Leahy shook his head, no.
Sessions took the film from the projector. Banning collected the photographs and put them back into their envelope. A very large black steward in a white jacket opened the door to the upstairs corridor and held it while Banning and Sessions passed through.
Roosevelt waited to speak until the steward was himself out of the room and the door was closed behind him.
“Well, question one,” he said. “Are things as bad as Major Banning paints them?”
“It’s not only the Major,” Admiral Leahy said. “This came in as I was leaving my office.”
He handed the President a sheet of Teletype paper.
“What is that?” Knox asked.
“A radio from Admiral Ghormley to Admiral Nimitz,” Admiral Leahy said.
“I’m the Secretary of the Navy, Admiral. You can tell me what Admiral Ghormley said,” Knox said, smiling, but with a perceptible sharpness in his tone.
Roosevelt looked up from the paper in his hands, and his eyes took in the two of them.
“Admiral Ghormley has learned of a Japanese aircraft carrier, and its supporting vessels, off the Santa Cruz Islands,” Roosevelt said, and then dropped his eyes again to the paper. “He says, ‘This appears to be all-out enemy effort against Guadalcanal. My forces totally inadequate to meet situation. Urgently request all aviation reinforcements possible.’ End quote.”
“That’s a little redundant, isn’t it?” Knox asked. ‘Totally inadequate’? Is there such a thing as ‘partially inadequate’?”
“I think the Admiral made his point, Frank,” the President said. “Which brings us to question two, what do we do about it?”
“I’m confident, Mr. President, and I’m sure Secretary Knox agrees with me, that Admiral Nimitz is doing everything that can be done.”
“And General MacArthur?” the President asked.
“And General MacArthur,” Admiral Leahy said. “The loss of Guadalcanal would be catastrophic for him. The rest of New Guinea would certainly fall, and then quite possibly Australia. MacArthur knows that.”
“There is always something else that can be done,” Roosevelt said. “Isn’t there?”
“Not by the people on Guadalcanal,” Knox said. “They are doing all they can do.”
“You’re suggesting Nimitz can do more?” Admiral Leahy said.
“Nimitz and MacArthur,” Knox said.
“For the President to suggest that…to order it…would suggest he has less than full confidence in them,” Leahy said.
“Yes,” Roosevelt said, thoughtfully.
“I don’t agree with that,” Knox said. “Not a whit of it. Mr. President, you’re the Commander-in-Chief.”
“I know. And I also know that the first principle of good leadership is to give your subordinates their mission, and then get out of their way.”
“I’m talking about guidance, Mr. President, not an order. I myself am always pleased to know what you want of me….”
Roosevelt looked at the two of them again.
“Admiral, you’re right. I can’t afford to lose the good will of either Admiral Nimitz or General MacArthur; but on the other hand, the country cannot afford to lose Guadalcanal.”
He spun around in his wheelchair and picked up a telephone from a chair-side table.
“Who’s this?” he asked, surprised and annoyed when a strange voice answered. “Good God, is it after midnight already? Well, would you bring your pad in please, Sergeant?”
He hung up and turned back to Knox and Leahy.
“Alice has gone home. There’s an Army sergeant on standby.”
There was a discreet knock at an interior door, and without waiting for permission, a scholarly looking master sergeant carrying a stenographer’s pad came in.
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“I want you to take a note to the Joint Chiefs of Staff,” the President said. “I want it delivered tonight.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“And make an extra copy, and have that delivered to Senator Richardson Fowler. Across the street. At his hotel. Have him awakened if necessary.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
The President looked at Admiral Leahy and Secretary Knox.
“I don’t think Richardson liked being sent home,” he said, smiling wickedly. “Maybe this will make it up to him.” He turned back to the Army stenographer. “Ready, Sergeant?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Ten minutes before, room service delivered hamburgers and two wine coolers full of iced beer.
After Banning wolfed his down, he was embarrassed to see that no one else was so ravenous. Captain Haughton, he saw, had hardly touched his.
