Battleground

by W. E. B Griffin

  Mary Agnes O‘Malley read Photoplay and Screen Life magazines for intellectual stimulation; she was a veritable fountain of information regarding the private life of movie stars. She had read somewhere, for instance, that actor Tyrone Power had entered the Corps and was in flight training. Her dream was that Power would be assigned to Hawaii and Dunn would introduce them. She spoke of this often.

  If that happened, Lieutenant Power—or Captain Power, whatever he was—would probably set the minimum time record for the Marine Aviator getting his ashes hauled after arrival in the Territory of Hawaii.

  But in the meantime, Mary Agnes made it plain that Lieutenant Bill Dunn was all that her heart—and other anatomical parts—desired. This was not because she found him a charming companion, or even an outstanding lover, but because he looked, as she often told him, just like an actor named Alan Ladd.

  Dunn knew that if he really wanted to break it off with Mary Agnes, he could do it relatively easily. He could just call her and say that he had the duty and could not make it over to Pearl. She was dumb, but she was capable of understanding that. He was convinced that if he did this five nights in a row, say, no matter how determined she was not “to cheat” on him, she would have a snifter or two of Hennessey VSOP, her blood would start to boil, and some other soul would find himself sneaking up the back stairs to Room Eleven, Female Officer’s Quarters Fourteen.

  But in his own eyes he had no character. Or phrased less delicately, he was letting his dick do his thinking for him. He made “Sorry, I have the duty” telephone calls at least four times—for two nights in a row, twice. But that was as far as logic could go, vis-à-vis overwhelming the sinful lusts of the flesh.

  No matter how high his original resolve and how firm his original intentions, by the third day, he was unable to refute the whispers in his ear, Billy-Boy, they are not pulling your chain with that “Live Today For Tomorrow We Die” shit. The piece of ass you are so casually rejecting may well be the last piece you are ever offered. Tomorrow morning, you may crash inflames. Or they may tell you to get your ass aboard a carrier; and away you will sail to your hero’s death. With that in mind, does it really make any sense to spend your last night alive or ashore in your room with a portable radio for company, when you can play Hide the Salami and other games in Mary Agnes’s perfumed bed?

  Dunn noticed First Lieutenant David Schneider within sixty seconds or so of the moment Schneider walked into the bar of the Main Club. Schneider caught Dunn’s attention because he was wearing a white uniform. Officers wearing white uniforms outnumbered officers wearing greens about ten to one, but Schneider’s white uniform was the only one— Marine or Navy—with gold Naval Aviator’s wings pinned to it.

  I wonder who that horse’s ass is? was Bill Dunn’s first thought. If you were an aviator, you could get away with not wearing whites.

  His second thought immediately followed the first: He probably just got here. He’s probably, as a matter-of-fact, one of the two we got today.

  When Dunn had signed out in the squadron office for the Main Club at Pearl Harbor, PFC Hastings told him VMF-229 had two new officer pilots.

  “If you don’t stop that, I’m going to bust my zipper,” First Lieutenant Dunn said quietly to Lieutenant (j.g.) O‘Malley, removing her hand from his crotch.

  “Promises, promises,” she replied and pursed her lips at him.

  “Excuse me,” he said, getting up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I think the guy in whites down at the end of the bar is one of ours,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Mary Agnes looked toward the end of the bar and saw First Lieutenant David Schneider.

  “Oh, he’s cute!” she exclaimed, “He looks just like John Garfield.”

  Dunn reached Schneider in time to see the bartender fill the lieutenant’s glass with ginger ale. He was a little surprised, because there was no darker liquid already in the glass.

  “Good evening,” Dunn said.

  Schneider nodded an acknowledgment, but did not speak.

  “Is your name John Garfield, by any chance?”

  “No, it is not.”

  “Just get in? To VMF-229 by any chance?”

  Dunn saw that the question made the lieutenant uncomfortable.

  Obviously, he can’t answer that question. Japanese ears are everywhere. Loose lips sink ships. And I probably look like a Jap spy in disguise.

  “My name is Dunn. I’m Exec of VMF-229.”

