W E B Griffin - Corp 07 - Behind the Lines
Page 37
"It was bad in France, huh?"
"The artillery was terrible," Pickering said evenly. "Especially when we were moving. But what really terrified me was the poison gas. I watched peo-ple die that way. I didn't want that to happen to me. That thought scared me bad."
McCoy nodded his understanding.
"I'm not particularly afraid of dying," McCoy said. "What scares me is dying slowly, hanging upside down on a rope while some Jap uses me for bay-onet practice."
"They do that?"
"Sometimes they use their rifle butts to see how many bones they can break before the prisoner dies."
Pickering nodded his understanding.
"You said you wanted to talk to me, Sir?"
The exchange of confidences was over.
"I'm going to have to ask you to go into the Philippines, Ken," Pickering said.
McCoy nodded. "I figured that when I heard we lost the OSS major."
"I think we have to do whatever we can to help Fertig and his people."
"Yes, Sir. I agree."
"I wish the other one had been on the B-17," Pickering said.
McCoy chuckled.
"That thought occurred to me, too, General."
"But he didn't, and..."
"I was going to come to you, Sir, and tell you that I thought I better go with them, even before I heard the B-17 went down."
"It's still a volunteer mission, Ken. You don't have to go."
"Who else is there?" McCoy replied.
"Is that why you're having a hard time with your letter to Ernie?" Picker-ing asked. "You wrote and told her you would be coming home, and now you have to write and tell her you won't be?"
McCoy met Pickering's eyes.
"I was pretty vague about when I was coming home. Getting relieved seemed to be too good to be true."
"I'll have a word with Captain Macklin and tell him who's really in charge."
"I can handle Macklin."
"Have you seen him?"
"No, Sir. I've been avoiding that."
"How are you going to handle him?"
"If I have to, I'll kill him."
Pickering looked into McCoy's eyes.
"It would be awkward if that was necessary."
"I won't, unless I have to."
"Anything I can do?"
"I want Zimmerman, and I don't want Koffler."
"Because it would be unfair to Koffler?"
"Because he wants to be an officer, and I'm afraid he thinks the way he can do that is to be a hero. Heroes get people killed."
"They're working on Zimmerman. There's an admiral coming in today from CINCPAC who wants to talk about the submarine. I don't think we can get one for another week or ten days. Zimmerman certainly should be here by then."
"It'll take me another five, six days to get everything ready anyhow."
"Pluto has been having trouble getting a radio operator from SWPOA. I'm going to El Supremo this morning to ask him personally. I think he'll come through."
McCoy nodded.
"I really hate having to ask you to go, Ken."
"I really hate to go," McCoy said. "But there's no other solution that I can see."
Pickering met McCoy's eyes. They held for a moment, then Pickering nodded and started out of the library.
Over his shoulder, he called, "Tell Ernie I said hello."
[SIX]
Cryptographic Center
Supreme Headquarters, South West Pacific Ocean Area
0905 Hours 29 November 1942
When Major Hon Son Do slid open the tiny steel window in the steel door and saw Brigadier General Fleming Pickering's face, he knew that something had happened that Pickering didn't like at all.
He slid the bars out of place and pulled the heavy door inward.
"I didn't expect to see you here, Sir."
"I have just come from the throne of God," Pickering said. "I humbly requested an audience with El Supremo, and, feeling gracious, he granted me one."
When there was no elaboration on this, Pluto went to one of the two type-writers on the desk and jerked a sheet of paper from it. "Is this about what you want, Sir?" Pickering took the sheet of paper from him and read it.
T O P S E C R E T
SUPREME HEADQUARTERS SWPOA TIME TIME TIME 29N0V42
EYES ONLY-THE SECRETARY OF THE NAVY
VIA SPECIAL CHANNEL
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
ORIGINAL TO BE DESTROYED AFTER ENCRYPTION AND TRANSMITTAL TO SECNAV
DEAR FRANK:
I DEEPLY REGRET HAVING TO INFORM YOU THAT I HAVE JUST LEARNED FROM ADMIRAL NTMITZ THAT MAJOR BROWNLEE DIED IN THE CRASH OF AN AIRPLANE AS HE WAS COMING HERE. THESE ARE THE DETAILS AS I GOT THEM FROM ADMIRAL NIMTTZ:
BROWNLEE DEPARTED HICHAM FIELD AS SUPERCARGO ABOARD USARMY AIRCORPS B17 TAIL NUMBER 42-455502. THE AIRCRAFT ENCOUNTERED MECHANICAL DIFFICULTIES APPARENTLY RESULT OF SEVERE WEATHER APPROXIMATELY 280 NAUTICAL MILES NORTHEAST OF MIDWAY. PERSONNEL ABOARD OTHER B17 AIRCRAFT REPORTED BROWNLEE'S B17 CRASHED AND BROKE UP ATTEMPTING DITCHING OPERATION IN HEAVY SEAS APPROXIMATELY 0725 HOURS LOCAL TIME 22 NOVEMBER 1942.
