Close Combat

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  [TWO]

  The Presidential Apartment

  The White House

  Washington, D.C.

  0830 Hours 12 October 1942

  “Frank,” the President of the United States began, but interrupted himself to fit a cigarette into a long silver-and-ivory holder and to wait until a black, white-jacketed Navy steward had produced a silver Ronson table lighter.

  The Honorable Frank Knox, Secretary of the Navy, a dignified, modestly portly gentleman wearing pince-nez spectacles, raised his eyes to the President and waited, his jaws moving slowly as he masticated an unexpectedly stringy piece of ham.

  They were taking breakfast alone, at a small table in a sitting room opening onto Pennsylvania Avenue. Roosevelt was wearing a silk dressing gown over a white shirt open at the collar. Knox was wearing a banker’s gray pin-striped suit.

  “Frank,” the President resumed, “just between you, me, and the lamppost, would you say that Bill Donovan is paranoid?” William J. Donovan, a World War I hero, a law school classmate of Roosevelt’s, and a very successful Wall Street lawyer, had been recruited by Roosevelt to head the Office of Information. This later evolved into the Office of Strategic Services, and ultimately into the Central Intelligence Agency.

  “I respectfully decline to answer, Mr. President,” Knox said, straight-faced, “on the grounds that any answer I might give to that question would certainly incriminate me.”

  Roosevelt chuckled.

  “He came to see me last night. First, I got the to-be-expected complaints about Edgar getting in his way.”

  The reference was clearly to J. Edgar Hoover, Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Hoover, who jealously guarded the prerogatives of the FBI, saw in Donovan’s intelligence-gathering mission a threat to his conviction that the FBI had primary responsibility for intelligence and counterintelligence operations in the Western Hemisphere.

  “Far be it from me, Mr. President,” Knox said, alluding to that sore point, “to suggest to you that you may not have made the delineation of their respective responsibilities crystal clear.”

  Roosevelt chuckled again, gestured to the steward that he would like more coffee, and then asked innocently, “Frank, have you never considered that two heads are better than one?”

  “Even two granite heads?” Knox asked.

  “Even two granite heads,” Roosevelt said. “And then, after a rather emotional summation of his position vis-à-vis Edgar, Bill dropped his oh-so-subtle venom in the direction of Douglas MacArthur.”

  “Oh? What did MacArthur do to him?”

  “The worst possible thing he could do to Bill,” Roosevelt replied. “He’s ignoring him.”

  “I don’t quite follow you, Mr. President.”

  “Bill sent a team to Australia. And there they are sitting, with very little to do. For it has been made perfectly clear to them that they are considered interlopers, and that MacArthur intends to ignore them. Donovan’s top man can’t even get an audience with the Supreme Commander.”

  “I don’t see, Mr. President, where this has anything to do with me. MacArthur doesn’t work for me.”

  “I sometimes wonder if Douglas understands that he works for me, either. I suspect he believes the next man up in his chain of command is God,” Roosevelt said. “But that isn’t the point. Donovan believes that MacArthur has been poisoned regarding both him personally, and the Office of Strategic Services generally—”

  “The what?” Knox interrupted.

  “The Office of Strategic Services. We have renamed the Office of Information. Didn’t you hear?”

  “I heard something about it,” Knox said, and then picked up his coffee cup.

  “As I was saying,” Roosevelt went on. “Donovan believes that the reason his people are being snubbed is that when Fleming Pickering was over there, he whispered unkind slanders in the porches of Douglas MacArthur’s ear. And General Pickering does work for you.”

  “I don’t believe that Pickering would do that kind of thing,” Knox said, after a moment.

  “I would rather not believe it myself,” Roosevelt said. “But I thought you could tell me what the friction is between Donovan and Pickering.”

  Knox took another sip of his coffee before replying.

  “I’m tempted to be flip and say it’s simply a case of the irresistible force meeting the immovable object. There was some bad feeling between them before the war. Donovan represented Pickering’s shipping company in a maritime case. Pickering thought Donovan’s bill was out of line, and told him so in somewhat pungent terms.”

