"Changing the odds to?"
"Eight-two," McCoy said. "Maybe nine-one."
Howe exhaled audibly.
He looked at Charley Rogers, who was very carefully putting his arms into the sleeves of his fatigue jacket, on which the chevrons of a master sergeant had been stenciled in black paint that still looked wet.
"Much better, Charley," Howe said. "I would have hated to see you hauled off to wash pots in a field mess somewhere."
Then he turned back to McCoy.
"Forewarned is forearmed, Ken. There's a very determined-looking second lieutenant from the 7th Division outside the gate who wants his vehicles back. You need some help with that?"
"No, sir. Thank you. I saw that coming. That's one of the reasons I liberated the Russian jeep."
He turned to Zimmerman.
"Ernie, let them have the jeep and the weapons carrier. We'll see what we can scrounge from Tenth Corps or the division."
Zimmerman nodded and walked out of the garage.
"You about ready to head for Kimpo, Ken?" General Howe asked.
"Yes, sir."
"I was thinking I could ride with you in this magnificent vehicle of yours, and Zimmerman could ride in my jeep with Charley."
"Whatever you want to do, sir," McCoy said.
[TWO]
Kimpo Airfield
Seoul, South Korea
083S 29 September 195O
The terminal building at Kimpo had been in the line of fire of both sides since the war began, and was in pretty bad shape. Army engineer troops were already at work trying to make it functional, but at the moment base operations was two squad tents set up end to end and the tower was mounted on the back of an Air Force General Motors 6x6 truck.
Two platoons of military police from the 4th Military Police Company, whose usual mission was the protection of the X Corps Headquarters, had been sent to the airport to provide the necessary security for the arrival of General MacArthur.
They had quickly established three areas, informally known as (1) For The Brass; (2) For The Press; and (3) For Everybody Else.
The area for (1) The Brass was immediately adjacent to the squad tents serving as base operations. Cotton tape usually used to show safe lanes through minefields had been strung in two lines, ten yards apart, from iron stakes intended to support barbed-wire entanglements.
(2) The Press was thus ten yards from The Brass, and kept from joining them by large MPs stationed at three-yard intervals. Still farther away from base operations, behind The Press, was another double row of minefield tape strung through the loops on top of the barbed-wire rods. Behind this was sequestered (3) Everybody Else.
Everybody Else included everyone with some reason, however questionable, to be in the area. There were perhaps two hundred people in this category, officers and enlisted, Marines and soldiers.
The entire area was surrounded by still more tape on rods to keep the rest of the world away. This was guarded by MPs, and the outer of the two MP checkpoints was located here.
Under the supervision of a military police second lieutenant, who was sitting with his driver in a jeep equipped with a pedestal-mounted .30-caliber air-cooled machine gun, a sergeant and three other MPs stopped every approaching vehicle to determine in which area the passengers belonged, if any, and to show them where to park their vehicles.
Getting a glimpse of General of the Army Douglas MacArthur in the flesh was right up there with, say, getting a look at Marilyn Monroe or Bob Hope.
No one really knew how the word of his pending arrival had gotten out, but no one was surprised that it had.
"Lieutenant!" the MP sergeant called when he saw the funny-looking vehicle fourth in line, and thought, but could not be sure, that he saw silver stars gleaming on the collar points of the passenger.
The MP lieutenant got out of his jeep in time to be at the sergeant's side when the funny-looking vehicle rolled up. His attention on the vehicle, he did not at first see the stars on General Howe's fatigues.
Then he did, jerked to attention, and saluted.
"Sorry, sir," he said. "The General's star is not mounted on the bumper, and I didn't—"
"It's not my vehicle," Howe said reasonably. "No problem."
"Sir, VIP parking is right beside the tent," the lieutenant said, pointing.
"Thank you," Howe said. "The two in the jeep behind us are with us."
