Close Combat
Page 35
Why am I offended when this sonofabitch calls me by my last name?
Pickering walked over to General Willoughby’s office window and looked out, although this meant searching for and operating the cords that controlled the drapes.
A minute or so later, General Willoughby raised his eyes from his desk and found Pickering at the window.
“So, Pickering, what’s on your mind?”
“General, thank you for seeing me.”
Willoughby made a deprecating gesture.
“I want to talk about guerrillas in the Philippines,” Pickering said.
Willoughby shrugged.
“Sure,” he said, “but there’s not much to talk about.”
Willoughby always spoke with a faintly German accent, but now, for some reason, his accent was more than usually apparent. Pickering’s mind went off at a tangent: Willoughby sounds like an English name, not a German one. Where did he get that accent?
“Let’s talk about this General Fertig,” Pickering said.
“He’s not a general. He’s a captain. A reserve captain. Technically, I suppose, he’s guilty of impersonating an officer.”
Well, I know how that feels. Every time I check my uniform in the mirror and see the stars, I feel like I’m impersonating an officer.
“What did he do before the war?”
“He was a mining engineer, I think. Or a civil engineer. Some kind of an engineer.”
Pickering had a sudden suspicion, and jumped on it.
“You knew him, didn’t you, General?”
“Yes. I met him at parties, that sort of thing.”
Now, that’s interesting. The question now becomes what kind of parties. Patricia and I met El Supremo half a dozen times at parties in Manila. But they were business parties Pacific & Far East Shipping gave. El Supremo and his wife were invited there under the general category, Military/Diplomatic. I don’t recall that you were ever invited to one of those, Willoughby. Colonels didn’t make that list.
Come to think of it, did I ever meet this guy? I don’t think so. I would have remembered that name. Wendell Fertig isn’t John Jones. And “Fertig” in German means “finished.” I would have remembered that, I think.
“What kind of parties?”
“At the Polo Club, for one.”
I belonged to the Polo Club. But only for business reasons—and for Patricia. She liked to have lunch out there. I arranged guest cards for our masters and chief engineers when they were in port. The only time I can remember going out there myself was when Pick was in boarding school—he couldn’t have been older than fourteen. During summer vacation he came out on the Pacific Venturer—worked his way out as a messboy. While she was in port, I took him out there so he could play.
He had a sudden clear memory of Pick at fourteen—a skinny, ungainly kid wearing borrowed boots and breeches that were much too large for him, sweat-soaked, galloping down that long grass field. He was unseated when his pony shied; he skidded twenty yards on his back, while Patricia moaned, so slowly, “Ohhhhh myyyyy Lordddddd!!!!”
“This man Fertig belonged to the Polo Club?”
“I suppose he did. I saw him out there a good deal. And he played, of course.”
OK. We have now established that General/Captain Fertig was a member of Manila social hierarchy. Polo Club membership wasn’t cheap, and there was a certain snobbish ambience to it. You didn’t just apply for membership; you had to be invited to apply. And then the membership committee had to approve you. They were notorious for keeping the riffraff out.
“How did he come by his commission?” Pickering asked.
“He was directly commissioned just before the war, in October or November 1941. The General saw the war coming…”
Why am I tempted to interrupt and ask, “Which general would that be, General?”
“…and we set up a program to directly commission civilians with useful skills. Fertig came in as a first lieutenant, Corps of Engineers, Reserve, as I recall.”
Yeah, you knew him, all right. And now he wasn’t one of the overpaid civilians at the Polo Club, he was a lieutenant who had to call you “Sir.”
“What was his skill, engineering?”
“Yes. Demolitions, as I recall. There was another one, a chap named Ralph Fralick. They were both commissioned into the Corps of Engineers as first lieutenants.”
“And what did they do when the war started?”
“That category of reserve officers came on active duty 1 December 1941. Their call to active duty was originally scheduled for 1 January 1942. But with the situation so obviously deteriorating, the General moved it up a month.”
