"Yes, I think so. Then what happened?"

"That's when the Japs started shooting," Sellers said, very quietly, barely audibly.

"Was anyone hit?"

"Colonel Goettge. He got it first. Then Sergeant Custer," Sellers said. "They went down right away. Christ! Then the Doc ran out to help them..."

"That would be Captain Pratt, the surgeon?"

"I think that was his name," Sellers said. "And then Sergeant Caltrider shot the Jap."

"What Jap was that?"

"The one we brought with us. The Jap warrant officer."

"Sergeant Caltrider shot him?"

"Blew the cocksucker's head off," Sellers said. "The bastard led us into a trap. That's what it was, a trap. He deserved it, the cocksucker."

"Was Colonel Goettge badly wounded?"

"Killed. Had half of his face shot away. Sergeant Custer, too. He was hit four, five times. Killed him right away."

"And Doctor Pratt?"

"Him, too."

"And what were the rest of you doing?"

"One of the guys ran back in the water and fired his rifle, to get the ramp boat to come back. The rest of us just laid there. Jesus, there was no place to get out of the line of fire. It was like they were waiting for us, knew where we would be, and when we got where they wanted us, they opened up with everything they had."

"Did the boat come back?"

"No, Sir. Either he didn't know we wanted him to, or he could see what was going on and figured we were all dead."

"Then what?"

"We just laid there. Christ, we couldn't even see where they were to shoot back at them. I mean, we knew where they were, but we couldn't see them."

"But they knew where you were?"

"The only reason I'm alive is because of the way the beach sloped. There was just enough sand to hide behind."

"Where was Captain Ringer? Did you see him?"

Ringer was the S-2 of the 5th Marines. In Pickering's judgment, if any staff Intelligence officer should have gone out on this patrol-and he didn't think any should have-it should have been under the command of an infantry platoon leader. It should have been Ringer. And now he thought, unkindly, that since Goettge had insisted on going himself, Ringer should have stayed behind.

"Yes, Sir. He sort of took over after the colonel was killed. Him and Lieutenant Cory."

"What were they doing at this time?"

"Well, the first thing he did was send a corporal down the beach for help. And then, I guess it was about an hour later, Sergeant Arndt volunteered to swim back for help. I went with him."

"You swam back?"

"Yes, Sir. We ran into a Jap-I think he was as lost as we were-and Arndt killed him. And then we found a boat and paddled most of the way back."

"Most of the way?"

"Sergeant Arndt thought we would probably get shot by our own guys, so we paddled out to one of the landing boats we knew was anchored off shore, and then we got them to start it up and take us in."

"Where is Sergeant Arndt now?"

"They took him to the 5th Marines Command Post, Sir."

"I was there, Flem," Jake Dillon said. "I thought you had better hear this, so I brought him here."

"Yeah," Pickering said.

He looked at Sergeant Sellers.

"Is that about it, Sergeant? Is there anything else?"

Sellers met his eyes but didn't speak for a moment.

"Sir, as we were swimming away," he said finally, hollow voiced, "we could make out... the Japs came out of the boondocks, Sir, from the coconut trees and the other side of them. They... They went after the people on the beach, Sir. Not only with rifles and pistols. I mean, they were using swords. We could see the swords, reflections from them, I mean. And we could hear our guys screaming."

From a remote portion of his brain, dimmed by more than two decades, and intentionally hidden on top of that, Pickering's memory brought forth the sound of the screams men made when their bodies were violated by sharpened steel. Some of the Marines at Belleau Wood, Corporal Fleming Pickering among them, had armed themselves with intrenching shovels. They sharpened the sides with sharpening stones.

These had been more effective than the issue bayonets and trench knives.

"Sergeant," Pickering said after a moment, "I'm going to leave you here for a while. Lie down on my bed. Help yourself to some of the whiskey, if you want. But I think that some other officers will want to talk to you, so go easy with the whiskey."

That's so much bullshit. Debriefing should be performed by Intelligence Officers. All of ours are now dead.

"Jake, you stay with him. I'm going to see General Vandergrift."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

Chapter Sixteen.

(One)

HEADQUARTERS, 1ST MARINE DIVISION.

GUADALCANAL.

2305 HOURS 12 AUGUST 1942.

"I'd like to see the General, please," Captain Fleming Pickering said to the sergeant in the Division Command Post.

"He's in there, Sir," the sergeant said, pointing, "with Colonel Hunt. I'll see if he can see you."

Colonel Guy Hunt was the regimental commander of the 5th Marines.

