“Your discussion, I’m afraid, Mrs. Feller,” Pluto Hon said, coldly, “is academic.”
“What does that mean?” Banning asked.
Hon handed him a sheet of paper.
URGENT
TOP SECRET
SERVICE MESSAGE
FROM: OFFICER IN CHARGE SPECIAL COMMUNICATIONS FACILITY JKS-3 SHSWPA BRISBANE
TO: OFFICER IN CHARGE SPECIAL COMMUNICATIONS FACILITY JKS-1 CINCPAC PEARL HARBOR
1. FOLLOWING TOP SECRET EYES ONLY TO BE RELAYED URGENT TO CAPTAIN FLEMING PICKERING USNR SOMEWHERE ENROUTE VIA BAKER XRAY MIKE TO OFFICE SECNAV WASHINGTON: BEGIN MSG ONLY ENLISTED MEMBER JKS-3 EN ROUTE VIA AIR GUADALCANAL ON ORDERS ACOFS G2 HQ USMC SIGNATURE PLUTO END MSG.
2. IMPORTANCE OF DELIVERY AS SOON AS POSSIBLE CANNOT BE OVEREMPHASIZED. HON 1STLT SIGC USA
Ellen Feller stepped behind Banning and read the message over his shoulder.
“You had no authority to do that!” she flared.
“This has gone out, Pluto?” Banning asked.
“Yes, Sir.”
“If you did so in the presumption that I would agree with it, you were absolutely right, Lieutenant,” Banning said.
“It’s insane,” Ellen said. “The people in Hawaii aren’t stupid. They are going to know exactly what this means.”
“I hope so,” Pluto said. “MAGIC is too important to risk being compromised.”
“I can’t imagine what Captain Pickering is going to think when he gets that,” she said.
“He’s probably going to wonder why we let it happen,” Banning said.
“What could we do? How could we stop it?” she snapped.
“Since Pluto and I were gone, obviously, we couldn’t.”
“You’re not suggesting that I could have stopped him from going?”
Banning didn’t answer.
“You tell me, Banning,” she flared, “how I could have stopped him from going.”
“You could have hid him under your bed, if nothing else, until Colonel Dailey was gone.”
She snorted contemptuously.
“Or in it,” Banning added, nastily.
“How dare you talk to me like that?”
“For your general information, Mrs. Feller,” Banning said evenly, turning to meet her eyes, “at my request, the Army Counterintelligence Corps has been providing security for this house since Captain Pickering rented it. He’s a splendid fellow, but he’s a little lax about classified document security. They kept it up after Captain Pickering left and turned the house over to you and Sergeant Moore. The CIC people go through the house every time it’s left empty, to make sure there’s nothing classified lying about. They’re very thorough in their surveillance. They even write down which bedrooms are used by whom, and they’ve been furnishing me a daily report.”
(Four)
HENDERSON FIELD
GUADALCANAL, SOLOMON ISLANDS
1045 HOURS 19 AUGUST 1942
A bag of official mail and six insulated metal boxes marked with red crosses and the legend, HUMAN BLOOD RUSH, were aboard the PBY-5 Catalina from Espíritu Santo. There were also three passengers.
One of the passengers was wearing a steel helmet and a Red Cross brassard on the sleeve of his obviously brand-new USMC utilities.
The Navy Medical Corps, Lieutenant Colonel George F. Dailey thought approvingly, was just about as efficient in sending replacements for lost-in-action physicians as Marine Corps intelligence had been in getting him and Sergeant Moore to the scene of battle.
Sergeant Moore did not favorably impress Lieutenant Colonel Dailey. When he was told that he was going to be given the opportunity to serve the Corps and the nation doing something far more important than shuffling classified documents, Moore’s behavior in Brisbane was really distressing, not at all that expected of a Marine sergeant. He didn’t want to go. And while Dailey was not prepared to go so far as to suggest cowardice, he was convinced that if he hadn’t sent the Army Military Policemen to “help him collect his gear” there was more than a slight chance that Moore would not have shown up at the airport. At least until after the plane to Espíritu Santo had left.
