Line of Fire

I

[One]

BUKA, SOLOMON ISLANDS

SPRING AND SUMMER 1942

In the early months of 1942, a Major of the U.S. Army Ordnance Corps in Australia was forced to reconsider his long-held belief that he’d passed the point where the Army could surprise him.

The Pacific & Far East Shipping Corporation’s freighter John J. Rogers Jr. docked at Melbourne after a long and perilous voyage from Bremerton, Washington. In addition to desperately needed war matériel, it off-loaded 800 identical, sturdy wooden crates. Each of these was roughly three feet by three feet by four feet, weighed 320 pounds, and was strapped with steel, waterproofed, and otherwise prepared for a long sea voyage.

These crates were loaded aboard trucks and taken to the U.S. Army Melbourne Area Ordnance Depot, a requisitioned warehouse area on the outskirts of the city. Because they were in waterproof packaging and inside storage space was at a premium (and because the Ordnance Corps Major could not believe the shipping manifest), the crates were placed on pallets—each holding four of the crates—and stored outside under canvas tarpaulins.

It was two weeks before the Ordnance Corps Major could find time to locate the shipment, remove the tarpaulin, cut the metal strapping, pry open the crates, then tear off the heavy tar-paper wrapping.

He found (as the manifest said, and indeed as was neatly stenciled onto the crates in inch-high letters) that each of the crates did indeed contain US SABERS, CAVALRY MODEL OF 1912, W/SCABBARDS, 25 EACH.

The sabers and their scabbards were packed five to a layer, and each crate held five layers. It took him a moment to do the arithmetic:

If he had 800 crates, and there were twenty-five cavalry sabers, with scabbards, in each crate, that meant he had 20,000 cavalry sabers, with scabbards. They all looked new; they had probably never been issued. The Ordnance Major was aware that the last horse-cavalry unit in the U.S. Army, the 26th, had been dismounted in the Philippines; their mounts were converted to rations for the starving troops on Bataan; and the cavalrymen went off to fight their last battle as infantrymen.

On the face of it, cavalry sabers were as useless in modern warfare as teats on a boar hog. A lesser man than the Ordnance Corps Major would have simply pulled the tarpaulin back in place and tried to forget both the US SABERS, CAVALRY MODEL OF 1912, W/SCABBARDS and the goddamned moron who used up that valuable-as-gold shipping space sending them all the way to Australia.

But the Ordnance Major was not such a man.

He gave a good deal of thought to how he could make them useful, yet the best he could come up with was to convert them to some kind of fighting knives, perhaps like the trench knives of World War I. On investigation, however, this proved to be impractical. The blades were too heavy and the hilts too awkward.

He’d just about concluded that the sturdy crates the goddamned sabers were packed in had more potential use to the war effort than the sabers, when he had another idea. This one seemed to make sense.

And so a contract was issued to an Australian firm (before the war it had made automobile and truck bumpers) to convert the sabers into Substitute Standard machetes—at a cost of U.S. $2.75 each. The blades were cut down to sixteen inches and portions of the hilts were ground off. The scabbards, meanwhile, were run through a stamping press. In one operation the press cut the scabbard to size and sealed its end.

And so when First Lieutenant Joseph L. Howard, USMCR, Commanding Officer of Detachment A, USMC Special Detachment 14, decided he needed a dozen machetes for a military operation, he was given MACHETES, SUBSTITUTE STANDARD, W/SHEATHS which had begun their military careers as US SABERS, CAVALRY MODEL OF 1912, W/SCABBARDS.

Actually, he got more than a dozen. Lieutenant Howard had had previous experience with the U.S. Army Ordnance Corps (as a sergeant), and he’d learned then that he was lucky to get half—or a quarter—of what he’d requested.

This request proved an exception to that rule. He requisitioned one hundred machetes, and he got one hundred MACHETES, SUBSTITUTE STANDARD, W/SHEATHS.

The mission Lieutenant Howard drew the machetes for involved a parachute drop of both personnel and equipment. Since there were no specially designed cargo containers, or parachutes, available for the equipment (most importantly, shortwave radios), ordinary personnel parachutes had to be adapted.

Cushioning the radios against the shock of landing was rather simply accomplished by wrapping them securely in mattresses.

But that wasn’t the only problem. The standard personnel parachute was designed for a standard soldier carrying normal equipment—that is to say, it could handle a drop weight of 200 to 225 pounds. The mattress-wrapped shortwave radios weighed approximately 110 pounds.

Since lightly loaded parachutes fall more slowly than heavier ones, and thus drift more, Howard’s radios would not fall to earth anywhere near his personnel.

This was a matter of critical concern, because Lieutenant Howard intended to drop upon a small landing area in the mountains of Buka Island.

Approximately thirty miles long and no more than five miles wide, Buka is the northernmost island in the Solomons chain. That places it just north of the much larger Bougainville and 146 nautical miles from the Japanese base at Rabaul on New Britain.

