W E B Griffin - Corp 09 - Under Fire

by Under Fire(Lit)

  "Of all these," MacArthur went on, "I prefer Inchon, but I'm frankly a bit hesitant to say so. I don't want to be pre-mature with this, as you can well understand."

  What is he doing? Ever so subtly suggesting that I don't put this invade-behind-their-lines idea of his in my report to the President?

  Of course, he is.

  "And on the West Coast, working northward," MacArthur went on, using the pointer, "we have Yangdok, Kangwung, and ultimately Wonsan."

  Wonsan is in North Korea!

  "Wonsan-although it would be tactically ideal to cut the peninsula-is out of the question at this time, as I am under orders to push the enemy out of South Korea, not invade his homeland."

  Is he reading my mind?

  Both the Russians and the Chinese would take an Amer-ican invasion of North Korea as an excuse to intervene in this war. Doesn't he know that?

  Slow down, Pickering.

  This is Douglas MacArthur talking, if not the greatest military mind of our era, then right at the top of that list.

  He not only knows as much about amphibious invasions as anyone else, probably more than anyone else, but is also probably as astute a judge of Soviet and Chinese intentions as anyone in the government.

  Because we misjudged Russian ambitions, a quarter of Germany is a Russian zone from which we are barred, and Berlin and Vienna are similarly divided. We had to have the Berlin Airlift to keep the Russians from forcing us out.

  Because MacArthur knew what they were up to, he stood up to them.

  There are no Russians in Japan, period.

  "You seem lost in thought, Fleming," MacArthur said, smiling.

  "This is a lot to take in at once," Pickering said.

  "What we have to do is to strike decisively," MacArthur said. "Not to have to fight our way inch by inch back up the peninsula. The question is where to do so. At the least pos-sible cost in American lives. As we're already learning, the loss of life is not a high priority for the other side."

  That's another good side of him. He does try to keep losses at a minimum. I saw that time and time again in World War II.

  "A moment ago, I might have seemed to be suggesting that you not get into the details of my initial thinking when you report to the President," MacArthur said. "I was."

  Pickering looked at him but didn't reply.

  "My thinking there, Fleming, is that there is certainly go-ing to be a hunger in Washington for any action that will turn the situation around. From my standpoint, it would be better if one of my ideas were not seized upon-or the flip side of the coin, strongly objected to-until I can firm up what I think we should do, and then present a plan to the President for his approval. Or disapproval. I am not asking you to do anything that would, in any way, violate your duty to report to the President anything you believe he should hear."

  You're doing exactly that, of course. I was sent here to be a reporter, not a judge. But you're right-as usual. There will be a frenzy in Washington to do something, and there is a good chance they would hop on one idea that ul-timately wouldn't work, or reject another one that would.

  I can give him that much.

  "I will report to the President that you have several plans under study," Pickering said, "and that I will furnish fur-ther details as they become available."

  "If you think that's what you should do," MacArthur said. "One further question: Can you tell me about General Howe?"

  "I've only met with him briefly. Apparently, he and the President became friends after World War One, in the Na-tional Guard." Pickering paused and went off at a tangent. "Did you know the President is a retired National Guard colonel?"

  "No. But I did know he served with distinction in France, as a captain of artillery."

  "Well, sir, it appears Howe rose to major general, and commanded a division in Europe. He enjoys the Presi-dent's confidence. From what I've seen of him, he's a good man."

  "As you and I have both learned," MacArthur said with a smile, "it can be very useful for a field commander to have direct access to the commander-in-chief via a good man."

  There comes the soft soap.

  "Jeanne insists on having you for lunch," MacArthur went on. "If I sent a car for you at one, would that give you enough time to get settled?"

  "Yes, thank you very much," Pickering said.

  He was halfway down the corridor to General Almond's office before it occurred to him that (a) he had been dis-missed; (b) the reason he had been dismissed was that El Supremo had something important to do; (c) which was most likely a conference about either the war at the mo-ment, or his plans for the war in the future; and (d) that not only did he have every right to attend such a conference, but that's what he was supposed to be doing.

  You got me that time, and good, Douglas MacArthur, but that will be the last time.

  Chapter Eight

  [ONE]

  HEADQUARTERS

  EIGHTH UNITED STATES ARMY

  TAEGU, KOREA

  0530 15 JULY 1950

  Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, who was wearing obviously brand-new USMC utilities and 782 gear, and had an M-l Garand rifle slung over his shoulder, saluted the U.S. Army transportation corps major in charge of the Headquarters, Eighth Army motor pool, and said, "Good morning, sir."

  The major was a portly man in his mid-thirties, armed with a.45 ACP pistol. His fatigue jacket was sweat-stained under his armpits, and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. His eyes showed lack of sleep, and he needed a shave.

  He returned McCoy's salute with a bored gesture.