  “Oh,” Schneider said, straightening. “Yes, Sir. My name is Schneider, Sir. I reported aboard today, Sir.”

  Dunn gave him his hand.

  “How do you do, Sir?”

  “I heard there were two of you?”

  “Yes, Sir. Lieutenant Jim Ward was on the same set of orders.”

  “He here with you?”

  “No, Sir. I believe he stayed aboard Ewa.”

  “Oh, now I know who you are. The Skipper stole you from Quantico, right?”

  “We were stationed at Quantico, yes, Sir.”

  “Now, don’t misunderstand this. This is a simple suggestion. I’m about to return to Ewa. I have a car. If you need a ride?”

  “Yes, Sir, thank you very much. Actually, I came in here hoping to get a ride.”

  “Well, then, come on down the bar while I finish my drink.”

  “Won’t I be in the way, Sir? Two’s company, and so on?”

  “Not at all,” Bill Dunn said. “The lady and I are just friends.”

  This is despicable of you, Billy Dunn. But on the other hand, what a clever sonofabitch you are sometimes.

  “Lieutenant O‘Malley, may I present Lieutenant Schneider, who joined the squadron today?”

  “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” Mary Agnes said. “Did anyone ever tell you you look just like John Garfield?”

  Dave Schneider flushed. “No, I can’t say that anyone has.”

  “Don’t you think he does, Bill?”

  “Spitting image,” Bill Dunn said. He was pleased to see that Lieutenant Schneider did not seem to be able to keep his eyes away from Mary Agnes’s tunic, where her bosom placed quite a strain against the material; it sort of made her gold buttons stand to attention.

  He beckoned to the bartender.

  “We’ll have a round,” he said.

  “Sir,” Dave Schneider said uncomfortably, “I was led to believe we’d be flying tomorrow.”

  “One cognac won’t hurt you,” Bill Dunn said. “And we can’t welcome you aboard with ginger ale.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Dave Schneider said.

  “And another part of the welcome aboard ritual is a dance with Lieutenant O‘Malley,” Dunn said. “Mary Agnes is something like the squadron mascot, isn’t that so, Mary Agnes?”

  “Oh, it is not,” she said. “You make me sound like a cocker spaniel. But I do like to dance.”

  How about a bitch in heat?

  (Two)

  HEADQUARTERS, RAN COASTWATCHER

  ESTABLISHMENT

  TOWNESVILLE, QUEENSLAND

  1945 HOURS 15 JULY 1942

  Both Major Ed Banning, commanding officer of U.S. Marine Corps Special Detachment 14, and Lieutenant Commander Eric Feldt, Officer Commanding, Royal Australian Navy Coast Watcher Establishment, were waiting at the small Townesville air strip when the Royal Australian Air Force Lockheed Hudson came in low over the sea and touched down.

  As the twin engine bomber-transport taxied to a parking place, Banning put the Studebaker President in gear and bounced over the grass to it.

  By the time the rear door opened, and Captain Fleming Pickering, USNR, was emerging from it, Banning and Feldt were standing on either side of the spot where his feet would alight. After Feldt saluted elaborately, in the British palm-out manner, the hand quivering, he barked, “Sir!”

  Banning extended a towel-wrapped bottle in an ice-filled cooler. The cooler had begun life as a tomato can.

  “It’s beer,” he said. “But you can’t
fault our good intentions.”

  “I expected at least a band,” Pickering said, taking the bottle from the can and removing the towel. “What am I supposed to do, bite the cap off?”

  “Sir!” Feldt barked again, and bowing deeply handed him a bottle opener.

  Pickering opened the beer bottle, took a pull from the neck, and offered the bottle to Feldt.

  “Very good of you, Sir,” Feldt said, taking a pull at the beer and handing it to Banning. “And may I say how honored we all feel that you could find time in your busy schedule to honor us with a visit.”

  Pickering appeared to be thoughtfully considering the remark. Finally, smiling, he said, “Yes, I think you may.”

  Feldt laughed with delight.

  The pilot, a silver-haired Wing Commander, the co-pilot, a Squadron Commander, and the crew chief, a sergeant, came out of the airplane. Banning introduced them, and then said, “I think, Wing Commander, that you may unload the emergency rations for these starving savages.”