On Buka, there was a Japanese fighter base and a garrison of Japanese troops variously estimated from several hundred to several thousand.

There was additionally a detachment of the Royal Australian Navy’s Coastwatcher Establishment. This consisted of one officer, Sub-Lieutenant Jakob Reeves, RAN Volunteer Reserve, and approximately fifty Other Ranks, all of whom had been recruited from the native population.

Sub-Lieutenant Reeves remained behind when the Japanese occupied Buka; he was provided with a shortwave radio and a small quantity of arms and ammunition; and he was ordered to report on the movement of Japanese ships and aircraft from Rabaul, Bougainville, and of course from Buka.

From the beginning, these reports had been of enormous value for both tactical and planning purposes. But by June 1942, when Lieutenant Howard was preparing his drop, their importance had become even more critical: The United States planned to land on the island of Guadalcanal and to capture and make operational an airfield the Japanese were already building there. The invasion of Guadalcanal was not only the first Allied counterattack in the Pacific War, some considered it to be the campaign that could decide the outcome of the entire war in the Pacific.

Since there were no Allied air bases within fighter range of Guadalcanal, initial aviation support for the invasion of Guadalcanal would fly from aircraft carriers. But launching and recovering aircraft from carriers was a difficult, time-consuming operation, and aviation-fuel supplies were finite. These difficulties could be minimized, however, if the Navy could be informed when Japanese aircraft took off from Rabaul or other nearby bases and headed for the invasion area. That was the function of the Coastwatcher Station on Buka.

Unfortunately, Sub-Lieutenant Reeves’ shortwave radio went off the air during the preparations for the invasion. The Coastwatcher Establishment saw two likely explanations for Reeves’ absence: One, the radio itself had broken down (this was the most hopeful scenario). Or two (and much worse), the Japanese had captured Sub-Lieutenant Reeves.

An overflight of his location, conducted at great risk, returned with aerial photographs of a grassy field. The grass had been stamped down to form the letters RA, for radio. Sub-Lieutenant Reeves needed another radio. Good news, considering the alternative.

USMC Special Detachment 14, whose mission in Australia was to support the Coastwatcher Establishment, had a number of brand-new, state-of-the-art Hallicrafters communications radios; and it would be a fairly easy thing to airdrop one to Sub-Lieutenant Reeves. The problem was that Reeves’ knowledge of radios was minimal. He almost certainly would not know how to set one up and get it operational. Thus, the planners decided to send someone to Buka who could handle such things.

Additionally, the planners felt it would be useful to have a second aircraft spotter on Buka. Not only could Sub-Lieutenant Reeves use the help, but there was the further question of what to do should he become hors de combat from either enemy action or tropical illness—more a certainty than a probability.

It was decided, consequently, to parachute a radio operator-technician into Buka with the radios. Sergeant Steven M. Koffler, USMC, was a parachutist as well as a radio operator-technician. Unfortunately, he couldn’t tell the difference between a bomber and a scout plane, and there was no time to teach him. Neither did Sergeant Koffler have the tropical jungle survival skills he was sure to need.

On the other hand, though Lieutenant Howard was not a parachutist, he not only had the necessary survival skills, he had as a sergeant taught classes in identification of Japanese aircraft and warships. And so Howard volunteered to jump in with Sergeant Koffler and the replacement radios.

When faced with the question of ballast for the cargo parachutes (to bring their drop weight up to the norms for personnel parachutes), Lieutenant Howard suggested small arms and ammunition. For these were heavy, fairly indestructible, and valuable to Ferdinand Six—the radio call sign for Sub-Lieutenant Reeves’ detachment.

But Lieutenant Commander Eric Feldt, Royal Australian Navy Volunteer Reserve, disagreed. Feldt, who was commanding officer of the Coastwatcher Establishment, pointed out that the mission of the Coastwatchers was not to fight the Japanese but to hide from them. Ferdinand was the bull who preferred to sniff flowers rather than fight, he reminded Lieutenant Howard and Major Edward F. Banning, USMC, the commanding officer of USMC Special Detachment 14.

A small quantity of small arms and ammunition should be dropped to replenish losses, he maintained. But what Howard and Koffler certainly needed were machetes. Machetes were not only useful for hacking through the jungle, they made effective—and silent—weapons.

Major Banning deferred to Commander Feldt’s expertise. And the mattress-wrapped radios were ballasted primarily with MACHETES, SUBSTITUTE STANDARD. Their scabbards were left behind.

The airdrop on Buka went off more or less successfully. And Sub-Lieutenant Reeves was on the whole pleased to have what Feldt and Banning sent him. He was, as expected, delighted with his new radios. On the other hand, he entertained early doubts about the wisdom of dropping a pair of sodding Yanks in his sodding lap. He was not on Buka to nursemaid sodding children. One of them didn’t even know enough about parachutes to keep from breaking his arm on landing.

