General Harris stared at the ships long enough to reflect (again) that although it appeared to be a considerable armada, it was not large enough to accomplish their mission with a reasonable chance of success. He then made his way down three ladders to what had once been the second of the tourist decks, and through a passageway to cabin D-123, where he knocked at the door.
When there was no response, he put his mouth to^ the slats in the door and called, "Stecker!"
"Come!"
He pushed the door open. Major Jack NMI Stecker, Commanding Officer, 2ndBattalion, 5th Marines, wearing only his skivvies, was sitting on the deck of the tiny cabin beside the narrow single bunk that formed part of the bulkhead.
"Jack, what the hell are you doing?" Harris asked.
Stecker turned and, seeing the General, jumped to his feet.
"At ease, Major," Harris said, just a trifle sarcastically. "What the hell were you doing down there?"
"I was cleaning my piece, Sir," Stecker said, gesturing at the bunk.
Harris went to look. There was a rifle, in pieces, spread out on the bunk.
Harris snorted, and then extended the coffee pitcher.
"I thought you might like some coffee, Jack," he said.
"I’m pretty well coffeed out, Sir."
"Jack. Trust me. You need a cup of coffee."
"Yes, Sir," Stecker said.
Harris set the cups down on a steel shelf, filled each half-full of the mixture of "bore cleaner" and coffee, and handed one to Stecker.
Stecker sipped his suspiciously, smiled, and said, "Yes, Sir, the General is right. This is just what I needed."
Harris smiled back. "We generals are always right, Jack. You should try to remember that. What are you doing with the Garand? And now that I think about it, where the hell did you get it?"
"I found it on post at Quantico, General," Stecker said. "And just as soon as I can find time, I will turn it in to the proper authorities."
Harris snorted. He walked to the bunk and picked up the stripped receiver. His expert eye picked out the signs of accurizing.
"I forgot," he said. "You think this a pretty good weapon, don’t you?"
"It’s a superb weapon," Stecker said. "I’ve shot inch-and-a-half groups at two hundred yards with that one."
"Bullshit."
"No bullshit. And the kid-I shouldn’t call him a kid-Joe Howard. He took a commission, and is now off doing something hush-hush for G-2-the man who did the accuracy job on that one had one that was more accurate than this one."
"You realize that ninety-five percent of the people in the Corps think the Garand is a piece of shit that can never compare to the Springfield?"
"Then ninety-five percent of the people in the Corps are wrong."
"Ninety-five percent of the people in this Amphibious Force think that Guadalcanal is going to be a Cakewalk, a live-fire exercise with a secondary benefit of taking some Japanese territory."
"Ninety-five percent of the people in this Amphibious Force have never heard a shot fired in anger," Stecker said.
"Is that the same thing as saying they’re wrong, too?" Harris asked.
"You’re putting me on the spot," Stecker said uncomfortably.
"That’s why I’m sharing my bore cleaner with you," Harris said. "I want to get you drunk, so you’ll give me a straight answer."
Stecker looked at him without replying.
"Come on, Jack," Harris said. "We go back a long way. I want to know what you’re thinking."
Stecker shrugged, and then asked, "You ever give any thought to why the brass are going ahead with this, when they damned well know we’re not ready?"
"You’re talking about the drill?" Harris asked.
The "drill," the practice landings in the Fiji Islands that the convoy carrying the Amphibious Force had just come from, had been an unqualified disaster. Nothing had gone as it was supposed to.
"That’s part of it, but that’s not what I meant," Stecker said. "The brass knew before the Fiji drill that the LCP(L)s were no fucking good."
There were 408 landing craft in the Amphibious Force. Of these, 308 were designated LCP(L), a thirty-six-foot landing craft with a fixed bow. In other words, when the craft touched shore, personnel aboard would have to exit over the bow and sides, rather than across a droppable ramp. Similarly, supplies would have to be manhandled over the sides. And, of course, LCP(L)s could not discharge vehicles or other heavy cargo onto the beach.
"They’re all we have, Jack. We can’t wait to re-equip with LCP(R)s or LCMs."
Both the thirty-six-foot LCP(R) and the forty-five-foot LCM had droppable ramps. The LCP(R) could discharge over its ramp 75mm and 105mm howitzers and one-ton trucks. The LCM could handle 90mm and five-inch guns and heavier trucks.
"Ever wonder why we can’t?" Stecker asked softly.
"Because the Japanese are almost finished with their air base on Guadalcanal. We can’t afford to let them do that. We have to grab that air base before they make it operational."
"That’s what I mean. The Japanese know how important that air base is. To them. And to us-if we take it away from them and start operating out of it ourselves. So they’re going to fight like hell to keep us from taking it; and if we do, they’re going to fight like hell to take it back."
"That’s what we’re paid to do."
"No cakewalk. No live-fire exercise. An important objective. If it’s important to them, they’re going to be prepared to defend it. We’re going to have three-fourths of our landing barges exposed as the troops try to get over the sides and onto the beach. And once we start manhandling cargo out of those damned boats... Jesus, if they have any artillery at all, or decent mortar men, or, for that matter, just some well-emplaced machine guns, we’re going to lose those boats! No boats, no reinforcements, no ammunition, no rations."
"You don’t sound as if you’re sure we can carry it off," Harris said. "Is that what you think?"
"I wouldn’t say this to anyone but you, but I don’t know. I’ve got some awful good kids, and they’ll try, but balk-courage, if you like-sometimes isn’t enough."
Brigadier General Lewis T. Harris and Major Jack NMI Stecker had known each other for most of their adult lives. They had been in combat all over the Caribbean basin together. Harris didn’t have to recall Stecker’s Medal of Honor for proof of his personal courage. Stecker was no coward. He was calling the upcoming battle for Guadalcanal as he saw it.
Harris was afraid Stecker’s analysis was in the X-ring.
"Have some more coffee, Jack," Harris said.
"No, thank you, Sir."
" ‘No, thank you’? You getting old, Jack? Taken up religion?"
"Yes, Sir, I’m getting old," Stecker replied. He pulled a canvas rucksack from under the mattress of his bunk, and took from it a large pink bottle which bore a label from the Pharmacy, Naval Dispensary, Quantico, Virginia. Under a skull and cross-bones, it read,caution!! highly toxic!! for treatment of athlete’s foot only, if fluid touches eyes or mouth, flood copiously with water and seek immediate mediCAL attention!!
He put the bottle to his mouth and took a healthy pull, then exhaled in appreciation.
Harris chuckled.
"I’m giving some serious thought to religion, General, but I haven’t said anything to the chaplain yet," Stecker said. "Do you have to go, or can we sit around and drink coffee, cure my athlete’s feet, and tell sea stories?"