The fact that he had accomplished this mission—which included bringing out with him the two Marine Coastwatchers—without firing a shot in no way diminished the enormous risk he had voluntarily taken. While planning the operation, Pickering had privately decided that the operation had one chance in four of succeeding.
In Pickering’s mind, if there were forty passengers aboard the huge, four-engine, Consolidated PB2Y-3 Coronado, it was mathematically certain that perhaps ten percent of them—four—were brass hats whose rank, not legitimate importance to the war effort, had gotten them a seat. One of the four could wait a day before going home.
Pickering stopped the Cadillac on a wharf from which much of the carnage the Japanese had caused on Battleship Row on December 7, 1941, could be seen, and got from behind the wheel. Hart followed him to the edge of the pier.
As they saw the whaleboats—three of them—approach the huge seaplane, a Navy officer, a lieutenant junior grade, wearing canvas puttees, a steel helmet, and a .45 pistol suspended from a pistol belt, came trotting down the pier.
We are obviously parked where we are not supposed to park, Sergeant Hart thought, and driving a civilian car where there are supposed to be no civilian cars.
The j.g. slowed when he saw the stars on Pickering’s epaulettes and collar points.
He saluted.
“May I help the General, Sir?”
“No, thank you,” Pickering said, and gestured over the water. “We’re just watching to see if the Coronado gets off.”
“General, this is a restricted area. There’s not supposed to be any civilian vehicles in this area, Sir.”
“Is that so?” Pickering replied. “Well, we won’t be long, son.”
Hart managed to keep his face straight as he watched the Lieutenant decide what he should do about the situation. He was not at all surprised when the Lieutenant decided to do absolutely nothing but fold his arms on his chest and watch as the passengers entered the airplane from the whaleboats.
As soon as the last passenger had entered, the pilot began to start the engines. Before all of them had started, the huge plane began to move. It disappeared around a point of Ford’s Island, but the sound of its engines could still be heard.
And then they changed pitch, as the pilot went to takeoff power.
When the Coronado next came into sight, it was airborne.
“Well, unless they threw Jake off when we couldn’t see it, I guess they’re on their way,” Pickering observed. “Let’s go, George.” He looked at the j.g. “Good morning, Lieutenant.”
“Good morning, Sir,” the Lieutenant said.
Pickering slipped behind the wheel and drove back toward the passenger terminal. As they approached, another Navy officer appeared, this one in whites. He stood in the middle of the road and raised both arms.
“Uh-oh,” Hart said softly, “another one.”
Pickering slowed the car and when he reached the Navy officer stopped. Hart saw that the officer, who now saluted, was a commander, and that dangling from the shoulder of his white uniform was the silver cord of an aide to a flag officer.
“Good morning, Sir. You are General Pickering, Sir?”
“That’s right. What can I do for you, Commander?”
“Admiral Nimitz’s compliments, Sir. The Admiral would be most grateful if you would speak with him, Sir. There’s a telephone inside.”
“Certainly. I’ll park the car.”
Admiral Chester W. Nimitz was Commander-in-Chief, Pacific.
Hart followed Pickering back into the passenger terminal, where the aide waited, holding open the door to an office.
“This way, please, General,” the aide said, and then made it quite plain with the expression on his face that Hart should remain outside. Hart ignored him. He was under orders to go everywhere that General Pickering went except, Colonel Rickabee had said, into a stall in a head, in which case he was supposed to wait where he could keep an eye on the door.
The aide dialed a number from memory.
“Admiral,” he said. “Commander Ussery. Would you please inform CINCPAC I have General Pickering on the line?”
He handed Pickering the telephone.
“Nimitz.”
“Pickering, Sir. You wished to speak to me, Sir?”
“How’s your health, Pickering?”
“I’m very well, thank you, Sir.”
“I didn’t expect to see you back here so soon.”
“I didn’t expect to be back so soon, Sir.”
“I appreciate the film you sent me.”
“I thought you would be interested, Sir.”
