At about this point, serious problems began with the offloading process, in many ways duplicating the disastrous trial run in the Fiji Islands.

The small and relatively easy to manhandle 75mm pack howitzers (originally designed to be carried by mules) of the 11th Marines (the artillery regiment) had come ashore with the assault elements of the 5th Marines.

The 105mm howitzers now came ashore. But their emplacement was hindered because there were not enough drop-ramp Landing Craft to handle their "prime-movers," the trucks which tow the cannon. The "prime mover" for the 105mm howitzer was supposed to be a 2" -ton, 6x6 truck. The 11th Marines had been issued instead a truck commonly referred to as a "one-ton." Instead of the six (actually ten) powered wheels of the "deuce and a half," it had only four powered wheels to drive it through mud, sand, or slippery terrain., It was this much smaller, inadequate, one-ton "prime mover" for which there were insufficient drop-bow Landing Craft to move immediately onto Beach Red.

So when the 105mm howitzers arrived on the beach, the only vehicles capable of towing them inland to firing positions were the few, overworked, Amphibious Tractors. These had a tank-like track and could negotiate sand and mud.

They were pressed into service to move the 105mm howitzers. In doing that, however, their metal tracks chewed up the primitive roads and whatever field telephone wires they crossed, effectively cutting communication between the advanced positions, the beach, and the several headquarters.

Within an hour or so of landing on the beach, moreover, the Marines were physically exhausted. For one thing, because of the long time they had spent aboard the troop transports, they had lost much of the physical toughness they'd acquired in training.

For another, as they moved through sand and jungle and up hills carrying heavy loads of rifles, machine guns, mortars and the ammunition for them, Guadalcanal's temperature and high humidity quickly sapped the strength they had left.

And there was not enough water. Although Medical Officers had strongly insisted that each man be provided with two canteens (two quarts) of drinking water, there were not enough canteens in the Pacific to issue a second canteen to each man.

The Navy was asked to provide beach labor details of sailors to assist in unloading the supplies coming ashore from the Landing Craft, and then to move the supplies off the beach to make room for more supplies. The Navy refused to do this.

Marines exhausted by the very act of going ashore were thus pressed into service unloading supplies from Landing Craft.

But first there were no trucks to move the supplies off the beach, and then when the "one-ton" trucks finally began to come ashore, these proved incapable of negotiating the sand and roads chewed up by amphibious tractors.

The result was a mess. Landing Craft loaded with supplies were stacked up off the beach. They were unable even to reach the beach, much less rapidly discharge their cargoes.

Meanwhile, starting at 1145, Navy SBD dive-bombers attacked Gavutu across the channel. Ten minutes later, the Navy started a five minute barrage of the island, creating huge clouds of smoke and dust.

By 1500, both Tulagi and Gavutu were "secured."

On Guadalcanal itself, the main invasion force spent the rest of the afternoon and the night trying-with little success-to clear up the mess on the beach itself, and to set up a perimeter defense around the beach and the six hundred yards the Marines had moved inshore.

There was no question that the Japanese would try to throw the Marines back into the sea. The only question was when.

(Three) BUKA, SOLOMON ISLANDS.

0745 HOURS 8 AUGUST 1942.

"I rather think that's more than one, wouldn't you agree?" Sub-Lieutenant Jacob Reeves, Royal Australian Navy Volunteer Reserve, said, turning to Miss Patience Witherspoon and nodding vaguely toward the far off sound of aircraft engines to the North.

Reeves was a bit old-forty-one-to be a Sub-Lieutenant, the lowest commissioned rank in the Royal Australian Navy; and his uniform fell far below the standards usually expected of an officer on duty. He was wearing a battered and torn, brimmed uniform cap; an equally soiled khaki uniform tunic with cut off sleeves; and khaki shorts and shoes whose uppers were spotted with green mold. His hair tumbled down his neck; and he was wearing a beard. A 9mm Sten submachine gun and a large pair of Ernst Leitz Wetzlar binoculars hung from his neck on web straps.

He and Miss Witherspoon were standing beneath an enormous tree, down from which hung a knotted rope.

"Oh, yes, Sir," Miss Witherspoon replied. "That's certainly more than one. A great many, I wouldn't be surprised."