  “I hadn’t heard that,” Roosevelt said.

  “And then Donovan tried to recruit Pickering for the Office of Information. Pickering assumed, and I think reasonably, that he was being asked to become one of the Twelve Disciples.” When formed, the mission of the Office of Information was to analyze intelligence gathered by all U.S. intelligence agencies. Ultimately, data would be reviewed by a panel of twelve men, the Disciples, drawn from the upper echelons of American business, science, and academia, who would then recommend the use to be made of the intelligence gathered.

  Knox looked at his coffee cup but decided not to take another sip. “When he got to Washington,” he resumed, “Donovan kept Pickering cooling his heels waiting to see him for a couple of hours, and then informed him that he would be working under one of the Disciples. This man just happened to be a New York banker with whom Pickering had crossed swords in the past.”

  “So there’s more than one monumental ego involved?”

  “I rather sympathized with Pickering about that,” Knox said. “Pickering himself is a remarkable man. I understand why he turned Donovan down. He believed he would be of greater value running his shipping company—Pacific & Far East Shipping is, as you know, enormous—than as a second-level bureaucrat here.”

  “And then you recruited him?”

  “Yes. And as you know, he did one hell of a job for me.”

  “In the process enraging two of every three admirals in the Navy,” Roosevelt said softly.

  “I sent him to the Pacific to get information I was not getting via the Annapolis Protection Society,” Knox said. “He did what I asked him to do. And he’s doing a good job now.”

  “Donovan says that he cannot get the men he needs from The Marine Corps, because Pickering is the man who must approve the transfers.”

  “And Marine Corps personnel officers have complained to the Commandant that Pickering is sending to Donovan too many good officers that The Marine Corps needs,” Knox replied.

  “You don’t think Pickering whispered slanders in MacArthur’s ear when he was over there?”

  “He doesn’t whisper slanders,” Knox said. “Flem Pickering doesn’t stab you in the back, he stabs you in the front. The first time I met him, he told me I should have resigned after Pearl Harbor.”

  Roosevelt’s eyebrows went up. But he seemed more amused than shocked or outraged.

  “Was that before or after you recruited him?” he asked, with a smile.

  “Before. But, to be as objective as I can, I think it is altogether possible that when he and MacArthur were together, Bill Donovan’s name came up. If that happened, and if MacArthur asked about him, Pickering would surely have given his unvarnished opinion of Donovan; that opinion would not be very flattering.”

  “Donovan wants his head,” Roosevelt said.

  “I would protest that in the strongest possible terms, Mr. President. And I would further suggest, present personalities aside, that giving in to Donovan on something like this would set a very bad precedent.”

  “Frank, I like Fleming Pickering. We have something in common, you know. Both of us have sons over there, actually fighting this war. And I am aware that the Commander-in-Chief tells Bill Donovan what to do, not the reverse.”

  Knox looked at him. “But?”

  “I would like to get Pickering out of sight for a few weeks. Is he u
p to travel?”

  “If you asked him, he would gladly go. But he was badly wounded, and he had a bad bout with malaria. Where do you want me to send him?”

  “Let’s decide that after we decide what shape he’s in. Are you free for lunch?”

  “I’m at your call, Mr. President.”

  “You, Richardson Fowler, Admiral Leahy, and General Pickering. If nothing else, presuming he doesn’t have a wiretap in this room, Bill Donovan could really presume we’ve called Pickering on the carpet, couldn’t he?”

  Knox didn’t reply. He gestured to the steward for more coffee.

  [THREE]

  The Foster Lafayette Hotel

  Washington, D.C.

  1150 Hours 12 October 1942

  It had suddenly begun to rain, hard, as the 1940 Buick Limited convertible sedan passed the Hotel Washington and continued down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House.

  “This goddamn town has the worst weather in the world,” the driver, alone in the car, observed aloud.

  He was a tall, distinguished-looking man in his early forties, wearing a superbly tailored United States Marine Corps brigadier general’s uniform.

  He passed the White House, made a right turn, then a U-turn, and pulled up before the marquee of the Foster Lafayette Hotel, arguably the most luxurious hotel in the capital. Beyond question, it was the most expensive.