As the Catalina landed, Dailey saw that there were no other airplanes on the field, and wondered why. If the Catalina could land, why not fighters?
The pilot taxied up to the control tower and shut down the engines. A crewman opened the door and made a gesture for the passengers to get out.
“Welcome to Guadalcanal,” he said. “Cactus Airlines hopes you have enjoyed your flight.”
There were two Jeeps sitting by the control tower. A medical officer wearing a Red Cross brassard sat on the hood of one of them. Surprising Dailey, he had a .30 caliber carbine slung over his shoulder. A major leaned against the other Jeep. A 35-mm camera was hanging around his neck, and a Thompson .45 caliber submachine gun was cradled in his arm.
The major smiled and pushed himself erect.
“Well, I’ll be damned, look who’s here! I warned you not to screw up, Sergeant.”
Moore saluted.
“Hello, Major Dillon,” he said.
“Major,” Dailey said. “My name is Dailey.”
Dillon did not salute. He offered his hand, and announced, “Jake Dillon, Colonel.”
The medical officer, and a Corpsman who appeared from inside the control tower building, went to the Catalina. The refrigerated blood containers were handed out and put into the medical Jeep. The doctor who had been on the plane from Espiritu Santo climbed out.
He shook hands with the doctor who had been waiting with the Jeep, then he stepped up to the front seat. The corpsman climbed over the rear and sat down precariously on one of the blood containers. The Jeep drove off.
The pilot came out the door.
“Just the man I’m looking for,” Dillon said, and took an insulated Human Blood container from the back of his Jeep. A failed attempt to cross off HUMAN BLOOD with what appeared to be grease pencil had been made.
When he looked closer, Dailey saw that the grease pencil had also been used to write, EXPOSED PHOTOGRAPHIC FILM. FOR PUBLIC RELATIONS SECTION, HQ USMC, WASHINGTON DC on several sides of the container.
“Hello, Major,” the pilot said.
“You don’t have any film for me, by any chance, do you?”
“There’s four boxes for you at Espiritu, but I didn’t have the weight left.”
“Christ, I’m running low.”
“I had the medic and those two to carry. They had the priority. Next time, I hope.”
“If you can’t bring all of it, bring at least one. Or open one. Bring what you can. I’m really running low. And film doesn’t weigh that much.”
“I’ll do what I can, Jake.”
“Thank you,” Dillon said, and walked back to Dailey and Moore.
“I think I know where Sergeant Moore is going,” Dillon said. “Is there any place I can carry you, Colonel?”
“I’m reporting for duty as Division G-2,” Dailey said.
“I thought that might be it,” Dillon said. “Hop in, I’ll give you a ride.”
“Thank you,” Dailey said. “What’s your function around here, Major?”
“I’m your friendly neighborhood Hollywood press agent,” Dillon said, as he got behind the wheel.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand?”
“I’ve got a crew of combat correspondents recording this operation for posterity,” Dillon said.
“How is it you know Sergeant Moore?”
“I was in Melbourne—with Frank Goettge, the man you’re replacing—a while back. At Fleming Pickering’s place. Moore worked for him.” He turned to look at Moore in the back seat. “You knew he was gone from here, didn’t you?”
“I knew he was going, Sir,” Moore said. “I didn’t know he was gone.”
“Well, don’t worry, they’ll find a lot for you to do here. You heard what happened to Colonel Goettge and the others?”
“No, Sir.”
Dillon told the
m.
When they reached the G-2 Section, Dillon got out of the Jeep.
“Major Jack NMI Stecker is acting G-2,” he said. “I’ll introduce you. He’ll be damned glad to see you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because they took him away from his battalion to put him in G-2 when Goettge got himself killed, and he’s very unhappy about that.”
Dillon entered the G-2 section. It was dark inside, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Before they did, before he could make out more than shadowy bodies, he called out: “Christmas present, Jack. Your replacement.”
There was silence for a moment, and then a dry voice said, “At least he didn’t go ‘Ho, Ho, Ho.’ I suppose we should be grateful for that.”
