There, after a year or so, things had really gone wrong. He had come across what he believed to be compelling evidence that the North Koreans were going to invade the south. He'd worked long and hard to put it down on paper, and then turned it in to the Commander, Naval Element, Supreme Headquarters.
First, he got a "well done."
Then the Commander, Naval Element, Supreme Headquarters, called him back in and said, in effect, (1) "McCoy, you have never written an intelligence analysis of any kind regarding North Korean intentions, and certainly not one that had concluded 'war is inevitable,' " and (2) "Start packing. The Marine Corps has no further need of your services as a commissioned officer, and you will be separated from the Naval Service 1 July 1950. It will be determined later at what enlisted grade you may reenlist in the service if you desire to do so."
So far as Supreme Headquarters, Allied Powers, was concerned, McCoy's "war is coming" analysis no longer existed. Worse, it never had. All copies, McCoy was informed, had been destroyed.
McCoy found out why:
Major General Charles A. Willoughby, the Supreme Commander's intelligence officer, had just informed General MacArthur that there was absolutely no indication that the North Koreans had hostile intentions, and in any event their armed forces were incapable of doing anything more than causing mischief along the 38th Parallel. He did not want his judgment questioned by a lowly Marine captain.
When he had told Ernie he was getting the boot, Ernie had told him she wouldn't mind being a sergeant's wife.
He had realized then that it was his turn to make a few sacrifices.
What the hell, I might even like selling toothpaste and deodorant for American Personal Pharmaceuticals.
Once he had made that decision, there was one more decision to make, a big one. The Commander, Naval Element, Supreme Headquarters, Allied Powers, was wrong. All of the copies of McCoy's analysis had not been destroyed. He had his own copy of his analysis, his last draft before he had typed the whole thing over again before turning it in. He could not bring himself to either forget it or burn it.
After thinking hard and long, and fully aware that doing so could—probably would—see him facing a court-martial, he had given his draft copy of his analysis to Fleming Pickering.
Pickering was no longer a brigadier general and had no security clearance, and the Office of Strategic Services in which they had served in World War II no longer even existed. But he figured that Pickering could probably get the document into the hands of somebody who should have his information.
Whistling in the wind, he had told himself that the Corps might have a hard time court-martialing a civilian for the unlawful disclosure of a Top Secret document that wasn't supposed to ever have existed.
On his final, delay-en-route leave before reporting to Camp Pendleton for separation, he had been offered a civilian job he thought he might even really like, helping to develop an island off the coast of South Carolina as a retirement area.
It was the idea of Colonel Ed Banning, USMC, who was about to retire himself. Zimmerman, then stationed at Parris Island, had been enlisted in the project. He, like McCoy, had worked for Banning throughout World War II. As he and Ernie drove across the country to California, the idea of working with Colonel Banning and Ernie sounded like a hell of a better way than spending his life selling toothpaste and deodorant.
Orders were waiting for him when he reported into Camp Pendleton the night of 1 July 1950, but not the Thank you for your service, and don't let the doorknob hit you in the ass on your way out ones he expected, which would have ordered him to his home of official record.
Eight hours after reporting into Camp Pendleton—early the next morning— he had found himself sitting in the backseat of an Air Force F-94 taking off from Naval Air Station Miramar. He was traveling on orders bearing the code of the highest priority in the Armed Forces: DP. It stood for "By Direction of the President."
In Washington, he found out what had happened to the analysis he couldn't bring himself to burn.
Pickering had taken it to Rear Admiral Roscoe Hillencoetter, the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, which had taken the place of the OSS. Hillencoetter had told Fleming Pickering that he didn't believe the analysis, but— Pickering had come to his office accompanied by Senator Richardson K. Fowler, and Pickering had been the Assistant Director of the OSS for Asia—he said he would look into it.
Before that could happen, the North Koreans invaded South Korea.
When President Harry S Truman had demanded of Admiral Hillencoetter, in effect, "You mean to tell me you had absolutely no idea the North Koreans were going to do this?" the admiral had replied that there was one thing, and told him that the World War II Director of the OSS for Asia, the shipping magnate Fleming Pickering, had come to his office with Senator Fowler carrying an analysis written by a Marine captain predicting the North Korean invasion was inevitable.
The President had had some trouble getting Pickering on the telephone in the penthouse of the Foster San Franciscan Hotel on Nob Hill.
When the operator said, "General Pickering, please, the President is calling," it had been difficult to convince Mrs. Patricia Pickering that it wasn't one of her husband's drinking buddies thinking he was clever.
But eventually the President got through, and shortly thereafter—after a cross-country flight in an F-94—Pickering found himself facing the President of the United States in the Foster Lafayette hotel suite of his friend, and Truman's bitter political enemy, Senator Richardson K. Fowler, Republican of California.
After first demanding of the President that he give his word that no harm would come to Captain McCoy for his having turned his analysis over to him, Pickering told the President as much as he knew.
When he had finished, the President said, in effect, "I gave you my word because I wanted to, not because I had to."
