Majors do not normally address general officers by their first names, nor mock them, no matter how softly. But the relationship between these two was a bit out of the ordinary. Before they had donned Marine uniforms for the second time in their lives, Jake Dillon, Vice President, Publicity, Metro-Magnum Stu-dios, and Fleming Pickering had been friends.
Pickering shook his head in tolerant resignation, not indignation.
"Shut up, Jake," he said. "I'm serious about this."
"You're embarrassing the Killer," Dillon said, unrepentant, nodding at Lieutenant McCoy. "The next thing you know, he'll be blushing."
"Fuck you, Jake," Lieutenant McCoy snapped unpleasantly.
"You never know when to stop, do you, Jake?" General Pickering said. "You know he hates to be called 'Killer.' "
"Flem, you gave us a job to do, we did it. Leave it at that."
"No, I won't," Pickering said. "As soon as I can find somebody who knows how to fill out the forms, I'm going to do my level best to see that you're all decorated."
"With respect, Sir," McCoy said. "Howard and Koffler deserve a medal, not us."
"The way things are run in The Marine Corps, Lieutenant, generals make decisions like that," Pickering said.
"Yes, Sir."
A loudspeaker went off, harshly but audibly ordering all passengers for the San Diego flight to proceed to the motor whaleboat for boarding of the aircraft.
"Have a nice flight," General Pickering said. "And whether you like it or not, you have my gratitude and my admiration."
He shook hands with McCoy first, and then Dillon. And then he turned to the boyish corporal.
"Easterbrook, you did one hell of a job on Guadalcanal," he said. "Your pictures are probably going to influence this war in ways you can't imagine.
I've told Major Dillon-Jake, listen to me-to make sure the proper people know what you did, and how well you did it."
Corporal Easterbrook blushed.
Finally, Pickering turned to Sergeant Hart.
"It's not too late to change your mind, George," he said. "You still have a priority to get on that airplane, and you certainly deserve a couple of weeks off."
"No, Sir. I'll go to Australia with you, Sir."
"Try not to fall out of the whaleboat, Jake," General Pickering said, and turned and walked out of the passenger lounge.
"Hart's the one who falls out of boats, General," Dillon called after him.
A 1939 Cadillac Fleetwood with civilian license plates was parked outside the building. Pickering got behind the wheel, started the engine, waited for Sergeant Hart to get in, and then drove off. Five hundred yards down the road, he made a sudden U-turn and headed back to the passenger terminal.
"You never know those damned things are airborne until they're air-borne," he said. "Let's wait and see if they really get off."
"Yes, Sir," Sergeant Hart said.
Pickering had several reasons for coming to the Navy base to see the four off. One of them was that he feared that the Navy would ignore their AAAAA travel priority, and give their seats on the plane to some deserving-read high-ranking-Navy officer.
They couldn't do so officially, of course, but in the minds of most people in the Navy, any Marine-not just a lowly corporal-was of far less impor-tance than a fellow sailor with the four stripes of a captain or the solid gold stripes of an admiral on his tunic sleeves. There was far less chance that a "mistake" or an "unfortunate misunderstanding" would occur-leaving an admiral sitting in the seat reserved for Corporal Easterbrook when the plane took off-if the Navy was aware he was being seen off by a Marine general.
Oddly enough, in Pickering's mind, the boyish corporal had the greatest justification for a priority seat to Washington. It was entirely possible that the Secretary of the Navy-for that matter, the President himself-would want to talk to him.
The day before, Major Edward Banning, USMC, had carried still and motion-picture films Easterbrook had shot on Guadalcanal to the States. By now, Banning was either in Washington or soon would be. On his arrival he would brief Secretary Knox and, Pickering believed, the President and his Chief of Staff Admiral William Leahy as well.
A picture was indeed worth a thousand words, and Easterbrook's film showed the situation as it was far better than any thick report could possibly show it. It was impossible to get more than one seat on yesterday's plane, and Pickering decided it had to go to Banning; Easterbrook obviously was not equipped to handle a briefing.
But there would be questions asked today about specific details of the photographs or 16mm film, if not by Roosevelt, Knox, or Leahy, then certainly by Major General Horace W. T. Forrest, the intelligence officer on the staff of the Commandant of the Marine Corps, by Colonel F. L. Rickabee, of the USMC Office of Management Analysis, and by others. These questions could only be answered by the photographer himself, or possibly by Jake Dillon.
On the other hand, there was no real reason why Lieutenant McCoy had to be rushed to Washington. The polite fiction was that he would be useful in helping Dillon and Easterbrook. But the real reason he was going was that Pickering had decided McCoy had a moral right to a seat on the plane. McCoy-and Hart-had paddled ashore from a submarine onto the enemy-held island of Buka, carrying with them a desperately needed radio and some other supplies for a Coastwatcher team that was supplying information con-cerning Japanese sea and air movements critical for the battle of Guadalcanal.
The fact that he had accomplished this mission-which included bringing out with him the two Marine Coastwatchers-without firing a shot in no way diminished the enormous risk he had voluntarily taken. While planning the op-eration, Pickering had privately decided that the operation had one chance in four of succeeding.
In Pickering's mind, if there were forty passengers aboard the huge, four-engine, Consolidated PB2Y-3 Coronado, it was mathematically certain that perhaps ten percent of them-four-were brass hats whose rank, not legiti-mate importance to the war effort, had gotten them a seat. One of the four could wait a day before going home.
Pickering stopped the Cadillac on a wharf from which much of the carnage the Japanese had caused on Battleship Row on December 7, 1941, could be seen, and got from behind the wheel. Hart followed him to the edge of the pier.
As they saw the whaleboats-three of them-approach the huge seaplane, a Navy officer, a lieutenant junior grade, wearing canvas puttees, a steel hel-met, and a.45 pistol suspended from a pistol belt, came trotting down the pier.
We are obviously parked where we are not supposed to park, Sergeant Hart thought, and driving a civilian car where there are supposed to be no civilian cars.
The j.g. slowed when he saw the stars on Pickering's epaulettes and collar points.
He saluted.
"May I help the General, Sir?"
"No, thank you," Pickering said, and gestured over the water. "We're just watching to see if the Coronado gets off."
"General, this is a restricted area. There's not supposed to be any civilian vehicles in this area, Sir."
"Is that so?" Pickering replied. "Well, we won't be long, son."
Hart managed to keep his face straight as he watched the Lieutenant decide what he should do about the situation. He was not at all surprised when the Lieutenant decided to do absolutely nothing but fold his arms on his chest and watch as the passengers entered the airplane from the whaleboats.