Retreat, Hell! Page 14

“You’re talking about the Marines that are now at that hangar with the helicopters?”

  “Yes, sir,” McCoy said. “The problems with that are taking rations-and-quarters care of them, getting enough vehicles to carry them, and then deciding what, if anything, we tell them about why it’s so important we get Pick back—and, for that matter, who Ernie and I work for. They’re going to wonder.”

  Pickering considered that for a moment.

  “I’ll tell General Smith—he’ll be at the airport—that I’d like to keep those Marines for a while. And I’ll tell General Almond you’re going to need jeeps and so forth.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And if General Smith goes along, I’ll decide later what they’re to be told.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He looked back at the Capitol Building. Officers and other dignitaries were getting into the staff cars to accompany MacArthur back to Kimpo Airfield.

  “The Imperial procession is forming,” he said. “I’ve got to go.” He put his hand out to Jeanette Priestly. “It was good to see you, Jeanette. Is there anything I can send you from Tokyo?”

  “Thank you, but no thank you. I’m going with you.”

  “On the Bataan?” Pickering asked, surprised.

  “I’ve already asked El Supremo,” she said. “I don’t know about you guys, but when I smile at him, I get just about anything I want.”

  She jumped nimbly out of the backseat of the Russian jeep.

  [SIX]

  KIMPO AIRFIELD SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA 1425 29 SEPTEMBER 1950

  The two senior commanders in Korea, Lieutenant General Walton Walker, the Eighth Army commander, and Major General Edward M. Almond, the X Corps commander, accompanied the Supreme Commander to the stairs of the Bataan.

  Both were still wearing their newly awarded Distinguished Service Crosses pinned to their fatigue jackets.

  Of the two, the shorter, almost rotund Walker presented the most military appearance. His fatigues had obviously been tailored to his body, and they were starched. He wore a varnished helmet with the three silver stars of his rank fastened to it, and polished “tanker” boots, as he had while serving under General George S. Patton in Europe.

  Almond was wearing clean but rumpled fatigues and what the Army called “combat” boots. These looked like rough-side-out work shoes to which had been sewn a band of smooth leather fastened to the lower calf with a double buckle. The only things that distinguished him from any of the soldiers in his command were the stars pinned to his collar points and fatigue cap—which was crumpled and looked too large for him—and the general officer’s leather pistol belt around his waist.

  “You are both to be congratulated,” MacArthur intoned. “And I shall expect equally great things from you in the future.”

  He first shook Walker’s hand, then let go. Walker saluted. MacArthur returned it. Then he shook Almond’s hand, let it go, and returned his salute.

  He then took one step up the stairway and stopped and turned.

  “By the way, Ned . . .” he began.

  “Yes, sir?” Almond asked.

  “This is addressed to you in your capacity as Chief of Staff, Supreme Headquarters.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Those helicopters we saw?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dog and pony shows are sometimes necessary, but under the present circumstances, I can’t see that the time and effort are justified. Have them transferred immediately to the CIA here in Seoul.”

  “Sir?” Almond asked, more than a little surprised by the order.

  “Do that today, if you can,” MacArthur said. “The helicopters, the pilots, the mechanics, everything, go to the CIA, and I don’t want to see photographs of them in the press. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  MacArthur nodded at Almond, then went up the stairs and, ducking his head and without looking back, passed through the door.

  “What the hell was that all about?” General Walker inquired of General Almond.

  General Almond shrugged.

  “I have no idea,” he confessed, “but the Supreme Commander didn’t leave any doubt about what he wants done, did he?”

  They stood in front of the base operations tents watching as the Bataan taxied away, reached the end of the runway, ran up its engines quickly, and then raced down the runway.

  The two men then looked at each another. There was no love lost between them, but there was a certain mutual respect.

  “Well, Ned,” Walker said as he put out his hand, “we’ll no doubt be in touch.”

  Almond shook the hand, then saluted.

  “Yes, of course we will,” Almond said.

  Walker nodded at him, then turned and started to walk to the Air Force C-47 that would carry him to his Eighth Army headquarters in the south.

  Almond did not wait for the C-47 to take off. Even before Walker got to it, he walked toward the end of the base operations tents.

  The fleet of staff cars that had been used to carry the Supreme Commander and his entourage from the airport to the Capitol Building and back—it had been assembled with no little effort; some cars had come from as far away as Pusan on an LST for the occasion—was no longer needed. Outside Seoul, with few exceptions, the roads were unpaved, in very bad shape, and not usable by passenger cars. The staff cars had been turned over to an X Corps Transportation Corps captain, who had arranged them in neat rows and was waiting for orders on what to do with them.

  Where they had once been lined up before the base operations tents, there was now a line of jeeps, the vehicles in which the senior officers had come from their units to participate in the liberation ceremony.

  As General Almond walked toward his jeep, his aide-de -camp got out of the front seat and called his name.

  “General Almond! Over here, sir.”

  Almond headed for his jeep. The aide took the canvas cover from the two-starred license plate.

  Just as he reached the jeep, he was intercepted by Major Alex Donald.

