Mclnerney privately believed-from his admittedly parochial viewpoint as an aviator-that the loss of most of the battleship fleet was probably a blessing in disguise. There were two schools in the upper echelons of the Navy, the Battleship Admirals and the Carrier Admirals. There was no way that the Battleship Ad-mirals could any longer maintain that their dreadnoughts were impregnable to airplanes; most of their battleships were on the bottom at Pearl.
Conversely, the Carrier Admirals could now argue that bat-tleships were vulnerable to carrier-borne aircraft, using the same carnage on Battleship Row at Pearl Harbor as proof of their ar-gument. That just might give command of the naval war in the Pacific to the Carrier Admirals.
Mclnerney knew that it wouldn't be an all-out victory for the Carrier Admirals over the Battleship Admirals. The battleships that could be repaired would be repaired and sent into action; those still under construction would be completed. But if it came to choosing between a new battleship and a new carrier, the Navy would get a new carrier. And the really senior Navy brass would no longer be able to push Carrier Admirals subtly aside in favor of Battleship Admirals.
No aircraft carriers had been sunk at Pearl. It might have been just dumb luck that they were all at sea, but the point was that none of them had been sunk. And since there were no longer sufficient battleships to do it, it would be the aircraft carriers that would have to carry the battle to the enemy. And when the discussions were held about how to take the battle to the enemy, the opinions of the Carrier Admirals would carry much more weight than they had on December 6, 1941.
Admiral Husband E. Kimmel had to go, and he knew it, and so did everybody else in CINCPAC Headquarters. From 1100 on December 7, Kimmel had had to consider himself only the caretaker of the Pacific Fleet, holding the authority of CINC-PAC only until his replacement could get to Hawaii. As it actu-ally turned out, he wasn't even given that. He was relieved, and an interim commander appointed, while Admiral King and the rest of the brass in Washington made up their minds who would replace him.
They had settled on Admiral Chester W. Nimitz. Mclnerney personally knew Nimitz slightly, and liked him. Professionally, he knew him better and admired him. But Nimitz hadn't even been chosen to be CINCPAC when the decision had been made to send three carrier groups to sea, two to make diversionary strikes, and the third, Task Force 14, to reinforce Wake.
The decision to recall it had come after the humiliated Kimmel had been relieved, and before Nimitz could get to Hawaii and raise his flag as CINCPAC.
Mclnerney believed the recall order did not take into consid-eration what a bloody nose the Americans on Wake had given the Japanese with the pitifully few men, weapons, and aircraft at their disposal. Commander Winfield Scott Cunningham, the overall commander on Wake, and the Marines under Majors Devereux and Putnam, had practically worked miracles with what they had.
The decision to recall Task Force 14 had obviously been made because it was not wise to risk Sara and the three cruisers. Mcln-erney was willing to admit that probably made sense, given the overall strength of the battered Pacific Fleet; but there was no reason for not making a greater effort to reinforce Wake.
Another twelve hours' steaming would have put them within easy range to fly VFM-221's F2A-3 Buffalo fighters (and Gallo-way's lone F4F-4 Wildcat) off Sara onto Wake. It seemed likely to Mclnerney that risking the Tangier, with her Marine Defense Battalion and all that ammunition aboard, by sending her onto Wake would have been justified. Tangier could probably have been given air cover by VFM-221 and, for a while at least, as Sara steamed in the opposite direction, by Navy fighters aboard Sara.
Instead, Tangier had turned around with the others and gone back to Pearl Harbor... and at the moment she turned, she was almost at the point where the carriers could have launched aircraft to protect her.
Mclnerney was not willing to go so far as to assert that the presence of the additional aircraft (he was painfully aware of the inadequacies of the Buffalo) and the reinforcement Defense Bat-talion would have kept the Japanese from taking Wake, but there was no doubt in his mind that the planes and the men- and, more important, the five-inch shells-would have made it a very costly operation for them.
If that had happened, and if T/Sgt. Charley Galloway had managed to get his Wildcat onto Wake and into the battle, he would have become a Marine Corps legend.
But it hadn't happened. Sara and the rest of Task Force 14 had returned to Pearl with Galloway and his F4F-4 aboard.
There was a good deal of frustration aboard Sara when that happened. Mclnerney had learned that a number of senior offi-cers had actually recommended to the Task Force Commander that he ignore the recall order from Pearl and go on with the original mission. In the end, of course, they had obeyed their orders.
Meanwhile, Mclnerney guessed-very sure he was close to the truth-that some chickenshit sonofabitch, probably a swabbie, had pointed out that what that damned Marine flying ser-geant had done was in clear violation of any number of regulations.
Since that sort of thing couldn't be tolerated, charges were drawn up. And since people were looking for something, or someone, on whom to vent their frustration, Galloway had wound up being charged with everything but unlawful carnal knowledge.
General court-martial charges had actually been drawn up against him. But when it came to convening the court, they had found out that general court-martial authority was not vested in CINCPAC, but in the Commanding General of the 2nd Ma-rine Aircraft Wing, back in San Diego, because VFM-211 was under its command.
