. You’re none of those things. But having you assigned to Special Detachment 14 will be what is known as a good cover assignment. People who think you’re already assigned to a highly classified activity won’t be prone to ask questions, or even wonder, about what you’re really doing.”

  “I think I understand, Sir.”

  “We’re in Townesville, Queensland, up North. You will stay here, ostensibly to function as our rear area. Meet courier planes, receive and transship equipment, that sort of thing.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “There is a headquarters company at Supreme Headquarters, but if we put you in there, questions will obviously be asked as to what exactly you would be doing. So, for the time being, you will live at The Elms.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “You’re not going to ask what ‘The Elms’ is?”

  Moore looked at Banning and smiled, “Sir, you just told me not to ask questions.”

  Banning chuckled.

  “OK, Sergeant, one point for you. ‘The Elms’ is an estate Captain Pickering has leased, not far from here. He has more money than God, and he was not prepared to share the Spartan quarters provided for Navy captains with an Army colonel who snores. It’s equipped with a housekeeper and some other servants, and it’s enormous. You’ll have no problems making yourself invisible there.”

  “My God!” Moore said.

  “And living there will get you out of the clutches of the headquarters company commander, who would, I’m sure, love to have a Marine sergeant for his guard details. MacArthur is about to move his headquarters to Brisbane—that move is classified SECRET, by the way—so other arran
gements will have to made for you when that happens.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “The officer you will be working for is Lieutenant Hon. He’s in the Army Signal Corps and is a cryptographic-classified documents officer at Supreme Headquarters, South West Pacific. He also has other duties he performs for Captain Pickering. You spoke with him on the telephone last night.”

  “He speaks perfect Japanese,” Moore thought aloud.

  Banning chuckled again. “He said the same thing about you, which is why you’re not on your way to the First Marine Division.”

  Banning turned the ignition key and started the engine, and then turned and looked at Moore.

  “One question, Moore.”

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “Do you believe me when I say we’ll have you shot if you breach security? Or do you think this is some sort of bullshit line I’m handing you?”

  Moore met Banning’s eyes.

  “I believe you, Sir.”

  “Good,” Banning said.

  He put the gearshift in reverse and turned the Studebaker around.

  (Four)

  HEADQUARTERS, 1ST MARINE DIVISION

  WELLINGTON, NEW ZEALAND

  1605 HOURS 29 JUNE 1942

  “General,” Harris’s sergeant said, putting his head in Harris’s office door, “Major Dillon is here and wants to know if you can see him for a minute.”

  I want to see that sonofabitch about as much as I want to break both my legs.

  “Ask him to come in, please, Sergeant,” Harris said. Major Dillon, to Harris’s surprise, was wearing utilities. Both the utilities and his boots were muddy.

  It actually looks like the sonofabitch has been out in the boondocks.

  “Hello, Dillon,” Harris asked. “What can I do for you?”

  “Good morning, Sir,” Dillon said, assuming the position of Parade Rest.

  “Pull up a chair,” Harris said. “But don’t get too comfortable. I’ve got people coming to see me right about now.”