W.E.B. Griffin - The Corps IV - Battleground

"Rikusentai, Sir. They're Naval Base troops. Sort of soldiers. Not Marines, Sir. They take care of housekeeping, construction. That sort of thing. They're in the Navy, but not sailors."

Vandergrift nodded.

"The warrant officer said there were a number of Rikusentai, and at least as many civilian laborers, wandering around in the bush near Matinikau. Here, Sir," Pickering said, pointing to the map. "In this general area. And he felt they could be induced to surrender. He said they were starving."

"He was unusually cooperative for a Japanese Naval officer, wasn't he?" Vandergrift said.

"He was originally pretty surly, as I understand it, Sir. But he was in bad shape. What used to be known as shell-shocked."

"You saw him, Pickering?"

"Yes, Sir. The 5th sent him up here."

"And?"

"What the warrant officer said was corroborated, Sir, by another prisoner. A Navy rating. Not captured at the same place. And not one of the warrant officer's men. He said there were both Rikusentai and civilian laborers in the area here," he pointed at the map with the red grease pencil, "at the mouth of the Matanikau River, in the vicinity of Point Cruz."

"And Colonel Goettge apparently believed both of them?"

"Yes, Sir. I assume that he did."

"Tell me about the patrol," Vandergrift said.

"Colonel Goettge had previously ordered a patrol under First Sergeant Custer. As originally set up, Custer was to take about twenty-five men into the Point Cruz-Mouth of the Matanikau River area. But then Colonel Goettge decided to lead the patrol himself."

"Did he offer any explanation for his decision?" Vandergrift asked, evenly.

"He apparently felt that the mission was too important to be entrusted to First Sergeant Custer, Sir."

What he did was act like an ass. He had no business going on patrol himself.

"Twenty-five men, you say? All from the 1st of the 5th?"

"No, Sir. He took several men from here, clerks and scouts. And Lieutenant Cory, our linguist. And Dr. Pratt, the 5th's surgeon."

"In other words, Captain Pickering, instead of a patrol of scouts and riflemen under a First Sergeant, we now have a patrol substantially made up of technicians of one kind or another, under the personal command of the Division Intelligence Officer?"

Pickering didn't reply.

Vandergrift met his eyes.

"And he left you in charge?" Vandergrift asked.

"Not in so many words, Sir."

"You just decided to fill the void left by Colonel Goettge when he went on this patrol of his?"

"I'm trying to make myself useful, Sir."

"Yes, of course you are. Actually, I came here to see you."

"Sir?"

Vandergrift reached in the cavernous pocket of his utility jacket and handed Pickering a crumpled sheet of paper.

URGENT

CONFIDENTIAL

NAVY DEPARTMENT WASHDC 10AUG42

TO: COMMANDING GENERAL FIRST MARINE DIVISION

INFORMATION; CINCPAC

1. BY DIRECTION OF THE SECRETARY OF THE NAVY CAPTAIN FLEMING PICKERING USNR IS RELIEVED OF

TEMPORARY ATTACHMENT 1ST MARINE DIVISION AND WILL PROCEED BY FIRST AVAILABLE AIR TRANSPORTATION TO WASHINGTON DC REPORTING UPON ARRIVAL THEREAT TO THE SECRETARY.

2. THE OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY OF THE NAVY WILL BE ADVISED BY RADIO OF RECEIPT OF THESE

ORDERS BY CINCPAC, COMMGEN FIRST MARINE DIVISION AND CAPTAIN PICKERING. OFC SECNAV WILL BE SIMILARLY ADVISED OF DATE AND TIME OF CAPTAIN PICKERING'S DEPARTURE FROM 1ST MARDIV AND ARRIVAL AND DEPARTURE FROM INTERMEDIATE STOPS EN ROUTE TO WASHINGTON.

