And the Berlin girls were beautiful. So beautiful that he really had to take care not to fall for one of them. The CIC kept a close eye on everybody in the ASA and especially on crypto people. Keller didn’t know if it was true, but the CIC thought the Russians were using good-looking fräuleins to put ASA/Crypto people in compromising positions. If it looked to the CIC that you were getting too close to a fräulein, you got your security clearance jerked—by then his clearance was Top Secret/Crypto IV, which meant he was cleared to en- and decrypt anything—and losing that meant it would be back to some radio room.
The ASA assigned him temporary duty stations all over Europe—Vienna, Budapest, Moscow—filling in for other crypto people on leave or sick or whatever.
He was really unhappy when in late 1949, the ASA called him back to Vint Hill Farms to be an instructor. But even that proved to be very good duty. It was a good place to be stationed, near Washington, and he could go home to Philadelphia just about whenever he wanted.
Two weeks before, the First Soldier had called him in. With a five-day delay-en-route leave, he was to report to the transportation officer, Fort Lewis, Washington, for further shipment by air to Headquarters, Eighth United States Army, which had an urgent priority for crypto people.
This was not like Frankfurt or Berlin. They took him from the airport outside Tokyo, to Camp Drake, where they took his personal possessions from him for storage, and issued him two sets of fatigues, field gear, combat boots, and an M1 Garand, the first one he’d held in his hands since 1943. And then put him on another airplane the same day and flew him to K-1, the airport outside Pusan.
He quickly learned the Eighth Army (Rear) really did have “an urgent need” for crypto people. Things were fucked up beyond description. When he got there, he saw that Operational Immediate messages, which were supposed to get encrypted and transmitted right then, took hours— even days—to get out.
It would take him a couple of days to straighten things out, but he knew he could do it.
It was going to be a lousy assignment, living in a goddamn tent, sleeping on a no-mattress cot, eating off stainless-steel trays, taking a crap in a wooden-holer GI outhouse, but that’s the way it was. It was payback, he decided philosophically, for all the good times.
The first thing he did was get rid of the Garand. Crypto centers needed to be protected, sure, but not by the NCOIC carrying a Garand. There were guards on the door, armed with Thompson submachine guns. Keller got a Thompson for himself, plus a .45 pistol.
The second thing he did to speed things up was to get the signal officer to agree that since Operational Immediates—and for that matter, Urgents—should really get immediate encryption and transmission, the authority to classify messages should be restricted to officers senior enough to know what an Operational Immediate really was. Henceforth, the signal officer agreed, Operational Immediates would require the signature of a full bull colonel, or better, and Urgents, the signature of at least a light colonel.
Within twenty-four hours—once the backlog had been cleared—Operational Immediates and Urgents were going out in minutes. Which meant that before senior officers had started to sign off on them, most of the messages with that priority really shouldn’t have been Operational Immediate and Urgent.
Master Sergeant Keller was surprised when the door opened and two Marines came in. After a moment, he saw that one of them had captain’s bars painted in black on the collar points of his fatigue jacket. He remembered that the Marines called fatigues “utilities.” The other one had metal warrant officer’s bars pinned on his collar points.
Keller knew the 1st Provisional Marine Brigade was coming to Pusan—he had personally decrypted the Top Secret Urgent from the convoy commander, saying when they would arrive, and the reply from the Marine general saying they should be prepared to get off the ships ready to fight—but they’d been scheduled to arrive in thirty minutes.
And these two looked like they’d been in Korea for weeks, and up with the infantry, not as if they’d just gotten off a ship. They were sweat-soaked, looked tired, and the captain had a Garand slung from his shoulder, with two spare clips clipped on the strap. Grenades bulged in the warrant officer’s pockets.
Whenever they’d gotten here, they should not be in here. What the hell’s the matter with the guards?
“Good morning, Sergeant,” the captain said.
“Good morning, sir,” Master Sergeant Keller replied. “Sir, you really shouldn’t be in here. How’d you get in?”
