W E B Griffin - Corp 04 - Battleground

by Battleground(Lit)

  PORT PHILIP BAY

  MELBOURNE, VICTORIA

  0945 HOURS 2 JULY 1942

  Yeoman Daphne Farnsworth, Royal Australian Navy Women's Volunteer Reserve, walked up to Sergeant John Marston Moore, USMCR. Sergeant Moore was then leaning on the front fender of the Studebaker Commander outside a frame building on a wharf on Port Philip Bay.

  Moore recognized her immediately. Last night she was sitting in the dining room directly across from the duct in the butler's cubicle. She had lost her husband in action in Africa, he remembered, and was now a Marine's girlfriend... or, in Commander Feldt's words, he was "comforting her in her grief." He also remembered all too clearly what else Commander Feldt said with such bitter cynicism about the Marine, a Sergeant named Koffler now on some Japanese island: His chances of returning alive ranged from "slim to sodding zero."

  "Comforting her in her grief could have meant something sordid. But looking at her the night before, Moore decided she was a nice girl, and that whatever was going on between her and Sergeant Koffler was not cheap.

  Looking at her now-just as he realized she had never seen him-the same thing occurred to him again. She was a nice girl, with warm, intelligent eyes. And damned good-looking.

  "I should be very surprised," she greeted him with a smile, "if you are not Sergeant Moore."

  She has a very nice voice.

  "Guilty."

  "Come with me, Lieutenant Donnelly wants to see you."

  "Yes, Ma'am," he said.

  She looked at him strangely, and then smiled.

  Moore followed her into the building. Lieutenant Donnelly, a tall, sharp-featured, skinny officer with a very pale complexion, and black, unruly hair, had an office on the second floor. Moore recognized Donnelly as the other Australian Navy officer who had been at dinner.

  I remember you from last night, but how the hell do you know who I am? And what's this all about, anyway?

  "I'm Sergeant Moore, Sir."

  "That'll be all, Love," Donnelly said to Yeoman Farnsworth. "Close the door, please."

  When the door had closed behind her, Lieutenant Donnelly said, without smiling, "Put your eyes back in their sockets, Sergeant. She already has a Yank Marine sergeant."

  Moore looked at him in shock.

  "Listen carefully," Lieutenant Donnelly said. "The airfield at Lunga Point is being built by the 11th and 23rd Pioneers, IJN. Estimated strength 450. They are equipped with bulldozers, rock crushers, trucks, and other engineer equipment."

  Moore was completely baffled. It showed on his face as he looked at Lieutenant Donnelly.

  "What did I just say?" Lieutenant Donnelly asked.

  "Something about Pioneers," Moore said lamely, embarrassed.

  "Christ!" Donnelly snorted in disgust. He handed Moore a sheet of paper. On it, Moore read what Donnelly had just said. "Try committing that to memory."

  Moore read the sheet of paper again. And then again, and again, very uncomfortable under Donnelly's impatient glare. Finally, he said, "I think I have it, Sir."

  "Try it," Donnelly said.

  Moore repeated what he had memorized.

  "Once more, to set it in your head," Donnelly ordered.

  Moore repeated it again.

  "OK. Repeat that to Major Banning," Donnelly ordered-"Tell him that Commander Feldt said, 'it's as good as gold.' "

  " 'It's as good as gold,' " Moore dutifully parroted. "Sir, I don't know when I'm going to see Major Banning."

  "You are going to see him right away," Donnelly said. "You get in your car and you go over to the Hotel Menzies, and you repeat to him what you just memorized. And then you forget it, OK? Understand?"

  He's talking to me like I'm a backward child. Probably because I am acting like one.

  "Sir, I'm driving some American officers around."

  "Well, Sergeant, they're just going to have to bloody well wait for you. I'll have Daphne-Daphne being the Yeoman you were ogling-to look out for them and tell them what's happened."

  "Aye, aye, Sir," Moore said.

  When he got to the Hotel Menzies, Moore realized that he had no idea where to find Major Banning.

  Lieutenant Hon will know, he decided. He rode the elevator to the basement and made his way to the steel-doored room.

  "I thought you were playing chauffeur?" Hon greeted him.

  "I was outside the Australian Navy building when Lieutenant Donnelly sent for me. He gave me a message for Major Banning. Made me memorize it. And then told me to deliver it. I don't know where he is, Sir."

  "What's the message?" Hon asked. He saw the look of concern on Moore's face. "Hey, I'm cleared for everything."

  "The airfield at Lunga Point is being built by the 11th and 23rd Pioneers, IJN," Moore recited. "Estimated strength 450. They are equipped with bulldozers, rock crushers, trucks, and other engineer equipment."

  "Christ!" Hon said, "that's bad news."

  "Commander Feldt said 'that's as good as gold,' " Moore added.

  Hon looked at Moore thoughtfully. "You don't have the faintest idea what that means, do you?"

  "No, Sir."

  Hon went to an open file drawer, took from it and unfolded a map of Guadalcanal, and pointed to Lunga Point.

