“Okay. All of this is to explain what I’m doing here, and what you all have to do with it. The day after tomorrow, Ambassador W. Averell Harriman and General Matthew B. Ridgway are going to get on a plane and come here. Item one on Harriman’s agenda is to tell MacArthur that he is absolutely not, not, going to use any of Chiang Kai-shek’s troops, and item two is Inchon. That has to be resolved—”
“My feelings won’t be hurt—” Ernestine McCoy interrupted.
Howe looked at her in surprise.
“—if you tell me I’m not supposed to ask questions. But I don’t understand . . .”
Captain Kenneth R. McCoy looked at his wife in disbelief. General Howe’s eyebrows went up. General Pickering smiled tolerantly, and waited for General Howe to more or less politely put her in her place.
“Ask away, Mrs. McCoy,” Howe said, surprising everybody. “I meant it when I said I think you have to be involved in this, and the more you understand, the better.”
“Well, I know who Ambassador Harriman is,” she said. “I know Ambassador Harriman. He and my father are friends. My father told me he’s President Truman’s ambassador-at-large. But who’s General Ridgway? And what’s Inchon?”
“Harriman is also the President’s national security advisor, ” Howe said. “ ‘Ambassador-at-large’ is a personal rank; when Harriman goes someplace, it means he speaks for the President.
"MacArthur really wears two hats. The senior American someplace is the U.S. ambassador. There’s no U.S. ambassador here; MacArthur fills that role. The decision about using Chiang Kai-shek’s soldiers in this war is a diplomatic decision, so Harriman will give him his orders about that.
“But MacArthur is also the senior military officer in the Pacific. Wearing that hat, he takes—at least in theory—his orders from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General—General of the Army, five stars, like MacArthur—Omar Bradley. MacArthur is not only senior to Bradley—time in grade—but outranks the Army chief of staff, General ‘Lightning Joe’ Collins, who has only four stars. So Collins has to ‘confer’ with MacArthur, since he can’t tell him what to do. Matt Ridgway is another four-star general. He’s the deputy chief of staff for administration, number two to Collins, and his likely successor as chief of staff, unless Truman decides to fire MacArthur, when he would be candidate number one to replace him.”
“Fire General MacArthur?’ Hart blurted.
“We’re back to what I said before: What’s said here stays in this room,” General Howe said. “Truman doesn’t want to fire MacArthur, for several reasons, including the fact that he’s a military genius and a military hero and the political repercussions would be enormous. But if MacArthur keeps ignoring him, firing him’s a genuine possibility.”
“I didn’t know about Chiang Kai-shek,” Ernie said.
“He offered us thirty thousand troops,” Howe said. “On the advice of General Bradley, Truman decided they would be more trouble than they would be worth, both because they would have to be trained and equipped, and because it would cause serious problems with the mainland—communist—Chinese. We don’t want them in this war. Collins sent MacArthur a message ordering him not to take them. MacArthur acknowledged the message, and then—the next day—flew to Taipei to ‘confer’ with Chiang Kai-shek. I was there when Truman found that out. He was furious. Bradley wanted him fired. Harry decided to send Harriman to bring him into line. Understand?”
Ernie nodded.
“Inchon?” she asked.
“It’s the port for Seoul,” Howe said.
“Ken and I have been there,” Ernie said.
“Okay. What happened is that when General Collins, and General Vandenburg—the Air Force chief of staff— were here . . . July seventeenth, right, Charley?”
Master Sergeant Rogers nodded.
“July seventeenth. Three weeks after we got in this mess,” Howe went on. "MacArthur told them he’d ‘come up with a plan’ to stage an amphibious operation at Inchon, which would cut the North Korean line of supply. When I got here, General Pickering told me that MacArthur had told him the idea had occurred to him earlier than that, that when he went to Suwon a couple of days after the North Koreans invaded, he had thought about an amphibious invasion at Inchon, and had directed Almond to start the initial planning.
