The Corps IV - Battleground

by W. E. B Griffin

  He rose quickly to his feet and came to attention.

  "I beg your pardon, Sir."

  Vandergrift made an "it doesn't matter" wave of his hand.

  "Is that about it?" he asked, with another gesture at the map.

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Where's Colonel Goettge?" Vandergrift asked. "For that matter, where's the sergeant who normally keeps the Situation Map up to date?"

  "Colonel Goettge is out with a patrol, Sir. I suppose I'm in charge."

  "Say again?"

  "Colonel Goettge is out with a patrol, Sir. He and the sergeant and some others."

  Vandergrift's eyes tightened.

  "I thought that's what you said," he said. "Tell me about it."

  If I knew him better, I could answer that question without beating around the bush: "I think Goettge's gone off the deep end, General"

  But that's not the way it is. He doesn't know me. All he knows is that I am a rich man, highly connected politically, who was sent over here to serve as Frank Knox s eyes and ears, and didn't even do that somewhat ethically questionable task well. A wiser man than I am would not take advantage of his position-no one had the authority to tell me to stay on the McCawley-to make a gesture of contempt for Navy Brass by staying with the Marines here.

  What standing I have in his eyes, if any, is because Jack NMI Stecker told him that I was a pretty good Marine Corporal a generation ago.

  I would not tolerate criticism of one of my officers from an ordinary seaman; why should General Vandergrift tolerate my unpleasant, and very likely uninformed opinion of one of his colonels?

  Christ! I wish I knew this man better!

  Although he had had only brief contact with General Vandergrift, Fleming Pickering had already formed strong opinions about him. The first was that he was competent, experienced, and level-headed. The second was that if the opportunity came, they could become friends.

  Vandergrift reminded Pickering of a number of powerful commanders he had known and respected. The first of these was his own father, whose first command, at twenty-one, had been of a four-master Brigantine. And there was the master of the Pacific Emerald, on which Fleming Pickering, also at twenty-one, had made his first voyage with his brand-new third mate's ticket; this man had taught Pickering just about all there was to know about the responsibility that went with authority. Pickering had himself earned his any-tonnage, any-ocean Coast Guard Master Mariner's ticket at twenty-six. Since then, he'd come to know well maybe a half dozen other masters in command of Pacific and Far East Shipping Corporation vessels whom he held in serious respect. (Most of the others he employed were better than competent, but not up to the level of the six.)

  And Vandergrift reminded Pickering of Pickering himself. Pickering had long believed that there were only very few men who were born to accept responsibility and discharge it well. Such men had a strange ability to recognize similar characteristics in others; they formed a kind of fraternity without membership cards and titles. Thus he had the strong conviction that he and General Vandergrift were brothers. "Sir," Pickering said, "two days ago, a Japanese warrant officer, a Navy warrant officer, was captured by 1st Battalion, 5th Marines. During his interrogation, he said there were a large number of Rikusentai..." "What?"

  "Rikusentai, Sir. They're Naval Base troops. Sort of soldiers. Not Marines, Sir. They take care of housekeeping, construction. That sort of thing. They're in the Navy, but not sailors."

  Vandergrift nodded.

  "The warrant officer said there were a number of Rikusentai, and at least as many civilian laborers, wandering around in the bush near Matinikau. Here, Sir," Pickering said, pointing to the map. "In this general area. And he felt they could be induced to surrender. He said they were starving."

  "He was unusually cooperative for a Japanese Naval officer, wasn't he?" Vandergrift said.

  "He was originally pretty surly, as I understand it, Sir. But he was in bad shape. What used to be known as shell-shocked."

  "You saw him, Pickering?"

  "Yes, Sir. The 5th sent him up here."

  "And?"

  "What the warrant officer said was corroborated, Sir, by another prisoner. A Navy rating. Not captured at the same place. And not one of the warrant officer's men. He said there were both Rikusentai and civilian laborers in the area here," he pointed at the map with the red grease pencil, "at the mouth of the Matanikau River, in the vicinity of Point Cruz."

  "And Colonel Goettge apparently believed both of them?"

  "Yes, Sir. I assume that he did."

  "Tell me about the patrol," Vandergrift said.

  "Colonel Goettge had previously ordered a patrol under First Sergeant Custer. As originally set up, Custer was to take about twenty-five men into the Point Cruz-Mouth of the Matanikau River area. But then Colonel Goettge decided to lead the patrol himself."

  "Did he offer any explanation for his decision?" Vandergrift asked, evenly.

  "He apparently felt that the mission was too important to be entrusted to First Sergeant Custer, Sir."

  What he did was act like an ass. He had no business going on patrol himself.

  "Twenty-five men, you say? All from the 1st of the 5th?"

  "No, Sir. He took several men from here, clerks and scouts. And Lieutenant Cory, our linguist. And Dr. Pratt, the 5th's surgeon."

