"Does General MacArthur have that yet?"
"He and Mrs. MacArthur are having lunch with the Prime Minister. One of the crypto officers is on his way over there with it."
Pickering grunted. "What brings you here, Moore?"
"He has a message for me," Banning answered for him. "Let's have it, Sergeant."
"The airfield at Lunga Point is being built by the 11th and 23rd Pioneers, IJN. Estimated strength 450. They are equipped with bulldozers, rock crushers, trucks, and other engineer equipment," Moore recited, and added, "Commander Feldt says 'that's as good as gold.' "
Pickering snorted. "Repeat that, please," he said.
Moore did so.
"What can they accomplish in a month, five weeks?" Pickering asked.
"They can probably have it ready for fighters," Banning replied. "I don't know about bombers."
"They already have float mounted Zeroes on Tulagi," Pickering said thoughtfully. Then he looked at Moore. "You'd better get back to driving Colonel Goettge around," he said. "I don't have to tell you, do I, that Colonel Goettge is not to know about this? Or what you just relayed from Commander Feldt?"
"No, Sir," Moore said. He started to walk out of the room.
"Moore!" Banning called, and Moore turned. Banning held out a thin stack of envelopes to him. "Mail call. It came in on this morning's courier."
"Thank you, Sir."
In the elevator en route to the lobby, Moore thumbed through the half dozen envelopes. There were two letters from his mother; one each from his two sisters; one from Uncle Bill; and one with the return address, Apartment "C", 106 Rittenhouse Square, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
His heart jumped. He resisted the temptation to tear Barbara's letter open right there.
I'll save it until I'm alone.
He raised it to his nose and thought he could smell, ever so faintly, Barbara's perfume and then he put the letters in the inside pocket of his uniform jacket.
He walked out of the Menzies Hotel, got in the Studebaker, and drove back to where he was supposed to be waiting for Colonel Goettge and Major Dillon.
They were outside, waiting for him, and Colonel Goettge was visibly annoyed that he had been kept waiting.
"Sergeant," Goettge said, somewhat snappishly, "I thought that you were aware I have a luncheon appointment with Colonel Willoughby."
"Sorry, Sir," Moore said. "I had to do something for Major Banning."
"So we have been informed," Goettge said, as he got in the car. Moore closed the door after him and drove back to the Menzies Hotel.
"Don't disappear again without letting me know," Colonel Goettge said, as Moore held the rear door open for him.
"No, Sir," Moore said.
Moore watched the two of them disappear into the lobby and then took the stack of envelopes from his pocket. He was hungry and knew that he should try to eat, but that could wait.
He carefully opened the letter from Barbara, sniffing it again for a smell of her perfume, and then unfolded it. It was brief and to the point:
Philadelphia, June 23, 1942
Dear John,
There is no easy way to break this to you, so here goes: My husband and I have reconciled.
I'm sure, when you think about it, that you will realize this is the best thing for all
concerned. And I'm sure you will understand why I have to ask you not to write to me.
You will be in my prayers, and I will never forget you.
Barbara.
He felt a chill. He read the letter again, then very deliberately took his Zippo from his pocket and set the letter on fire, holding it by one corner until it became too hot, and then dropping it on the floorboard, wondering, but not caring, if it was going to set the carpet on fire.
Then he banged his head on the steering wheel until the tears came.
(Two)
AOTEA QUAY
WELLINGTON, NEW ZEALAND 5 JULY 1942
It was cold, windy, and raining hard on the Quay, and Major Jake Dillon's allegedly rainproof raincoat was soaked through.
What he faced, he thought more than a little bitterly, was one hell of a challenge for a flack. Even a flack like him... The Hollywood Reporter had once run a story about the gang that showed up every Saturday at Darryl Zanuck's polo field. The cut line under a picture of Jake Dillon and Clark Gable on their ponies read, "The King of the Movies and the King of the Flacks Playing the Sport of Kings."
For once, Jake Dillon thought at the time, the Reporter had stuck pretty close to the facts. He hoped there was still some truth in the line about him... The King of Flacks would need every bit of his royal Hollywood experience if he was going to make a success of what he had in mind to do:
He was going to put together a little movie about the Marine invasion of Bukavu, Tulagi, and Guadalcanal. He'd made the decision solely on his own authority; nothing about it was put on paper; and he didn't tell anyone about it except his cameramen.
His film would come in addition to the footage the combat cameramen shot when the invasion was actually in progress. As soon as possible, that would be sent undeveloped to Washington, where somebody else would soup it, screen it, and do whatever they decided to do with it, passing it out to the newsreel companies and whatever.
What Jake Dillon had in mind was to have his people shoot newsreel feature stuff-as opposed to hard news. The emphasis would be on the ordinary enlisted Marine. They'd follow the 1st Division as the Division prepared to go to the Solomons, and then of course, they'd be with them when they got there.
He had a number of scenes in mind. Training shots, primarily. Life in tent city here in New Zealand. Life in the transports en route to the rehearsal in the Fiji Islands, and then as they sailed for the Solomons, and then after they landed. Human interest stuff.
In point of actual fact, it would be the first movie that he had ever produced. But he had been around the industry for a long time and knew what had to be done and how to do it. The idea was not intimidating; God only knew how many successful movies had been produced by ignoramuses who couldn't find their own asses with both hands without the assistance of a script, a continuity girl, and two or three assistant directors to put chalk marks on it for them.
He learned early on in Hollywood that a good crew makes all the difference when you are shooting a movie. If you have a crew who know what they are doing, all you have to do is tell them what you want, and they do it. And even if it was a damned small one, he had a good crew here with him.
They understood what he wanted to do; and, just as important, they thought it was a pretty good idea.
That meant, for example, that he could tell them that he wanted to show equipment being off-loaded from transports, and they would go shoot it for him. He didn't have to stand around with a script and a megaphone in his hand, yelling at somebody to get a tight shot of the sweating guy driving the truck. His people made movies for a living; they knew what was needed, and how to get it.