"Aye, aye, Sir."
Their eyes met briefly, but long enough for Pickering to understand that Vandergrift shared his opinion that Division Intelligence Officers should not shoulder rifles and go off" into the boondocks like second lieutenants. And there was confirmation, too, of Pickering's conviction that if there was only the opportunity, he and Vandergrift could become friends.
(Four)
G-2 SECTION
HEADQUARTERS, 1ST MARINE DIVISION
GUADALCANAL
2250 HOURS 13 AUGUST 1942
Major Jake Dillon, USMCR, a Leica 35mm camera suspended around his neck, a Thompson.45 caliber submachine gun cradled in his arm, pushed aside the canvas black-out flap and stepped into the G-2 section.
"Where can I find Captain Pickering?" he demanded of the Marine buck sergeant sitting by the three field telephones on a folding wooden desk.
A very tall, very thin Marine with sergeant's stripes painted on the sleeve of his utility jacket followed Dillon into the room. He was unarmed, and looked haggard and shaken, shading his eyes against the sudden brightness of the hissing Coleman lanterns.
The Marine sergeant started to rise to his feet. Dillon waved him back in his chair.
"The Captain's in there, Sir," he said, pointing to the map room. "I think he's asleep."
Dillon motioned for the sergeant who had come with him to follow him. Then he pushed the canvas flap aside.
Captain Fleming Pickering, USNR, was not only asleep, he was snoring. He was fully dressed, except for his boondockers, which were on the floor beside him. Next to the boondockers was a.45 Colt automatic pistol, the hammer cocked. His Springfield rifle hung from its sling on a length of steel pipe near his head.
His bed was two shelter halves laid on communications wire laced between more steel piping. A Coleman lantern hissed in the corner of the room.
Jake Dillon looked quickly around the room, walked quickly to the "bed," and placed his foot on Pickering's pistol.
"Flem!" he called. He immediately had proof that stepping on the pistol had been the prudent thing to do. It was the first thing Pickering reached for.
"It's me. Jake Dillon."
"What the hell do you want?" Pickering asked, a long way from graciously. He stretched a moment, and then sat up, swinging his feet to the floor and reaching for his boondockers. "What time is it?"
"Nearly eleven," Dillon replied, then checked his watch and corrected himself. "Ten-fifty."
Pickering looked at the sergeant.
"This is Sergeant Sellers, Flem," Dillon said. "He's one of mine."
Pickering nodded at the sergeant curtly.
"He was with Goettge," Dillon added.
Pickering's face lit up with interest.
"You were with Colonel Goettge, Sergeant? Where is he?"
"He's dead, Sir. Just about everybody is dead," the sergeant said.
"Christ!" Pickering said softly. "Everybody?"
The sergeant nodded dazedly.
"Just about everybody," he said.
"I thought you had better hear this, Flem, right away," Dillon said.
Pickering looked at Sergeant Sellers and saw in his face- especially in his eyes-the absent look that comes into men's eyes when they have seen something horrifying.
This guy is right on the edge of shock!
Pickering reached under his commo wire and shelter halves bed and came out with a musette bag. He opened the straps and took from it a bottle of Old Grouse scotch, thickly padded with bath towels. He took the top off and extended it wordlessly to Sergeant Sellers.
Sellers looked at it for a moment before somewhat dreamily reaching for it and putting it to his lips. He took a healthy pull and then coughed and then handed the bottle back to Pickering.
"You need some of this, Jake?" Pickering asked.
Resisting the temptation to reach for the bottle, Dillon shook his head no. Liquor, like everything else, was in short supply on the island.
"Sure?"
Dillon reached for the bottle and took a sip.
Pickering took the bottle from him, and began to wrap it in the towels again.
"You were with Colonel Goettge's patrol, Sergeant?" he asked, gently.
"Yes, Sir."
"How did that happen, Jake?"
"I heard about the patrol and told Goettge I'd like to send one of my people along. He said, 'sure.' "
Pickering had a sudden, furious thought: Was that simple stupidity, or did Goettge want to make sure his Errol Flynn-John Wayne heroics were properly photographed for posterity?
He immediately regretted the snap decision: There you go again, Pickering, from all your vast experience as a corporal twenty-odd years ago, judging a man who spent that much time learning his profession. Who the hell do you think you are?
"Can you tell me about the patrol, Sergeant? You say you're just back?"
"Yes, Sir," Sergeant Sellers replied, and then fell silent.
"Start from the beginning, why don't you? You went with Colonel Goettge on the ramp boat from Kukum?"