So they had put T/Sgt. Galloway under arrest, on a transport bound for San Diego. And they'd air-mailed all the charges and specifications to the Commanding General, 2nd Marine Air Wing, "for appropriate action."
The Commanding General of the 2nd Marine Air Wing, real-izing a hot potato had dropped in his lap, had quickly tossed it upstairs and into the lap of Major General D. G. Mclnerney, at Headquarters, USMC.
A court-martial was now out of the question, as a practical matter. It would be impossible to gather the witnesses necessary for a successful prosecution in Washington. They were all over the Pacific. And some of them were dead. There was, besides, the question of the press. It would look to the press-as it looked to Mclnerney-as though the Marine Corps was about to try to punish somebody for trying to fight for his country.
"But we have to do something, Mac," the Major General Commandant had said when Mclnerney reluctantly brought the matter to his attention. "Even Ernie King has heard about your Sergeant Galloway. Use your best judgment; I'll back you up, whatever you decide."
Mclnerney knew what would satisfy the Navy, short of a court-martial: a letter saying that Galloway had been relieved of flying duties and assigned elsewhere.
"I'm really furious with you, Galloway, about this," Mcln-erney said. "You've cost me a fine fighter pilot and what I'm sure would have been a superior squadron commander."
"Sir?"
"You! You dumb sonofabitch!" Mclnerney said, with a fury that started out as an act, but became genuine as he realized that he was speaking the truth.
"I'm sorry, Sir, I don't understand."
"If you could have restrained your Alan Ladd-Errol Flynn-Ronald Reagan movie-star heroics for a couple of weeks, there would have been bars on your collar points and a squadron to command. You could more than likely have done some real damage to the enemy, a lot more than you could have caused even if you had managed to get that jury-rigged wreck to Wake. And probably taught some of these kids things that just might have kept them alive."
"I never even thought about a commission," Galloway re-plied, so surprised, Mclnerney noticed, that he did not append "Sir" to his reply.
"That's your goddamn trouble! You don't think!"
"Yes, Sir."
"The Corps spent a lot of time and money training you, Gallo-way, and now that's all going to be wasted."
"Sir?"
"It will be a cold day in hell, Galloway, before you get in a cockpit again."
"Yes, Sir," Galloway said.
Mclnerney saw in Galloway's eyes that that had gotten to him. The worst punishment that could be meted out to someone like Galloway was to take flying, any kind of flying, but espe-cially flying a fighter plane, away from him.
I wonder why I said that? I don't mean it For a number of reasons, including both that the Corps needs pilots like Galloway, and that I have no intention of punishing him for doing something I would have done myself.
"It has not been decided whether to proceed with your court-martial, Galloway. Until that decision has been made, you will report to MAG-11 at Quantico. You will work in maintenance. But you will not get in the cockpit of a Texan, or any other air-craft, to so much as taxi it down a taxiway."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
"That's all, Sergeant. You may go."
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir," T/Sgt. Charley Galloway said. He did an about-face and marched out of General Mclnerney's office.
Lieutenant Orfutt came into General Mclnerney's office a mo-ment later.
"Have a memo typed up to General Holcomb," Mclnerney said, "saying that I have temporarily assigned Sergeant Gallo-way to Quantico for duty as an aircraft maintenance supervisor. And then do a letter to CINCPAC saying that appropriate ac-tion in the case of Sergeant Galloway is being implemented."
"Aye, aye, Sir," Orfutt said. "Damned shame to lose his expe-rience."
"You're not listening carefully, again, Charlie," Mclnerney said. "The operative word is temporarily."
"Oh," Orfutt said, and smiled. "Yes, Sir."
"And I said something in the heat of anger that might make some sense. Get a teletype out to the 1st and 2nd Aircraft wings, telling them to review the records of the Naval Aviation Pilots and submit to me within seven days a list of those they can rec-ommend for commissions. Put in there somewhere that the lack of a college degree is not to be considered disqualifying."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
"Is there anything else, Charlie?"
"Sir, you're having lunch at the Army-Navy Club with Admi-ral Ward."
"Oh, Christ! Can I get out of it?"
"This would be the third time you've canceled, Sir."
Mclnerney looked at his watch.
"Order up the car."
"I've done that, Sir. It's outside."
"Sometimes you're just too goddamn efficient, Charlie. With a little bit of luck, maybe it would have had an accident on the way here from the motor pool."
"Sorry, Sir," Orfutt said, and went to the clothes tree and took General Mclnerney's overcoat from it and held it up for him.
Fifteen minutes later, as the Marine-green 1941 Ford was moving down Pennsylvania Avenue near the White House, General Mclnerney suddenly sat up. He had been glancing casually out the side window, but now he stared intently, then turned and stared out the back.
"Stop the car!" he ordered.
"Sir?" the driver, a young corporal, asked, confused.
