Behind the Lines

by W. E. B Griffin

Sessions shrugged. “You all right, Ken?”

  “Yeah, sure,” McCoy said, and then asked, “You want to go somewhere and get a drink?”

  “Don’t tell me there’s nothing here?”

  “I want to get out of here. I’ve been in that goddamned dining room since half past four this afternoon.”

  The last thing in the world I want to do is go somewhere and get a drink; I was also in that goddamned dining room for hours. But he really wants some company.

  And this is the first time since I’ve known him that McCoy has ever asked me for something. I suspect it’s one of the few times that Killer McCoy has ever asked anybody, except Ernie, to keep him company.

  “Having a drink, or three, is the best suggestion I’ve heard all day,” Ed Sessions said. “Have we got wheels?”

  “There’s a jeep outside.”

  “Be right with you.”

  “God is in his heaven, and all is right with the world,” Ed Sessions said as he walked up to Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis, USN, at the bar of the SWPOA Company Grade Bachelor Officers’ Quarters. “The U.S. Navy is nobly doing its duty, holding the bar in place with its elbows.”

  “I didn’t expect to see you two in here,” Lewis said. He did not seem especially happy to see them.

  I think he’s had more than a couple, Sessions decided.

  “We’re slumming,” Sessions said.

  “Actually, I was sort of looking for you,” McCoy said.

  “Oh, were you?” Lewis asked, somewhat coldly. “And are you going to tell me why, Mr. McCoy?”

  The very careful pronunciation and exaggerated courtesy of the drunk, Sessions thought, the belligerent drunk. Christ, why did McCoy decide to come here?

  “Well, you’re both a swabbie and an expert on submarines,” McCoy said. “I wanted to—”

  He was interrupted by the barmaid.

  “Gentlemen?”

  “Have you got any scotch whiskey?”

  “You just got here, right? Otherwise you wouldn’t ask.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you don’t have any scotch?”

  “In our last shipment from Class VI, there were three bottles. First they take care of the big brass. Then they take care of the field-grade brass. Then they take care of the sergeants. The only people they take care of after us is the corporals and privates, and they aren’t authorized any kind of hard whiskey. So what we have is rum, gin, and brandy.”

  “In that case, my friend and I will have a glass of ice water,” McCoy said. “And while we’re at it, give the sailor a glass of ice water, too.”

  The barmaid’s shrug indicated that the strange behavior of Yanks no longer came as a surprise to her. She produced three glasses with ice in them, and a stainless-steel pitcher of water.

  “Thank you,” McCoy said, and produced a quart bottle of Famous Grouse from a cloth bag. “Say when,” he ordered, as he began to pour into the first of the glasses.

  When he had finished, and water was added, he raised his glass.

  “To the United States Navy Submarine Corps, or whatever they call it.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Sessions said.

  “Are you two trying to be cute?” Lewis asked.

  “No. Not at all,” McCoy said.

  Lewis took a sip of his scotch.

  “You stole this from General Pickering, right?” he asked.

  “He gave it to me,” McCoy said. “His words were I ‘was free to help myself to whatever I thought I needed.’ Which is more or less what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “You found me,” Lewis said, with enough of an unpleasant tone in his voice to get through to McCoy. McCoy looked at him curiously.

  “Well, I figured you know how things are on submarines, and I know how chickenshit the Navy is about taking booze aboard—”

  “You want to take some of that with you?” Lewis interrupted. “Is that what you’re after?”

  “I was thinking that if I’d been in the boondocks as long as Fertig and his people, a stiff shot of good whiskey would probably taste pretty good.”

  “I don’t think anyone is going to question anything you want to take aboard the Sunfish, Mr. McCoy.”

  “Or the plane from here to Espíritu Santo?”

  “Or the plane. You are wrapped, through me, in the protective mantle of CINCPAC himself.”

  “I was thinking about a case.”

  “You want to take a case of scotch whiskey with you?”

  “Why not?”

  “Indeed, why not? May I suggest that you wrap it up? So it won’t be so obvious that you consider yourself above complying with regulations?”

  Sessions looked at McCoy and saw there was no smile on his face, and that his. eyes had turned into ice. And then McCoy relaxed, as if he had just realized that Lewis was drunk and should not be held responsible.

