W.E.B. Griffin - The Corps VII - Behind the Lines

"Where is Henderson Field?"

"On Guadalcanal, an island in the Solomons," Pickering said, and then added, "My son used to fly Wildcats off Henderson."

"I never saw these before," Weston said, gesturing out the window, where a Corsair flew three hundred feet away.

"They just got here. Corsairs. My son-he's now an IP in the States in them-wrote me that they have the most powerful engine ever put in a fighter."

"I used to be a fighter pilot," Weston said.

"Used to be?" Pickering said. "An old friend of mine named Mclnerney told me that flying is like riding a bicycle: Once you learn how, you never forget."

"I hope that's true," Weston said. "General, do you think it would be all right if I went to the cockpit?"

"I'm sure it would," Pickering said.

Weston started forward, toward a ladder on a bulkhead.

"Captain," Pickering called after him.

"Sir?"

"Do you happen to play bridge?"

"Yes, Sir, I do."

"Fine," Pickering said.

Wondering what that was all about, Weston climbed the ladder and made his way to the cockpit. The pilot-a lieutenant commander-the copilot, and a chief petty officer Weston presumed was the flight engineer, looked at him curiously.

"I like your beard," the pilot said finally.

"I was ordered to keep it," Weston said.

"You ever been up here before?" the pilot asked.

"No, Sir. First time. A million years ago, I flew Catalinas, and before that Buffaloes."

The pilot turned to the copilot and jerked his thumb upward. The copilot unstrapped himself and lifted himself out of his seat.

"Sit down," the pilot said. "It's supposed to be like sex."

"Sir?" Weston asked, wondering if he had heard correctly.

"Once you learn how to do it, you never forget," the pilot said.

[FIVE]

Quarters of the Supreme Commander

South West Pacific Ocean Area

Brisbane, Australia

1730 Hours 6 January 1943

It is entirely possible that I am dreaming, Captain James B. Weston, USMCR, thought, absolutely seriously, as he examined himself in the mirrored walls of the elevator.

There were four splendidly uniformed Marine officers in the elevator, each wearing crisp, high-collared white summer uniforms. One of them was a brigadier general, whose breast bore an impressive array of ribbons representing his decorations for valor and places of overseas service in two world wars. A sec-ond was a full bull colonel, whose breast was similarly adorned, and around whose neck hung the blue-starred ribbon of the highest award for valor awarded by the United States, the Medal of Honor. The third was a second lieutenant of Marines, wearing only five colored ribbons, but also the red and gold aiguillette of an aide-de-camp to a general officer.

The fourth officer was a Marine captain, on whose breast were only two ribbons. One of these was yellow with two narrow red, white, and blue stripes representing the American Defense Service Medal, awarded to all military per-sonnel who had been on active duty before 7 December 1941. A second yellow ribbon, this one with two white-red-white stripes and one red, white, and blue stripe, represented the Asiatic Pacific Campaign Medal, which was awarded to anyone who had served anywhere in the Pacific between 7 December and a date to be announced later.

The fourth officer also wore the gold wings of a Naval Aviator and a full, blond beard.

The elevator door whooshed open.

A master sergeant with olive-colored skin, in stiffly starched khakis, either standing at attention or incapable of slouching, stood outside.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he said in impeccable English. "The Su-preme Commander and Mrs. MacArthur are in the study. I believe you know the way, General?"

"Yes, I do, thank you," Brigadier General Fleming Pickering said.

"Esta muy acepta aqui, mi Capitan," the master sergeant added to Cap-tain James B. Weston. (You are especially welcome here, my Captain.)

"Gracias, Sargento," Weston replied.

The exchange sort of shattered the dreamlike feeling.

First, he must know that I've been in the Philippines. Second, he spoke Spanish to me. And I understood him, and replied in Spanish without thinking about it. Which means that all the time I spent in the dark with Sergeant LaMadrid, as I tried to perfect his English and he tried to teach me Spanish, was worth it. That makes everything real. Maybe I really am going to meet General Douglas MacArthur.

He followed General Pickering and Colonel Stecker for twenty-five yards down a carpeted corridor. The right half of a double door was open. A white-jacketed orderly, also obviously a Filipino, bowed them inside.

The Supreme Commander was far less splendidly uniformed than his guests. He wore khakis faded and softened by many washings. He had a long, thin, black cigar in his mouth.

"Fleming, my dear fellow!" he said.

"Good evening, Sir," Pickering said. "Mrs. MacArthur..."

"Jean, please, Fleming."

"... You both know Colonel Stecker and Lieutenant Hart. May I present Captain James Weston, USMC, late G-2 of United States Forces in the Philip-pines?"

Suddenly not at all sure whether this was specified by regulations for such an occasion, Weston saluted.

MacArthur returned it, then put out his hand. When Weston took it, MacArthur put his left hand with his right and squeezed Weston's hand emo-tionally.

"My wife and I thank you for finding time for us, Captain," he said. "I'm sure that you're anxious to return to the United States, to the bosom of your family and friends. Jean, this is the young officer I've been telling you about."

"Good evening, Captain," Jean MacArthur said, and offered her hand.

"How do you do?"

"My wife and I, Captain, as you can certainly understand, are hungry for any word of the Philippines."

"I'll be happy, Sir, to tell you what I can. But that isn't much."

The orderly appeared.

"Will you raise a glass with us, Captain?" MacArthur asked. "Is your physical condition such that..."

"They've just given him a clean slate, General," Pickering answered for him. "He's undernourished, of course, but that was to be expected."

"In that case, Captain, what can Manuel fix you?"

"Scotch, please, Sir. Scotch and water."

"Through General Pickering's generosity, we have a more-than-adequate supply of scotch," MacArthur said. "Famous Grouse all around, please, Man-uel."

El Supremo hasn't said anything about the beard, Pickering thought. I'm sure he's noticed it. Is he just being gracious, or indulgent?

"The beard, I presume, is on medical advice?" MacArthur asked.

There he goes again. I really think El Supremo can read my mind.

"He kept his beard on my orders, actually," Pickering said.

"Indeed?" MacArthur said.

"It occurred to me that Captain Weston would probably find himself being debriefed by one of Colonel Donovan's people," Pickering said. "And I thought-"

"What made you think Colonel Donovan would wish to debrief him?" MacArthur interrupted.

"Just a gut feeling," Pickering said, "and sure enough, shortly after the operation was launched, I received a radio from his deputy-oddly enough an old acquaintance of mine, a lawyer, named L. Stanford Morrissette-asking me to arrange for any of General Fertig's people we brought out to be de-briefed by the OSS here as soon as possible."

The white-jacketed orderly passed around a silver tray holding glasses dark with scotch.

MacArthur raised his glass.

"If I may, gentlemen, three toasts. First, to this valiant young officer, who did what I truly would have exchanged my life to do-disobeyed my orders to seek safety and continued the fight."

"Hear, hear," Pickering said, and the others joined in. Weston looked un-comfortable.

"Second, to the valiant warriors," MacArthur said, "Filipino and Ameri-can, still in the Philippines."