Halsey, Sutherland noticed, was horrified that he had been booby trapped into endorsing MacArthur’s dismissal of Ghormley. Sutherland was a bit horrified himself. The General didn’t always reckon on all the consequences of his actions. He’d have to say something once the two men were in private. But making it seem as if Halsey supported him was a clever move.
But MacArthur was already onto his next topic. “Bill, I’m appointing you as COMSOPAC, as soon as you can get out to the fleet. Your first order is to find a way to supply Guadalcanal. If you have to take some risks and if it costs some ships, that’s the way it has to be. The United States of America is officially out of the business of leaving unsupplied troops to fend for themselves against the Japanese. I’m counting on you to figure out a way to get the job done.”
Sutherland found Halsey’s face particularly easy to read. He disliked Ghormley being criticized by MacArthur, an outsider, but at the same time he agreed with most of MacArthur’s comments. And to be commander, South Pacific Area and South Pacific Forces, was the job in the Pacific right now. He’d do it as well as or better than anybody else alive.
Halsey was won over. One more person under the General’s spell. That was MacArthur’s genius. While any number of people hated his guts, just as many people worshipped the ground on which he walked.
Once Halsey had left and the door had clicked shut behind him, Sutherland spoke up. “The navy won’t like your removal of Ghormley, General.”
MacArthur raised one eyebrow. “And why should the navy’s dislike trouble MacArthur, my dear Sutherland?”
Sutherland knew better than to argue. He waited for MacArthur to continue.
“In fact,” General MacArthur continued, with a smug smile betraying his delight at his own Machiavellian cleverness, “the navy’s dislike is high among the reasons for sacking Ghormley. Remember, MacArthur abjured all of you to find instances of navy failure or incompetence. And here, we see a magnificent example laid bare for all the world. Does MacArthur fear the navy’s dislike? MacArthur solicits the navy’s dislike! Imagine they take the trouble to overrule me officially. What will the newspapers think of them, excusing the man who left unsupplied marines stranded on the beaches of Guadalcanal because of cowardice? MacArthur wins. And if they accept my removal of Ghormley, MacArthur wins. Whatever the navy does or doesn’t do works to MacArthur’s benefit. This, you see, is what is better known as checkmate.”
He paused and smiled, giving his sole listener a moment to absorb the General’s wisdom and insight. Then a new idea crossed his mind. “Which reminds me. It is imperative that I go to Guadalcanal. The General must be with his troops in the heat of battle, to inspire and lead and show our forces and the world how an American commander should behave.”
“But General…” Sutherland’s objections came out as reflex. “It’s too unsettled, too risky. In a few weeks, I’m sure we can arrange it, but right now …”
But even as he talked, he could see the lines around MacArthur’s mouth harden. The General had made his decision.
• THURSDAY, 13 AUGUST 1942 •
PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII, 1300 HOURS
The long overwater flight from Australia on a C-54 Skymaster just made Captain Frank Chadwick’s curiosity that much greater. He’d heard about MacArthur’s firing of Admiral Ghormley as COMSOPAC right before he boarded, and he could only imagine Fleet Admiral Chester W. Nimitz’s reaction to the news. The MacArthur-navy war, far from being over, looked like it was heading toward greater conflagration.
He grabbed his bag, politely shrugged off a seaman’s attempt to help him, and walked across the field to the parking lot where his baby waited for him: a cherry-red 1932 MG Midget started up immediately, despite having been sitting alone for several weeks, and he headed off base and windward. When he had first been stationed here, he had rented a second-story apartment on Kuuhali Street in Kailua Beach, not far from the water. When he could, he got in some surfing. In fact, it looked like a fine day for surfing, but duty called. He took a quick shower, changed uniforms, and was back in his MG in less than forty minutes. At least he could enjoy the fresh air as he drove, he thought as he turned onto Likelike Highway and shifted into third.
He showed his pass at the gate. The marine guard saluted, then added, “Nice car, sir.”
“Thanks,” Chadwick said, smiling.
