In order to carry out his duties, he requested first—and got—a staff car. After two days, he decided that what he really needed was a station wagon, and a driver, and Colonel Severance got that for him, too.
On 28 July, the production company’s extras casting director came to Major Macklin, and said that as of six-thirty in the morning, 30 July, the company was going to shoot some “filler shots” of utilities-clad Marines crawling through the terrain, and he thought he could get by with forty or fifty people, although more would be better.
“You just tell me how many Marines you need,” Major Macklin said, in the spirit of full cooperation.
“What I really would like to do is see if I can’t come up with some interesting faces.”
“How can I help you with that?”
“Do you suppose you could line up a bunch—say, a hundred or so—of your guys, and let me pick the ones I think would fit with the concept we’re trying for?”
“No problem at all. I’ll get right on it, and get right back to you.”
Major Macklin then called the commanding officer of the provisional replacement battalion he knew had been formed to deal with the inflow of Marines to Camp Pendleton. He explained to him what he wanted.
“There’s hardly anybody here,” he said. “The casuals we had, the regular Marines sent here to fill out the 1st Division, are just about gone, and there’s only one reserve company here. . . . They weren’t expected until August first, but they got in this morning.”
“How many men are we talking about?”
“A little over two hundred, plus five officers.”
“Have them standing by at 0700 tomorrow. A casting director will select from them the fifty or so men he needs for the Halls of Montezuma project.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“It means for two days—possibly three, whatever it takes—the men selected will be used as extras in the motion picture.”
“Christ, Macklin, I don’t know. For one thing, there’s in-processing to be done, you know, for reclassification and assignment. And then their company commander has reserved the known distance range so they can zero their individual weapons. . . .”
“That will have to be put on hold, I’m afraid, until after the filming is completed.”
“By whose authority?”
“General Dawkins has said this project has the highest priority. Are you willing to accept that, or should I call General Dawkins and tell him you’re telling me we can’t provide the full cooperation Headquarters Marine Corps has promised these Hollywood people?”
The provisional reception battalion commander did not want to discuss anything with the assistant commanding general.
“They’ll be standing by at 0700, Macklin,” he said.
“Thank you,” Major Macklin said, and then went to find the production company’s extras casting director to tell him what had been arranged.
When Captain George F. Hart was informed that the 29 July breakfast meal would be served to his company at 0430, as at 0700, he was to have his company formed in front of battalion headquarters, in field gear, and carrying their assigned weapons, he perhaps naturally assumed that battalion headquarters was where the trucks would pick up Baker Company to transport them to one of the known distance firing ranges.
Company B, 55th Marines, was formed at 0655. At that point, the commanding officer of the Replacement Battalion (Provisional) appeared at the door to his headquarters, and when he had caught Captain Hart’s attention, signaled him to join him.
Hart turned his company over to his exec and walked to the battalion headquarters. Since they were both out of doors and under arms, Hart saluted.
“Good morning, sir,” he said.
“Good morning, Captain,” the battalion commander said. “You and your officers aren’t going to be needed for this little exercise. Turn the company over to the first sergeant. ”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Turn your company over to your first sergeant, Captain, and dismiss your officers from the formation.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Captain Hart said. He complied with his orders and then returned to the Replacement Battalion (Provisional) commanding officer.
“Sir, may I ask what’s going on?”
“Fifty of your men are going to be in the movies, Captain. A talent scout will shortly appear to determine which ones.”
“Sir, I don’t understand. . . .”
“That must be them now,” the battalion commander said, nodding with his head toward a Plymouth station wagon coming down the street.
The station wagon was driven by a sergeant. In the rear seat were two men, a Marine officer and a plump, wavy-haired blond man the far side of forty. The sergeant opened the door and the two men got out.
“Jesus Christ,” Captain Hart said. “Macklin!”
“Are you acquainted with Major Macklin, Captain?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
The last time I saw that cowardly sonofabitch was when we loaded the bastard on the sub Sunfish to go to Mindanao. Killer McCoy had authority to blow the bastard away if he interfered with anything, and I was actually disappointed when Killer came out and told me Macklin was still alive; that he’d decided the best way to deal with the sonofabitch was just leave him on Mindanao and hope the Japs caught him.
“Major Macklin is the action officer for the Halls of Montezuma movie project,” the Replacement Battalion (Provisional) commander said.
“With respect, sir,” Captain Hart said, “I don’t really give much of a damn about Major Macklin or his movie project. Sir, my company was scheduled to go to the known distance range . . .”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, in this way, Captain,” the replacement battalion commander said, “but you no longer have a company.”
“Sir?”
“As of 0001 this morning, Company B, 55th Marines was disbanded, and its officers and men transferred to the Replacement Battalion (Provisional) for reassignment. They—and you—will be reassigned within the Marine Corps—mostly likely as replacements to the 1st Marine Division—where they are needed.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Hart said.