  “Very good, Sir,” the Wing Commander said.

  The sergeant went back in the Hudson and started handing boxes out. There was a case of scotch, a case of bourbon, six cases of beer, and a wooden case marked Moet & Chandon.

  “Do you sodding Americans do everything backward? Christmas is in December, ” Feldt said.

  “A small contribution to the enlisted mess,” Pickering said. “Knowing as I do that a fine Christian officer such as yourself would never allow alcohol to touch his lips.”

  “I can get it down without it coming near my lips,” Feldt said. “Anyone who comes between me and the bubbly does so at his peril.”

  “What’s up, Boss?” Major Ed Banning asked.

  “Never treat with the natives until you’ve plied them with alcohol,” Pickering said. “And always hope that no one has warned them to beware of Americans bearing gifts.”

  “Why don’t I like the sound of that?” Feldt asked.

  “Because you’re prescient,” Pickering said. “You intuit that I am here to tell you how to do your job.”

  Feldt continued to smile, but the warmth was gone from his eyes.

  “Will it wait until after dinner? Or should I more or less politely tell you to climb back on the sodding airplane and bugger off now?”

  “That would depend on dinner,” Pickering said. “What are we having?”

  “Probably very little,” Banning said. “I told them to go ahead and eat if we weren’t back by 1830.”

  “We ran against a forty-knot headwind all the bloody way,” the Wing Commander said. “We had to set down and refuel.”

  “Then I suppose we’ll have to drink our dinner,” Pickering said. “How are we going to get all that in the car?”

  “We’ll take the booze, naturally, and leave you and Banning here,” Feldt said. “There’s such a thing as going too sodding far with this international cooperation crap.”

  “Why don’t you and the Wing Commander and Captain Pickering take half of the booze, and then send the car back to pick up the rest of us and the rest of the booze?” Ed Banning suggested.

  “Why don’t we leave the Wing Commander, too?” Feldt said. “That way there would be no witnesses when I remind the Captain that the understanding was that he would keep his sodding nose the hell out of my business?”

  “That,” Pickering said, after a moment, “as you suggested, can wait until after dinner.”

  “It’s a pity, really,” Feldt said. “I was on the edge of almost liking you, Pickering. A man, even a sodding American, can’t be all bad if he brings me Moet & Chandon.”

  “Into each life,” Pickering intoned sonorously, “some rain must fall.”

  “Get in the car, you sodding bastard,” Feldt said. “You drive. The sodding steering wheel is on the wrong side.”

  Lieutenant Commander Eric Feldt rose somewhat unsteadily to his feet.

  “If you will excuse us, gentlemen,” he said, “the time has come for me to tell Captain Pickering to bugger off before I am too pissed to do so.”

  “Ed,” Pickering said, as he stood up from the dinner table, “you and Wing Commander Foster, too.”

  Feldt looked, not at all friendly, at Wing Commander Foster.

  “You, too, Wing Commander?” he asked. “I wondered what the hell a Wing Commander was doing chauffeuring Pickering around.”

  Wing Commander Foster was aware of Lieutenant Commander Feldt’s reputation even before Air Vice-Marshal Devon-Jaynes and Captain Fleming Pickering warned him that Feldt was difficult. As they all ate dinner, while Feldt bitterly criticized everyone involved in the war except the Japanese, Foster had managed to keep his mouth shut—though with an effort.

  But now, momentarily, he lost control.

  “One does what one is ordered to, Commander,” he said icily. “In this instance, I am here at the direction of Air Vice-Marshal Devon-Jaynes.”

  “Air Vice-Marshal Devon-Jaynes?” Feldt replied. “Well, sod him, too.”

  He turned and marched out of the room. Pickering shook his head and made a gesture with his hand to Wing Commander Foster, signifying both an apology for Feldt and an order to say nothing more.

  “Sorry, Sir,” Foster said.

  “Commander Feldt,” Pickering said, touching Foster’s arm, “is both a remarkable man, and a man whose contributions to this goddamn war cannot be overstated.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Foster said, and then followed Pickering into Feldt’s office. Banning brought up the rear.

