In Danger's Path (72 page)

“They shine boondockers?” Pickering asked incredulously.

“Their version, yes, sir. And what we have is boondockers. I didn't think to pack puttees.”

“
Good
thinking. I didn't wear puttees on Guadalcanal, and I'm not going to wear them here. Can you get us, do you think, some of the Army shoes?”

“Aye, aye, sir, I'll get us some.”

“In the meantime, we have boondockers?”

“Yes, sir,” Hart said, and went to Pickering's luggage. As he bent over it, Pickering saw that he had a Colt Model 1911A1 .45 pistol in the small of his back.

“What happened to your .38, George?” Pickering asked.

“I've got it, sir. But General Rickabee said I was to carry a .45 once we got here.”

“And did General Rickabee tell you how he thinks I should arm myself?”

“Not exactly, sir,” Hart said. “But he did send this along, and asked me to show you how it works.”

Hart stood up with a pair of Marine Corps boondockers in one hand and a Colt 1911A1 .45 pistol in a shiny leather shoulder holster in the other.

“For your information, Lieutenant, I qualified as Expert with the .45 when I was younger than you are now.”

“I think he meant the shoulder holster, sir.”

“I've never worn one,” Pickering said. “I think it would make me feel like a gangster.”

“I also have a regular holster and a web pistol belt for you, sir.”

“You're not using either,” Pickering said.

“You can only do this for a couple of hours,” Hart said, patting the .45 in the small of his back. “And even then, sometimes it's uncomfortable. I've got a shoulder holster for it.”

“Okay, I'm convinced. Show me about the shoulder holster.”

“General Rickabee told me he got these from the Secret Service, sir,” Hart said. “The pistol is held by a leather-covered spring. All you have to do is pull on it to get it out.” He demonstrated by pulling the pistol from the holster and laying it on the bed.

“And it gets some support from a clip on your belt,” he went on, “as well as the strap over your shoulder. The weight is distributed.” Hart adjusted the various clips and springs and buckles until the holster fit Pickering's body. Then he picked up the pistol and ejected the magazine. Next he worked the action to make sure the chamber was empty, then reinserted the magazine and handed the pistol to Pickering.

“Seven rounds in the magazine, sir,” he said. “The chamber is empty.”

“Thank you, George,” Pickering said. He put the pistol in the holster, took it out again, then put it back. He waved his arms around to see how the shoulder holster fit, and smiled at Hart. “Very nice,” he said.

After that, he started to take the holster off, looking for the snap holding the bottom of the holster to his waist belt.

“Why don't you keep it on, sir?” Hart asked, too politely. “See how it fits after a couple of hours? Get used to it.”

A very clear image of the voice of Brigadier General Fritz Rickabee popped into General Pickering's brain. “
And you make goddamn sure Pickering wears it, Hart, I don't care how
.”

“If you think I should, George, why not?” Pickering said.

Hart's relief showed on his face.

Pickering sat down on the bed. “Toss me the boondockers, and then we'll go face the lion in his den,” Pickering said.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Did Colonel Banning show up?”

“No, sir.”

“Don't take offense, George, but couldn't you use a bath?”

“There's not time, sir. You heard what General Albright said about getting to see General Stillwell as quickly as possible.”

“Fuck General Stillwell,” Pickering said. “Take a shower, George.”

Hart looked at him in surprise.

“I will deny under oath that I said that,” Pickering said.

“Said what, sir?” Hart said. “And now, with the General's permission, I think I'll have a shower and change into a clean uniform.”

[THREE]
Office of the Commanding General
United States Military Mission to China
Chungking, China
1625 7 April 1943

Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, and Second Lieutenant George F. Hart, USMCR, freshly shaved and in clean—if somewhat mussed—uniforms marched into the office of General Joseph Stillwell, USA, and saluted in front of his desk. “Brigadier General Pickering, sir,” he said. “Thank you for seeing me.”

Another officer was in the room, an Army colonel, dressed like General Stillwell, in a belted olive-drab jacket—which to Pickering looked like something a white hunter in Africa would wear—over a tieless khaki shirt. Both officers wore the insignia of their rank on their collar points, but not on the epaulets of their jackets.

As Pickering entered, the Colonel rose out of the chair beside Stillwell's desk.

Stillwell returned Pickering's salute with a wave in the general direction of his forehead. He was a trim, lean, sharp-featured man in his middle fifties. He examined Pickering coldly and very carefully for a very long moment—long enough to give Pickering cause to worry that the meeting was not going to go well. “I left word at the airfield that I wanted to see you immediately upon your arrival,” he said.

“If I have kept the General waiting, I apologize.”

“I understand you traveled here by B-17?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You must be a very important man, General,” Stillwell said finally. “Washington tells me they don't have enough B-17s at the moment to send here. And I know for a fact that General MacArthur has bitterly complained he doesn't have nearly as many as he feels he needs. And yet General MacArthur—who is known for his reluctance to divert assets—seems to have seen fit, in your case, to provide one to fly you here.”

Pickering could not think of any reply he could make.

“You may stand at ease, gentlemen,” Stillwell said.

“Thank you, sir,” Pickering said. He and Hart assumed a position that was closer to Parade Rest than At Ease. “Sir, this is my aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Hart.”

Stillwell nodded at Hart.

