“Dunston,” McCoy said. “I guess he couldn’t catch a ride in an airplane. And General Howe. I’m getting a little worried about both of them.”
“General Howe is fine, thank you for your concern,” Major General Ralph Howe said, walking into the dining room trailed by Master Sergeant Charley Rogers.
Howe draped the web strap of his M-2 Grease Gun on the back of a chair and sat down. Then he gestured impatiently for McCoy and Vandenburg, who had come to attention, to relax. Rogers, after glancing at the map, sat down on the other side of the table.
“Sir,” McCoy said, “this is Lieutenant Colonel Vandenburg. Colonel, General Howe.”
Howe extended his hand.
“How do you do, Colonel?” he said. “This is Master Sergeant Charley Rogers.” He paused. “That out of the way, have we missed breakfast?”
“Of course not, sir,” McCoy said. “Ham and eggs?”
“That would be very nice,” Howe said.
McCoy walked to the kitchen, spoke to the housekeeper, and then came back into the room.
“We tried to make it back here last night, it got dark, so we sat down on a First Cav airstrip and spent the night,” Rogers said. “We passed on the cold rations that were offered, the horses kept us up all night, and we passed on a cold breakfast. So we are hungry.”
Howe chuckled.
“Not really horses,” he said. “But apparently in the Cav their sentinels are taught to shoot first, and then challenge, ‘Halt, who goes there?’ Charley’s a little too long in the tooth to keep jumping up all night the way he did.”
“The 7th Cav CP sounded like the O.K. Corral,” Rogers said. “And I kept remembering what happened to them at the Little Big Horn.”
Vandenburg laughed.
“Well, we’re here,” Howe said. “I guess Dunston is not? Where is he?”
“We took the helos to Socho-Ri yesterday, sir. I came back as soon as I could. Dunston stayed on to start the agent insertions. I caught a ride back in a Capital ROK Division L-4. I guess he couldn’t get an airplane and had to drive.”
Howe nodded, then turned to Vandenburg.
“Colonel, since Major McCoy is talking about inserting agents from Socho-Ri, I presume you have the need to know about such things.”
“Sir,” Vandenburg said, smiling, “since Major McCoy has told me who you are, I presume it’s all right to tell you I’m here to see about getting General Dean back.”
“Okay,” Howe said. “I think I know about that. You came from the States for that purpose, right?”
“Yes, sir. My orders are from DCSOPS,4but I have been led to believe the orders came from the Chief of Staff.”
“You were led wrong, then,” Howe said. “They came from the top. One of the first questions the President put to the new Chief of Staff, General Bradley, was ‘What can we do about getting General Dean back?’ I have a message from the President—it arrived here just after General Pickering left for the States—saying that somebody was beingsent here, and ordering me to do what I could to help.”
“I didn’t know that, sir,” Vandenburg said.
“If you had come to me, I would have referred you to Major McCoy, so you’ve come to the right place. You weren’t told to contact me?”
“I was told to contact General Pickering, sir. But not you, sir. Maybe there wasn’t time. An hour after I got my orders, I was on a plane for the West Coast.”
“Or maybe,” Howe said, thinking out loud, “what happened was that I got a copy of the President’s message to General Pickering, in case that didn’t reach him before he left.”
“Yes, sir,” Vandenburg said.
“I was a little surprised with the message. I’m not supposed to get involved in operations here; I’m strictly an observer. Now it makes sense. Anyway, we know what the orders are. Let’s see what we can do about getting General Dean back. Is that what this is all about?”
He waved a hand toward the map and reports.
“Yes, sir,” McCoy said. “But we don’t have anything of value.”
He patted one of the stacks of reports.
“These are mostly pre-Inchon,” he said. “They locate POW holding points we know are no longer there . . .”
“Spit it out, Ken,” Howe said.
“My gut feeling is that General Dean may already be in Peking,” he said. “The ChiComs know what a valuable propaganda tool he could be—hell, is—and they know we’ll probably stage an operation to get him back. If he’s in China—even just a couple of miles across the border . . .”
