PARKER was in radio communication with 2nd Battalion, and the interchange between them was audible to STEVENS over the tank intercom system. PARKER informed 2nd Battalion that he was in control of former enemy positions and would hold until such time as 2nd Battalion could make their way to him. STEVENS described PARKER’S judgment of the security of his position as unsound, stating that they were under severe artillery and mortar fire, and that it would be only a matter of time until all the tanks involved were destroyed. 2nd Battalion advised PARKER by radio to withdraw, stating that another attempt would be made following an artillery barrage.
At this point, a tank commanded by SFC Richard M. OGLEBY (ASN unknown) was struck by enemy artillery fire which destroyed its right track and severed its radio antennae. The tank, however, remained operable, if immobile, and continued to engage the enemy. The damage to SFC OGLEBY’S tank was reported by WOODROW to PARKER by radio. PARKER then ordered WOODROW to leave his tank, make his way to the disabled tank, and order its crew to abandon the damaged vehicle. WOODROW complied with this order and STEVENS assumed command of that tank. In making his way to the damaged tank, WOODROW was struck and killed by mortar fire.
STEVENS reported that WOODROW had been killed by radio to PARKER. PARKER then ordered STEVENS to move his tank, and to recover WOODROW’S body, and then to proceed to the damaged tank to evacuate its crew.
STEVENS reported that, in his judgment, PARKER’S order was suicidal, and he requested reconsideration. PARKER repeated the order. At this time STEVENS overheard a radio message to PARKER ordering him to withdraw to the departure line. Presuming this order superseded PARKER’S order, STEVENS ordered the driver to back out of the position, and to withdraw as ordered. (The driver was SGT Quincy T. ARRANS, JR., RA 14375502, a newly assigned replacement.)
STEVENS states that PARKER, observing this movement, went on the radio and said, “Hold in place, you yellow sonofabitch, or I’ll blow you away,” or words to that effect. STEVENS attempted to relay this order to ARRANS, but, probably because of a defective intercom, ARRANS did not hear the order, and continued to move the tank.
At this point, STEVENS’S tank was struck by what he believes to be a HEAT round fired by PARKER. It struck the right rear track, and fragments penetrated the engine compartment, severing fuel lines and setting the tank on fire. ARRANS successfully exited the burning tank, but was killed a few minutes later by mortar fire. STEVENS, in exiting the tank, suffered second and third degree burns over 25 percent of his body. He extinguished the flames on his clothing, and sought shelter in a ditch.
At approximately this point, enemy artillery and mortar fire decreased to such a level that the Commanding Officer of 2nd Battalion chose to mount a second assault, which was successful. STEVENS was located by medics of the 2nd BATTALION and evacuated, in a semiconscious condition, to the 8048th MASH.
d. SGT Lowell G. DABNEY, RA 35189632, Tank Company, 24th Infantry Regiment, was interviewed at Tokyo General Hospital where he is undergoing treatment for wounds suffered in the same engagement. DABNEY was the gunner of the WOODROW-STEVENS tank. He had joined Tank Company as a Private after his unit, “I” Company, 224th, had been involved in the incident described in the YOUNG interview.
(1) He stated that he heard PARKER order WOODROW to send STEVENS from the tank over to the disabled tank, and that STEVENS refused to comply with WOODROW’S order, whereupon WOODROW left the tank, leaving DABNEY in charge.
(2) When WOODROW was hit, DABNEY state he left the tank to offer what aid he could.
(3) That the moment he left the tank, it began to withdraw, and was a moment later struck by an enemy mortar in the engine compartment, which set it ablaze.
e. Records of the 8112th Ordnance Company indicate the tank, which was recovered after this action, was struck with a HEAT round, probably of American manufacture.
f. Attempt to garner further information from other personnel of the Tank Company, 24th Infantry Regiment, by agents of the CID have been generally unsuccessful. Apparently no other personnel heard the radio traffic referred to, or if they have knowledge of such traffic are unwilling to relate it. CAPTAIN PARKER has declined to answer questions of any sort, claiming the protection of the 31st Article of War.
