“Your reputation and tastes precede you, General, sir,” Pick said, and held up a bottle of Famous Grouse Scots whiskey.
“That all right with you, Colonel?”
“That would be fine, sir. Thank you,” the colonel said, and then remembered his mission. He took a squarish envelope from his pocket and handed it to Pickering. “The compliments of the Supreme Commander, General.”
Pickering took the envelope and opened it.
The Supreme Commander and Mrs. Douglas MacArthur request the honor of the presence of
BRIG. GEN. FLEMING PICKERING, USMCR
At
Lunch/Cocktails/Dinner
Whatever is my old Comrade-in-Arms’ pleasure
At the Supreme Commander’s Residence
At
Whenever you can find the time.
Jean and I welcome you to Japan,
my dear Fleming!!!!!
Just tell the colonel what is your pleasure.
Douglas
Dress
Pickering handed the invitation to his son, who took it, shrugged, and pursed his lips in amusement.
“Like I said, your reputation precedes you, General, sir.”
“Colonel,” Pickering said. “Would you be good enough to present my compliments to General MacArthur, and tell him that as soon as I know my schedule, I’ll be in touch?”
“Yes, sir,” the colonel said. “General, I think that the Supreme Commander had cocktails and dinner tonight in mind, sir.”
“How do you know that?” Pickering asked, as if the question amused him.
“Colonel Huff mentioned it, sir.”
“Good ol’ Sid,” Pickering replied, his tone suggesting that he didn’t think of Huff that way at all. There was immediate confirmation of this: “He’s still El Supremo’s head dog robber, I gather?”
Colonel Stanley’s face—just for a moment—showed that the question both surprised him and was one he would rather not answer directly. He took a notebook from his tunic pocket, wrote a number on it, and handed it to Pickering.
“That’s Colonel Huff’s private number, sir. Perhaps you could call him?”
“I didn’t mean to put you on a spot, Colonel,” Pickering said. “I go a long way back with Colonel Huff.”
“I understand, sir,” Stanley said.
He took a token sip from his drink and set it down.
“With your permission, General?” he asked.
“You don’t need my permission to do anything, Colonel. It’s been a long time since I was a general. And I understand you must have a busy schedule.”
Stanley offered his hand to Pick.
“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said. “And congratulations on the speed record.”
“The thing to keep in mind, Colonel,” Pick said, smiling, “is that my dad’s bite is worse than his bark.”
Stanley smiled, offered Pickering his hand, and left the suite.
Father and son exchanged glances.
“Something amuses you, Captain?” Pickering asked.
“Something awes me,” Pick said. “I just realized I’m in the presence of the only man in Japan who would dare to tell Douglas MacArthur’s aide that he’ll see if he can fit the general into his schedule.”
“I like Douglas MacArthur,” Pickering said. “And Jean. And I’ll see them while I’m here, but I came here to see Ernie and Ken. Now, how do we do that?”
“Something wrong with the limo? Mom set that up, too. I’m reliably informed it’s one of the two 1941 Cadillac limousines in Japan. And at this moment it’s parked outside waiting to take you to Ken’s house.”
“You’re not going with me?”
“Charley Ansley wants me to come to the Hotel Hokkaido—that’s where the conference is—to make sure all the Ts are crossed and the Is dotted on the certification. Before we rub our new speed record in Trans-Pacific’s face. He said something about a press conference. I’ll come out to Ken’s place as soon as that’s over.” He paused. “Unless you want to go to the Hokkaido with me?”
Pickering considered that a moment.
“I’m not going to show up at the Killer’s door in a chauffeur-driven limousine. If you’ve got his address, I’ll take a cab.”
“Great. I’ll take the limo to the Hokkaido. I laid on a Ford sedan for me. You can use that.”
Pickering considered that a moment, then nodded.
He had a fresh thought.
“I didn’t think about bringing anything for them.”
