Three people were on the patio, stretched comfortably out on upholstered rattan chaise lounges under a green awning. One was a statuesque, Slavic-appearing blond woman in her forties. Makeup-less, pale-skinned, she had her blond hair piled upward on her head. She was wearing a loose-fitting, gaudily flowered dress, called a "muumuu." Her feet were in woven leather sandals.
One of the men, a good-looking, slim, deeply tanned and brown-haired young man of twenty-six, was wearing swimming trunks and a loose-fitting shirt quite as loud as the lady's muumuu. The other, a large, nearly bald, barrel-chested man in his forties, was wearing stiffly starched Marine khakis, the col-lar unbuttoned. The collar points held the gold and brown bar of a master gunner, and there were gold Naval Aviator's wings on his chest.
"Captain Galloway," the steward said. "Colonel Dawkins is here to see you. With another gentleman, a general."
"Denny," Charley Galloway said, "I've had a bad week. Do not pull my leg."
The steward raised his right hand, palm outward, to shoulder height as if swearing that he was telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
"God, Denny, let them in!" Galloway said, rising to his feet. "It wouldn't hurt to bow or something."
Smiling, the steward bowed with great dignity.
"Not to me, not to me, at the General!"
"Your wish is my command," Denny said.
"My God," the woman said anguished. "Look at me!"
Twenty seconds later, Brigadier General D. G. Mclnerney and Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins walked onto the patio. The master gunner came to a position very much like attention.
"Good afternoon, Sir," Galloway said.
"Ah, Captain Galloway," Mclnerney said. "And Mr. Oblensky!"
"Good afternoon, Sir," Oblensky said formally.
"Marine Corps legends in their own time!" Mclnerney went on. "Why am I not surprised to find you two in such an environment of primitive squalor?"
"General, I don't believe you know Mrs. Oblensky?" Galloway said.
"No, but I am genuinely honored to meet you, Commander," General Mclnerney said, then walked to her and shook her hand.
When she was not playing the role of Mrs. Master Gunner Oblensky, USMC, she was Commander Florence Kocharski, Chief Surgical Nurse, U.S. Navy Hospital, Pearl Harbor. She had been awarded the Silver Star for her valor-"with absolute disregard for her own life"-going aboard a sinking battleship to treat the wounded on December 7, 1941.
"Commander, how's the Stecker boy doing?" Mclnerney asked.
"He's a long way from well, Sir," she said. "But, considering the shape he was in when we got him, he's doing fine."
"I saw the crash," Mclnerney said. "It wasn't pleasant."
"Steve told me," she said.
"That's another item on my agenda," Mclnerney said. "When can I see him?"
She smiled.
"They generally waive visiting hours for general officers, General."
"I meant, when would it be convenient for you and your people?"
"Anytime would be fine, Sir."
"His father and I are old friends," Mclnerney said. "We were in France together in the last war. And so, incidentally, was our host."
"May I offer the General something to drink?" Galloway asked.
"Hawaiian hospitality, right?" Mclnerney said. "Goes with the rope of flowers around your neck? Second time today I've had that offer. Colonel Dawkins offered me something to drink, pineapple juice and gin. I was about to accept, and then the Colonel told me you'd put Gunnery Sergeant Zimmer-man on TDY to the 2nd Raider Battalion, and I thought I'd hold off until I heard all about that."
"I'm surprised you heard about that, Sir," Galloway said.
"Not as surprised as the Secretary of the Navy is going to be," Mclnerney said, and handed Galloway the telephone memorandum he had shown Dawkins at Ewa.
Galloway read it and handed it to Oblensky, who read it and winced. "Permission to speak, Sir?"
"Certainly, Mr. Oblensky," Mclnerney said.
"The Captain really didn't know much about this," Oblensky said. "I was mostly responsible for this, Sir."
"I'm so carried away with auld lang syne, I may cry," Mclnerney said.
"Zimmerman was a Raider before we got him, Sir," Galloway said. "He came to me when we were relieved on the 'Canal and said he wanted to go back to the Raiders. I told him to go ahead, I'd fix the paperwork later."
"And why didn't you?" Mclnerney said.
"I tried, Sir," Galloway said. "I ran into a couple of problems."
"Be specific, Charley. I'm fascinated."
"Sir, the Personnel Officer at Marine Barracks, Pearl Harbor, told me the only way to get Zimmerman into the Raiders was for Zimmerman to apply for them. I couldn't apply for him. They have to be volunteers."
"Did you tell him Zimmerman was already running around behind the Jap lines on Guadalcanal with the Raiders?"
"I didn't think that would be a wise course of action under the circum-stances, Sir."
Mclnerney chuckled.
"So you just decided to sit tight and see what happened?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Something was bound to happen, right?"
"I'm sorry the Secretary of the Navy got involved, Sir. And that you did, Sir."
"So am I," Mclnerney said.