  "That's Lunga Point," he said. "We already heard-had aerial photos-that the Japanese had burned the grass off a flat area, a plain, here. Feldt sent Coastwatchers he had on Guadalcanal across the island from here," he pointed, "through the jungle to see what was going on. And now we know-Feldt said his information was 'as good as gold'-that the Japanese are making a real effort to build a major airfield there. Pioneers are what we call Engineers. They've got 450 Engineers in there with rock crushers and bulldozers."

  "I realize I must sound stupid, but is that really so important?"

  "If they can base aircraft there-even fighters, but especially bombers-we're in real trouble. Always keep that airfield in the back of your mind when you're reading the MAGICS. Let me know if anything-anything-arouses your curiosity."

  "Yes, Sir. Sir, what do I do about getting this to Major Banning?"

  "He and Captain Pickering are on their way down here," Hon replied, and then handed Moore a sheet of onion skin. "I just got my hands on this."

  OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE

  TOP SECRET

  WASH DC 0015G 2JUL42

  FROM: THE JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF

  TO: EYES ONLY

  ADMIRAL NIMITZ COMPOA PEARLHARBOR

  INFORMATION: EYES ONLY

  GENERAL MACARTHUR SHSWPA MELBOURNE

  VICEADMIRAL GHORMLEY COMSOPAC AUCKLAND

  1. NO FURTHER DISCUSSION OF OPERATION PESTILENCE OR ALTERNATIVES THERETO IS DESIRED.

  2. DIRECTION OF THE PRESIDENT, EXECUTE OPERATION PESTILENCE AT THE EARLIEST OPPORTUNITY

  BUT NO LATER THAN 10 AUGUST 1942.

  FOR THE CHAIRMAN, THE JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF:

  HANNEMAN, MAJGEN, USA, SECRETARY, JCS

  "What's 'Operation Pestilence'?" Moore asked, as he handed the onion skin back.

  "The invasion of the Solomon Islands," Hon replied. "Or three of them, anyway. Tulagi, Gavutu, and Guadalcanal. Where the Japs are building this airfield. MacArthur and Ghormley think it's a lousy idea."

  The steel door creaked open.

  "You should have bolted that," Hon said.

  Captain Fleming Pickering and Major Ed Banning came into the tiny room.

  "What was that, Pluto?" Pickering asked.

  "Nothing, Sir," Hon said. "This just came in, sir. I thought you would want to see it right away."

  Pickering took the onion skin. His eyebrows rose as he read it. He handed it to Banning.

  "Does General MacArthur have that yet?"

  "He and Mrs. MacArthur are having lunch with the Prime Minister. One of the crypto officers is on his way over there with it."

  Pickering grunted. "What brings you here, Moore?"

  "He has a message for me," Banning answered for him. "Let's have it, Sergeant."

  "The airfield at
Lunga Point is being built by the 11th and 23rd Pioneers, IJN. Estimated strength 450. They are equipped with bulldozers, rock crushers, trucks, and other engineer equipment," Moore recited, and added, "Commander Feldt says 'that's as good as gold.' "

  Pickering snorted. "Repeat that, please," he said.

  Moore did so.

  "What can they accomplish in a month, five weeks?" Pickering asked.

  "They can probably have it ready for fighters," Banning replied. "I don't know about bombers."

  "They already have float mounted Zeroes on Tulagi," Pickering said thoughtfully. Then he looked at Moore. "You'd better get back to driving Colonel Goettge around," he said. "I don't have to tell you, do I, that Colonel Goettge is not to know about this? Or what you just relayed from Commander Feldt?"

  "No, Sir," Moore said. He started to walk out of the room.

  "Moore!" Banning called, and Moore turned. Banning held out a thin stack of envelopes to him. "Mail call. It came in on this morning's courier."

  "Thank you, Sir."

  In the elevator en route to the lobby, Moore thumbed through the half dozen envelopes. There were two letters from his mother; one each from his two sisters; one from Uncle Bill; and one with the return address, Apartment "C", 106 Rittenhouse Square, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

  His heart jumped. He resisted the temptation to tear Barbara's letter open right there.

  I'll save it until I'm alone.

  He raised it to his nose and thought he could smell, ever so faintly, Barbara's perfume and then he put the letters in the inside pocket of his uniform jacket.

  He walked out of the Menzies Hotel, got in the Studebaker, and drove back to where he was supposed to be waiting for Colonel Goettge and Major Dillon.

  They were outside, waiting for him, and Colonel Goettge was visibly annoyed that he had been kept waiting.

  "Sergeant," Goettge said, somewhat snappishly, "I thought that you were aware I have a luncheon appointment with Colonel Willoughby."

  "Sorry, Sir," Moore said. "I had to do something for Major Banning."

  "So we have been informed," Goettge said, as he got in the car. Moore closed the door after him and drove back to the Menzies Hotel.

  "Don't disappear again without letting me know," Colonel Goettge said, as Moore held the rear door open for him.

  "No, Sir," Moore said.

  Moore watched the two of them disappear into the lobby and then took the stack of envelopes from his pocket. He was hungry and knew that he should try to eat, but that could wait.

  He carefully opened the letter from Barbara, sniffing it again for a smell of her perfume, and then unfolded it. It was brief and to the point:

  Philadelphia, June 23, 1942

  Dear John,

  There is no easy way to break this to you, so here goes: My husband and I have reconciled.

