“Aye, aye, Sir.”
When Major James C. Brownlee returned to the office at 1600 hours, Master Gunner Hardee told him that while he had been unable to locate Lieutenant Macklin’s records—he was still working on that—he had arranged to deal with the problem of his overdue promotion.
He gave Major Brownlee a copy of the promotion orders, so fresh from the mimeograph machine that the ink was a little wet.
Colonel David M. Wilson, USMC, Deputy Assistant Chief of Staff G-1 for Officer Personnel, never heard a thing about it.
Major James C. Brownlee’s belief that master gunners were the people to see when you had a problem was reinforced.
Captain Robert B. Macklin, USMC, was of course delighted to receive his long-overdue-and in his opinion, richly deserved—promotion.
Master Gunner James L. Hardee, who had been on the water wagon for six months, went to a bar in Georgetown that night and got very drunk.
[FIVE]
TOP SECRET
SUPREME HEADQUARTERS SWPOA
NAVY DEPT WASH DC
VIA SPECIAL CHANNEL
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
ORIGINAL TO BE DESTROYED AFTER ENCRYPTION
AND TRANSMITTAL
EYES ONLY-THE SECRETARY OF THE NAVY
BRISBANE, AUSTRALIA
MONDAY 2 NOVEMBER 1942
DEAR FRANK:
I THINK I HAVE GOTTEN TO THE BOTTOM OF WHY EL SUPREMO SHOWS NO INTEREST AT ALL IN THIS FELLOW FERTIG IN THE PHILIPPINES. I’M NOT GOING TO WASTE YOUR TIME TELLING YOU ABOUT IT, BUT IT’S NONSENSE. ADMIRAL LEAHY IS RIGHT, THERE IS POTENTIAL THERE, AND I THINK RICKABEE’S PEOPLE SHOULD BE INVOLVED FROM THE START.
I’M GOING TO TELL RICKABEE TO COME TO YOU, IF HE ENCOUNTERS TROUBLE DOING WHAT I THINK HE HAS TO DO. I SUSPECT HE WILL ENCOUNTER THE SAME KIND OF PAROCHIAL NONSENSE AMONG THE PROFESSIONAL WARRIORS IN WASHINGTON THAT I HAVE ENCOUNTERED HERE.
I HAVE BEEN BUTTING MY HEAD, VIS-À-VIS DONOVAN’S PEOPLE, AGAINST THE PALACE WALL SO OFTEN AND SO LONG THAT IT’S BLOODY, AND AM GETTING NOWHERE. IS THERE ANY CHANCE I CAN STOP? IT WOULD TAKE A DIRECT ORDER FROM ROOSEVELT TO MAKE HIM CHANGE HIS MIND, AND THEN THEY WILL DRAG THEIR FEET, AT WHICH, YOU MAY HAVE NOTICED, THEY’RE VERY GOOD.
MORE SOON.
BEST REGARDS,
FLEMING PICKERING, BRIGADIER GENERAL, USMCR
TOP SECRET
TOP SECRET
SUPREME HEADQUARTERS SWPOA
NAVY DEPT WASH DC
VIA SPECIAL CHANNEL
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
ORIGINAL TO BE DESTROYED AFTER ENCRYPTION AND TRANSMITTAL FOR COLONEL F. L. RICKABEE
USMC OFFICE OF MANAGEMENT ANALYSIS
BRISBANE, AUSTRALIA
MONDAY 2 NOVEMBER 1942
DEAR FRITZ:
DON’T TELL HIM YET, OR EVEN BANNING, BUT I WANT YOU TO TRY TO FIND A SUITABLE REPLACEMENT FOR MCCOY FOR THE MONGOLIAN OPERATION.
PUT HIM AND BANNING TO WORK FINDING OUT ABOUT GUERRILLA OPERATIONS, BECAUSE I BELIEVE THAT THIS WENDELL FERTIG IN THE PHILIPPINES IS PROBABLY GOING TO TURN OUT MORE USEFUL THAN ANYBODY IN THE PALACE HERE IS WILLING TO EVEN CONSIDER. I SUSPECT THAT THE SAME MENTAL ATTITUDE VIS-A-VIS UNCONVENTIONAL WARRIORS AND THE COMPETENCE OF RESERVE OFFICERS IS PREVALENT IN WASHINGTON.
THIS IDEA HAS LEAHY’S BACKING, SO IF YOU ENCOUNTER ANY TROUBLE, FEEL FREE TO GO TO FRANK KNOX.
IF YOU CAN DO IT WITHOUT MAKING ANY WAVES, PLEASE (A) SEE IF YOU CAN FIND OUT WHERE MY SON IS BEING ASSIGNED AFTER THE WAR BOND TOUR AND (B) TELL ME IF TELLING HIS MOTHER WOULD REALLY ENDANGER THE ENTIRE WAR EFFORT. SHE WENT TO SEE JACK NMI STECKER’S BOY AT THE HOSPITAL IN PEARL AND IS IN PRETTY BAD SHAPE.