“There’s another under the cover,” Senator Fowler said. “I ordered it for you. I didn’t think you’d have a hell of a lot to eat on the way from San Francisco.”
“I’m a little embarrassed,” Banning said, but lifted the silver cover and took the extra hamburger.
“Don’t be silly,” Fowler said.
There was a rap at the door.
“Come in,” Senator Fowler called. “It’s unlocked.”
The door opened. A neatly dressed man in his early thirties stepped inside.
“Senator Fowler?”
“Right.”
“I’m from the White House, Senator. I have a Presidential document for you.”
“Let’s have it,” the Senator said.
“Sir, may I see some identification?”
“Christ!” Fowler said, but went to the chair where he had tossed his suit jacket and came up with an identification card.
“Thank you, Sir,” the man said, and handed him a large manila envelope.
“Do I have to sign for it?”
“That won’t be necessary, Sir,” the courier said, nodded, and walked out.
Fowler ripped open the envelope, took out a single sheet of paper, read it, and grunted. Then he handed it to Captain Haughton, who was holding an almost untouched glass of beer.
“Pass it around when you’re through,” Fowler said.
* * *
THE WHITE HOUSE
Washington, D.C.
17 October 1942
To the Joint Chiefs of Staff:
My anxiety about the Southwest Pacific is to make sure that every possible weapon gets into that area to hold Guadalcanal.
Franklin D. Roosevelt
* * *
“I don’t know what this means,” Banning said, a little thickly, when he’d read it and passed it to Sessions.
“It means that if either Nimitz or MacArthur is holding anything back for their own agendas, if they are smart, they will now send it to Guadalcanal,” Fowler said.
Banning grunted.
“Major, if you were God, what would you send to Guadalcanal?”
“Everything,” Banning said.
“In what priority?”
“I don’t really know,” Banning said. “I suppose the most important thing would be to keep the Japanese from building up their forces on the island. And I suppose that means reinforcing the Cactus Air Force.”
“I think they can do that,” Fowler said. “God, I hope they can.”
He poured a little more beer in his glass, then smiled. “Another question?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“What was Jake Dillon doing on that hush-hush mission Pickering set up?”
“I don’t think I understand the question, Sir.”
“I’ve known Jake a long time,” Fowler said. “Don’t misunderstand me. I like him. But Jake is a press agent. A two-fisted drinker. And one hell of a ladies’ man. But I’m having trouble picturing him doing anything serious.”
“I think you underestimate him, Senator,” Banning said, aware that Fowler’s question angered him. “That mission wouldn’t have gone off as well as it did, if it hadn’t been for Dillon. Perhaps it wouldn’t have gone off at all.”
“Really?” Captain Haughton asked, surprised
.
“Yes, Sir,” Banning said.
“You want to explain that?” Fowler asked.
How the hell did I get involved in this?
“Major Dillon can get people to do things they would rather not do,” Banning said.
“With Dillon on orders signed by Admiral Leahy, it wasn’t a question of whether anyone wanted to do what he asked them to do, was it?” Captain Haughton argued.
“Even though Commander Feldt of the Coastwatchers is, kindly, often difficult to deal with,” Banning said quietly, “Dillon got Feldt to send his best native into Buka. Even though they were understandably reluctant to have one of their very few submarines hang around Buka a moment longer than necessary, he got the Australian Navy to let that sub lie offshore for three days in case they had to try to get our people off the beach. He got MAG-21, the Cactus Air Force, to loan the best R4D pilot around to fly the R4D that made the landing, even though he was one of their fighter squadron commanders.”
“As opposed to what?” Senator Fowler asked.
“As opposed to having sacrificial lambs sent in. Nobody thought the operation was going to work. Dillon convinced them it would. There are ways to get around orders, even orders signed by Admiral Leahy.”
“I’m surprised,” Senator Fowler said. “I’d never thought of Jake as a heavyweight.”
