Retreat, Hell! Read online

  Actually, from that perspective, the colonel said, the real mission of Baker Company would be to occupy the two islands and prevent the enemy from coming back and bringing more artillery with them.

  Captain Dunwood had gone ashore at Tarawa and Iwo Jima, on each occasion having been assured that following the massive preinvasion barrages of naval artillery to be laid on those islands, resistance would be minimal. That assurance had turned out to be bullshit, and he had therefore concluded that it was logical to presume this one was, too, and that Baker Company had just been handed the short end of the stick.

  But he was a Marine, and Marines go where they are ordered to go, and he was a Marine officer, and Marine officers do whatever is humanly possible to reduce Marine losses by the only means that has ever looked like it works—training and more training.

  By the time Baker Company reboarded LST-450, Captain Dunwood was sure that ninety-five percent of his Marines hated him for the regimen of training they had gone through under his command. And he was also sure that he had trained them as well and as thoroughly as he knew how, and that would probably result in fewer KIA and WIA than otherwise would have occurred.

  At 0415 14 September, as the schedule called for, LST- 450 was at the mouth of the Flying Fish Channel, preparing to load the men of Baker Company aboard the Higgins boats for their assault on Taemuui-do and Yonghung-do islands.

  Every ear, of course, was listening for the thunder, and every eye the flash, of the massive naval gunfire bombardment that was going to reduce the potential of the North Koreans to repel their assault to minimal. That was scheduled to begin at 0415 and last for a half hour.

  At 0445, when Baker Company’s Higgins boats were scheduled to depart LST-450 for the beaches of the islands, they were still listening, in vain. There had been some kind of a fuckup, obviously, and there wasn’t going to be any massive barrage of naval gunfire.

  Or, possibly, Captain Dunwood had thought privately, some candy-ass chair-warming swabbie clerk-typist had made a little mistake typing the order—hitting the “5” instead of the “4”—and there would be a massive barrage of naval gunfire landing on Taemuui-do and Yonghung-do starting at 0515, five minutes after the first Higgins boat touched the shore, and Baker Company would be up to its ass in angry North Koreans.

  Marines go where they are ordered to go, with or without massive barrages of naval gunfire to reduce opposition to the minimum.

  At 0510, on schedule, the first Higgins boat transporting Baker Company to the Flying Fish Channel Islands touched ashore and dropped its ramp.

  Marines ran down the ramp and turned right and left, spreading out, weapons at the ready. Captain Dunwood was in the center of what ultimately was a formation in the shape of a V, holding his carbine in one hand.

  “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” a voice shouted, an obviously American voice.

  A figure appeared. He was in black cotton pajamas and had a band of the same material around his forehead. He held his hands over his head in a gesture of surrender.

  It soon became apparent that the Marines Had Landed and the situation was well in hand. The first landing had occurred before—long before, weeks before—Baker Company of the 5th Marines had arrived.

  The character in the black pajamas was a technical sergeant named Jennings. The second character to appear in black pajamas had identified himself as Captain K. R. McCoy, USMCR, and he said he was “in charge of the operation.”

  At about that moment—just as Dunwood was trying to reconcile McCoy with some candy-ass Marine he’d clashed with on a plane—the skies lit up and the earth trembled as a massive barrage of naval gunfire began. It flew overhead to land on Wolmi-do Island, miles farther down the Flying Fish Channel.

  Captain McCoy explained to Captain Dunwood that the real role of Baker Company in the Inchon Invasion was to retake Taemuui-do and Yonghung-do islands in case something happened to him and his men.

  Captain McCoy and his handful of men—some of them Korean—had then gotten into Baker Company’s Higgins boats and left. Dunwood never had time to ask Captain McCoy what he was supposed to do next, or even to which Marine unit he belonged, or what was the reason for the black pajamas.

  Two days later, other Higgins boats appeared at the island, under a Navy chief bosun’s mate who knew only that he had been ordered to the island to pick up Baker Company and transport them to Inchon.