“I take your point,” Howe said. “McCoy, this is in the nature of an order. Even ‘a couple of miles across the border’ is not the Flying Fish Channel Islands. I don’t want you staging any kind of an operation across the border unless the President gives the okay. You understand me?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” McCoy said.
“So tell me what you two have decided,” Howe ordered.
“Aside from dividing the peninsula between us, sir, with Colonel Vandenburg looking on the west and me on the east, not much. And I thought we’d better wait and talk to Dunston before we decide even that.”
“And he’s not here,” Howe said. “You said he had to drive?”
“Probably, sir.”
“Why couldn’t he have used one of the helicopters?”
“We’re going to keep them as quiet as possible, as long as possible, sir,” McCoy said.
“What we need is a couple of regular airplanes, General, ” Vandenburg said.
“A couple?”
“An L-19,” McCoy said. “I’ll settle for an L-4. And a Beaver.”
“What’s a Beaver?”
“Six-place, single-engine high-wing, General,” Vandenburg said. “Designed for Alaska, Canada. Rugged, and they can land on a dime.”
“I think I’ve seen one,” Howe said. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”
“General, I’m pretty sure I can get both, but hanging on to them—especially the Beaver—is going to be a real problem. They’re in short supply, and every general in Korea thinks he should have one. And probably should.”
“But you need one more than they do, eh?”
“Yes, sir. I think it’s a question of deciding priorities. I think getting General Dean back qualifies.”
“Yeah, so do I. Not to mention getting young Pickering back,” Howe said. “Has McCoy told you about him?”
“No, sir.”
“Okay. Major Pickering, General Pickering’s son, was shot down about two months ago, and has been evading capture ever since. . . .”
“You know that, sir? That he’s alive and hasn’t been captured?”
“McCoy thinks he’s alive,” Howe said.
“Where is he?” Vandenburg said, turning to McCoy.
“The last sighting was east of Wonju,” McCoy said.
“You sighted him?”
“We sighted where he had stamped out a signal . . . his initials and an arrow on the ground, not him. I figure we missed him by no more than a couple of hours.”
“You couldn’t pick him up with a chopper?”
“We didn’t have the choppers then, and we couldn’t take one away from the 1st MarDiv—they’re using them to transport wounded.”
“ ‘Couldn’t take one’ from the Marines—or anyone else who has one—is past tense, Ken,” Howe said. “The rules have changed.”
“Sir?”
“This is absolutely not for dissemination,” Howe said. “I think the reason the President called General Pickering to Washington is to give him the CIA. He asked me what kind of a director I thought he’d make, and I told him I couldn’t think of anyone better qualified to take it over and straighten it out. So what we have is a changed priority with regard to Major Pickering. We can’t afford to have the son of the Director of the CIA in enemy hands.” He paused. “That, too, Ken, is in the nature of an order.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Okay, Colonel,” Howe went
on. “You lay your hands on these airplanes you need, and I will do my damnedest to see that no one takes them away from you.”
“Sir, may I offer a suggestion about how that might be done?” Vandenburg asked.
“Shoot.”
“I notice the general doesn’t have an aide-de-camp.”
“I don’t need one,” Howe said simply, then chuckled and added: “I shine my own shoes.”
“Sir, I respectfully suggest that you do need an aide-de-camp, ” Vandenburg said. “A fairly senior one. And I volunteer for the duty.”
“Where are you going with that idea?”
“I don’t think any general here, from MacArthur on down, would try to take an airplane away from the aide-de-camp of—What’s your official title, sir?”
“We’re the Presidential Mission to the Supreme Command, United Nations Command,” Master Sergeant Rogers said. “His official title is Chief of Mission. Boss, I think the colonel’s had a fine idea.”
Howe thought it over for ten seconds.
“Okay,” he said. “Do it. Type up something appropriate, Charley, naming the colonel my deputy. Somehow, he doesn’t look like an aide-de-camp.”