The lieutenant had seen the people in the jeep were a Marine master sergeant—he could tell because his chevrons were painted—and a warrant officer, and thus falling into Category (3), Everybody Else, but the lieutenant had been in the service long enough to know that it is far wiser to go along with general officers than to argue with them.
"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said, and raised his hand to salute again.
When both vehicles were out of earshot, the sergeant asked the lieutenant, "Sir, what the hell was that?"
"Damned if I know," the lieutenant confessed. "What was that, a Russian jeep?"
A high-pitched voice from The Press caught their attention.
The voice had screamed, "McCoy, you sonofabitch!"
The lieutenant and the sergeant looked. One of the members of The Press had ducked under the minefield tape and was running toward the Russian jeep, which slowed and then stopped.
Two MPs rushed toward the member of The Press to keep the Fourth Estate where it belonged. The lieutenant and the sergeant rushed to join them.
The journalist, who had two 35-mm cameras hanging from the neck, nimbly dodged the two MPs intent on maintaining the established order, by force if necessary, reached the Russian jeep, and quickly scrambled into the backseat.
The lieutenant now could identify the errant member of the Fourth Estate as Miss Jeanette Priestly of the Chicago Tribune, primarily because as she climbed into the Russian jeep she dislodged her brimmed fatigue cap and long blond hair cascaded to her shoulders.
The lieutenant reached the Russian jeep.
"Sorry about this, General," he said, and added, sternly, to Miss Priestly, "Miss Priestly, you know the rules. You'll have to get behind the tape."
Miss Priestly smiled, revealing an attractive mouthful of white teeth, and said, "Fuck you!"
"Please don't cause a scene, Miss Priestly," the lieutenant implored.
"It's all right, Lieutenant," General Howe said. "Miss Priestly is also with us."
"General, she's supposed to ..."
"If anyone gives you any trouble about this, Lieutenant," Howe said, motioning for McCoy to drive on, "refer them to me."
How the hell am I supposed to refer anybody to you if I don't know who the hell you are?
"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said.
If either General Howe or Major McCoy expected at least a word of gratitude from Miss Priestly for having rescued her from the military police, it was not forthcoming.
"Killer, goddamn you," she said. "You promised to let me know what you found, you sonofa—"
McCoy snapped, "Shut up, Jeanette," and then added, evenly: "One more word out of that sewer of a mouth of yours and I'll drive you to the end of the runway and throw you out."
"Oh, sh—" she began, and then fell silent.
Why do I suspect, General Howe thought, that at some time in the past McCoy has threatened her, then made good on the threat?
An MP was directing the parking of senior officers' vehicles to the left of the base operations tents.
He saluted and had just started to say something to General Howe when a four-car convoy of olive-drab 1950 Chevrolet staff cars, preceded by an MP jeep, rolled up. The first car in line had a two-starred major general's license plate on its bumper.
A tall, erect captain in starched fatigues jumped out and trotted around the car to open the rear passenger door.
Major General Edward M. Almond, commanding general of X U.S. Corps, got out. He was in fatigues, but wearing his general officer's dress pistol belt (A calfskin leather belt and holste
r, fastened with a gold-plated circular buckle.) around his waist.
The tall captain said something to him, and Almond looked over at Howe and McCoy, then walked over to the Russian jeep. Howe and McCoy got out of the jeep. McCoy saluted crisply. Generals Howe and Almond sort of waved their right hands at each other.
"I'm glad you're here, General Howe," Almond said. "I know that's important to the Supreme Commander."
"Good morning, General," Howe said.
Almond looked at the backseat of the jeep.
"Good morning, Miss Priestly."
"Good morning, sir," Jeanette said with a warm smile, and very politely.
"McCoy," Almond said.
"Good morning, sir."
"I've been informed General Pickering is on the Bataan" Almond said. "Have you got some good news for him?"
"Not good news, but not bad news, either, sir."
Almond looked at his wristwatch.
"I've also been informed the Supreme Commander's ETA is 0950," he went on. "So we have some time. Have you got a few minutes for me, General?"