  At Inchon, which had just been taken, Baker Company was placed in Division Special Reserve and Dunwood was shown where to bivouac and told to be prepared to move out on twenty minutes’ notice.

  No such notice ever came, and it had not been necessary for Baker Company to fire a shot. Or, for that matter, to dodge any.

  After five days in Division Special Reserve, half a company of amphibious trucks had come to their bivouac area under an old gunnery sergeant who reported that all Captain Strauley had told him was that he was to haul Baker Company to Kimpo Airfield.

  By the time they reached Kimpo, the war had moved past the airfield. It was already in use.

  Sergeant Preston had come to him within an hour, saying that he’d reconnoitered the field and found a hangar at the far end that was neither in use nor too badly shot up, and why didn’t they take it over?

  “At least, sir, until the fucking crotch gets its head out of its ass and decides what the fuck to do with us.”

  Under the circumstances, Captain Dunwood had decided that pending orders, moving into the hangar was the prudent thing to do.

  A captain from G-3, Headquarters, 1st Marine Division, had shown up the next day and announced that Baker Company was still in Division Special Reserve and further orders would be forthcoming. He didn’t say when, but warned Dunwood to be prepared to move out on four hours’ notice, maximum.

  Captain Dunwood’s plan of action remained the same. Have Baker Company prepared to move out on command, and in the meantime to make his men as comfortable as possible, at the same time making no waves that would call attention to his command.

  With a little bit of luck, they might be forgotten again.

  When he finished his ham chunks and baked beans, he took a bite of the chocolate bar that came with the rations, spit it out, and decided it had probably already been bad when packaged just before the Civil War.

  He slipped his feet into his boondockers, then sort of slid across the concrete floor to the door and went outside the hangar. He put a cigarette in his mouth and reached for his Zippo. Then he went back inside the building and, with his back to the door, lit the cigarette.

  He thought it was highly unlikely that a North Korean sniper was lying in the mud out there somewhere, waiting to take a shot at some Marine careless enough to light a cigarette in the open and make a target of himself, but it never hurt to be careful.

  Besides, he had warned his men of snipers lying in the mud waiting for a chance to shoot a careless Marine so often that he felt he should practice what he preached.

  Holding the cigarette with the coal in his cupped hand, he went outside again, thinking that for the evening’s amusement he would watch the red glow of the artillery bounce off the clouds to the northeast of Seoul.

  What he saw was the headlights—not the blackout lights—of two jeeps coming down the runway at high speed, and he wondered if no one had ever told them about North Korean snipers lying in the mud, hoping for an opportunity to shoot people foolish enough to run around at night with their headlights blazing.

  Surprising him, the jeeps turned off the runway and onto the service road leading to his hangar.

  A hundred yards from the hangar, they were stopped by one of Dunwood’s perimeter guards. In the headlights, he could see the sentry gesturing toward him. Or, he thought, more accurately, the hangar, as there probably was not enough light to make him visible.

  And then the jeeps were on him. There were two. In the first were three officers. The second was an MP jeep with a pedestal-mounted .30-caliber air-cooled Browning machine gun.
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  The driver of the jeep got out of it quickly and walked up to Dunwood. Dunwood saw that he was an Army officer, a major, wearing a classy fur-collar zipper jacket with the blue-and-white X Corps patch sewn to it. He was armed with a .45 in a tanker’s shoulder holster.

  Dunwood saluted.

  The major returned the salute and inquired, not unpleasantly, “Who are you?”

  “Captain Dunwood, sir. Commanding Baker Company, 5th Marines.”

  “When we couldn’t find you, we thought you’d moved out.”

  “Sir?”

  “You’re 1st Marine Division Special Reserve, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, you’ve been assigned to us for this mission,” the major said.

  “What mission is that, sir?”

  The major didn’t reply directly.

