W.E.B. Griffin - The Corps 03 - Counterattack

"Why there?"

"It’s on the shipping lanes. Once they get an airfield built, they can bomb Rabaul from it. And again, once the airfield is built, they can use it to protect the shipping lanes."

"Have we got any troops to send there? And ships to send them in?"

"Army Task Force 6814, which isn’t much-it’s much less than a division-is already on the high seas, bound for Efate," Pickering said.

"Not even a division? That’s not much."

"It’s all we’ve got, and it’s something."

"What about the Marines?"

"What about them?"

"Where are they? What are they doing?"

"The day the Japanese landed at Rabaul, the 2ndMarine Brigade landed on Samoa, reinforcing the 7thDefense Battalion. The 4thMarines, who used to be in China, are on Bataan. They’re forming Marine divisions on both coasts, but they won’t be ready for combat until early 1943."

"This is all worse than I thought. Or are you being pessimistic?"

"I don’t think so. I think ... if we can keep them from taking Australia, or rendering it impotent, we may even have bottomed out. But right now, our ass is in a crack."

"I heard ... I can’t tell you where . . ."

"Can’t, or won’t?"

"Won’t. I heard that Roosevelt has authorized the launching of B-26 bombers from an aircraft carrier to bomb Japan."

"B-twenty-fives," Pickering corrected him. "The ones they named after General Billy Mitchell. They’re training right now on the Florida Panhandle."

"What do you think about that?"

"I think it’s a good idea. It may not do much real damage, but it will hurt the Japanese ego, and probably make them keep a much larger home defense force than they have at home; and it’s probably going to do wonders for civilian morale here. That’s probably worth the cost."

"What cost?"

"I talked to Jimmy Doolittle. He used to be vice-president of Shell. Very good guy. He left me with the impression he doesn’t really expect to come back."

"Jesus!"

"There are lieutenant colonels and then there are lieutenant colonels," Pickering said.

"You’re talking about the one you buried?"

"You accused me of being cold-blooded."

"OK. I apologize."

"I wish I was," Pickering said. "Cold-blooded, I mean."

"I was going to use my knowledge of Jimmy Doolittle and the B-25s to dazzle you, and get you to tell me about the Marine Raiders."

"Same sort of thing, I think. Roosevelt is dazzled by all things British, and thinks we should have our own commandos. We have to have some kind of military triumph or the public’s morale will go to hell."

"You think that’s all it is? A public-relations stunt, for public morale?"

"I think there’s more, but I don’t find anything wrong with doing something to buttress public morale. And Roosevelt’s at least putting his money where his mouth his. His son Jimmy is executive officer of one of the Raider battalions, the 2nd, now forming at San Diego."

"Tell me about it," Senator Fowler said. "You say you were out in San Diego?"

"After dinner. I didn’t have any lunch."

"You buying?"

"Why not?"

They ate in the hotel’s Grill Room, lamb chops and oven-roast potatoes and a tomato salad, with two bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon.

"Did I tell you," Pickering said, as he selected a Wisconsin Camembert from the display of cheeses, "that the 26thCavalry in the Philippines just shot their horses? They needed them for food."

"Jesus Christ, Flem!" the Senator protested.

"Why don’t I feel guilty about eating all this? Maybe you’re right, Dick. Maybe I really am cold-blooded."

"I don’t know whether you are or not, but that’s the last you get to drink. I know you well enough to know there are times when you should not be drinking, and this is one of those times."

After dinner, Captain Fleming Pickering, USNR, returned to his suite, took a shower, had a nightcap-a large brandy-and went to bed.

Something happened to him that had not happened to him in years. He had an erotic dream; it was so vivid that he remembered it in the morning. He blamed it then on everything that had happened the day before, plus the Camembert, the wine, and the cognac.

He dreamed that Mrs. Ellen Feller, the missionary’s wife, had come into his bedroom wearing nothing but the black lace underwear she had been wearing the day he met her, and then she had taken that off, and then he had done what men do in such circumstances.

(Two)

Office of the Chief of Staff

Headquarters, 2ndJoint Training Force

San Diego, California

21 February 1942

Captain Jack NMI Stecker, USMCR, knocked at the open door of Colonel Lewis T. "Lucky Lew" Harris’s office and waited for permission to enter.

"Come," Colonel Harris said, throwing a pencil down with disgust on his desk. "Why the hell is it, Jack, that whenever you tell somebody to put some simple idea on paper, he uses every big word he ever heard of? And uses them wrong?"

"I don’t know, Sir," Stecker smiled. "Am I the guilty party?"

"No. This piece of crap comes from our beloved adjutant. They’re worse than anybody, which I suppose is why we make them adjutants." He raised his voice: "Sergeant Major!"

The Sergeant Major, a very thin, very tall, leather-skinned man in his late thirties, quickly appeared at the office door.

"Sir?"

"Sergeant Major, would you please give this to the Adjutant? Tell him I don’t understand half of it and that it needs rewriting. Tell him I said he is forbidden to use words of more than two syllables."

"Aye, aye, Sir," the Sergeant Major said, chuckling, winking at Stecker, and taking the clipped-together sheaf of papers from Colonel Harris’s desk. "Sir, I presume the Colonel knows he’s about to break the Adjutant’s heart? He really is proud of this."

"Good," Harris said. "Better than good. Splendid! Tell him I want it in the morning. Anybody who writes crap like that doesn’t deserve any sleep."

"Aye, aye, Sir," the Sergeant Major said, smiling broadly, and left the office.

"Close the door, Jack," Colonel Harris said. Stecker did so. When he turned around, there was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s bourbon and two glasses on Harris’s desk. "A little something to cut the dust of the trail, Jack?"

"It’s a little early for me, Sir."

"We’re wetting down a promotion," Harris said. "And now that I am about to be a general officer, I will decide whether or not it’s a little early for you."

"In that case, General, I would be honored," Stecker said.

"I said ‘about to be a general.’ Not ‘am.’ You listen about as closely as that goddamned Adjutant. You’re going to have to watch that, Jack, now that you’re a field-grade officer."

"Sir?"

"Now I’ve got your attention, don’t I?" Harris said, pleased with himself. He handed Stecker an ex-Kraft Cheese glass, half-full of whiskey.

"Yes, Sir."

"Mud in your eye, Major Stecker," Colonel Harris said.

"I’m a little confused, Sir," Stecker said, as he raised the glass to his mouth and tossed the whiskey down.

"General Riley was on the horn just now," Harris said. He drained his glass and returned the bottle to the drawer before going on. "He said that my name has gone to the Senate for B.G., and presumably, as soon as they can- ifthey can-gather enough of them, sober enough to vote, for a quorum, the orders will be cut."

"It’s well deserved," Stecker said sincerely.

"I’m glad you think so," Harris said softly. "Thank you, Jack."

Harris touched Stecker’s arm in what was, for him, a gesture of deep affection.

Then the tone of his voice changed.

"But we were talking about your promotion, weren’t we, Major Stecker? You owe me a big one for this, Major."

"I didn’t realize that I was even being considered," Stecker said.