“This is Colonel Easterbrook,” he said. “He's my IG, and my son-in-law.”

Easterbrook walked over to Pickering, and they shook hands without speaking. Easterbrook actually smiled at Hart.

To show him, no doubt, that he doesn't believe in guilt by association
.

“I'd like to have Colonel Easterbrook sit in on our conversation, General. Is that all right with you?” Stillwell asked, his tone making it clear that he would be surprised by any negative response.

“Sir, with respect, there are some things we have to talk about that I am not at liberty to discuss in Colonel Easterbrook's presence,” Pickering said.

Stillwell's pale face colored, and he met Pickering's eyes for a long moment. Finally, he shrugged.

“Ernie, get yourself a cup of coffee,” he ordered. “And take the lieutenant with you.”

“Yes, sir,” Colonel Easterbrook said, and with Hart trailing him, left the room.

“Frankly, General, you're not what I expected,” Stillwell said when the door had closed behind Easterbrook and Hart. “When General Marshall informed me you were coming, I got out my Navy Register to look you up. You don't seem to be listed therein, General.”

In peacetime, the Navy Register, issued annually, provided a brief biography of every officer in the Naval Service, which of course included the Marine Corps. The biographies included the dates of promotion, assignments, and schooling. Pickering had subscribed to it for years, both to keep track of his World War I friends who had stayed in the Corps, and to identify Navy officers who had some sort of business with Pacific & Far East Shipping.

“I don't believe I am, sir,” Pickering said.

“So I went from that—the reputation of the OSS precedes you, unfortunately…”

Oh, Jesus, this is really going to be bad
.

He doesn't like the OSS any more than Douglas MacArthur or Nimitz does
.

“…to the presumption that I was about to be visited by one of Colonel Donovan's—what is it they call them?—Twelve Disciples? A distinguished member of the business community, perhaps. Or an academic. A
civilian
given a brevet rank as a general officer to better carry out his clandestine intelligence duties…”

“I must confess, sir, that's pretty close to the truth,” Pickering said.

“Then that Navy Cross on your chest is part of—what shall I say?—your disguise? The Navy Cross and the Purple Heart with how many clusters?”

“I am wearing no decoration to which I am not entitled,” Pickering said.

Pickering's quietly cold—even angry—tone of voice penetrated Stillwell's contemptuous rage.

“That's your Navy Cross?” he asked dubiously.

“Yes, sir.”

“The Navy Cross isn't passed out with the rations,” Stillwell said. “Where'd you get it?”

“In France, sir. At Château-Thierry.”

“And you were wounded four times in France?”

“Three times in France, sir. Once in this war.”

“Where in this war?”

“I was aboard a destroyer, sir, between Guadalcanal and Espíritu Santo. We were hit by a Japanese bomber.”

“You were on Guadalcanal?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Doing what?”

“I was filling in as G-2 of the First Marine Division, sir. Until a replacement could be sent in to replace the G-2 who was killed in action.”

“And the Silver Star? Where'd you get that?”

“Aboard the destroyer.”

“Why?”

“I assumed command when her captain was killed, sir. We got the Jap who bombed us.”

“There's more to it than that,” Stillwell said. He put what he thought of as two and two together. “You didn't happen to be wounded when you took command?”

“Yes, sir, I'd been hit.”

“Where did you learn to command a destroyer?”

“I'm a master mariner, sir. That's what I did before I came back in the Corps.”

“That adds up to two things, General,” Stillwell said. “First, that I owe you an apology for thinking what I did.”

“No apology is necessary, sir.”

“And also, as someone used to exercising command, that you should understand how I felt when General Marshall ordered me to place in arrest-to-quarters two general officers in whose professional ability and character I have great confidence. One of whom has been a friend for years.”

“I'm sure it was distasteful sir,” Pickering said.

“I'm a soldier. I comply with whatever orders I am given. Even orders I consider grossly unjust and stupid. But I don't have to pretend I like it, and I won't.”

“The decision to relieve Generals Dempsey and Newley, sir, was made by the chief of staff to the President. I had nothing to do with it, sir, but I must tell you frankly that I wholly agree with it.”

“You don't really think, do you, General, that the Japanese are unaware we're reading their messages?”

“I can only hope they are,” Pickering said.

“There is really no such thing as a military secret. You should know that.”

“I respectfully beg to disagree, sir.
MAGIC, SO
far as anyone knows, has never been compromised.”

“Until General Dempsey compromised it, you mean?”

“We have no reason, at this point, to know if it was compromised by General Dempsey or not, sir.”

“Then why was I ordered to place him and his deputy—another fine officer—in arrest-to-quarters?”

“I have an opinion, sir. That's all.”

“All right, in your opinion.”

“He was tainted by those who did act in a manner that made compromise a real possibility. He learned about it, and he should not have. I think it's entirely possible that Admiral Leahy, or General Marshall, wanted to make an example of him. And of General Newley.”

“
Pour l'encouragement de les autres?
” Stillwell quoted sarcastically.

“
Oui, mon général
,” Pickering replied.

“You take my meaning? You remember in France, in the First War, when certain regiments mutinied, the French shot every tenth man in those regiments, innocent men, to ‘encourage the others'?”

“Yes, sir. I know that happened.”

“Would something like that have ‘encouraged' you, Pickering?”