  “General Almond, if I may—”

  Almond looked at him curiously, then held up his hand in a gesture telling him to wait.

  “Al,” he ordered, “see if you find Colonel Scott, or, failing him, Colonel Raymond, and bring one or the other here.”

  Colonel Charles Scott was the X Corps G-2, and Lieutenant Colonel James Raymond his assistant.

  “Yes, sir,” Haig said, and walked quickly down the line of jeeps.

  Almond turned to Major Donald.

  “Okay, Major,” he said. “Donald, isn’t it? What can I do for you?”

  “Sir, I wondered what General MacArthur’s reaction to the helicopters was,” Major Donald said.

  “I’ve been wondering about that myself,” Almond said. “Is that why you . . . ?”

  “No, sir. Sir, I was going to suggest that rather than returning to the X Corps CP by jeep, you fly there in one of the H-19s.”

  “I don’t think that will be possible,” Almond said. “But thank you, Major, for the thought.”

  Major Donald was surprised and disappointed by the general’s refusal, but he was not yet ready to quit. If General MacArthur were to ask General Almond what he thought of the H-19s—as he almost certainly would— Donald wanted to make sure he had kind, even enthusiastic, things to say about them.

  “Sir, I can have you there in fifteen minutes, and, sir, I really would like to demonstrate the capabilities of the H- 19s to you.”

  Almond looked at him a moment, then gestured for Donald to follow him. Almond walked far enough away from the line of jeeps so that he was sure no one could overhear the conversation, then stopped and faced Donald.

  “Major,” he said, “you will consider the following to be classified.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Top Secret, and to be related to no one without my specific permission in advance.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As of”—Almond consulted his wristwatch—“1445 hours, the
helicopters, their crews and maintenance personnel, everything and everyone connected with them, are transferred to the Central Intelligence Agency.”

  “Sir?”

  “What didn’t you understand?” Almond asked.

  Major Donald was visibly shaken. It took him a moment to frame his reply.

  “I understood that the helicopters and everyone and everything connected with them have been transferred to the Central Intelligence Agency, sir. Sir, does that include me?”

  “You are connected with the helicopters, are you not?”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  “Then you’re included in the package,” Almond said, cutting him off. “What you will do now, Major, is go back to the hangar. Someone will shortly contact you with further orders. Any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That will be all, Major,” Almond said. “Thank you.”

  Major Donald saluted and then, after a moment, started to walk to where he had parked his jeep.

  Almond looked toward the line of jeeps and saw that Haig had located Lieutenant Colonel James Raymond, the assistant G-2. He gestured for him to come to him. Haig looked dubious, so Almond gestured again, meaning for him to come along.

  Lieutenant Colonel Raymond saluted.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Raymond, do you know how to find the CIA’s—‘head-quarters, ’ I suppose is the word—in Seoul?”

  Raymond looked slightly uncomfortable.

  “Not officially, sir.”

  “Explain that to me.”

  “They don’t like people to know where they are, sir. But they told Colonel Scott, and he thought I might have a need for the information, and he told me.”

  “But you know?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want you to go there, right now, and deliver a message for me to the station chief or his deputy. No one else. If necessary, wait there for one or the other to show up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When Almond did not hand him a sheet of paper or an envelope, Lieutenant Colonel Raymond took a small notebook and a pencil from his pocket.

  “Don’t write this down,” Almond said. “Memorize it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “ ‘Classification Top Secret,’ ” Almond began to dictate. “ ‘As of 1445 hours this date, by order of the Supreme Commander, Allied Powers, two H-19 helicopters, together with their crews, maintenance personnel, and all available supporting equipment, have been transferred to you. The officer-in-charge has been notified, and is awaiting your orders in the hangar across from base operations at Kimpo Airfield. Signature, Almond, Major General, Chief of Staff, Allied Powers.’ Got that?”

  “Sir, would you give it to me again?” Lieutenant Colonel Raymond asked.

  Almond did so.

  “Got it, sir.”

  “When you have delivered the message, report to me at the CP,” Almond ordered. “Let’s go, Al.”

  V

  [ONE]

  NEAR YOJU, SOUTH KOREA 1705 29 SEPTEMBER 1950

  Major Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, was three quarters of the way toward the top of a hill that had been terraced into rice paddies. He had only a vague idea where he was, except . . .

  He knew he was somewhere to the east of where he had seen the jeep with the American flag flying from its antenna.

  He knew that he had been moving, and making pretty good time, since daylight—that is, for fifteen hours.

  He knew that he had crossed a dirt road three hours before and an hour after that a paved road, which in Korea meant a highway, and he suspected that it was the highway connecting Suwon, to his west, with Wonju, to his east.

  And he knew that he had waded and swum across a river, which he was pretty well convinced was the Han.

  From where he was sitting, on a dirt footpath, his back resting against the earth-wall dam of a rice paddy, he could see in the valley below him the “highway” bridge of the paved road across the river. The bridge had been mostly blown into the water, but there were signs that vehicles had forded the river near the shattered bridge.