“Collins, to put it mildly, was not enthusiastic about an amphibious invasion at Inchon, and neither was the Navy. It’s not like landing on some Pacific Island, or, for that matter, Normandy. There’s a long channel the invasion fleet would have to pass through to get to the beach, and it’s not far from North Korea, which could quickly send reinforcements. But the question became moot after we lost Taejon. All the troops that MacArthur wanted to use for the invasion had to be sent to Pusan, or we were going to be forced off the Korean Peninsula.
“Everybody in the Pentagon sighed in relief when the invasion was called off, but now MacArthur’s brought it up again—using the words ‘when I land at Inchon,’ not ‘if we decide to land at Inchon.’ So Ridgway is going to ‘confer’ with him about Inchon. If we can get away with it, General Pickering and I are going to invite ourselves to that meeting; I don’t think we can crash the one between Harriman and MacArthur.
“What the President sent me here to do is to find out what I can about Inchon and report to him directly what I think. That poses two problems. First, I don’t know anything about Inchon except what General Pickering has told me—”
“Based on damned little,” Pickering interjected, “except my memory of taking a P&FE freighter in there before the war—and aground on the mudflats.”
“Sir, there’s a guy,” McCoy said. “A Navy officer—I talked to him a couple of times—who was in there a lot on an LST,” McCoy said. “He knows all about Inchon, and the channel islands.”
“You have his name?’ Howe asked. “Where is he?”
“Taylor,” McCoy said. “David R. Taylor, Lieutenant, USNR. I don’t know where he is. Naval Element, SCAP would probably know.” He paused and added, “He’s a Mustang. ”
“A what?” Howe asked.
“He was an enlisted man, sir,” McCoy said.
“Yeah, that’s right, isn’t it? That’s what the Navy and the Marines call somebody who’s come out of the ranks. ‘Mustang’ seems to suggest they’re not as well-bred as somebody from the Naval Academy, a little wild, maybe uncontrollable, likely to cause trouble to the established order of things.”
McCoy and Hart looked uncomfortable. General Pickering was about to reply when General Howe went on: “Well, then, he’ll be right at home with this bunch, won’t he? Unless I’m wrong, we all belong to that exclusive club.”
He turned to Master Sergeant Rogers.
“Charley, call SCAP Naval Element and have this guy placed on TDY to us as soon as possible. Like as of eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Have him report to the hotel. He doesn’t need to know about this place.”
Master Sergeant Rogers nodded, and wrote on his lined pad.
General Howe saw the look on McCoy’s face.
“Yeah, I can do that, McCoy,” he said. “Before I came here, Admiral Sherman—the chief of naval operations— sent a commander to see the admiral, to tell him that by direction of the President, I’m to get whatever I ask for from the Navy, and that SCAP is not to be told what I asked for.”
“Yes, sir,” McCoy said.
“What’s left?” Howe asked. “Oh, yeah. Communications. The problem with cryptography, sending encoded messages, Mrs. McCoy, is that the technicians who do the encoding obviously get to read the message. General Pickering tells me that during War Two, when he was dealing with the MAGIC business, he had his own cryptographers.”
“Including George,” McCoy said, nodding at Hart.
“We talked about that,” Howe said. “The equipment Hart used is no longer in service. And I’m concerned that anything we send through the SCAP crypto room will be read by people who’ll pass it on to people here. I may be wrong, but I ca
n’t take that chance. Charley called the Army Security Agency, and they’re going to send us a cryptographer, one we know won’t share what he’s read with anybody. But I don’t know how long that will take—if he can get here before we start to need him. Suggestions?”
“Ken,” Zimmerman said. “Keller?”
“Who’s Keller?” General Pickering asked.
“The crypto guy in Pusan,” McCoy said. “Eighth Army Rear. Master Sergeant. The one you talked to . . . the ‘return immediately, repeat immediately’ message?”
“Very obliging,” Pickering said. “What about him?”
“General, he just got to Pusan,” Zimmerman said. “He’s new, not part of the SCAP setup.”
“Good man, I think,” McCoy said.