A few minutes more and he was pulling up in front of CINCPAC headquarters. He got out, grabbed his portfolio filled with torpedo-related material, and went inside.
“How’s the car, Captain?” the senior chief said by way of greeting.
“Beautiful. Thanks for taking care of her for me.”
“It’s a pleasure, Captain. I took my girlfriend up Ewa to Sunset Beach in her. That car is pure magic, Captain!”
Chadwick laughed. “And it’s fun to drive, too. Is he available?”
“Let me check, sir.” He picked up the telephone. “Yes, sir. Captain Chadwick reporting in, sir. Yes, sir.” He looked at Frank. “You can go right in, Captain.”
“Welcome back, Frank,” Admiral Nimitz said as Chadwick walked into the office. “I got the torpedo study you sent back from Australia. Good job. Problem identified and documented. Now we just have to light a fire under the BuOrd people, and maybe we can start getting workable torpedoes out here in six months or so.” He shook his head. “It would serve us right if MacArthur found out and crucified us over this. I’d court-martial the BuOrd people who’ve been dragging their heels, but only because we can’t keelhaul them anymore.”
“By the time Admiral King gets through with them, maybe they’ll wish they’d been keelhauled instead,” Captain Chadwick replied.
Nimitz chuckled briefly. “Now. Next item. Frank, you’ve done a hell of a job as my aide this past year, but it’s time to see you move on. Given any thought to what you’d like to do next?”
“Well, sir, I want what all us brown-shoe types want: a carrier command at sea. But until the stream of new carriers gets going, you need your most experienced carrier skippers on the job, and that lets me out. The closest I’ve come to a carrier command was as skipper of the Langley for six months in 1939. And that was after she converted from carrier to seaplane tender.” The Langley, a former collier, had been the navy’s first aircraft carrier. “Command at sea is what I need most, sir, and I’d be happy with any opportunity that’s out there. On the other hand, there’s a war on, and I’ll go wherever I can serve the navy best.”
“Even if it’s going to Washington and fixing the torpedo problem?” Nimitz asked.
“It’s got to be fixed, Admiral.”
Nimitz drummed his fingers on his desk for a minute. “Frank, you may end up in Washington at least for a while.”
Frank’s heart sank. “Of course, sir.”
“But not just yet. Before it’s time to shove an outsider into that mess, we’ve got to let the Washington hands work with it a little bit. Maybe you won’t need to go, but don’t count on it.”
“In the meantime?”
“In the meantime, Admiral Halsey has got to get SOPAC up to speed, and quickly. Admiral Fletcher is out.”
“Admiral Fletcher, too?”
“He and Ghormley are being kicked upstairs. Damn MacArthur! He had no right to can a navy officer in the performance of his duty.” Nimitz grimaced, his teeth clenched. Frank sensed that the admiral was conflicted, even before he continued. “Still, Halsey is the best man for the job, no doubt about it. All those marines on that godforsaken island … if the Japs keep control of the seas around Guadal-canal, I don’t like their chances very much.”
“I don’t think Admiral Halsey will let that happen, sir. He’s not about to let the navy take it on the chin over this.”
“He’s a fighter, that’s for sure. And that’s what we need. There are some less senior officers who need to go as well. SOPAC has some top-notch people like McCain and Turner, and some deadwood. I’m sending Halsey the best I’ve got, and that includes you.”<
br />
SOPAC was where all the action in the Pacific Theater was going to be concentrated for the time being. An assignment there was the best possible opportunity.
“Do you know what I’ll be doing, sir, or will Admiral Halsey decide after I get there?”
“Yes and yes. How does captain of the Portland sound?”
Frank was elated. The USS Portland, CA-33, was a heavy cruiser, the first of her class. With just under 850 officers and enlisted men, nine eight-inch guns, and a displacement of nearly ten thousand tons, she was faster than a battleship, more powerful than a destroyer, and able to stand up against almost anything.
“Thank you. Thank you very much.”