  “That’s already been done,” McCoy said. “In some of Koffler’s plastic.”

  “Then I see no problem at all,” Lewis said.

  “Thanks,” McCoy said.

  “Would you like to tell me what’s bothering you, Lewis?” Sessions asked.

  “It shows, does it?” Lewis replied. “That something is bothering me?”

  “Has it to do with Macklin?”

  “What do you think? I think it’s despicable, what you did to him. I never thought I would see a Naval officer so humiliated.”

  “Am I missing something here?” McCoy asked.

  “McCoy doesn’t know,” Sessions said.

  “I don’t know what?” McCoy asked.

  “Then I hastily offer my most humble and sincere apologies, Mr. McCoy,” Lewis said. “Until just now I thought it was your idea.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” McCoy said, and the ice was back in his voice and eyes.

  “It was General Pickering’s idea,” Sessions said. “McCoy didn’t know anything about it.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” McCoy said. “What didn’t I know about, Ed?”

  “Hart showed up here, Mr. McCoy—”

  “Knock off that ‘Mr. McCoy’ shit,” McCoy interrupted. “I don’t think you’re funny.”

  “Five minutes after Captain Macklin and I got here, Ken,” Lewis said, “Lieutenant Hart showed up here. He told Captain Macklin he had orders to stay with him until we were picked up to go to the terminal tomorrow morning, and that Captain Macklin couldn’t leave the BOQ, or use the telephone, without Colonel Stecker’s express permission.”

  “Shit,” McCoy said. “I was hoping the bastard would go over the hill.”

  “I think Pickering was one step ahead of you on that,” Sessions said. “Right after the meeting broke up and Lewis and Macklin left—and you went to take a leak—Pickering told Moore to relieve Hart in the dungeon; then he told Stecker to call Hart and tell him to go to the BOQ, sit on Macklin, and see that he was at the terminal at 0900 tomorrow.”

  “You don’t really think Bob Macklin would have purposely missed the plane, do you?” Lewis challenged Sessions.

  McCoy drained his drink, and made another one.

  “The bartender has just gone off duty,” he said. “If you guys want any more, pour your own.”

  “Because he’s Annapolis, you mean?” Sessions replied. “Yes, I do. That sleazy bastard is capable of anything. Including missing a shipment,” Sessions said.

  “I was sort of hoping he would,” McCoy said matter-of-factly. “Christ knows, I don’t want to take him with me. Actually I was counting on him figuring out some way to get out of going. I wrote my girl that I was taking good Marines with me.”

  Sessions chuckled.

  “And once again the wise general officer outwits the junior officer,” he said.

  “I don’t suppose it would do any good if I said I think you two are giving Macklin the short end of the stick?” Lewis asked.

  “I trust him about half as far as I can throw him,” McCoy said. “Pickering said he hopes I don’t have to shoot him, but
he didn’t tell me I can’t. Does that answer your question?”

  I wonder, Sessions thought, if Lewis is capable, drunk or sober, of fully understanding that: that both Pickering and McCoy were seriously discussing the benefits and drawbacks of eliminating, by shooting, an obstacle to the mission who happens to be named Macklin.

  “Has it occurred to you, Ken, that there are people who aren’t like you, people who are afraid?” Lewis said, his tone of voice now conciliatory and reasonable.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” McCoy said.

  “I’m trying to suggest that Bob Macklin is afraid of what’s liable to happen on this mission. He’s trying hard to get himself under control, and if he hasn’t, that’s not really his fault. Some people seem to be born with courage, but some people aren’t.”

  “And you don’t think I’m scared? Just between you and me, I’m scared shitless about this mission,” McCoy said, and then, his voice turning incredulous, “Did you really think I think it’s a lot of fun?”

  “You don’t act as if you’re afraid.”

  “An officer’s first duty is to take care of his men. Don’t tell me it’s any different on a submarine.”

  “Meaning what?” Lewis challenged.

  “If I look scared, then Zimmerman and Koffler get scared, OK? The one thing I can’t afford is to have Zimmerman and Koffler thinking they’re in the deep shit because their officer is pissing his pants.” He looked at Lewis for a moment, and then warmed to his subject. “Or are you trying to tell me the officers on a submarine don’t break their asses to make sure the white hats don’t see how scared they are?”

  “What makes you so sure submarine officers are frightened?”

