As Pickering went to the other sailor, he slipped and nearly fell in a puddle of blood.
"Take the wheel," Pickering ordered.
"I'm the ship's writer, Sir."
"Take the goddamned wheel!"
"Aye, aye, Sir."
Pickering went to the window of the bridge. Only shards remained of the thick glass. Dead ahead, he could see the Emily, still close to the sea, making a tight turn. He was about to make another bomb run.
An officer, a nice-looking kid in a helmet, appeared on the bridge.
"Mother of Christ!" he said, looking around in horror.
"Get the executive officer up here!" Pickering shouted at him.
"Sir, I... Mr. Goldberg's dead, Sir. I came up here to report."
"Can you conn this vessel?" "No, Sir. I'm the communications officer." "Get someone up here who can," Pickering ordered. "Get people up here. I need someone on the telegraph, someone on the wheel."
"Aye, aye, Sir," the communications officer said, then turned and left the bridge. Pickering saw that he stopped just outside and became nauseous.
He returned his attention to the Emily, which was now in level flight, low on the water, making another bombing run to port.
"Prepare to come hard to port," Pickering said.
"Damage report, Captain," the talker said. "What?"
"Damage control officer reports no damage, Sir."
"Tell him to get up here!" Pickering said, then: "Hard to port."
"Hard to port it is, Sir."
The Gregory began to turn, heeling over. It was now pointing directly at the Emily.
Pickering saw four dark objects drop from the airplane, and watched in fascination as they arced toward the ship. And then he saw something else: Red tracers from a Bofors 40mm cannon splashing into the sea, and then picking up, moving toward the Emily. When she was just about overhead, the line of tracers moved into the Emily's fuselage, and then to her right wing. The wing buckled as the airplane flashed over.
Pickering ran to the exposed portion of the bridge, his feet slipping in the pool of blood now spreading from under her captain's body. He looked aft. The Emily had already crashed. As he watched, what was left of it slipped below the water, and the dense cloud of blue-black smoke that had been rising from her wreckage was cut off. For a moment, there were patches of burning fuel on the water, but they started to flicker out.
He returned to the bridge. A lieutenant whom he remembered seeing in the wardroom at dinner the night before came onto the bridge.
"I'm the damage control officer, Sir."
"Can you conn this vessel?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Sir, you have the conn," Pickering said, and then put his hand out to steady himself. He really felt faint.
"I have the conn, Sir," the lieutenant said, ritually, and then Pickering heard him say, "Help the Captain, Doc. Stop that bleeding."
(Two)
ABOARD USS GREGORY (APD-44)
CORAL SEA
1425 HOURS 18 AUGUST 1942
Pickering was in the Captain's cabin, in the Captain's bunk, his back resting on pillows against the bulkhead. He was naked above the waist. His arm, in a cast, was taped to his chest. He appeared to be dozing.
The lieutenant walked to the bunk and looked down at him.
"How do you feel, Sir?"
Pickering looked at him for a moment without recognition, and then, with an effort, forced himself awake.
"Oh, it's you," he said cheerfully. "Mr. 'No Damage to Report, Sir.'"
"Sir," the Lieutenant said, obviously hurt. "I didn't know what had happened on the bridge, Sir. Except that Mr. Goldberg had been killed on the ladder."
"I shouldn't have said that," Pickering said. "I'm sorry. I had a tube of morphine; I must still be feeling it."
"Are you still in pain, Sir?"
"Every time I breathe. That's a hell of a place to be stitched up." He changed the subject: "What shape are we in?"
"We're about five hours out, Sir, from Espiritu Santo. There's some things that have to be decided."
"Are you the senior officer?"
"No, Sir. You are."
"I'm supercargo."
"Sir, I checked the manual. Command passes-in a situation like this-to the senior officer of the line. Captain, that's you, Captain."
"What is it?"
"The bodies, Sir. I have them prepared, Sir."
"Where are they?"
"The captain and three others are in sick bay, Sir. The others are in the Chiefs quarters."
"If you're suggesting a burial at sea..."
"That's your decision, Captain."
"If we're only five hours out, I think we should take them to Espiritu Santo," Pickering said. "I have no intention of conducting a burial at sea."
"Aye, aye, Sir," the lieutenant said. "And we seem to have forgotten the report, Sir."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Mr. Norwood, the communications officer, has prepared it, Sir," the lieutenant said, and handed it to him.
OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE
SECRET
FROM USS GREGORY
TO: CINCPAC
1. GREGORY ATTACKED 0750 HOURS 18AUG42 POSITION WHISKEY ABLE OBOE SLASH NAN NAN CHARLEY BY
ONE REPEAT ONE EMILY. MODERATE TO SEVERE DAMAGE TO BRIDGE. EMILY SHOT DOWN.
2. CASUALTIES: CAPTAIN, EXECUTIVE OFFICER, TWO ENLISTED KIA. THREE OFFICERS AND SEVEN
ENLISTED WIA.