“What did Fertig and this other fellow…Fralick?”
“Fralick,” Willoughby confirmed.
“…do when the Japanese invaded?”
“I don’t know specifically, of course…”
Someone as important as you was obviously too busy to keep track of a lowly reserve lieutenant, right?
“…but I presume demolitions. That’s what they were recruited for. The best people to blow a bridge up, of course, are the engineers who built it.”
“He apparently did it well enough to get himself promoted,” Pickering thought aloud.
“No one is casting aspersions against his competence, Pickering. As an Engineer officer. Without men like Fertig and Fralick blowing bridges and roads—literally in the teeth of the Japanese—Bataan would have fallen sooner than it did, and at a considerably cheaper cost to the enemy.”
“And then, presumably, rather than accept capture by the Japanese when Bataan was lost, Fertig somehow got to Mindanao.”
“A less generous interpretation would be that Captain Fertig chose to ignore his orders to proceed to the fortress of Corregidor, and elected to go to the island of Mindanao.”
“He was ordered to Corregidor?”
“All the specialist officers were ordered to Corregidor. There was work for them there.”
“What about the other one? Fralick?”
“He never showed up on Corregidor. I don’t know what happened to him. Presumably he’s either dead or a POW.”
“He’s not on Mindanao with Fertig?”
“That’s possible, of course, but so far his name has not come up.”
“I’m very curious why Fertig is now calling himself ‘General Fertig.’”
“God only knows,” Willoughby said, audibly exhaling. “If you accept the premise that he knows better, then I just don’t know.”
“You’re suggesting he might not know any better?”
“I’m saying, Pickering, that despite the valor he displayed on Bataan, he may well have been at the end of his string. He was under enormous psychological pressure. He was not a professional military man. He was a civilian in an officer’s uniform, upon whose shoulders was suddenly thrust enormous burdens…”
I know where you got that, Charley. That’s El Supremo talking. That’s what I’m hearing right now, El Supremo’s evaluation of Fertig. And El Supremo’s like the Pope, isn’t he? Infallible, when speaking on matters of military faith and Army morality?
“…that he could not realistically be expected to handle.”
“You’re suggesting, General, that he’s a little off base, mentally speaking?”
“He did not obey his orders to move to Corregidor. The only way he could have gotten from Bataan to Mindanao, as you well know, is by boat. A thirty-, forty-footer. That means he…the word is ‘stole’…that means he stole one—one that he knew was certainly required for our military. Given the fact that he performed his duties well—even admirably—prior to this, one is drawn to the conclusion that he was not then, and is not now, thinking clearly.”
“And the proof would be that he is now under the delusion that he is a general?”
“I shouldn’t have to tell you, General…”
“General”? Charley, did you really call me “General”?
“…that when men, brave men, finally cr
ack under the strains of combat, they often display manifestations of delusion. They think they’re home, or still in battle…or that they’re Napoleon.”
“Then the bottom line would seem to be that you don’t think Fertig’s guerrilla operation is worth much?”
“Think about it,” Willoughby said. “There are a number of field-grade officers, professional soldiers, on Bataan, Mindanao, and other islands…professional Naval officers, too, and I daresay some professional Marine officers, as well…who have so far escaped capture by the Japanese. Don’t you think it’s odd we haven’t heard from any of them? From any one of them?”
“Yes,” Pickering said. “It is odd.”
“They would have the military training and experience to set up guerrilla operations, not to mention the contacts among the Filipino Scouts, et cetera, et cetera. Don’t you think they would have acted along those lines if there was any possibility, any possibility at all, to do so?”
“I can see your point,” Pickering said.
“God knows I admire this man Fertig,” Willoughby said. “But right now, I just feel sorry for him. I hope he manages to stay out of Japanese hands.”
“General, I won’t take any more of your time.”
“Nonsense, Pickering. My door is always open to you, you know that.”