“What’s your schedule, Pickering?”
“I’m on the 1500 plane to Brisbane, Sir.”
“Could you fit an hour or so for me into your schedule?”
“I’m at your disposal, Admiral.”
“I think it would be best if you didn’t come here,” Nimitz said. “Are you free for lunch?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Somewhere private,” Nimitz said. “Do you suppose we could meet ... could I invite myself for lunch at your place?”
“I’d be honored, Sir.”
“Noon,” Nimitz said. “Would that be convenient?”
“Certainly, Sir.”
“I’ll make sure the Brisbane plane doesn’t leave without you. Thank you, General.”
The phone went dead in Pickering’s ear.
Pickering looked at Sergeant Hart.
“Shine your shoes, George. CINCPAC is coming to lunch at Muku-Muku.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
Pickering looked at Commander Ussery.
“Would you like me to draw you a map, Commander?”
“That won’t be necessary, Sir.”
“Well, then, I suppose we’ll see you at Muku-Muku at noon.”
“Yes, Sir.”
[THREE]
Muku-Muku
Oahu, Territory of Hawaii
1150 Hours 16 October 1942
The official vehicle of the Commander-in-Chief, Pacific, was a black 1941 Cadillac Model 62. There was no starred flag officer’s plate; instead a blue flag with four silver stars flew from a staff mounted on the right front fender.
Sergeant George Hart was waiting for CINCPAC’s arrival on the wide, shaded, flagstone porch of the rambling house overlooking the Pacific. He started down the stairs the moment he saw the car approaching, intending to salute, then open the rear door, then stand to attention while CINCPAC got out, then to close the door after him and follow him up the stairs.
By the time he reached the Cadillac, CINCPAC was already out of the car. Commander Ussery and the driver, a portly chief petty officer, quickly followed him. Hart noticed that the Chief had gotten no farther than the hood of the car before CINCPAC was walking toward him.
Hart saluted.
CINCPAC, a tall, silver-haired man in his fifties wearing a high-collared white uniform, returned the salute, smiling.
“Good afternoon, Sergeant,” he said without breaking stride. “Would you be good enough to find the Commander and the Chief something to eat, and do what you can to keep them out of trouble?”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” Hart said, as CINCPAC walked past him and up the stairs.
Brigadier General Pickering came onto the porch and saluted.
“Good afternoon, Sir. Welcome to Muku-Muku.”
CINCPAC returned the salute, and then put out his hand.
“We gave ourselves an extra ten minutes in case we got lost,” CINCPAC said. “I’ve only been here twice before, and that was a long time ago.”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t get lost, Sir.”
“You look well, Pickering,” CINCPAC said. “Better than I would have expected.”
“I’m fine, Sir.”
“The way I heard it, the President pulled you out of a hospital bed.”
“No, Sir, I was already out of the hospital.”
The door to the house was opened by a silver-haired bl
ack man in a gray jacket.
“Welcome back to Muku-Muku, Admiral,” he said. “I’m Denny. Do you remember me, Sir?”
“Indeed I do, but I’m surprised and flattered that you remembered I’ve been here before,” CINCPAC said.
“May 22, 1939, as the guest of Captain Renner, Admiral,” the black man said. “I checked the guest book.”
“I don’t suppose I could steal you away from General Pickering, could I, Denny?” CINCPAC said.
“Thank you, Sir, but no, thank you.”
“Renner has the Pacific Princess now, doesn’t he?” CINCPAC asked.
“It’s the USS Millard G. Fillmore now,” Pickering said. “I sold her to the Navy, which was wise enough to hire Renner away from me for the duration to skipper her.”
“What can we offer the Admiral to drink?” Denny asked.
“If I drink at lunch, I have a hard time staying awake in the afternoon,” CINCPAC said. “Having said that, I think a light scotch would go down nicely, thank you very much.”
“We’re set for lunch on the terrace,” Denny said. “If you’ll follow me, please?”