"I'd love to stay here and have several strong drinks, Charley," Mclner-ney said. "But I have to go find a message center so I can send a radio to General Forrest telling him that Gunny Zimmerman is running around Guadal-canal somewhere."
"Sir, you can call him from here, if you like," Charley said.
"Call, as in telephone call, Charley?"
"The Pacific & Far East Shipping Company Office in Honolulu has a dedicated line to their office in San Francisco."
"And you can use it?" Mclnerney asked incredulously.
Galloway walked to the wall of the patio and returned with a telephone on a long cord. He dialed a number.
"This is Captain Galloway," he said. "Would you put me through to San Francisco, please?"
He handed the phone to General Mclnerney.
Chapter Eleven
[ONE]
Naval Air Transport Station
Brisbane, Australia
0625 Hours 24 November 1942
The storm struck as the Consolidated PB2Y-3 Coronado made its final ap-proach. They'd had bad weather all along the route from Hawaii, and their takeoff from the refueling stop at Midway Island was delayed for over two hours by weather. As Captain Edward Sessions, USMC, saw the flashes of lightning, heard the rain drumming on the fuselage, felt the huge plane being buffeted by strong winds, and saw the whitecaps on the water, he thought it entirely likely that having flown literally close to halfway around the world, he was about to get killed on landing.
It had been a long trip. It was 2,269 miles from Washington to San Diego; 2,606 miles from San Diego to Pearl Harbor, Hawaii; and 4,702 from Pearl Harbor to Brisbane-with a refueling stop at Midway Island.
The landing itself was a series of crashes against the water. When they finally stopped, the Coronado rocked sickeningly from side to side, as the pilot taxied it as close as he dared to the shoreline. The storm seemed to worsen by the minute.
A little train of open whaleboats started out through the choppy waters to the Coronado. It required great boat-handling skill to transfer the passengers and cargo (with the exception of the boxes Sessions was carrying, mostly mail-bags) into the whaleboats without permitting the boats to crash against the thin aluminum of the seaplane.
By the time the whaleboats made it from the seaplane to the shore, all the passengers were soaked through. On the face of the quai itself, there was a flight of narrow stone steps onto which the passengers had to jump from the bobbing whaleboats.
Sessions was amazed that no one fell into the water, and that he finally managed to heave his personal luggage and the boxes onto the steps without losing anything.
He surveyed the box
es, decided the one carrying the obsolete M94 Cryptographic Device and its replacement was the most valuable, picked it up, and carried it up the stone stairs.
A Marine, a very young one, wearing an Army poncho and a rain-soaked khaki fore-and-aft cap, walked up to him and saluted.
"Captain Sessions, Sir?"
"Right."
"Staff Sergeant Koffler, Sir. If you'll point out your gear, Sir, I'll take care of it. General Pickering's over there, Sir." He pointed to two cars, a Studebaker President and a Jaguar convertible.
"Everything that's on those steps, Sergeant. Thank you," Sessions said, and headed toward the Studebaker.
He was halfway there before his tired mind slipped into gear.
"Staff Sergeant"? Is that what he said? That boy is a staff sergeant? And what did he say his name was? "Koffler"? That's the kid who's been living like an animal under the noses of the Japs on Buka?
As he came close to the Studebaker, the rear door opened, and he stepped in. Brigadier General Fleming W. Pickering extended his hands to take the box from him.
"Hello, Ed, how was the flight?" Pickering said.
"About like that, Sir," Sessions said, waving a hand at the rough water. "Most of the way from Midway."
A hand was thrust at him, and Sessions took it before he saw that it was attached to First Lieutenant Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR. "Welcome to sunny Australia," McCoy said.
"If it hasn't melted, I have a letter-actually a little package-from Ernie for you," Sessions said.
"Give it to him now," Pickering said. "You have to go back out in the rain. You're going to staying with us. Which means you and McCoy will go in the Jaguar to the house, while George and I take our guests to the SWPOA BOQ."
"They're not here, Sir. They should be on tomorrow's plane, unless Major Brownlee was able to scrounge a ride on an Air Corps B-17. He was going to try."
"Not that I'm not glad to see you, Ed, but how is it the Major waited while the Captain got to fly?"
"I tried to give him my seat, Sir, but the Navy wouldn't let me."
"You hear that, George?" "Yes, Sir."
"Drive up to Koffler and tell him to bring Captain Sessions's stuff to the house."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
"Hello, George," Sessions said. "Congratulations on your promotion."
"If I thought I deserved it, Captain, I'd say thank you."
"You wouldn't have it if it wasn't deserved," Sessions said.
Hart started the engine, drove to the edge of the quai, and waited for Koffler to appear. Then he rolled down the window.
"Koffler, nobody else is coming. Bring all of Captain Sessions's gear out to the house."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
Sessions waited until they were under way, then said, "I can't believe that kid is Koffler."
"Don't let that baby face fool you," McCoy said. "He's one hell of a Marine."
"Speaking of Marines," Pickering said. "What do you think of the two OSS Marines?"
