Consequently, Admiral Wagam was not at all embarrassed to feel a bit uncomfortable whenever his duties required him to take off or land in a flying boat. Each required the flying boat’s hull to move through the water at a speed two or three times greater than a battleship’s hull would ever be subjected to, or even a destroyer’s.
The twin engines of the PBM-3R “Mariner” made a deeper, louder sound, and the Admiral glanced out of the window beside him. They were moving; the water was just starting to slide by. (The PBM-3R Martin “Mariner” seaplane was a variant of the Martin PBM-series maritime reconnaissance aircraft. Powered by the same two Wright R-2600-22 1900-horsepower “Cyclone” engines, but stripped of armament, the -3R aircraft were employed as transports, capable of carrying 20 passengers or an equivalent weight of cargo.)
When the Mariner began its takeoff, he tried, of course, not to show his concern: He turned to speak to his aide, Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Chambers D. Lewis III. Lewis’s father, Admiral Lewis, had been Admiral Wagam’s classmate at Annapolis.
His mouth was barely open, however, when the roar of the Mariner’s engines died and the seaplane lurched to a stop.
“I wonder what the hell that is?” Admiral Wagam said aloud.
The seaplane now rocked side to side in the sea, reminding the Admiral that they were not in a bona fide vessel, but rather in an aircraft that happened to float.
The pilot appeared in the aisle between the two rows of seats. When he passed Admiral Wagam, the Admiral held up his hand.
“Is there some problem?”
“Sir, I was told to abort the takeoff and hold for a whaleboat,” the pilot replied.
Admiral Wagam nodded, and turned back to his aide.
“Probably some mail they didn’t have prepared in time,” he said. “Some people don’t know the importance of meeting a posted schedule.”
“That’s true, Sir,” Lieutenant Lewis agreed.
Admiral Wagam paid no attention to the activity aft, where there was a port in the hull, until Captain J.H.L. McNish, USN, of his staff, appeared by his seat, knelt, and said, “Admiral, I’m being bumped.”
“What do you mean, you’re being bumped?” Admiral Wagam asked, both incredulous and annoyed.
This aircraft was not part of the Naval Air Transport command. It had been assigned to Admiral Wagam, more or less personally, to take his staff to Espiritu for a very important conference: Guadalcanal was in trouble. Extraordinary measures would be necessary to keep the Marines there from being pushed off their precarious toehold. Wagam personally didn’t give them much hope; the necessary logistics simply weren’t available. Indeed, in his professional opinion—and he’d said so—the whole operation had been attempted prematurely. But he was going to do the very best he could with what he had to work with. And that meant flying here from Pearl to see the situation with his own eyes; and bringing his staff, to give them the absolutely essential hands-on experience.
But getting them back to Pearl quickly was just as important as bringing them here. They had to get to work. One of the reasons he had gone all the way to the top—to CINCPAC himself—to have an airplane assigned to his team was to make sure the team stayed together.
CINCPAC had agreed with his reasoning, and authorized the special flight. Admiral Wagam certainly would have no objections to carrying other personnel, or mail or cargo, if there was room, but he had no intention of standing idly by while one of his staff was bumped.
If there was a priority, he had it. From CINCPAC himself.
“I’m being bumped, Sir,” Captain McNish repeated.
“I’ll deal with this, Mac,” Admiral Wagam said, and unfastened his seat belt and made his way aft. Standing by the pilot were a commander he remembered meeting on the island and a Marine major in a rather badly mussed uniform.
“Commander,” Admiral Wagam said, “just what’s going on here?”
“Sir, I’m going to have to bump one of your people. Captain McNish is junior—”
“No one’s going to bump any of my people,” the Admiral declared. “This is not a Transport Command aircraft. It is, so to speak, mine. I decide who comes aboard.”
“I’m sorry about this, Admiral,” the Marine Major said.
“Well, Major, I don’t think it’s your fault. The Commander here should have known the situation.”
