“They’re obviously having more trouble moving through the mountains than they thought they would,” Moore went on, “especially their artillery. If they had moved it as easily as they thought they could-were ordered to-the attack would have started. But to make it official that they hadn’t would mean a loss of face all around-for Maruyama for having failed, for Hyakutake for having issued an order that has not been obeyed. Et cetera.”
“You’re saying there won’t be an attack?”
“No. They’ll attack,” Pluto said. “If it’s a six-man squad with one mortar. But the attack is not on schedule. And from that I think we can safely infer that when launched it will not be in the strength they anticipated. And I think it will be very uncoordinated….”
“When?”
“Today,” Moore said firmly.
“Tomorrow,” Pluto said, equally firmly.
“And that’s what I tell El Supremo?” Pickering asked.
“It’s our best shot,” Pluto said.
“OK,” Pickering said. “Now, how long will it take you to get Hart up to speed on the machine?”
“Not long. He can already type. Not as long as it will take to get him into an officer’s uniform, and through the paper shuffling at SWPOA.”
“Can I help with that?” Pickering asked.
“Yes, Sir. A word in General Sutherland’s ear…”
“No,” Pickering said, and smiled at him. “You’re a major now, Major. You see what you can do. If you have trouble, then I’ll go to Sutherland.”
“I’m not a major yet,” Pluto said. “It’ll take days for the paperwork to get here from Washington.”
It took a long time for Pickering to reply.
“How long will it take to get an officer’s uniform for Hart?” he asked finally.
“There’s an officer’s sales store,” Moore replied. “No time at all.”
“Come with me, please, Major,” Pickering said, and motioned the others to come along.
He went to a telephone and dialed a number.
“Colonel Huff, this is General Pickering,” he said when there was an answer. “Would you put me through to the Supreme Commander, please?”
There was a slight pause.
“Good morning, General,” Pickering said. “Sir, I would like to ask a personal favor.”
There was another slight pause.
“Sir, I have just received word that Pluto Hon’s long-overdue promotion has come through. I know he would be honored, and I would regard it as a personal favor, if you would pin his new insignia on.”
Another pause, slightly longer.
“Thank you very much, Sir. I very much appreciate your kindness.”
He hung up. He turned to Pluto Hon.
“Do you think anyone would dare ask you for the paperwork after El Supremo has pinned the brass on you himself?”
“No, Sir.”
“Get the right insignia for you and Moore, get a uniform for George. And when you have all that, come back here and get me.”
“We’re all going to El Supremo’s office?” Moore asked. “But you only asked about Pluto.”
“It is an old military tactic, Lieutenant, known as Getting the Camel’s Nose Under the Tent,” General Pickering said. “General MacArthur knows all about it. He’ll understand.”
[TWO]
USMC Public Relations Office
U.S. Post Office Building
Los Angeles, California
0845 Hours 24 October 1942
When he saw Major Homer C. Dillon, USMCR, walk into the outer office and speak to one of the sergeants, the mind of First Lieutenant Richard B. Macklin, USMC, took something like an abrupt lurch. Dillon was almost certainly asking for him. And the Major inspired decidedly mixed emotions in him.
Macklin, a tall, not quite handsome officer, whose tunic was adorned with parachutist’s wings and two rows of ribbons, the most senior of which was the Purple Heart Medal with one oak leaf cluster, had encountered Dillon twice before. Their initial meeting was at the Parachute School at the old Navy Dirigible Base in Lakewood, N.J., before he was ordered to the Pacific. And they met again six weeks previously, in the U.S. Army 4th General Hospital in Melbourne, Australia. Macklin was then recuperating from the wounds he’d received during the invasion of Gavutu. That very day Dillon sent him to the States to participate in the First War Bond Tour (an inspired act on Dillon’s part, Macklin had to admit).