  “They’re either scared or mentally retarded,” McCoy said. “Don’t bullshit me, Lewis. I’ve been on two of the goddamned things. The worst part of the Makin raid was getting there and back, in that steel underwater coffin. And the worst part of the Buka Operation was getting there in a submarine. When I saw the Gooney-bird coming in to take us off of Buka, the first thing I thought was, ‘Thank Christ, I don’t have to get back in that fucking submarine.’ ”

  “Some of them aren’t frightened,” Lewis argued.

  “OK. In any group of ten officers, you can count on two being stupid. You can also count on those two getting you in trouble. But you were scared. You’re too smart not to have been scared,” McCoy said. “But you were obviously a good enough officer to keep the white hats from seeing it. Otherwise, they would have thrown your ass out of the submarines.”

  “The point Mr. McCoy is making, Lieutenant Lewis,” Sessions said, “is that what he has against Captain Macklin is not that Captain Macklin has far less then the normal issue of testicles, but that Captain Macklin considers his first duty is to take care of Captain Macklin, and fuck anybody else.”

  “That’s a pretty harsh judgment, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I associate myself fully, Lieutenant Lewis, with Mr. McCoy’s somewhat obscene, but right on the fucking money, assessment of Captain Macklin. I’ve seen the sonofabitch at work.”

  “What would you two say if I told you that I never spent a minute in a submarine that I wasn’t afraid?” Lewis asked, and was immediately horrified to hear what he had blurted.

  Neither McCoy nor Sessions seemed surprised to hear the confession.

  “Did you let the white hats see it?” McCoy asked.

  “I hope not,” Lewis said.

  “Take it from me, you didn’t. If you had, the other officers would have seen to it that you never went down in one again.”

  Jesus Christ, Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis, USN, thought. Can he be right?

  “May I ask a question, gentlemen?” Sessions asked. “What the hell are we arguing about?”

  “Who knows?” McCoy said. “Who cares? Slide the bottle over here, will you?”

  [THREE]

  Office of the Director

  Office of Strategic Services

  National Institutes of Health Building

  Washington, D.C.

  0930 Hours 13 December 1942

  What could have been a smile crossed the lips of L. Stanford Morrissette, Deputy Director, Special Projects, Office of Strategic Services, as he read the message contained in the manila folder with TOP SECRET stamped across it.

  “One moment, please, Colonel, if you don’t mind,” he said to Colonel F. L. Rickabee, Deputy Chief, USMC Office of Management Analysis, “I believe this should be brought to the attention of the Director.”

  “My time is your time, Mr. Morrissette,” Rickabee said.

  Morrissette picked up the receiver of a red telephone—one of three telephones on his desk—and dialed 0.

  “Mo, Bill,” he said. “Colonel Rickabee, of the Marine Corps, is in my office with something I thought you’d like to see. Can you spare us a minute?”

  The reply of the Director was obviously in the affirmative, for Morrissette stood up as he replaced the red handset in its cradle and gestured toward the door.

  “He’s right down the corridor, Colonel,” he said. “I think I should warn you the Director thinks the savages of yore, who killed messengers delivering bad news, had the right idea.”

  “In my line of work, you get used to that,” Rickabee said.

  Morrissette opened Colonel William J. Donovan’s door without knocking and waved Rickabee in ahead of him.

  “Colonel Donovan,” he said. “I believe you know Colonel Rickabee?”

  “Yes, of course,” Donovan said, rising behind his desk and putting out his hand. “I see the chickens, Fritz. Well deserved, and long overdue.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “What have you got for me?”

  “This, Sir. Captain Haughton, Secretary Knox’s assistant, hand-carried this to me this morning, with instructions to make it available to you.”

  He handed him the manila folder stamped TOP SECRET.

  Donovan waved the two of them into the two red leather chairs in front of his desk, sat down, and opened the folder.

  TOP SECRET

  SUPREME HEADQUARTERS SWPOA 1515 HOURS

  11DEC42

  EYES ONLY-THE SECRETARY OF THE NAVY

  WASH DC

  COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF

  PACIFIC PEARL HARBOR TH

  VIA SPECIAL CHANNEL

  DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN

  ORIGINAL TO BE DESTROYED AFTER ENCRYPTION AND TRANSMITTAL

  (1) RADIO FROM BRIGGEN FLEMING PICKERING USMCR REPORTS SSN SUNFISH DEPARTED ESPIRITU SANTO 0505 LOCALTIME 11DEC1942 CARRYING ABOARD FERTIG CONTACT TEAM. FURTHER DETAILS WILL BE FURNISHED AS AVAILABLE. SUPREME COMMANDER SWPOA HAS BEEN ADVISED.

