In Danger's Path (25 page)

“Hello, Bill,” Pickering said. “Sorry to be late.”

“First things first,” Donovan said, coming from behind his desk to offer Pickering his hand. Then he introduced the new Deputy Director (Pacific) to the Deputy Director (Operations). The two men shook hands.

The reaction of both men to each other was almost identical:
I think I'm going to like this guy
.

Once he had learned that Pickering was joining the OSS, the DDO had taken the trouble to make discreet inquiries about him. They had many mutual acquaintances, and even a few mutual friends, and they all reported essentially the same things about him and about his wife: that Fleming Pickering had done a better job running P&FE than his father, even from the beginning (he had taken over at twenty-six). In this he'd received no little help from his wife. The proof of Patricia Fleming's ability came when she stepped into her husband's shoes after he went to work for Frank Knox.

From the moment he took over, Pickering had preached efficiency (which usually meant the fast turnaround of ships) and had spent a lot of money (quickly recovered) to acquire the most up-to-date technologies and have these installed in P&FE's major terminals throughout the Pacific.

His other crusade was to break the long-standing tradition that the officers of a particular ship “owned it.” That is, they stayed with a particular vessel for years. When it was out of service for any reason, so were they, meanwhile continuing to draw their union-guaranteed pay. Under Fleming Pickering, P&FE's officers (and many seamen, just about all of whom expected one day to be a P&FE officer) were expected to sail whichever ship needed their services, whenever those services were needed.

It was an obvious tribute to Pickering's leadership skills that he was able to carry that off, in the face of strong opposition from the Masters & Mates Union, the Maritime Engineer's Union, and the International Brotherhood of Seafarers.

Despite the sometimes strong pressure from these unions, his officers and sailors trusted him. They knew him well and that he had sailed with them, in every position from Seaman Apprentice to Master Mariner, Any Tonnage, Any Ocean. But, the DDO decided, after sixty seconds of examining Pickering face to face, they trusted him even more because he was that rare man whose character shows on his face and in his eyes, and whom people immediately trust.

Many sources had also pointed out to the DDO that Pickering's success with P&FE had not contributed much to his modesty. He was strong-willed, opinionated, and did not suffer fools.

It was therefore not surprising that Donovan and Pickering had clashed. They were two of a kind. Strong, very successful men who were used to giving—but not taking—orders, and who did not like to have their decisions questioned. He wondered what would happen now that they were in the same ring.

“I'm sure the delay was outside your control, Fleming,” Donovan said, and then indicated the empty green leather-upholstered armchair. “Sit down. Coffee?”

“No, thank you,” Pickering said, and sat down.

“It was a presidential summons,” he went on. “Roosevelt wanted to know what I thought about Frank Knox's objections to taking the Office of Management Analysis into the OSS.”

“Oh, really?” Donovan asked. His face whitened.

“I told George to call and tell you we would be late,” Pickering said. “I didn't know the protocol of talking about the President's plans on the telephone, so I decided to be careful and explain why we were late when we finally got here.”

I think Wild Bill is about to erupt
, the DDO decided.
He and Charley thought that was a done deal
.

“And you told the President that you didn't think bringing Management Analysis in here was a very good idea? Is that about it?”

“Actually, I told him it would be a very bad idea,” Pickering said evenly.

“Certainly, General, you were aware that the Director thought it was a very good idea?” the Deputy Director (Administration) asked.

“The President didn't ask me that,” Pickering explained, as if to a small child. “He asked me what I thought.”

The DDO suddenly had a fit of coughing. The look the Deputy Director (Administration) gave him was not one of sympathy.

“I'm sure you considered that the assets of Management Analysis might have been very useful to you in Operation Gobi,” Donovan said.

“Frank Knox made a point of telling the President—and me—that the assets of Management Analysis would be available to the OSS for the weather station operation,” Pickering said. “And, as I told you over dinner, I am bringing some people from Management Analysis and elsewhere into the OSS. George has a list of their names.”