He led the way through the luxuriously furnished house to the terrace, on the seaward side of the house. CINCPAC walked to the edge of the terrace and looked down the steep, lush slope. At its end, five hundred yards away, large waves crashed onto a wide white sand beach.
“I’ve never been here in the daytime before,” he said. “I missed that. It’s beautiful.”
“Yes, it is,” Pickering agreed.
“It makes the very idea of war seem all that much more obscene, doesn’t it?” CINCPAC asked.
“Yes, Sir, it does,” Pickering replied.
CINCPAC met Pickering’s eyes. “Are we going to lose Guadalcanal, Pickering?” he asked. “Can Vandegrift hang on?”
Pickering was relieved when Denny appeared with the drinks. It at least delayed his having to answer a question he felt wholly inadequate to answer: whether or not Major General Archer A. Vandegrift’s First Marine Division was going to be torn from its tenuous toehold on Guadalcanal.
“Very nice,” CINCPAC said, sipping his drink.
“Famous Grouse,” Denny said. “Funny name for a whiskey, isn’t it?”
“Leave the fixings, please, Denny,” Pickering said. “And give me ten minutes’ notice when lunch will be ready.”
“Ten minutes from when you tell me,” Denny replied.
“Admiral?” Pickering asked.
“Ten minutes from now would be fine, Denny,” CINCPAC said. He waited until Denny had left them alone on the terrace, and then looked at Pickering again. “Can he, or can’t he? A good deal depends on that.”
“Admiral, with respect, I am in no way qualified to offer an opinion about something like that.”
CINCPAC nodded his head.
“I had a radio early today from Admiral Ghormley,” he said. (Vice Admiral Robert L. Ghormley, USN, was Commander, South Pacific, and Senior Naval Commander for the Guadalcanal Operation.) “In it he used the phrase ‘totally inadequate’ vis-à-vis the forces available to him to resist a major Japanese attack. I think that’s going overboard, but I would like to know what Vandegrift really thinks.”
“General Vandegrift is a superb officer,” Pickering said.
“The feeling around here is that General MacArthur is not doing all he can with regard to reinforcing Vandegrift.”
“If that is your perception, Sir,” Pickering heard himself say, “I’m truly sorry.”
“You don’t perceive that to be the case?”
Oh, to hell with it. He asked me. I’ll tell him.
“I would suggest that there are people around General MacArthur who believe CINCPAC isn’t doing all it can, Admiral.”
“You believe that?”
“I’m in no position to make any judgment whatever, Sir.”
“Right about now, your Major ... what was his name? Vanning?”
“Banning, Sir.”
“... Banning ... is presumably briefing Secretary Knox. Which carries with it the unpleasant connotation that he does not trust the reports being sent to him by me.”
“I think he wants all the information he can lay his hands on, Sir.”
“Do you think it’s likely that Secretary Knox will go to the President with the information Banning carried with him?”
“Yes, I do,” Pickering replied.
“Do you think General MacArthur shares the opinion of those around him that we’re not doing everything we can?”
“No, Sir. I do not.”
“When you see General MacArthur, will you give him my personal assurance that I am doing everything I can?”
“I will, Sir, but I don’t think it’s necessary.”
“And assure him that I have absolute faith that he’s doing the same thing?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing—or are free—to tell me the nature of your current mission to SWPOA?” (South West Pacific Ocean Area)
Pickering exhaled audibly.
On one hand, it’s none of your business, CINCPAC or not. But on the other, you are CINCPAC.
“General MacArthur, for whatever reasons, has not chosen to receive the emissaries of Wild Bill Donovan....”
“General Donovan, of the Office of Strategic Services?”
“Yes, Sir. General Donovan and the President are old friends. He has complained to the President, and the President has sent me to extol the virtues of the OSS to General MacArthur.”
“Do you think you’ll succeed?”
“General MacArthur rarely changes his mind. He told me that he doesn’t think the good the OSS can do for him is worth what the OSS will cost him.”
