Retreat, Hell! Page 13

  “Don’t give me any trouble about this, Ken,” she’d said firmly. “You’re not supposed to upset a pregnant woman.”

  Ernie was in the sixth month of her pregnancy. Twice before, she had failed to carry to full term.

  Major Ken McCoy had thought, as Ernie had stood before him, hands on her hips, her stomach just starting to show, making her declaration, that he loved her even more now than when he had first seen her on the patio of the penthouse, when it had really been Love at First Sight.

  McCoy walked away from the base operations tents, and Jeanette Priestly had to trot to catch up with him.

  “Where are they going?” she asked, indicating the car with Generals Howe and Almond in it.

  “I thought you wanted to hear about Pick,” McCoy replied.

  She didn’t reply, but caught his arm and stopped him.

  He looked back at the tent, decided they were out of earshot, and stopped and told her everything he knew.

  “So you think he’s alive?” she asked when he had finished.

  He nodded.

  “He was yesterday, I’m sure of it.”

  “So when are you going to look again?”

  “You mean instead of standing around here waiting for El Supremo?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, for one thing, I was ordered to be here,” he said. “And for another, I have no idea where he is. There’s no sense going back south until I do.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “Whenever there’s another sighting of his arrows,” McCoy said. “Billy Dunn was here early this morning, and he said he’s going to photograph the hell out of the area where we just missed him. He’ll almost certainly come up with something, and when he does, we’ll go out again.”

  “When you go, can I go with you?”

  “No, of course not. And if you try something clever, I’ll have you on the next plane to Tokyo.”

  “You’d do that, too, wouldn’t you, you sonofabitch?”

  “You know I would, and stop calling me a sonofabitch.”

  She met his eyes.

  “It’s a term of endearment,” she said. “I love you almost as much as I love that stupid bastard who got himself shot down.”

  She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.

  For a moment—just a moment—McCoy put his arms around her and hugged her.

  [FOUR]

  The Bataan made its landing approach from the direction of Seoul, passed low over the people gathered around the base operations tents, and touched down.

  The military police had permitted a dozen still and motion picture photographers to detach themselves from the press area so that they would be able to photograph the Bataan taxiing up to base operations and the Supreme Commander himself getting off the airplane.

  When the Bataan, instead of taxiing toward them, turned off the runway and taxied to a hangar on the far side of the field, a chorus of questions and protests rose from the Fourth Estate.

  The phrase “Now, what the fuck is going on?” was heard, and several variations thereof.

  The X Corps information officer, a bird colonel, who really had no idea what the hell was going on, managed to placate them somewhat by stating that it was “a security precaution” and that the Bataan and General MacArthur would shortly move to base operations.

  The press could see the Bataan stop in front of the hangar, and a flight of mobile stairs being rolled up to it.

  The first three people to debark from the Bataan were three Army photographers, two still and one motion picture. The photographers took up positions by the mobile stairway. Next off was Colonel Sidney Huff, the Supreme Commander’s senior aide-de-camp.

  He exchanged salutes with Major Alex Donald, USA, and Captain Howard C. Dunwood, USMCR, who were standing on the ground, looked around to see there were enough heavily armed Marines around so there wasn’t much immediate danger to General MacArthur, and then raised his eyes to the open door of the Bataan and saluted.

  The Supreme Commander somewhat regally descended the stairs and the cameras whirred and clicked. There was another exchange of salutes, then MacArthur was led to the just-open-wide-enough doors and went inside.

  As soon as he had gone inside, preceded and trailed by the photographers, Brigadier General Fleming Pickering and Captain George F. Hart came down the stairs and went into the hangar.

  Major Generals Ralph Howe and Edward C. Almond were standing inside the hangar. They saluted, then Almond stepped toward MacArthur for the benefit of the photographers. General Howe went to the door to avoid the photographers and also to see if Pickering had gotten off the airplane.

  Pickering and Hart came into the hangar and stood with Howe as Major Alex Donald showed General MacArthur around the closest of the two helicopters. General MacArthur declined Major Donald’s invitation to climb aboard the helicopter, but obligingly posed for several minutes while the photographers recorded the event for posterity.

  Then he shook hands with Major Donald and walked back toward the door.

  “General Howe,” MacArthur declared, “I’m really glad to see you here.”

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “This business out of the way, I presume we can get on with returning President Rhee’s capital to him,” MacArthur said. “How are we going to do that, Sid?”

  “Sir, I suggest that you reboard the Bataan,” Colonel Huff replied, “which will then taxi to base operations, where the press is waiting.”

  “What about General Almond?” MacArthur asked.

  “I would suggest that General Almond ride back over there in his car, sir. That would eliminate any possible questions about whether he has come to Korea with you.”

  “All right, Ned?” MacArthur asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I think it would be appropriate,” Huff went on, “if General Almond were to greet the general when he descends from the Bataan.”

  “Yes, so do I,” MacArthur said. “He is, after all, the liberator of Seoul.” Then he added, jovially, “Well, then, Ned, why don’t you saddle up, and hie thee to the other side of the airport?”

