HEADQUARTERS MAG-21
HENDERSON FIELD
GUADALCANAL, SOLOMON ISLANDS
1215 HOURS 24 AUGUST 1942
First Lieutenant Henry P. Steadman, USMC, reminded Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins, USMC, Commanding, Marine Air Group 21, of First Lieutenant David F. Schneider, USMC. Like Lieutenant Schneider, Steadman was a graduate of the United States Naval Academy and a brand-new replacement from the States; and the similarity did not please him.
When he saw Steadman with apparently nothing to do sitting on a folding chair just outside the sandbagged frame building which was serving as his headquarters, Lieutenant Colonel Dawkins ordered, “Steadman, pass the word to the pilots there’ll be a briefing in ten minutes, will you?”
Lieutenant Steadman rose to his feet, looked baffled, and inquired, “The enlisted men, too, Sir?”
Dawkins’s temper escaped.
“No, of course not,” he said, with withering sarcasm. “I certainly have no intention of letting any of my flying sergeants in on officer type secrets like who and where we are going to fight.”
Steadman’s face colored.
“Sorry, Sir.”
“You stupid little sonofabitch,” Dawkins went on, his anger not a whit diminished, “if you don’t know it yet, I’ll spell it out for you: There’s not a flying sergeant around here who can’t fly rings around you. I would cheerfully trade two of your kind for one flying sergeant. You better write that on your goddamned forehead, I don’t want you to forget it.”
“Yes, Sir. I mean, No, Sir. I won’t forget that, Sir.”
“Go!” Dawkins ordered, extending a pointed finger at arm’s length.
Lieutenant Steadman took off at a trot.
I really shouldn’t have blown my cork that way, Dawkins thought, but then reconsidered: That arrogant little asshole needed that. It ust may keep him alive through the next couple of days.
Ten minutes later, the pilots of MAG-21 were gathered in the tent that served as the briefing room. Three of the four sides had been rolled up, leaving only one narrow end wall behind the area that in a theater would have been the stage. Here, a bed removed from an otherwise destroyed Japanese Ford truck had been set up as a very rudimentary platform. It faced rows of simple plank benches. On the platform was a tripod made of two-by-fours. The tripod held several maps, now covered by a sheet of oilcloth.
Dawkins stepped into view from behind the canvas wall and made the slight jump onto the “stage.”
“Ten-HUT!”
That was Galloway, Dawkins thought. For one thing, the command sounded like it came from a Marine, not from a recent graduate of the University of Michigan Naval ROTC program. And for another, a million years before the war, back when he was Technical Sergeant Galloway of VMF-211, Galloway had always taken pride in being the first to spot the commanding officer and issue the command that brought everybody to their feet and to attention.
Out of the comer of his eye, he spotted Galloway at the rear of the tent, standing beside Lieutenant Bill Dunn and Captain Dale Brannon, U.S. Army Air Corps.
Brannon commanded the somewhat grandiosely named 67th Pursuit Squadron, which had arrived at Henderson 21 August. Brannon’s group, more or less informally, was put under MAG-21’s command. It had only five airplanes, Bell P-400s. In Dawkins’s opinion the P-400 was only marginally superior to the F2A-3 Buffalo, which was arguably the worst plane either side sent into combat in the Pacific.
Dawkins felt sorry for Brannon and his pilots; they would be going into combat almost literally with one hand tied behind them. Not only was the P-400 inferior to the Zero, but Dawkins had just learned that the oxygen system installed on the P-400s when they were supposed to go to the English could not be serviced by the equipment on Guadalcanal. That would limit them in altitude to maybe 12—3,000 feet. The book said that oxygen should be used over 10,000. The only hope Brannon and his pilots would have was in their superior armament (superior to the F4F, anyway): In addition to six .50 caliber Browning machine guns, the P-400s had a 20mm cannon, which fired through the propellor hub.
A hit with an explosive 20mm projectile was far more lethal than, say, ten hits with a .50 caliber solid nose or tracer bullet.
Dawkins was not surprised, somehow, when he noticed that Brannon and Galloway had taken up with each other.