KOFFLER IS GETTING MARRIED NEXT WEEK, FOR A LITTLE GOOD NEWS. I DECIDED I HAD THE AUTHORITY TO MAKE HIM A STAFF SERGEANT AND HAVE DONE SO.
REGARDS,
FLEMING PICKERING, BRIGADIER GENERAL, USMCR
TOP SECRET
VIII
[ONE]
Water Lily Cottage
Brisbane, Australia
0815 Hours 9 November 1942
When he walked into the kitchen of the rambling frame house—the term “cottage,” he had decided when he rented the place, was another manifestation of Australian/British understatement—Brigadier General Fleming W. Pickering, USMCR, obviously fresh from his shower, was wearing a pale-blue silk dressing gown that reached almost to his bare feet.
He went to the stove, poured himself a mug of coffee, and then sat on a high stool at the kitchen table. A tall, muscular, deeply tanned man of the same age, wearing a khaki shirt and Marine-green trousers, was already sitting at the table. Something about him suggested illness and/or exhaustion.
For a moment they quietly examined each other without expression.
“Sergeant Stecker,” Pickering finally said, “you realize that you and I did not set a good example for the men last night. I trust you are properly ashamed of yourself?”
Lieutenant Colonel Jack (NMI) Stecker, USMCR, who had the previous day flown into Brisbane from Guadalcanal, chuckled. Then he replied slowly, with a smile, “Don’t worry about it, Corporal Pickering, I don’t think anyone was in any condition to notice.”
Pickering looked at his old friend with affection and concern—they had once, a generation before, in a previous war, in France, actually been Sergeant Stecker and Corporal Pickering.
“God, I hope so, Jack. I haven’t been that plastered in years.”
“I used to think I could handle my liquor,” Stecker said.
“That was before we got old,” Pickering said.
“Or started drinking with the Coastwatchers. In particular the head Coastwatcher,” Stecker said. “I think that is the root of our problem. With the honor of The Corps at stake, I tried to match Commander Feldt drink for drink. That was a colossal error in judgment.”
“Well, no real harm done, and I suspect that the newly-weds will remember their reception for a long time.”
“Probably not too fondly,” Stecker said. “They’re nice kids, aren’t they? Staff Sergeant Koffler doesn’t look old enough to be a father-to-be, or a staff sergeant, or to have done what he did on Buka. And the bride looked a little younger.”
“I don’t think they come much better,” Pickering said. “I was about to ask where the hell the cook is, but on reflection, I’m not sure I’m up to looking a couple of sunny-side-up eggs in the face.”
“I have been sitting here wondering whether a little hair of the dog would make me feel better.”
“What was your conclusion?”
“I don’t want to breathe fumes on the senior Marine officer aboard when I report for duty.”
“What?”
“His name is Mitchell. Do you know him?”
Pickering nodded. “Oh, yes, I know Colonel Lewis R. Mitchell,” he said, not very pleasantly. “The Special Liaison Officer between CINCPAC and SWPOA. What do you mean, you have to report to him?”
“He’s the senior Marine officer at SWPOA. I’m supposed to ‘coordinate’ with him.”
“Fuck Mitchell. Stay away from him.”
“I don’t see how I can, Flem. Anyway, what have you got against him?”
“Well, for one thing, the minute the pompous sonofabitch showed up here, he tried to tell Eric Feldt how to run the Coastwatcher Organizer, and walked all over Ed Banning in the process. I heard about it, and had Forrest send him a radio telling him in some very plain language to butt the hell out of our business.”
Major General Horace W. T. Forrest was Assistant Chief of Staff, G-2, Headquarters, USMC.
Second Lieutenant George F. Hart, USMCR—his chest and biceps straining the material of his skivvy shirt—came into the kitchen.
“Good morning, General,” Hart said. “Colonel. I thought I heard something in here.”
“What you probably heard was my stomach growling,” Pickering said. “George, get on the horn. Present my compliments to Colonel Mitchell, and tell him that I will be ‘coordinating’ Colonel Stecker’s activitie
s at SWPOA. And on your way back in here, bring a bottle of Courvoisier. Colonel Stecker and I require a medicinal dose.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“And if you feel the need, George, have one yourself. But just one. You’re going to help Colonel Stecker move his things from the BOQ here.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” Hart said. “Welcome to Water Lily Cottage, Colonel.”
Stecker smiled uneasily, but waited until Hart had left the room before speaking.
“I think we had better think about my moving in here, Flem. I don’t know what you’re doing here ...”