Then he picked up the telephone, asked to be connected with the Commandant of the Marine Corps, and when, in less than sixty seconds, that officer came on the line, said, "This is the President, General. I understand you're acquainted with Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMC Reserve?"
There was a very short pause while the Commandant said, "Yes, sir."
'Please cause the necessary orders to be issued calling the general to active service for an indefinite period, effective immediately, and further placing him on duty with the Central Intelligence Agency," Truman ordered. "It won't be necessary to notify him; he's with me now."
The President had hung up and then turned to General Pickering.
"So far as this Captain McCoy is concerned, I've ordered that he be brought here as soon as he can be located. I want to see him myself."
Within days, Brigadier General Pickering, Captain McCoy, and Master Gunner Zimmerman were on a plane for Tokyo. The President had told Admiral Hillencoetter it was pretty obvious to him that a very good way to find out what had gone wrong with CIA intelligence-gathering procedures in the Far East—and to make sure the situation was corrected—was to send the man who'd run Far Eastern Operations for the OSS during World War II back over there.
General Pickering was named Assistant Director of the CIA for Asia.
This time Ernie had not sat dutifully and docilely at home while her husband went to war. They had been in Tokyo only a few days when there was a message saying Mrs. Kenneth McCoy would arrive in Tokyo aboard Trans-Global Airways Flight 4344 at ten the next morning.
She was now residing at No. 7 Saku-Tun, in the Denenchofu section of Tokyo, Japan. And she had told her husband that she had not only deceived him when they had been stationed in Tokyo—she had told him that she had found a very nice house at a rent they could afford that would keep them out of the small quarters they would have been given by the Navy, when the facts were she had bought the house—but also that, since the Marine Corps had already let him know what they really thought of him, she had no intention of pretending any longer that
they had only his pay to live on.
"Don't give me any trouble about this, Ken," she'd said firmly. "You're not supposed to upset a pregnant woman."
Ernie was in the sixth month of her pregnancy. Twice before, she had failed to carry to full term.
Major Ken McCoy had thought, as Ernie had stood before him, hands on her hips, her stomach just starting to show, making her declaration, that he loved her even more now than when he had first seen her on the patio of the penthouse, when it had really been Love at First Sight.
McCoy walked away from the base operations tents, and Jeanette Priestly had to trot to catch up with him.
"Where are they going?" she asked, indicating the car with Generals Howe and Almond in it.
"I thought you wanted to hear about Pick," McCoy replied.
She didn't reply, but caught his arm and stopped him.
He looked back at the tent, decided they were out of earshot, and stopped and told her everything he knew.
"So you think he's alive?" she asked when he had finished.
He nodded.
"He was yesterday, I'm sure of it."
"So when are you going to look again?"
"You mean instead of standing around here waiting for El Supremo?"
She nodded.
"Well, for one thing, I was ordered to be here," he said. "And for another, I have no idea where he is. There's no sense going back south until I do."
"And when will that be?"
"Whenever there's another sighting of his arrows," McCoy said. "Billy Dunn was here early this morning, and he said he's going to photograph the hell out of the area where we just missed him. He'll almost certainly come up with something, and when he does, we'll go out again."
"When you go, can I go with you?"
"No, of course not. And if you try something clever, I'll have you on the next plane to Tokyo."
"You'd do that, too, wouldn't you, you sonofabitch?"
"You know I would, and stop calling me a sonofabitch."
She met his eyes.
"It's a term of endearment," she said. "I love you almost as much as I love that stupid bastard who got himself shot down."
She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.
For a moment—just a moment—McCoy put his arms around her and hugged her.
[FOUR]
The Bataan made its landing approach from the direction of Seoul, passed low over the people gathered around the base operations tents, and touched down.
The military police had permitted a dozen still and motion picture photographers to detach themselves from the press area so that they would be able to photograph the Bataan taxiing up to base operations and the Supreme Commander himself getting off the airplane.
When the Bataan, instead of taxiing toward them, turned off the runway and taxied to a hangar on the far side of the field, a chorus of questions and protests rose from the Fourth Estate.
The phrase "Now, what the fuck is going on?" was heard, and several variations thereof.
The X Corps information officer, a bird colonel, who really had no idea what the hell was going on, managed to placate them somewhat by stating that it was "a security precaution" and that the Bataan and General MacArthur would shortly move to base operations.
The press could see the Bataan stop in front of the hangar, and a flight of mobile stairs being rolled up to it.
The first three people to debark from the Bataan were three Army photographers, two still and one motion picture. The photographers took up positions by the mobile stairway. Next off was Colonel Sidney Huff, the Supreme Commander's senior aide-de-camp.
He exchanged salutes with Major Alex Donald, USA, and Captain Howard C. Dunwood, USMCR, who were standing on the ground, looked around to see there were enough heavily armed Marines around so there wasn't much immediate danger to General MacArthur, and then raised his eyes to the open door of the Bataan and saluted.
The Supreme Commander somewhat regally descended the stairs and the cameras whirred and clicked. There was another exchange of salutes, then MacArthur was led to the just-open-wide-enough doors and went inside.
