"You swam back?"
"Yes, Sir. We ran into a Jap-I think he was as lost as we were-and Arndt killed him. And then we found a boat and paddled most of the way back."
"Most of the way?"
"Sergeant Arndt thought we would probably get shot by our own guys, so we paddled out to one of the landing boats we knew was anchored off shore, and then we got them to start it up and take us in."
"Where is Sergeant Arndt now?"
"They took him to the 5th Marines Command Post, Sir."
"I was there, Flem," Jake Dillon said. "I thought you had better hear this, so I brought him here."
"Yeah," Pickering said.
He looked at Sergeant Sellers.
"Is that about it, Sergeant? Is there anything else?"
Sellers met his eyes but didn't speak for a moment.
"Sir, as we were swimming away," he said finally, hollow voiced, "we could make out... the Japs came out of the boondocks, Sir, from the coconut trees and the other side of them. They... They went after the people on the beach, Sir. Not only with rifles and pistols. I mean, they were using swords. We could see the swords, reflections from them, I mean. And we could hear our guys screaming."
From a remote portion of his brain, dimmed by more than two decades, and intentionally hidden on top of that, Pickering's memory brought forth the sound of the screams men made when their bodies were violated by sharpened steel. Some of the Marines at Belleau Wood, Corporal Fleming Pickering among them, had armed themselves with intrenching shovels. They sharpened the sides with sharpening stones.
These had been more effective than the issue bayonets and trench knives.
"Sergeant," Pickering said after a moment, "I'm going to leave you here for a while. Lie down on my bed. Help yourself to some of the whiskey, if you want. But I think that some other officers will want to talk to you, so go easy with the whiskey."
That's so much bullshit. Debriefing should be performed by Intelligence Officers. All of ours are now dead.
"Jake, you stay with him. I'm going to see General Vandergrift."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
Chapter Sixteen
(One)
HEADQUARTERS, 1ST MARINE DIVISION
GUADALCANAL
2305 HOURS 12 AUGUST 1942
"I'd like to see the General, please," Captain Fleming Pickering said to the sergeant in the Division Command Post.
"He's in there, Sir," the sergeant said, pointing, "with Colonel Hunt. I'll see if he can see you."
Colonel Guy Hunt was the regimental commander of the 5th Marines.
If he's here, Pickering reasoned, he knows what has happened.
"Keep your seat, Sergeant," Pickering said, and walked into Vandergrift's office.
Both Hunt and Vandergrift looked with annoyance at Pickering when he walked in. Officers, even Navy Captains, do not enter the "office" of the commanding general of the 1st Marine Division without permission.
Vandergrift met Pickering's eyes.
"For reasons I suspect you already know, Captain," Vandergrift said after a moment, "please consider yourself the acting G-2 of this division."
Oh, shit! I am no more qualified to be the Division G-2 than I am to flap my wings and fly.
"Aye, aye, Sir."
"I know you know Colonel Hunt, Pickering. Do you know Marine Gunner Rust?" (Marine Gunners were almost always veteran Master Gunnery Sergeants promoted to warrant officer rank.)
"No, Sir."
"Rust, this is Captain Pickering. He and Jack NMI Stecker were at Belleau Wood together."
"I know the captain by reputation," Rust said and gave Pickering his hand.
"How much do you know about what's happened to Goettge's patrol, Pickering?" Vandergrift asked.
"I just finished talking to Sergeant Sellers, Sir. He swam back with Sergeant Arndt."
"Sellers?" Master Gunner Rust asked.
"He's one of Major Dillon's combat correspondents," Pickering explained.
"Christ, another feather merchant who went along!" Rust exploded.
"A technician, maybe," Pickering heard himself say, angrily. "Or a specialist. But feather merchants, in my book, are those who head in the other direction from the sound of the guns."
Rust glowered at Pickering for a moment, and then shrugged.
"I beg the captain's pardon," Rust said.
"Not mine," Pickering said. "I know I'm a feather merchant. But that Four-Months-in-the-Corps Hollywood photographer has no apologies to make for his behavior on this patrol."
Pickering glanced at Vandergrift and found the general's serious eyes on his.
"Speaking of this patrol, Pickering," Vandergrift said, "we were just discussing the possibility of sending a patrol out to look for survivors. What's your feeling about that?"
"Sir, I don't feel qualified to..."