“To hell with it,” Pick said. “Let’s go shoot up a choo-choo. ”
A “choo-choo”? Now, what the hell?
“Say again?”
“You never saw those wing camera shots of the Air Corps shooting up trains in Europe? I always wanted to try that, but I never saw one damned choo-choo in all of War Two.”
“There was one on the ’Canal,” Dunn said, with a clear memory of an ancient, tiny, shot-to-pieces steam locomotive in his mind’s eye, “but somebody shot it up before I had a chance. Is there a rail line around here?”
“I found a couple in my trusty Navion,” Pick reported. “Let’s hope we get lucky.”
Ten minutes later, they got lucky.
“Nine o’clock, Billy,” Pick’s voice came over the air-to-air.
Dunn looked.
A train, a long train—mixed boxcars, flatcars, and tank cars—powered by two steam locomotives, was snaking along a river.
“I’m going to break left and get pretty close to the deck, and then turn back,” Pick said. “I’ve got dibs on the locomotive. In the unlikely event I miss, you can try on a second pass.”
"Dibs on the locomotive”? Are you never going to grow up? Good God, you’re a Marine field-grade officer!
“I’ll be on your tail, Pick,” Dunn said over the air-to-air.
And then Pick surprised him again, by rapidly picking up speed, as soon as he had broken to the left.
You can hit a lot more if your throttles aren’t at the firewall. You know that. What the hell is the matter with you?
Pick completed his turn, and not more than 500 feet above the undulating terrain, turned back toward the train—
—from three or four cars of which came lines of tracer shells.
My God! Why didn’t I think about antiaircraft fire?
You make a much harder target if you’re flying as fast as it will go.
You knew there would be counterfire.
How?
My God, Pick, did you do a dry run in that little Navion?
You did. You crazy sonofabitch, that’s exactly what you did!
Streams of tracers erupted from Pick’s Corsair’s wing-mounted .50-caliber Brownings.
Dunn saw them walking across the rice paddies and the river toward the locomotives. Steam began to come from the rearward locomotive’s boiler. He moved the nose of his Corsair to the rear of the train and pressed the firing button on the stick. The Corsair shuddered with the recoil.
Just as he picked up his nose, the locomotive exploded.
“Goddamn, Billy! Look at that!” Pick’s delighted voice came over the air-to-air.
A second later, there was an orange glow from one of the tank cars, and a split second after that, an enormous explosion.
Dunn flew for half a second through the fireball, and then was on the other side.
He saw Pick’s Corsair climbing steeply and got on his tail again.
“Did you see that sonofabitch blow up?” Pick’s voice asked, excitedly.
“I saw it. We also got what had to be a gasoline tank car.”
“You got the tank car,” Pick said. “I got the choo-choo.”
“Whatever you say,” Dunn replied.
“Your ADF working?” Pick asked.
Dunn checked.
“Affirmative,” he said.
“Mine isn’t,” Pick replied matter-of-factly. “I guess I lost that antenna.”
“Any other damage?”
“The gauges are all in the green,” Pick said. “There’s some openings in the wing I don’t remember seeing before, but I don’t see any gas leaking. Do you think you can find Kobe, Colonel?”
“Get on my wing, Pick,” Dunn ordered.
He advanced his throttle and pulled his Corsair beside Pick’s.
Pick’s canopy was open. He had a long cigar in his mouth, and was using the cockpit lighter to fire it up. The lighter was technically called “the spot heater,” because smoking was supposed to be forbidden in the cockpit. Ignoring all that, Pick had the cigar going, then he raised his eyes to Dunn and waved cheerfully.
Dunn shook his head and moved ahead of him, on a course for Kobe.
[FOUR]
In her capacity as a journalist, Miss Priestly decided it was her duty to meet the two Corsairs when they returned from the first Marine aviation combat sortie in Korea.
The first thing she thought was that she was really going to pay the arrogant sonofabitch back for that “his turf” crack.
The second thing she thought was My God, he looks tired.
The third thing she thought was My God, there’s holes all over the fuselage. He was hit. He could have been shot down!
Major Pickering jumped off the wing root of the Corsair.
“Well, what an unexpected pleasure. How are you, Miss Priestly?”
“You knew I was here,” she snapped. And then was surprised to hear herself ask, “Pick, are you all right?”
“Couldn’t be better, except after when I have a double scotch, when I’ll really be in good shape.”
“There’s bullet holes in your airplane!”
“No. I don’t think so. I think that’s part of a locomotive.”
“A locomotive?”
“I got one. Billy got a gasoline tank car,” he said.
“A locomotive?”
“Yeah. And there’s an old Marine Corps custom about that. Every pilot who gets a locomotive gets to kiss the first pretty girl he sees.”
“Good luck,” she said. “I hope you find one.”
And then he put his hand on her cheek and shrugged.
“What the hell,” he said. “It might have worked. And I really wanted to kiss you.”
He dropped his hand and started to turn from her.
She caught the sleeve of his flight suit. It was damp with sweat.
He probably smells like a horse.