  “We looked for you back there,” the major said, indicating the main area of the airfield. “And when we couldn’t find you, we thought you’d moved out. And we didn’t expect to find anyone in this hangar.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dunwood said.

  “But all’s well that ends well, right?” the major said, and turned to one of the officers with him, a young lieutenant. “Better get on the horn, Dick, and tell the colonel we’ve found the Marines, are now at the hangar, and we’ll get back to them when we know more.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young lieutenant said. He got into the backseat of the jeep, picked up a microphone, and called, “Jade Bird, this is Jade Bird Three.”

  "I’m the assistant Army Aviation officer for X Corps,” the major said. “My name is Alex Donald.” He put out his hand.

  “How do you do, sir?”

  “What’s your strength, Captain? Nobody seemed to know.”

  “Three officers and ninety-eight men, sir.”

  “That ought to be enough. We can always get more if needed.”

  “Yes, sir. May I ask, enough for what?”

  “To protect the aircraft,” Major Donald said.

  “What aircraft, sir?”

  “This is to go no further than here, you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “At first light, Captain, two aircraft are going to land here, and immediately be placed inside this hangar. . . . The doors do function, don’t they?”

  “I’m afraid I have no idea, sir,” Dunwood said. He saw that Staff Sergeant Al Preston had come around the corner of the hangar.

  “Why not?” Major Donald asked.

  “Sir, I had no reason to open them.”

  “Jesus Christ, Captain!” Major Donald exclaimed. “What good is a hangar if you can’t get the doors open?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dunwood said. “Sergeant Preston, do you know if the doors of the hangar work?”

  “Don’t have a clue, sir.”

  “Get a couple of men and try to open them,” Dunwood ordered.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Sergeant Preston said.

  Major Donald gave Captain Dunwood a thumbs-up.

  “That’s the spirit!” Major Donald said, and then explained, “It’s very important that the enemy . . . and I think it’s reasonable to assume they left spies behind when we ran them out of Seoul, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s important that the enemy not see these aircraft before we’re ready for them to see them, you understand?”

  “I think so. What kind of aircraft are these, Major?”

  “I’m afraid you don’t have the need to know that, Captain, ” Major Donald said. “And the problem is compounded because we think a senior officer, a very senior officer, is probably going to want to have a look at these aircraft—you take my meaning, Captain?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir.”

  “Well, then, I’d better not get into that, either. It will all become clear at first light when these aircraft arrive.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I can tell you this, Captain,” Major Donald said. “You are going to be present to personally witness the beginning of a new era in battlefield mobility.”

  “I don’t know what that means, I’m afraid, sir.”

  “You’ll see in the morning, Captain. But right now, I suggest you establish a really secure perimeter around this hangar.”

  “Yes, sir,” Captain Dunwood said, and thought, This is fucking surreal. “With your permission, sir, I’ll get dressed and see about setting up a perimeter guard.”

  Major Donald gave Captain Dunwood another thumbs-up signal and said, “That’s the spirit!” Then he raised his voice. "Dick!”

  "Yes, sir?”

  “Get on the horn again and tell the colonel that everything’s set up. And then bring in the sandwiches and coffee.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young lieutenant replied.

  “It’s going to be a long night, but it’s always better to be early than late.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  [TWO]

  HANGAR 13 KIMPO AIRFIELD (K-14) SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA 0510 29 SEPTEMBER 1950

  Major Alex Donald, USA, and Captain Howard Dunwood, USMCR, stood on the tarmac before the open doors of Hangar 13. It had grown light enough in the last few minutes for Dunwood to see the perimeter guard he had established in the dark around the hangar.

  The Marines of Baker Company were set up in and around foxholes, culverts, wrecked vehicles, crashed aircraft fuselages, and in a really shot-up little building painted in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern, their weapons forming fields of fire that would keep the enemy away from the hangar that was to house the aircraft soon to arrive.

  Dunwood wondered about the purpose of the checkerboard building. Every airport seemed to have one, but he had no idea of what they were for.