  "In other words, Captain Pickering, instead of a patrol of scouts and riflemen under a First Sergeant, we now have a patrol substantially made up of technicians of one kind or another, under the personal command of the Division Intelligence Officer?"

  Pickering didn't reply.

  Vandergrift met his eyes.

  "And he left you in charge?" Vandergrift asked.

  "Not in so many words, Sir."

  "You just decided to fill the void left by Colonel Goettge when he went on this patrol of his?"

  "I'm trying to make myself useful, Sir."

  "Yes, of course you are. Actually, I came here to see you."

  "Sir?"

  Vandergrift reached in the cavernous pocket of his utility jacket and handed Pickering a crumpled sheet of paper.

  URGENT

  CONFIDENTIAL

  NAVY DEPARTMENT WASHDC 10AUG42

  TO: COMMANDING GENERAL FIRST MARINE DIVISION

  INFORMATION; CINCPAC

  1. BY DIRECTION OF THE SECRETARY OF THE NAVY CAPTAIN FLEMING PICKERING USNR IS RELIEVED OF

  TEMPORARY ATTACHMENT 1ST MARINE DIVISION AND WILL PROCEED BY FIRST AVAILABLE AIR TRANSPORTATION TO WASHINGTON DC REPORTING UPON ARRIVAL THEREAT TO THE SECRETARY.

  2. THE OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY OF THE NAVY WILL BE ADVISED BY RADIO OF RECEIPT OF THESE

  ORDERS BY CINCPAC, COMMGEN FIRST MARINE DIVISION AND CAPTAIN PICKERING. OFC SECNAV WILL BE SIMILARLY ADVISED OF DATE AND TIME OF CAPTAIN PICKERING'S DEPARTURE FROM 1ST MARDIV AND ARRIVAL AND DEPARTURE FROM INTERMEDIATE STOPS EN ROUTE TO WASHINGTON.

  DAVID HAUGHTON, CAPT, USN, ADMINISTRATIVE ASST TO SECNAV

  "It may be some time before you go home, Pickering," General Vandergrift said. "I have no idea when the field will be able to take anything but fighters. That Catalina coming in here was an aberration."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "In the meantime, I am sure that you will continue to make yourself useful," Vandergrift said. "When Colonel Goettge and his... what did you call them, Pickering?"

  "Rikusentai, Sir.".

  "... Rikusentai. When he returns, would you tell him I would like to see him, please?"

  "Aye, aye, Sir."

  Their eyes met briefly, but long enough for Pickering to understand that Vandergrift shared his opinion that Division Intelligence Officers should not shoulder rifles and go off" into the boondocks like second lieutenants. And there was confirmation, too, of Pickering's conviction that if there was only the opportunity, he and Vandergrift could become friends.

  (Four)

  G-2 SECTION

  HEADQUARTERS, 1ST MARINE DIVISION

  GUADALCANAL

  2250
HOURS 13 AUGUST 1942

  Major Jake Dillon, USMCR, a Leica 35mm camera suspended around his neck, a Thompson.45 caliber submachine gun cradled in his arm, pushed aside the canvas black-out flap and stepped into the G-2 section.

  "Where can I find Captain Pickering?" he demanded of the Marine buck sergeant sitting by the three field telephones on a folding wooden desk.

  A very tall, very thin Marine with sergeant's stripes painted on the sleeve of his utility jacket followed Dillon into the room. He was unarmed, and looked haggard and shaken, shading his eyes against the sudden brightness of the hissing Coleman lanterns.

  The Marine sergeant started to rise to his feet. Dillon waved him back in his chair.

  "The Captain's in there, Sir," he said, pointing to the map room. "I think he's asleep."

  Dillon motioned for the sergeant who had come with him to follow him. Then he pushed the canvas flap aside.

  Captain Fleming Pickering, USNR, was not only asleep, he was snoring. He was fully dressed, except for his boondockers, which were on the floor beside him. Next to the boondockers was a.45 Colt automatic pistol, the hammer cocked. His Springfield rifle hung from its sling on a length of steel pipe near his head.

  His bed was two shelter halves laid on communications wire laced between more steel piping. A Coleman lantern hissed in the corner of the room.

  Jake Dillon looked quickly around the room, walked quickly to the "bed," and placed his foot on Pickering's pistol.

  "Flem!" he called. He immediately had proof that stepping on the pistol had been the prudent thing to do. It was the first thing Pickering reached for.

  "It's me. Jake Dillon."

  "What the hell do you want?" Pickering asked, a long way from graciously. He stretched a moment, and then sat up, swinging his feet to the floor and reaching for his boondockers. "What time is it?"

  "Nearly eleven," Dillon replied, then checked his watch and corrected himself. "Ten-fifty."

  Pickering looked at the sergeant.

  "This is Sergeant Sellers, Flem," Dillon said. "He's one of mine."

  Pickering nodded at the sergeant curtly.

  "He was with Goettge," Dillon added.

  Pickering's face lit up with interest.

  "You were with Colonel Goettge, Sergeant? Where is he?"