“He’s a heavyweight, Senator,” Banning said flatly. “I was going to—I got busy at Pearl, and didn’t get around to it—to recommend to General Pickering that he be assigned to Management Analysis.”
“We’ve already returned him to Public Affairs,” Sessions said. “Effective on his arrival in the States.”
“If something comes up, Banning,” Colonel Rickabee said. “We can get him back.”
Then Rickabee stood up.
“I’ve got some orders for you, Banning. Take a week off. At General Pickering’s orders, you will stay here. That doesn’t mean you can’t leave town, but I don’t want it to get back to General Pickering that you’ve moved into a BOQ. A week from tomorrow morning, not a second sooner, I’ll see you in the office.” He paused. “Now get some sleep. And a haircut. You look like hell.”
VI
[ONE]
Naval Air Transport Service Terminal
Brisbane, Australia
0815 Hours 17 October 1942
The bay was choppy. Landing was a series of more or less controlled crashes against the water. Brigadier General Fleming Pickering was almost surprised these didn’t jar parts—large parts, such as engines—off the Mariner.
Maneuvering from the Mariner into the powerboat sent out to meet it was difficult, and the ride to shore was not pleasant.
The tide was out, which explained to Pickering the chop (a function of shallow water). It also made climbing from the powerboat onto the ladder up the side of the wharf a little dicey. Halfway up the ladder, behind a rear admiral who was obviously a very cautious man, it occurred to Pickering that he had failed to send a message ahead that he was arriving.
Not only would he have to find wheels someplace, but he didn’t really know where to go. It was probable that Ellen Feller would be in Water Lily Cottage. And he did not want to deal with her just yet.
The Admiral finally made it onto the wharf, and Pickering raised his head above it.
“Ten-hut,” an Army Signal Corps lieutenant called out. “Present, H-arms!”
Two Marine lieutenants and a Marine sergeant, forming a small line, saluted. The Rear Admiral, looking a little confused, returned the salute.
That’s not for you, you jackass.
Pickering climbed onto the wharf and returned the salute.
“How are you, Pluto?” he said to First Lieutenant Hon Song Do, Signal Corps, U.S. Army, and put out his hand.
“Welcome home, General,” Pluto said, smiling broadly.
Pickering turned to a tall, thin, pale Marine second lieutenant, and touched his shoulder.
“Hello, John,” he said. And then, turning to the other lieutenant and the sergeant standing beside him, he added, “And look who that is! You two all right?” Pickering asked as he shook their hands.
“They let us out of the hospital yesterday, Sir,” Sergeant Steven M. Koffler, USMCR, said. Koffler’s eyes were sunken…and extraordinarily bright. His face was blotched with sores. His uniform hung loosely on a skeletal frame.
That was obviously a mistake. You look like death warmed over.
“We’re fine, Sir,” First Lieutenant Joseph L. Howard, USMCR, said.
Like hell you are. You look as bad as Koffler.
“I’m going to have a baby,” Sergeant Koffler said.
“Damn it,” Lieutenant Howard said. “I told you to wait with that!”
“Funny, you don’t look pregnant,” Pickering said.
“I mean, my girl. My fiancée,” Koffler said, and blushed.
“Koffler, damn it!” Lieutenant Howard said.
Pickering looked back at Second Lieutenant John Marston Moore, USMCR, and asked, “What’s that rope hanging from your shoulder, John?”
“That’s what we general officer’s aides wear, General,” Moore said.
You don’t look as bad as these two, but you look like hell, too, John. God, what have I done to these kids?
“And you will note the suitably adorned automobile,” Hon said.
Not far away was a Studebaker President, with USMC lettered on the hood. A red flag with a silver star was hanging from a small pole mounted on the right fender.
“I’m impressed,” Pickering said. “How’d you know I was coming?”
“McCoy sent a radio,” Hon said.
“Have you got any luggage, Sir?” Koffler asked.