“Company B, 55th Marines, no longer exists. It was disbanded as of 0001 this morning. Its personnel—including you—are now assigned to the Replacement Battalion. You will be reassigned where the Marine Corps thinks you will be of the greatest value to the Marine Corps.”
“That’s absolutely fucking outrageous!” Hart exploded.
“Watch your mouth, Captain,” the major said.
“Goddamn it!” Hart went on. “I trained those men. I’m responsible for them. I promised their families I would look out for them!”
“Be that as it may—”
“I’ll be a sonofabitch if I’ll put up with this!”
“All right, Captain, that’s quite enough. You will go to your room, and you will stay there until I send for you. That’s an order.”
Hart glowered at him for fifteen seconds, which seemed much longer.
“I request permission to see the Inspector General, sir,” he said.
“You will go to your room and stay there until I send for you. When I do, I will consider your request to see the Inspector General.”
“Sir, I believe it is my right to see the Inspector General with or without your permission.”
At this point, the commanding officer of the Replacement Battalion (Provisional) lost his temper.
“All right, goddamn it, go to the IG. And when the IG throws you out on your ass, you will then report to me, and I’ll deal with your insubordinate behavior. Just get the hell out of my sight!”
Hart walked away from the major, took a final look at Major Robert B. Macklin, USMC, who was walking slowly down the lines of Baker Company following the civilian, and writing down the names of those members of his company of which the civilian apparently approved on a clipboard.
Then he walked angrily away.
He walked for three blocks without any real idea of where he was going.
Then he stopped a passing corporal and asked him where the office of the Inspector General was.
“On the main post, sir,” the corporal said. “In the headquarters building.”
“How do I get to the main post?”
“It’s down this road, sir,” the corporal said. “Too far to walk.”
“Thank you,” Hart said, and went to the side of the road, and when the first vehicle approached, held up his thumb to hitchhike a ride.
The captain in the office of the Inspector General wasn’t much more help than the commanding officer of the Replacement Battalion (Provisional) had been.
“Captain, that decision has been made. The men of your reserve unit will be assigned where they will be of most use to the Marine Corps.”
“I can swallow that, I suppose,” Hart said, his voice rising. “I don’t like it, but I can swallow it. But they should be getting ready to go to war, not fucking around with some bullshit movie!”
“Calm down, before you get yourself in trouble,” the captain said.
“Where’s the commanding general’s office? On this floor?”
“You really don’t want to go there, Captain.”
“The hell I don’t! Where’s his fucking office?”
The captain did not reply.
Hart glowered at him, then stormed out of his office.
There was a sign in the lobby of the building. The offices of the commanding general and the deputy commanding general were on the second floor.
Hart took the stairs to the second floor two at a time.
There were three people in the outer office: Sergeant Major Neely, Corporal Delbert Wise, and Colonel Edward Banning.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Colonel Banning exclaimed. “How are you, George?”
“Pretty goddamned pissed off is how I am!”
“About what?”
“They took my company away from me, and that miserable sonofabitch Macklin is using them as extras in some bullshit movie!”
“George, calm down,” Banning said.
Banning looked at Sergeant Major Neely and Corporal Wise, and indicated with a nod of his head that they should make themselves absent. When they had left the office, he turned to Hart.
“Okay. Now start at the beginning, George.”
Seven minutes later, Brigadier General Clyde W. Dawkins entered the outer office, a look of annoyance on his face that neither his sergeant major nor the clerk-typist had answered his two pushes of the intercom button, signaling that the deputy commanding general wished coffee.
The look of annoyance on his face changed to one of curiosity when he saw Colonel Banning and Captain Hart.
“What’s going on, Colonel?”
“May I see the general a moment, sir?” Banning asked.
Dawkins considered that a moment, then signaled Banning to follow him into his office. Banning did so, closing the door after him.
“Okay, now what’s going on, Ed?” Dawkins asked.
“General, you have one highly pissed-off captain out there,” Banning said.
“Pissed off about what?”
“He had a reserve infantry company in St. Louis, which they just took away from him and turned over to Major Macklin to make a Richard Widmark movie.”
Speaking very rapidly, General Dawkins replied: “One, breaking up the units was a tough decision. It was the right one. Two, Eighth and Eye ordered that we support that movie. Understand?”
“General, unless some action is taken, there will be a headline in tomorrow’s St. Louis Post-Dispatch reading, ‘Over Bitter Objections of Commanding Officer, St. Louis Marine Reserve Company Broken Up; Men Scattered Through Marine Corps.’ Or words to that effect.”
“Oh, Christ! Is that guy some kind of nut? Doesn’t he know how to take orders?”
“I don’t think that he would obey an order not to talk to the press. It’s the only option he sees to right what he really considers a wrong.”
“Jesus!”
“Will you trust me on this, General?”
“Okay. Why not?”
“May I use your phone, sir?”
Dawkins waved at the telephone on his desk.
Banning dialed the operator.
“Get me the Commandant in Washington, please. Colonel Edward Banning is calling.”
“Jesus Christ!” Dawkins exclaimed.
