The driver of the jeep was standing beside the vehicle, waving his arms over his head.
"First Sergeant, you want to take a chance and go out there and wave back?"
First Sergeant Grass handed his binoculars to Allen and walked in front of the sandbags. Allen then steadied himself on the sandbags and put the binoculars to his eyes.
The driver, leaving the jeep on the hill, walked back over the crest and disappeared.
A minute or so later, another soldier appeared . . . That's not the same guy. . . waving his arms over his head, got in the jeep, and started easing it down the hill.
Sometimes you can't see diddly-shit through binoculars, and sometimes there is extraordinary clarity and detail. This time—even though it was rapidly getting dark—it luckily was the latter. Allen could even read the front bumper markings on the jeep: HH7DIV on the right, 36 on the left. The jeep was Vehicle #36 of those assigned to Headquarters and Headquarters Company, 7th Infantry Division.
The somewhat less than deep and confidence-inspiring voice of George Patton called from the turret of the Sherman to his right.
"Vehicle on the road, Captain!"
"I wonder who the hell that is?" Allen asked aloud, and then called back, "Americans?"
"An officer and somebody else in a jeep," the voice called back.
Allen pushed himself off the sandbags and climbed up on the tank to see for himself.
In a moment, he was able to identify the officer in the jeep. It was the assistant Division G-2, Major Masters.
Well, he probably had word that this mysterious patrol of his was coming in.
Allen climbed off the tank, and a minute or so later the jeep slid to a halt beside the tank and Major Masters jumped out.
Allen saluted. Masters returned it crisply.
"You were told to be on the alert for a patrol. . . ."
"Yes, sir," Allen said. "I think that's what's coming in now."
He pointed down the road.
"Did I or did I not, Captain, tell you to notify me by the most expeditious means when that happened?"
"Yes, sir, you did," Allen said. "This just happened, sir. Just a couple of minutes ago. I don't know if it's your patrol or not."
Major Masters peered carefully around the skirts over the tank's tracks.
"That's one man in a jeep," he declared, "not a patrol."
"The jeep came over the hill a couple of minutes ago, sir. The driver waved, we waved back, and now somebody else is driving the jeep."
Major Masters either grunted or snorted.
There was the sound of a carbine firing. One round.
The jeep skidded to a stop, and the driver got out and held both arms over his head.
"I think that was an accidental discharge, sir," Captain Allen said.
And if Sergeant Grass saw who fired it, he'll kick his ass all the way back to Japan.
"Unfortunate," Major Masters said.
"Only a few of my men have ever been in a situation like this, sir."
"Tell me about it," Major Masters said, then added: "Well, he's coming in. Let's see what he has to say."
They walked to the .50-caliber air-cooled Browning position on the left, arranged themselves behind its sandbags, and watched as the tall soldier, his arms still over his head, walked toward them.
The soldier was no boy, but there were no chevrons visible on the sleeves of his fatigue shirt.
When he was twenty yards away, Captain Allen stood up.
"Over here, soldier," he called.
The soldier trotted to the machine-gun emplacement, dropped his arms, and saluted.
"Who are you?" Major Masters demanded.
"Technical Sergeant Jennings, sir."
"Are you in charge of this . . . patrol?"
"No, sir. Sir, with respect, may I go wave the others in?"
"Go ahead, Sergeant," Allen said.
Masters gave him a dirty look, and when Jennings was just possibly out of hearing range, said, "I was talking to that man, Allen. You should not have interfered."
"Sorry, sir."
Fuck you! Until someone relieves me, I'm in command here, and you're just a goddamn visiting brass hat. A minor-league brass hat.
Jennings trotted halfway toward where he had stopped the jeep and gestured toward the hill that it was all right to come in. Then he trotted back to the machine-gun emplacement.
"Just who is in charge of your patrol, Sergeant?" Major Masters asked.
"Sir, with respect, if I don't find a slit trench in the next sixty seconds, I am going to have a personal catastrophe."
"Over there, Sergeant," Captain Allen said, chuckling as he pointed.
