"When you see her, you'll know who she is," Howard said seriously. "Let's go get something to eat."
(Four)
HEADQUARTERS MAG-21
HENDERSON FIELD
GUADALCANAL, SOLOMON ISLANDS
1215 HOURS 24 AUGUST 1942
First Lieutenant Henry P. Steadman, USMC, reminded Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins, USMC, Commanding, Marine Air Group 21, of First Lieutenant David F. Schneider, USMC. Like Lieutenant Schneider, Steadman was a graduate of the United States Naval Academy and a brand-new replacement from the States; and the similarity did not please him.
When he saw Steadman with apparently nothing to do sitting on a folding chair just outside the sandbagged frame building which was serving as his headquarters, Lieutenant Colonel Dawkins ordered, "Steadman, pass the word to the pilots there'll be a briefing in ten minutes, will you?"
Lieutenant Steadman rose to his feet, looked baffled, and inquired, "The enlisted men, too, Sir?"
Dawkins's temper escaped.
"No, of course not," he said, with withering sarcasm. "I certainly have no intention of letting any of my flying sergeants in on officer type secrets like who and where we are going to fight."
Steadman's face colored.
"Sorry, Sir."
"You stupid little sonofabitch," Dawkins went on, his anger not a whit diminished, "if you don't know it yet, I'll spell it out for you: There's not a flying sergeant around here who can't fly rings around you. I would cheerfully trade two of your kind for one flying sergeant. You better write that on your goddamned forehead, I don't want you to forget it."
"Yes, Sir. I mean, No, Sir. I won't forget that, Sir."
"Go!" Dawkins ordered, extending a pointed finger at arm's length.
Lieutenant Steadman took off at a trot.
I really shouldn't have blown my cork that way, Dawkins thought, but then reconsidered: That arrogant little asshole needed that. It just may keep him alive through the next couple of days.
Ten minutes later, the pilots of MAG-21 were gathered in the tent that served as the briefing room. Three of the four sides had been rolled up, leaving only one narrow end wall behind the area that in a theater would have been the stage. Here, a bed removed from an otherwise destroyed Japanese Ford truck had been set up as a very rudimentary platform. It faced rows of simple plank benches. On the platform was a tripod made of two-by-fours. The tripod held several maps, now covered by a sheet of oilcloth.
Dawkins stepped into view from behind the canvas wall and made the slight jump onto the "stage."
"Ten-HUT!"
That was Galloway, Dawkins thought. For one thing, the command sounded like it came from a Marine, not from a recent graduate of the University of Michigan Naval ROTC program. And for another, a million years before the war, back when he was Technical Sergeant Galloway of VMF-211, Galloway had always taken pride in being the first to spot the commanding officer and issue the command that brought everybody to their feet and to attention.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Galloway at the rear of the tent, standing beside Lieutenant Bill Dunn and Captain Dale Brannon, U.S. Army Air Corps.
Brannon commanded the somewhat grandiosely named 67th Pursuit Squadron, which had arrived at Henderson 21 August. Brannon's group, more or less informally, was put under MAG-21 's command. It had only five airplanes, Bell P-400s. In Dawkins's opinion the P-400 was only marginally superior to the F2A-3 Buffalo, which was arguably the worst plane either side sent into combat in the Pacific.
Dawkins felt sorry for Brannon and his pilots; they would be going into combat almost literally with one hand tied behind them. Not only was the P-400 inferior to the Zero, but Dawkins had just learned that the oxygen system installed on the P-400s when they were supposed to go to the English could not be serviced by the equipment on Guadalcanal. That would limit them in altitude to maybe 12-13,000 feet. The book said that oxygen should be used over 10,000. The only hope Brannon and his pilots would have was in their superior armament (superior to the F4F, anyway): In addition to six.50 caliber Browning machine guns, the P-400s had a 20mm cannon, which fired through the propeller hub.
A hit with an explosive 20mm projectile was far more lethal than, say, ten hits with a.50 caliber solid nose or tracer bullet.
Dawkins was not surprised, somehow, when he noticed that Brannon and Galloway had taken up with each other.
All the pilots, Marine and Army, were dressed in gray tropical areas Naval aviator flying suits and boondockers. Dawkins would not have been surprised, either, to learn that the Army pilots' flight suits had come to them via Charley Galloway's VMF-229. Just before they left Ewa, a highly excited Navy supply officer at Pearl Harbor appeared, trying to locate a barrel-chested, bald-headed Marine Technical Sergeant who had been drawing supplies-including leather jackets and flight suits-with requisitions that turned out to be fraudulent. Dawkins told him he couldn't call to mind, offhand, if he had a barrel-chested, bald-headed Technical Sergeant or not. But if one turned up, he promised to let the Navy supply officer know right away.