  "Yes?" he asked, impatiently.

  "Sir, I'm going to need a Jeep, and a trailer and some gas in jerry cans."

  "Out of the fucking question, Captain," the major said. Then he took a closer look at McCoy's utilities. "Marine? I didn't know the Marines were here."

  "So far, there's just two of us, sir," McCoy said, and handed the major what he thought of as "the Dai-Ichi or-ders"; they had come from SCAP headquarters in the Dai Ichi Building. "But we are going to need some wheels."

  The major took the orders and read them.

  SUPREME HEADQUARTERS

  Allied Powers

  Tokyo, Japan

  14 July 1950

  SUBJECT: Letter Orders

  TO: MCCOY, K. R. Captain USMC

  ZIMMERMAN, E.W. Master Gunner USMC

  In connection with your mission, you are authorized and directed to proceed to such places in Japan and Korea at such times as may be nec-essary.

  All U.S. Army, Air Force and Navy organizations under SCAP are di-rected to provide you with such lo-gistical support as you may require. Priority AAAAA is assigned for travel.

  FOR THE SUPREME COMMANDER:

  Edward M. Almond

  EDWARD M. ALMOND

  Major General, USA

  Chief of Staff

  EMA/ah

  "So?" the major asked.

  "Sir, the logistical support I need is a Jeep, trailer, and some gas in cans."

  "Captain," the major said, "I don't give a good goddamn if you have orders signed by the Pesident himself, I don't have Jeeps for bird colonels, so there's none for a captain. Now do us both a favor and get the fuck out of here!"

  McCoy saluted-it was not returned-and did an about-face movement and marched out from under the canvas fly that presumably was intended to shield the motor pool offi-cer's portable field desk from sun and rain.

  Although General Pickering had told Captain McCoy that Eighth Army Headquarters had been "set up" in Taegu, when he and Zimmerman had arrived there after midnight-via the K-l airfield at Pusan, and hitching a ride on a truck the rest of the way-it was immediately clear that "set up" was an intention rather than a fait ac-compli.

  They had spent the night uncomfortably-it was hot, and muggy, and there were hordes of mosquitoes, flies, and other insects-in their clothing on mattressless folding canvas cots in a twelve-man squad tent. When they rose at first light, they saw the tent was one of a dozen that had been
set up in what looked like the playground of a school building before which had been erected a plywood sign identifying it as Headquarters EUSAK.

  McCoy had been surprised that someone had found the time and material to make the sign.

  They had shaved with McCoy's electric razor, plugged into the 110-volt AC outlet of a gasoline generator whose primary outlet cable fed into the school building through an open window.

  There was a great deal of activity, soldiers unloading from six-by-six trucks everything from folding field desks and file cabinets to Coca-Cola coolers and barracks bags, and either carrying them into the building or simply dump-ing them to the side of the door.

  McCoy had entered the building, found the G-2 section, and-surprisingly to him, he was not challenged by any-one-took a look at the situation map. The action was around someplace called Taejon. McCoy made a compass with his fingers and determined that Taejon was about sixty miles-as the crow flies, probably considerably more on winding Korea National Highway One-from Taegu. They would need wheels to get there, and to move around once they did.

  When he came out of the building, he found Master Gunner Ernest W. Zimmerman, USMC, waiting for him. Zimmerman had a Thompson.45-caliber submachine gun hanging from his shoulder. Two spare magazines for it were in one of the pockets on his utility jacket, and the other bulged with two, or possibly three, hand grenades.

  "No wheels, Ernie," he said. "You have any luck with ra-tions?"

  "I took care of it," Zimmerman replied. "Let's get some-thing to eat, and then get the hell out of here."

  "Where's the rations?"

  "I'll show you when we've had something to eat," Zim-merman said, and pointed to a line of people-officers and enlisted men-moving through a chow line.

  Breakfast was powdered eggs, Spam, toast, and coffee served on a multicompartment plastic tray in a canteen mess cup. At the end of the line, there was a stainless-steel tray filled with butter already liquefied by the heat.

  When they had finished, Zimmerman led him outside the not-yet-completed ring of concertina barbed wire sur-rounding the headquarters compound and down a road to a field in which sat half a dozen communications vans, and finally behind the most distant van, where a Jeep sat.

  It had a wooden sign reading press war correspon-dent in yellow letters mounted below the windshield. There were two cases of C-rations and two five-gallon jerry cans of gasoline in the backseat. A third jerry can was in its mount on the back of the Jeep.

  Zimmerman went to the Jeep, put his Thompson on the seat, raised the hood, and then reached into one of the cav-ernous pockets of his utilities and took out a distributor cap, a distributor rotor, and the ignition wires.

  He put them in place.

  "Where did you get this?" McCoy asked.