LaRoyce J. Wilson
Colonel, Corps of Military Police
Provost Marshal
1st Ind
HQ EIGHT US ARMY 23 Aug 51
201-PARKER, Philip S (Capt) 0-230471
TO: Commanding General, IX US Corps
For appropriate action and reply by endorsement hereto.
FOR THE COMMANDING GENERAL
Steven G. Galloway
Colonel, Judge Advocate General’s Corps
The Judge Advocate General.
2nd Ind
HQ IX US CORPS 1 Sep 51
201-PARKER, Philip S (Capt) 0-230471
TO: Commanding General, Eight US Army
1. In consideration of subject officer’s performance in Korea, which included a battlefield promotion to the grade of Captain, and the award of the Silver Star and Purple Heart Medals, he was offered the opportunity to resign from the service for the good of the service under the provisions of AR 615-365.
2. Subject officer has declined to submit his resignation.
3. A board of officers convened under the provisions of the 31st Article of War has considered the allegations made against subject officer, and has recommended that he be tried by General Court-Martial for murder and attempted murder.
4. This headquarters will try subject officer before a General Court-Martial and your headquarters will be advised of their decision.
FOR THE COMMANDING GENERAL
Thomas C. Minor
Colonel, Adjutant General’s Corps
G-1
“Pure chickenshit,” Lowell said. “Why the hell didn’t you resign?”
“I’m a soldier, Craig,” Philip Sheridan Parker IV said.
“And you’re innocent, right?”
“They have their facts straight,” Parker said. “Or almost.”
“And you’re going to just walk in there and lay down, right?”
“I’m going to do whatever happens.”
“Why don’t you resign, if you’re not going to fight it?”
“Because I would rather be cashiered for doing what I did, than have people think I resigned because they found out I was a thief, or queer…or any of the other reasons they let people resign for the good of the service.”
“You’re liable to wind up in Leavenworth, you realize that?”
“I’ve considered that.”
“Well, we can’t have that,” Lowell. “We’ll just have to beat this court-martial.”
“‘We’ll’ have to beat it?” Parker asked, chuckling.
“Shit, if they throw you in Leavenworth, then it would be just me against the system,” Lowell said. “I don’t want to be all alone.”
“And you’ve already figured out a way to beat the court-martial, right?”
“No,” Lowell said, “but I just figured out who to ask.” He looked at Parker, and their eyes met, and they both were embarrassed by the emotion.
“Christ,” Lowell said, after a moment, “that’s the trouble with you junior officers. Take our eyes off you for thirty seconds, and you’ve stuck your dick in the fan.”
(Two)
Beverly Hills, California
9 September 1951
The moment the Pan American DC-6 rolled up before the terminal building at Los Angeles International, and Wayne Baxley looked out the window and saw the reporters, print and television, rushing out to the plane, he realized bitterly that the scene the big-teated cunt had staged at the IX Corps airstrip just before they left would grab her all the press.
There was no chance the press was there to meet him. Standing in the middle of the assembled press corps was the cunt’s wop press agent, holding a copy of the Los Angeles Times over his head in both hands. The Times was carrying the same photo
he had seen in the Honolulu Reporter-Gazette when they had refueled there, a three-column photograph of Miss Georgia Paige, tears running down her cheeks, in the embrace of a soldier.
Wayne Baxter had no trouble reading the headline: GEORGIA SAYS GOOD-BYE TO HER GI. “Georgia,” for Christ’s sake, as if everybody knew her by her first name. He wasn’t a GI, either, goddamn it, he was a goddamned officer. The story in the Honolulu paper had made it even worse:
SOMEWHERE IN NORTH KOREA Sept 7 (AP)—He was just one of the more than a hundred combat-weary GIs who slipped out of the trenches and sandbag bunkers of this battle-torn land to say good-bye to Georgia Paige as she left for home after entertaining the troops. Then the actress whose pictures adorn every foxhole here became just another American girl as she ran weeping into the arms of her GI, who was going to have to stay here and fight while she went off to what the GI’s call the “land of the big PX.”