The Other Ranks of Ferdinand Six, however, had no complaints about the drop, and they were especially overjoyed with the MACHETES, SUBSTITUTE STANDARD. Their own machetes were in short supply and worn out, while the new ones were high-quality steel of a more modern and doubtless better design. There were even enough of them to equip the women and the older boys with one. The men, as a general rule of thumb, went about with two.

[Two]

FERDINAND SIX

BUKA, SOLOMON ISLANDS

28 AUGUST 1942

The commanding officer of the U.S. Marine Garrison on Buka Island and the senior representative of His Britannic Majesty’s government there—that is to say, Lieutenant Joe Howard and Sub-Lieutenant Jakob Reeves—elected to locate their command conference at a site where the subjects to be discussed and the decisions made relative thereto would not become immediately known to their respective commands.

They selected for this purpose the tree house, a platform built a hundred feet off the ground in an ancient enormous tree. Large enough for three or four people to stand or sit comfortably, the tree house was their primary observation post. Since it was normally manned from daybreak to dark, as soon as Sub-Lieutenant Reeves finished climbing up the knotted rope, he ordered the man on duty, Petty Officer Ian Bruce, Royal Australian Navy Native Volunteer Reserve, to go catch a nap.

Petty Officer Bruce was armed with a Lee-Enfield Mark I .303 rifle and two MACHETES, SUBSTITUTE STANDARD, and he was wearing a loincloth and what might be described as a canvas kilt. He was a dark-skinned man with a mass of curly hair; his teeth were stained dark and filed into points; and his chest and face were decorated with scar patterns.

Yes, Sir! PO Bruce replied crisply, in Edinburgh-accented English. He and many of his fellows had been educated in a mission school operated by Protestant nuns from Scotland.

He went nimbly down the rope, and then Lieutenant Joe Howard climbed up.

Howard, who wore a three-month-old beard, was dressed in Marine Corps utilities. The trousers had been cut off just over the knees, and the sleeves torn out at the shoulders. He was armed with a Thompson .45 ACP caliber machine gun and what had once been a U.S. Army Cavalry saber.

He found Reeves sitting with his back against the trunk of the tree. He was wearing a battered and torn brimmed uniform cap, an equally soiled khaki uniform tunic, the sleeves of which had been cut off, and khaki shorts and shoes, the uppers of which were spotted with green mold. His hair hung down his neck, and he was wearing a beard even longer than Howard’s. A 9mm Sten submachine gun and a large pair of Ernst Leitz Wetzlar binoculars hung from his neck on web straps.

I passed the distillery on the way here, Reeves said. It’s bubbling merrily.

Sugar we have, salt we don’t, Howard said.

Yes, Reeves agreed. And what do you infer from that?

That we can either die drunk or go get some salt. And maybe some other things.

Reeves chuckled. Despite his initial doubts, he had come to admire Joe Howard since he dropped from the sky three months before. In fact, he’d grown fond of him.

The last time the cannibals attacked a Japanese patrol, Reeves said evenly, they had three hundred people up here for a week.

But they didn’t find us.

They came pretty sodding close.

We need salt, Howard repeated. And we really could use a couple of hundred pounds of rice. Maybe even some canned smoked oysters, some canned crab. Koffler said he would really like to have a Japanese radio. I’m not even mentioning quinine or alcohol or other medicine.

If I were the Japanese commander, and I heard that an outpost of mine had been overrun by cannibals who made off with smoked oysters, medicine, and a radio, I think I’d bloody well question if they were really cannibals.

I think they know, Jake. By now, they must.

And if they suspected that the cannibals were led by an Australian, or for that matter by an American Marine—and I think probably by now they’ve heard us talking to Pearl, which would suggest an American presence—then one thought that would occur to me would be to arrange an ambush for the cannibals the next time they came out of the sodding jungle.

We need salt, Howard said.

You keep saying that, mate.

That’s not debatable.

Reeves shrugged, granting the point.

Which means we have to get some from the Japs. We would get the same reaction from stealing a fifty-pound bag of salt as we would carrying off whatever we find.

The last time we were lucky.

Where does it say you can’t be lucky twice in a row?

In the sodding tables of probability, you jackass! Reeves said, chuckling.

I’ll take Ian Bruce, Howard said. And a dozen men. I can make it back in six days.

No, Reeves said, smiling, but firmly.

Jake, that sort of thing is my specialty.

I know Buka. You don’t, Reeves said. For one thing.

We can’t afford to lose you, Jake. If you weren’t around, the natives would take off, and Christ knows, I wouldn’t blame them.

Precisely my point, Reeves said. Except that they wouldn’t just take off. There would be a debate whether they should convert you to long pig or sell you to the Japanese.

You don’t mean that, Howard said.

About the long pig? Or selling you to the Japanese? Reeves asked. Yes, I do, mate. Both. My use of the word ‘cannibal’ was not to be cute. You don’t think the good nuns put those scars on Ian’s face, do you?