  “Yes, sir,” General Almond said. “You ready, Howe?”

  “General,” Howe said to MacArthur, “I’d like a moment of your time. Would it be all right if I rode over there with you?”

  “I’d be delighted to have your company, General. Of course.”

  “Fleming,” Howe said, “would you mind riding with General Almond?”

  “Of course,” Pickering said.

  He, MacArthur, Almond, and Huff instantly decided that Howe had something to say to MacArthur that he didn’t want anyone else to hear.

  As Pickering, Hart, and Almond got into Almond’s Chevrolet, MacArthur and Howe climbed the stairway to the Bataan. Colonel Huff and then the photographers followed them.

  Pickering was a little curious about why Howe wanted a moment of El Supremo’s time in private, but not concerned. Their relationship was not only one of mutual respect; they also liked each other. It never entered Pickering’s mind that Howe was in any way going behind his back. He never had, and Pickering had no reason to suspect he would suddenly start now.

  General Pickering was dead wrong. In this instance, Howe had something to say to the Supreme Commander that he absolutely did not want Pickering to know about.

  “That will be all, Huff, thank you,” MacArthur said, waited until Huff had closed the door, and then looked expectantly at Howe.

  “General,” Howe began carefully, “I fully understand that my role here is solely that of observer, and that I have neither the authority—and certainly not the expertise—to offer any sort of suggestion. . . .”

  The Bataan began to taxi away from the hangar.

  “General,” MacArthur said, “I decide who has the expertise to offer a suggestion to me, and I would welcome any suggestion you might be good enough to offer.”

  “That’s very gracious of you, sir,” Howe said. “It’s
about those helicopters.”

  “Those helicopters?” MacArthur asked, surprised. “Or helicopters in general?”

  “Those two helicopters, sir.”

  “Okay. Let’s have it.”

  “While we were waiting for you to arrive, sir, Major Donald—the Army pilot in charge of them?”

  MacArthur nodded.

  “—gave General Almond and myself a well-thought-out briefing about those specific helicopters, and the future role of what he calls ‘rotary-wing aircraft’ in providing battlefield mobility.”

  “And you were, or were not, impressed?”

  “May I speak frankly, sir?” Howe asked, and when MacArthur nodded, he went on, “Are you familiar with the phrase ‘dog and pony show,’ General?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if they used it at Valley Forge,” MacArthur said.

  “There are only five of those machines in the Army, General, according to Major Donald. Two are at the Army Aviation School at Fort Riley being studied, and the Air Force has a third, which they are subjecting to destructive engineering tests. In other words, the two here are the only two which are operational. I can’t think of a place where they can be used for a really practical purpose, except perhaps to carry senior officers around, and neither can General Almond.”

  “So this is a dog and pony show?”

  “I would suggest that it is, sir.”

  “In France, I staged more than one dog and pony show myself, to convince my seniors that a new gadget called the tank had a place in ground warfare.”

  Howe didn’t reply directly.

  “During Major Donald’s enthusiastic presentation,” Howe said, “I had two questions about the actual usefulness of these machines. The first thing, I thought, when he was telling us how useful they would be to transport senior officers, was that it would really be pretty stupid to load half a dozen generals or colonels on one of them. They are not immune to ground fire, and I don’t know how safe they are, period.”

  MacArthur grunted.

  “Same thing for carrying half a dozen wounded,” Howe went on. “You don’t often find half a dozen wounded in one place except in some place where what got them would also likely get a large, and fragile, helicopter.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that,” MacArthur said softly.

  “They’re capable of carrying six or seven infantrymen each. Say seven. But I can’t think of a situation where fourteen men being flown into it would have much real effect.”

  “I take your point,” MacArthur said. “So what is your suggestion? That I order these machines out of Korea? We can’t really use them, and we shouldn’t be wasting time and effort on a dog and pony show?”

  “We haven’t rescued Major Pickering, sir. Major McCoy told me he thinks he missed him on his last attempt by less than a couple of hours. Of course, he was riding in a jeep and weapons carrier convoy, and couldn’t make very good time getting where he had to go.”

  “And McCoy could have flown in these machines to wherever he went in time to establish contact with young Pickering?”

  “Possibly, sir. In fact, probably. With a dozen of his men, in case there was resistance when he got there.”

  MacArthur looked at Howe intently for a moment, and then glanced out the window.

  “If those tents are where we’re going, we’re almost there,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You and I are both aware that General Pickering might regard this as special treatment for his son,” MacArthur said, “and not like it at all.”

  “I also think you and I would agree, General, that keeping the son of the Deputy Director of the CIA out of enemy hands is the first consideration, even at the risk of offending General Pickering’s sense of chivalry. Or, for that matter, offending the entire Marine Corps.”

  “Well, I’d hate to do that,” MacArthur said. “I have reason to suspect that I’m not a hallowed figure in the Halls of Montezuma as it is.”

  Howe chuckled.