Major Dillon’s eyes had by then become acclimated to the lower light. He could now make out a familiar face.
“I beg your pardon, General. I didn’t know you were in here.”
“I wonder if that would have made any difference?” General Vandergrift asked, and then advanced on Dailey.
“I’m General Vandergrift, Colonel,” he said offering his hand. “I hope that wasn’t more of Major Dillon’s Hollywood hyperbole, and you are indeed the intelligence officer we’ve been promised.”
“Sir,” Dailey said, coming to attention, “Lieutenant Colonel Dailey, Sir. Reporting for duty as G-2.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Colonel,” Vandergrift said. “Welcome aboard. This is Major Stecker, who has been filling in.”
Stecker offered his hand. Vandergrift spotted Moore, and offered him his hand.
“You came in with Colonel Dailey, Sergeant?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“He was Flem Pickering‘s—I don’t know what, orderly, I guess—in Australia,” Dillon volunteered.
“Is that what you’ve been doing, Son?” Vandergrift asked. “Orderly?”
“No, Sir. I’m a Japanese-language linguist, Sir.”
“In that case, I’m sure Major Stecker is even more glad to see you than he is to see Colonel Dailey,” Vandergrift said. He looked at Major Jake Dillon and shook his head.
“Think about it, Jake,” he said. “Did you really think they would airship an orderly in here?”
Stecker walked over to Moore and examined him closely.
“Give me a straight answer, Sergeant. How well do you speak—more important, how well do you read—Japanese?”
“Fluently, Sir.”
“Sergeant!” Stecker said, raising his voice.
A head appeared from behind the canvas that separated the outer “office” from “the map room.”
“Sir?”
“Take the sergeant here up to the First Marines. He’s a Japanese-language linguist.”
“Belay that, Sergeant,” General Vandergrift said. “I’m sure you have more important things to do, and Major Dillon has just kindly offered to take the sergeant, haven’t you, Major?”
“Yes, Sir,” Dillon said. “I’d be happy to.”
“Sergeant,” Jack Stecker said, “there’s several boxes of stuff at the First, taken from the bodies of Japanese. We haven’t had anybody who can read it. I want anything that looks official, anything that can help us identify enemy units, anything that would be useful to know about those units. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”
“Yes, Sir. I think I do.”
“If you come across something, give it to Captain Feincamp. He’s the S-2. I’ll get on the horn and tell him you’re coming.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“Anything that looks to you like it might be interesting. Don’t bother with actually translating it. Just make a note of what it is. I’ll decide whether or not you should make a translation.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“Have you got a weapon?”
If I tell him about the .45, he’s probably going to take it away from me.
Sergeant John Marston Moore, surprised with how easily it came, lied.
“No, Sir.”
“Sergeant!” Stecker raised his voice again, and again the head appeared at the canvas flap.
“Sir?”
“Give the sergeant that extra Thompson.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“You can use a Thompson?” Stecker asked Moore.
“Yes, Sir.”
“I think that probably I’ll have you—Colonel Dailey will have you—work here. But right now, we need to go through the stuff the First has collected.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The sergeant appeared and handed Moore a Thompson submachine gun and two extra magazines.
“Thank you.”
“Drive slow, Jake,” Stecker said. “Sergeant Moore is a very valuable man. We can’t afford to lose him.”
“Right,” Dillon said. “OK, Sergeant. Let’s go.”
An alarm went off in the back of General Vandergrift’s head. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t put a handle on it.
Stecker’s words, he finally realized. “We can’t afford to lose him.”
It was that, and the reference to Flem Pickering. And what Flem had said about Lieutenant Cory, whose place this young sergeant was taking.
The morning he left, Pickering had told him about MAGIC, and about his concern that Cory might have known about it. If Cory had that knowledge, he should never have been sent to Guadalcanal.
The sergeant, obviously, does not know about MAGIC. For one thing, that sort of secret is not made known to junior enlisted men. For another, he worked for Fleming Pickering. Therefore, if he knew, Pickering would have made sure he would not be sent to Guadalcanal.