Their eyes met for a moment and then Reeves went on:

We’ll leave Ian Bruce here with Steve Koffler, one or two other men, and most of the women. That’ll keep the station up, and there’ll be enough people to carry things off if the Nips should luck upon them while we’re gone.

Howard thought that over for a minute and then looked at Reeves again.

Ian and Koffler have become friends. We’ll leave Patience behind too. The two of them might just get Koffler off safe in case the Nips do come. Do you disagree?

Though Miss Patience Witherspoon was also educated by the nuns in the mission school, she immediately forgot all they taught her about the Christian virtue of chastity the moment she laid eyes upon Sergeant Steven M. Koffler, USMC. Not only were Patience and Koffler both eighteen years old, she found him startlingly attractive.

Her unabashed interest in Sergeant Koffler had not been reciprocated, possibly because Patience’s teeth were stained dark and filed to a point, and her not-atall-unattractive bosom and stomach, which she did not conceal, were decorated with scar tissue.

Lieutenant Howard did not know, and did not want to know, whether time had changed Koffler’s views about Patience. And if his views had changed, whether she crawled into his bed at night.

But, he realized, Reeves was right again. If the requisitioning mission went bad, or if the Japanese should luck upon this place while they were gone, Ian and Patience were Koffler’s best chance of survival. Perhaps his only chance.

No, you’re right, of course, Howard said.

And of course, with you along with us, we will have the benefit of your warrior skills.

Bullshit.

"I wouldn’t want this to go to your head, old boy, but the chaps are beginning to admire you. Very possibly it’s your beard. Theirs don’t grow as long as ours. But in any event, if we both go, and if something unpleasant should happen to me, I think—I said think—that the chaps would probably come back here with you."

Howard met his eyes.

I was thinking we should leave at first light tomorrow.

No. I think we should leave now. That way we can move the rest of the day and through the night, and then sleep all day tomorrow.

Reeves stood up.

I’ll have a word with Ian, he said. And you can have a word with Koffler.

[Three]

HENDERSON FIELD

GUADALCANAL, SOLOMON ISLANDS

28 AUGUST 1942

The twin-engine, twenty-one-passenger Douglas aircraft known commercially as the DC-3 and affectionately as the Gooneybird was given various other designations by the military services that used it: To the U.S. Army, for instance, it was the C-47; to British Empire forces it was the Dakota; and the U.S. Navy—and so The Marines—called it the R4D.

An hour out of Espiritu Santo for Guadalcanal the crew chief of the MAG-25 (Marine Air Groups consisted of two or usually more Marine aircraft squadrons) R4D came out of the cockpit and made his way past the row of high-priority cargo lashed down the center of the fuselage. At the rear of the cabin, a good-looking, brown-haired, slim, and deeply tanned young man in his middle twenties had made himself a bed on a stack of mailbags.

The other two passengers, a Marine Lieutenant Colonel and an Army Air Corps Captain, both of whom carried with them the equipment, clothing, and weapons specified by regulation for officers assigned to Guadalcanal, were more than a little curious about the young man dozing on the mailbags.

For one thing, he had boarded the aircraft at the very last moment; the pilot had actually shut down one of the engines so the door could be reopened. For another, his only luggage was a bag made out of a pillowcase, the open end tied in a knot. He was wearing khaki trousers and a shirt, the collar points of which were adorned with the silver railroad tracks of a captain, and Marine utility boots, called boondockers. All items of uniform were brand new. In fact, the young Captain had even failed to remove the little inspection and other stickers with which military clothing comes from stock.

The crew chief, a staff sergeant, started to reach for the Captain’s shoulders to wake him, but stopped when the Captain opened his eyes.

Sir, the crew chief said, Major Finch wants you to come forward.

OK, the young Captain said, stretching and then getting to his feet.

He followed the crew chief back up the cabin to the cockpit door. The crew chief opened the door, held it for the Captain, and then motioned him to go first.

The Captain went as far forward as he could go, then squatted down, placing his face level with the Major’s in the pilot’s seat.

You wanted to see me, Sir?

Oh, I got curious. I sort of expected you would come here on your own to say thank you.

I am surprised the Major has forgotten what he learned in Gooneybird transition: ‘Unauthorized visitors to the cockpit are to be discouraged.’

The Major laughed.

Speaking of unauthorized, Charley, how much trouble can I expect to get in for giving you this ride?

None, Sir. I’m still assigned to the squadron. I’m just going home.

Why does that sound too simple? the Major asked. He looked at the copilot, a young first lieutenant. Mr. Geller, say hello to Captain Charley Galloway, of fame and legend.

How do you do, Sir? Lieutenant Geller said, smiling and offering his hand.

You may have noticed, Mr. Geller, what a superb R4D pilot I am...

Yes, Sir, Major Finch, Sir, I have noticed that, Sir, Lieutenant Geller said.

