Pickering was on his knees, working on the Situation Map. Specifically, he was writing symbols on the celluloid sheet that covered the Situation Map. This in turn was mounted to a sheet of plywood leaning against the sandbag walls. When there was time, it was planned to find some wood and make some sort of frame, so that the Situation Map would not have to sit on the ground.
In his hand, Pickering held a black grease pencil. He was marking friendly positions and units on the map. In his mouth, like a cigar, was a red grease pencil, which he used to mark enemy positions. A handkerchief, used to erase marks on the map, stuck out of the hip pocket of his utility trousers. He was not wearing his utility jacket. The Map Room of the G-2 Section was like a steam bath, and Captain Pickering had elected to work in his undershirt.
General Vandergrift walked to a spot just behind Pickering so that he could examine the map over Pickering's shoulders. Vandergrift's face, just starting to jowl, showed signs of fatigue. He stood there for more than a minute before his presence broke through Pickering's concentration. And then, startled, Pickering looked over his shoulder. A split second later, he realized who was standing behind him.
He rose quickly to his feet and came to attention.
"I beg your pardon, Sir."
Vandergrift made an "it doesn't matter" wave of his hand.
"Is that about it?" he asked, with another gesture at the map.
"Yes, Sir."
"Where's Colonel Goettge?" Vandergrift asked. "For that matter, where's the sergeant who normally keeps the Situation Map up to date?"
"Colonel Goettge is out with a patrol, Sir. I suppose I'm in charge."
"Say again?"
"Colonel Goettge is out with a patrol, Sir. He and the sergeant and some others."
Vandergrift's eyes tightened.
"I thought that's what you said," he said. "Tell me about it."
If I knew him better, I could answer that question without beating around the bush: "I think Goettge's gone off the deep end, General"
But that's not the way it is. He doesn't know me. All he knows is that I am a rich man, highly connected politically, who was sent over here to serve as Frank Knox s eyes and ears, and didn't even do that somewhat ethically questionable task well. A wiser man than I am would not take advantage of his position-no one had the authority to tell me to stay on the McCawley-to make a gesture of contempt for Navy Brass by staying with the Marines here.
What standing I have in his eyes, if any, is because Jack NMI Stecker told him that I was a pretty good Marine Corporal a generation ago.
I would not tolerate criticism of one of my officers from an ordinary seaman; why should General Vandergrift tolerate my unpleasant, and very likely uninformed opinion of one of his colonels?
Christ! I wish I knew this man better!
Although he had had only brief contact with General Vandergrift, Fleming Pickering had already formed strong opinions about him. The first was that he was competent, experienced, and level-headed. The second was that if the opportunity came, they could become friends.
Vandergrift reminded Pickering of a number of powerful commanders he had known and respected. The first of these was his own father, whose first command, at twenty-one, had been of a four-master Brigantine. And there was the master of the Pacific Emerald, on which Fleming Pickering, also at twenty-one, had made his first voyage with his brand-new third mate's ticket; this man had taught Pickering just about all there was to know about the responsibility that went with authority. Pickering had himself earned his any-tonnage, any-ocean Coast Guard Master Mariner's ticket at twenty-six. Since then, he'd come to know well maybe a half dozen other masters in command of Pacific and Far East Shipping Corporation vessels whom he held in serious respect. (Most of the others he employed were better than competent, but not up to the level of the six.)
And Vandergrift reminded Pickering of Pickering himself. Pickering had long believed that there were only very few men who were born to accept responsibility and discharge it well. Such men had a strange ability to recognize similar characteristics in others; they formed a kind of fraternity without membership cards and titles. Thus he had the strong conviction that he and General Vandergrift were brothers. "Sir," Pickering said, "two days ago, a Japanese warrant officer, a Navy warrant officer, was captured by 1st Battalion, 5th Marines. During his interrogation, he said there were a large number of Rikusentai..." "What?"
"Rikusentai, Sir. They're Naval Base troops. Sort of soldiers. Not Marines, Sir. They take care of housekeeping, construction. That sort of thing. They're in the Navy, but not sailors."
Vandergrift nodded.
"The warrant officer said there were a number of Rikusentai, and at least as many civilian laborers, wandering around in the bush near Matinikau. Here, Sir," Pickering said, pointing to the map. "In this general area. And he felt they could be induced to surrender. He said they were starving."
"He was unusually cooperative for a Japanese Naval officer, wasn't he?" Vandergrift said.
"He was originally pretty surly, as I understand it, Sir. But he was in bad shape. What used to be known as shell-shocked."
"You saw him, Pickering?"
"Yes, Sir. The 5th sent him up here."
"And?"
"What the warrant officer said was corroborated, Sir, by another prisoner. A Navy rating. Not captured at the same place. And not one of the warrant officer's men. He said there were both Rikusentai and civilian laborers in the area here," he pointed at the map with the red grease pencil, "at the mouth of the Matanikau River, in the vicinity of Point Cruz."
"And Colonel Goettge apparently believed both of them?"
"Yes, Sir. I assume that he did."
"Tell me about the patrol," Vandergrift said.
"Colonel Goettge had previously ordered a patrol under First Sergeant Custer. As originally set up, Custer was to take about twenty-five men into the Point Cruz-Mouth of the Matanikau River area. But then Colonel Goettge decided to lead the patrol himself."
"Did he offer any explanation for his decision?" Vandergrift asked, evenly.
"He apparently felt that the mission was too important to be entrusted to First Sergeant Custer, Sir."
What he did was act like an ass. He had no business going on patrol himself.
"Twenty-five men, you say? All from the 1st of the 5th?"
"No, Sir. He took several men from here, clerks and scouts. And Lieutenant Cory, our linguist. And Dr. Pratt, the 5th's surgeon."
"In other words, Captain Pickering, instead of a patrol of scouts and riflemen under a First Sergeant, we now have a patrol substantially made up of technicians of one kind or another, under the personal command of the Division Intelligence Officer?"
Pickering didn't reply.
Vandergrift met his eyes.
"And he left you in charge?" Vandergrift asked.
"Not in so many words, Sir."
"You just decided to fill the void left by Colonel Goettge when he went on this patrol of his?"
"I'm trying to make myself useful, Sir."
"Yes, of course you are. Actually, I came here to see you."