Retreat, Hell! tc-10

by W. E. B Griffin

  When, late in the war, MacArthur's troops landed on Mindanao, they found Brigadier General Fertig waiting for them with 30,000 armed and uniformed troops, including a band. Pickering had had Fertig's forces supplied by Navy submarines all through the war.

  Every report of Fertig's successes—even of a successful completion of a sub­marine supply mission to him—during the war had been a galling reminder to the Bataan Gang that Pickering had done what MacArthur had said—on their advice—was impossible to do.

  Pickering had learned that MacArthur had a petty side to his character. The one manifestation of this that annoyed Pickering the most—even more than MacArthur's refusal to award the 4th Marines on Corregidor the Presi­dential Unit Citation because "the Marines already have enough medals"—was MacArthur's refusal to promote Fertig above his actual rank of lieutenant colonel even though Fertig had successfully commanded 30,000 troops in com­bat. An Army corps has that many troops and is commanded by a three-star general.

  Whitney had risen steadily upward in rank—he ended World War II as a colonel and was now a brigadier general—and this added to Pickering's an­noyance and even contempt.

  Aware that he was being a little childish himself, Pickering took pleasure in knowing that Brigadier General Whitney's pleasure with himself for being at El Supremo's elbow when he met with the President would be pretty well soured when he saw Pickering get off the Presidential aircraft.

  There turned out to be less of an arrival ceremony for the President than there had been at K-16 when MacArthur had landed there to turn the seat of the South Korean government back to Syngman Rhee.

  The door of the Independence opened, and two Secret Service men and a still cameraman and a motion picture cameraman went down the stairs. Then Truman came out of his compartment and went down the stairs.

  MacArthur saluted. Truman smiled and put out his hand, then started shak­ing hands with the others of MacArthur's party.

  The first man off the Independence after Truman was a stocky Army chief warrant officer in his mid-thirties. He carried a leather briefcase in one hand and a heavy canvas equipment bag in the other. He wore a web pistol belt with a holstered .45 around his waist. A jeep was waiting for him. He got in it and drove off before General of the Army Omar Bradley came down the stairs.

  George Hart knew—and had told Pickering—what the equipment bag contained, and what Chief Warrant Officer Delbert LeMoine, of the Army Se­curity Agency, was doing with it. LeMoine was the Presidential cryptogra­pher. Messages intended for the President that had come in since they left Hawaii had been forwarded to Wake Island. Wake Island, however, did not have the codes. The President would have to wait for his mail until LeMoine decrypted it.

  The dignitaries aboard the Independence came down the stairs one by one and shook hands with MacArthur and the members of his staff he had brought with him from Tokyo. Pickering decided he was not an official member of the Truman party, and waited until the handshaking was over before he got off the Independence.

  He gave Brigadier General Courtney Whitney a friendly wave. Whitney re­turned it with a nod and a strained smile.

  Truman and MacArthur got in the backseat of a something less than Pres­idential—or MacArthurian—1949 Chevrolet staff car and drove off for a pri­vate meeting.

  Then everyone else was loaded, without ceremony, into a convoy of cars and jeeps and driven to one of the single-story frame buildings lining the tarmac. Inside, a simple buffet of coffee and doughnuts had been laid out for them.

  Pickering had just taken a bite of his second doughnut when another Army warrant officer touched his arm.

  "Would you come with me, please, General?" he asked.

  "Sure," Pickering said. "What's up?"

  The warrant officer didn't reply, but when Hart started to follow them, he said, "Just the general, Captain."

  The warrant officer led Pickering to a frame building—identical to the one where coffee and doughnuts were being served—a hundred yards away and held open the door for him.

  There was an interior office, guarded by a sergeant armed with a Thomp­son submachine gun. He stepped out of the way as Pickering and the warrant officer approached, and then the warrant officer knocked at the door. A mo­ment later LeMoine unlocked the door, opened it, and motioned Pickering inside.

  Then he closed and locked the door and turned to Pickering with a smile.

  "We have a mutual friend, General," he said.

  "Who's that?"

  "Master Sergeant Paul Keller," LeMoine said. "He worked for me when we were in Moscow."