“Admiral, I have to get to Pearl. This is the aircraft going there first,” the Major said.
“A lot of people have to get to Pearl,” the Admiral snapped. “But I’m sorry, you’re not going on this aircraft.”
“I’m sorry, Sir,” the Major said. “I am.”
“Did you just hear what I said, Major?” the Admiral replied. “I said you’re not getting on this aircraft!”
“With respect, Sir, may I show you my priority?”
“I don’t give a good goddamn about your priority,” the Admiral said, his patience exhausted. “Mine came from CINCPAC.”
“Yes, Sir,” the Major said. “The Commander told me. Sir, may I show you my orders?”
“I’m not interested in your goddamn orders,” the Admiral said.
“Sir, I suggest you take a look at them,” the Commander said.
The Admiral was aware that he had lost his temper. He didn’t like to do that.
“Very well,” he said, and held out his hand. He expected a sheath of mimeographed paper. He was handed, instead, a document cased in plastic. On casual first glance, he noted that it was a photographically reduced copy of a letter. He took a much closer look.
* * *
SECRET
THE WHITE HOUSE
Washington, D.C.
3 September 1942
By direction of the President of the United States, Brigadier General Fleming W. Pickering, USMCR, Headquarters, USMC, will proceed by military and/or civilian rail, road, sea and air transportation (Priority AAAAA-1) to such points as he deems necessary in carrying out the missions assigned to him.
United States Armed Forces commands are directed to provide him with such support as he may request. General Pickering is to be considered the personal representative of The President.
General Pickering has unrestricted TOP SECRET security clearance. Any questions regarding his mission will be directed to the undersigned.
W.D. Leahy, Admiral, USN
Chief of Staff to The President
SECRET
* * *
When he saw that the Admiral had read the document, Major Edward F. Banning, USMC, said, “Sir, may I ask the Admiral to turn that over and read the other side?”
Admiral Wagam did so.
* * *
SECRET
OFFICE OF THE CHIEF OF STAFF TO THE PRESIDENT
Washington, D.C. 24 September 1942
1st Endorsement
1. Major Edward F. Banning, USMC, is attached to the personal staff of Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, for the performance of such duties as may be assigned.
2. While engaged in carrying out any mission assigned, Major Banning will be accorded the same level of travel priorities, logistical support and access to classified matériel authorized for Brigadier General Pickering in the basic Presidential order.
3. Any questions regarding Major Banning’s mission(s) will be referred to the undersigned.
W.D. Leahy, Admiral, USN
Chief of Staff to The President
SECRET
* * *
Admiral Wagam looked at Major Banning.
“You are, I gather, Major Banning?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Well, I can only hope, Major, that whatever it is you have to do in Pearl Harbor is more valuable to the war effort than what Captain McNish would have contributed.”
“I wouldn’t have bumped the Captain, Admiral,” Banning said, “if I didn’t think it was.”
The Admiral nodded, turned, and went back up the aisle to tell Mac that he was sorry, there was nothing he could do about it, he was going to
have to go ashore in the whaleboat.
[SEVEN]
USN Photographic Facility Laboratory
Headquarters, CINCPAC
Pearl Harbor, T.H.
0735 Hours 15 October 1942
“Ah-ten-HUT!” a plump, balding chief photographer’s mate called, and all but one man, a Marine major, popped to attention.
“As you were,” Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, said. As he spoke, he walked past one of the junior aides to CINCPAC. The aide’s orders were to take very good care of General Pickering; that meant that at the moment he was holding the door open for him. “I’m looking for Major Banning,” Pickering continued.
“Over here, Sir,” Banning called.
Pickering was the last person in the world Banning expected to see here. But then, he thought, Pickering could almost be counted on to do the unexpected.
Pickering walked over to him, his hand extended.
“Good to see you, Ed. I heard an hour ago you were here. I had a hell of a time finding you. What are you doing here?”