"That was English, son," Mclnerney snapped. "Pull to the curb and stop!"
"Aye, aye, Sir," the Corporal replied, and complied with his orders.
"There's a Navy officer coming up behind us on the sidewalk. Intercept him and tell him I would be grateful for a moment of his time," Mclnerney said. Then he slumped low in the seat.
The driver got quickly out of the car, found the Navy officer, and relayed General Mclnerney's desires to him. He walked just behind him to the car, then quickly stepped ahead of him to pull the door open.
The Navy officer, a captain, saluted.
"Good afternoon, General," he said.
"Get in," General Mclnerney ordered.
"Aye, aye, Sir," the Captain said.
The Captain complied with his orders.
General Mclnerney examined him carefully.
"'Fuck the Navy!' Isn't that what I remember you saying, Captain?"
"Yes, Sir, I seem to recall having said something along those lines."
"And how long now have you been wearing Navy blue?"
"Three days, Sir. How do I look?"
"If people didn't know any better, they'd think you were a Navy captain. The look of confusion in your eyes, for example."
"Thank you, Sir."
"I've got a lunch date I can't get out of," General Mclnerney said. "But I can give you a ride. Where are you headed?"
"Just down the block, Sir."
`To the hotel your father-in-law owns?"
"Actually, General, to the White House. Secretary Knox wants me to meet the President. I've been invited to lunch."
"Oh, Flem, you sonofabitch! Why am I not surprised?"
(Four)
The White House
Washington, D.C.
30 January 1942
"My name is Pickering," Fleming Pickering said to the civil-ian guard at the White House gate. The civilian had come out of a small, presumably heated guardhouse at his approach. The two soldiers on guard, their ears and noses reddened by the cold, apparently were required to stay outside and freeze.
"Let me see your identification," the guard said curtly, even rudely.
Fleming produced his new Navy identification card. The guard examined it carefully, comparing the photograph on it to Pickering's face.
"Wait here," the guard said, and went back into the guard-house. Pickering saw him pick up a telephone and speak with someone. He did not come back out of the guardhouse.
A minute later, a Marine sergeant in greens came down the driveway. He saluted.
"Would you come with me, please, Captain Pickering?" he said politely, crisply.
Pickering marched after him up the curving drive toward the White House. There was a crust of ice on the drive. It had been sanded, but the road was slippery.
The Marine led him to a side entrance, toward the building that had been built at the turn of the century to house the State, War, and Navy departments of the U.S. Government, and then up a rather ordinary staircase to the second floor.
Pickering found himself in a wide corridor. A clean-cut man in his early thirties sat at a small desk facing the wall, and two other men cut from the same bolt of cloth were standing nearby. Pickering was sure they were Secret Service agents.
"This is Captain Pickering," the Marine sergeant said. The man at the desk nodded, glanced at his wristwatch, and made a notation in a small, wire-bound ledger.
"This way, please, Captain," the Marine said, and led Picker-ing halfway down the corridor to a double door. He knocked. The door was opened by a very large, very black man in a starched white jacket.
"Captain Pickering," the Marine sergeant said.
The black man opened the door fully. "Please come in, Sir," he said. "The President's expecting you."
This was, Pickering realized, the President's private suite, the Presidential apartments, or whatever it was called. He was sur-prised. He had expected to be fed in some sort of official dining room.
A tall, well-built, bespectacled man in the uniform of a Marine captain came out of an inner room. In the moment, Pickering recognized him as one of Roosevelt's sons, he had no idea which one. The Captain said, "Good afternoon, Sir. Let me help you with your coat. Dad and Mr. Knox are right inside."
Pickering handed him his uniform cap and then took off his topcoat and handed that over. Captain Roosevelt handed both to the steward, then motioned Pickering ahead of him through a door.
The President of the United States, in a wheelchair, rolled across the room to him, his hand extended. Pickering knew, of course, that Franklin Delano Roosevelt had been crippled by polio, but the wheelchair surprised him. He was almost never photographed sitting in it.
"We've been talking about you, Captain," Roosevelt said as he shook Pickering's hand in a very firm grip. "Have your ears been burning?"
"Good afternoon, Mr. President," Pickering said.
He heard his father-in-law Andrew Foster's dry voice in his mind: "The sonofabitch is obviously a socialist, but giving the devil his due, he probably sa
ved this country from going com-munist."
"Naval officers are forbidden to drink on duty," the President said, smiling warmly, "except, of course, when the Commander in Chief doesn't want to drink alone."
Another steward appeared at that moment with a glass of whiskey on a small silver tray.
"Thank you," Pickering said, and raised the glass. "Your health, Sir," he said, then took a sip. It was Scotch, good Scotch.
"That all right?" Roosevelt asked. "Frank said you're a Scotch drinker."
"This is fine, Sir."
"He also told me that you'd much rather be wearing a uni-form like Jimmy's," the President went on, "but that he'd con-vinced you you would be of greater use in the Navy."
W E B Griffin - Corp 03 - Counterattack Page 13