The reason is that my IP was Charley here.

At Fort Benning, Galloway said, smiling, remembering.

We drove the Air Corps nuts, Finch said. "Here I was, a brand-new major, and Sergeant Galloway was teaching me—and ten other Marine officers—how to fly one of these. The Army doesn’t have any flying sergeants."

Lieutenant Geller dutifully laughed.

I think maybe I should have busted my check ride, Finch said. Then maybe I would be flying fighters instead of this.

But tonight you will be back on Espiritu Santo, Galloway said, drinking whiskey with nurses and going to bed in a cot with real sheets.

I understand creature comforts are a little short at Henderson, Finch said.

You haven’t been there? Galloway asked, surprised.

This is my first trip.

"Creature comforts are a little short at Henderson, Galloway said. Let me give you a little protocol: Nice transient copilots, Mr. Geller, pump their own fuel out of the barrels into the tanks."

No ground crews? Finch asked.

And no fuel trucks. What gas there is comes in on High Speed Transports...

What’s a High Speed Transport? Geller asked.

A World War One destroyer with half its boilers removed and converted to troop space, Galloway explained. "High Speed only in the sense that they’re faster than troop transports.

Anyway, gas comes in fifty-five-gallon barrels lashed to the decks. The Navy either loads them into landing barges, or, if time is short, throws them over the side—they float, you know—and then the Marines take over—getting it to shore, off the barges and to the field. The heat and humidity are really nasty. You don’t have to move many fifty-five-gallon barrels of Av-Gas very far before your ass is dragging. So please, Mr. Geller, don’t stand around with your finger up your ass watching somebody else fuel this thing up.

No, Sir, Geller said.

How come there’s no Navy shore parties to handle supplies? Finch asked.

You’ve been in The Corps more than three weeks, Jack, Galloway said. You should know that the Navy doesn’t give The Corps one goddamn thing it doesn’t have to.

That sounds a little bitter, Charley, Finch said. There was just a hint of disapproval in his voice.

"Sailors I get along with pretty well, Galloway said. It’s the Navy I have problems with."

Finch chuckled, then asked, Are you going to tell me why you needed this off-the-manifest ride to Henderson?

Because some Navy two-striper on Espiritu decided that I should get back to Guadalcanal on one of those High Speed Transports.

What’s wrong with that?

I get seasick, Galloway said.

Bullshit.

My executive officer is a brand-new first lieutenant with maybe 350 hours’ total time. And he’s one of my more experienced pilots.

Now that we’re telling the truth, are you all right to fly? Or did you just walk out of the hospital?

I’m all right. I didn’t get hurt when I went in. I got sunburned and dehydrated, that’s all.

Is that straight, Charley?

Yeah, I’m all right.

What happened, Charley?

"I really don’t know. I never saw the guy who got me. A Zero, I’m sure. But I didn’t see him. The engine nacelle started to come off, and then the engine froze. And caught fire. So I remembered what my IP had taught me about how to get out of an F4F and got out."

How long were you in the water?

Overnight. A PT boat picked me up at first light the next morning.

Jesus!

God takes care of fools and drunks, Galloway said. I qualify on both counts.

Geller, Finch noticed, is looking at Galloway as if he was Lazarus just risen from the dead.

Tell me about Henderson, Major Finch asked, sensing that Galloway would welcome a change of subject.

It’s not Pensacola, Galloway replied. The Japs started it, and had it pretty well along when we took it away from them—which is obviously why we went in half-assed the way we did. If they’d gotten it up and running, Jesus Christ! Using captured construction equipment, our guys made it more or less usable.

Why captured construction equipment? Geller asked.

Because the construction equipment the First Marines took with them never got to the beach. It, and their heavy artillery, and even a bunch of Marines, sailed off into the sunset the day after they landed because the Navy didn’t want to risk their precious ships. Right now, at least half of the ration is captured Jap stuff.

My God! Finch said.

Actually, some of it’s not bad, Galloway went on. I mean it’s not just rice. There’s orange and tangerine slices, crab and lobster and shrimp, stuff like that.

What’s the field like? Finch pursued.

Twenty-six hundred feet, Galloway answered. They’re working to lengthen it. It gets muddy when it rains, and it rains every day. We have a lot of accidents on the ground because of the mud.

Dirt? Not pierced-steel planking?

Dirt. And there’s talk—maybe they even started on it—of making another strip for fighters, a couple of hundred yards away.

Galloway suddenly stood up. His legs were getting cramped.

Would you like to sit in here, Sir? Geller asked politely.

No. No, thank you, Galloway said, and then smiled. Tell me, Mr. Geller, have you ever seen a P-400?

What the hell is a P-400? Finch asked.

No, Sir, Geller said.

It used to be the P-39, Galloway said. The story is they renamed it the P-400 because everybody knew the P-39 was no goddamned good. They were supposed to be sent to Russia—

That’s the low-wing Bell with the engine behind the pilot, and with a 20mm cannon firing through the propeller nose? Geller interrupted.