INASMUCH AS NO SURVIVORS WERE SEEN AT TIME OF DITCHING, AND NAVY AND USARMY AIRCORPS AIRCRAFT WHICH FLEW TO CRASH SITE WHEN WEATHER CLEARED 23 NOVEMBER FOUND NEITHER SURVIVORS NOR CRASH DEBRIS, COMMANDING GENERAL HAWAII DEPARTMENT USARMY AIRCORPS HAS DETERMINED ALL PERISHED IN THE LINE OF DUTY.
I PRESUME YOU OR DONOVAN WILL HANDLE NOTIFICATION OF NEXT OF KIN, AND OTHER ADMINISTRATIVE MATTERS.
CAPTAINS SESSION AND MACKLIN AND ALL EQUIPMENT ARRIVED HERE SAFELY, AND AT THIS TIME IT IS NOT BELIEVED MAJOR BROWNLEE'S TRAGIC DEATH WILL AFFECT THE MISSION.
BEST REGARDS,
FLEMING PICKERING, BRIGADIER GENERAL, USMCR
T O P S E C R E T
"Take out the 'Dear Frank' and make it 'Dear Mr. Secretary,"' Pickering ordered, "and delete the 'best regards.' I don't feel like calling the sonofabitch by his first name, and I don't want to send him my regards."
"Yes, Sir."
"And send an information copy, Eyes Only, to Admiral Nimitz."
"Yes, Sir."
"Pluto, in one word, what would be your reaction if someone told you that SWPOA doesn't have a high-speed radio operator they can give us for the Fertig operation?"
"One word, Sir?"
"The one word that came to my mind was 'bullshit,' " Pickering said.
"You got that from El Supremo?"
"Three minutes ago."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to have to send Koffler. What else can I do?"
"I can't see where you have any other options, Sir."
"I had the very unpleasant suspicion when I was in the Throne Room that very few tears would be shed by El Supremo and his cronies if our guys pad-dled away from the submarine and were never heard from again."
Pluto decided that any response to that remark would be the wrong one.
"General, what about what Admiral Nimitz said, his 17 November direc-tive about a submarine? From Admiral Leahy?"
"I never heard a word about it," Pickering said. "Until I do, I am forced to draw the conclusion that either Knox or Donovan has decided I don't have the Need to Know."
"I'm sure this Admiral, Wagam, that Nimitz is sending will bring you in on it, Sir."
"I wish I was sure, Pluto," Pickering said. "Well, get those off as soon as you can. I'm going to go out to the house and weep on Jack Stecker's shoul-der."
[SEVEN]
Company Grade Bachelor Officers' Quarters
Supreme Headquarters, South West Pacific Ocean Area
1105 Hours 29 November 1942
Captain Robert B. Macklin, USMC, was resting, his back against the head-board of the bed of the sparsely furnished room, half asleep, a three-month-old issue of The Saturday Evening Post open on his lap.
Before the war, this BOQ had been a second- or third-rate traveling sales-men's hostelry. He couldn't help making unfavorable comparisons between his room and th
e mess here with the rooms and mess at the Country Club, which was much nicer than even the hotel rooms and restaurants he'd been in all up and down the West Coast during the War Bond Tours.
Last night at the bar, he had drinks with an Army Chemical Warfare Ser-vice captain, and the captain told him the SWPOA Field Grade Officers' BOQs were much nicer than the Company Grade. He knew, because until he was ranked out of it, he had been living in a Field Grade BOQ.
That encounter triggered several lines of thought: First, that when Major Brownlee finally showed up, perhaps he could pull a string or two and arrange for them both to live in a Field Grade BOQ. Second, he wondered how this OSS assignment would affect his own promotion to major. Major Brownlee's quiet word in the right ear had seen his long-overdue promotion to captain come through almost overnight.
Next, Macklin found it hard to believe that whoever was in charge here would actually send him on this Philippines operation. For one thing, he had not really fully recovered from his wounds. For another, he had not gone through the OSS training program, and knew very little of what would be ex-pected of him on such a mission-nor did he yet possess the skills to do what-ever it was he'd be required to do.
When that became obvious to whoever was in charge here, he felt he would almost certainly be kept in Australia to receive the necessary training- and to fully recover from his wounds-and would not be sent into the Philip-pines. It did not seem unreasonable to think that when the OSS force here was eventually augmented, since he was already here, he would be "an old hand," and could take over as a training officer to train the newcomers. It seemed only fair that people who had not been in combat should be sent on missions before those who had seen combat-had been twice wounded in combat-were sent into harm's way again. And he knew that Major Brownlee was concerned with his lack of training and his physical condition-the reason Brownlee took the one available space on the B-17 was that he thought he could take the physical stress of that flight better.
The knock at his door startled him. He sat fully up on the bed.
"Who is it?"
"Colonel Stecker's compliments, Sir," a young American voice replied.
Macklin lifted himself off the bed, opened the door, and peered around it. It was the boy-faced sergeant who spoke so flippantly to him on the quai three days before.
"What is it, Sergeant?"
"Colonel Stecker's compliments, Sir. He sent me to fetch you."
Who in the wide world is Colonel Stecker? That name never came up in any of the briefings.
"Who is Colonel Stecker?"
