W E B Griffin – Corp 06 – Close Combat

Pickering’s physical response came as a total shock to him. His throat tightened. His eyes watered. He was able to keep from sobbing only by an act of massive willpower.

“Fleming’s son, Jean, has eight times been the victor in aerial com-bat,” MacArthur announced. “A warrior in his father’s mold!”

“You must be so proud of him!” she said.

“I am,” Pickering said, surprised that he could speak.

And so goddamned relieved! Thank you, God!

“General Vandegrift did not say to where they have been with-drawn,” MacArthur said. “I suppose I should have asked. Perhaps Espiritu Santo, or Noumea, or here, or New Zealand. Should I send another personal radio?”

“No, Sir. That won’t be necessary. Pluto will either know or can quickly find out.”

And why should I be able to have access to scarce communications facilities when ten thousand other fathers will have to wait until the services in their own good time get around to telling them whether their sons are dead or alive?

Don’t get carried away, Pickering, and kick the goddamn gift horse in the goddamn mouth!

“You said there were two things, General?” Pickering asked.

“Yes, there are,” MacArthur said, and reached to the table beside him and came up with a radio message. “This came in at the same time the other did.”

MacArthur handed him the CINCPAC radio message announcing that Nimitz had relieved Ghormley and appointed Halsey to replace him.

“You saw Admiral Nimitz on your way here,” MacArthur said. “Did he tell you he was thinking about doing something like this?”

It was, Pickering understood, more than a matter of curiosity.

MacArthur wanted to know if Pickering had information that he had not chosen to share with him.

“No, Sir,” Pickering said, meeting MacArthur’s eyes. “He didn’t.”

“Does this surprise you?”

“Admiral Nimitz gave me no indication that he was… dissatis-fied… with Admiral Ghormley,” Pickering said.

“But?”

“But Ghormley seemed… General, you’re putting me on the spot. I dislike criticizing officers who know vastly more about waging war than I do.”

“Entre nous, Fleming,” MacArthur said. “We are friends.”

That was a command, not a request. He wants a reply and I will have to give him one.

And when in doubt, tell the truth.

“General, in the belief it would go no further, Pluto Hon said to me that Admiral Ghormley’s radios of 16 and 17 October were unreasonable, and sounded a little desperate… the ones in which he claimed his forces were totally inadequate and requested tremendous new levels of support. I thought so, too.”

“Absolutely!” MacArthur agreed. “The one thing a commander simply cannot do is appear unsure of himself. Nimitz saw this. He had no choice but to relieve Ghormley; Ghormley gave him none.”

Pickering looked at him but did not reply.

“Relieving an officer, especially if he is someone you have served with and think of as a friend, is one of the most painful responsibilities of command,” MacArthur declared. “It must have been very distressing for Admiral Nimitz.”

He looked for a moment as if he was listening to his own words, and upon hearing them, agreeing with them. He nodded, then smiled.

“But at least he picked the right man,” he said.

“You know Admiral Halsey, Sir?”

“I’ve met him. I know his reputation. But he is apparently someone who immediately takes charge. He has called a conference for the day after tomorrow at Noumea. Vandegrift will be there. And Harmon. And Patch. The Admiral is apparently one of those rare sailors who thinks that sometimes soldiers and Marines may have something to say worth listening to.”

“Douglas!” Jean MacArthur chided. “That’s unkind!”

MacArthur ignored her.

“In the belief that you would find this conference interesting, Fleming, I’ve arranged for a plane to take you there.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Pickering said.

He suddenly understood: MacArthur had not been invited to Admiral Halsey’s conference.

Prince Machiavelli knows that while I would be no more welcome there than he would, or any of his palace guard (Willoughby, for example), they can’t keep me out. And, since we are friends, it is to be expected that on my return, I will report what happened. The wily old sonofabitch!

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