There were cheers and applause and more than a few teary eyes in battle-weary faces as the girl all the GIs dream of clung desperately to one of their own. Wayne Baxter, whose band was part of the Paige USO Troupe, finally had to separate the young lovers and put her on the plane. Georgia turned in the door of the Air Force transport for a final look at her GI, and then the door closed, and the GI vanished in the crowd before anyone could learn his name.
It wasn’t a goddamned band, for God’s sake. It was the Wayne Baxter Orchestra. And it wasn’t the cunt’s USO troupe, it was the Wayne Baxter Orchestra Troupe. She was just fucking excess baggage.
Wayne Baxter had a hard time smiling as he made his way through the reporters and photographers. He declined to be interviewed, asking the boys for their understanding. It was a long way home from Korea, and he and the orchestra were tired.
He knew himself well enough to know that if he said anything to the press, he was liable to tell them just what he thought of that big-boobed publicity stealing cunt.
In the studio-sent limousine on the way to Beverly Hills, Mr. Tony Ricco, Miss Georgia Paige’s press representative, leaned over and kissed Miss Paige on the cheek.
“I’m proud of you, baby,” he said. “How the hell did you manage the tears.”
“Fuck you, Tony,” Miss Paige said, angrily,
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Mr. Ricco inquired. “Don’t tell me you’ve got the hots for this guy?”
“I’ve got the hots for him,” she said. “OK?”
Mr. Ricco put his hands up in front of himself, as if to ward off an attack.
“How long does it take to get a roll of film developed?” Miss Paige inquired.
“Couple of days,” he said. “What kind of film?”
“You can do better than a couple of days,” Georgia Paige said. “Like today, Tony.” She handed him a roll of 35 mm film.
“What the hell is this anyway?” Tony asked. “A picture of Mr. Lucky?”
“Yeah, and they’re personal, Tony. Just get them souped and printed and give them to me. Craig’s going to be mad enough about that story in the papers.”
“Why should he be mad?” Tony asked, in honest bewilderment.
“You wouldn’t understand,” she said.
“Try me,” he replied.
“He’s not just a GI,” Georgia said. “He’s an officer.”
“I’m glad that wasn’t in the papers,” Tony said. “It’s better that Mr. Lucky’s an enlisted man.”
“What I want you to do,” Georgia said, “is count the people in the pictures, and get them to make me up two 8 × 10s for each one. I promised the kid who took them I’d do that.”
“Whatever you say, baby,” Tony said.
“And get it done today,” Georgia said. “With what I spend on publicity photos, they can do that for me right away.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Tony said.
When the first print came off the drum dryer, Tony saw that he had something special. For one thing, dumb luck probably, the pictures were perfectly exposed and focused. For another thing, they were taken right up on the line. There was a sign: YOU ARE UNDER ENEMY OBSERVATION FROM THIS POINT FORWARD. And the GIs looked like combat soldiers. They looked like combat soldiers who couldn’t quite believe that Georgia Paige was right there with them.
“Marty,” Tony called out, “make me another set. One of each, 11 × 14s.”
Then he picked up the telephone and called the Time-Life LA Bureau.
“Bob,” he said, “how would you like, exclusively, some first-class color shots of Georgia actually on the front line?”
(Three)
Socho-Ri, North Korea
10 September 1951
It wasn’t that Major Craig Lowell said that he was on the official business of Major General Harrier. It was simply that it was presumed that he was, when he showed up at the airstrip and announced he had to go find a major over in the XIX Corps area, and that he’d better go in a chopper, in case there would be no landing strip for an L-19.
