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

"That’s what you call your colored people?"

"Yes, but as I understand it, they’re not like yours."

"How come?"

"Well, yours were taken from Africa and sent to America, as I understand it, and the Aborigines were here when we English arrived."

"Sort of Australian Indians, in other words?"

"I suppose. New South Wales, of course, is named after South Wales, in England."

"So is New Jersey," he said. "Jersey is in England."

"I thought it was an island."

"Well, it could be. I never really paid much attention."

Petty Officer Farnsworth had an unkind thought. Corporal Koffler was a nice enough young man, and not unattractive, but obviously bloody goddamned stupid.

Petty Officer Farnsworth was twenty-three years old, and she had been married for five years to John Andrew Farnsworth, now a sergeant with the Royal Australian Signals Corps somewhere in North Africa.

Before the war, she and John had lived in a newly built house on his family’s sheep ranch. When John had rushed to the sound of the British trumpet-a move that had baffled and enraged her-his family had decided that she would simply shoulder his responsibilities at the ranch in addition to her own. After all, John’s father, brothers, and amazingly fecund sisters reasoned, she had no children to worry about, and One Must Do One’s Part While the Family Hero Is Off Defending King and Country.

Petty Officer Farnsworth, whose Christian name was Daphne, had no intention of becoming a worn-out woman before her time, as the other women of the family either had or were about to. She used the same excuse to get off the ranch as John had: patriotism. When the advertisements for women to join the Royal Australian Navy Women’s Volunteer Reserve had come out, she had announced that enlisting was her duty. Since John was already off fighting for King and Country, she could do no less, especially considering, as everyone kept pointing out, that she had no children to worry about.

The RANWVR had trained her as a typist and assigned her to the Naval Station in Melbourne. She had a job now that she liked, working for Lieutenant Donnelly. There was something different every day. And unlike some of the other officers she had worked for, Lieutenant kept his hands to himself.

Every once in a while she wondered if Donnelly’s gentlemanly behavior was a mixed blessing. Lately she had been wondering about that more and more often, and it bothered her.

"Do all Marines wear boots like that?" she asked.

"No. Just parachutists."

"You’re a parachutist?"

He pointed to his wings.

"Our parachutists wear berets," she said. "Red berets."

"You mean like women?"

My God, how can one young man be so stupid?

"Well, I suppose, yes. But I wouldn’t say that where they could hear me, if I were you."

"I didn’t mean nothing wrong by it, I just wanted to be sure we were talking about the same thing."

"Quite. So you’re a wireless operator?"

"Yes and no."

"Yes and no?"

"Well, I am, but the Marine Corps doesn’t know anything about it."

"Why not?"

"I didn’t tell them, and then when they gave everybody the Morse code test, I made sure I flunked it."

"Why?" Now Daphne Farnsworth was fascinated. John had written a half-dozen times that the worst mistake he’d made in the Army was letting it be known that he could key forty words a minute. From the moment he’d gotten through basic training, the Army had him putting in long days, day after day, as a highspeed wireless telegrapher. He hated it.

"Well, I figured out if they was so short of guys who could copy fifty, sixty words a minute-you don’t learn to do that overnight-they would be working the ass off those who could. Ooops. Sorry about the language."

"That’s all right," Daphne said.

Well, Daphne, you bitchy little lady, you were wrong about this boy. Not only is he smart enough to take Morse faster than John, but he’s smart enough not to let the service hear about it.

"My husband’s a wireless operator," Daphne said. "With the British Eighth Army in Africa. He’s a sergeant, but he hates being a wireless operator."

"I figured somebody as pretty as you would be married," Steve Koffler replied.

Is that the distilled essence of your observations of life, or are you making a pass at me. Corporal Koffler?

"For five years."

"You don’t look that old."

"Thank you."

"You know what I’d really like to do before we go into town?"

Rip my clothes off, and throw me on the floor?

"No."

"I’d like to unpack that Hallicrafters. I’ve never really seen one. Could you read the newspaper, or something?"

"I think I’d rather go with you and see the radio. Or is it classified?"

"What we’re doing is classified. Not the radio."

And now I am curious. What the bloody hell is going on around here? Marine parachutists? Villas in the country? "World’s best wireless" shipped by priority air?

(Two)

Townesville Station

Royal Australian Navy

Townesville, Queensland

24 May 1942

The office of the Commanding Officer, Coastwatcher Service, Royal Australian Navy (code nameFerdinand) was simple, even Spartan. The small room with whitewashed block walls in a tin-roofed building was furnished with a battered desk, several well-worn upholstered chairs, and some battered filing cabinets. A prewar recruiting poster for the Royal Australian Navy was stapled to one wall. On the wall behind the desk was an unpainted sheet of plywood, crudely hinged on top, that Major Ed Banning, USMC, immediately decided covered a map, or maps.

The Officer Commanding, Lieutenant Commander Eric A. Feldt, Royal Australian Navy, was a tall, thin, dark-eyed, and dark-haired man. He was not at all glad to see Banning, or the letter he’d brought from Admiral Brewer; and he was making absolutely no attempt to conceal this.

"Nothing personal, Major," he said finally, looking up at Banning from behind the desk. "I should have bloody well known this would be the next step."

"Sir?" Banning replied. He was standing with his hands locked behind him, more or less in the at-ease position.

"This," Feldt said, waving Admiral Brewer’s letter. "You’re not the first American to show up here. I ran the others off. I should have known somebody would sooner or later go over my head."

"Sir," Banning said, "let me make it clear that all I want to do here is help you in any way I can."

"Help me? How the hell could you possibly help me?"

"You would have to tell me that, Sir."

"What do you know about this area of the world?"

Banning took a chance: "I noticed you drive on the wrong side of the road, Sir."

It was not the reply Commander Feldt expected. He looked carefully at Banning; and after a very long moment, there was the hint of a smile.

"I was making reference, Major, to the waters in the area of the Bismarck Archipelago."

"Absolutely nothing, Sir."

"Well, that’s an improvement over the last one. He told me with a straight face that he had studied the charts."

"Sir, my lack of knowledge is so overwhelming that I don’t even know what’s wrong with studying the charts."

"Well, for your general information, Major, there are very few charts, and the ones that do exist are notoriously inaccurate."

"Thank you, Sir."

"I don’t suppose that you’re any kind of an expert concerning shortwave wireless, either, are you, Major?"

"No, Sir. I know a little less about shortwave radios than I do about the Bismarck Archipelago."

There was again a vague hint of a smile.

"I know about your game baseball, Major. I know that the rule is three strikes and you’re out. You now have two strikes against you."

"I’m sorry to hear that, Sir."