"The Major's all right. Nice guy. Bright. Got his head screwed on cor-rectly. Speaks perfect Spanish."
"And the Captain?"
"The Captain is named Macklin," Sessions said evenly.
"Not..." McCoy said.
"One and the same, Lieutenant McCoy."
"Shit," McCoy said.
For a moment, Pickering was confused. He was also somewhat surprised at the deep bitterness of McCoy's obscenity. And then he remembered hearing Jack Stecker and McCoy talking about an officer named Macklin. There had been some trouble with him in China, where Banning sided with McCoy against him, and again in Quantico, where Macklin tried to keep McCoy from getting commissioned.
"Is this the same officer you and Jack Stecker were talking about, Ken?" Pickering asked. "The one who gave you trouble on the rifle range at Quan-tico?"
"I'm still hoping Sessions is pulling my chain," McCoy said. "He has a strange sense of humor."
"I wish I was kidding about this, Ken," Sessions said. "General, this is the officer, using the term very loosely, with whom McCoy, and I, and Major Banning had trouble in China."
"Does Banning know it's the same man? More important, does Colonel Rickabee?"
Sessions went into his tunic and came out with a soggy envelope. "Colonel Rickabee asked me to give you this, Sir," he said. It was a glossy photograph of the abrupt note Secretary Knox had sent Rickabee.
After he read it, his first reaction was that Knox must have written it in anger, and that was uncharacteristic of him.
Was Knox boiling because Rickabee had the audacity to object to this man Macklin ? Or is there something else ?
Well, Frank Knox can tell Rickabee he doesn't "desire" any "further dis-cussion " of this, but he can't tell me that. Just as soon as we get to the house, I'll call Pluto in the dungeon and tell him to send Knox a Special Channel Personal. If Banning, Sessions, and McCoy all think this man is no good, so far as I'm concerned, it's three strikes and he's out!
"May I keep this, Ed?" Pickering asked politely.
"Of course, Sir."
"Let me think about this."
By the time they reached Water Lily Cottage, he'd had time to control his temper, consider his options, and choose one. It was so simple that he was a little afraid of it. He decided to say nothing now. He'd ask a few more ques-tions and have a couple of cups of coffee and a cigar before finally making up his mind.
"Did I understand you to say, Ed, that Major Brownlee strikes you as a competent officer?" Pickering asked conversationally.
"Yes, Sir. First class. And he impressed Colonel Rickabee the same way, Sir."
"Really?"
"Yes, Sir," Sessions said. "We had a hurry-up briefing session with some Philippine experts from ONI, and the Colonel sat in on it. He quickly came to the same conclusion I did, that Brownlee should have been the briefer, rather than the briefee. The Colonel told me to find out who in Gl had sent Major Brownlee to OSS instead of to us, and have him shot."
"That good, eh?" Pickering chuckled.
Fascinating!
Captain Ed Sessions had heard references to "the cottage." So he was not sur-prised when Hart pulled the Studebaker up against the verandah of a rambling frame house, and Pickering announced,
"Here we are, Ed. Our home away from home."
But he was surprised at the size of the place, and then even more surprised when the rear door of the Studebaker was pulled open by a plump, gray-haired, motherly woman in her late fifties, who was wearing a flowered dress and a frilly apron. She held an enormous umbrella over her head.
"Welcome to Australia, Captain Sessions," she said, and thrust two more umbrellas into the backseat.
Pickering sensed Sessions's surprise.
"Captain Sessions, this is Mrs. Hortense Cavendish," he said, laughter in his voice. "She's in charge around here. You disobey her at your peril."
Inside Water Lily Cottage, Sessions found that a hotel-like buffet of scrambled eggs, sausages-"They call those bangers, Ed," McCoy offered helpfully-ham, and three kinds of biscuits and toast was laid out in a large dining room.
"God, war is hell, isn't it?" Sessions asked.
"Since I went through boot camp," Pickering said solemnly, "I have al-ways disagreed with the Marine Corps belief that you need practice to be mis-erable and hungry."
Over breakfast, Pickering explained that when he first came to Australia, MacArthur's SWPOA Headquarters was in Melbourne.
"So I rented a house," he said, "presided over by Mrs. Cavendish. By the time El Supremo moved his headquarters here, Mrs. Cavendish had concluded that if it were not for her, all of us, in unwashed clothing and needing haircuts, would die of starvation in unmade beds. So she signed on for the duration, and came up here when I rented this place."
"Some people have all the luck," Sessions said.
"She has a husband and two sons in the service," Pickering went on, the timbre of his voice changing. "One each Royal Australian Army, Navy, and Air Force. All in Africa."
"Oh," Sessions said.
When he finished his breakfast, Pickering lit a cigar and then somehow summoned Mrs. Cavendish. Sessions heard the dull ring of a bell and decided there must be a button on the dining-room table, or else the floor.
W E B Griffin - Corp 07 - Behind the Lines Page 32