“Why do you say that?” Howe asked.
“He talked me out of my National Match Garand,” McCoy said, smiling. “And when I asked him why somebody as smart as he was wasn’t a Marine, he said he didn’t qualify for the Corps; his parents were married.”
Howe laughed.
“That’s terrible,” Mrs. McCoy said, smiling.
“Charley?” Howe asked.
“He’d have the right clearances, General,” Master Sergeant Rogers said. His voice was very deep and resonant. “And I could have a word with him about keeping his mouth shut.”
That’s the first time he’s said a word, McCoy realized.
“You have the number of the SCAP Army Security Agency guy?” Howe asked.
Rogers nodded.
“Call him and have him send this fellow here on the next plane,” Howe ordered.
Rogers nodded, and wrote on his lined pad.
“Have the message say, ‘Bring Marine weapons,’ ” Zimmerman said.
“Weapons? More than one?” Rogers asked.
“He’s got my Thompson, too,” Zimmerman said.
“This has to be one hell of a man,” Pickering said, “to talk these two out of their weapons.”
Howe chuckled.
XII
[ONE]
THE DEWEY SUITE THE IMPERIAL HOTEL TOKYO, JAPAN 0755 3 AUGUST 1950
Lieutenant David R. Taylor, USNR, a stocky, ruddy-faced thirty-two-year-old, walked down the corridor of the hotel and raised his eyebrows in a not entirely friendly manner when the young American in a business suit rose from a chair in the corridor and blocked his way.
“May I help you, sir?”
“If you can show me where the Dewey Suite is, that’d help.”
“And you are, sir?”
“Who’re you?”
The CIC agent produced his credentials, a thin folding wallet, with a badge pinned to one half and a photo ID card on the other.
Taylor was not surprised. He had spent the last four days in the Dai-Ichi Building, working on the plans to stage an amphibious landing at Inchon. The corridor outside the G-3 section had half a dozen young men like this one in it around the clock.
“My name is Taylor,” he said.
“May I see some identification, sir?”
Taylor produced his Department of the Navy officer’s identification card.
The CIC agent examined it.
“They’re expecting you, Lieutenant,” he said. “Second door on the left.”
Taylor walked down the corridor, and knocked at the door.
Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, was in a crisp, tieless shirt, with the silver star of his rank on both sides of the collar.
I would have sworn they said Major General.
“My name is Taylor, sir,” he said. “I was ordered to report to Major General Howe.”
“We’ve been expecting you, Lieutenant,” Pickering said. “Come on in. General Howe’s taking a shave.” He pointed into the room, where Howe, draped in a white sheet, was being shaved by a Japanese barber, a woman. “My name is Pickering.”
Pickering offered Taylor his hand, and was pleased but not surprised at the firmness of his grip. He had decided the moment he’d seen Taylor at the door that he was probably going to like him.
Taylor’s khaki uniform was clean but rumpled. The gold strap and the insignia on his brimmed cap was anything but new. It looked, Pickering decided, one sailor judging another, that Taylor would be far more comfortable on the bridge of a ship than he would be sitting at a desk, and certainly more comfortable on a bridge than reporting—reason unstated—to an Army major general in one of the most luxurious suites in the Imperial Hotel.
“Be with you in a minute,” Howe called from his chair. “Have you had breakfast?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, there’s coffee, and if you change your mind, there’s stuff on a steam table in the dining room.”
Pickering smiled at Taylor, and motioned for him to follow him.
“You’re the first to show up,” Pickering said. “The others will be here soon.”
Pickering went to a silver coffee service, poured two cups of coffee, and handed one to Taylor.
“Black okay?”
“I’m a sailor, sir. Sailors get used to black coffee.”
“I know,” Pickering said. “Once upon a time, I was an honest sailor-man myself.”
What the hell does that mean?
“Yes, sir,” Taylor said.
The first of “the others” to arrive was a Marine captain, who walked into the dining room and headed straight for the coffee.
“You got him, George?” Pickering asked when he had finished pouring coffee.