  Probably because he didn’t really give much of a damn about either the Air Force or the Army, neither did he have any idea what the relationship between the two was with respect to airplanes. Now he was wondering about that, too. When, during the night, Major Alex Donald had taken off his spiffy fur-collared zipper jacket—which Dunwood had belatedly recognized to be a pilot’s jacket—there were silver pilot’s wings pinned to his chest. There were also metallic representations of the old-time wigwag signal flags on his collar point. Dunwood recognized that as the insignia of the Army Signal Corps.

  Putting that all together, Major Donald was an Army Signal Corps officer—in other words, an officer whose specialty was communications—who was also a pilot, presumably of these secret aircraft about to arrive to usher in a new era of battlefield mobility.

  Where did the Air Force fit into this? Weren’t airplanes the province of the Air Force? Until just now, Dunwood thought the only airplanes the Army had were little Piper Cub-like two-seaters used for artillery spotting, and a handful of helicopters, tiny little flying machines in which the pilot sat in a huge plastic bubble and whose only purpose Dunwood could see was to haul either the brass from point to point or to haul the wounded in a side-mounted stretcher rack.

  Dunwood knew that his success as a DeSoto-Plymouth salesman had been in large part due to his ability to get people to tell him just about anything he wanted them to. Knowing your customer was the first, and most important, step in making a sale, and he had been damned good at finding out whatever he had wanted to know.

  That skill had failed him in the long hours of the night. Major Alex Donald had told him no more than what he’d told him when he had first appeared at the hangar, and finally had made it very clear that Dunwood’s persistent curiosity was very unwelcome.

  There came the sound of multiple aircraft engines.

  Dunwood looked into the sky toward Inchon. There were three Corsairs slowly approaching the airfield. They were flying one above the other, separated by two hundred feet or so. The lowest was maybe 1,500 feet above the ground.

  “There they are,” Major Donald cried, excitement in his voice.

  “Major,” Dunwood said, “those are Corsairs. Marine Corsairs.”

  “Not there, Captain,” Major Donald said,
as if speaking to a retarded child. “There!”

  Dunwood looked at him. The major had his arm extended toward the horizon in the direction of Inchon.

  Dunwood looked where Donald was pointing.

  There were two objects in the air, perhaps two hundred feet off the deck, approaching the airfield from the direction of Inchon. They looked not unlike olive-drab dragon-flies, a large body supported by a lot of flapping wings, or whatever.

  In a moment, Dunwood realized they were helicopters, the largest he had ever seen.

  “Well, Captain,” Major Donald said. “What do you think about that?”

  Dunwood, who didn’t know what to think, said nothing.

  It was maybe sixty seconds before the first of the helicopters reached the hangar, flared, and then settled to the ground. By then, Dunwood saw, perhaps half of his men had climbed out of their foxholes and other emplacements to get a better look. Two Marines were standing on top of the checkerboard-painted building.

  As they had rehearsed during the night, eight Marines under Sergeant Al Preston trotted up to push the aircraft into the hangar.

  As it was pushed past him, Dunwood saw a legend painted in yellow on the fuselage just behind the side door of the cockpit: US ARMY MODEL H-19A.

  The second helicopter settled to the ground.

  “Shake a leg, men!” Major Alex Donald shouted. “We’ve got to get these aircraft out of sight before anyone sees them.”

  [THREE]

  THE HOUSE SEOUL, KOREA 0550 29 SEPTEMBER 1950

  Major Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, now wearing crisply starched Marine utilities, with the gold oak leaves of his rank pinned in the prescribed place on the collar points, and even wearing aftershave lotion, walked into the dining room.

  Master Gunner Ernest W. Zimmerman, USMC, similarly attired and shipshape, was sitting at one side of the heavy carved wooden table, spreading butter on a piece of toast.

  The two men nodded at each other. Zimmerman opened his mouth as if to say something, but stopped when the middle-aged Korean woman entered from the kitchen carrying a silver coffeepot.