  "Good man," Pickering said.

  "He says much the same about you, General," LeMoine said. "And he has the same kind of problems I do, wondering who gets to see what and when."

  "I'm not sure I follow you," Pickering said.

  "Why don't you have a chair, General?" LeMoine said. "I've got to take a leak, and I'll see if I can't get us some coffee."

  He pulled a chair on wheels away from a table, waited until Pickering sat down, then walked to the door, unlocked it, walked through it, and then closed and locked it.

  There was one sheet of paper on the table.

  Pickering wondered why LeMoine had left it on display.

  A man like that does not make mistakes. Christ, whatever it is, he wants me to see it!

  TOP SECRET-PRESIDENTIAL

  WASHINGTON 2215 14OCT1950

  FROM DIRECTOR CIA

  TO (EYES ONLY) THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

  FOLLOWING RECEIVED 22 07 14OCT1950 FROM MAJOR K R MCCOY USMCR

  MESSAGE BEGINS

  MAJOR MALCOLM S. PICKERING USMCR RETURNED TO US CONTROL 1200 14OCT1950. TRANSPORTED USS

  BADOENG STRAIT AS OF 1300 14OCT1950.

  SUBJECT OFFICER IS DIRTY, UNSHAVEN, AND VERY HUNGRY, BUT IS UNWOUNDED, UNINJURED, AND IN

  SOUND PSYCHOLOGICAL CONDITION.

  FOLLOWING CIVILIAN PERSONNEL SHOULD BE CONTACTED BY MOST EXPEDITIOUS MEANS, ASKED NOT TO

  DISSEMINATE INFORMATION ABOVE TO OTHERS AND ON AGREEMENT BE NOTIFIED OF SUBJECT OFFICER'S

  RETURN AND CONDITION.

  MRS FLEMING PICKERING C/O FOSTER HOTELS SAN FRANCISCO CAL

  MRS K.R. MCCOY, TOKYO, JAPAN

  MISS JEANETTE PRIESTLY C/O PRESS RELATIONS OFFICER, SUPREME HEADQUARTERS UNITED NATIONS

  COMMAND, TOKYO

  MCCOY MAJ USMCR

  MESSAGE ENDS

  IN PRESUMPTION YOU WILL INFORM GENERAL PICKERING I WILL NOT DO SO

  W.B. SMITH DIRECTOR

  Pickering picked it up and read it.

  There was the sound of the door being unlocked.

  Fleming Pickering swallowed hard and stood up, but did not turn around for a moment, until he felt he had his voice and himself under control.

  "Ready for some coffee, General?" LeMoine asked.

  "Thank you," Pickering said.

  LeMoine set a coffee mug on the table.

  "A little sugar for your coffee, General?" LeMoine asked. He held a silver pocket flask over the cup.

  "Can I do that myself?" Pickering asked.

  LeMoine handed him the flask.

  Pickering put it to his lips and took a healthy swig.

  "Thank you," he said after a moment.

  "Have another. There's more where that came from," LeMoine said.

  Pickering took another pull, then handed the flask to LeMoine.

  "Thank you," he said again.

  "Oh, look what I did!" LeMoine said. He picked up the decrypted message. "I really should have put this in the envelope for the President."

  "I didn't see it," Pickering said.

  LeMoine met his eyes and nodded.

  "I don't think anyone's going to question the Assistant Director of the CIA for Asia coming in here to ask if I had anything for him," LeMoine said. "But, after I told you I didn't, they might wonder why you hung around. Will you excuse me, please, General?"

  "Thank you for the coffee," Pickering said.

&n
bsp; "When you see Sergeant Keller," LeMoine said, "tell him I asked about him."

  "I'll do that," Pickering said as he walked to the door.

  As he walked back to the coffee-and-doughnuts building, Pickering saw that the people who had been on the Independence and the Bataan were now— in separate knots—gathered around a Quonset hut. As he walked toward it, the door of the Quonset opened and first Truman and then MacArthur came out.

  General Bradley walked up to them, then led them toward another of the identical frame buildings.