“Give it to Charley,” Donovan ordered. “I presume they're Marines?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Charley deals with the Marine Corps in personnel matters,” Donovan said.

“I wish I'd known that,” Pickering said. “It would have saved me a trip to Eighth and I this morning. They have the list George has. And I don't anticipate any trouble having the people I want transferred over here.”

“There's only so many training spaces available at the Country Club. Squeezing them in is going to cause some problems,” Donovan said thoughtfully. “Nothing that can't be sorted out, but it will be a problem.”

I was again wrong about Wild Bill
, the DDO decided.
Wild Bill did not blow his cork. And I really shouldn't be surprised. He knows when erupting will be advantageous and when it won't
.

If Charley came in here with high hopes—and I'm damned sure he did—that General Fleming Pickering was going to come in here and be immediately and firmly put in his place, he's going to be very disappointed
.

“Did I detect at Dick Fowler's dinner,” Donovan went on, “some question about your people going through the Country Club training program?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I'm glad you brought that up,” Pickering said. “In the case of two of my officers it seems to me that it would be a waste of time and money. Particularly since, as you said, there's a shortage of training spaces.”

“And why would that be, General?” the DDA asked smoothly.

Be careful here, Pickering, the Country Club is Wild Bill's pride and joy. He really thinks it turns nice boys from the better families into the sort of cold-blooded killers the OSS needs
.

“Major Ed Banning—he's about to be a lieutenant colonel—and George here have
MAGIC
clearances. They cannot go operational, so why train them?”

“The Lieutenant has a
MAGIC
clearance?” the DDA blurted.

In OSS headquarters, only Director Donovan and the DDA had
MAGIC
clearances. The DDA considered it an indication of his importance…and had successfully argued to Director Donovan that the DDO didn't need it, both because Donovan could make him privy to any
MAGIC
material he needed to know, and because having it would restrict his movements.

“Yes, he does,” Pickering said. “I didn't see how he could work efficiently for me without one.”

Why do I suspect, Charley, that you are now really unhappy about how this meeting is going?

“That makes sense,” Donovan agreed. “That was all there was to your objections about sending your people through training?”

“There was a little more,” Pickering said. “I was thinking that some of the men I'm bringing in with me would make excellent instructors at the training school; they don't really need basic training.”

“You don't think your men could learn anything at the training school?” the DDA asked.

“Most of the people I'm bringing in with me, including George here, have at least one behind-the-lines operation behind them. Several of them two, and in one case, three,” Pickering said. “But, obviously, everybody can always learn something. I have no objection to them learning as much as they can, time and the Gobi operation permitting.”

“You can work that out with Charley,” Donovan said. “That, and the other administrative details.”

“I'm afraid to ask what they are,” Pickering said.

“Pay, service records—we keep all service records here—that sort of thing, plus of course deciding who gets which badges,” Donovan said, pointing at the “VISITOR 5th Floor Only” badge hanging from Pickering's tunic pocket.

“These are known as ‘the barber's pole special,'” the DDO said, tapping his own red-striped identification badge, fully aware that what he was about to say would further add to Charley's unhappiness. “With one of them you have access to any OSS facility anywhere at any time. You'll need one of these, of course, and the lieutenant will, and your deputy—Colonel Banning, you said?”

Pickering nodded.

“But probably all of your people won't need that kind of unlimited access. Just tell Charley who you think should have what.”

“We try to limit the Any Area Any Time badges to those who really have a need for them,” the DDA said.

Pickering was obviously thinking that over. Finally he looked at Donovan.

“I'm thinking, Bill, that if getting this operation off the ground as quickly as possible is as important as Admiral Leahy thinks it is, it might save time to give all of my people one of these—what did you call them, ‘barber's pole specials'? That way, if it becomes necessary to take one of my people to some area, we wouldn't have to run to Charley and get him the proper badge.”