“Sergeant Rogers is having a word with him,” the Marine captain said.
Lieutenant Taylor was surprised that the captain had not said, “Sir,” and even more surprised when he took off his tunic and pulled down his tie, and then still more when he saw that the captain had a .45 ACP pistol in a skeleton holster in the small of his back.
General Howe came into the dining room.
“Did you get him, George?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Charley’s having a word with him,” Hart replied.
“McCoy and Zimmerman?” Howe asked.
“They should be here now, Ralph,” Pickering said.
“Should I call?” the captain asked.
“What Ernie’s going to say,” Pickering replied, “is that they’re on the way, and should be here now.”
The captain went to a telephone—one of four—on the sideboard and dialed a number.
“Could you get him out of bed, Ernie?” he said when someone answered.
Howe chuckled.
“Okay, sorry to bother you,” the captain said, and hung up.
“And?” Pickering asked.
“They left early because of the traffic and should be here any minute,” Hart reported.
Pickering spread his hands in a What did I tell you? gesture.
Howe chuckled again.
“We’ll wait,” he said. “Then we’ll only have to do the welcoming ceremony once.”
“I thought that’s what Charley was doing to Keller,” Hart said.
“No, what Charley is doing to Sergeant Keller is impressing upon him the wisdom of paying close attention to the welcoming ceremony,” Howe said. He looked at Taylor and walked over to him. “My name is Howe, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.”
A barrel-chested Marine master gunner with a chest full of ribbons came into the dining room.
“We got stuck in traffic,” he announced. “Sorry.”
“No problem, you’re here,” Howe said. “Zimmerman, this is Lieutenant Taylor.”
Zimmerman wordlessly shook Taylor’s hand.
Now this is the kind of jarhead with whom a wise sailor does not get into a barroom argument. And this kind of jarhead is the last kind of jarhead you expect to find in a room in the Imperial Hotel with two generals.
Another Marine captain came in the room.
Christ, I know who he is. He’s the guy—McCoy is his name—who asked me, two, three times—once in Taipei, another time in Hong Kong, and some other place, places, I forget, t
he sonofabitch was all over the Far East—always the same question, Had I seen any unusual activity in North Korea, or along the China Coast?
And I told him yeah, I had. Why not? He had an ID card that said he was with Naval Element, SCAP.
But then there was some scuttlebutt that they gave some Marine captain in Naval Element SCAP the shitty end of the stick when he tried to tell them this goddamn war was coming, and I figured it had to be the guy asking the questions. The scuttlebutt was that he pissed off, big time, some big brass, and they sent him home; kicked him out of the Marine Corps. So what the hell is he doing here with an Army general? What the hell is going on here?
“Sorry, sir,” McCoy said. “The traffic—”
Howe gestured that it was not important.
“Hart, go get Charley and the sergeant,” he ordered.
“Hello, Taylor, how are you?” McCoy said.
“McCoy,” Taylor replied.
McCoy had just enough time to pour himself a cup of coffee before the other Marine captain returned with two Army master sergeants in tow.
The one in the Class A uniform looks old enough to have been at Valley Forge; the one in fatigues doesn’t look old enough to be a master sergeant. And fatigues in a fancy suite in the Imperial?
“My name is Pickering, Sergeant Keller,” the Marine one-star said. “We’ve talked on the telephone. This is General Howe, and I think you know everybody else but Lieutenant Taylor.”
Everybody shook hands.
“You have the weapons, Keller, right?” McCoy said. “You can look forward to spending the rest of your life singing baritone?”
“I’ve got them, sir,” the young master sergeant said.
Everybody but Taylor—who had no idea why this was funny—chuckled.
“Okay,” General Howe said. “Let’s get this started. Sergeant Keller, did Sergeant Rogers clue you in on what’s going on here?”
“Yes, sir,” Keller said.
“Did he show you our orders?”
“No, sir,” Keller said.
Howe reached into his shirt pocket and came out with a squarish white envelope. He handed it to Keller.
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