Close Combat

by W. E. B Griffin

  Now Pickering looked uncomfortable.

  “Jesus,” he said softly, and then he met Banning’s eyes. “Ed, just because, in a moment of weakness, I got a little drunk and did something I’m certainly not proud of, that does not mean that Ellen Feller can’t be trusted with classified information. Christ, it only happened once. Those things happen.”

  “It wasn’t only you, General,” Banning said.

  “Who else?” Pickering asked.

  “Moore, Sir. Before he went to Guadalcanal.”

  “Moore?” Pickering asked incredulously.

  John Marston Moore, who was twenty-two, was raised in Japan, where his parents were missionaries. With that background, he was assigned to Pickering as a linguist, which led to his becoming a MAGIC analyst. Later, he was seriously wounded on Guadalcanal, after which Pickering arranged to have him commissioned.

  “And, Sir, Mrs. Feller could have prevented Moore from going to Guadalcanal. As she should have.”

  “That’s a pretty goddamn serious charge. Why the hell didn’t you report this to me?” Pickering flared.

  “And she’s slept with several officers of SWPOA, Sir,” Banning continued, calmly but firmly. “Two of General Willoughby’s intelligence staff, and a Military Police officer.”

  “The answer to my question, obviously, is that you never reported this to me because it would be embarrassing.”

  “I didn’t know what your reaction would be, Sir. And we’ve had the situation under control.”

  “Now for that, goddamn it, you owe me an apology. I may be an old fool, but not that much of a fool. You should have come to me, Ed, and you know it!”

  Banning didn’t reply.

  “Does she know that you know?”

  “Yes, Sir. When I found out she stood idly by when they sent Moore to Guadalcanal, I lost my temper and it slipped out.”

  “You lost your temper?”

  “She was more worried about getting caught with Moore in her bed than she was about MAGIC. Yes, Sir, I was mad; I lost my temper. I told her what I thought of her.”

  Pickering looked at him for a moment, and then laughed.

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that,” he said. “You have been a thorn in my side for a long time, Banning. I find it very comforting to learn that you, the perfect Marine, the perfect intelligence officer, can lose your temper and do something dumb.”

  “General, if an apology is in or—”

  “The subject is closed, Ed,” Pickering interrupted. “I will deal with Mrs. Feller when I get to Brisbane.”

  “I’m sorry I had to get into this—”

  Pickering interrupted him again: “Looking at your face just now, I would never have guessed that.” He touched Banning’s shoulder. “Let’s see how many photos we have, Ed. And then we’ll see about getting you a shower and a shave before you catch your plane.”

  He went to the door and then stopped.

  “Curiosity overwhelms me. Not you, too?”

  “No, Sir,” Banning said after hesitating. “But there were what could have been offers.”

  “And now you’ll never know what you missed, Ed. The price of perfection is high.”

  [EIGHT]

  Muku Muku

  Oahu, Territory of Hawaii

  1645 Hours 15 October 1942

  Wearing a red knit polo shirt and a pair of light-blue golf pants, Brigadier General Fleming Pickering walked out onto the shaded flagstone patio of a sprawling house on the coast. Five hundred yards down the steep, lush slope, large waves crashed onto a wide white sand beach.

  Major Jake Dillon, USMCR, was sitting on a stool. A glass dark with whiskey was in his hand; a barber’s drape covered his body. He was having his hair cut by a silver-haired black man in a white jacket.

  “You find enough hair to cut, Denny?” Pickering asked.

  “He’s got more than enough around the neck, Captain,” the black man said to Pickering with a smile. “Excuse me, General,” he corrected himself; to his mind Pickering would always be Captain of his merchant fleet. “We just won’t mention the top.”

  “If you didn’t have that razor in your hand,” Dillon said, “I’d tell you to go to hell.”

  Denny laughed.

  “Very nice, General,” Jake Dillon teased. “What is this place?”

  “This is Muku Muku, Major,” the black man said. “Pretty famous around the Pacific.”

  “What the hell is it?”