"Well, then, I suppose I'd better go have a look, and you had better wake up the sodding Yanks, don't you think?"

"Yes, of course," Miss Witherspoon said. "I'll fetch them."

Lieutenant Reeves reached for the knotted rope. And then hanging onto it, he agilely climbed the trunk of the enormous tree, disappearing in a moment into the foliage.

Miss Witherspoon, who was eighteen, ran quickly and gracefully to Sergeant Stephen M. Koffler's hut down a narrow dirt path cut through lush vegetation. She ducked through the low entrance and knelt by his bed.

She giggled. Sergeant Koffler was also eighteen, and Miss Witherspoon was more than a little attracted to him. He was on his back, asleep. He was wearing only his U.S. Marine Corps issue skivvie shorts. The anatomical symbol of his gender, gloriously erect, poked through the flap in his skivvie shorts.

Miss Witherspoon, tittering, put one hand to her mouth, and with the other gave Sergeant Koffler's erection a friendly little pat. Sergeant Koffler gave a pleasant little grunt. Miss Witherspoon patted him again, just a little harder, but enough to waken him. He reached down and caught her wrist.

"Goddamn it, Patience!" Sergeant Koffler said, sounding more exasperated than angry.

"Lieutenant Reeves sent me to fetch you," Miss Witherspoon said, pronouncing the rank title in the British manner-Lef-ten-ant. "There's a large number of aircraft."

"Be right there," Koffler said. "Make sure Lieutenant Howard is up."

"Right you are," Miss Patience Witherspoon said cheerfully. Smiling, she backed out of the hut.

Steve sat on the edge of his bed. Miss Patience Witherspoon herself had constructed it of narrow tree trunks driven into the ground; a sort of "spring" of woven strips of bark supported a thin mattress. The mattress was covered with a surprisingly clean white sheet. The mattress and the sheet had also been made by Miss Witherspoon, who also washed them regularly.

Sergeant Koffler pulled on a pair of shorts that had once been a pair of "Trousers, Utility, Summer Service"; and then a pair of socks. He jammed his feet into his just-about-rotted through ankle high shoes, once a pair of "Shoes, Service, Dress." When he graduated from Parris Island these had worn a shine he could actually see his reflection in. Last he picked up his weapon where it lay under his bed.

The truly astonishing thing about Miss Patience Witherspoon, Sergeant Koffler thought for perhaps the hundredth time, was not her teeth, which were stained blue-black and filed into points; or even her breasts, which she made no effort to conceal, and which were elaborately decorated with scar tissue; or even that she lusted absolutely shamelessly after him. The truly astonishing thing about her was the way she talked.

Miss Witherspoon sounded almost exactly like Miss Daphne Farnsworth, who was the only other female subject of his Most Britannic Majesty Steve Koffler had come to know intimately. Miss (actually Yeoman, Royal Australian Navy Volunteer Reserve) Farnsworth had neat, pure white, intact teeth, and her breasts, which she modestly concealed virtually all of the time, were not only unscarred, but in Steve's opinion, they were an absolute work of art.

Without really being aware that he was doing it, Steve removed the magazine from his Thompson.45 ACP caliber submachine gun, worked the action, and then replaced the magazine. If necessary, it would fire.

The moment he ducked through the entrance to his hut, he heard the sound of aircraft engines. The hut was constructed of narrow tree trunks, covered with a thatch of enormous leaves. The sound had not penetrated the thick leaves of the hut.

He started to trot toward the Tree House, slinging the Thompson over his shoulder on its web strap as he ran. A hundred yards up the path, he encountered First Lieutenant Joseph L. Howard, USMCR, commanding the Marine Garrison on Buka Island.

Sergeant Koffler saluted crisply, and his salute was as impeccably returned.

"Good morning, Sergeant," Lieutenant Howard said. "You are to be commended on your shipshape appearance."

"Thank you, Sir. I try to set an example for the men."

Lieutenant Howard was dressed and shaved and coiffured exactly as Sergeant Koffler was. That is to say, he was wearing rotting shoes; cut off utility pants; and no shirt. A Thompson was slung over his shoulder. The last time either of them had a haircut or a shave was two months before in Australia, on June 6, the night before they jumped into Buka. And there were in fact no other men to set an example for. What was carried on the books as "Detachment A of USMC Special Detachment 14" consisted of Lieutenant Howard and Sergeant Koffler.