“Congratulations. It’s well earned. You’ll be meeting her in Noumea, which is now SOPAC headquarters. We’ve stopped worrying about the delicate sensibilities of the Free French on New Caledonia. Now, I don’t know exactly how long you’ll have the Portland, but with Bill Halsey in charge, there’s a good chance it’ll be long enough to see some fighting.”
“Thank you, Admiral. It’s been an honor serving you.”
“You’re a good man, Frank. I expect to pin stars on you before this war is over.” Nimitz stood, followed by Frank, and the two men shook hands. Chadwick was suddenly in a hurry to leave.
He had a fighting ship to command.
FIVE
Guadalcanal
• MONDAY, 14 SEPTEMBER 1942 •
APPROACHING HENDERSON FIELD, GUADALCANAL ISLAND, SOLOMON ISLANDS,
1012 HOURS
They’d be touching down at Henderson Field in about forty minutes. Despite Kenney’s assurances about the runway, Ellis had heard that the Japs were shelling it regularly, and it was primarily set up for single-engine aircraft, not medium bombers. The marine defenders were expanding the runways as fast as they could, of course, but the lack of supplies and the constant attacks made it tough. The plan was for the B-26s and the P-38 escort fighters to land, and for the B-17s to continue with their diversionary raid. After three or four hours on the island—enough time for MacArthur’s whirlwind inspection and, hopefully, Halverson’s evaluation of the field’s suitability as a bomber base—they’d take off again for the long flight back to Australia.
It was good to be back in a Marauder. For all the virtues of the B-17, the B-26 was still a hell of a lot more fun to fly. The assignment was temporary, though. There was some question about whether a B-17 could land at Henderson Field, so the General hadn’t taken the Bataan, his personal B-17. General Kenney had recommended Ellis, remembering the connection he’d had with MacArthur, to serve as his pilot on this trip. General Sutherland had predictably bitched and moaned, but Kenney had convinced him that this was the safest way if the General insisted on visiting Guadalcanal in person.
When he got his Marauder, he quickly painted Skylark III on its side, even though the third Skylark in Doc Smith’s novels was quite a bit larger than even Skylark II. The paint wasn’t quite dry, though, when the word came down from Brisbane: this plane, like all others transporting General Douglas MacArthur, was to be named Bataan. Ellis was momentarily peeved, then inspired. Bataan was on the nose, sure enough, along with a quick painting of Johnny behind barbed wire.
When MacArthur saw the art, he stood very still for a minute, then turned to Ellis and asked, “Did you paint that?”
“Yes, sir,” Ellis replied.
MacArthur continued to look at the painting for a moment, then climbed inside the plane. Ellis noticed General Sutherland looking daggers at him. Ellis wondered, not for the first time, what relationship Sutherland and MacArthur had with his brother, but he knew there was no way to ask. For the hours it took to fly to Guadalcanal silence reigned in the cockpit.
Guadalcanal came into detailed focus as they flew in from the southwest. The island was ninety miles long and up to thirty-four miles wide, and shaped sort of like a W with the final bar broken off, or like a one-humped caterpillar. Henderson Field was located just past the first dip in the W, about a third of the way down the island in the direction of their travel. A series of green, steep-sided ridges looked every bit as rugged as New Guinea terrain, even if the mountains weren’t as high. The ridges rippled and twisted across the entire island.
The Japanese controlled all Guadalcanal except for the marine perimeter around the airfield, so the bombers didn’t dawdle as they crossed the island and approached Lunga Point, the Marine landing area, which was near the airfield. A few miles away, in the waters called Ironbottom Sound—because of the great number of ships that had sunk down there in the furious naval battles often waged within sight of the marines on shore—a freighter was anchored just off the shore as several smaller craft shuttled up to the beaches. Bataan was in the lead as the planes flew out over the sound and turned, separating into a file as they prepared for landing.
Ellis noticed waving and gesturing coming from the aircraft nearest his, a B-17 named Grable’s Gams, piloted by a good buddy of his, Lieutenant Richard Vail. Following Rich’s pointing finger, Halverson spotted the fast-moving specks diving toward them from the north.
There were Japs on their tail.