[THREE]
Cryptographic Center
Supreme Headquarters
South West Pacific Ocean Area
Brisbane, Australia
1725 Hours 2 November 1942
As he turned to bolt the steel door behind him, Brigadier General Fleming Pickering offered a greeting to Major Hon Song Do, Signal Corps, Army of the United States. “Still here, Pluto?” he asked.
“Sir?” Pluto asked, surprised at the question.
“It’s almost five-thirty. I thought you’d almost certainly be over at the Field Grade Officers’ Mess with the other brass hats, sucking on a martini and figuring out clever ways to annoy the lieutenants.”
“I feel like a whore in church in there,” Pluto said. “I’ve been doing my eating and drinking with Moore and Hart in the Navy’s Junior Officers’ Mess.”
Pickering laughed. “Anything interesting come in?”
“Koffler doesn’t have the clap, or tuberculosis, or syphilis.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that. Is there some reason you felt that you had to tell me?”
“You can’t have any of the three and get married here. Everything is fixed. They’re getting married next week.”
“You didn’t mention our other two lovesick warriors.”
“They’re not getting married. Barbara Cotter was smart enough to ask some discreet questions. The minute they get married, the nurses would get shipped home.”
“You’re kidding! This doesn’t affect Koffler and the Farnsworth girl?”
“Daphne Farnsworth is what SWPOA insists on calling ‘an indigenous female.’ Indigenous females don’t count. And anyway, she’s an Australian, she’s already home.”
“Anything I can do?”
“I don’t think so, Boss. And when I asked Howard if I should come to you, he said he didn’t want special treatment.”
“Maybe there’s a reason for it.”
“Well, anyway, when you see two nurses weeping loudly at Koffler’s wedding, you’ll know why. Aside from that, nothing special. I think the Japanese are licking their wounds. Is there something I can do for you, General?”
“Let me at the typewriter,” Pickering said. “It’s time for me to tell Washington how to run the war…yet again.”
Pluto stood up.
“And afterward, you and I will go have a drink, or three, at the Navy Mess. I need one.”
* * *
TOP SECRET
EYES ONLY-THE SECRETARY OF THE NAVY
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
ORIGINAL TO BE DESTROYED AFTER
ENCRYPTION AND TRANSMITTAL TO SECNAV
Brisbane, Australia
Monday 2 November 1942
Dear Frank:
I think I have gotten to the bottom of why El Supremo shows no interest at all in this fellow Fertig in the Philippines. I’m not going to waste your time telling you about it, but it’s nonsense. Admiral Leahy is right, there is potential there, and I think Rickabee’s people should be involved from the start.
If he encounters trouble doing what I think he has to do, I’m going to tell Rickabee to come to you. I suspect he will encounter the same kind of parochial nonsense among the professional warriors in Washington that I have encountered here.
I have been butting my head—vis-à-vis Donovan’s people—against the Palace wall so often and so long that it’s bloody; and I’m getting nowhere. Is there any chance I can stop? It would take a direct order from Roosevelt to make him change his mind. And then he and his people will drag their feet, at which, you may have noticed, they’re very good.
More soon.
Best regards,
Fleming Pickering, Brigadier General, USMCR
TOP SECRET
* * *
* * *
TOP SECRET
EYES ONLY-CAPTAIN DAVID HAUGHTON,
USN
OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY OF THE NAVY
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
ORIGINAL TO BE DESTROYED AFTER
ENCRYPTION AND TRANSMITTAL TO SECNAV
FOR COLONEL F. L. RICKABEE
OFFICE OF MANAGEMENT ANALYSIS
Brisbane, Australia
Monday 2 November 1942
Dear Fritz:
Don’t tell him yet, or even Banning, but I want you to try to find a suitable replacement for McCoy for the Mongolian Operation.
And put him and Banning to work finding out about Guerrilla operations. I believe that this Wendell Fertig in the Philippines is probably going to turn out to be more useful than anybody in the Palace here is willing to even consider. I suspect that the same attitude vis-à-vis unconventional warriors and the competence of reserve officers is prevalent in Washington.