  The ornately uniformed doorman pulled open the passenger-side door.

  “Your choice,” Brigadier General Fleming Pickering said, “you park this or loan me your umbrella.”

  “I think the Senator’s going with you, General,” the doorman said, with a smile.

  At that moment, Senator Richardson K. Fowler (R., Cal.), a tall, silver-haired, regal-looking sixty-two year old, appeared at the car and slipped into the passenger seat. He had been waiting for the Buick to appear, standing just inside the lobby, looking out through the plate glass next to the bellboy-attended revolving door.

  “You made good time, Flem,” he said.

  The doorman closed the door after him.

  “Let’s have it,” Pickering replied curtly.

  “Let’s have what?”

  “You said, quote, ‘as soon as possible.’”

  “We’re having lunch with the President and Frank Knox,” Fowler said. “And, I think, Admiral Leahy.”

  “That’s all?” Pickering asked suspiciously.

  “Most people in this town would be all aflutter at the prospect of a private luncheon with the President, his Chief of Staff, and the Secretary of the Navy,” Fowler began, and then saw something in Pickering’s eyes. “What did you think it was, Flem?”

  “You know damned well what I thought it was,” Pickering said.

  “Pick’s going to be all right, Flem,” Fowler said gently. “He’s a Pickering. Pickerings walk through raindrops.”

  The last time General Pickering heard, his only son, Second Lieutenant Malcolm S. “Pick” Pickering, USMCR, was flying an F4F4 Wildcat off Henderson Field on Guadalcanal.

  “Get out,” Pickering said. “Open the door.”

  “We’re due at the White House in twenty minutes,” Fowler said, looking at his watch.

  “That’s plenty of time,” Pickering said. “It’s right across the street. All I want is a quick drink.” He met Fowler’s eyes, and confessed, “I’ve been frightened sick ever since you called. You sonofabitch. You should have told me that it was lunch with Roosevelt.”

  “I’m sorry, Flem,” Fowler said, genuinely contrite.

  Fowler opened his door, and Pickering slid across the seat to follow him.

  “Don’t bury it,” Pickering said to the doorman, who hurried back to the car. “We’ll be out in a minute.”

  The doorman walked around the front of the Buick, got in, and drove it fifteen yards. He parked it by a sign proclaiming, NO PARKING AT ANY TIME, then walked back to his post.

  General Pickering was always well treated by the staff of the Foster Lafayette. For one thing, he occupied a five-room suite on the sixth floor, adjacent to Senator Fowler’s somewhat larger suite. More important, Pickering’s wife, Patricia, was the only child of Andrew Foster, the owner of the Foster Lafayette and forty-one other Foster hotels.

  Inside the lobby, Fowler turned to Pickering and asked, “You want to go upstairs?”

  In reply, Pickering pointed toward the door of the Oak Grill. There a line of people waited behind the maître d’hôtel’s lectern and a velvet rope for their turn to enter the smaller and more exclusive of the Lafayette’s two restaurants.

  Fowler shrugged and followed Pickering.

  The maître d’hôtel saw them coming. Smiling as he unhooked the velvet rope, he greeted them:

  “General, Senator, your table is ready.”

  That was not the unvarnished truth. The Oak Grill customarily placed brass RESERVED signs on a few tables more than were actually reserved. Such tables were required for those people who came without reservations and were too important to stand in line. Before General Pickering had taken up residence in the Lafayette, Senator Fowler’s name had headed the list of those who got tables before anyone else, reservation or no. Now Fleming Pickering’s name was at the top.

  A waiter appeared before Pickering and Fowler had time to slide onto the leather-cushioned banquette seats.

  “Luncheon, gentlemen?”

  “No, thank you,” Pickering said. “What we need desperately is a quick drink.”

  “Don’t bring the bottle,” Senator Fowler said.

  The management of the Oak Grill was aware that when General Pickering asked for a drink, he was actually requesting a glass, a bowl of ice, a pitcher of water, and a bottle of Famous Grouse scotch. Two of these, from the General’s private stock, were kept out of sight under the bar.