If he's here, Pickering reasoned, he knows what has happened.

"Keep your seat, Sergeant," Pickering said, and walked into Vandergrift's office.

Both Hunt and Vandergrift looked with annoyance at Pickering when he walked in. Officers, even Navy Captains, do not enter the "office" of the commanding general of the 1st Marine Division without permission.

Vandergrift met Pickering's eyes.

"For reasons I suspect you already know, Captain," Vandergrift said after a moment, "please consider yourself the acting G-2 of this division."

Oh, shit! I am no more qualified to be the Division G-2 than I am to flap my wings and fly.

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"I know you know Colonel Hunt, Pickering. Do you know Marine Gunner Rust?" (Marine Gunners were almost always veteran Master Gunnery Sergeants promoted to warrant officer rank.) "No, Sir."

"Rust, this is Captain Pickering. He and Jack NMI Stecker were at Belleau Wood together."

"I know the captain by reputation," Rust said and gave Pickering his hand.

"How much do you know about what's happened to Goettge's patrol, Pickering?" Vandergrift asked.

"I just finished talking to Sergeant Sellers, Sir. He swam back with Sergeant Arndt."

"Sellers?" Master Gunner Rust asked.

"He's one of Major Dillon's combat correspondents," Pickering explained.

"Christ, another feather merchant who went along!" Rust exploded.

"A technician, maybe," Pickering heard himself say, angrily. "Or a specialist. But feather merchants, in my book, are those who head in the other direction from the sound of the guns."

Rust glowered at Pickering for a moment, and then shrugged.

"I beg the captain's pardon," Rust said.

"Not mine," Pickering said. "I know I'm a feather merchant. But that Four-Months-in-the-Corps Hollywood photographer has no apologies to make for his behavior on this patrol."

Pickering glanced at Vandergrift and found the general's serious eyes on his.

"Speaking of this patrol, Pickering," Vandergrift said, "we were just discussing the possibility of sending a patrol out to look for survivors. What's your feeling about that?"

"Sir, I don't feel qualified to..."

"I make the decisions about who is and who is not qualified to offer an opinion, Captain. I asked for yours."

"Based on what Sergeant Sellers told me, I don't think there will be many survivors, if any," Pickering said. "And I would presume the Japanese will be waiting for us to do something. At night, Sir, in my opinion, it would be suicidal. I think we could, should, send a strong patrol over there at first light."

"I agree," Vandergrift said. "I appreciate the offer, Rust, but that makes it three to one against your idea."

"Yes, Sir," Rust said.

"You can head it up yourself, Rust, if you like," Vandergrift said. He turned to Colonel Hunt. "All right with you, Guy?"

"Yes, Sir. A strong patrol, Rust. They'll be expecting you."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"Guy, why don't you and Rust go set it up?" Vandergrift said. "Let me know before you take off. I want a word with Captain Pickering."

Hunt and Rust left the room. Then Colonel Hunt returned. He offered his hand to Pickering.

"Good luck, Captain," he said. "Thank God we have somebody like you to step into the breach."

"Thank you, Sir," Pickering said.

Hunt left again. Pickering looked at Vandergrift.

"That was gracious and flattering," Pickering said. "But I am not qualified to step into Goettge's shoes."

"You weren't listening carefully, Captain," Vandergrift said. "The operative words were 'somebody like you to step into the breach.' I don't have anyone else. You don't expect to lose your division G-2 like this. Nor the 5th Marines' G-2, who would have been my choice for a temporary replacement."

"I'll do my best, Sir. But you need a professional."

"I'll send a radio asking for one, of course," Vandergrift said. "But until he arrives, or until I have to order you off the island, you're it."

"I'll need some help, Sir."

"Jack Stecker? Am I reading your mind?"

"Yes, Sir."

Major Jack NMI Stecker had commanded 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines, when they invaded Tulagi. During the battle, Stecker had personally taken out a sniper-in-a-bunker who had been holding up the 2nd Battalion's advance by standing in the open and shooting him, offhand, in the head from a distance of 200 yards. The story had not surprised Pickering when he heard it.

"General Harris won't like losing Stecker, but he'll have to live with it. Tulagi is secure, and Stecker will be of more value to the division working with you here. I'll send a boat to Tulagi at first light to fetch him. He's not going to be happy about it, either, but that's the way it's going to have to be."

"What he really won't like is working for me," Pickering chuckled. "In France, in 1918, he was my sergeant when I was a corporal."