“There’s a case of Famous Grouse in the trunk of the limo. You want me to have it moved to the Ford, or should I bring it when I come?”
“Put it in the Ford.”
“You’re going out there right now?”
“Just as soon as I shower and change my clothes.”
“Pop, remember not to call him ‘Killer.’ ”
“He doesn’t mind. I’m one of the privileged few.”
“Ernie minds.”
“I stand corrected. And you remember to try to look humble at the press conference.”
“You know what Frank Lloyd Wright said about that: ‘It’s hard to be humble when you’re great.’ ”
“He is great. What you are is an aerial bus driver who caught a tailwind.”
Pick smiled at his father.
“Wright designed this place, didn’t he?” he asked, gesturing around the suite.
“Yes, he did.”
[FOUR]
NO. 7 SAKU-TUN DENENCHOFU, TOKYO, JAPAN 1705 1 JUNE 1950
When the 1946 Ford Fordor pulled to the curb of a narrow, cobblestoned street before a stone wall bearing a wooden sign—“Captain K. R. McCoy USMC”—the driver practically leapt from behind the wheel, dashed around the front of the car, pulled Pickering’s door open, and, smiling broadly, bowed to his passenger.
Pickering smiled at him, then went to the trunk to get the case of Famous Grouse. The driver wrestled it away from him after a thirty-second tug-of-war, and Pickering went to the steel door in the fence, where he finally found a wire loop that might be a doorbell.
When he pulled on it, there was a muted jangling. Sixty seconds later, a middle-aged Japanese woman in a black kimono opened the steel door and, first bowing, looked at him curiously.
“I’d like to see either Captain or Mrs. McCoy,” Pickering said.
It was obvious that she didn’t know a word of English.
“Captain McCoy,” Pickering repeated very slowly.
Then there was the sound of a female voice. It was a young voice, and speaking Japanese, probably asking a question.
Pickering took a chance. He raised his voice.
“Ernie?”
There was no reply.
“Ernie! It’s Flem Pickering!”
Now the female voice spoke English.
“Oh, my God!”
A moment later a strikingly beautiful young woman, her black hair cut in a pageboy, ran through the door and threw herself into his arms.
“Uncle Flem!” she cried.
Her voice sounded broken.
Jesus, I hope that’s happiness!
A moment later, over Ernie’s shoulder, Pickering saw her husband. He was a well-built—but lithe, rather than muscular—even-featured, fair-skinned crew-cutted man in Marine Corps khaki shirt and trousers.
“How are you, Ken?” Pickering asked, getting free of Ernie to offer him his hand.
“You’re the last person in the world I expected to see, General,” McCoy said.
“ ‘General’ was a long time ago, Ken,” Pickering said.
There’s something wrong here. What did I do, walk into the middle of a family squabble?
“Did I drop in uninvited at an awkward time?”
“Don’t be silly, Uncle Flem,” Ernie said. “Come on in the house.”
“It’s just that . . . you’re the last person in the world I expected to see,” McCoy repeated.
“Pick’ll be along in a while,” Pickering said. �
��He just set another speed record getting us here, and he and Charley Ansley are in the process of making it official.”
“Great!” McCoy said.
His enthusiasm and his smile seemed strained.
That’s strange. You usually never know what he’s thinking.
That’s the mark—not being able to tell what they’re thinking—of good poker players and intelligence officers. And Ken McCoy is both.
What did Ed Banning say that day in Washington?
“It’s as if he was born to be an intelligence officer.”
Obviously that doesn’t apply to poker players or intelligence officers when they’re fighting with their wives.
Well, what the hell, married people fight. This is just another example of your lousy timing, showing up in the middle of one.
Ernestine Sage McCoy was the closest thing Fleming Pickering had to a daughter. Her mother and Patricia Foster Fleming had been roommates at Sarah Lawrence. He had literally walked the floor of the hospital with Ernie’s father the night she was born.