  Feldt was standing behind his desk, pouring scotch into a glass.

  “I presume,” he said nastily, “that since the Wing Commander is here at the direction of Air-Vice Marshal Whatsisname that he has the sodding Need to Know whatever it is we’re going to talk about?”

  “Wing Commander Foster has a Top SECRET OPERATION PESTILENCE clearance,” Pickering said evenly. He took a business-sized envelope from his inner jacket pocket and handed it to Feldt. “That’s an authorization from Admiral Boyer to give Wing Commander Foster access to Coastwatcher classified information through Top SECRET.”

  Feldt looked at the envelope, and then tossed it unopened on his desk.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” he said. “Ok. Let’s get to it.”

  “Why don’t we uncover the map?” Pickering said.

  “Why don’t we?” Feldt said. He turned around and faced the wall behind his desk. A four-by-six-foot sheet of plywood, hinged at the top, lay against the wall. With some difficulty, Feldt raised it, then attached a length of chain which held it horizontally, exposing the map beneath.

  The map displayed the Solomon Islands area from New Britain and New Ireland in the North, through Santa Isabel and Guadalcanal in the Southeast, and the upper tip of Australia to the Southwest. It was covered with a sheet of celluloid, on which had been marked in grease pencil the location of the thirty or more Coastwatchers, together with their radio call signs.

  “Why don’t you have a look at that, Wing Commander?” Pickering said.

  Foster went to the map and studied it carefully in silence for more than a minute.

  “This is the first time I’ve seen this ...” he said.

  “We don’t publish it in the sodding Times, for Christ’s sake,” Feldt said.

  “... and I had no idea how many stations you have,” Foster concluded, ignoring him.

  “Not as many as we would like. Or had,” Feldt said. “Note the red Xs.”

  There were a dozen or more locations which had red grease pencil Xs drawn through them.

  “No longer operational, I gather?” Foster said.

  “No longer operational, for one reason or another,” Feldt said. “Betrayed by natives. Or felled by one sodding tropical disease or another. Or equipment failure. Or the sodding Japs just got lucky and found them.”

  “We are going to land on Guadalcanal, Tulagi, and Gavutu on August first,” Pickering said. He stopped and then went on. “Actually, I don’t think there is any way they can ma
ke that schedule. There’s going to be a rehearsal in the Fiji Islands first. And then they’ll probably land on Guadalcanal on seven August or eight August.”

  “If then,” Ed Banning said, a little bitterly. “I heard what a mess things are in in New Zealand.”

  “It’ll have to be by then,” Pickering replied. “If the Japanese get that airfield near Lunga Point on Guadalcanal operational—even for Zeroes, not to mention bombers—I hate to think what they could do to an invasion fleet.”

  “The point of all this?” Feldt asked.

  “At the moment, the bulk of Japanese aerial assets are in—or around—Rabaul. When they attack the invasion fleet, or the islands themselves after we land, they will use planes based at Rabaul. The more warning we have, obviously, the better. I am concerned with Buka.”

  “Buka is up and running,” Feldt said.

  Foster searched on the map and found Buka, a small island at the tip of Bougainville.

  “Here?” he said, but it was more of a statement than a question.

  “Buka is the only Coastwatcher station, Wing Commander,” Feldt said, “manned by U.S. Marine Corps personnel. Do you suppose that has anything to do with Captain Pickering’s concern?”

  Banning looked at Pickering and actually saw the blood drain from his face.

  “There is a point, Eric,” Pickering said icily, “when you cross the line from colorful curmudgeon to offensive horse’s ass. At that point I will not tolerate any more of your drunken, caustic bullshit. You have passed that point. Do you take my meaning?”

  “Not really,” Feldt said, unrepentant. “Explain it to me.”

  “Let me put it this way: How would you like to spend the rest of this war counting life preservers in Melbourne?”

  “Don’t you threaten me!”

  “If I don’t have an apology in thirty seconds, I’m going to pick up that telephone and call Admiral Boyer and tell him that I have reluctantly come to agree with him about the necessity of relieving you.”

  “Sod you, Pickering.”