  The waiter looked to Pickering for guidance.

  “Just the drinks, please,” Pickering ordered. When the waiter was gone he added, “I really hadn’t planned to get plastered.”

  “There are those, you know, who would be reluctant to show up across the street reeking of booze.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “And, you know, most general officers ride in the backseat, beside their aides, while their sergeant drives.”

  “My aide and my sergeant have more important things to do,” Pickering said, and then added, “Speaking of which…”

  He took a thin sheet of paper from the left bellows pocket of his tunic and handed it to Fowler.

  * * *

  SECRET

  NOT LOGGED

  ONE COPY ONLY

  DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN

  FOLLOWING IS DECRYPTION OF MSG 234707

  RECEIVED 091142 1105 GREENWICH

  FROM SUPREME COMMANDER SWPOA

  091142 1325 GREENWICH VIA PEARL

  HARBOR

  FOR SECNAV WASHINGTON DC

  EYES ONLY BRIG GEN FLEMING PICKERING

  USMCR

  OFFICE MANAGEMENT ANALYSIS HQ USMC GREYHOUND RETURNED SAFELY TO KENNEL XXX PUPS A LITTLE WORSE FOR WEAR BUT HEALTHY XXX BEST PERSONAL REGARDS FROM ALL HANDS XXX SIGNATURE BANNING

  SECRET

  * * *

  Senator Fowler read it and handed it back to Pickering.

  “Aside from recognizing the somewhat grandiose title Douglas MacArthur has given himself, I haven’t the foggiest idea what I just read,” he said. “But are you supposed to carry something marked ‘Secret’ around in your pocket so casually?”

  Pickering looked at him and smiled.

  “Watch this,” he said.

  He crumpled the sheet of paper and put it in the ashtray. Then he took a gold Dunhill lighter from his pocket, got it working, and touched the flame to the crumpled paper. There was a flash of light, and the paper disappeared in a small cloud of white smoke.

  “Christ!” Fowler said, surprised.

  Heads elsewhere in the Oak Grill turned, startled by the light.

  “They treat it chemically somehow,” Pickering said
, pleased. “The coal on a cigarette will set it off. You don’t need a flame.”

  “How clever,” Fowler said drolly as the waiter delivered the drinks. He picked up his and raised it. “To Pick, Flem. May God protect him.”

  Pickering met his eyes and then touched glasses.

  “That came in a moment before you called,” he said. “We put a couple of Marines—precisely, I put a couple of Marines—onto an island called Buka, not far from the Japanese base at Rabaul. The Australians left people behind when the Japanese occupied it—”

  “You put somebody onto a Japanese-occupied island?” Fowler interrupted.

  Pickering nodded. “They call these people Coastwatchers. They have radios, and provide our people with early warning of Japanese movement, air and ship. This fellow’s radio went out, so we sent him a new one, a Hallicrafters—”

  “‘You’ or ‘we,’ which?” Fowler interrupted again.

  “Me,” Pickering said. “I asked a couple of Marines to volunteer to parachute onto Buka with a new radio. Then I found out that the Australians were infected with the British notion that no sacrifice is too great for King and Country…”

  “Meaning what?”

  “That they were going to leave my Marines there until they were either killed by the Japanese or died of disease or starvation. Goddamn them!”

  “So you got them out? The greyhound and the pups? That’s what they meant?”

  Pickering nodded. “We replaced them. Took the first Marines out and sent some others in. I was worried about it; it was a hairy operation. And the moment after the courier handed me Banning’s message and I could exhale, I got your ‘come as soon as possible’ message. I thought that Pick…I thought the other shoe had dropped. I stuffed that in my pocket without thinking.”

  “Pick, like his old man, will walk between raindrops,” Fowler said. “To quote myself.”

  Pickering looked at him for a moment, then raised his glass.

  “I could use another one of these.”

  “No,” Fowler said, then repeated it. “No, Flem.”

  Pickering shrugged.

  Fowler’s 1941 Cadillac limousine was at the curb when they came out of the lobby.