To do otherwise would create chaos. The corporal would wonder where his PFC had gone without orders. The man in charge of the sandbags would question the PFC’s right to take them away. The truckdriver would not know why sandbags were being loaded on his truck.
The chain of command is even more important at the highest echelons of military and naval service. Although in law the Secretary of the Navy has the authority, he does not issue direct orders to captains of ships, or even to commanders-in-chief of the various fleets.
He tells the Chief of Naval Operations what he wants done, in general terms: "I think we should reinforce the Pacific Fleet." The Chief of Naval Operations decides how the Pacific Fleet should be reinforced, again in rather general terms: "Add a battleship, two cruisers, and a half-dozen destroyers." As the order moves down through the pyramid, other officers make more specific decisions and issue more specific orders: which battleship, which cruisers, and which destroyers; in other words, which commands will lose assets to reinforce the Pacific Fleet, and when.
Only six or seven levels down in the chain of command will the captain of a destroyer finally order the officer of the deck to make all preparations to get under way, and then to set course for the Hawaiian Islands. And he will not associate the movement of his vessel with a vague suggestion given to the Chief of Naval Operations by the Secretary of the Navy.
The chain of command is so important that it is almost never violated. People at the top, civilian or military, very rarely issue orders to anyone not in the level of command immediately subordinate to them.
But there are exceptions to every rule.
Captain David Haughton, USN, Administrative Assistant to the Secretary of the Navy, got off the Congressional Limited of the Pennsylvania Railroad and climbed the stairs to the Baltimore Pennsylvania Station. He walked across the waiting room, left the station, and turned right. He was in uniform, and he was carrying a black briefcase.
A block away, he entered the bar of Walker Hasslinger’s Restaurant, a Baltimore landmark that justly enjoyed the reputation of serving the finest seafood in town. Captain Haughton had been coming to Walker Hasslinger’s since he was a midshipman at Annapolis. He looked up and down the bar for the man he was here to meet, but didn’t find him.
He took a stool at the bar, and reached for a bowl of oyster crackers.
"The free lunch went out when the New Deal came in," a large, red-faced man in chefs whites said, sliding the bowl out of his reach. "Now it’s cash on the bar."
But Eckley Walker, the proprietor, was smiling and extending his hand.
"How are you, Dave?" he said. "It’s been some time."
"You still serving those condemned oysters?" Haughton said.
"Only to sailors who can’t tell the difference," Walker said. He snapped his fingers and a bartender appeared. He said only one word, "Rye," but made certain gestures with his head and hand that conveyed to the waiter that he wanted a dozen oysters and two drinks, the latter from his private bottle of rye whiskey, which was kept out of sight.
The bartender poured stiff drinks, added a dash of ginger ale, and slid them across the bar.
"Mud in your eye," Eckley Walker said. "Good to see you, Dave."
"Bottoms up," Haughton said.
They smiled at each other.
A slight, tall, balding man in civilian clothing, holding a beer glass, slipped onto the stool next to Haughton.
"Amazing, the strange people you run into in obscure, out-of-the-way restaurants," he said.
"Eckley," Haughton said, "have you got a little room someplace where this guy can make his life-insurance pitch without disturbing the paying guests?"
"We’ve already got one," the slight man said.
"I’ll have them take the oysters there, if you like," Eckley Walker said.
"Please," Haughton said.
Walker nodded. "Enjoy your lunch."
As they walked to the rear of the bar, the slight man turned and said, "I suppose I should warn you. I’ve got my boss with me."
"Is there a reason for that?"
"He asked me where I was going, and when I told him, he said he thought he would come along. If you don’t like that, tell him."
There was a door at the end of the barroom, opening on a flight of stairs. At the top of stairs was a corridor. The tall, slight man opened a door and gestured for Haughton to precede him.
A trim man, his gray hair shorn in a crewcut, sat at the table. A napkin was tucked into his collar to protect his pin-striped, double-breasted blue suit from dripping butter as he attacked a steaming pile of crab and shrimp.
"You look unhappy to see me, Haughton," he said. "Now I’m glad I came."
"Good afternoon, General," Haughton said. "I am a little surprised, Sir."
"Consider your hand shaken, Captain," said Brigadier General Horace W. T. Forrest, Assistant Chief of Staff G-2 (Intelligence), USMC. "My fingers are dirty."
"Thank you, Sir," Haughton said.
"I could tell you I came here because this is the best seafood on the East Coast, but that would be a lie. What the hell are you up to, Haughton?"
"I’m acting for the Secretary, Sir," Haughton said.
"Clever fellow that I am, I already had that figured out," General Forrest said, "but the question was, ‘What the hell are you up to?’"
There was a knock at the door, and the waiter appeared with a battered oblong tray holding what looked like two dozen oysters.
"Why don’t you order while he’s here?" General Forrest said. "Then we can talk without being disturbed every two minutes."
"Can I get a lobster?" Haughton asked. The waiter nodded. "A cup of clam chowder and a lobster, then, please," Haughton said.
"Twice," the slight man said. He was Lieutenant Colonel F. L. Rickabee, USMC. Rickabee was carried on the organizational chart of Headquarters USMC as being assigned to the Office of Congressional Liaison. That had absolutely nothing to do with what he really did.
"And to drink? A bottle of wine?" the waiter asked.
"I don’t want a whole bottle," Haughton said.
"We’ll help you, Haughton," General Forrest said. "Yes, please. A dry white."
"And a lobster for you, too, Sir?"
General Forrest looked at the shrimp and oysters before him.
"What the hell, why not? I just won’t eat again for the next couple of weeks. But hold the clam chowder."
The waiter left.
"You were saying, Haughton?" General Forrest said, the moment the door closed.
Haughton hesitated just perceptibly. He had decided that Rickabee had told him the truth, which was that General Forrest had asked where he was going, and Rickabee had told him. He knew Rickabee well enough to know that while he often would do a great many things without telling General Forrest, he would not evade a question from him. And Forrest was naturally curious as to why the Secretary of the Navy’s alter ego wanted to meet Rickabee in a restaurant in Baltimore, rather than somewhere in Washington. That implied an unusual degree of secrecy, and that had fired his curiosity.