  Pickering decided that since he had not been invited to attend the official conference, he would just stay in the background. He was glad for the oppor­tunity: That Pick was coming home didn't seem quite real yet. He realized that he had really given up hope, and was ashamed that he had. He knew he needed a couple of minutes to set himself in order.

  He walked between two of the frame buildings and leaned against the wall of one of them. He became aware that his forehead was sweaty, and took a hand­kerchief from his pocket to mop it.

  Jesus Christ, he's really alive! And unhurt. Thank you, God!

  "General, the President would like to see you, sir," an Army colonel said. Pickering hadn't seen him come between the buildings.

  "Right away, of course," Pickering said, and pushed himself off the building.

  "General, are you all right? Sir, you look—"

  "Colonel, I couldn't possibly be any better," Pickering replied. When he turned the corner of the building, he saw the President standing with General Bradley and MacArthur in front of the conference building. When Truman saw Pickering, he motioned him over.

  Pickering wasn't sure what the protocol was, whether he was supposed to salute or not. He decided if he was going to err, it would be on the side of cau­tion. He saluted, which seemed to surprise both Bradley and MacArthur, who nevertheless returned it.

  "Delbert," the President began, ". . . the cryptographer? . . . has had time to decode only a couple of messages. One of them is this one. I thought you'd be interested."

  The President handed him the message.

  "General, I can't tell you how happy that message made me," Truman said as Pickering read the message again.

  "Thank you, sir," Pickering said.

  "May I show it to General Bradley and General MacArthur?" the President asked.

  "Yes, sir. Of course." Bradley read it first.

  "That's very good news, indeed," he said as he handed the message to MacArthur.

  MacArthur's left eyebrow rose in curiosity as he read the message. Then he wrapped an arm around Pickering's shoulder.

  "My dear Fleming!" he exclaimed emotionally. "Almighty God has answered our prayers! A valiant airman will be returned to the bosom of his family! Jean will be so happy!"

  Bradley could not keep a look of amazement off his face.

  "I'd like a word with General Bradley before we go in here," Truman said. "I think if you two went in, the others would follow suit."

  "Of course, Mr. President," MacArthur said.

  "I'm to be at the meeting?" Pickering blurted.

  "Of course," Truman said. "You're really the middleman, General. You're the only one who knows everybody."

  MacArthur entered the building with Pickering on his heels. Truman waited until they were out of earshot, then until the others who would participate in the conference had entered the building, and then turned to Bradley.

  "General, I want that young officer returned to the United States as soon as he's fit to travel. And I want to make sure the people Major McCoy named are notified as soon as possible, by an appropriate person. Have you got some­one who can handle that for me?"

  "Yes, sir," Bradley said. He raised his voice, just slightly. "General Mason!"

  An Army major general walked quickly to them.

  "General," Bradley said. "I want you to read this."

  General Mason read the message and raised his eyes curiously to Bradley.

  "General," Bradley began, "the President desires—"

  "What the President desires," Truman interrupted, "is that Major Pickering— as soon as he is physically up to it—be flown to the United States to whichever Naval hospital is most convenient for his mother. And I want the people listed in that message to be notified personally—without anything said to them about keeping this a secret—by a suitable person just as soon as that can be arranged. You understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Thank you," the President said.

  "May I keep this message, sir?"

  "Why not?" Truman said, then gestured for Bradley to precede him into the conference building.

  Truman slipped into an ordinary wooden office chair at the head of a table around which the participants had arranged themselves, those who had come with the President on one side, and MacArthur and those who had come from Tokyo with him on the other.

  Everyone was standing, in deference to the President.

  "Take your seats, please," Truman said. "General Bradley will take notes, and each of you will later get a copy, but it is for your personal use only, and not to be shared with anyone else. Clear?"

  There was a chorus of "Yessir."

  "But before we get started, I want to tell you that General Pickering has just been informed that his son, a Marine pilot, who was shot down early in the war . . . How long ago, General?"

  "Seventy-seven days ago, Mr. President," Pickering said softly.

  ". . . who was shot down seventy-seven days ago," the President went on, "and has gone through God only knows what evading capture, was rescued be­hind the lines yesterday and is as we speak aboard the carrier USS Badoeng Strait.'"

