1345 Hours 8 November 1942
When Pickering and Stecker drove up in Pickering's 1938 Jaguar Drop Head Coupe, Lieutenant Commander Eric Feldt, Royal Australian Navy Reserve, a RAN lieutenant, a RAN chief petty officer, and ten RAN sailors were standing outside the church. They were all in dress uniforms (in the case of the officers and the chief, this included swords).
The chief shouted something unintelligible in the Australian version of the English language, whereupon he, the Lieutenant, and the enlisted men snapped to a frozen position of attention.
Commander Feldt, however, did not feel constricted by the minutiae of military courtesy as it was usually practiced among and between officers of an allied power. He waited until Pickering emerged from the Jaguar. Then, hands on hips, he declared, "I was wondering where the bloody hell you were, Pickering. The bloody bride has been here for an hour."
Lieutenant Colonel Stecker's eyes widened noticeably. He was more than a little shocked.
The RAN lieutenant, looking mortified, raised his hand in the British-style, palm-out salute, and held that position.
Pickering returned the lieutenant's salute. "Good afternoon, Mr. Dodds." He then turned to Feldt. "And good afternoon to you, Commander Feldt. I'm so glad to see that you have found time in your busy schedule for this joyous occasion."
"Well, I couldn't have you going around saying that all Australians are a lot of sodding arseholes, now could I?" He turned his attention to Colonel Stecker. "You're new."
"Colonel Stecker, may I present Commander Feldt?" Pickering said formally, but smiling. "Commander Feldt commands the Coastwatcher Establishment."
"Thank you," Colonel Stecker said when Feldt offered his hand-so idly it was close to insulting.
"For what?" Feldt asked suspiciously. "It was the sodding least we could do for Koffler; he's one of us."
"I commanded Second Battalion, Fifth Marines, on Guadalcanal," Stecker said. "We know what the Coastwatchers did for us. So thank you."
Commander Feldt looked very embarrassed.
"What exactly is it that you're doing for Sergeant Koffler, Eric?" Pickering asked. "Aside from gracing the wedding with your presence?"
"What the sodding hell does it look like? When the lad and his bride come out of the church, they will pass under an arch of swords. Ours and yours. Not actually swords: They're going to use the machetes we got from the ordnance people. They're damned near as big as swords. I sent the one who limps-"
"Lieutenant Moore?"
"Right. The one who limps. I sent him out behind the church to rehearse with your lads."
"To rehearse what?"
"I don't know how the sodding Marine Corps does it, Pickering," Feldt said, "but in the Australian Navy, everyone raises his bloody sword at the same time, on command, not when they sodding well feel like it. When I asked the one who limps if he knew how to do it, and he said no, I sent him around in back to rehearse."
"With the General's permission," Lieutenant Colonel Jack (NMI) Stecker said formally, but not quite succeeding in concealing a smile, "I will go see how the rehearsal is proceeding."
"Go ahead," Pickering said. "We have five or ten minutes yet."
Feldt waited until Stecker was out of earshot.
"He works for you?"
"No. He's here to set up things for the First Marines when they come here to refit."
"I thought he said he was a battalion commander?"
"Until a week or so ago, he was."
"But he got himself relieved, huh? He looked pretty bloody competent to me. What did he do wrong?"
"He is pretty bloody competent," Pickering said coldly. "Jack Stecker has our Medal of Honor, Eric. The equivalent of your Victoria Cross."
"Then he really must have fucked up by the numbers-the way you bloody Yanks say it-to get himself relieved."
"Eric," Pickering flared furiously, "once again you're letting your goddamned mouth run away with you, offering ignorant and unsolicited opinions about matters you don't know a goddamned thing about."
Feldt met his eyes and didn't give an inch. "Good friend of yours, huh?"
"That has absolutely nothing to do with it."
"To change the subject, I spoke with the bride's father this morning."
"I'm afraid to ask what you said."
"I told him Daphne was in service, she worked for me, and I never knew a finer lass. And I told him that the lad she's marrying is as good as they come, even if he's an American, and that I thought he should be here."
"And?"
"And he said that what they've done has shamed him and his wife before all of their friends, and as far as he's concerned he no longer has a daughter."
"God!"
"So I told him that now that I have proof of what a sodding arsehole he is, if he comes anywhere near Brisbane today-much less near the church-I will break his right leg and stick it up his arse."
"Well said, Eric, well said," Pickering answered.
A somewhat delicate-appearing young man in clerical vestments came out of the church and walked quickly to them.
"General Pickering," he said, "the rector is ready for you now."
"Tell the bloody rector to keep his pants on," Commander Feldt said. "The sodding Americans are still practicing with their bloody machetes."