“General, we’ve got company,” the pilot shouted. “I think we can outrun them if we head for home.” He pushed the Marauder into a shallow dive, applying full throttle to both engines.
“Nonsense!” MacArthur replied from the copilot’s seat, shaking his head. “We’ve come this far—we’ll land as soon as they clear out.”
“Yes, sir,” Ellis replied.
Speed was still the best option. He trimmed the propellers to a faster angle and increased his airspeed, nosing his Marauder downward. “Japs on our tail,” he announced on the crew intercom. “We’re going to dive out of the way and hope some of those marine fighters put in an appearance. Gramps, Dale, we’re going to run rather than fight if we can, but heat up those guns just in case.”
The answering “Rogers” had barely died out before Ellis spotted the marines, flying Grumman F4F Wildcats, formed up in a combat air patrol at maybe eighteen thousand feet and heading in his direction. As they grew near he continued his dive, looking up so that he could watch the stubby little fighters fly past overhead.
A sudden loud hailstorm of metal against metal petrified him. It was the sound of fifty-caliber machine gun bullets puncturing his fuselage. And they were coming from in front of him.
“Goddamn it, the fuckers think we’re Japs!” he yelled. The bullets were shattering glass now—the nose, dammit! “Gramps! Gramps! You okay?”
No answer. He banked his Marauder hard, always risky with a B-26, but he had no choice if they were going to live. The G-force wrenched him to the side, then reversed as he pulled through a tight S curve. He managed to recover without going into a spin, then nosed down more steeply while flipping on the radio with one hand—dammit, he needed a copilot right now, not a four-star deadhead who was going to get them all killed, and what was happening to Gramps, was he bleeding to death or already dead?
“Mayday, Mayday! This is Red Rover One. Red Rover One. Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” he shouted. “We’re Americans—can’t you see the fucking star on the wing!”
“Here, let me take that,” said MacArthur calmly. “I can handle a radio. You just fly the plane. The faster we get down, the quicker someone can look at your nose gunner.” The General began the Mayday chant but pulled rank. “Mayday. This is General Douglas MacArthur in the B-26. Mayday. Hold your fire. I say, hold your fire. This is General Douglas MacArthur. I’m coming in.”
The Wildcats were past now, and whether they had recognized their mistake or simply preferred to tackle the enemy fighters, the marines were swarmed among the Zeros, scattering the outnumbered Japanese fighters in a snarling dogfight. The other Marauders still followed the Bataan in the dive toward the field.
Ellis did a damage control check. He could see the holes in the nose, but the engines and flight controls seemed to be functioning normally. He worried about the nosewheel,
but when he dropped the landing gear all three struts came down and locked into place. He came in full flaps, descending at a very steep angle and maintaining his airspeed at about 150 miles per hour. Finally he leveled out at about thirty feet above the ground and came in nice and smooth, touching tail down with the nosewheel hitting with a hard thump a moment later.
The Bataan rumbled past a landscape of shattered palm trees and blasted, cratered ground. The runway had been patched in dozens of places, but it was smooth enough. Braking to a stop as quickly as possible, Halverson jumped out of his seat, cutting ahead of his four-star passenger. He hopped down from the flight deck, dropped to his hands and knees, and crawled underneath, dropped down out of the nosewheel well onto the ground, then jumped up to see into the bombardier area in the nose.
Gramps—he was slightly over thirty years old, making him an official old man—was one of the four survivors from the Skylark of Space, which had to make a water landing following the accidental skip bombing of the Japanese transport.
With blood everywhere and Gramps not moving, Ellis first thought he was dead. Damn. The bombardier had a wife and two kids back in Oklahoma.
It was the second time Ellis Halverson had lost crewmen.
It was the first time he felt tears stinging his eyes.
A hand clasped his shoulder. “I’m sorry, son. Another brave man lost to this war. This was a terrible accident, but it was just that: an accident, one of the many inhumane and deeply unfortunate parts of this tragic business in which we are all engaged. We mourn our dead between battles. During battles we press onward, ever onward.” General MacArthur’s deep, sonorous voice carried surprising warmth and sincerity.
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