  There was a round of applause.

  "Mr. President," MacArthur said. "If I may?"

  Truman gestured for him to go on.

  "Perhaps only I know nearly as much as General Pickering does about what Major Pickering was facing and has come through. One of the unpleasant things I have had to do recently is compose the phrasing of the citation for the decoration it was my intention to award—posthumously, I was forced to think—to this heroic young officer. I would like your permission, Mr. Presi­dent, to—"

  "Give him the medal anyway?" Truman interrupted. "What did you have in mind?"

  "Mr. President, it is self-evident that Major Pickering's valor on the battle­field was distinguished."

  "The Distinguished Service Cross?" Truman asked.

  "The major is a Marine, Mr. President," General Bradley said. "It would be the Navy Cross."

  "Yes, of course," the President said. "I agree. I don't know how that's done, but I'm sure that General Bradley and General MacArthur can handle that be­tween them."

  "Yes, sir," Bradley said.

  The President wasn't finished: "I also think whoever rescued him from be­hind enemy lines needs recognition," he went on. "That would be Major McCoy, wouldn't it, General Pickering?"

  "Either McCoy or one of his men, sir," Pickering said.

  "I would suggest, Mr. President," MacArthur said, "the Silver Star for the officer who risked his life to snatch Major Pickering from the midst of the enemy, and Bronze Stars for the others."

  Truman looked at Omar Bradley.

  "I agree, Mr. President," Bradley said.

  "You'll take care of all this?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Okay," the President said. "Let's get started with this. The first thing . . .”

  [TWO]

  Aboard the Bataan

  3O.59 Degrees North Latitude

  172.44 Degrees East Longitude

  The Pacific Ocean

  1615 15 October 195O

  Captain George F. Hart, USMCR, gently nudged Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, with his elbow, and, when he had his attention, directed it with a just-perceptible nod of his head down the aisle of the Bataan.

  There were few passengers on the Douglas C-54 four-engine transport. Pickering and Hart were seated toward the rear, in what Hart called "the che
ap seats." In them were seated the junior officers—including the aides-de-camp of the senior officers—and the warrant officers and noncoms brought from Tokyo to do whatever was necessary for the senior officers.

  Pickering saw Brigadier General Courtney Whitney coming down the aisle to the rear of the airplane. In doing so he passed a number of rows of empty seats. There was little question in Pickering's mind that Whitney was headed for him. He was the only senior officer sitting in the cheap seats.

  Whitney stopped at Pickering's seat.

  "General Pickering," he said, "the Supreme Commander would like to see you at your convenience."

  "Thank you, General Whitney," Pickering said.

  Whitney turned and started back toward the front of the aircraft.

  Pickering looked at Hart with a raised eyebrow. Hart smiled, hunched his shoulders, and feigned a shiver. Pickering smiled back. It had indeed been an icy encounter. Another one.

  Brigadier General Whitney and Brigadier General Pickering had not ex­changed a word on Wake Island, and Pickering hadn't thought—until Whit­ney came down the aisle—that they would exchange one on the way to Japan.

  Pickering waited until Whitney had taken his seat before unfastening his seat belt and standing up. Whitney took the seat nearest to the door of MacArthur's compartment. It was the seat traditionally reserved for the most senior of MacArthur's staff aboard.

  Pickering knocked at the door to MacArthur's compartment and was told to come in.

  "Ah, Fleming!" MacArthur said, coming half out of his chair to offer Pick­ering his hand. "I was afraid you might have been asleep. I told Whitney not to disturb you."

  "I was awake, sir," Pickering said.

  MacArthur waved him into the seat facing his.

  "First, of course, I had to go through the messages from Tokyo." He indi­cated several manila folders that were imprinted with Top Secret in red. "And then I had to let poor Whitney down gently."

  "Sir?"

  "Entre nous, "MacArthur said. "I have been trying for some time to get him a second star. I thought perhaps a private word between myself and General Bradley might help—"

  My God! Pickering thought. He actually tried to use a meeting between him and the President of the United States to get one of the Bataan Gang promoted!