DAVID HAUGHTON, CAPT, USN, ADMINISTRATIVE ASST TO SECNAV

"It may be some time before you go home, Pickering," General Vandergrift said. "I have no idea when the field will be able to take anything but fighters. That Catalina coming in here was an aberration."

"Yes, Sir."

"In the meantime, I am sure that you will continue to make yourself useful," Vandergrift said. "When Colonel Goettge and his... what did you call them, Pickering?"

"Rikusentai, Sir.".

"... Rikusentai. When he returns, would you tell him I would like to see him, please?"

"Aye, aye, Sir."

Their eyes met briefly, but long enough for Pickering to understand that Vandergrift shared his opinion that Division Intelligence Officers should not shoulder rifles and go off" into the boondocks like second lieutenants. And there was confirmation, too, of Pickering's conviction that if there was only the opportunity, he and Vandergrift could become friends.

(Four)

G-2 SECTION

HEADQUARTERS, 1ST MARINE DIVISION

GUADALCANAL

2250 HOURS 13 AUGUST 1942

Major Jake Dillon, USMCR, a Leica 35mm camera suspended around his neck, a Thompson.45 caliber submachine gun cradled in his arm, pushed aside the canvas black-out flap and stepped into the G-2 section.

"Where can I find Captain Pickering?" he demanded of the Marine buck sergeant sitting by the three field telephones on a folding wooden desk.

A very tall, very thin Marine with sergeant's stripes painted on the sleeve of his utility jacket followed Dillon into the room. He was unarmed, and looked haggard and shaken, shading his eyes against the sudden brightness of the hissing Coleman lanterns.

The Marine sergeant started to rise to his feet. Dillon waved him back in his chair.

"The Captain's in there, Sir," he said, pointing to the map room. "I think he's asleep."

Dillon motioned for the sergeant who had come with him to follow him. Then he pushed the canvas flap aside.

Captain Fleming Pickering, USNR, was not only asleep, he was snoring. He was fully dressed, except for his boondockers, which were on the floor beside him. Next to the boondockers was a.45 Colt automatic pistol, the hammer cocked. His Springfield rifle hung from its sling on a length of steel pipe near his head.

His bed was two shelter halves laid on communications wire laced between more steel piping. A Coleman lantern hissed in the corner of the room.

Jake Dillon looked quickly around the room, walked quickly to the "bed," and placed his foot on Pickering's pistol.

"Flem!" he called. He immediately had proof that stepping on the pistol had been the prudent thing to do. It was the first thing Pickering reached for.

"It's me. Jake Dillon."

"What the hell do you want?" Pickering asked, a long way from graciously. He stretched a moment, and then sat up, swinging his feet to the floor and reaching for his boondockers. "What time is it?"

"Nearly eleven," Dillon replied, then checked his watch and corrected himself. "Ten-fifty."

Pickering looked at the sergeant.

"This is Sergeant Sellers, Flem," Dillon said. "He's one of mine."

Pickering nodded at the sergeant curtly.

"He was with Goettge," Dillon added.

Pickering's face lit up with interest.

"You were with Colonel Goettge, Sergeant? Where is he?"

"He's dead, Sir. Just about everybody is dead," the sergeant said.

"Christ!" Pickering said softly. "Everybody?"

The sergeant nodded dazedly.

"Just about everybody," he said.

"I thought you had better hear this, Flem, right away," Dillon said.

Pickering looked at Sergeant Sellers and saw in his face- especially in his eyes-the absent look that comes into men's eyes when they have seen something horrifying.

This guy is right on the edge of shock!

Pickering reached under his commo wire and shelter halves bed and came out with a musette bag. He opened the straps and took from it a bottle of Old Grouse scotch, thickly padded with bath towels. He took the top off and extended it wordlessly to Sergeant Sellers.

Sellers looked at it for a moment before somewhat dreamily reaching for it and putting it to his lips. He took a healthy pull and then coughed and then handed the bottle back to Pickering.

"You need some of this, Jake?" Pickering asked.