"Of course," Howe said. "McCoy, why don't you take Miss Priestly aside and tell her what you know about Major Pickering?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where did you get the Russian jeep, McCoy?" Almond asked.
Howe answered for him: "He took it away from a North Korean colonel."
Almond leaned over the vehicle and inspected the interior.
"Interesting," he said, then turned to the tall captain.
"Al, why don't you set up the convoy," he said, "while General Howe and I ride over to the other side of the field."
He gestured for Howe to go to his staff car.
"Yes, sir," the captain replied.
Howe turned to Jeanette Priestly.
"You are going to behave, right, Jeanette?"
"Yes, sir," she said docilely.
Howe walked to Almond's staff car.
They went through a little "After you, Alfonse." / "No, after you, Gaston" routine dance at the door, but eventually Almond got in first, Howe slid in behind him, the tall captain closed the door, and the car, preceded by an MP jeep, drove off across the airfield.
'Interesting woman," Almond said. "What's she doing with you?"
She's . . . romantically involved . . . with young Pickering, and she knows McCoy's been looking for him."
Without success, apparently?" Almond said. It was a question.
He thinks he missed him yesterday by no more than a couple of hours," Howe said.
That's a really awkward situation, isn't it? Is there anything I can do to help?"
I asked McCoy. He says he has everything he needs." Almond grunted. Where are we going?" Howe asked. "May I ask?"
"As I understand it, General, you can ask anyone anything you want to," Almond said, chuckling. "We're going to look at something my Army Aviation officer enthusiastically assures me will 'usher in a new era of battlefield mobility.' "
"The secret helicopters?" Howe asked.
"You do hear things, don't you, General?" Almond said. "Yeah, the secret helicopters."
"And are they going to 'usher in a new era of battlefield mobility'?" Howe asked.
"Not today or tomorrow, I don't think," Almond said. "Eventually, possibly, maybe even probably. Between us?"
"That puts me on a spot, General. I'm supposed to report everything I think will interest my boss."
"So you are. Well, what the hell, you've been around, you'll see this for yourself. What this is, is a dog and pony show, intended to inspire the Supreme Commander to lean on the Joint Chiefs to come up with the necessary funding to buy lots of these machines. Apparently, the Joint Chiefs are first not very impressed with these machines, and even if they do everything the Army Aviation people say, the Joint Chiefs will believe that if it flies, it should belong to the Air Force."
"So they're staging a dog and pony show for you? And you're supposed to work on General MacArthur?"
"No. They're working on the Supreme Commander directly," Almond said. "He gets the show. When I got his revised ETA, I was also informed that the Bataan will taxi here after it lands to afford General MacArthur the opportunity to see these vehicles, and to have his picture taken with them."
Howe shook his head in amazement.
"Yeah," General Almond said. "Following which General MacArthur will turn over the liberated city of Seoul to President Syngman Rhee."
"I spent last night with Colonel Chesty Puller's Marine regiment," Howe said. It was a question.
"Seoul is liberated enough, General," Almond responded, "to the point where I feel the ceremony can be conducted with little or no risk to the Supreme Commander or President Rhee. I would have called this off if I didn't think so."
"I understand," Howe said.
"With a little luck, the artillery will fall silent long enough so that we can all hear General MacArthur's remarks on this momentous occasion," Almond said evenly.
Howe smiled at him.
"Well, here we are," Almond said as the Chevrolet stopped before the bullet-riddled hangar.
Major Alex Donald, the X Corps' assistant Army Aviation officer, walked briskly up to it, opened the door, and saluted.
General Howe got out first, his presence clearly confusing Major Donald. Then General Almond slid across the seat and got out.
"Good morning, sir," Major Donald said. "Everything is laid on, sir."
"Good," Almond said. "General Howe, this is Major Donald."
They shook hands.
Howe spotted Captain Howard C. Dunwood, USMCR, standing close to the closed hangar doors with eight other Marines.
"Good morning, Captain," Howe said.