Although he had never put it into words, Pickering thought of Kenneth R. McCoy as a second son, and he was sure that Pick thought of Ken as his brother. Patricia Fleming liked Ken, but she was never quite able to forgive him for marrying Ernie. Elaine Sage, Ernie’s mother, and Patricia had decided, when both of their children were still in diapers, that Ernie and Pick would—should—marry.
But Pick had met Ken in Marine Corps Officer Candidate School, and become buddies, and then Pick had introduced his buddy to Ernie, and that had blown the idea of Ernie marrying Pick out of the water.
Fleming Pickering had inherited newly promoted First Lieutenant Kenneth R. McCoy when he had been given command of the U.S. Marine Corps Office of Management Analysis.
And quickly learned far more about him than Pick had ever told him, probably because Pick had decided the less said about Ken’s background the better.
Ernie had almost immediately announced on meeting Ken that she had met the man with whom she intended to spend the rest of her life, a declaration that had done the opposite of delighting her parents, and Patricia Fleming.
For one thing, he had neither a college education nor any money. That was enough to make the Sages uncomfortable. Learning that “Killer” McCoy was something of a legend in the Marine Corps, and why, would only make things worse.
Brigadier General Pickering had gotten most of the details of Lieutenant McCoy’s background from another officer assigned to the Office of Management Analysis, then Major Ed Banning, who was himself something of a legend in the Marine Corps.
Pickering had gotten the details of Banning’s exploits first: He had been the 4th Marine Regiment’s intelligence officer in Shanghai and gone with it to the Philippines, where he had been temporarily blinded in action against the Japanese. He—and a dozen other blinded men and officers—had been evacuated from the island fortress of Corregidor in Manila Harbor just before Corregidor fell.
When his sight returned, Banning had, perhaps predictably, been assigned to the Office of Management Analysis, where he immediately set about looking for Lieutenant McCoy to have him assigned to the intelligence unit.
He had found Second Lieutenant McCoy in the Naval Hospital at Pearl Harbor, recovering from wounds suffered with the Marine Raiders during their daring attack on Makin Island.
It had taken some doing to pry the details of McCoy’s background from Banning, who felt—and said—that they should be allowed to remain obscure. But finally Pickering had gotten Banning to open up.
Then-Captain Banning had met then-Corporal K. R. McCoy in Shanghai. He had been appointed “in addition to his other duties” to serve as defense counsel for the accused in the court-martial case of The United States vs. Corporal K. R. McCoy, USMC.
There were several charges, with murder heading the list.
As the case was explained to Captain Banning, a tough little corporal in one of the line companies had knifed an Italian Marine to death, and damned near killed two other Eye-Tie so-called Marines in the same fight.
It never was said in so many words, of course, but what would be clearly in the interests of the Marine Corps would be to sweep the international incident as quickly as possible under the diplomatic rug. To that end, if Banning could get the troublemaking corporal to plead guilty to the lesser charge of manslaughter, the colonel “on review” would reduce whatever the sentence was to a relatively mild five to ten years in the Portsmouth Naval Prison; he could be out of prison in two, maybe three years.
Before actually going to see McCoy, Banning first went over the official reports of the incident and the evidence. There was no question at all that one Italian Marine had died of knife wounds, and that McCoy had wielded the knife. Then he went over McCoy’s records. He learned that McCoy had enlisted in the Corps at seventeen, immediately after graduating from high school in a Philadelphia industrial suburb. He hadn’t been in trouble previously, and had in fact made corporal in a remarkably short time, before his first enlistment was over. Normally, it took six to eight years—sometimes even longer—to make corporal.
Finally, Banning had gone to see Corporal McCoy in the brig, and had seen that McCoy was indeed a tough little streetwise character. And smart, but not smart enough to realize the serious trouble he was in.
A conviction for murder would see him sent to Portsmouth for twenty years to life.
McCoy, making it obvious that he trusted Banning not quite as far as he could throw the six-foot, 200-pound officer, his tone bordering on the offense known as “silent insolence, ” had rejected the offer.