“Through the door,” the captain replied, somewhat sarcastically. “I just want to use the landline.”
There was a secure landline, connected to the Communications Center in the Dai Ichi Building in Tokyo. But it wasn’t really secure, and it was intended primarily to keep the technicians in Pusan in touch with the technicians in Tokyo.
“Sir, there’s no landline available,” Keller said. “And, sir, I’m going to have to insist that you leave. This is a restricted area.”
“Yeah, I know,” the captain said. “Maybe you better call your officer, Sergeant.”
Master Sergeant Keller went into the encryption room itself, and signaled the duty officer, Captain R. C. “Pete” Peters, SigC, USA, that he needed a word with him.
The captain went into the outer room.
“Hey, McCoy,” Captain Peters greeted the two Marines with a smile. “What can we do for the Marines this morning? ”
“You might want to thank God, Pete,” the captain said. “The Marines are about to land.”
“That’s not funny, McCoy,” Captain Peters said. “I hope to Christ they got here in time. What can I do for you?”
“I need to make a quick call on your landline,” Captain Kenneth R. McCoy said.
“Help yourself,” Captain Peters said, and then saw the look on Master Sergeant Keller’s face. “It’s okay, Keller,” he said. “He and Master Gunner Zimmerman are cleared for whatever they ask for.”
“Yes, sir,” Keller said.
Captain McCoy picked up the telephone. It was a direct line, and when the receiver was lifted, the communications switchboard operator in Tokyo answered.
“Patch me through to the Hotel Imperial, please,” McCoy said. A moment later, he added, “Captain McCoy for General Pickering.”
And a moment after that, he repeated those exact words, then: “When will he be back, do you know?” Another pause, then: “No. No message, thank you.”
He turned to the other Marine.
“Not there, and no ETA.”
"OpImmediate him,” the Marine warrant officer suggested.
“Yeah,” McCoy said, and picked up a lined pad, wrote quickly on it, and handed it to Master Sergeant Keller.
Operational Immediate
Unclassified
Hq SCAP
Eyes only Brig General Pickering, USMC
Telephoning failed 0730 2 Aug.
Going to pier to meet 1st Provisional Marine Brigade. Request permission for Zimmerman and me to temporarily attach ourselves to Gen Craig to make ourselves useful. Will continue to report.
McCoy, Capt, USMCR
“You want this to go Operational Immediate?” Master Sergeant Keller asked, a little dubiously.
“He has the authority,” Captain Peters said. “I guess I should have said there’s an exception to the colonel’s rule. Captain McCoy.”
“And Mr. Zimmerman,” McCoy said.
“And Mr. Zimmerman,” Captain Peters echoed.
“I’ll get this right out,” Keller said, and went into the radio room. When he came out, the two Marines were gone.
“What’s with those two?” Keller asked.
“CIA,” Captain Peters said.
He was not really surprised. He’d handled a lot of traffic for CIA agents when he was in Europe, especially in Berlin.
“They’re not Marines?”
“They’re Marines, and they’re CIA. If you really want to know what’s going on here, you ought to enc
rypt their reports yourself.”
“Interesting.”
Keller decided he would do just that.
[TWO]
PIER THREE PUSAN, KOREA 0805 2 AUGUST 1950
Captain McCoy found Brigadier General Edward A. Craig, USMC—in utilities, sitting in a U.S. Army Jeep that he was apparently driving himself—on the wharf, looking more than a little unhappy as he watched the USS George Clymer (APA-27) being tied up, her rails lined with utilities-clad Marines acting for all the world as if they were being docked at a liberty port.
McCoy and Zimmerman got out of their “borrowed” U.S. Army Jeep—the lettering on the bumpers of which identified it as belonging to Fox Company, 21st Infantry— and approached Craig’s Jeep. Craig heard them coming and looked over his shoulder.
McCoy and Zimmerman saluted.