  “My grandfather bought this, all of it,” Pickering said and made a sweeping gesture, “years ago. Now they’ve turned it into Beverly Hills.”

  Dillon laughed. “You make Beverly Hills sound like a slum, the way you said that.”

  “What I meant was very large houses on very small lots,” Pickering said. “I can’t understand why people do that.”

  Another elderly looking black man in a white jacket opened one of a long line of sliding plate-glass doors onto the patio. Lieutenant Kenneth R. McCoy walked outside. He was wearing obviously brand-new khakis.

  “You find everything you need, Ken?” Pickering asked.

  “Yes, Sir,” McCoy said. “Thank you.”

  “Can I offer you something to drink, Lieutenant?” the black man said. “You, Captain?”

  “I’ll have whatever the balding man is having,” Pickering said.

  “That’s fine,” McCoy said. “General, what is this place?”

  “It’s Muku Muku,” Dillon said. “I got that far.”

  “My grandfather bought it,” Pickering said. “As sort of a rest camp for our masters, and our chief engineers, when they made the Islands…the Sandwich Islands then. In the old days, the sailing days, they were at sea for months at a time.”

  “I sailed under the Commodore, the Captain’s grandfather,” the black man working on Dillon said. “The Genevieve. The last of our four-masters. Went around the Horn on her.”

  “That’s right, isn’t it?” Pickering said. “I’d forgotten that, Denny.”

  “And I retired off the Pacific Endeavour,” Denny said. “From sail to air-conditioning.” He looked over at McCoy. “Just as soon as I’m through with this gentleman, Sir, I’ll be ready for you.”

  “And then my father started sending masters’ and chief engineers’ families out here from the States, to give them a week or two—or a month’s—vacation. And then he tore it down, in the late twenties…”

  “Nineteen thirty-one, Captain,” Denny corrected him.

  “I stand corrected,” Pickering said. “He tore down the original house—it was a Victorian monstrosity—and built this place. And to get the money, he sold off some of the land.”

  “Turning it into a slum,” Dillon said.

  “I didn’t say ‘slum,’ I said ‘Beverly Hills,’” Pickering answered. “He always said he was going to retire here. But then he dropped dead.”

  The second black man appeared with two whiskey glasses on a silver tray.

  Pickering picked his up and raised it.

  “Welcome home, gentlemen,” he said. “Welcome to Muku Muku.”

  “After all I’ve been through,” Dillon said, “I frankly expected more than this fleabag.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” McCoy groaned. Pickering laughed delightedly.

  There was the sound of aircraft engines. They looked out to sea. A white four-engine seaplane came into view. It was making a slow, climbing turn to the left.

  “There goes Banning,” Pickering said. “That’s the Pan American flight to San Francisco.”

  “I wondered where he was,” Dillon said as he was being brushed off by Denny.

  “He’s going to brief Frank Knox on Guadalcanal,” Pickering said. “That film your man made was valuable, Jake.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Dillon said. “So what happens to us now, Flem?”

  “You’ll spend tomorrow here, and maybe the day after tomorrow. I fed the four of you into the regular air transport priority system. With an AAAA priority, they say it
generally takes a day or two to find a seat.”

  “What I meant is what happens to me? Am I still working for you?”

  McCoy took Dillon’s place on the stool. Denny draped the cloth around him.

  “Jake, I want you to understand that I appreciate the job you did for me, but…”

  “No apologies required, Flem. I was out of my depth in that whole operation. McCoy ran it. I’m ready to go back to being a simple flack.”

  “Don’t get too comfortable doing that,” Pickering said. “We may call on you again.”

  “General,” McCoy said. “I promised Colonel Stecker and Pick that I would see Stecker while I was here….”

  “My plane leaves Pearl Harbor at eight in the morning,” Pickering said. “I’d like to have you around until it leaves. Then you can go to the Naval Hospital. Be prepared for it; he’s really in bad shape.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “I sent a message to Colonel Rickabee, primarily to warn him that Banning will need a shave and a haircut and a decent uniform when he arrives…before he goes to see Frank Knox. But I also asked him to call Ernie Sage and tell her you’re here, and on your way to the States.”