"Colonel Jack (NMI) Stecker, Captain," the sergeant replied, and then, smiling, added, "The NMI means 'No Middle Initial.' "
"You find that amusing, Sergeant?"
Colonel Stecker is probably General Pickering's deputy or chief of staff, something like that.
"I think it's sort of interesting."
"You 'think it's sort of interesting, Sir', " Macklin corrected him.
"Yes, Sir."
"I'll be with you shortly," Macklin snapped.
"I'll wait for you in the jeep, Captain," the sergeant said.
Except for his subtly disrespectful attitude, there was nothing he could find in the sergeant's behavior to put a finger on, but his behavior was definitely annoying. He was reminded of the behavior of Corporal McCoy in China, and after a moment he decided that was probably the explanation. McCoy was here, McCoy was an officer, and young enlisted men tended to emulate the behavior of their officers.
He hadn't seen McCoy. He hadn't seen anyone, or heard from anyone, since the Asiatic major dumped him at the BOQ shortly after his arrival. Walking home from the 0800 morning prayer service at St. John's Church that morning, he'd decided that if he didn't hear anything by 1700, he would tele-phone the OSS people here in Brisbane.
He rather enjoyed the worship service. The familiar hymns and the words of the Book of Common Prayer in a church not unlike his own St. Paul's were rather nice. Afterward, as he waited in line to shake the rector's hand, he chat-ted with a stocky, well-dressed gentleman with a large mustache, who asked him to join him and his family for Sunday dinner if he had no other plans.
He had no other plans, of course, except to return to the BOQ and wait for something to happen. But he did not think he should run the risk of being away from the BOQ should Major Brownlee suddenly appear. So he declined, telling the kind gentleman that he had duty.
But the encounter had tipped the scales in favoring of calling the OSS sta-tion in Brisbane. He had been furnished-and had memorized-their number for emergency purposes. He wasn't sure whether this was an emergency or not, but certainly the OSS would be interested to hear that he had not heard from anyone, most importantly from Major Brownlee, in seventy-two hours.
He checked his reflected image as well as he could in the dim mirror over the washbasin, tugged at the hem of his tunic, and then, carefully locking the door behind him, walked down the long, dark, and narrow corridor of the hotel, down the creaking stairs, across the sparsely furnished lobby, and outside.
The sergeant saw him coming, started the jeep's engine, and waited for him to get in-somewhat impatiently, Macklin thought. It was apparent the sergeant hadn't even considered stepping out of the jeep, saluting, and then waiting for the officer to be seated before getting behind the wheel.
"What is our destination, Sergeant?" he asked as Koffler backed the jeep away from its parking spot.
"We're going out to the cottage, Captain."
"And what is the 'cottage,' Sergeant?"
"Where the officers live, Captain."
If "the officers" live there, why am I living in the Company Grade BOQ?
When they arrived at the cottage, Macklin's first reaction was favorable. It could be something like the Country Club, he decided, a rather nice civilian facility requisitioned for the use of the OSS. That view was reinforced when the sergeant opened the door for him and motioned him inside, past an entrance hall, and into a large, comfortably furnished living room. Two young Marine officers-both second lieutenants-slid their rattan upholstered chairs closer to a coffee table, as a middle-aged woman in an apron-obviously some kind of servant-entered the room carrying a tray on which were a silver coffee set and a plate of pastries.
Both officers looked at him curiously, but neither rose to his feet.
"I am Captain Macklin. To see Colonel Stecker."
"Steve'll tell him you're here, Captain," one of the officers, a tall, good-looking blonde, said.
Steve is apparently this baby-faced sergeant who needs a refresher course in military courtesy. As do both of these young officers.
Macklin saw the Purple Heart ribbon among those on the blonde's tunic; the other second lieutenant's tunic carried the silver cords identifying an aide-de-camp to a general officer.
"Is General Pickering here?" Macklin asked.
"Why don't you sit down and have a cup of coffee and a doughnut?" the aide-de-camp said. "I'm sure Colonel Stecker will be ready for you in a minute or two."
"I asked you if General Stecker was here, Lieutenant," Macklin flared. "I am under orders to report to him."
Lieutenant George Hart looked at Macklin long enough for Macklin to re-alize he would not get an answer, and to consider his next options. He was not forced to make a decision.
"The Colonel will see you now, Captain," Sergeant Koffler announced. Macklin looked at him. He was standing by an open door. And then First Lieu-tenant Kenneth R. McCoy came through the door, in the act of stuffing an M1911 Al.45 Colt under his belt in the small of his back. He looked at Mack-lin, meeting his eyes.
"Captain Macklin," he said.
"McCoy," Macklin responded.
McCoy looked away.
"Anybody want to see how much a lot of gold actually weighs?" McCoy said to no one in particular.
"Yeah, I would," the tall lieutenant said.
"I await my master's call," the aide-de-camp said, "damn it."
"What can I use for
wheels?" McCoy asked.
"You better take the Jaguar," the aide said. "The Boss is either going to the Palace to meet some admiral, or I'm going to go to the Palace to bring the Admiral here; and I know the Colonel's going to need his jeep."