[THREE]
Water Lily Cottage
Brisbane, Australia
1845 Hours 8 November 1942
The six stiff drinks of Famous Grouse scotch after he, Colonel Stecker, Commander Feldt, and Major Hong Song Do arrived at the cottage, added to considerable champagne at the reception for Staff Sergeant and Mrs. Stephen M. Koffler, USMCR, had left Brigadier General Fleming Pickering much mellower than he'd been earlier, in the dungeon.
"Did I ever tell you, Jack, that Patricia and I really hoped that Pick would one day marry Ernie Sage?"
"I don't know who you're talking about," Jack Stecker replied, confused.
"It sounds like he wanted his son to marry a poufter, is what it sounds like," Commander Feldt said. "Pickering, old sod, you're as tight as a tick."
"Ernie Sage is one of the most beautiful, charming young women I have ever known," Pickering declared indignantly, if somewhat thickly. "For a local reference, Eric, she is now... how shall I put this?... romantically involved with Killer McCoy."
"Romantically involved?" Feldt inquired. "What the bleeding fuck is that? Why isn't the Killer fucking her, if she's so sodding beautiful?"
"Because he is a Marine officer and a gentleman, Eric," Pickering said solemnly. "Marine officers do not fuck. They spread pollen, in a gentlemanly fashion."
"You ever hear the story, Flem?" Colonel Stecker asked; he was about as mellow as General Pickering. "The one about the Marine second lieutenant in Paris in 1917?"
"Which story about which second lieutenant would that be?" General Pickering inquired, carefully pronouncing each syllable.
"He was down on the Pigalle," Stecker said, "and the Mam'selle, who already noticed that he had a month's pay in his pocket, did not mention money until the act was done."
"The spreading of the pollen, you mean, Colonel?" Major Hong Do asked.
"Exactly," Colonel Stecker replied. "But finally, she said, 'Mon Lieutenant. The act is over and soon you shall leave. With great regret I have to bring up the subject of money.' To which he replied, 'Mam'selle, I am an officer of the United States Marine Corps. Marine officers do not take money for rendering a public service.' "
"I like the Killer," Feldt said.
"That was a terrible joke, Colonel, with due respect," Pluto said.
"I'm still trying to figure out Daphne's father," Pickering said.
"He's a sodding arsehole," Feldt said. "Leave it at that."
"I thought it was pretty funny," Stecker said.
"Where is the Killer now, Pickering?" Feldt asked. "I liked that lad."
"Why do they call him 'Killer'?" Pluto inquired.
"He is apparently very good at killing
people, which is why Eric likes him," Pickering replied.
"Pickering, I keep asking where the Killer is, and you keep going deaf on me," Feldt said, almost plaintively.
"I suppose he's in Washington," Pickering said. "I'm thinking very seriously of sending him to the Philippines."
"What for?" Stecker asked.
"I am constrained to remind you," Pluto announced solemnly, "that that subject is classified."
"Our own personal Japanese spy having been heard from," Feldt said, "and I hope ignored, please answer the sodding question."
"I am not a fucking Jap spy," Pluto said righteously. "I am a Korean spy."
"There's an Army officer there, on Mindanao, who's set up some sort of guerrilla operation," Pickering said. "I think it's worth looking into. So does Leahy."
"Admiral Leahy?" Stecker asked, and when Pickering grunted, he continued, "To what end?"
"To see if they're capable of doing any damage, that sort of thing."
"Seven to one, sometimes ten to one," Stecker said.
"I'll cover that," Feldt said. "What are you betting on?"
"What do you mean, Jack?" Pickering asked. "Seven to one?"
"A reasonably well led guerrilla force can tie down forces at least seven times its own strength," Stecker said. "Often more. We had a hell of a time in Nicaragua, and we outnumbered them more than ten to one. Good fighters, the little brown bastards."
"That's right, you were in Nicaragua, weren't you?"
"Where is Nicaragua?" Feldt asked.
"It is one of the seven moons of Jupiter," Pluto answered.
"Everybody was in Nicaragua," Stecker said. "Chesty Puller, Lou Diamond, just about everybody who was in The Corps between the wars found himself chasing banditos, or guerrillas, at one time or another.
"Pluto," Feldt asked, almost lovingly, "are you well versed in that jiujitsu business, or can I tell you to go sod yourself?"
Pluto leapt to his feet and waved his arms around, mimicking as best he could an Oriental character he had once seen in a Charley Chan movie. "At your peril, Commander Feldt! My hands are lethal weapons!"
"Pluto, sit down before you fall down," Pickering ordered. Then he turned to Stecker again. "And we had trouble with guerrillas in the Philippines, didn't we, Jack?"
"The Corps and the Army did," Stecker said. "That's where the.45 caliber round came from, you know."
"No, I didn't," Feldt said. "Forty-five caliber round what?"