“Good morning, sir,” McCoy said.
Craig returned the salute.
“You two look like you need a bath,” he said.
“We were up at Taejon, sir,” McCoy said. “We wanted to see this,” he gestured at the Clymer and the USS Pickaway (APA-222), another attack transport, which was tying up farther down the pier, “and there’s something else. . . .”
“Take a good look at those happy tourists, McCoy,” General Craig said, a little bitterly. “Would you suspect that I sent them a radio ordering that ammo be issued and they debark prepared to fight?”
McCoy was trying to frame a reply to that when Zimmerman laughed, and said, “Jesus, will you look at that!”
A military unit was marching down the pier, between the warehouses and the ships. There was a color guard, in mussed and baggy khakis, carrying the flags of the United States, Korea, and the United Nations. Marching behind them, in U.S. Army fatigues, was a Korean Army military band, playing what could have been—and then, on the other hand, might not have been—the Marine Hymn.
General Craig smiled.
“In the interests of international cooperation, Mr. Zimmerman, ” he said. “I think we should commend those splendid musicians for at least trying.”
“Yes, sir,” Zimmerman said.
They could hear guffaws and laughter from the Marines hanging over the rails of the decks and gun positions of the Clymer.
“You said there was something else, McCoy?” General Craig asked.
“Yes, sir,” McCoy said. “Sir, I just asked General Pickering for permission for Zimmerman and myself to attach ourselves temporarily to the brigade. I thought we could be useful. If nothing else, as interpreters.”
“And General Pickering’s reply?”
“I couldn’t get through to him, sir. But I can’t think of any reason he’d object. I told him we’d continue to report.”
“Subject to General Pickering’s approval, I accept,” General Craig said. “For the time being, consider yourselves attached to me.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Thank you,” McCoy said, and went on: “We were at Headquarters Eighth Army last night, sir. They hadn’t decided where the brigade will be sent.”
It was a statement that was also a question.
“They still haven’t,” Craig said. “What do you know about Masan, McCoy?”
“It looks to me like the next North Korean objective, sir,” McCoy said. “And a couple of prisoners Zimmerman and I talked to last night were the 6th NK Division. So far the 6th has done very well. One of them had this in his pocket.”
He handed General Craig a small sheet of flimsy paper, crudely printed.
“What’s it say?”
McCoy translated it in a matter-of-fact voice.
“Comrades, the enemy is demoralized. The task given us is the liberation of Masan and Chinju . . .”
“That sort of spells it out, doesn’t it?” Craig said.
“There’s more, sir. Shall I—”
Craig signaled him to go ahead.
“. . . the liberation of Masan and Chinju and the annihilation of the remnants of the enemy. The liberation of Chinju and Masan means the final battle to cut off the windpipe of the enemy. Comrades, this glorious task has fallen to our division!”
He raised his eyes to Craig to show that he had finished.
Craig looked at McCoy for a moment, and said, “I decided late last night that in the absence of orders from General Walker to the contrary, I’m going to move the brigade by truck and train up toward Masan. I borrowed two companies of six-by-six trucks from the Army Transportation Corps. If I can break up the parties on the attack transports, and get those ships unloaded today and tonight, we’ll move out in the morning.”
“The 6th Division has T-34 tanks, sir.”
“Just before we left Pendleton, we drew new M-26s,” Craig said. " ’Pattons.’ I suppose we are about to learn if they’re as good as Fort Knox thinks they are.”
“Sir, the T-34 looks as if it’s vulnerable to the 3.5-inch bazooka. The 27th Infantry managed to stop a column—”
Craig held up his hand to silence him, then pointed to the Pickaway. A ship’s ladder had been put over the side, and a dozen Marines were hurrying down it.
“Save it, McCoy,” General Craig said. “I’m going to gather the officers in the mess. I was going to brief them on enemy intentions and capabilities. I just decided you’re better qualified to do that than I am.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Craig got out of his Jeep, motioned for McCoy and Zimmerman to follow him, and walked down the pier, toward the officers now approaching him.
