Why did I stop myself? Am I starting to believe that I’m really a general? And generals do not say anything derogatory about other generals or admirals in the presence of people who are not generals or admirals. Like two young lieutenants, for example.
“He sounds pretty goddamn desperate,” Pickering said. “Is he justified?”
“I don’t think so, Sir,” Pluto said. “My thought when I read that-in particular, the phrase ‘totally inadequate,’ and his obviously unrealistic requests for air support (I don’t think there are ninety operational B17s over here, for example)-is that it’s going to raise some unpleasant questions in the minds of Admiral Nimitz and his staff.”
“Yeah,” Pickering said.
“That’s all I have, Sir, unless you’ve got some questions. Would you like to take a look at the map?”
“No. I’ve sailed those waters,” Pickering said. “And I was on the ‘Canal. Burn it.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The telephone rang. Moore limped quickly across the room to pick it up.
Instead of “hello,” he recited the number. Then he smiled. “One moment, please,” he said, and covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Colonel Huff for General Pickering,” he said. “Is the General available?”
Colonel Sidney Huff was aide-de-camp to the Supreme Commander, South West Pacific Ocean Area.
Pickering pushed himself out of the chair, went to Moore, and took the telephone from him.
“Hello, Sid,” he said. “How are you?”
“The Supreme Commander’s compliments, General Pickering,” Huff said very formally.
“My compliments to the General,” Pickering said, smiling at Moore.
“General MacArthur hopes that General Pickering will be able to join him and Mrs. MacArthur at luncheon.”
“What time, Sid?”
“If it would be convenient for the General, the Supreme Commander customarily takes his luncheon at one, in his quarters.”
“I’ll be there, Sid. Thanks.”
“Thank you, General.”
The phone went dead.
Pickering hung up and looked at Hon.
“Sometimes I have the feeling that Colonel Huff doesn’t approve of me,” he said. “He didn’t welcome me back to Australia.”
“I wonder how he knew you were back, and here?” Moore wondered aloud.
“I think he likes you all right,” Hon said. “It’s that star you’re wearing that’s a burr under his brass hat.”
“Why, Lieutenant Hon. How cynical of you!”
“That’s what I’m being paid for, to be cynical,” Hon said.
[TWO]
Lennon’s Hotel
Brisbane, Australia
1255 Hours 17 October 1942
When Pickering arrived, with Sergeant George Hart at the wheel of the Studebaker President, MacArthur’s Cadillac limousine was parked in front of the hotel.
“We’re putting a show on, George,” Pickering said. “Stop in front and then rush around and open the door for me.”
“I already got the word from Lieutenant Hon, General,” Hart said, smiling at Pickering’s reflection in the rearview mirror.
Colonel Sidney Huff was waiting on the veranda of the sprawling Victorian building. He watched as Hart opened the door and Pickering stepped out; then he waited for Pickering to start up the walk before moving to join him.
He saluted. Pickering returned it and put out his hand.
“Good to see you, Sid,” Pickering said.
“It’s good to see you again, too, Sir,” Huff said. “If you’ll come with me, please, General?”
He led Pickering across the lobby to a waiting elevator. When MacArthur had his headquarters in the Menzies Hotel in Melbourne, Pickering remembered, one of the elevators was reserved for his personal use; it had a sign. This one had no sign, and was presumably available to commoners.
When the elevator door opened on the third floor, a nattily dressed MP staff sergeant rose quickly and came to attention. The chair he was sitting in didn’t seem substantial enough to support his bulk.
Huff led him down the corridor to the door to MacArthur’s suite and pushed it open. Pickering walked through.
“Fleming, my dear fellow,” said the Supreme Commander, South West Pacific Ocean Area, holding his arms wide.
He was in khakis, without a tie. He had a thin, black cigar in his hand. The corncob pipe generally disappeared in the absence of photo-graphers.
“General, it’s good to see you, Sir,” Pickering said, and handed him a package. “They’re not Filipino. Cuban. But I thought you could make do with them.”