Someone in Washington answered the telephone.
“No, Major, I don’t wish to tell you what I wish to speak to the Commandant about. Please tell him I’m calling in a matter connected with General Pickering.”
There was another pause.
“Sir, I wouldn’t bother you with this personally, except that I feel it’s necessary.”
Pause.
“Sir, Captain George F. Hart, who was General Pickering’s aide-de-camp—actually bodyguard—in the last war has just reported on active duty. I can think of nowhere else in the Corps where he would be of more use than serving with General Pickering again, and I’d like to get him over there as soon as possible.”
Pause.
“Yes, sir, there is. I’m in General Dawkins’s office. Hold one, sir.”
He handed the telephone to Dawkins.
“General Dawkins, sir.”
Pause.
“Aye, aye, sir. Do you wish to speak to Colonel Banning again, sir?”
The Commandant of the Marine Corps apparently had nothing else to say to Colonel Banning, for General Dawkins put the telephone back in its cradle.
He looked at Banning, and then went to his office door and issued an order.
“Come in here, please, Sergeant Major,” he said. “You, too, Wise. Bring your pad.” He paused and added. “You, too, Captain. You might as well hear this.”
The three trooped into the office.
“Wise, take a memorandum, record of telecon.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“This date, this hour, between the Commandant of the Marine Corps and the Deputy Commanding General, Camp Pendleton. The Commandant desires . . .” He paused. “What does the Commandant desire, Colonel Banning? ”
“That appropriate orders be issued immediately detaching Captain George F. Hart from Replacement Battalion (Provisional) Camp Pendleton and attaching subject officer to the Central Intelligence Agency, Washington, D.C., with further detachment to the staff of the Assistant Director of the CIA for Asia, and directing subject officer to proceed by the first available air transportation to Tokyo, Japan. You get all that, Corporal?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any questions, Captain Hart?” Banning asked.
“Who is the . . . What did you say, Assistant Director of the CIA? What am I going to do there?”
“That will be up to General Pickering, Captain. I’m sure that he can find something useful for you to do.”
“I’d like to say goodbye to my men,” Hart said.
“That can be arranged,” Banning said.
“You go with him, Sergeant Major,” General Dawkins ordered. “See if you do a better job of explaining why the Corps has been forced to disband the reserve units than anybody else over there has.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“I’ll go, too,” Banning said.
“I wish I had the time,” General Dawkins said. “But . . .” He put out his hand to Hart. “My compliments to General Pickering, Hart. And good luck.”
XI
[ONE]
COMMUNICATIONS CENTER EIGHTH UNITED STATES ARMY (REAR) PUSAN, KOREA 0730 2 AUGUST 1950
Master Sergeant Paul T. Keller, twenty-nine years old, had been drafted into the U.S. Army almost immediately upon graduation from high school in June of 1942. After basic training, he had been trained as a high-speed radio operator, and had been assigned to Major General I. D. White’s 2nd Armored “Hell on Wheels” Division, ending up the war as a technical sergeant on the banks of the Elbe.
A recruiter had argued that if he went home now—as his points entitled him to—and got out, he was going to find himself just one more ex-GI looking for a job. On the other hand, if he reenlisted, he would immediately be promoted to master sergeant. Moreover, he could go home by air—instead of on a troop ship—and go on a sixty-day reenlistment leave. After that, he could have his choice of both any course he wanted to attend at the Army Signal School at Fort Monmouth, and any post, camp, or station in the United States or around the world.
Midway through his leave, Master Sergeant Keller elected to attend the Cryptographic School. He didn’t know the first thing about cryptography, except what he’d seen in the movies, and had never heard of the Army Security Agency, but it sounded interesting—even exciting— and he’d had enough of supervising a room full of radio operators sitting at typewriters with cans on their ears. And he suspected that Germany was going to be a good place to be stationed, now that the war was over.
Orders came assigning him to the Army Security Agency, and his parents and brother told him the FBI had been asking questions of everybody about him, “in connection with a high-level security clearance.”
The clearance—Top Secret, Cryptographic I—came through when he was at Fort Monmouth taking Phase I of the course. By then he’d learned once you were in the ASA, had been granted the clearance, you stayed in the ASA. That meant that although he would be in Germany, he wouldn’t be assigned there. He would be assigned to the ASA Headquarters, in Vint Hill Farms Station, Virginia, outside Washington, with “duty station wherever.”
It turned out that he had a flair for cryptography. After being the honor graduate of Phase II of the course, at Vint Hill Farms, he was sent to work at Headquarters, U.S. Forces, European Theater, in the Farben Building in Frankfurt, Germany. After two months there, the ASA changed his “duty assignment” to “Crypto NCO for the U.S. Element, Allied Commandatura, Berlin.”
That was really good duty. He had his own apartment, and there were none of the annoying details usually associated with Army life, standing formations, pulling staff duty NCO, that sort of thing. All he had to do was let them know where he was twenty-four hours a day in case something hot had to go out, or came in.
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