Salutes were exchanged, then handshakes.
“Has ammunition been issued?” General Craig asked.
“No, sir.”
“I sent a message to do so,” Craig said. “Apparently it went astray.”
The officers looked uncomfortable.
Craig turned to one of the enlisted Marines—a young PFC, obviously a runner.
“Son, have you ammunition for that piece?”
“Yes, sir,” the Marine said, and patted his cartridge belt.
“Well, then, here’s your first lesson in how things are in Korea. Load and lock, son. And then guard those two Jeeps down the pier. Unguarded Jeeps get stolen here. Isn’t that right, Captain McCoy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Assign one lieutenant per company to supervise the issue of basic ammunition loads,” Craig ordered. “All other officers will assemble now in the mess of the Clymer for a briefing by Captain McCoy on enemy locations, intentions, and capabilities. After that, we will begin to unload the ships. We move to the lines in the morning.”
The ship’s ladder of the Clymer was dropped to the dock. Marines started to climb down it.
Craig went to the foot of the ladder and held up his hand to stop them, then started up the ladder.
“As pissed as he was,” Zimmerman said softly to McCoy, “about them not being ready to fight, I expected to see some brass getting a real ass-chewing.”
McCoy chuckled.
“Ernie, General Craig can chew ass better with a raised eyebrow and a little disappointment in his voice than you and I can shouting ourselves hoarse.”
Zimmerman shrugged. There was immediate confirmation of McCoy’s theory.
“Anytime you’re ready, Captain McCoy,” General Craig called politely from near the top of the ship’s ladder.
“Coming, sir,” McCoy said. “Sorry, sir,” and trotted toward the ladder.
[THREE]
COMMUNICATIONS CENTER EIGHTH UNITED STATES ARMY (REAR) PUSAN, KOREA 0730 2 AUGUST 1950
The secure landline telephone between the communications center of Eighth United States Army (Rear) in Pusan and the communications center of Headquarters, Supreme Commander Allied Powers and United Nations Command was intended solely to provide communications between the technicians in the two commo centers.
So when Master Sergeant Paul T. Keller heard it buzz, he answered it cryptically before it could buzz again, wondering what the hell else somebody in Tokyo was going to announce was wrong with the crypto machines, the radio or r
adio-teletype circuits, or all three, what would have to be fixed, how much would have to be retransmitted.
On another telephone line, he would have said “Eighth Army Rear ComCenter, Sergeant Keller, sir.” Now he just said, “Keller.”
“Who’s speaking, please?” the caller asked.
“Master Sergeant Keller. Who’s this?”
"Sergeant, my name is Pickering. Brigadier General, Marine Corps.”
The addressee of that OpImmediate that Marine captain sent. How did he get access to this line?
“Yes, sir?”
“A short time ago, there was a message, an Operational Immediate, sent from Pusan by Captain K. R. McCoy. A Marine officer.”
“Yes, sir, I’m familiar with it.”
“Is he still there, anywhere near, by any chance?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you any idea where he went?”
“Sir, I believe he’s going to the pier.”
“I have to get a message to him. To him and Brigadier General Craig, the commanding general of the 1st Provisional Marine Brigade. How can I do that?”
“General Craig’ll be no problem, sir. They’re setting up a commo center for the Marines right now.”
“Right now is when I need to send this message. It may be necessary to send someone to hand-deliver it. Can you do that, or would you rather I spoke with an officer?”
“I can arrange that, sir,” Keller said. “What’s the message? ”
“Permission denied. Repeat denied. Return immediately. Repeat immediately. Signature Pickering Brigadier General. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I’ll want you to message me, either by telephone—they’ll patch you through to me at the Imperial Hotel—or by Operational Immediate that the message has been delivered.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re very obliging, Sergeant, and I realize this will foul up your schedule. But if it wasn’t important, I wouldn’t ask you to do it.”
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