Right. The cannon was supposed to be used against German tanks. But then somebody told them a 20mm bounced off German tanks, so the Russians said, ‘No, thank you.’ So then the British were supposed to get them. They flew just enough of them—one, probably—to learn they were no good. So they said,‘No, thank you,’ too. So they sent them to Guadalcanal.

To the Marines? Geller asked.

No. There’s an Army Air Corps squadron. They have a high-pressure oxygen system, said to be very effective to twenty-five thousand feet, which would be very helpful; the Japanese often come down from Rabaul at high altitude. Except we don’t have the gear to charge the oxygen system, so they can’t fly above twelve, fourteen thousand feet. And aside from that, it’s not a very good airplane in the first place.

Then why the hell are you so anxious to get back to this paradise? Finch asked, without thinking, and was immediately sorry.

The Marine Corps finally did something right and made Galloway a captain and gave him a squadron, Finch thought. He wants to get back because good Marine captains—and Galloway is probably a better captain than he was a tech sergeant—want to be with their squadrons.

Not surprising Finch at all, Galloway ignored the question.

We have pretty good Intelligence, Galloway went on. The Australians left people behind when the Japs started taking all these islands.

I don’t follow you, Charley, Finch said.

They left behind missionaries, government employees, plantation owners, people like that. They commissioned them into the Australian Navy and gave them shortwave radios. Just as soon as the Japs take off, we know about it. And we get en route reports, too. Which gives us enough time to get the Wildcats into the air and at altitude before they get there. The P-400s and the dive bombers—we had thirty Douglas SBD-3s; there were eighteen left the last time I was there—take off and get the hell out of the Japs’ way.

You mean the P-400s are useless?

No. Not at all. They’re useful as hell supporting the First Marine Division. But they can’t get up high enough to attack the Japanese bombers, and they’re no match for the Japs’ Zeroes. So they get out of the way when the Japs have planes in the area. I really feel sorry for those Air Corps guys. The P-400 is the Air Corps version of the Buffalo.

Finch knew all about the Buffalo. It was a shitty airplane. VMF-211 flew them in the Battle of Midway (VMF is the designation for Marine Fighter squadrons). For all practical purposes the squadron had been wiped out. The only survivors were the pilots lucky enough to have been assigned Wildcats.

Galloway lost a lot of buddies with VMF-211 at Midway, he thought. We all did. In the old days, you knew just about every other Marine Aviator.

You want to drive this awhile, Charley? Finch asked as he started to unfasten his seat and shoulder harness. I need to take a leak and stretch my legs.

He got out of his seat and Galloway slid into it. Finch paused to take down a Thermos bottle of coffee from its rack and pour an inch of it into a cup. He drank that. Then he poured more into the cup and leaned over to hand it to Galloway.

Galloway’s hand was on the throttle quadrant. Apparently the synchronization of the engines was not to his satisfaction.

Ordinarily, Finch thought, my ego would be hurt and I would be pissed. But in this case, in the interest of all-around honesty, I will concede that Captain—formerly Tech Sergeant—Charley Galloway has forgotten more about flying the R4D than I know.

Coffee, Charley? he asked, touching Galloway’s shoulder.

Finch brought the R4D in low over the ocean, making a straight-in approach toward Henderson Field, which was more or less at right angles to the beach. He called for wheels down as he crossed the beach, and maintained his shallow angle of descent until he reached the runway itself.

There was no chirp as the wheels touched down, just a sudden rumbling to tell him that he was on the ground.

He chopped the throttles, put the tail on the ground, and applied the brakes, stopping before he reached the control tower, which was to the right of the runway. To his left he saw parts of three hangars, but couldn’t tell if they were damaged or simply under construction.

He saw other signs of damage around. There was an aircraft graveyard to the left. People were cannibalizing parts from wrecks, including the P-400s Galloway talked about.

A FOLLOW ME jeep appeared on the runway, and he followed it toward the control tower. A Marine in the jeep jumped out and showed him where he was to park the airplane.

He spotted a familiar face, or more accurately a familiar hairless head, thick neck, and massive chest belonging to Technical Sergeant Big Steve Oblensky. He was glad to see him. Tech Sergeant Oblensky had been very kind to a very young Lieutenant Finch when he reported to his first squadron. Oblensky’s uniform consisted of utility trousers, boondockers, and a Thompson submachine gun slung from his bare shoulder.

Oblensky, who had more than enough time in The Corps to retire, had been a Flying Sergeant when Major Finch was in junior high school. Long ago he’d busted his flight physical, but had stayed in The Corps as a maintenance sergeant. He had been Maintenance Sergeant of VMF-211, Finch recalled, until Charley Galloway stole him when he formed his VMF-229.