"The pistol cartridge," Stecker said. "The standard sidearm was the.38. The Filipinos-mainly the Moros-used to come out of the bush swinging machetes. The.38 round just wouldn't put them down. The.38 bullet just wasn't heavy enough. So they came up with the.45. There's not much a 230-grain.45 bullet won't put down with one shot."
"Pickering, this old mate of yours is a sodding encyclopedia of military lore, isn't he?" Feldt asked.
"Yes, I suppose he is," Pickering said.
"Commander," Stecker said, "are you familiar with arm wrestling? I think I'd like to break your wrist."
"Oh, you would, would you?"
"We are not going to start breaking up the furniture," Pickering announced.
It was too late. Commander Feldt and Colonel Stecker were already removing the candelabra from a small table suitable for arm wrestling.
[FOUR]
=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 9 November 1942
Dear Fritz:
I don't know if you've heard or not, but Lt Colonel Jack NMI Stecker is here in Brisbane. He went to Staff Sergeant Koffler's wedding with me, as a matter of fact, and is at this moment moving his stuff from the Army BOQ into my house.
He's here to set up facilities for the First Mardiv when they are relieved from Guadalcanal and brought here for rehabilitation and refitting. According to Stecker, they are in really bad physical shape; almost everybody has malaria.
Stecker was relieved of his command of Second Battalion, Fifth Marines, and is now officially assigned to SWPOA in some sort of vaguely defined billet. I am unable to believe he was relieved for cause, and strongly suspect that it is the professional officer corps' pushing a reservist/up-from-the-ranks Mustang to give the command to one of their own. I can't imagine why General Vandegrift permitted this to happen. But it has happened, and it may be a blessing in disguise for us.
I had a talk with Stecker after the wedding, and it came out that he had extensive experience with guerrilla operations in the Banana Republics, especially Nicaragua, between the wars. It seems to me that if you know how to fight against guerrillas, it would follow that you know how to fight as a guerrilla.... and certainly to knowledgeably evaluate how someone else is set up, and equipped, to fight as guerrillas.
I haven't said anything to him yet, but I know him well enough to know that he would rather be doing something either with or for this fellow Fertig on Mindanao than arranging tours of picturesque Australia or USO shows, which is what The Corps wants him to do now. So I want him transferred to us, with a caveat: He has already suffered enough humiliation as it is (goddamn it; he has the Medal of Honor; how could they do this to him?), so I want you to take every precaution to make sure there is no scuttlebutt circulating that he has been further demoted by his assignment to us.
Do it as quickly as you can, and I think you had better send McCoy over here too, as quickly as that can be arranged. I think the sooner we get somebody with Captain/General Fertig, the better.
Regards,
Fleming Pickering, Brigadier General, USMCR
=TOP SECRET=
[FIVE]
The Main Ballroom
The Hotel Portland
Portland, Oregon
1930 Hours 10 November 1942
Veronica Wood excused herself politely from the knot of local dignitaries gathered around her and walked across the crowded floor to First Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR. She was wearing a silver lame cocktail dress and, he was convinced, absolutely nothing else.
"Hi, Marine!" she said. "Looking for a good time?"
"Some other time, perhaps, Madam. I am just returned from learning more about the manufacture of truck windows than I really care to know. I have booze, and not lust, on my mind."
He offered his glass to her. She shook her head "no," so he took a healthy swallow.
"I was at the local theater group," Veronica said. "You get no sympathy at all from me."
"Not even if I tell you I have just examined the banquet program, and right after where it says 'baked chicken breast Portland,' it says, 'remarks by yours truly.' "
She chuckled and then kissed him on the cheek.
"You're good at it, Pick," Veronica said. "You really are. You have them in the palm of your hand."
"Did Jake send you over to stroke my feathers? He promised to get me out of making after-dinner speeches."
"No," she said. "But if he thought of it, he probably would have. I came over to tell you Bobby said he was sorry he missed you, and good-bye."
" 'Good-bye?' What happened to him?"
"The first group of... what do you call them, 'Marine war correspondents'?"
"Combat correspondents," Pick furnished.
"Combat correspondents... are in Los Angeles. Jake put him on the train at half past four. Bobby's supposed to teach them how to do it. At Metro-Magnum."
"I must be getting old," Pick said. "I think making him an officer was idiotic. He's a nice kid, but the word is kid."
"You and Jake," Veronica said. "But Jake said he'll probably do OK."
"Jake's whistling in the dark. Would you, if you were a man, take orders from Bobby?"
"I think you underestimate him, Pic
k."
"I hope so. Still, for the sake of the combat correspondents, better Bobby than Macklin."
"Ooooh, that's an interesting observation! What have you got against him?"
"Forget it," Pick said. "I was thinking out loud. I shouldn't have."
THE CORPS VI - CLOSE COMBAT Page 43