“No, thank you, sir, don’t try to make a deal for me for a light sentence, sir. With respect, sir, it was self-defense, sir, and I’ll take my chances at the court-martial, sir.”
Banning admitted to Pickering that he had managed only with an effort not to lose his temper with the insolent young corporal.
“But it wasn’t stupidity, General,” Banning said, now smiling about the incident. “McCoy was a step—a couple of steps—ahead of me.”
“How so?” Pickering had asked.
“When I got back to my office, there was a message asking me to call Captain Bruce Fairbairn. Does the general know who I mean?”
“The English Captain Fairbairn? The head of the Shanghai Police?”
Banning nodded.
“And the inventor of scientific knife-fighting,” Banning said. “And the Fairbairn knife. Does that ring a bell, General? ”
“I’ve had drinks and dinner with Fairbairn several times in Shanghai, and I’ve heard of his knives, of course, everyone has, but I’ve never seen one.”
“The third one I had ever seen I had seen that morning,” Banning said, with a smile. “When examining the evidence against Corporal McCoy.”
Pickering had thought: Now that he understands that he has no choice but to tell me all about Killer McCoy, he seems to be enjoying it.
“I didn’t want to believe it was a Fairbairn,” Banning went on. “Fairbairn didn’t sell his knifes. He issued them to his policemen, and only after they had gone through his knife-fighting course. When I saw the knife McCoy had used on the Italian, I decided, on the very long shot that it was a Fairbairn, that McCoy had stolen it somewhere.”
“And he hadn’t?”
“When I called Fairbairn, he very politely said that he thought he should tell me that if the Marines persisted with the foolish notion of court-martialing McCoy, three of his policemen were prepared to testify under oath that they had seen the whole incident, and that McCoy had done nothing more than defend himself.”
“Why hadn’t they come forward earlier?”
“Fairbairn—the Brits can be marvelously indirect—said that his policemen ‘were prepared to testify under oath’ that they had seen the incident. . . .”
“Which is not the same thing as saying they had seen it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, was it self-defense or not?”
“ ‘Had come to know him well’?” Pickering quoted.
“I went to the colonel and told him that not only had McCoy refused to plead guilty, but also that Fairbairn’s police were going to testify for him. Under those circumstances, there was no way the incident could be swept under the rug.”
“So there was no court-martial?”
“No court-martial. McCoy even got his knife back.”
“Was it a Fairbairn?”
“It was, and he’d gotten it the same way Fairbairn’s police got theirs, by proving he knew how to use it.”
“How did he get to know Fairbairn?”
“There was a high-stakes poker game every Friday night at the Metropol Hotel.”
“He was only a corporal,” Pickering said. “Major, I used to be a corporal. I never played poker with officers.”
“McCoy was a very unusual corporal,” Banning said, smiling, “as I quickly found out when he was assigned to me.”
“Assigned to you?”
“The colonel took pains to make it clear that there had better not be another incident involving Corporal Killer McCoy.”
“That’s why they called him ‘Killer’? Because he killed the Italian?”
“That was the beginning of it, I suppose, but it really stuck on him after he wiped out, practically by himself, a reinforced platoon of Chinese ‘bandits’ working for the Kempae Tai.” The Japanese secret police. “There were twenty bodies in that ’incident.’ ”
“How did that happen?”
“When he reported to me—and he didn’t like that; he liked being in the weapons company, where he planned to be a sergeant before his second hitch was up—I told him frankly that all I expected of him was to stay out of trouble until I could figure out something to do with him. He was obviously, I told him, not going to be of much use to me. I was the intelligence officer, and someone who didn’t speak Chinese or Japanese obviously couldn’t be of much use.”
“And he spoke some Chinese?”
“He told me he could read and write Cantonese and Mandarin, plus Japanese, plus French and German and even some Russian, but was having trouble with the Cyrillic alphabet.”
Under Fire Page 4