He was not surprised to see Oblensky. Half the crates lashed down the center of the fuselage were emergency shipments of aircraft parts, and Big Steve was not the sort of man to order emergency shipments only to see them diverted by some other maintenance sergeant. Or for that matter, by the MAW Commanding General.

Shut it down, Geller, Finch ordered and got out of his seat.

When he reached the rear door of the aircraft, he saw a sight he never expected to see. Technical Sergeant Oblensky ran up to his squadron commander, Captain Charles M. Galloway. But instead of saluting him, he wrapped his arms around him, lifted him off the ground, and complained, You little bastard, we all thought you was dead!

Put me down, for Christ’s sake, you hairless ape!

Major Finch recalled that Galloway and Oblensky had been in VMF-211 for a long time before the war. Galloway had then been a technical sergeant.

Oblensky set Galloway back on his feet. But emotion overwhelmed him again. He swung his massive fist at Galloway’s arm in a friendly touch, or so he intended. It almost knocked Galloway off his feet.

Goddamn—it’s good to see you!

Christ, watch it, will you? Galloway complained.

But he was smiling, Finch noticed.

Hello, Oblensky, how are you? Finch called as he climbed down the stairs to the ground.

Oblensky looked, and when recognition dawned on his face, he came to attention and threw a very crisp salute.

Major Finch, Sir. It’s good to see you, Sir.

Finch returned the salute.

Oblensky is obviously glad to see me. But not as glad as he is to see Galloway. Whatever the reason, whether because they were sergeants together, or because Charley is just back, literally, from the mouth of death, I’m just a little jealous.

There’s some stuff on board for VMF-229, Oblensky, Finch said as the two shook hands.

I better get it, Oblensky said, then turning to Galloway, he remembered the appropriate military courtesy before he went on. Captain, Ward and Schneider are flying out on this thing. I mean, if you wanted to say hello or so long, or something, Sir.

He pointed to a fly tent erected behind the control tower, between the tower and the tree line. Galloway saw a half dozen jeeps near there, each rigged for stretchers. Several of these had red crosses painted on their hoods.

How bad are they hurt? Galloway asked.

Mr. Schneider’s got a busted ankle and took some hits in the legs. Mr. Ward busted his ribs and took some little shit, shrapnel, glass, whatever, in the face. He’s not so bad off. I don’t know why they’re evacuating him.

And the others? Galloway asked softly.

Mr. Jiggs and Mr. Hawthorne didn’t make it, Sir, Oblensky said. Everybody else is all right.

Galloway turned to Finch.

Thank you for the ride, Sir, he said.

Anytime, Charley, Finch said, putting out his hand. "Be careful. Get to be one of those old, cautious birdmen we hear about."

Galloway freed his hand and saluted, then walked off toward the fly tent.

He found First Lieutenant James G. Ward, USMCR, sitting on a cot, holding his shirt on his lap. He was bare-chested except for the adhesive tape wrapped around his upper torso; his head was wrapped in bandages; the parts of his face that were visible looked like someone had beaten him with a baseball bat; and his neck and shoulders were decorated with a dozen small bandages.

What did that idiot say? He’s not so bad off? What’s bad off, then?

Hello, Jim, Galloway said. I’d ask how you are, except that I’m afraid you’d tell me.

Ward, startled, jumped to his feet.

My God, am I glad to see you!

Yeah, me too, Galloway said.

He was fond of Jim Ward for many reasons...and not just because Jim Ward was responsible for his initial meeting with Mrs. Carolyn Ward McNamara, who was Jim’s aunt. Carolyn’s last letter to Galloway was signed, all of my love, my darling, always, to the end of time. And Galloway felt pretty much the same about her.

These idiots want to evacuate me! Ward said indignantly, gesturing toward a group of medical personnel at the far end of the fly tent.

Really? I wonder why?

All I’ve got is some busted ribs.

Have you looked in a mirror lately?

I took some shards from the windscreen, Ward protested. And I guess I banged my face against the canopy rails or something. But the bandages and the swelling will be gone in a week. He saw the look on Galloway’s face and added indignantly, Go ask them if you don’t believe me.

Where’s Schneider? More importantly, how is Schneider?

First Lieutenant David F. Schneider, USMC, a graduate of the Naval Academy and the nephew of an admiral, had only one redeeming feature, in Galloway’s judgment. The arrogant, self-important little shit had a natural ability to fly airplanes.

He’s in pretty bad shape, Jim Ward said. He broke his ankle. I mean bad. And he took a bullet and some shrapnel in his leg. They’ve been keeping him pretty well doped up.

He pointed to a cot at the far end of the fly tent near where the medical personnel were gathered.

You stay here, Galloway ordered. I’ll ask why you’re being evacuated.

I can fly now, for Christ’s sake.

Yeah, sure you can, Galloway said.

He walked to the foot of Schneider’s cot. Schneider’s face looked wan, and his eyes, though open, seemed to be not quite focused on the canvas overhead. A cast covered his foot and his left leg nearly up to his knee; and his upper right leg was covered with a bandage from his knee to his crotch. Like Ward, he was peppered with small bandages.