Then she raised her face and kissed him, and it lasted much longer than she intended, and while she was kissing him, she realized that there probably wouldn’t be a double bed and room-service champagne, but this was going to be one of those rare times when the urge and the opportunity had really come together.
[FIVE]
REPLACEMENT BATTALION (PROVISIONAL) CAMP PENDLETON, CALIFORNIA 0705 29 JULY 1950
At the time it had been asked for and promised, Marine Corps assistance in the production of the motion picture film Halls of Montezuma, which would star Richard Widmark, had seemed like a splendid idea.
The script had been reviewed, and while there was a certain melodramatic aspect to it, there was nothing in it that would in any way reflect adversely on the United States Marine Corps. To the contrary, Richard Widmark’s character manifested traits of selfless heroism in keeping with the highest traditions of the Marine Corps.
And it was to be a major film, which would appear on the screens of at least half the motion picture theaters in the United States.
As one senior officer put it privately to Marine Corps Commandant Cates, “What we get, for loaning them a couple of companies of infantry, the use of the boondocks at Pendleton, and letting them take pictures of amphibious landings under close air support—which we’re going to run anyway—is really a two-hour recruiting film. I think it’s a win-win situation for the Corps, and I recommend we do it.”
That was then, nine months before the Army of the People’s Democratic Republic of North Korea had crossed the 38th Parallel and started for Pusan.
Now was now. The last thing the United States Marine Corps needed at Camp Pendleton now was a civilian army of motion picture production people running around the reservation, and expecting—demanding—what they had been promised, “full cooperation.”
One of the problems that crossed the desk of Brigadier General Clyde W. Dawkins shortly after it had been made clear the Corps was going to war again was in the form of a succinct note from the sergeant major.
General: The Hollywood Marines are starting to arrive. Maj L. K. W
inslow (Pub Info) has been assigned to 1st Prov Brigade.
Sgt Major Neely.
Major L. K. Winslow, who had been on the staff of the G-3, had been detailed to the Public Information Office to deal with the Halls of Montezuma motion picture production company. He was a good officer. When Brigadier General Craig had begun to staff the 1st Provisional Marine Brigade, one of the first officers he’d asked for was Major L. K. Winslow.
That meant there was no officer now charged with dealing with the movie people.
General Dawkins had summoned Sergeant Major Neely to his office.
“What do we do about this?”
“Sir, we have a major who is now spending most of his time inventorying supply rooms.”
“A major doing what?” Dawkins had blurted, then remembered hearing that Major Macklin—having somehow irked the G-1—had been sent to contemplate his sins while he inventoried supply rooms. “You mean Major Macklin?”
Sergeant Major Neely nodded.
“I don’t know . . .”
“The PIO is up to his ass in alligators,” Neely said. “Somebody has to deal with the Hollywood Marines.”
There is no reason, Dawkins decided at the moment, that Macklin can’t contemplate his sins, whatever they were, while dealing with the Hollywood Marines.
“Send for Major Macklin, please, Sergeant Major,” Dawkins ordered.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
In the forty-five minutes it took to notify Major Macklin that the deputy commanding general wished to speak to him personally, and for Macklin to reach Dawkins’s office, Dawkins had a little—very little—time to ruminate on his decision.
He was aware that he was not one of those who thought the Richard Widmark cinematic opus was a great thing for the Marine Corps. He was further aware that he had heard somewhere that this Macklin character was a three-star asshole. He was forced to draw the conclusion that he had allowed his personal feelings to color his decision; that he had sent an asshole to deal with the Hollywood assholes.
That was not the thing to do. The Marine Corps had decided the movie was in the best interests of the Marine Corps, and that being the case, it behooved him to support the movie as best he could, which obviously meant he shouldn’t send this asshole major to deal with the Hollywood assholes.
He would have to find some really competent officer, on a par with Major L. K. Winslow, to assist the Hollywood people in their production.
Just about at the time he had reached this conclusion, Sergeant Major Neely stuck his head in the door and reported that Major Robert B. Macklin, USMC, had arrived.
“Send him in, please,” Dawkins had ordered. Since he had summoned him, courtesy required that he at least talk to him.
Major Macklin—who was, Dawkins was somewhat surprised to see, a good-looking, trim, shipshape Marine officer—entered the office, walked to precisely eighteen inches from General Dawkins’s desk, and came to attention.
“Major Macklin, Robert B., reporting as ordered, sir.”
“At ease, Major,” Dawkins said.
Macklin stood at ease.
“This may sound like a strange question, Macklin, but do you have any public relations experience?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
That’s not what I expected to hear.
“In the Corps?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me about it,” Dawkins ordered.
“Sir, when I returned from the ’Canal—”
“You were on Guadalcanal?” Dawkins asked.
I’ll be damned.
“Actually, sir, I was on Gavutu.”
“Then why did you say ‘Guadalcanal’?”
“I’ve found, sir, that it’s easier to say Guadalcanal than have to explain that Gavutu was a nearby island.”
That’s true. Gavutu is not well-known.
“What were you doing on Gavutu?”
“Actually, sir, I didn’t get a chance to do much on Gavutu. I went in with the ParaMarines and took a hit before I reached the beach.”