  I'm sure, when you think about it, that you will realize this is the best thing for all

  concerned. And I'm sure you will understand why I have to ask you not to write to me.

  You will be in my prayers, and I will never forget you.

  Barbara.

  He felt a chill. He read the letter again, then very deliberately took his Zippo from his pocket and set the letter on fire, holding it by one corner until it became too hot, and then dropping it on the floorboard, wondering, but not caring, if it was going to set the carpet on fire.

  Then he banged his head on the steering wheel until the tears came.

  (Two)

  AOTEA QUAY

  WELLINGTON, NEW ZEALAND 5 JULY 1942

  It was cold, windy, and raining hard on the Quay, and Major Jake Dillon's allegedly rainproof raincoat was soaked through.

  What he faced, he thought more than a little bitterly, was one hell of a challenge for a flack. Even a flack like him... The Hollywood Reporter had once run a story about the gang that showed up every Saturday at Darryl Zanuck's polo field. The cut line under a picture of Jake Dillon and Clark Gable on their ponies read, "The King of the Movies and the King of the Flacks Playing the Sport of Kings."

  For once, Jake Dillon thought at the time, the Reporter had stuck pretty close to the facts. He hoped there was still some truth in the line about him... The King of Flacks would need every bit of his royal Hollywood experience if he was going to make a success of what he had in mind to do:

  He was going to put together a little movie about the Marine invasion of Bukavu, Tulagi, and Guadalcanal. He'd made the decision solely on his own authority; nothing about it was put on paper; and he didn't tell anyone about it except his cameramen.

  His film would come in addition to the footage the combat cameramen shot when the invasion was actually in progress. As soon as possible, that would be sent undeveloped to Washington, where somebody else would soup it, screen it, and do whatever they decided to do with it, passing it out to the newsreel companies and whatever.

  What Jake Dillon had in mind was to have his people shoot newsreel feature stuff-as opposed to hard news. The emphasis would be on the ordinary enlisted Marine. They'd follow the 1st Division as the Division prepared to go to the Solomons, and then of course, they'd be with them when they got there.

  He had a number of scenes in mind. Training shots, primarily. Life in tent city here in New Zealand. Life in the transports en route to the rehearsal in the Fiji Islands, and then as they sailed for the Solomons, and then after they landed. Human interest stuff.

  In point of actual fact, it would be the first movie that he had ever produced. But he had been around the industry for a long time and knew what had to be done and how to do it. The idea was not intimidating; God only knew how many successful movies had been produced by ignoramuses who couldn't find their own asses with both hands without the assistance of a script, a continuity girl, and two or three assistant directors to put chalk marks on it for them.

  He learned early on in Hollywood that a good crew makes all the difference when you are shooting a movie. If you have a crew who know what they are doing, all you have to do is tell them what you want, and they do it. And even if it was a damned small one, he had a good crew here with him.

  They understood what he wanted to do; and, just as important, they thought it was a pretty good idea.

  That meant, for example, that he could tell them that he wanted to show equipment being off-loaded from transports, and they would go shoot it for him. He didn't have to stand around with a script and a megaphone in his hand, yelling at somebody to get a tight shot of the sweating guy driving the truck. His people made movies for a living; they knew what was needed, and how to get it.

  As Dillon walked down the Quay, he thought, If I was making a movie called "The Greatest Fuck-Up Of All Time," I could finish principal photography this morning right here on this goddamned dock.

  Jake Dillon had seen some monumental screw-ups in his time, but this took the goddamned cake: The ships carrying the supplies of the 1st Marine Division had not been "combat-loaded" when they sailed from the United States. That meant they all had to be reloaded here, since they could not approach the hostile Solomon Island beaches the way they were originally loaded.

  The term "combat-loaded" refers to a deceptively simple concept: Logisticians and staff officers spend long hours determining what equipment will be needed during the course of an invasion, and in what order.

  As a general rule of thumb, the ships carrying the invasion force would have in their holds supplies for thirty days' operations. Adequate stocks of ammunition, obviously, had to be put on the beach before the chaplain's portable organ, or the Division's mimeograph machines. But the barges and small boats ferrying supplies from the ships to the beach would be a narrow pipeline. Thus it would not be prudent to fill that pipeline with ammunition and nothing else. For other supplies were no less vital: The men had to eat, for example; so there had to be rations in the pipeline. And all the complex machinery on the beach needed its sustenance too-what the services call POL (Petrol, Oil, and Lubricants). And so on
. When the obvious priorities had been determined, then the loading order was fine tuned. This wasn't simply a case of saying off-load so much ammunition, then so many rations, then so many barrels of POL, and repeating the process until all the important supplies are ashore, after which you could off-load the nonessentials, like typewriters. For example, while a radio operator receiving messages intended for the Division Commander could take them down by hand, he would be far more efficient in terms of speed and legibility using a typewriter. So, while a typewriter might not seem to be as necessary in the early stages of an invasion as, say, a case of hand grenades, at least one typewriter would head for the beach early on, probably with the first ammunition and rations supplied.