This idea has Leahy’s backing, so if you encounter any trouble, feel free to go to Frank Knox.
If you can do it without making any waves, please (a) see if you can find out where my son is being assigned after the war bond tour and (b) tell me if telling his mother would really endanger the entire war effort. She went to see Jack NMI Stecker’s boy at the hospital in Pearl and is in pretty bad shape.
Koffler is getting married next week, for a little good news. I decided I had the authority to make him a staff sergeant and have done so.
Regards,
Fleming Pickering, Brigadier General,
USMCR
TOP SECRET
* * *
[FOUR]
Live Oaks Plantation
Baldwin County, Alabama
0700 Hours 2 November 1942
First Lieutenants William C. Dunn and Malcolm S. Pickering were waiting on the porch when the Marine-green Plymouth drove up. They were freshly showered and shaved, their uniforms bore a perfect press, and their shoes were brilliantly shined. The glasses of orange juice in their hands contained no intoxicants.
A 1940 Buick Limited sedan, newly polished, sat in the driveway, with its twin spare tires installed in their own gleaming shrouds in the front fenders.
“He’s got somebody with him,” Lieutenant Pickering observed.
“I hope he forgets the fucking hats,” Lieutenant Dunn replied.
He was to be disappointed. The individual in the passenger seat leapt out the moment the Plymouth stopped moving and opened the rear door for Captain Carstairs. He emerged holding a Cap, Brimmed, Officers, in each hand.
“I would rather face a thousand deaths,” Bill Dunn said, getting to his feet and placing his glass on the wide top of the railing.
“You’d rather what?”
“That is what General Lee said when he went to meet Grant at Appomattox Court House. ‘I would rather face a thousand deaths, but now I must go…’”
&
nbsp; “The way I heard it, what he said was, ‘Win a few, lose a few, it all evens up in the end.’”
“Blasphemy, Pickering, blasphemy!” Dunn said, and then called, “Captain Carstairs. Good morning, Sir.”
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Carstairs said. “How nice to see you looking so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I have your covers.” He looked inside the cap in his right hand. “Who is the five and seven-eighths?”
“That would be the pinhead here, Sir,” Pick said, and then smiled at the driver. “Hey, Corporal. How are you?”
“Gentlemen,” Carstairs said, “this is Mr. Larsen. Mr. Larsen is about to be graduated as a Naval Aviator and commissioned in The Corps.”
Pickering looked at him closely for the first time. He was wearing impeccably pressed enlisted men’s greens. You could literally see a reflection in his shoes. And though there was no evidence whatever that Mr. Larsen had a beard, Pick knew this was because Mr. Larsen had shaved with great care earlier this morning—maybe two or three times. And he was built like a tank…reminding Pick of Technical Sergeant—now Master Gunner, he remembered—Big Steve Oblensky.
“How do you do, Mr. Larsen?” Lieutenant Dunn said, and offered his hand.
I forgot about that polish and shaving crap. Billy went through P’Cola as a cadet; he knows about that chickenshit bullshit because he had to put up with it himself. Dick Stecker and I had our commissions when we showed up. And that, I recall, really pissed off Captain Mustache.
And now that I think about it, was that because Dick and I were living in the San Carlos Hotel and didn’t have to put up with his chickenshit? Or maybe because we were living in the San Carlos and so I got to meet Martha? And because I didn’t have to spend my evenings shining my shoes and the toilet seats in the barracks, I could chase after her?
“Sir, I am fine, Sir,” Mr. Larsen said. “Sir, I consider this a great honor to meet you, Sir.”
“Marine officers,” Pick heard himself saying, “do not gush like women. Try to control yourself, Mr. Larsen.”
“Sir, yes, Sir. Sir, no excuse, Sir,” Mr. Larsen said.
Captain Carstairs and Lieutenant Dunn gave Lieutenant Pickering dirty looks.