Half a dozen aviation section pilots were sitting around operations on homemade couches. The only difference between them, Lowell thought (as he often did), and the half dozen GIs who sat around the office in the motor pool was that the clowns who flew the puddle jumpers and whirlybirds had benefitted from an aberration in the system which decreed that people who flew little two-seater $15,000 airplanes and $75,000 choppers had to be officers. M46 tanks, which cost $138,000 and had a crew of four, were commanded by staff sergeants.
Major Lowell had once been heard to say that army aviators had to back up to the pay table. It had not endeared him to the army aviators, but there wasn’t much they could do about it. He was both a major and the aide-de-camp to General Harrier.
“Fortin,” the operations officer called to one of the pilots, “take Major Lowell where he wants to go.”
Finding MacMillan wasn’t all that difficult. He was an aviator, and they all knew each other. When they touched down at the XIX Corps airstrip, Lowell sent the chopper jockey inside to ask where MacMillan was. He was back out in two minutes.
“He’s at a strip on the East Coast, Major,” he said. “But you’re supposed to have special permission to land there.”
“You got it,” Lowell said. “Let’s go.”
Thirty minutes later, the H23 fluttered down at Socho-Ri. A competent-looking technical sergeant carrying a 12-gauge trench shotgun drove up to the chopper in a jeep and politely informed them that this was a restricted area. If they were broken down, he added, he would relay any messages they had, but they couldn’t leave the airstrip.
“I’m here to see Major MacMillan,” Lowell said.
The sergeant, with a perfectly straight face, said that there was nobody named MacMillan around Socho-Ri.
“I don’t have time for any of your cloak-and-dagger bullshit, Sergeant,” Lowell said. “I know MacMillan is here. And what happens now is that we’re going to get in that jeep and you’re going to take me to see him.”
The sergeant examined Lowell closely and thoughtfully for a long moment before he made up his mind, and gestured with the shotgun toward the jeep.
The sergeant drove them to a small village, now surrounded by a double row of concertina barbed wire. There were guards, armed with Thompson submachine guns and the trench shotguns, but they didn’t stop the jeep when it passed through the gate in the barbed wire.
They stopped before the largest of the thatched-roofed, stone-walled houses.
“This is where you want to go, Major,” the sergeant said.
Lowell entered the building. There were several enlisted men and a warrant officer inside, and a table with nonstandard communications radios.
“Major,” the warrant officer said, “I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here.”
“Where’s the commanding officer?” Lowell demanded. The warrant officer indicated a closed door. Lowell walked to the door, knocked on it, and then pushed it open without waiting for an invitation.
“I’ll be damned,” he sa
id.
“Well, hello, Craig,” Captain Sanford T. Felter said, moving his hand away from the .45 Colt automatic that lay on the desk beside a manila folder imprinted with the words TOP SECRET in three-inch-high red letters.
The two men looked at each other without saying anything else for a moment.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Felter said. “But I guess you know that.”
“If I had known you were here, I would have been here sooner,” Lowell said.
“Yes,” Felter chuckled, “I know you would have. That’s why I didn’t let you know that I was.”
“I never got a chance to really thank you,” Lowell said, “for what you did when Ilse….”
“No thanks are necessary, Craig,” Felter said. “You know that.”
“I owe you,” Lowell said. “Don’t forget that.”
“How are you doing, Craig?”
“All right,” Lowell said. “Actually, how I’m doing is that I’m in love with a movie star named Georgia Paige. But I don’t think now is the time to tell you about that.”
“Craig,” Felter said, “you really shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t even know about this place.”
“Funny,” Lowell said, “I thought we were on the same side of this war.”
“You don’t understand,” Felter said.
“I understand you’re a spy,” Lowell said. “But don’t worry. I have a Top Secret clearance myself.”
“It would be better if I came to see you,” Felter said.
“I’m here to see MacMillan,” Lowell said. “You’re an unexpected bonus.”
“What do you want with him?” Felter asked, rather coldly.
“A friend of mine is up before a general court-martial,” Lowell said.
“And you think that MacMillan will be able to come up with some clever little trick to get him off?” Felter asked, sarcastically, almost angrily.
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