“We have never issued anyone at the Country Club a badge giving them access to this building, much less Any Area Any Time,” the DDA said.

“Nevertheless, Charley,” Donovan said. “General Pickering's point is well taken. Give all of his people Any Area Any Time access.”

Charley, this is just not your day, is it?
the DDO thought.

“General,” the DDO said, “when you're finished here with Bill, perhaps we could get together for a little while and try to figure out where we go from here.”

“Certainly,” Pickering said. “Thank you.”

“You can have him right now,” Donovan said. “Unless you have something else, Fleming?”

“No, sir. I can't think of anything.”

“When you two have something on paper about where you want to go on this operation, and how you want to get there, let me see it,” Donovan ordered.

“Yes, sir,” Pickering said, and pushed himself out of the green leather-upholstered armchair.

[ONE]
The Peabody Hotel
Memphis, Tennessee
1655 28 February 1943

First Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, was out of uniform: It was expressly forbidden for officers to appear in public places wearing flight gear, a regulation that both the Shore Patrol and the Army's Military Police (in a spirit of interservice cooperation) enforced with what Pick thought was uncalled-for zealousness.

He had given this regulation—and the zeal with which it was enforced—some thought before deciding to hell with it, and leaving Memphis Naval Air Station attired in a gabardine Suit, Flyers, Temperate Climate and a furcollared horsehide Jacket, Flyers, Intermediate, Type G1.

After the fourth time he was written up—three times by the Shore Patrol and once by MPs—for being similarly attired in public places, his squadron commander, Captain Billy Dunn—he had been Dunn's wingman on Guadalcanal—was really getting pissed about wasting his time answering “reply by endorsement hereto” correspondence stating that he had counseled and reprimanded the offending officer and was considering other disciplinary action.

But he had told Elizabeth-Sue Megham, a statuesque Memphis belle with long blond hair, that he would meet her in the Peabody Bar at 5:30, and he didn't want to be late. Since he was sure that Elizabeth-Sue would not wait for him, he took the chance.

On a scale of one to ten—ten being a sure thing—Elizabeth-Sue was a nine. He had met her the previous Friday evening at a service club dance on the Air Station. She had been one of four Memphis matrons chaperoning a busload of Nice Young Memphis Girls making their contribution to the war effort by going out to the air station on Friday nights to dance with white hats and enlisted Marines.

Billy Dunn had assigned him to perform roughly similar duties, with orders to make damned sure none of the enlisted men of VMF-262 consumed intoxicants, behaved in an unsuitable manner, or tried to drag one of the Nice Young Memphis Girls off into the bushes, even, Billy had emphasized, if the Nice Young Girl was suffering from raving carnal lust.

Although it was not officially stated, Pick was well aware that his assignment to this duty was punishment for his last encounter with the Shore Patrol while wearing flight clothing. The correspondence from the Naval District had landed on Billy Dunn's desk while Pick had been in California, and Billy had been waiting for him on the flight line when he'd landed the Corsair.

Greatly pissed was a massive understatement.

It wasn't that he was chasing married women, Pick told himself. He had danced with Mrs. Quincy T. Megham, Jr., as the polite thing to do to his civilian counterpart. And of course they had talked. He let her know, for instance, how much the men enjoyed the dances—even though he knew the statement was far from true: ninety percent of the men who showed up did it only because they couldn't get a pass, or because they were broke. He also told her that chaperoning the dances was a fine thing and that the Marine Corps was really grateful.

“Oh, I like to do it,” Elizabeth-Sue said. “My husband is out of town frequently these days. When he is, I'm bored and always looking for a little activity.”

She doesn't mean that the way it sounds
, Pick decided just then.
Not only is she a respectable Memphis belle, but we haven't known each other five minutes
.

“I'll bet you get bored out here, too, don't you?” Elizabeth-Sue asked. “All alone in your room?”

“Oh, yes,” he said.