“Have you ever wondered, Pickering, why the President, or General Marshall, doesn’t simply order Douglas MacArthur to do what he’s told to do vis-à-vis the OSS?” (General George Catlett Marshall was U.S. Army Chief of Staff.)
“I’d heard there was bad blood between Marshall and MacArthur.”
“When MacArthur was Chief of Staff, he wrote an efficiency report on Marshall, who was then commanding the Infantry School at Fort Benning, stating he was not qualified to command anything larger than a regiment.”
“I hadn’t heard that, Sir.”
“There’s bad blood between them, all right, but that’s not the reason I’m talking about. Marshall put a knife in MacArthur’s back after he left the Philippines. MacArthur left under the impression he was simply moving his flag and that the Philippines would remain under his command. But the minute he boarded that PT boat, the Army started dealing directly with General Skinny Wainwright, in effect taking him out from under MacArthur’s command.”
“I’d heard that story, Sir.”
From El Supremo himself. By admitting that, am I violating his confidence?
“There was a brigadier general on Mindanao, with 30,000 effectives. Fellow named Sharp. They had food and rations, munitions, and they weren’t in the pitiable state of the troops on Bataan. When Bataan fell, and then a month later, Corregidor, the Japanese forced Wainwright to order Sharp on Mindanao to surrender. Sharp obeyed Wainwright’s order. MacArthur feels, with some justification, that if he had retained command of the Philippines, that wouldn’t have happened. He told me it was his plan to use Sharp’s people, and matériel, to continue the war, either conventionally or as guerrillas. If he had retained command of the Philippines, he feels, Sharp wouldn’t have had to surrender until he at least got a guerrilla operation off the ground and running. And now they want to send somebody not under MacArthur’s command in to start guerrilla operations? You have your work cut out for you, Pickering, to talk Douglas MacArthur into agreeing to that.”
“What’s the difference who would run it, so long as it’s hurting the Japanese?”
CINCPAC looked at Pickering and smiled.
“Of all people, Pickering, I would have thought that you would be aware of the effect of the egos of very se
nior officers on warfare. And actually, it’s a moot point. The surrenders have taken place. Whatever matériel could have been used by a guerrilla operation has either been destroyed or captured, and there’s simply no way to get any into the Philippines.”
“What did the Russian partisans do for supplies?” Pickering asked.
“Getting supplies across an enemy’s lines is much easier than trying to ship them across deep water,” Nimitz said.
“Luncheon, gentlemen,” Denny called from the far end of the terrace, “is served.”
[FOUR]
The Foster Lafayette Hotel
Washington, D.C.
0005 Hours 17 October 1942
Major Edward J. Banning, USMC, a tall, well-built thirty-six-year-old, fresh from a shower and wearing only a towel, sat on the bed and stared at the telephone. After a full thirty seconds, he reached for it.
He gave the operator a number in New York City from memory.
Maybe, he thought, as he counted the rings to six, torn between disappointment and relief, she’s not home. Away for the weekend or something. Or maybe she’s got a heavy date. Why not?
A woman’s voice came on the line, her “Hello?” expressing a mixture of annoyance and concern.
Oh, God, I woke her up.
“Carolyn?”
Why did I make that a question? God knows, I recognized her voice.
“Oh, my God! Ed!”
“Did I wake you?”
“Where are you?”
“Washington.”
“Since when?”
“Since about nine o’clock.”
“This morning?”
“Tonight.”
“I will give you the benefit of the doubt, and believe this is the first chance you’ve had to call me.”
“It really was,” he said. “They just left.”
“They being?”
“Two bare-breasted girls in grass skirts and a jazz quartet.”
“In other words, you don’t want to tell me.”
“Colonel Rickabee, Captain Sessions, some other people.”
I purposely did not tell her the others were Senator Fowler and the Administrative Assistant to the Secretary of the Navy. Was that because of some noble concern with security, or because I am just too tired to get into an explanation?
Behind the Lines Page 13