“For one thing, I’m the senior Marine around here, so don’t argue with me, Colonel.”
“... except that it’s highly classified.”
“You don’t look like a Japanese spy to me. Just don’t ask too many questions, Jack.”
“I don’t want to be in the way.”
“If you would be in the way, Jack, I wouldn’t have asked you to move in,” Pickering said. “And I need you. With all these kids around, I feel like I’m trapped in a fraternity house. I need someone my own age to keep me company.”
Stecker looked as if he was framing a reply.
“Changing the subject, Colonel,” Pickering said. “Through the haze, I seem to recall that we discussed guerrilla operations at some time last night. Do you remember what you said? And if so, would you mind repeating it?”
Stecker looked at him in surprise, then thought aloud.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am. What was it you said about the ratio between the strength of a guerrilla force and conventional forces required to contain them?”
“What I said—and Fleming, I don’t regard myself as any kind of an expert on this—”
“How long were you involved, down in the Banana Republics?” Pickering interrupted.
“I did three tours in Nicaragua and two in Haiti. So did a lot of other people. Chesty Puller, Lew Diamond ...”
“Until somebody comes along with more experience than you have, you’re my expert,” Pickering said. “Go on, please, Jack.”
“What I said was that when The Corps was in Haiti and Nicaragua, we used to say that one guerrilla tied up seven Marines.”
“Define a guerrilla for me.”
Stecker considered his reply before giving it:
“An armed man who is willing to take a risk to make things difficult for an occupying force.”
“Define difficult.”
“Anything from ambushing his supply lines, blowing up his supply dumps, denying him the use of roads unless he sends large military forces to guard his convoys, to ... I don’t know quite how to put this, making him look bad, incompetent, ineffective, in the eyes of the native population.”
“One guerrilla ties up seven men?” Pickering quoted thoughtfully.
“At least seven. I always thought that it was closer to ten. We outnumbered the banditos in Nicaragua ten to one, and they gave us a lot of trouble.”
“What sort of supplies does a guerrilla need?”
“A good guerrilla operation lives off the land. Like the Chinese Communists do. Getting the civilians—without antagonizing them—to provide food and shelter. And intelligence. Paying for it, if at all possible. Aside from that, nothing but the basics, the Three B’s—boots, bullets, and beans.”
“Is there a racial factor?”
“What do you mean?”
“In the Banana Republics, the guerrillas came from the native population. It was the brown man against white gringos. Is that right?”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“In the Philippines, what would it be?”
“Oh, I see what you mean. You’re asking would the Filipinos support an American guerrilla operation?”
Pickering nodded.
“Fleming, over the years, you’ve spent as much time in the Philippines as I have.”
“I’m asking you.”
“Unless American officers did something really stupid—and that’s a real possibility—I think seventy-five percent, eighty-five percent of the Filipinos would help an American guerrilla operation.”
Pickering nodded.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re interested in this?” Stecker asked.
“There’s a chap on Mindanao, a reserve officer who chose not to surrender. His name is Wendell Fertig. He’s trying to set up a guerrilla operation.”
“And?”
“We know he’s got some Marines with him. That seems to make it our business. We’re looking into what, if anything, we can do for him, and what, if any, good he can really do against the Japs.”
“Who’s we?”
“Frank Knox, Chester Nimitz, and me. El Supremo doesn’t seem to be at all interested.”
There aren’t very many people around, Stecker thought, who can so casually refer to the Secretary of the Navy and the Commander-in-Chief, Pacific, by their first names. Or refer, with obviously amused affection, to Genera/ Douglas MacArthur, Supreme Commander, South West Pacific Ocean Areas, as “El Supremo.”
I probably should have insisted on obeying my orders, but the truth is, I’m glad he’s going to keep this Colonel Mitchell off my back. And, in the final analysis, Flem Pickering is the senior Marine officer around here; I really don’t have any choice.
Lieutenant Hart returned to the kitchen carrying a bottle of Courvoisier cognac and two crystal cognac snifters.
“Colonel Mitchell’s compliments, Sir,” he said. “He asked me to tell you that he stands ready to render any assistance to Colonel Stecker requested.”
Pickering snorted.
“Shall I pour, Sir?” Hart said, smiling.
“Those snifters are for officers and gentlemen, Hart,” Pickering said. “At the moment, what you have is just a couple of badly hung-over old Marines. Just pour about an inch of that stuff into our coffee, will you, please?”