“I've heard that Bachelor Officers' Quarters are—what is it they say, ‘out of limits'?—for lady guests. Is that true?”

“Off-limits,” he corrected her automatically, his mind on other things, specifically that Elizabeth-Sue was pressing her abdomen against his in a manner he didn't think was accidental. “Yes, they are.”

“Then you must get lonely in there, all alone by yourself.”

“Actually, I don't live in the BOQ.”

“You're married?”

The pressure of her abdomen against his disappeared.

“No. I live in the Peabody in Memphis,” he said. “And I'm not married.”

The pressure of her abdomen against his reappeared.

If she keeps that up, I'm going to get a hard-on
.

She did, and he did.

The pressure of her abdomen against his remained constant.

Elizabeth-Sue volunteered further information about herself: for example, that her husband, Quincy, Junior, as he was known, was considerably older than she was, was deeply involved with administering War Bond sales in Tennessee, and had to be out of town a good deal. He was, in fact, out of town for the next week.

At that point, Elizabeth-Sue discreetly inquired if living in the Peabody was comfortable, and did he share his accommodations with anyone?

He lied to her in that instance, not to deceive her, but because it was easier to say he was all alone than to explain that he and Captain William Charles Dunn, USMCR, of the Point Clear, Alabama, Dunns, shared the Jefferson Davis Suite in the Peabody—actually two threeroom suites sharing a common sitting room. It was understood between the two men that neither entered the quarters of the other without first telephoning to make sure a visit would not interrupt anything, or embarrass the participants.

“Perhaps we could have a drink sometime,” Pick said.

“Memphis is a small town, really,” Elizabeth-Sue said. “Everyone knows everyone. If anyone saw us together, there would be talk.”

“Well, maybe if we just happened to bump into each other somewhere, say the bar at the Peabody, we could go somewhere where no one would see us.”

“You really are a wicked man, aren't you?” Elizabeth-Sue said, clearly aware that the somewhere where no one would see them was his room.

Lieutenant Pickering pulled his Cadillac convertible up to the front door of the Peabody Hotel. After checking up and down the street to make sure no Shore Patrolmen or Military Policemen were in sight, got out quickly and tossed the keys to the bellman on duty. “I won't be needing it tonight, I hope,” he said to the bellman. He entered the building and headed for the bank of elevators. Then stopped in disbelief.

Sitting on a leather couch facing the passage between the elevators and the shallow pool in the center of the lobby was a fellow Marine officer and a lady, both of whom he was acquainted with. The Marine officer was in impeccable uniform.

He slid onto the couch beside the Marine officer.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Lieutenant Pickering asked.

“If she's not pulling my chain,” Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, announced, “I am about to see a flock of ducks march off the elevator, pass right by here, and then paddle around that pool.” He described the path with a pointed finger.

“Truth is stranger than fiction,” Pick said. “The duck march is one of Memphis's best-known cultural attractions.” He consulted his pilot's chronograph and added: “And if they're on time, and they usually are, that will take place in ninety seconds.”

The two men looked at each for a moment.

“God, I'm glad to see you,” Pick said.

“Me, too, buddy,” Ken McCoy replied.

“Who's the broad?” Pick asked.

“Screw you, Pick,” Miss Ernestine Sage said.

“When did you get here? How did you get here?” Pick asked.

“Nine o'clock this morning,” McCoy said. “We came on the train. I wanted to drive, but Ernie said she was afraid of the weather.”

This was not quite the truth. She had actually said that she would like to get a compartment on the train. She had always had a fantasy about making love in a bunk on a train, with the rails making that clickety-click sound beneath them.

Booking a compartment on the Cotton Blossom hadn't been easy, but Captain McCoy had been highly motivated. In the event, in his view, the trip had been worth all the effort.

“Why didn't you come out to the air station? Or at least call? What did you do all day?”

Miss Sage looked at Captain McCoy as if she feared he would tell Lieutenant Pickering how they had spent most of the day.