  Colonel F. L. Rickabee, a career Marine intelligence officer, was Pickering’s deputy at the Office of Management Analysis in Washington. Ernestine “Ernie” Sage was McCoy’s girlfriend, the daughter of the college roommate of Pickering’s wife.

  “Thank you, Sir,” McCoy said.

  “Tell me, McCoy,” Pickering asked. “What do you think of George Hart? How is he under pressure?”

  McCoy laughed.

  “He was the maddest one sonofabitch I ever saw in my life on the beach at Buka,” McCoy said. “First, the rubber boat got turned over and he had a hell of a hard time getting ashore. And then I told him he was going to have to wait there—alone, overnight at least—while the native radio operator and I went looking for Howard and Koffler.”

  “But he did what he was expected to?”

  “Oh, yes, Sir. He’s a good Marine, General.”

  “I thought he might turn out to be,” Pickering said.

  [NINE]

  Marine Barracks

  U.S. Naval Station

  Pearl Harbor, T.H.

  1715 Hours 15 October 1942

  Sergeant George F. Hart, USMCR, and Corporal Robert F. Easterbrook, USMCR, came out of the basement of Headquarters Company unshaved, unwashed, and wearing the utilities they had put on at Guadalcanal. Each was carrying a large, stuffed-full seabag.

  “What now, Sergeant?” Sergeant Hart asked the freshly shaved, freshly bathed, and impeccably shined and uniformed staff sergeant who was their escort since the plane from Espiritu Santo landed.

  “I was told to get you issued a clothing issue,” the staff sergeant replied. “I done that. You been issued. I guess you wait to see what happens next.”

  At that moment, a corporal, who was just as impeccably turned out as the staff sergeant, pushed open the door and marched down the highly polished linoleum toward them.

  “I’m looking for a Sergeant Hart and a Corporal Easter-something,” he announced.

  “You found them,” the staff sergeant announced. “Ain’t you the Colonel’s driver?”

  “Yeah. You want to come with me, you two?”

  “Where are we going?” Sergeant Hart asked.

  The corporal ignored the question, but did hold the door open for them as they staggered through it under the weight of their seabags. Corporal Easterbrook was carrying additionally a Thompson .45 ACP caliber submachine gun, an EyeMo 16mm motion picture camera, and a Leica 35mm still camera, plus a canvas musette bag.

  Parked at the curb was a glistening 1941 Plymouth sedan, painted Marine green—including its chromium-plated bumpers, grille, and other shiny parts. The corporal opened the trunk and the seabags were dropped inside.

  “You taking the Thompson with you?” the corporal asked.

  “Yes, I am,” Easterbrook replied.

  “You’re not supposed to take weapons off the base,” the corporal said. “But I guess this is different.”

  “‘Off the base’?” Sergeant Hart asked. “Where are we going?”

  The corporal did not reply until they were in the car. Once they were inside, he consulted a clipboard that was attached to the dashboard.

  “Some place in the hills,” he said. “Muku Muku. They gave me a map.”

  “What the hell is Muku Muku?” Sergeant Hart asked.

  “Beats the shit out of me, Sergeant. It’s where I was told to take you.”

  “There it is,” the corporal said later. “There’s a sign.”

  Sergeant Hart looked where he pointed. A bronze sign reading “Muku Muku” was set into one of the brick pillars supporting a steel gate.

  The corporal drove the Plymouth five or six hundred yards down a narrow macadam road lined with exotic vegetation. The road suddenly widened and became a paved area in front of a large, sprawling house.

  That’s a mansion, Sergeant George Hart thought, not a house. Must be Pickering’s. There’s no other logical explanation.

  “What the hell is this?” Easterbrook asked.

  “It must be our transient barracks,” Hart replied.

  Fleming Pickering opened the passenger door and put out his hand.

  “Welcome home, George,” he said.

  “Thank you, Sir,” Hart said. “I didn’t expect to see you here, General.”

  “I didn’t expect to be here,” Pickering replied. “Get yourself cleaned up, have a drink, and I’ll explain it all to you.” He leaned over the front seat and offered his hand to Easterbrook.