“Good to see you, General,” he said. He held up a roll of developed 35mm film. “Having a look at this. One of Jake Dillon’s photographers shot it just before we left Guadalcanal.”
Pickering took it from him and held it up to the light.
“What am I looking at?”
“That roll is what Henderson Field looked like just before we left,” Banning said. “If it came out, I thought I’d try to figure some way to get it to you in Washington in time for your briefing.”
Two men walked up: the chief photographer’s mate, and an officer in whites wearing lieutenant commander’s shoulder boards.
“Lieutenant Commander Bachman, Sir. Is there some way we may help the General, Sir?”
“Two ways, Commander,” Pickering said. “I want two copies, eight-by-tens, of each frame of this, and any other film Major Banning has. And I would kill for a cup of coffee.”
“Sir, the coffee’s no problem. But I’m sure the General will understand we have priorities. It may be some time before we can—”
“This is your first priority, Commander,” Pickering interrupted. “You can either take my word for that, or the Lieutenant here will call Admiral Nimitz for me.”
“Sir,” Admiral Nimitz’s aide said, “my orders are that General Pickering is to have whatever CINCPAC can give him.”
“You heard that, Chief,” Commander Bachman said.
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“Sir,” Banning said. “I’ve also got eight rolls of 16mm motion picture film. There was a problem getting that developed…”
“Is there still a problem with that, Commander?”
“No, Sir,” Commander Bachman said.
“How about making a copy of it?”
“That’s rather time consuming, Sir, but we can do it, Sir.”
“Get it developed first,” Pickering said, looking at his watch. “We’ll see about the time.”
“Where will the General be, Sir?”
“I need a secure place to talk to Major Banning. Have you got one here? Or I can go—”
“My office is secure, Sir.”
“Good, then what we need is your office, and that coffee,” Pickering said. He turned to Admiral Nimitz’s aide. “Son, I know your orders, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to let me out of your sight; Major Banning here is a stickler for security.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” the aide said, smiling. Pickering had obviously heard Admiral Nimitz’s order: “Don’t let him out of your sight, Gerry. And be prepared to tell me who he talked to, and what was said.”
A photographer’s mate third class came in with a tray holding a stainless-steel pitcher of coffee, two china mugs, and a plate of doughnuts. He laid the tray on Major Bachman’s desk and then left, closing a steel door after him.
“I never thought I’d have to say this to you, Ed,” Pickering said with a smile, “but you need a shave, Major.”
Banning smiled back. “A question of priorities, Sir. I figured I could shave once I got this stuff on its way to you.”
“Did you get to see General Vandegrift? Was he cooperative?”
“Cooperative, yes. But uncomfortable. He thought it was violating the chain of command.”
“Couldn’t be helped,” Pickering said. “All right, let’s have it.”
“Christ, it’s worse than I thought,” Pickering said after Banning finished reporting Vandegrift’s assessment of his situation, along with his own and the other code-breaker’s analysis of Japanese intentions and capabilities.
“It’s not a pretty picture, Sir.”
“Goddamn it, we can’t lose Guadalcanal!”
“We may have to consider that possibility, Sir.”
Pickering exhaled audibly, then looked at Banning.
“I don’t suppose you had a chance to see my son?”
“Yes, Sir. I spent a good deal of time with him. He was the copilot on the R4D.”
“He was in on the operation? How did that happen? I didn’t know he could fly an R4D.”
“I think it was a question of the best man for the job, Sir. He was picked by the pilot, Sir. Jake Dillon was a little uncomfortable when he saw him at Port Moresby.”
Major Banning had learned the real story behind Lieutenant Pickering’s role as the R4D copilot: that Pick Pickering had almost gone over the edge after his buddy was terribly injured, and that Galloway ordered him into the plane for what could be accurately described as psychiatric therapy. But there was no point in telling his father this.
“I’ll be damned,” Pickering said.
“And the day before yesterday, he shot down another two Japanese planes. A Zero and a bomber. That makes eight. He’s a fine young man, General.”