  (2) BRIGGEN PICKERING DESIRES CONTENTS THIS MESSAGE BE FURNISHED COL F. L. RICKABEE USMC OFFICE OF MANAGEMENT ANALYSIS IMMEDIATELY AND STATES HE HAS NO OBJECTION TO THIS INFORMATION BEING MADE AVAILABLE TO DIRECTOR, OFFICE OF STRATEGIC SERVICES:

  A. PERSONNEL OF FERTIG CONTACT TEAM ARE AS FOLLOWS:

  MCCOY, KENNETH R FIRST LIEUTENANT USMCR 489657 OFFICER-IN-COMMAND

  ZIMMERMAN, ERNEST W GUNNERY SERGEANT 18909 USMC DEPUTY COMMANDER

  KOFFLER, STEPHEN M STAFF SERGEANT USMC 504883 USMC RADIO OPERATOR

  B. IN ADDITION, BRIGGEN PICKERING STATED SUNFISH ALSO CARRIED ABOARD LIEUTENANT CHAMBERS D. LEWIS, USN, AS PERSONAL REPRESENTATIVE ADM NIMITZ. LEWIS WILL NOT GO ASHORE.

  C. IN ADDITION, BRIGGEN PICKERING STATED CAPTAIN ROBERT B. MACKLIN, USMC, OF OSS QUOTE OPERATION WINDMILL ENDQUOTE WITH WHICH HE IS NOT FAMILIAR IS ALSO ABOARD SUNFISH AND MAY GO ASHORE AS OBSERVER. THE DECISION WILL BE MADE AT TIME OF LANDING BY LIEUTENANT MCCOY BASED ON HIS ASSESSMENT AT THAT TIME OF MACKLINS POTENTIAL VALUE AND/ OR THREAT TO MISSION.

  D. CAPTAIN EDWARD SESSIONS, USMC WILL DEPART BRISBANE FOR WASH DC VIA PEARL HARBOR AND SAN FRANCISCO 0900 12DEC42 AND IS PREPARED TO BRIEF INTERESTED PERSONNEL ON ARRIVAL.

  BY DIRECTION BRIGGEN PICKERING USMCR

  HON MAJOR SIGNAL CORPS USA

  TOP SECRET

 
Donovan smiled as he began to read the message. By the time he was finished, the smile was visibly strained.

  “First rate, Fritz,” he said. “We’re moving.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “This lieutenant, McCoy. And the others. Are you familiar with them?”

  “Yes, Sir. They’re assigned to us.”

  Donovan waited until he was sure that he had gotten all he was going to get from Rickabee without prompting, then made a come on gesture with his right hand.

  “Lieutenant McCoy and Gunny Zimmerman made the Makin Island raid with Captain Roosevelt, Sir. Sergeant Koffler spent some time on Buka with the Australian Coastwatchers, Sir. They’re experienced in this type of operation.”

  “I felt sure General Pickering would select the best available men,” Donovan said.

  “I think he did, Sir,” Rickabee replied.

  “You were not familiar with ‘OPERATION WINDMILL,’ Fritz?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Our fault, obviously. Sorry. We should have made sure you, and General Pickering, were brought in on that. It is, of course, simply the name we assigned to the Fertig operation.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I would be grateful, when Captain Sessions arrives, if he could brief Mr. Morrissette and myself.”

  “I’ll see to it that he does, Sir.”

  “Have you got anything else for me, Fritz?”

  “No, Sir. That’s about it.”

  “Well, thank you for bringing this so promptly to my attention.”

  “My pleasure, Sir.”

  “Well, then, Fritz, I won’t keep you. Thank you very much.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Mo, stick around a minute, will you?” Donovan said.

  “Thank you, Colonel Rickabee,” Morrissette said, and offered his hand.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” Rickabee said.

  Donovan waited until Rickabee had closed the door after him and then turned to Morrissette.