Although there were some.38 Special caliber revolvers around, Galloway and Dunn and most of the others had Model 1911A1 Colt autoloaders in shoulder holsters.
Captain Brannon and his officers were all wearing battered leather-brimmed caps, from which the crown forms had been removed, ostensibly so that earphones could be worn over them. Dawkins recognized them for what they really were. They were pilots' hats, so that no one could mistake their wearers for some pedestrian soldier. Dawkins thought it was a classy idea-though he would not have shared this opinion with Brannon.
Galloway had a utility cap at least four sizes too small for him perched on top of his head. He had pinned to it his gold Naval aviator's wings and his railroad tracks. Dunn and most of the others wore khaki fore-and-aft caps, carrying the Marine insignia and the insignia of their rank.
I wonder what's going to happen to Dunn today? He's going out as Charley's exec, not as just one more airplane driver.
"Take your seats," Dawkins ordered. "Good afternoon, gentlemen."
There was a chorus of "Good afternoon, Sir," from the pilots, as they settled onto the plank benches.
"I am sorry to have to tell you that Captain Frankel is not available. Word has reached me that he was out carousing all night, and will not be sober until much later this afternoon. Consequently, I will handle this part of the briefing," Dawkins announced, straight-faced.
There was another chorus, this time of chuckles. There was, of course, no place to carouse; and even if there were, Captain Tony Frankel, MAG-21's S-2, was an absolute teetotal, and everybody knew it. And most of the pilots knew that Frankel had caught some kind of bug and had a spectacular case of the running shits. The scuttlebutt was that the Doc said he didn't know what it was, although he didn't think it was dysentery. Whatever it was, the Doc had grounded him.
Dawkins grabbed the oilcloth covering the maps and threw it over the back of the tripod.
A map showing the area from New Britain in the North to San Cristobal island, southwest of Guadalcanal, was now visible.
"For those of you who may have been wondering where the U.S. Navy is..." Dawkins began, and waited for the laughter to subside, "I have it on pretty reliable authority that as of midnight last night, Task Force 61 was in this area, about 150 miles east of here."
He used a pointer to show where he meant; it was made of a shortened pool cue, to which was fixed a.3O'O6 cartridge case and bullet.
"Task Force 61 consists of three smaller forces, each grouped around a carrier. Saratoga is out there, and Enterprise. Wasp and her support ships left the area yesterday so she could refuel; no estimate on when she will return.
"And we had, as of 2400 last night, precisely located the Japanese Navy as being right here," Dawkins said and waved the pointer over the map from New Britain to San Cristobal. His pilots correctly interpreted the move to mean that as of 2400 no one had any idea where the Japanese were.
More chuckles.
"At 0910 this morning," Dawkins went on, and his changed tone of voice indicated that the witty opening remarks were now concluded, and this was business, "a Catalina found the aircraft carrier Ryujo and its support vessels right about here. Just to the right-ten, fifteen miles-there's a transport force. Intelligence thinks it is safe to assume that the transports carry troops to be landed on Guadalcanal."
The tent was now dead quiet.
"At 1030 this morning, F4Fs operating off Sara shot down an Emily here. The Saratoga was then twenty miles away, which means the Emily got pretty close before they found it.
"About an hour ago, another Catalina found the Ryujo again, still on a course that would bring her to Guadalcanal. Nobody's said anything, but you don't have to be Admiral Nimitz to guess that Enterprise has mounted a rather extensive search operation, so as not to lose Ryujo. It's just as clear that Sara is preparing a strike. Or vice versa, with Sara looking and Enterprise preparing to launch an attack.
"We also have word that at about half past ten the Japs sent a hell of a lot of airplanes, about a hundred of them, down this way from Rabaul. The word comes from what CINCPAC chooses to call an Intell Source One. That means they think the poop is the straight stuff. I think it probably comes from the people the Australians left behind when the Japs occupied the islands between here and New Britain/New Ireland."
Dawkins paused until the murmur died down, and then went on: "About forty Zeroes escorting thirty Vals, ten Bettys, and fifteen Kates. Now, the odds are that their scouts are going to find Sara or Enterprise, or both, in which case I think we can presume that a good many of them will divert to make their attack. But some of them, maybe even most of them, will continue on to hit us. It's also just possible that they may not find either of our carriers. In that case, they will all come here, probably with all the aircraft Ryujo can launch coming with them.