“In a fighter squadron which is down to three airplanes, according to what you just told me. You ever hear of the laws of probability, Ed?”
“His squadron commander, Captain Galloway—the man who flew the R4D, a very experienced pilot—told me, Sir, that Pick is that rare bird, a natural aviator. He’s good at what he does, Sir. Very good.”
“Jack Stecker’s boy is an ace, plus one. He was obviously pretty good at what he did, too. He’s over at the hospital wrapped up like a mummy. They feed him and drain him with rubber tubes.”
“I heard about that, Sir. McCoy saw Colonel Stecker on the ’Canal. You heard he was promoted?”
“I heard. Getting him promoted pitted Vandegrift and me against most of the rest of the officer corps,” Pickering replied bitterly, adding: “Christ, Jack ought to be wearing this star, not me.”
“You wear it very well, Sir,” Banning said without thinking.
Pickering looked at him but did not reply.
“Speaking of McCoy…where are the others?”
“Probably in the air by now, Sir. I came ahead. I thought that was what you wanted. I bumped a Navy captain from some admiral’s private airplane.”
Pickering chuckled. “Wagam. Rear Admiral. I know. I was in Nimitz’s office when he reported back in. Complaining.”
“I hope it wasn’t awkward for you, Sir.”
“Not for me. For him. He didn’t know who I was. Just some Marine. When he was finished complaining about some Washington paper-pusher Marine running roughshod over CINCPAC procedures, Nimitz introduced him to me. ‘Admiral,’ Nimitz said, ‘I don’t believe you know General Pickering, do you?’”
Banning chuckled, “I didn’t expect to see you here, either, General.”
“I didn’t expect to be here,” Pickering said. “Dillon and company must be on the plane I’m waiting for.”
“It’s going on to Washington, Sir?”
“No. As soon as they service it, it’s going to Australia.”
“You’re going to Australia, Sir?” Banning asked, surprised.
“Yes, I am,” Pickering said, his tone making it clear that he wasn’t happy about it.
“Then who’s going to brief Secretary Knox?�
��
“You are,” Pickering said. “You’ve got a seat on a Pan American clipper leaving here at 4:45. Which means we have to get you to the terminal by 3:45.”
Banning looked uncomfortable.
“Ed, just give a repeat performance of what you did just now for me,” Pickering went on. “Frank Knox puts on his pants like everybody does. Actually, I’ve grown to rather like him.”
“Sir, my going to Washington is going to pose problems in Brisbane.”
“About MAGIC, you mean? Pluto and Moore and Mrs. Feller should be able to handle it; they’ve been holding down the fort pretty well as it is, with all the time you’ve been spending in Townesville with the Coastwatchers.”
Banning looked even more uncomfortable.
“All right, Ed, what is it?”
“Sir, between the three of us, we have been pretty much keeping Mrs. Feller out of things.”
“You have? Obviously, you have a reason?”
“I am reluctant to get into this, Sir.”
“That’s pretty damned obvious. Out with it, Ed.”
“General, I don’t want to sound like a prude, but when we’re dealing with intelligence at this level—at this level of sensitivity—people’s personal lives are a factor. They have to be.”
“What are you suggesting, Ed, that Ellen Feller is a secret drinker? For God’s sake, she was a missionary!”
“She sleeps around, Sir.”
“You know that for a fact? You have names?”
“General,” Banning said, hesitated, and then plunged ahead. “I considered it my responsibility to make sure that you didn’t leave any classified material in your quarters.”
“I never did that!”
“Yes, Sir. You did.”
“Jesus! You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Sir. Sir, I arranged with the Army to keep Water Lily Cottage under security surveillance. They assigned agents of their Counterintelligence Corps to do so. They reported daily to me.”
“What’s that got to do with Mrs. Feller?”
“They were very thorough, Sir. They reported all activity within the Cottage. On a twenty-four-hour basis.”
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