3. GREGORY PROCEEDING BAKER XRAY MIKE.
PICKERING, CAPTAIN, USN, COMMANDING
"It's 'USNR,' not 'USN,' " Pickering said. "I'm not a regular."
"Yes, Sir. I'll have that changed."
"What about the wounded?"
"One of them is in pretty bad shape, I'm afraid. We're hoping he makes it. There's medical facilities at Espiritu. The others will be all right, Captain."
"Captain, "Pickering said thoughtfully, sadly, and paused, and then went on: "The captain died quickly. I don't think he knew what hit him."
"Mr. Goldberg, too, Sir. He was... whatever got him, got him in the head."
"Jesus Christ!" Pickering said.
"Captain, can I get you something to eat? A tray, maybe. A sandwich? You really should have something."
"What I really would like is a drink," Pickering replied.
"I wish I could help you, Sir."
"Is there any medicinal bourbon aboard?"
"Yes, Sir."
"How much?"
"There's four cartons, Sir. I think they pack them forty-eight of those little bottles to a carton."
"Enough for one per man?"
"Yes, Sir. More than enough, Captain."
"Issue one bottle per man. If there is any left over, bring me a couple."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
(Three)
WATER LILY COTTAGE
MANCHESTER AVENUE
BRISBANE, AUSTRALIA
1925 HOURS 18 AUGUST 1942
There was the sound of tires crunching on the driveway. Major Ed Banning went to the window, pushed the curtain aside, and saw the Studebaker President stopping in the drive.
"Pluto," Banning said, turning to Mrs. Ellen Feller. She was sitting on the couch, holding a tea cup and saucer in her hand.
"I presumed he would come here to discuss this situation with you," Ellen Feller said. "Didn't you?"
Banning didn't reply. He went to the door and opened it as Hon bounded onto the porch.
"I gather you've heard about Moore?" Banning greeted him.
"Yeah," Pluto said. "Take a look at this."
He handed Banning a sheet of onion skin, walked into the room, and nodded at Ellen Feller.
"Major Banning and I have been talking about what to do about Sergeant Moore," she said.
"And?"
"We've decided the best thing is to do nothing," Ellen said.
"What is this thing?" Banning asked, confused.
"The Signal Corps monitors the Navy frequencie
s when they can," Hon explained, "and they copy what they think might be interesting. Operational Immediates, for example. The crypto officer handed me that the moment I walked in. Before he told me that he had to fill in for the missing Sergeant Moore."
"But what the hell is this?"
"Read the signature," Pluto Hon said.
Banning did so.
"I'll be damned," he said.
"May I see that?" Ellen Feller asked, rising to her feet and walking to Banning. Banning handed her the Operational Immediate message radioed from the USS Gregory to CINC-PAC after the Emily attack.
"Well, we knew that Mr. Knox told CINCPAC to take him off Guadalcanal," Ellen Feller said. "He was apparently on this ship, and I suppose that as the senior officer aboard, he would naturally take command if the captain was killed."
Banning ignored her.
"I don't suppose you know off-hand what Baker XRay Mike is. Or where?"
"Espiritu Santo," Hon said. "With great reluctance, the Navy Liaison Officer told me."
"Well, thank God, Captain Pickering is all right," Ellen said.
Banning looked at her but said nothing.
"Lieutenant Hon," Ellen said. "As I was saying, Major Banning and I have been discussing Sergeant Moore."
"What do you mean by that?" Hon asked.
"We can't let it get out that Moore knew... more than a sergeant should have been permitted to know... can we? I mean, the greater priority is to protect Captain Pickering, isn't it?"
He looked at her for a moment before replying. Then he asked, "Are you suggesting that we should not do whatever the hell has to be done to get Moore the hell off Guadalcanal?"
He looked at Banning, who met his eyes, but said nothing. Hon looked back at Ellen Feller.
"The only way," she said, "we can, as you put it, get Moore the hell off Guadalcanal is to make it known that he has had access to MAGIC. That will get Captain Pickering-for that matter, all of us-in a great deal of trouble."
"Your discussion, I'm afraid, Mrs. Feller," Pluto Hon said, coldly, "is academic."
"What does that mean?" Banning asked.
Hon handed him a sheet of paper.
URGENT
TOP SECRET
SERVICE MESSAGE
FROM: OFFICER IN CHARGE SPECIAL COMMUNICATIONS FACILITY JKS-3 SHSWPA BRISBANE
TO: OFFICER IN CHARGE SPECIAL COMMUNICATIONS FACILITY JKS-1 CINCPAC PEARL HARBOR
1. FOLLOWING TOP SECRET EYES ONLY TO BE RELAYED URGENT TO CAPTAIN FLEMING PICKERING USNR
SOMEWHERE ENROUTE VIA BAKER XRAY MIKE TO OFFICE SECNAV WASHINGTON: BEGIN MSG ONLY ENLISTED MEMBER JKS-3 ENROUTE VIA AIR GUADALCANAL ON ORDERS ACOFS G2 HQ USMC SIGNATURE PLUTO END MSG.