  "With respect, sir, the captain does not want to know," Zimmerman said, lowered the hood, fastened the hood re-tainers, and got behind the wheel. The engine started im-mediately.

  "Let's get the hell out of here before the wrong guy wakes up," Zimmerman said.

  McCoy jumped in the Jeep.

  "Isn't that press sign going to make us conspicuous?" McCoy asked, as Zimmerman started to move.

  "I thought about that," Zimmerman said. "Isn't that what we're doing? Sending reports from the war?"

  Moments after they passed the entrance to the Eighth Army headquarters compound, a slight figure in an Army fatigue uniform leapt to his feet from the side of the road and jumped in front of them, angrily waving his arms.

  "Guess who got up early?" McCoy said.

  "That's my Jeep, you sonsofbitches!" the angry creature shouted in a high-pitched voice.

  "He's a fucking fairy," Zimmerman said, as he slammed on the brakes.

  "He's a she, Ernie," McCoy said, chuckling.

  The creature, now recognizable as a female by the hair tucked under her fatigue camp, and a swelling in her fa-tigue jacket that was not hand grenades, stormed up to the Jeep.

  "MP!" she screamed. "MP!"

  McCoy looked over his shoulder back toward the MPs standing at the entrance to the Eighth Army Headquarters compound. She had attracted their attention.

  He jumped out of the Jeep, went to the woman, wrapped his arms around her waist, pulled her to the Jeep, sat down-his legs outside the Jeep, and with the woman in his lap-and ordered, "Go, Ernie! Go!"

  Zimmerman let the clutch out and the Jeep took off.

  "If you keep struggling, we're both going to fall out," McCoy said to the woman.

  "You're not going to get away with this, you bastard!" the woman said.

  "When you get around the next bend, Ernie, stop," Mc-Coy ordered.

  "You're going to wind up in the stockade!" the woman said.

  Zimmerman made the turn in the road, then pulled to the side and stopped.

  "What are you going to do, dump her here?" Zimmer-man asked.

  "Only if Miss Priestly can't see the mutual benefit in the pooling of our assets," McCoy said.

  "You know who I am!" Jeanette Priestly said. She was now standing by the side of the road, her hands on her hips, glowering at McCoy.

  "Jeanette Priestly of the Chicago Tribune" McCoy said.

  Slight recognition dawned.

  "Do I know you?" she asked.

  "We had dinner a couple of weeks ago in Tokyo," Mc-Coy said.

  "McCoy," she said. "The Marine."

  "Right," McCoy said.

  "Just what the fuck do you think you're doing?" she said. "You just can't steal my Jeep."

  "Let me explain your options," McCoy said. "If we leave you here by the side of the road, you can run back to the MPs and tell them you just saw your Jeep driving off down the road-"

  "My stolen Jeep!"

  "-they will tell you they will do what they can, and you will go to the motor pool where-as I suspect you already know-that fat slob of a major will tell you he doesn't even have enough Jeeps for full colonels-"

  "You son of a bitch!"

  "Which will leave you where we found each other, you walking," McCoy continued. "I can't imagine how they would do it, but let's say they radio ahead of us, and we are stopped by some other MPs...."

  "That's exactly what's going to happen to you," she said. "And it's off to the stockade you go."

  "First of all, I don't think they've had time to set up a stockade, but let's say we get stopped. At that point, we show them our orders, and say all we know..." He reached into his pocket and handed her the orders he had shown to the motor pool officer; she snatched them out of his hand and read them. "... is that we went to the motor officer, showed him our orders, and he said we sure had a high priority and gave us the Jeep." He paused. "Who do you think will be believed?"

  "You miserable son of a bitch!" Jeanette said after a mo-ment.

  "If you're going to be traveling with us, Miss Priestly, you're going to have to watch your mouth. Gunner Zim-merman is a very sensitive man. Say `hello' to Miss Priestly, Ernie, and tell her you will forgive her for swear-ing like a Parris Island DI if she promises not to do that no more."

  Zimmerman smiled but didn't say anything.

  Although she really didn't want to, Jeanette Priestly was aware that she was smiling, too.

  "Traveling with you?" she said. "Traveling where with you?"

  "We're here to see how the war is going. According to the map in the G-2, that's up around Taejon."

  "What's in it for you, if I go along?" she asked.

  "You've been here before; we haven't. I think we can be very useful to each other."

  She thought that over a minute.

  "Okay," she said. "I'll go."

  "You have one more option," McCoy said. "You can ride along and wait until we get to the next MP checkpoint, and then scream that we've stolen your Jeep and kidnapped you. What would happen then, I think, is that we would all be held until a senior officer could be found to straighten things out. Which would mean that none of us would get to the war."

  "You son of a bitch!" she said
. There was an admiring tone in her voice.

  "Are you coming, or not?"

  She climbed into the backseat.

  "Okay, Ernie," McCoy ordered. "Let's go."