“Yes, I do, and you keep your hands off it. Hart’ll bring it.” He looked at Hon. “Where are we going, Pluto?”
“Water Lily Cottage, Sir,” Hon replied, as if the question surprised him. “I thought…”
“Who’s living there now?”
“Moore, Howard, and me. We found Koffler an apartment, so called, a couple of blocks away.”
“And Mrs. Feller?”
“She’s in a BOQ,” Pluto Hon said uncomfortably. “General, when we have a minute, there’s something I’ve got to talk to you about—”
“Major Banning already has,” Pickering said, cutting him off, then changed the subject. “We’re all not going to fit in the Studebaker.”
“We have a little truck, Sir,” Moore said, pointing.
“OK. Koffler: You wait until Sergeant Hart comes ashore with the luggage and then show him how to find the cottage.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“I’ll see you there. I want to hear all about Buka.”
Pluto Hon slipped behind the wheel, and Howard moved in beside him. Moore got in the back beside Pickering—somewhat awkwardly, Pickering noticed, as if the movement were painful.
Howard turned. “General, I’m sorry about Koffler. I told him not to say anything….”
“Well, if I was going to have a baby, I think I’d want to tell people. What was that all about, anyway?”
“It’ll keep, Sir,” Moore said. “We have it under control.”
“I want to hear about it.”
“You remember the last night, Sir, in the big house? Before we went to Buka?” Howard said.
“The Elms, you mean?” Pickering asked.
When MacArthur had his headquarters in Melbourne, Pickering rented a large house, The Elms, in the Melbourne suburbs. After MacArthur moved his headquarters to Brisbane, Pickering rented a smaller house, Water Lily Cottage, near the Brisbane racetrack.”
“Yes, Sir. And you remember the Australian girl, Daphne Farnsworth?”
“Yeoman Farnsworth, Royal Australian Navy Women’s Reserve,” Pickering said. “Yes, I do. Beautiful girl.”
“Has a weakness for Marines, I’m sorry to say,” Pluto said. “I can’t imagine why.”
“The lady is in the family way, General,” Moore said, not amu
sed. “It apparently happened that last night at The Elms.”
“How do you know that?” Pickering asked, smiling.
“It was the only time they were together,” Pluto said.
“Well, Pluto, after all, he is a Marine,” Pickering said. “What? Is there some kind of problem?”
“Several. For one thing, they threw her out of the Navy in something like disgrace.”
“Well, to judge by the look on his face, making an honest woman of her is high on Koffler’s list of things to do.”
“She’s a widow,” Moore went on. “Her husband was killed in North Africa. They had his memorial service the day before she and Koffler…”
“What are you saying? That Koffler has been sucked in by a designing woman?”
“No, Sir. Not at all. She’s been disowned by her family, if that’s the word.”
“And meanwhile, Koffler was on Buka?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“How is she living?”
“Well, she had a job. But she lost that.”
“I hired her, Sir, to work for us,” Moore said.
“Good idea. But what’s the problem? Koffler’s back. He wants to marry her…”
“We’re having a problem with that, Sir. The SWPOA Command Policy is to discourage marriages between Australians and Americans. They throw all sorts of roadblocks up. For all practical purposes, marriages between Australians and lowergrade enlisted men, below staff sergeant, are forbidden.” (SWPOA was the abbreviation for the South West Pacific Ocean Area, which was MacArthur’s area of responsibility in the Pacific.)
“No problem. We’ll make Koffler a staff sergeant.”
“There’s more, Sir.”
“I’ll deal with it,” Pickering said. “Tell Koffler to relax.”
How I don’t know. But certainly, someone who has been flown across the world at the direct order of the President of the United States to arrange a peace between the chief of American espionage and the Supreme Commander of the South West Pacific Ocean Area should be able to deal with the problem of a Marine buck sergeant who has knocked up his girlfriend.
“Does General MacArthur know I’m back?”
“I can’t see how he could, Sir.”
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