“We walked down to the river and watched it roll by,” McCoy said. “I called out there, and Billy Dunn said you were really tied up and could we wait until you got off duty? If he told you we were here, he would probably have to court-martial you, because you could be counted upon to desert your post.”

“He really takes being a captain a little too seriously,” Pick said.

“According to him, you don't take being a lieutenant seriously enough,” McCoy said, and then he said, “Well, I will be damned!”

A line of ducks, a dozen of them, shepherded by a bellman, emerged from an elevator and marched quacking through the lobby into the shallow pool.

“Aren't they
adorable?
” Miss Sage inquired.

“Lieutenant, may I please see your ID card?” a boatswain's mate second class, USN, with an SP brassard on his sleeve inquired.

“Oh, Jesus, Boats!” Lieutenant Pickering said. “Not again? What were you doing, waiting for me?”

“We just happened to see you get out of your car, sir,” the SP said. “Can I have your ID card, please?”

McCoy saw there were two SPs. The second, a seaman first class, was standing a few feet away, his hands folded behind his back.

“Can I see you a minute, Boats?” McCoy said, standing up.

“Sir, this is no concern of yours,” the SP said.

“That wasn't a suggestion, Boats,” McCoy said, and held up a leather folder before the SP's face, just long enough for him to take a quick look at it.

“Aye, aye, sir,” the Shore Patrolman said.

He followed McCoy across the lobby, where McCoy stopped behind a massive pole.

“Sir, could I see your credentials again, please?” the SP said.

McCoy handed him the leather folder again. The SP examined it carefully, looked hard at McCoy, then handed it back.

“You don't see very many of those, sir,” he said.

“I suppose not,” McCoy replied.

I never thought about that. I wonder how many Special Agents
—real
Special Agents—of the Office of Naval Intelligence there are, running around?

“How can I help you, Captain?”

“You're interfering with my business with that officer. Can I ask you to just walk away, or are we going to have to get your duty officer over here? Having to do that would annoy me.”

“No, sir. Those credentials are enough for me.”

“Thank you,” McCoy said.

“Captain, it may not be my place…”

“What's on your mind, Boats?”

“Off the record, sir?”

McCoy nodded.

“That lieutenant…Sir, he's an ace from Guadalcanal. And he's a really nice guy. Let me put it this way. Half the time I see him out of uniform, I don't. You know what I mean?”

McCoy nodded.

“But the white hats and the enlisted Marines see him running around out of uniform, and they think they can get it away with it, too. And when I have to write them up, their asses are really in a crack.”

“I take your point, Boats,” McCoy said.

“I don't know what your business is with him, sir, and I'm not asking. But I really hope he's not in bad trouble.”

“Nothing he can't fix by trying to straighten up and fly right,” McCoy said.

“Yes, sir,” the SP said. “Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you, Boats,” McCoy said.

The SP motioned to the other one, pointing to the door to the street, and walked away. McCoy returned to Ernie and Pick.

“Come on,” he said.

“What did you show that SP?” Pick asked.

“Let's get out of the damned lobby,” McCoy repeated. It was not a suggestion.

“You fixed that somehow, didn't you?” Pick said, as he stood up and walked toward the elevator. “How?”

“Didn't you see him wave his magic wand at the SP?” Ernie said. “Absolutely no compartments on a train without a priority? He waves his magic wand, people appear and hand him a priority. The Shore Patrol is about to haul you away, he waves his magic wand. The Shore Patrol goes away.”

Pick looked confused.

“However you did that, thanks, Killer,” Pick said.

“Jesus Christ!” McCoy said. “I should have let him write you up!”

“That would have really got my ass in a crack with Billy,” Pick said.

“Yeah, he told me. Actually, he's pretty disgusted with you. You never learn.”

When the elevator stopped, Pick led them down the corridor to the door of the Jefferson Davis suite.

“Is it safe for a nice girl like me to go in there?” Ernie asked.