“Willoughby and I were saying, just before you came in, that it was amazing the enemy could move as much ammunition as they did to the battle line.”
El Supremo’s beginning to approve of Commander Ohmae; the true test of somebody else’s intelligence is how closely he agrees with you.
“He also faults 17th Army for their, quote, faulty assessment, unquote, of our lines despite, quote, aerial photography showing the enemy had completed a complex, in-depth, perimeter defense of their positions, unquote.”
“Willoughby and I were just talking about that, too. When they struck the lines, they attacked in inadequate force at the wrong place. Isn’t that so, Willoughby?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“We had decided that it was due to lack of adequate intelligence. But if they had adequate aerial photos and ignored them, then that is incompetence.”
“Ohmae also stated, bluntly,” Pickering said, “quote, General Oka was chronically indifferent to his orders, and General Kawaguchi was chronically insubordinate, unquote.”
” ‘Chronically insubordinate’?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“A serious allegation,” MacArthur said thoughtfully. “But it happens, even among general officers. We know that, don’t we, Willoughby. We’ve had our experience with that, haven’t we?”
“Yes, Sir. Unfortunately, we have.”
“General Wainwright,” MacArthur went on, “disobeyed my order to fight on. He apparently decided he had to. But then, with every expectation his own order would be obeyed, he ordered General Sharpe on Mindanao to surrender. General Sharpe had thirty thousand effectives, rations, ammunition, and had no reason to surrender. Yet he remembered his oath-the words ‘to obey the orders of the officers appointed over me’-and hoisted the white flag.”
“It’s a tough call,” Pickering said without thinking.
MacArthur looked at him.
“I was ordered to leave the Philippines, Fleming. Did you know that?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“What I wanted to do was resign my commission and enlist as a private and meet my fate on Bataan….”
By God, he means that!
“It was, as you put it, ‘a tough call.’ But in the end, I had no choice. I had my orders. I obeyed them.”
“Thank God you did,” Willoughby said. “The Army, the nation, needs you.”
He believes that. He is not kissing El Supremo’s ass. He believes it. And he’s right.
MacArthur looked at Willoughby for a long moment. Finally, he spoke.
“Willoughby, I think I would like a doughnut and some fresh coffee,” he said. “Would you see if Sergeant Gomez can accommodate us? Will you have some coffee and a doughnut with us, Fleming?”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you,” General Pickering replied.
[TWO]
Los Angeles Airport
Los Angeles, California
0910 Hours 27 October 1942
Major Jake Dillon, USMCR, waited impatiently behind the waist-high chain-link fence as Transcontinental & Western Airline’s City of
Portland taxied up the ramp and stopped. This was Flight 217, nonstop DC-3 service from San Francisco.
The door opened, and a stewardess appeared in the doorway. (Nice-looking, Jake noticed almost automatically, good facial features, nice boobs, and long, shapely calves.)
The steps were nowhere in sight. Jake looked around impatiently and saw they were being rolled up by hand from a hundred yards away.
They were finally brought up to the door, and passengers began to debark. These were almost entirely men in uniform; but a few self-important-looking civilians with briefcases were mixed in.
A familiar face appeared. It belonged to First Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR. Lieutenant Pickering was in the process of buttoning his unbuttoned blouse and pulling his field scarf up to the proper position. After that he correctly adjusted his fore-and-aft cap, then glanced around until he spotted Dillon, whereupon he waved cheerfully.
He walked over to Dillon. At the last moment, as if just remembering what was expected of him as a Marine officer, he saluted.
“And good morning to you, Sir. And how is the Major this fine, sunny morning?”
Dillon returned the salute.
“Have you been drinking, Pick?” he asked.
“Not ‘drinking,’ Sir, which would suggest that I have been hanging around in saloons. I did, however, dilute that awful canned orange juice they served on the airplane with a little gin.”
“Where’s the others?”
Pickering pointed back toward the airplane, where First Lieutenant William C. Dunn was in intimate conversation with the stewardess. As they watched, she surreptitiously slipped him a matchbook containing her name and telephone number.