But at least once a day, they went through a little routine like this one. It was ostensibly a joke, but there was more to it than that. It reminded them that they were in fact Marines, part of a fellowship greater than two individuals living in the jungle on an island neither of them had heard of three months before; dodging the Japs; and with chances of getting home alive ranging from slim to none.

Two days before, after supper, Lieutenant Howard had told both Reeves and Koffler that in the very early hours of 7 August, OPERATION PESTILENCE, the invasion of the Solomon Islands of Tulagi, Gavutu, and Guadalcanal by the 1st Marine Division, would begin.

The great majority of Japanese bombers intending to strike at the invasion force would come from their major base at Rabaul or from its satellite installations; the flight path of these bombers would take them over Buka. Thus the importance of the Coastwatcher station on Buka could hardly be overstated. If the Americans in the invasion fleet knew when the Japanese could be expected, they could launch their aircraft in time to intercept them. This early warning would be of even greater importance once the Americans got the Japanese-started airfield on Guadalcanal completed and operational.

"How come you never said anything about this before?" Sergeant Koffler had inquired.

"In case either of you were captured by the Japs," Howard had explained, "you couldn't have told them because you didn't know."

"You knew," Koffler pursued. "What if you got caught?"

"I couldn't let myself get caught, Steve," Howard said, softly.

"What were you going to do, shoot yourself?"

"Let it go, Steve," Howard had said.

The sound of aircraft engines was now quite definite, Howard thought, but it was still sort of fuzzy, suggesting that there were a large number of aircraft some distance off, rather than one or two aircraft somewhat closer.

When they reached the tree, Howard gestured for Koffler to go ahead of him, and Koffler scurried quickly up the knotted rope and out of sight. Since the arm he'd broken when they first landed was now pretty well healed, Howard was able to follow him.

A platform had been built in the tree a hundred feet off the ground. It was large enough for three or four people to stand or sit comfortably. Reeves was sitting with his back against the trunk, when Steve Koffler stepped from a limb onto the platform.

He handed Koffler his binoculars and pointed north. Steve followed the directions and thought he could pick out, far off and not very high in the air, specks that almost certainly were aircraft. He leaned his shoulder against the trunk to steady himself, and with some difficulty found the specks through the binoculars. They were still too far away to see clearly, but he could now see that they were flying in formation, a series of Vs.

Lieutenant Howard touched his arm; he wanted the binoculars. Steve handed them to him.

Howard hooked the eyepieces under the bones above his eyes, took a breath, let half of it out, and held the rest, much the same technique that a skilled rifle marksman uses to steady his sight picture before firing.

"There's a bunch," he said. "What do you think they are, Steve?"

"Too far away to tell," Steve replied.

"If they were Bettys, for example, how could you tell?" Howard asked innocently.

"Shit," Koffler chuckled, realizing that he was being tested. Since they had been on Buka, they had been training each other-not just because there wasn't much else to do. Koffler had rigged up a simple buzzer and taught Howard Morse code, and Howard had not only sketched various Japanese aircraft, but had called forth their characteristics from memory and passed them on to both Koffler and Reeves.

"Well?" Howard went on.

Koffler pushed himself away from the tree and came to attention-except for a broad, unmilitary smile.

"Sir," he barked. "The Japanese Mitsubishi G4M1 Type 1 aircraft, commonly called the Betty, is a twin-engine, land-based bomber aircraft with a normal complement of seven. It has an empty weight of 9.5 tons and is capable of carrying 2200 pounds of bombs, or two 1700 pound torpedoes, over a nominal range of 2250 miles at a cruising speed of 195 miles per hour. Its maximum speed is 250 miles per hour at 14,000 feet. It is armed with a 20mm cannon in the tail, and four 7.7mm machine guns, one in the nose, one on top, and two in beam positions." He paused just perceptibly, and barked "Sir!" again.

Lieutenant Reeves applauded.

"Very good, Sergeant," he chuckled. "You win the prize."

"I'm afraid to ask what the prize is," Steve said, leaning against the tree again.