The ParaMarines were decimated—literally, they lost ten percent of their men—landing on Gavutu.
“I see,” Dawkins said. “And?”
“I was on limited duty, sir, and the Corps assigned me to a war bond tour. It had several aces from Guadalcanal.”
“Oddly enough, I’m familiar with that tour. Several of those aces were mine. And you were the public relations guy for that tour?”
“Yes, sir, and—I was still on limited duty, sir—for others that followed.”
“And that’s how you spent the war? On public relations duties?”
“No, sir. When it became obvious that I wasn’t going to be able anytime soon to pass the full duty physical, I volunteered for the OSS. I was sent on to Mindanao, which the Japs then held—”
Goddamn it! I don’t need a spy. I need somebody to deal with the Hollywood Marines and Richard Widmark.
Well, at least he has some public relations experience.
“Major,” Dawkins interrupted, “the Marine Corps is cooperating with a Hollywood motion picture company. They’re making a movie to be called Halls of Montezuma, which will star Richard Widmark.”
“Yes, sir?”
“The coordinating officer was assigned to the 1st Marine Provisional Brigade, and I have to find someone to take his place, and do so right now—the Hollywood people have already begun to arrive here. Do you think you could handle something like that?”
“Sir, if I have a choice between going to Korea or this, I really would prefer going to Korea.”
“Most of us would prefer to be going to Korea, Major,” Dawkins said. “My question was do you think you could handle something like that?”
“I’m sure I could, sir, if that’s what the Corps wants me to do.”
“Okay. Just as soon as you can wind up whatever you’re doing now, report to Colonel Severance in public relations. ”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“That will be all, Major. Good luck.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Before Major Macklin was out of the building, General Dawkins got Colonel Severance on the horn and told him that he was sending him an experienced public relations officer to take the place of Major Winslow.
He also told Colonel Severance that he wanted “the Hollywood project” to go smoothly—that the Corps had promised “full cooperation,” and full cooperation was what they were going to get.
“Unless it actually interferes with our movements to Korea, see that they get everything they want.”
Colonel Severance said, “Aye, aye, sir,” and General Dawkins put the Hollywood Marines out of his mind.
Major Macklin was delighted with his new assignment. He would have gone willingly to Korea, of course, and still would. But the facts were that his previous service had denied him the privilege of command. He had never been a company commander, and service as a company commander as a captain was at least an unofficial prerequisite to serving as a battalion executive officer as a major.
Neither had his intelligence service prepared him for duty with a brigade as an intelligence officer. He had spent most of his OSS service on the Japanese-occupied island of Mindanao. That was certainly valuable service—and certainly dangerous service—but it wasn’t the sort of thing that had given him the experience to assume duties as a regimental intelligence officer.
So the situation was that even if he was ordered to Korea with the brigade—or later, with the 1st Marine Division— he more than likely would have been given duties in personnel or supply. That was certainly important work, but looking at the big picture, he could make a far larger contribution to the Marine Corps by doing an outstanding job supporting the filming of Halls of Montezuma.
And his work would certainly be noticed by senior officers, which was important, if he looked down the road to selection time for promotion to lieutenant colonel.
When he reported to Colonel Severance, Severance repeated to
him what General Dawkins had said about the importance of the project, and told him to guide himself accordingly. He also told him that the “senior members” of the production company were putting up at the Coronado Beach Hotel, and that he should establish contact with the producers and the director there.
He was given a copy of the “shooting script” and a long list of things, from Jeeps and trucks to telephone service, the production company would require. He was also asked to escort the “location manager” around the Camp Pendleton reservation to find suitable sites for various “scenes” and “shots” in the film.
He got right on that, and returned the same evening to the Coronado Beach to report his progress to the director and producers. While he was at Camp Pendleton, he suggested to Colonel Severance that since he was going to have to be on twenty-four-hour call to take care of the requests of “the company,” he thought it would be a good idea if he took a room at the hotel. That would mean that he would have to be put on temporary duty, so that he could draw per diem and quarters pay. Colonel Severance said he would take care of it.
Two things happened the very first day. When he told the producer that he had arranged to stay in the hotel so that he would be available around the clock, the director said the least the company could do in return was pick up the hotel bill.
That meant that he would be drawing quarters pay but would not have to spend it.
The second thing that happened the very first day was that he got to meet the star, Mr. Richard Widmark. Widmark had, of course, a suite in the Coronado Beach, but he had come to San Diego on his yacht, which was a converted Navy PT-Boat.
They met on the yacht. Mr. Widmark was more than charming, and told him that he would be sleeping on the yacht, rather than in the hotel, and that Macklin should feel free to come aboard whenever he pleased.
“We party a little out here,” Widmark said. “On the boat, nobody notices.”
That was certainly an interesting prospect, and over the next ten days, Major Macklin learned that many—perhaps most—of the beautiful women associated with a motion picture company were not actresses, but technicians and assistants of one kind or another. And many of these, he quickly learned, were drawn to a real-life Marine major, who had been wounded on a real battlefield, and then been a real OSS agent doing his fighting behind enemy lines.
Under Fire Page 34