  He had no idea whose vehicles, or when they had crossed.

  There were the burned remnants of buildings and stone-walled, thatch-roofed huts on both sides of the river by the bridge. There had been no signs of people or of travel on the dirt road, the highway, or the river when he had crossed them, and there had been no signs of anything human and alive in the thirty minutes he had been watching now.

  The only sign of human life he had seen all day had been very early that morning, shortly after he had started moving, when he had come across three rice farmers tending a paddy.

  They had had with them their lunch—balls of rice flecked with bits of chicken or pork—and two bottles of water. He had taken half the rice and one of the bottles of water, even though he was almost positive the water wasn’t safe to drink, and had vowed he wasn’t going to take a sip unless he absolutely had to.

  He had paid for the rice and water with a U.S. twenty-dollar bill from a thick wad of currency held together by a gold money clip that had been either a birthday or a Christmas present from either his mother or his father. He couldn’t quite remember which.

  He wasn’t at all sure if the rice farmers knew what the twenty-dollar bill was, and was just about convinced the farmer’s pleasure in taking it was because they would have been just as happy to take any colored piece of paper if that meant the large bearded American with the large pistol wasn’t going to shoot them to ensure they would not report him to the authorities.

  Pick had noticed aerial activity all through the day, from contrails laid almost certainly by Air Force B-29 bombers, to formations of twin-engine aircraft, either Air Force A- 20s or B-26s flying at what was probably eight or ten thousand feet, to low-flying Air Force F-51s and even some Marine and Navy Corsairs flying to his west, right down on the deck, probably on interdiction missions.

  None had been close enough for them to see him, and certainly not close enough for him to try to signal them with the mirror, even if he knew how to work that goddamn thing, and anyway, the flash of light from the goddamn mirror would almost certainly have been lost in the far brighter flashes of light coming from the sun bouncing off the water in the rice paddies.

  He had filled both canteens and the bottle he’d bought from the rice farmers with water from what was probably the Han River, and felt marginally safer in drinking some of that now.

  The decision he had before him now was when to have supper, before or after going to work.

  He had not found a conveniently drained rice paddy, which meant that he was going to have to drain one himself. In two months, he had become rather expert in draining rice paddies, so that he would have a muddy surface into which he could stamp out his arrow and the letters PP.

  It wasn’t as simple a task as one might assume, not simply a matter of kicking a hole in the dirt dams and letting the water flow out.

  There was a hell of a lot of water in each rice paddy, he had learned, and if you kicked too large an opening, the water would run out too quickly, taking with it more dirt, so that what had begun as a small trickle of water turned with astonishing speed into a raging torrent.

  The torrent would soon overwhelm the capacity of the dirt path between adjacent paddies to carry it away, and flow into the rice paddy below it on the hill, where it would overwhelm that paddy’s earth dam, and produce something like a chain reaction.

  A line of drained paddies running down a hill was visible for miles, and would attract the kind of attention that would see him captured. He had caused one major chain-reaction draining and two not quite so spectacular—all three of which had seen excited farmers rushing to see what had happened—before he’d given the subject of paddy drainage a great deal of thought and come up with a technique that worked.

  The trick was to go to one end of the paddy and scrape a very shallow trench at the top of the dam. The water would flow until it had fallen to the le
vel of the trench and then stop. Then you moved five feet away and dug another very shallow trench, and repeated the process until the paddy was dry.

  Major Pickering decided he would work and eat. He would dig the first very shallow trench with his boot, eat one of his nine rice balls as the water drained, then, when it had stopped flowing, dig another very shallow trench, eat a second ball of rice, and so on.

  He pushed himself off the earth dam, walked to the end of the paddy, and scraped the first trench.

  It was long after dark before the paddy was drained.

  He looked down at the valley and saw some lights, but they were dim and not moving along the highway.

  He moved uphill from the drained trench, sat down on the dirt path, popped dessert—the last of the nine rice balls—into his mouth, and then lay down.

  He had a busy day tomorrow. He had to find food again, and move, and then find another suitable rice paddy.

  [TWO]

  THE HOUSE SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA 1715 29 SEPTEMBER 1950

  When Colonel Scott, the X Corps G-2, had quietly passed on the location of the CIA station to Lieutenant Colonel Raymond, he of course had not simply given him the address. Neither officer spoke, much less read and wrote, Korean. Instead, he had prepared a rather detailed map, and provided a verbal description of how to get there, and of the building itself.

  Still, what street signs remained were in Korean, and it took Raymond about two hours to make it to the house from Kimpo. And even when he blew his jeep’s horn in front of the massive steel gates, he wasn’t sure he was in the right place.

  A moment later, an enormous Korean in U.S. Army fatigues came through a door in the gate, holding the butt of a Thompson submachine gun against his hip.

  “Do you speak English?” Raymond asked.

  There was no sign, verbal or otherwise, that the Korean had understood him.

  “I’m here to see the station chief,” Raymond said.

  Again there was no response that Raymond could detect.

  “I have orders from General Almond,” Raymond said.