  "He's dead, Sir. Just about everybody is dead," the sergeant said.

  "Christ!" Pickering said softly. "Everybody?"

  The sergeant nodded dazedly.

  "Just about everybody," he said.

  "I thought you had better hear this, Flem, right away," Dillon said.

  Pickering looked at Sergeant Sellers and saw in his face- especially in his eyes-the absent look that comes into men's eyes when they have seen something horrifying.

  This guy is right on the edge of shock!

  Pickering reached under his commo wire and shelter halves bed and came out with a musette bag. He opened the straps and took from it a bottle of Old Grouse scotch, thickly padded with bath towels. He took the top off and extended it wordlessly to Sergeant Sellers.

  Sellers looked at it for a moment before somewhat dreamily reaching for it and putting it to his lips. He took a healthy pull and then coughed and then handed the bottle back to Pickering.

  "You need some of this, Jake?" Pickering asked.

  Resisting the temptation to reach for the bottle, Dillon shook his head no. Liquor, like everything else, was in short supply on the island.

  "Sure?"

  Dillon reached for the bottle and took a sip.

  Pickering took the bottle from him, and began to wrap it in the towels again.

  "You were with Colonel Goettge's patrol, Sergeant?" he asked, gently.

  "Yes, Sir."

  "How did that happen, Jake?"

  "I heard about the patrol and told Goettge I'd like to send one of my people along. He said, 'sure.' "

  Pickering had a sudden, furious thought: Was that simple stupidity, or did Goettge want to make sure his Errol Flynn-John Wayne heroics were properly photographed for posterity?

  He immediately regretted the snap decision: There you go again, Pickering, from all your vast experience as a corporal twenty-odd years ago, judging a man who spent that much time learning his profession. Who the hell do you think you are?

  "Can you tell me about the patrol, Sergeant? You say you're just back?"

  "Yes, Sir," Sergeant Sellers replied, and then fell silent.

  "Start from the beginning, why don't you? You went with Colonel Goettge on the ramp boat from Kukum?"

  That much Pickering already knew. When the Navy sailed away from Guadalcanal, they did so in such haste that a number of the landing boats normally carried aboard the transports were left behind. Before the Naval bombardment, there had been a small village called Kukum. The village was almost totally destroyed, but it remained a good spot for keeping the boats the Navy left behind. So Vandergrift formed there an ad hoc unit, "The Lunga Boat Pool," made up of the boats and their mixed Navy and Coast Guard crews.

  "That was about eighteen hundred?" Pickering pried gently. He knew what time Goettge left.

  Fucking around with one thing and another, including taking his own combat correspondent with him, Goettge's ramp boat left at least two hours too late to do any good once he got where they were headed.

  "That's about all we know, Sergeant," Pickering said, gently. "Could you fill me in from there?"

  "Well, it was dark when we got there, Sir."

  "You mean at the Matanikau River?"

  Pickering knew that too. Following First Sergeant Custer's original plan at least that far, Goettge had told him he planned to go ashore about two hundred yards west of the mouth of the Matanikau.

  "Yes, Sir. That's probably why we ran aground. It was dark and we couldn't see."

  "Where did you run aground?"

  "About fifty yards offshore, Colonel," Sergeant Sellers said. Pickering did not correct him. "The... watchacallem? The guy who runs the boat?"

  "The coxswain," Pickering furnished.

  "The coxswain said it was a sandbar."

  "What happened then?"

  "Some of the guys went over the sides and tried to rock it free, but when that didn't work, we all went into the water and waded ashore."

  "What happened to the ramp boat?"

  "A couple of guys stayed behind and kept rocking it. I guess they finally got it loose. We could hear it after a while; we couldn't see it, it was too dark. We could hear it going away."

  "So there you were on the beach?"

  "So they talked it over."

  " 'They'?"

  "Colonel Goettge and the officers," Sellers said. "I was there with them."

  "And?"

  "They decided it was too late, too dark, too, to do anything. Except find some place to spend the night. And then go on patrol in the morning. So Colonel Goettge and Sergeant Custer started walking toward the coconut trees..."

  "What coconut trees?"

  "There was a grove of coconut trees. It was dark on the ground, Colonel, but we could see the tops of the trees... You know what I mean?"

  "Yes, I think so. Then what happened?"

  "That's when the Japs started shooting," Sellers said, very quietly, barely audibly.

  "Was anyone hit?"

  "Colonel Goettge. He got it first. Then Sergeant Custer," Sellers said. "They went down right away. Christ! Then the Doc ran out to help them..."

  "That would be Captain Pratt, the surgeon?"

  "I think that was his name," Sellers said. "And then Sergeant Caltrider shot the Jap."

  "What Jap was that?"

  "The one we brought with us. The Jap warrant officer."

  "Sergeant Caltrider shot him?"

  "Blew the cocksucker's head off," Sellers said. "The bastard led us into a trap. That's what it was, a trap. He deserved it, the cocksucker."