"Thank you, sir."
Masters gave him another dirty look.
"Vehicles coming down the hill, Captain!" the sergeant in the turret of one of the Shermans called.
Allen and Masters looked.
"What the hell is that?" Masters asked.
"Jesus, I don't know," Captain Allen said.
The vehicle leading the weapons carrier toward them was jeeplike but not a jeep. After a moment Allen remembered seeing pictures of a Russian vehicle like it in a magazine. Or was it during one of those endless goddamn Know Your Enemy! briefings?
"It looks like a Russian jeep," Allen said.
Major Masters snorted or grunted again; Captain Allen wasn't sure.
The Russian, if that's what it was, jeep stopped behind the jeep the sergeant had left out there, and a man . . .
How do I know that guy is an old-time noncom? Allen thought.
... climbed out of it, got in the jeep, and led the Russian jeep and a weapons carrier into the roadblock.
When the jeep got close and he could see its stocky, barrel-chested driver, Captain Allen was even more sure he was a longtime noncom. He said so, calling out, "Sergeant, park your jeep behind the Sherman on the left."
The driver nodded his understanding.
The Russian vehicle—That's what it is, I'm sure—immediately followed.
With its headlights on, for Christ's sake! Doesn't this guy know that turns him into a bull's-eye?
"Turn those headlights off!" Captain Allen ordered firmly, even a little angrily, then impatiently signaled the Russian vehicle to move past him and get behind the closest of the three tanks.
As the weapons carrier rolled up to him, Allen ordered, "Put that behind that tank," and pointed to the third Sherman.
As the truck passed him, Allen saw that the truck bed was just about full of people. It was now dark, so he couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw at least two, maybe three, Orientals.
Major Masters marched purposefully toward the Russian vehicle, with Allen following.
The driver . . .
Who's not wearing a helmet. . .
Goddamn it, none of these people are!!!
. . . who looked a little old to be a private—there was no rank insignia in sight—was already out of the Russian vehicle, leaning against it, lighting a cigar with a wooden match.
"Are you in charge of this . . . operation?" Major Masters demanded.
"Yes, I am," the driver said, taking a deep, satisfied puff on his cigar, then examining the coal.
"And don't you salute officers, soldier?" Major Masters demanded icily.
"Sorry," the driver said, straightened, and saluted. Masters returned it impatiently. After a moment, Allen did so too.
"What's your name, soldier? Your outfit?" Major Masters demanded.
"My name is McCoy, Major," the driver said. "And I'm a Marine. Actually, I'm a Marine major."
Captain Allen accepted this immediately. There was something about this guy's voice, the smile on his face, that made the announcement credible. Major Masters had trouble with it.
"Is there some reason you're not wearing the insignia of your rank, Major!"
"Who are you?" McCoy asked.
"My name is Masters. I'm the assistant G-2 of the 7th Division."
"You
work for Colonel Lemuleson?" McCoy asked.
"As a matter of fact, I do," Masters admitted. The question had surprised him.
Zimmerman walked up to them. He saluted.
"Thanks for not shooting first and then asking questions," Zimmerman said.
"This is Master Gunner Zimmerman," McCoy said.
"Master Gunner?" Captain Allen asked as he offered his hand. "The Marine equivalent of our master sergeant?"
"Mr. Zimmerman is what the Army would call a chief warrant officer," McCoy corrected him.
"Neither of you is wearing any insignia—" Major Masters began.
"I know," McCoy interrupted, smiling.
Masters glowered at him.
"If you work for Colonel Lemuleson, you're just the man I want to see," McCoy went on.
"Is that so?"
"I need two things, Major," McCoy said. "I need to get a message to Colonel Lemuleson, and—"
"Before we go any further, Major," Masters interrupted, "I'd like to see some identification and your orders. Who the hell are you?"
"If you work for Colonel Lemuleson, and he didn't tell you, then I guess he decided you don't have the need to know," McCoy said.
He turned to Allen.