Hey, Dave, you awake? Galloway called softly.

Schneider’s eyes finally focused on Galloway and recognition came. He smiled and started to push himself up on the cot.

We heard you were alive, Sir. I’m delighted.

What happened to you?

I took some hits in the leg, Sir. And as I was landing, I found that I was unable to operate the right rudder pedal. I went off the runway and hit a truck, Sir.

How’s the truck? Galloway asked jokingly.

I understand it was one of the trucks the Japanese rendered inoperable, Sir, Schneider said, seriously. I regret that I totaled the aircraft, Sir.

Well, by the time you get back, we’ll have a new one for you.

Yes, Sir.

Anything I can do for you, Dave?

No, Sir. But thank you very much.

I just came from Espiritu Santo, Dave. What they’ll probably do is keep you there no more than a day and then fly you to the new Army General Hospital in Melbourne.

Not to a Navy hospital, Sir? Schneider asked, disappointed.

Galloway knew the reason for Schneider’s disappointment: Ensign Mary Agnes O‘Malley, NNC, might not be serving at the hospital where he was assigned. Mary Agnes O’Malley was a sexual engine who ran most of the time over the red line, and in recent times she liked having Schneider’s hands on her throttle.

Jesus, as doped up as he is, he’s still thinking about Mary Agnes, hoping she’ll be there to nurse him in a way not ordinarily provided. Sorry, Dave, even if you go to a Navy hospital, and Mary Agnes was there with her libido in supercharge, it’ll be some time before you’ll be bouncing around on the sheets again.

Hey, Dave, Galloway said. Hospitals are hospitals.

Yes, Sir.

A small-boned little man in utilities walked up to the cot, swabbed at Schneider’s arm with a cotton ball, and then gave him an injection. At first Galloway thought he was a Navy corpsman, but then he saw a gold oak leaf on the little man’s collar. He was a lieutenant commander.

He was not wearing a Red Cross brassard, Galloway noticed, and there was a web belt with a Colt .45 automatic pistol in its holster dangling from it.

He looked at Galloway coldly and walked away. When Galloway looked down at Schneider again, his eyes were closed. Galloway walked after the doctor.

Got a minute, Doctor?

The little man turned and again looked coldly at Galloway.

Certainly I have a minute. Obviously there is very little for me to do around here. What’s on your mind?

Lieutenant Ward, over there, Galloway said, jerking his thumb toward Ward, doesn’t think he really has to be evacuated.

What are you, his priest or something?

I told him I would ask, Commander, Galloway replied.

OK. He has broken ribs. He can’t fly with broken ribs, OK? His nose is broken, OK? And there is a good chance he has some bone damage in that area. We won’t know until we can get a good EN&T guy to take a good look at him, OK? In addition to that, he has a number of small penetrating wounds, each of which, in this fucking filthy humid environment, is likely to get infected, OK? So I made a decision, Chaplain: Either I let this guy hang around here, and not only get sicker, OK? And take up bed space I’m going to need soon, OK? And eat rations, which we don’t have enough of as it is, OK? Or I could evacuate him, OK? I decided to evacuate him. OK?

OK, Galloway said. Sorry to bother you.

I don’t know how long you’ve been around here, Chaplain, the doctor said. But you better understand that these pilots are all crazy. For example, I just got word that a lunatic in the hospital on Espiritu Santo went AWOL to come back here. The son of a bitch was suffering from exposure and dehydration after he got shot down and floated around in the goddamned ocean for eighteen hours.

You don’t say?

Anything else on your mind, Chaplain?

No, thank you very much, Doctor.

The doctor turned and walked away. Galloway went back to Jim Ward.

What did he say, Skipper?

He said get on the airplane, Mr. Ward. He said unless you do, your wang will turn black and fall off.

Come on, I can fly.

Have a good time in Australia, Jim, Galloway said.

Oh, shit! Jim Ward said, resigned to his fate.

When Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins, USMC, wearing a sweat-soaked tropical areas flight suit and a .45 automatic in a shoulder holster, raised his eyes from his desk, he saw Captain Charles M. Galloway, USMCR, standing at the entrance to his tent. Though Dawkins looked hot and hassled, his voice was conversational, even cordial, when he spoke:

Please come in and have a seat, Captain Galloway, I’ll be with you in just a moment.

Thank you, Sir, Galloway said.

Galloway was worried. He had served under Dawkins for a long time, and he knew Dawkins: When he was really pissed, before he really lowered the boom, he assumed the manner of a friendly uncle.

A full two minutes later, Dawkins looked at him.

"I must confess a certain degree of surprise, Captain Galloway. From the description of your physical condition and mental attitude furnished by the medics on Espiritu Santo, I expected a pathetic physical wreck, eyes blazing with a maniacal conviction that the entire war