  “I’m General Pickering,” he said. “You’re Easterbrook, right?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Those pictures you took, and the motion picture film you shot, were just what I needed. Come on in the house, and I’ll try to show you my gratitude.”

  When Fleming Pickering knocked on the door, Sergeant Hart and Corporal Easterbrook were sitting in a large room furnished with two double beds. They were showered and shaved and wearing new skivvies. A moment later Pickering walked in, a freshly pressed uniform over his arm.

  “This is Easterbrook’s,” he said, handing it to him. “Yours will be along in a minute, George.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “You don’t have a drink?” Pickering said. “I thought the refrigerator would need restocking by now.”

  He slid open a closet door. Behind it was a small refrigerator, full of beer and soft drinks.

  “And there’s whiskey in that cabinet,” he said, pointing. “If you’d rather.”

  “I’ll have a beer, please, Sir,” Hart said, and walked to him.

  Pickering opened a beer, then walked to Easterbrook and handed it to him.

  “Son, why don’t you put on a shirt and trousers, that’s all you’ll need, and then go down and sit with McCoy on the patio. I need a word with Sergeant Hart.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Easterbrook replied, and hastily put on a khaki shirt and pants. Pickering made himself a drink of scotch, and waited until Easterbrook was gone before he spoke.

  “You were just paid a pretty good compliment, George,” Pickering said. “McCoy said of you, quote, ‘He’s a good Marine, General.’”

  “I’m flattered,” Hart said. “If only half the things they say about him are true, he’s a hell of a Marine.”

  “I’m on my way to Australia, George. Tomorrow morning. In a day or two, they’ll find you a seat on a plane to the States. Show your orders in San Francisco and tell them to route you via St. Louis on your way to Washington. Take a week to see your folks, and then go to Washington. Then pack your bags again. I don’t think I’ll be coming back there any time soon—that may change, of course—but I’d like to have you with me in Australia.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir,” Hart said, and then: “May I ask a question, Sir?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Wouldn’t it make more sense if I went to A
ustralia from here?”

  “It would, but I didn’t want to ask you to do that. I mean, after a man gets tossed out of a rubber boat…”

  “McCoy told you about that?”

  “…in the surf off an enemy-held island, he’s entitled to a leave. I can do without you for two or three weeks, George.”

  “Easterbrook deserves to go home. Major Dillon and McCoy have things to do in the States. I don’t. I’ll go with you, Sir, if that would be all right.”

  “Strange, I thought that would be your reaction,” Pickering said. “And I can use you, George.”

  There was a knock at the door, and a white-jacketed black man walked in with a freshly pressed set of new khakis.

  “Finish your beer,” Pickering said. “And then come down to the patio.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  Corporal Robert F. Easterbrook, carrying a bottle of beer, slid open a plate-glass door and walked uneasily onto the patio.

  “They take care of you all right at the Marine Barracks, Easterbrook?” Lieutenant McCoy asked.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Pull up a chair, take a load off,” Major Dillon said, smiling, trying to be as charming as he could.

  He thought: Well, now that I’ve got you off Guadalcanal, what the hell am I going to do with you?

  V

  [ONE]

  Pan American Airlines Terminal

  San Francisco, California

  0700 Hours 16 October 1942

  Almost all the passengers on Pan American Flight 203 from Hawaii were in uniform, Army, Navy, and Marine. And all the uniforms were in far better shape than his, Major Edward Banning noted. He was sure, too, that no one on the airplane was traveling without a military priority. But it was a civilian airliner, and Pan American provided the amenities it offered before the war.

  The food was first class, served by neatly uniformed stewards. It was preceded by hors d’oeuvres and a cocktail, accompanied by wine, and trailed by a cognac. Banning had three post-dinner cognacs, knowing they would put him to sleep, which was the best way he knew to pass a long flight.

  For breakfast, there were ham and eggs, light, buttery rolls, along with freshly brewed coffee; he wasn’t about to complain when the yolks of the eggs were cooked hard.