All the pilots, Marine and Army, were dressed in gray tropical areas Naval aviator flying suits and boondockers. Dawkins would not have been surprised, either, to learn that the Army pilots’ flight suits had come to them via Charley Galloway’s VMF-229. Just before they left Ewa, a highly excited Navy supply officer at Pearl Harbor appeared, trying to locate a barrel-chested, bald-headed Marine Technical Sergeant who had been drawing supplies—including leather jackets and flight suits—with requisitions that turned out to be fraudulent. Dawkins told him he couldn’t call to mind, offhand, if he had a barrel-chested, bald-headed Technical Sergeant or not. But if one turned up, he promised to let the Navy supply officer know right away.
Although there were some .38 Special caliber revolvers around, Galloway and Dunn and most of the others had Model 1911A1 Colt autoloaders in shoulder holsters.
Captain Brannon and his officers were all wearing battered leather-brimmed caps, from which the crown forms had been removed, ostensibly so that earphones could be worn over them. Dawkins recognized them for what they really were. They were pilots’ hats, so that no one could mistake their wearers for some pedestrian soldier. Dawkins thought it was a classy idea—though he would not have shared this opinion with Brannon.
Galloway had a utility cap at least four sizes too small for him perched on top of his head. He had pinned to it his gold Naval aviator’s wings and his railroad tracks. Dunn and most of the others wore khaki fore-and-aft caps, carrying the Marine insignia and the insignia of their rank.
I wonder what’s going to happen to Dunn today? He’s going out as Charley’s exec, not as just one more airplane driver.
“Take your seats,” Dawkins ordered. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
There was a chorus of “Good afternoon, Sir,” from the pilots, as they settled onto the plank benches.
“I am sorry to have to tell you that Captain Frankel is not available. Word has reached me that he was out carousing all night, and will not be sober until much later this afternoon. Consequently, I will handle this part of the briefing,” Dawkins announced, straight-faced.
There was another chorus, this time of chuckles. There was, of course, no place to carouse; and even if there were, Captain Tony Frankel, MAG-21’s S-2, was an absolute teetotal, and everybody knew it. And most of the pilots knew that Frankel had caught some kind of bug and had a spectacular case of the running shits. The scuttlebutt was that the Doc said he didn’t know what it was, although he didn’t think it was dysentery. Whatever it was, the Doc had grounded him.
Dawkins grabbed the oilcloth covering the maps and threw it over the back of the tripod.
A map showing the area from New Britain in the North to San Cristobal island, southwest of Guadalcanal, was now visible.
“For those of you who may have been wondering where the U.S. Navy is ...” Dawkins began, and waited for the laughter to subside, “I have it on pretty reliable authority that as of midnight last night, Task Force 61 was in this area, about 150 miles east of here.”
He used a pointer to show where he meant; it was made of a shortened pool cue, to which was fixed a .30’06 cartridge case and bullet.
“Task Force 61 consists of three smaller forces, each grouped around a carrier. Saratoga is out there, and Enterprise. Wasp and her support ships left the area yesterday so she could refuel; no estimate on when she will return.
“And we had, as of 2400 last night, precisely located the Japanese Navy as being right here,” Dawkins said and waved the pointer over the map from New Britain to San Cristobal. His pilots correctly interpreted the move to mean that as of 2400 no one had any idea where the Japanese were.
&
nbsp; More chuckles.
“At 0910 this morning,” Dawkins went on, and his changed tone of voice indicated that the witty opening remarks were now concluded, and this was business, “a Catalina found the aircraft carrier Ryujo and its support vessels right about here. Just to the right—ten, fifteen miles—there’s a transport force. Intelligence thinks it is safe to assume that the transports carry troops to be landed on Guadalcanal.”
The tent was now dead quiet.
“At 1030 this morning, F4Fs operating off Sara shot down an Emily here. The Saratoga was then twenty miles away, which means the Emily got pretty close before they found it.
“About an hour ago, another Catalina found the Ryujo again, still on a course that would bring her to Guadalcanal. Nobody’s said anything, but you don’t have to be Admiral Nimitz to guess that Enterprise has mounted a rather extensive search operation, so as not to lose Ryujo. It’s just as clear that Sara is preparing a strike. Or vice versa, with Sara looking and Enterprise preparing to launch an attack.