As soon as he had gone inside, preceded and trailed by the photographers, Brigadier General Fleming Pickering and Captain George F. Hart came down the stairs and went into the hangar.
Major Generals Ralph Howe and Edward C. Almond were standing inside the hangar. They saluted, then Almond stepped toward MacArthur for the benefit of the photographers. General Howe went to the door to avoid the photographers and also to see if Pickering had gotten off the airplane.
Pickering and Hart came into the hangar and stood with Howe as Major Alex Donald showed General MacArthur around the closest of the two helicopters. General MacArthur declined Major Donald's invitation to climb aboard the helicopter, but obligingly posed for several minutes while the photographers recorded the event for posterity.
Then he shook hands with Major Donald and walked back toward the door.
"General Howe," MacArthur declared, "I'm really glad to see you here."
"Good morning, sir."
"This business out of the way, I presume we can get on with returning President Rhee's capital to him," MacArthur said. "How are we going to do that, Sid?"
"Sir, I suggest that you reboard the Bataan," Colonel Huff replied, "which will then taxi to base operations, where the press is waiting."
"What about General Almond?" MacArthur asked.
"I would suggest that General Almond ride back over there in his car, sir. That would eliminate any possible questions about whether he has come to Korea with you."
"All right, Ned?" MacArthur asked.
"Yes, sir."
"I think it would be appropriate," Huff went on, "if General Almond were to greet the general when he descends from the Bataan."
"Yes, so do I," MacArthur said. "He is, after all, the liberator of Seoul." Then he added, jovially, "Well, then, Ned, why don't you saddle up, and hie thee to the other side of the airport?"
"Yes, sir," General Almond said. "You ready, Howe?"
"General," Howe said to MacArthur, "I'd like a moment of your time. Would it be all right if I rode over there with you?"
"I'd be delighted to have your company, General. Of course."
"Fleming," Howe said, "would you mind riding with General Almond?"
"Of course," Pickering said.
He, MacArthur, Almond, and Huff instantly decided that Howe had something to say to MacArthur that he didn't want anyone else to hear.
As Pickering, Hart, and Almond got into Almond's Chevrolet, MacArthur and Howe climbed the stairway to the Bataan. Colonel Huff and then the photographers followed them.
Pickering was a little curious about why Howe wanted a moment of El Supremo's time in private, but not concerned. Their relationship was not only one of mutual respect; they also liked each other. It never entered Pickering's mind that Howe was in any way going behind his back. He never had, and Pickering had no reason to suspect he would suddenly start now.
General Pickering was dead wrong. In this instance, Howe had something to say to the Supreme Commander that he absolutely did not want Pickering to know about.
"That will be all, Huff, thank you," MacArthur said, waited until Huff had closed the door, and then looked expectantly at Howe.
"General," Howe began carefully, "I fully understand that my role here is solely that of observer, and that I have neither the authority—and certainly not the expertise—to offer any sort of suggestion. . . ."
The Bataan began to taxi away from the hangar.
"General," MacArthur said, "I decide who has the expertise to offer a suggestion to me, and I would welcome any suggestion you might be good enough to offer."
"That's very gracious of you, sir," Howe said. "It's about those helicopters."
"Those helicopters?" MacArthur asked, surprised. "Or helicopters in general?"
"Those two helicopters, sir."
"Okay. Let's
have it."
"While we were waiting for you to arrive, sir, Major Donald—the Army pilot in charge of them?"
MacArthur nodded.
"—gave General Almond and myself a well-thought-out briefing about those specific helicopters, and the future role of what he calls 'rotary-wing aircraft' in providing battlefield mobility."
"And you were, or were not, impressed?"
"May I speak frankly, sir?" Howe asked, and when MacArthur nodded, he went on, "Are you familiar with the phrase 'dog and pony show,' General?"
"I wouldn't be surprised if they used it at Valley Forge," MacArthur said.
"There are only five of those machines in the Army, General, according to Major Donald. Two are at the Army Aviation School at Fort Riley being studied, and the Air Force has a third, which they are subjecting to destructive engineering tests. In other words, the two here are the only two which are operational. I can't think of a place where they can be used for a really practical purpose, except perhaps to carry senior officers around, and neither can General Almond."
"So this is a dog and pony show?"
"I would suggest that it is, sir."
"In France, I staged more than one dog and pony show myself, to convince my seniors that a new gadget called the tank had a place in ground warfare."
Howe didn't reply directly.
"During Major Donald's enthusiastic presentation," Howe said, "I had two questions about the actual usefulness of these machines. The first thing, I thought, when he was telling us how useful they would be to transport senior officers, was that it would really be pretty stupid to load half a dozen generals or colonels on one of them. They are not immune to ground fire, and I don't know how safe they are, period."
MacArthur grunted.
"Same thing for carrying half a dozen wounded," Howe went on. "You don't often find half a dozen wounded in one place except in some place where what got them would also likely get a large, and fragile, helicopter."
"I hadn't thought about that," MacArthur said softly.
"They're capable of carrying six or seven infantrymen each. Say seven. But I can't think of a situation where fourteen men being flown into it would have much real effect."
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