TOP SECRET
SUPREME HEADQUARTERS SWPOA
NAVY DEPT WASH DC
VIA SPECIAL CHANNEL
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
ORIGINAL TO BE DESTROYED AFTER ENCRYPTION AND TRANSMITTAL
FOR COLONEL F. L. RICKABEE
USMC OFFICE OF MANAGEMENT ANALYSIS
BRISBANE, AUSTRALIA
MONDAY 9 NOVEMBER 1942
DEAR FRITZ:
I DON’T KNOW IF YOU’VE HEARD OR NOT, BUT LT COLONEL JACK NMI STECKER IS HERE IN BRISBANE. HE WENT TO STAFF SERGEANT KOFFLER’S WEDDING WITH ME, AS A MATTER OF FACT, AND IS AT THIS MOMENT MOVING HIS STUFF FROM THE ARMY BOQ INTO MY HOUSE. HE’ S HERE TO SET UP FACILITIES FOR THE FIRST MARDIV WHEN THEY ARE RELIEVED FROM GUADALCANAL AND BROUGHT HERE FOR REHABILITATION AND REFITTING. ACCORDING TO STECKER, THEY ARE IN REALLY BAD PHYSICAL SHAPE; ALMOST EVERYBODY HAS MALARIA.
STECKER WAS RELIEVED OF HIS COMMAND OF SECOND BATTALION, FIFTH MARINES, AND IS NOW OFFICIALLY ASSIGNED TO SWPOA IN SOME SORT OF VAGUELY DEFINED BILLET. I AM UNABLE TO BELIEVE HE WAS RELIEVED FOR CAUSE, AND STRONGLY SUSPECT THAT IT IS THE PROFESSIONAL OFFICER CORPS PUSHING ASIDE A RESERVIST/UP FROM THE RANKS MUSTANG TO GIVE THE COMMAND TO ONE OF THEIR OWN. I CAN’T IMAGINE WHY GENERAL VANDEGRIFT PERMITTED THIS TO HAPPEN, BUT IT HAS HAPPENED, AND IT MAY BE A BLESSING IN DISGUISE FOR US.
I HAD A TALK WITH STECKER AFTER THE WEDDING, AND IT CAME OUT THAT HE HAS HAD EXTENSIVE EXPERIENCE WITH GUERRILLA OPERATIONS IN THE BANANA REPUBLICS, ESPECIALLY NICARAGUA, BETWEEN THE WARS. IT SEEMS TO ME THAT IF YOU KNOW HOW TO FIGHT AGAINST GUERRILLAS, IT WOULD FOLLOW THAT YOU KNOW HOW TO FIGHT AS A GUERRILLA ... AND CERTAINLY TO KNOWLEDGEABLY EVALUATE HOW SOMEONE ELSE IS SET UP, AND EQUIPPED, TO FIGHT AS GUERRILLAS.
I HAVEN’T SAID ANYTHING TO HIM YET, BUT I KNOW HIM WELL ENOUGH TO KNOW THAT HE WOULD RATHER BE DOING SOMETHING EITHER WITH, OR FOR, THIS FELLOW FERTIG ON MINDANAO THAN ARRANGING TOURS OF PICTURESQUE AUSTRALIA OR USO SHOWS, WHICH IS WHAT THE CORPS WANTS HIM TO DO NOW. AND THERE IS NO QUESTION IN MY MIND THAT HIS CONTRIBUTION TO THIS EFFORT WOULD BE OF MUCH GREATER VALUE THAN WHAT HE IS D
OING NOW. SO I WANT HIM TRANSFERRED TO US, WITH A CAVEAT: HE HAS ALREADY SUFFERED ENOUGH HUMILIATION (GODDAMN IT, HE HAS THE MEDAL OF HONOR; HOW COULD THEY DO THIS TO HIM?) AS IT IS, SO I WANT YOU TO TAKE EVERY PRECAUTION TO MAKE SURE THERE IS NO SCUTTLEBUTT CIRCULATING THAT HE HAS BEEN FURTHER DEMOTED BY HIS ASSIGNMENT TO US.
DO IT AS QUICKLY AS YOU CAN, AND I THINK YOU HAD BETTER SEND MCCOY OVER HERE, TOO, AS QUICKLY AS THAT CAN BE ARRANGED. I THINK THE SOONER WE GET SOMEBODY WITH CAPTAIN/ GENERAL FERTIG, THE BETTER.
REGARDS,
FLEMING PICKERING, BRIGADIER GENERAL, USMCR
TOP SECRET
[TWO]
Naval Air Transport Station
Brisbane, Australia
0455 Hours 14 November 1942
First Lieutenant Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, was not in a very good mood when the Consolidated PB2Y-3 Coronado splashed down in Brisbane Harbor; a drenching in the whaleboat that carried him ashore made his mood worse; and when he saw Second Lieutenant George F. Hart, USMCR, standing on the wharf, the golden cords of an aide-de-camp hanging from his epaulets, his mood grew worse still.
The sonofabitch hasn’t been in The Corps long enough to be a goddamned corporal, and there he stands in an officer’s uniform!
Behind the Lines Page 22