  “What I’m going to do, General Howe . . .” MacArthur began, then stopped, smiled, and said, “ ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave when ere we try to deceive,’ ” and went on: “. . . is wait until we’re just about to take off for Tokyo, and then direct that these machines be immediately placed under the control of the CIA here in Korea, and state that my decision is not open for discussion.”

  He paused again, then explained: “That way, Colonel Huff will not connect our little chat with that order. And further, with a little luck, General Pickering will not hear of this until it is a fait accompli.”

  “Yes, sir,” Howe said.

  “And when that inevitably happens, and he comes to me, as I strongly suspect he will, I will resort to the last defense of the Machiavellians. I will tell the truth. These machines were brought to my attention; I concluded that at the moment I could see no really practical operational use for them, but thought that the CIA might find some use for them.”

  [FIVE]

  THE CAPITOL BUILDING SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA 1205 29 SEPTEMBER 1950

  “Mr. President,” General of the Army Douglas MacArthur sonorously intoned, “in God’s name, I herewith return the city of Seoul to you as the chief of its lawful government.”

  There came the shock wave of what most experienced soldiers and Marines in the building recognized as coming from a massive 155-mm cannon “time on target”—that is, the firing of perhaps ten, fifteen, or more heavy cannon nearly simultaneously, so that their projectiles would all land on the target at the same instant.

  The shock wave caused plaster and glass to fall from the ceiling and walls of the bullet-pocked building. Many people cringed.

  MacArthur did not seem to notice.

  “I invite you now to join me in recitation of the Lord’s Prayer,” he went on. “Our Father which art in heaven . . .”

  “Am I allowed to ask questions?” Captain George F. Hart, USMCR, asked of Brigadier General Pickering ten minutes later.

  “Shoot,” Pickering said.

  “That was the DSC El Supremo gave Almond and the other guy, Walker, wasn’t it? The cross, as opposed to the medal? As in DSM?”

  “A little decorum would be in order, Captain Hart. Yes, General MacArthur has just decorated General Almond and General Walker with the Distinguished Service Cross.”

  “I thought that was like the Navy Cross, that you only got it for courage above and beyond in combat.”

  “The DSC is the Army version of the Navy Cross. And General MacArthur apparently feels that the service of both general officers was above and beyond the call of the duty in combat. Any further questions, Captain Hart?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good,” Pickering said. “One day, George, your curiosity is going to get us both in trouble.” He paused. “Where’s McCoy going to meet us?”

  “Outside,” Hart said. “He sent Zimmerman back out to Kimpo to see if Colonel Dunn had sent any fresh aerials, and wasn’t sure they’d let Zimmerman in here without a fuss.”

  “Let’s go. El Supremo told me he wants to get out of here as soon as possible.”

  Miss Jeanette Priestly was sitting in McCoy’s Russian jeep and he and Zimmerman were leaning against it. The men stood erect when they saw Pickering coming.

  “You should have come inside, Ken,” Pickering greeted him. “That was an historic moment.”

  “I wanted to see what, if anything, Billy Dunn came up with,” McCoy said matter-of-factly, then added: “Nothing, I’m afraid, sir.”

  “And what do you make of that, Ken?” Pickering asked.

  “He’s moving again, sir. Probably north. Zimmerman told Colonel Dunn where we think he might be headed. Either almost due east, toward Wonju, or northeast, toward Chunchon. There’s not many paved roads in that area, mostly rice paddies. I think he wants to be somewhere where there won’t be much movement on the roads. . . .”

  “Like yours, for instance,” Jeanette said.

  The men looked at her but sai
d nothing.

  “. . . and where he can easily find rice paddies to stamp out his arrows,” McCoy finished.

  “Explain that, please,” Pickering said. “ ‘Easily find rice paddies’?”

  “We have to presume, sir, that the NKs have also come across one of Pick’s stampings. And that they would be looking for others. The advantage we have is that we’ve got air superiority, which means they have to look at paddies from the ground. The more paddies there are, the more they have to look at. . . .”

  Pickering nodded.

  “I take your point. You think Pick has thought of this?”

  “I’m sure he has,” McCoy replied. “General, there’s often been two- and three-day intervals between sightings. There may be another this afternoon; if not, then probably tomorrow. When there is—”

  “You’ll go out again,” Pickering finished the sentence for him.

  “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  “Pick is really putting a lot of lives at risk, isn’t he?” Pickering said, and then he heard what he had said and added: “That sounded pretty stupid, didn’t it?”

  “General,” McCoy said, “we’re Marines. We go after people who find themselves in trouble.”

  “What I meant to say was that the lives we’re putting at risk are yours and Zimmerman’s, and I can’t afford to lose either of you. Isn’t there someone else who could go out there and look for him?”

  “As of right now, sir, 1st MarDiv hasn’t said anything about wanting to get back the people—it’s an understrength company—who were on the Flying Fish Channel Islands. If I knew I could keep at least twenty or so of them, Ernie and I could bring them up to speed in three or four days. That would at least allow Ernie to go with one recon patrol, and me with another.”