“We also have word that at about half past ten the Japs sent a hell of a lot of airplanes, about a hundred of them, down this way from Rabaul. The word comes from what CINCPAC chooses to call an Intell Source One. That means they think the poop is the straight stuff. I think it probably comes from the people the Australians left behind when the Japs occupied the islands between here and New Britain /New Ireland.”
Dawkins paused until the murmur died down, and then went on: “About forty Zeroes escorting thirty Vals, ten Bettys, and fifteen Kates. Now, the odds are that their scouts are going to find Sara or Enterprise, or both, in which case I think we can presume that a good many of them will divert to make their attack. But some of them, maybe even most of them, will continue on to hit us. It’s also just possible that they may not find either of our carriers. In that case, they will all come here, probably with all the aircraft Ryujo can launch coming with them.
“The best guess we can make of their ETA here is a few minutes after two. It’s now,” he paused to look at his watch, “1225. At 1300 we’re going to start launching the SBDs as our scouts, in thirty-five minutes in other words. At 1330, we will start launching the fighters. First, VMF-211. And at 1345, VMF-229.
“If things go as scheduled—and they rarely do—at 1400 the SBDs should be at altitude here,” he pointed again, “in a position to spot either the planes from Ryujo or the planes from Rabaul, or both. VMF-211’s F4Fs should be about here, just about at the assigned altitude. And Captain Galloway and his people should be about here, almost at assigned altitude.
“We’ve been over this in some detail, so I’ll just touch the highpoints: When the SBDs positively locate the stream of attacking aircraft, or when it is positively located by aircraft from Lexington and/or Sara, they will start to look for the Ryujo, fuel permitting. Fuel permitting is the key phrase. I don’t want to lose any aircraft because they ran out of go-juice. When the SBDs start to run low on fuel, they will return here to refuel. I don’t want any stupid heroics out there. I think I can guarantee there will be ample opportunity for the SBDs to take on an aircraft carrier, or carriers. It doesn’t have to be this afternoon. Unless, of course, our estimates are way off, and you find them sooner than we think you will and can attack and still have enough fuel to get home safely.
“The mission of the fighters is right out of the book. They will locate, engage, and destroy the enemy. And they will do that in the knowledge that if they run out of fuel doing so, a scorned woman’s fury can’t hold a candle to that of your friendly commanding officer.”
There was a murmur of chuckles.
“And something you haven’t heard before: Stay off the radio unless you have something to say.”
More chuckles.
“No damned idle chatter,” Dawkins went on firmly. “When this thing starts, all I want to hear on the radio is business. I want a word with the squadron commanders and the execs. The rest of you may go.”
“Ten-HUT!” somebody bellowed. Dawkins was surprised. He was looking at Charley Galloway, and Galloway didn’t even have his mouth open when the command came.
Colonel Dawkins jumped off the truck bed, walked behind the tent wall to wait for his squadron commanders and their executive officers.
(Five)
HEADQUARTERS MAG-21
HENDERSON FIELD
GUADALCANAL, SOLOMON ISLANDS
1715 HOURS 24 AUGUST 1942
Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins had decided early on that squadron commanders, and certainly air group commanders, really had no business being present when individual pilots were being debriefed by intelligence officers. With The Skipper standing there, pilots would be far less prone to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, than if they were talking alone, and more or less in confidence, to the debriefing officer.
He decided that the debriefing of First Lieutenant William C. Dunn, USMCR, however, was going to be the exception to this rule. He sent word that when Dunn was to be debriefed, he wanted to be there.
The debriefings were conducted on the bed taken from the Japanese Ford truck. The debriefing officer had set up a folding wooden table in front of the map tripod Dawkins had used in the pre-flight briefing. He sat behind the table. As the pilots came in, one by one, to be debriefed, he waved them into another folding chair in front of his “desk.”
Knowing the set up, Dawkins came into the tent carrying his own chair, a comfortable, cushioned, bentwood affair left behind by some departed Japanese officer.
He came around the tent wall as Dunn entered the tent from the other, open, end.