"How about Patience?" Howard asked innocently. "I've noticed the way she looks at you."

"Shit!" Steve said. "You know what she did to me just now?"

"Tell me," Howard said.

"No. Shit!"

"You might as well let her," Howard said. "You're going to have to sooner or later. And besides, you're a Marine sergeant now. It's time you lost your cherry."

Reeves laughed. Steve Koffler glowered at Howard.

Pretending not to notice, Howard put the binoculars back to his eyes. He studied the sky intently for thirty seconds, and then handed the binoculars to Reeves.

"I make it Betty," he said. "Large Force. I count forty-five."

"That's a bit, isn't it?" Reeves said, and put the binoculars to his eyes. Thirty seconds later, he took them away. "Vs," he said. "Five to a V. Nine Vs. Forty-five Bettys. Looks like they're climbing slowly."

He handed the binoculars to Koffler, who waved them away.

"You better see who you can raise, Steve," Howard said.

"Aye, aye, Sir," Steve said, and left the platform for the limbs of the tree, and then started climbing down.

"Why don't you go along with him?" Reeves said. "I'll stay and see if anything else shows up. Send Patience up."

"All right," Howard said.

"We can't have her distracting our operator, can we?" Reeves chuckled. "And if there's anything I don't recognize, I'll send her after you."

Howard climbed out of the tree and walked quickly to the village. He saw two men tying the long wire antenna for the Hallicrafters radio in place in two trees on opposite sides of the cleared area. The antenna lead wire rose from the center of one hut.

The antenna was erected only when they intended to use the radio. Otherwise, like the other parts of the radio, it was neatly stored and packed, ready to be carried into the jungle if the Japanese should send a patrol into the area.

When he entered the hut, Howard saw that Koffler had the radio just about set up. A muscular native, named Ian Bruce, was already in place at the generator, which looked something like the pedals of a bicycle, waiting for orders to start grinding. Koffler was carefully checking his connections for corrosion. He glanced up at Howard when he sensed his presence, but said nothing.

Howard walked to the set itself and glanced down at the message pad. There was nothing Koffler had written on it that needed correction. All the message consisted of was the time, the type and number of aircraft, and their relative course. In Australia, or if the connection to Australia could not be completed, in Pearl Harbor, there were experts who would understand this information and relay it.

Koffler screwed a final connection in place, went outside to quickly check on the antenna, and then squatted on the floor by a packing case which held the transceiver, the key, and two sets of headphones. He picked up one set of headphones (which Howard now thought of as "cans," which is what Koffler called them) and handed them to Howard. He put the second set on and made a winding motion with his finger. Ian Bruce smiled and began to pedal the generator; there was a faint, not unpleasant whine.

In a moment, the dials on the Hallicrafter lit up and their needles came to life.

Koffler put his fingers on the key.

The dots and dashes went out, repeated three times, spelling, simply, FRD6. FRD6. FRD6.

The code name for the Coastwatchers Organization was Ferdinand. It was a fey title, chosen, Howard suspected, by Lieutenant Commander Eric Feldt himself. Ferdinand was the bull who would rather sniff flowers than fight. The Coastwatchers were not supposed to fight either.

There was no response to the first call. Koffler's finger went back to the key.

FRD6. FRD6. FRD6.

This time there was a reply. Howard had learned enough code to be able to read the simple groups.

FRD6.KCY.FRD6.KCY.FRD6.KCY.

KCY, the United States Pacific Fleet Radio Station at Pearl Harbor, Territory of Hawaii, was responding to Ferdinand Six.

That radio room leapt into Joe Howard's mind. Before the war, as a staff sergeant, he had been stationed at Pearl Harbor; and he had been sergeant of the guard at CINCPAC, Commander in Chief, Pacific. He saw the immaculate officers and the even more immaculate swabbies at their elaborate shiny equipment in a shiny, air-conditioned room with polished linoleum floors. Air-conditioned!

Now Koffler's hand came to life. Howard could not read what was going out over the air. Koffler was proud of his hand. He could transmit fifty words a minute. He was doing so now. Even repeated three times, the message didn't take long. Then there was a reply, slow enough for Howard to understand it.

FRD6, KCY. AKN. SB.