"Have you got a landline I can use to call 7th Division, Captain?" McCoy asked.
"It was working fifteen minutes ago, sir," Allen said. He pointed toward his command post.
"I demand to see your identification, Major!" Masters said loudly.
His face was red. McCoy seemed amused rather than cowed.
"Colonel Lemuleson's holding all that for us, sorry. Why don't we see if we can get him on the horn?"
He started to walk toward the CP. Masters, red-faced, stood with his hands on his hips, watching McCoy walk away.
Allen started to follow him, saw Foster Four with a May I go too? Look on his face, and nodded permission.
Allen caught up with McCoy.
"Somehow, sir, I get the feeling Major Masters is annoyed with you," he said.
McCoy chuckled.
"I ... uh ... didn't know what to think when I saw your jeep," Captain Allen said. "The first one, I mean. Or this thing . . ."
He stopped when he became aware that Major Masters was trotting after them.
"We've been doing a reconnaissance," McCoy said. "No big deal, but it's none of that guy's business."
"I thought the Marines were operating in Seoul, north of it," Allen said.
"They are," McCoy said.
"Where'd you get the Russian jeep?"
Major Masters was now walking beside them. He announced: "We'll see what Colonel Lemuleson has to say about all this."
McCoy acted as if he hadn't heard him. He turned to Allen. "We bagged some Inmun Gun. They were driving this thing. I figured, what the hell, why not take it with us?"
Major Masters picked up on that.
"Can I take that to mean you have engaged the enemy?"
"It wasn't much of an 'engagement.' They were coming up the road, Mr. Zimmerman shot the tires out on the first vehicle, and we bagged them."
"You have prisoners?" Masters demanded.
"Uh-huh," McCoy said. "That's the second thing I need from you, Major. Somebody to take four of the five off our hands. One of them is a lieutenant colonel. He's a keeper."
"By which you mean?"
"That I'm going to take him to Seoul with me."
"I'll want to interrogate him, of course."
"You speak Korean?" McCoy asked.
"No, of course I don't speak Korean. There's Korean-speaking interrogators at Division. We'll take him—all of the prisoners—there."
They were down at the doorway to the CP.
McCoy stopped and looked at Major Masters.
"Sorry, the colonel goes with me," he said. "And if I can get Colonel Lemuleson on the phone, I'm not going anywhere near your headquarters."
"Let's clear the air here, Major," Major Masters said. "I'm the assistant G-2—"
"So you said," McCoy interrupted.
Major Masters glowered at him, then picked up:
"—of the 7th Division. Interrogation of prisoners is my responsibility. You do understand that?"
"None of these people will tell any of your interrogators anything," McCoy said. "I think maybe, once he sees we're back in Seoul, the colonel may be more cooperative."
"We won't know what any of the prisoners will say, will we, Major, until we sit them down before an interrogator who speaks Korean?"
"Mr. Zimmerman and I both speak Korean, Major, and we've already talked to these people. And to clear the air, these are our prisoners, not yours."
"That brings us back to Question One, doesn't it?" Major Masters asked icily. "Just who the hell are you, Major? And what are you doing in the 7th Division's area?"
McCoy looked at him for a moment, then ducked through the narrow sandbagged opening into the CP without replying.
A slight, very young corporal was sitting on a folding metal chair by the radio and an EE-8 field telephone.
"Corporal," McCoy said, "see if you get through to G-2 at Division on the landline."
The corporal looked to Captain Allen for guidance. Allen nodded. The corporal cranked the generator handle on the side of the leather-cased EE-8.
"Patch me through to Regiment," he ordered after a moment, and then, a moment after that, he ordered, "Patch me through to Division."
McCoy walked to him and took the handset from him.
"Wolf Two, please," he said.
Twenty miles away, in a small village called Anyang, seven miles or so south of Seoul, in what had been built to be the waiting room of the railway station, Technical Sergeant Richard Ward picked up the handset of one of three EE-8 field telephones on the shelf of his small, folding wooden field desk.
"Wolf Two, Sergeant Ward, sir."