2. IMPORTANCE OF DELIVERY AS SOON AS POSSIBLE CANNOT BE OVEREMPHASIZED. HON lSTLT SIGC USA
Ellen Feller stepped behind Banning and read the message over his shoulder.
"You had no authority to do that!" she flared.
"This has gone out, Pluto?" Banning asked.
"Yes, Sir."
"If you did so in the presumption that I would agree with it, you were absolutely right, Lieutenant," Banning said.
"It's insane," Ellen said. "The people in Hawaii aren't stupid. They are going to know exactly what this means."
"I hope so," Pluto said. "MAGIC is too important to risk being compromised."
"I can't imagine what Captain Pickering is going to think when he gets that," she said.
"He's probably going to wonder why we let it happen," Banning said.
"What could we do? How could we stop it?" she snapped.
"Since Pluto and I were gone, obviously, we couldn't."
"You're not suggesting that I could have stopped him from going?"
Banning didn't answer.
"You tell me, Banning," she flared, "how I could have stopped him from going."
"You could have hid him under your bed, if nothing else, until Colonel Dailey was gone."
She snorted contemptuously.
"Or in it," Banning added, nastily.
"How dare you talk to me like that?"
"For your general information, Mrs. Feller," Banning said evenly, turning to meet her eyes, "at my request, the Army Counterintelligence Corps has been providing security for this house since Captain Pickering rented it. He's a splendid fellow, but he's a little lax about classified document security. They kept it up after Captain Pickering left and turned the house over to you and Sergeant Moore. The CIC people go through the house every time it's left empty, to make sure there's nothing classified lying about. They're very thorough in their surveillance. They even write down which bedrooms are used by whom, and they've been furnishing me a daily report."
(Four)
HENDERSON FIELD GUADALCANAL,
SOLOMON ISLANDS
1045 HOURS 19 AUGUST 1942
A bag of official mail and six insulated metal boxes marked with red crosses and the legend, HUMAN BLOOD RUSH, were aboard the PBY-S Catalina from Espiritu Santo. There were also three passengers.
One of the passengers was wearing a steel helmet and a Red Cross brassard on the sleeve of his obviously brand-new USMC utilities.
The Navy Medical Corps, Lieutenant Colonel George F. Dailey thought approvingly, was just about as efficient in sending replacements for lost-in-action physicians as Marine Corps intelligence had been in getting him and Sergeant Moore to the scene of battle.
Sergeant Moore did not favorably impress Lieutenant Colonel Dailey. When he was told that he was going to be given the opportunity to serve the Corps and the nation doing something far more important than shuffling classified documents, Moore's behavior in Brisbane was really distressing, not at all that expected of a Marine sergeant. He didn't want to go. And while Dailey was not prepared to go so far as to suggest cowardice, he was convinced that if he hadn't sent the Army Military Policemen to "help him collect his gear" there was more than a slight chance that Moore would not have shown up at the airport. At least until after the plane to Espiritu Santo had left.
As the Catalina landed, Dailey saw that there were no other airplanes on the field, and wondered why. If the Catalina could land, why not fighters?
The pilot taxied up to the control tower and shut down the engines. A crewman opened the door and made a gesture for the passengers to get out.
"Welcome to Guadalcanal," he said. "Cactus Airlines hopes you have enjoyed your flight."
There were two Jeeps sitting by the control tower. A medical officer wearing a Red Cross brassard sat on the hood of one of them. Surprising Dailey, he had a.30 caliber carbine slung over his shoulder. A major leaned against the other Jeep. A 35-mm camera was hanging around his neck, and a Thompson.45 caliber submachine gun was cradled in his arm.
The major smiled and pushed himself erect.
"Well, I'll be damned, look who's here! I warned you not to screw up, Sergeant."
Moore saluted.
"Hello, Major Dillon," he said.
"Major," Dailey said. "My name is Dailey."
Dillon did not salute. He offered his hand, and announced, "Jake Dillon, Colonel."
The medical officer, and a Corpsman who appeared from inside the control tower building, went to the Catalina. The refrigerated blood containers were handed out and put into the medical Jeep. The doctor who had been on the plane from Espiritu Santo climbed out.
He shook hands with the doctor who had been waiting with the Jeep, then he stepped up to the front seat. The corps-man climbed over the rear and sat down precariously on one of the blood containers. The Jeep drove off. The pilot came out the door.
"Just the man I'm looking for," Dillon said, and took an insulated Human Blood container from the back of his Jeep. A failed attempt to cross off HUMAN BLOOD with what appeared to be grease pencil had been made.
When he looked closer, Dailey saw that the grease pencil had also been used to write, EXPOSED PHOTOGRAPHIC FILM. FOR PUBLIC RELATIONS SECTION, HQ USMC, WASHINGTON DC on several sides of the container. "Hello, Maj
or," the pilot said.
The Corps IV - Battleground Page 50