But this lieutenant colonel: He was an intelligence officer, he’s senior enough to have had responsibilities which would have given him the Need to Know. And they rushed him here to replace Goettge. Since so few people actually knew about MAGIC, it was possible that whoever had rushed him over here hadn’t even considered that possibility.
And this fellow—General Vandergrift had made a snap, and perhaps unfair, judgment that Lieutenant Colonel Dailey was not too smart; otherwise he would not have been assigned as a liaison officer to SHSWPA—if he was privy to MAGIC, it might well have been decided to send him to Guadalcanal anyway.
“Colonel,” General Vandergrift asked. “Does the phrase MAGIC mean anything to you?”
“No, Sir,” Lieutenant Colonel Dailey replied. “I’ve heard the word, Sir, but ...”
“It’s not important,” General Vandergrift said.
(Five)
s-2 SECTION, FIRST MARINES
GUADALCANAL, SOLOMON ISLANDS
2005 HOURS 19 AUGUST 1942
Sergeant John Marston Moore, USMCR, sat on the dirt floor of the S-2 bunker in the brilliant light of a hissing Coleman gasoline lamp. His legs were crossed under him, and his undershirt was sweat soaked. He had long before removed his utility jacket. The Thompson submachine gun Major Stecker had given him now rested on it.
He was about two-thirds of the way, he judged, through the foot-and-a-half-tall pile of personal effects removed from Japanese bodies; and he had been at it steadily since shortly after eleven, less time out for “dinner”—a messkit full of rice, courtesy of the Japanese; a spoonful of meat and gravy, courtesy Quartermaster Corps, U.S. Army; and two small cans of really delicious smoked oysters, again courtesy of the Japanese.
He had found virtually nothing that Major Stecker could possibly use. He had learned that the Marines already knew the identity of the Rikusentai engineers—the 11th and 23rd Pioneers—who had been building the airfield.
He had been able to augment this by finding, in written-but-not-mailed letters home, references to the names of the commanding officers. He had written them down. He couldn’t see how the names of three or four junior Japanese officers would be of much use, except perhaps as a psychological tool for prisoner interrogation.
That seemed to be a moot point. For one thing, Moore had learned there were damn few prisoners. The story of the Japan
ese warrant officer who led Colonel Goettge and the others into the trap had quickly spread through the division. The Marines had decided that discretion—don’t take a chance, shoot the fucker!—overwhelmed the odd and abstract notion that prisoners had an intelligence value.
Tell that to Colonel Goettge!
For another, there seemed to be very few people around capable of interrogating prisoners at all, unless they happened to speak English, much less of outwitting them with psychological tricks.
He had spent long hours reading letters from home. It had been emotionally unnerving. He had lived in Japan. Tokyo was really as much home to him as Philadelphia. When he found an envelope bearing a Denenchofu return address, he knew it was entirely possible that he and the writer, somebody’s mother, had met and bowed to each other at the door of a shop.
Much of the stuff was stained with a dark and sticky substance, now beginning to give off a sickly sweet smell, that he could not pretend was mud or oil or plum preserves.
Moore heard someone coming into the sandbagged tent. He turned and looked over his shoulder. It was Captain Feincamp, the First Marine’s S-2, and he had with him a lieutenant and a technical sergeant, a balding, lean man in his late thirties.
“How you coming, Sergeant?” Feincamp asked.
“I haven’t found anything interesting so far, Sir,” Moore replied.
“He’s a linguist,” Captain Feincamp explained to the lieutenant. “They just flew him in. There’s a replacement for Colonel Goettge, too.”
And then he explained to Moore the reason why the lieutenant and the technical sergeant were there.
“They just came off patrol, Sergeant,” he said. “They ran into some Japs and had themselves a little firefight. I think maybe you’d better listen in on this.”
“Yes, Sir,” Moore said, grateful for the chance to stop rummaging through personal effects.
He spun around on the dirt floor.
The lieutenant and then the technical sergeant handed him several wallets and some more personal mail.
“We’re the first ones back, I suppose,” the lieutenant said. “Maybe you can make something out of this shit.”
Battleground Page 48