"Good morning, sir."
"Baker Company, 5th Marines, right?" Howe asked.
"Yes, sir."
Both Captain Dunwood and General Almond were visibly surprised that General Howe was possessed of that information. Almond admitted as much.
"How did you know that?" he asked.
Howe winked at him.
"Well, Donald, let's have a look at these machines before the Supreme Commander gets here," Almond said.
[THREE]
As the staff car carrying Generals Almond and Howe started down the road beside the runway, McCoy paused long enough to wonder where they were going, then turned and motioned to Jeanette Priestly to get out of the Russian jeep.
He had given a lot of thought to Jeanette and to her relationship with Pickering.
Pick Pickering—a really legendary swordsman, of whom it was more or less honestly said he had two girls and often more in every port—had taken one look at Jeanette Priestly just over two months before and fallen in love with her.
And vice versa. The second time Jeanette—known as the "Ice Princess" among her peers in the press corps because no one, and many had tried, had ever been in her bed or pants—had seen him she had taken him to bed.
Everyone knew that "Love at First Sight" was bullshit, pure and simple, that what it really meant was "Lust at First Sight" and had everything to do with fucking and absolutely nothing to do with love.
Everybody knew that but Major Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR. He knew there was such a thing as love at first sight because it had happened to him.
The first time he had seen Ernestine Sage he had known he would love her forever even though the chances of having her in his bed, without or with the sanction of holy matrimony, had ranged from zero to zilch, and he damned well knew it.
Ernie was from Pick's world. Her mother and Pick's mother had been roommates at college. Her father was chairman of the board of—and majority stockholder in—American Personal Pharmaceuticals. Everyone thought that Pick and Ernie would marry.
There was no room in Ernestine Sage's life for a poor Scotch-Irish kid from Norristown who had enlisted in the Marine Corps at seventeen, been a corporal with the 4th Marines in Shanghai, and was now a second lieutenant primarily because he had learned how to re
ad and write two kinds of Chinese, Japanese, and even some Russian and the Marine Corps was short of people like that, and thus willing to commission them, temporarily, for wartime service.
A week after Ernie Sage had seen Second Lieutenant McCoy sitting on the penthouse railing of her parents' Fifth Avenue apartment overlooking Central Park, his feet dangling over the side, she had told her mother that she had met the man whose babies she wanted to bear and intended to marry him just as soon as she could get him to the altar, or some judge's chambers, whichever came first.
Pick, and Pick's father, thought that was a splendid idea. Everybody else, including Lieutenant McCoy, had thought it was insanity, that their marriage just wouldn't—couldn't—work.
But Ernie had known it was love, and could not be dissuaded, even though Ken had firmly declined the offer of her hand in wedded bliss. She had followed him around, proudly calling herself a camp follower, whenever and wherever he was in the United States during World War II.
She had written him every day, and when, toward the end of the war, he'd come home from a clandestine operation in the Gobi Desert a major on Presidential orders to attend the Army's Command and General Staff college, he was denied his final argument against their marriage—the very good chance that he either would not come home at all, or come home in a basket—she'd finally got him to the altar.
With conditions. He was a Marine, and wanted to stay a Marine. He would not take an entry-level executive training position with American Personal Pharmaceuticals—or with the Pacific & Far East Shipping Corporation—and she would not press him to do so. And they would live on his Marine pay, period.
There had been good times and bad in their marriage, but it had worked. The good times had included their year with the Army at C&GSC at Fort Leavenworth and a year at Quantico, which was close to Washington, so Ernie had a chance to see a lot of her parents. The Quantico assignment had ended when he had been reduced to captain, not because he'd done anything wrong, but because the Corps had shrunk and didn't need as many officers.
The Corps had a—maybe unwritten—policy that if you were reduced in grade, you were transferred, and that had seen them sent to Japan, where he had been a junior intelligence officer on the staff of the Commander, Naval Element, Supreme Headquarters, Allied Powers.
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