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

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

T O P S E C R E T

[ONE]

Water Lily Cottage

Brisbane, Australia

0815 Hours 9 November 1942

When he walked into the kitchen of the rambling frame house-the term "cot-tage," 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 dress-ing 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 Coast-watcher," 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 newlyweds will remem-ber 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 strain-ing the material of his skivvy shirt-came into the kitchen.

"Good morning, General," Hart said. "Colonel. I thought I heard some-thing 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 activities 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 ques-tions, 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 com-pany."

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?" Picker-ing interrupted.

"I did three tours in Nicaragua and two in Haiti. So did a lot of other peo-ple. 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 outnum-bered 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 Commu-nists 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?"