"Trojan Horse Six for the colonel, Sergeant," McCoy said.
"Hold one," Ward said, and extended the handset to Lieutenant Colonel Charles Lemuleson, a short, thin forty-year-old in too large fatigues, who was the intelligence officer of the 7th Division.
"For you, Colonel," Ward said, and added, "Trojan Horse Six."
Colonel Lemuleson turned from the map board leaning against the wall.
"Good!" he said. "I was getting worried."
He took the handset, pressed the butterfly switch, and said, "Wolf Two."
"Trojan Horse Six, sir. Good evening, sir."
Captain Allen handed Major McCoy a china mug of steaming coffee. McCoy smiled his thanks.
"Welcome home," Colonel Lemuleson's voice came somewhat metallically over the landline. "You're all right? Where are you?"
"At a roadblock south of Suwon, sir. We just came through."
"And apparently nobody shot at you. I was concerned about that."
"Yes, sir, that was a concern."
"I've got a message for you. Ready?"
"Yes, sir."
" 'Kimpo oh nine hundred twenty-nine September. Acknowledge. Confirm. Signature Hart, Capt., USMCR, for Admiral Dewey' Got it?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
"Got that just after you left," Colonel Lemuleson said. "It was in the clear. Couldn't get you on the radio."
"It was in the clear" meant that the message had not been encrypted, which meant further that someone had decided there wasn't time to go through the encryption process. And that it wasn't encrypted explained "Admiral Dewey." Captain George S. Hart, USMCR, aide-de-camp (and bodyguard) to Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, Assistant Director for Asia of the Central Intelligence Agency, did not want to use Pickering's name in a non-encrypted message.
"The radio in the jeep went out before we were out of Seoul, sir," McCoy said. "Can you take a reply, sir?"
"Shoot."
"Acknowledge and confirm Kimpo oh nine hundred twenty-nine September. All well. Fresh eggs but no ham. Signature, McCoy."
Lieutenant Colonel Lemuleson said, "Got it," read it back
for confirmation, and then asked, "Are you going to explain the ham and eggs business, McCoy? And who the hell is Admiral Dewey?"
"I better not, sir. But if memory serves, Admiral Dewey won the battle of Manila Bay in the Spanish-American War."
Lemuleson chuckled. "I knew I'd heard the name someplace. Anything else I can do for you, McCoy?"
"Yes, sir, there is. Sir, if I'm to be at Kimpo at 0900, I'd like to go there tonight—"
"That may be risky, McCoy," Lemuleson said. "I don't want to get a report in the morning that somebody shot first before asking any questions."
"Yes, sir. But I don't think I have much choice. Making things more difficult is that we picked up some prisoners. What I'd like to do is send four of them to you with one of my sergeants. You could give him that envelope—"
"It's under a thermite grenade in my safe," Lemuleson interrupted.
"—and he could bring it to us in Seoul at first light."
"And if you need some identification tonight?"
"I'll have to take that chance, sir."
"Your call, McCoy," Lemuleson said. "Done."
"May I have that phone, please, Major?" Major Masters asked. It was more of an order.
McCoy considered the request for a moment, then said, "Hold one, sir, please. Major Masters wants to talk to you."
"What the hell is he doing there?" Lemuleson said.
McCoy handed the handset to Masters.
"Masters, sir. These people have five prisoners, one of them a lieutenant colonel, and Major McCoy refuses to turn them over to me."
He looked triumphantly at McCoy.
McCoy and the others could hear one side of the ensuing conversation.
"Trying to stay on the top of the situation sir," Major Masters said, and then, "Yes, sir."
And then, "Yes, sir."
And then, "Yes, sir."
And then, "Yes, sir, I'll do that, sir."
Then he handed the handset back to McCoy.
"The colonel wants to speak to you, Major," he said.
"Yes, sir?" McCoy said.
"Sorry about that, McCoy. He doesn't know what's going on, and for obvious reasons—God save us all from well-meaning idiots—I didn't want to tell him."
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