Dunn looked beat. He was hatless. His flight suit had large damp patches around the armpits and on the chest. When he came closer, Dawkins saw that his face was dirty; and, although Dunn had obviously made a half-assed attempt to wash, the outline of his goggles was clearly evident on his face.
Dawkins, smiling, made a gesture to Dunn to come onto the platform. And then he sat down, backwards, on his Japanese chair, resting his arms on the back.
Dunn eyed the debriefing officer suspiciously.
“Sir, where’s Captain Frankel?” he asked.
When he was tired, Dawkins had noticed, Dunn’s Southern accent became more pronounced. That had come out, “Suh, Whea-uh is Cap’n Frank-kel?”
“He’s got the GIs, Bill,” Dawkins said. “You know that.”
“Don’t I know you, Lieutenant?” Dunn asked, but it was more of a challenge than a question.
“Yes,” the debriefing officer said. “I debriefed you after Midway.”
“I thought I recognized you. I didn’t like you then, and I don’t like you now. Colonel, do I have to talk to this sonofabitch?”
Ah thought ah recog-nazed you. Ah didn’t lak you then an ah don‘ lak you now. Cunnel, do ah have to talk to this som’bitch?
“With Frankel down with the GIs, I borrowed him to do the debriefing. It has to be done. You don’t have to like him, Bill,” Dawkins said calmly, “but you do have to answer his questions. Sit down!”
Dunn looked at him with contempt in his eyes, as if he had been betrayed.
“Sit down, Bill,” Dawkins ordered again, calmly.
Dunn met Dawkins’s eyes for a moment, and then shrugged and sat down.
“Before we begin, Lieutenant Dunn,” the debriefing officer said, “I’d like to say this: If there ever were any questions raised at Midway about your personal behavior, your courage, to put a point on it, your behavior today has put them to rest for all time.”
“Jesus!” Dawkins snorted.
“My report will indicate,” the debriefing officer plunged ahead, a little confused by Dawkins’s snort, “that you shot down four aircraft today, two Zeroes, and one each Betty and Val; that all kills were verified by at least two witnesses. That places you, Lieutenant, one aircraft over the five required to make you an ace. I would be very surprised if you were not given a decoration for greater valor in action, and it probably means a pr
omotion.”
“Fuck you,” Bill Dunn said very clearly. “Stick your medal and your promotion up your ass.”
“That’s enough, Bill,” Dawkins said. There was steel in his voice. Their eyes locked for a long moment.
“Yes, Sir,” Dunn said, finally.
“Get on with it, Lieutenant,” Dawkins ordered the debriefing officer.
“Well, as they say,” the debriefing officer said, “let’s take it from the top. In your own words, from take-off until landing. When I have a question, I’ll interrupt? OK?”
“Every other pilot who made it back has been in here. How many times do you have to hear the same story?”
“Bill, goddamnit, do what he says,” Dawkins ordered.
“You took off at approximately 1420, is that correct?” the debriefing officer began.
“Yeah.”
“Was that the originally scheduled take-off time?”
“No,” Dunn said, “we were supposed to take off earlier, at 1345, but the Colonel changed his mind, and held us on the ground. The SBDs hadn’t found the Japs, and he wanted to conserve fuel. We took off when the goddamned radar finally found the Japs.”
“Was the take-off according to plan? And if not, why not?”
“No. When the scramble order came, everybody tried to get into the air as quickly as possible. The Japs were just about over the field; there was no time to screw around waiting for the slow ones.”
“And was the form-up in the air according to plan? And if not, why, in your opinion?”
“No. And I just told you. The Japs were over Henderson. It would have made absolutely no sense to try to form up as the schedule called for. And some airplanes are faster than others. Mine was faster than most.”
“So, in your own words, tell me what happened to you after you took off.”
“I guess I was eighth, ninth, tenth, something like that, to get off the ground ...”
“Do you remember who was first?” the debriefing officer interrupted.
“Captain Galloway and his wing man, Lieutenant Ward. When the Black Flag went up, they were sitting in their aircraft with their engines already warmed up. They were moving within seconds.”
Battleground Page 51