“Even better, sir,” Vandenburg said.
“Yes, sir,” Rogers said. “And we get to use the airplanes, too, right?”
“Of course,” Vandenburg said.
“You’re a . . . I was about to say ‘devious man,’ Colonel,” Howe said admiringly. “But I think the word I’m looking for is ’ruthless.’ I can see where you and The Killer are going to get along just fine.”
[FOUR]
USAF AIRFIELD K-1 PUSAN, SOUTH KOREA 0945 8 OCTOBER 1950
The breakout—and advance northward—from the Pusan Perimeter of the Eighth Army had done little or nothing to reduce the pressure on what had once been the only operational airfield in South Korea.
It had become, however, more of a passenger and freight terminal than a base for the fighters and light bombers it had been when the Pusan Perimeter needed fighting aircraft to keep from being pushed into the sea.
When the USAF C-47 from Seoul arrived at the port city, it had to take its place at the end of a long line of aircraft making their approaches to the field. Many of the aircraft ahead of them were four-engine C-54 transports bearing the insignia of the Military Air Transport Command, and there were four essentially identical aircraft wearing the insignia of the civilian airlines from which they had been chartered.
The warplanes were not entirely gone. The stack also held a dozen or more warplanes, USAF F-51 Mustang fighters, A-20 and A-26 attack bombers, and several Corsairs from the Marine Corps and Navy.
And when, after more than a half hour in the stack, the Gooney Bird from Seoul finally touched down and taxied to the tarmac in front of base operations, there was even a Lockheed Constellation of Trans-Global Airways sitting there taking on enough fuel to get it to Japan, where it would be topped off. The glistening, sleek, triple-tailed aircraft looked out of place among the others.
When the Gooney Bird shut down its engines and the door opened, sixteen people, ranging in rank from PFC to full colonel, got off and most of them walked into base operations to see about getting themselves some ground transportation.
Four of the passengers—a lieutenant colonel, a major, a captain, and a lieutenant, the latter three wearing the wings of Army aviators—did not go into base operations but started walking across the field to a hangar before which sat a small fleet of Army aircraft.
When they got close to the hangar, they saw a small group of officers and men standing around an L-20 DeHavilland Beaver, watching as a corporal put the final touches to the insignia of the Eighth United States Army he had painted on the door. The aircraft looked as if it was not only just about brand new but also freshly polished.
The senior of the officers was a major, also an Army aviator. He saluted the lieutenant colonel and smiled at his brother aviators.
“Good morning, sir,” he said. “This came off the ship at 2100 last night,” he went on, indicating the Beaver. “And as soon as that paint dries, it’s going to Eighth Army Forward. How’s that for efficiency?”
“Commendable,” the lieutenant colonel said, then spoke to the soldier with the paintbrush: “Son, have you got some paint thinner in your kit?”
“Yes, sir,” the corporal said, visibly confused.
“Then how about taking that off the door?” the lieutenant colonel said. “I don’t want that insignia on there.”
“Sir?” the major asked incredulously.
“I said I don’t want that insignia on the door,” the lieutenant colonel explained, reasonably, and asked the corporal to start taking it off.
“Sir, this aircraft is assigned to Eighth Army Forward,” the major said.
“It was assigned to Eighth Army Forward,” the lieutenant colonel said. “Now I’m taking it.”
“Sir, you . . . you can’t do that,” the major said.
“Yes I can. And I will also require two L-19s.”
“Sir, I can’t just give you this airplane,” the major said, “or any aircraft, for that matter, without authority from United Nations Command.”
“You are the officer in charge?” the lieutenant colonel asked.
“No, sir. I’m the deputy.”
“Well, then, son, if you have problems with this, why don’t you ask the officer in charge to come talk to me?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do that, sir.”
“And in the meantime, Corporal, you start getting that insignia off the doors,” the lieutenant colonel said.
The major walked quickly—almost trotted—to a Quonset hut set up beside a hangar and returned in less than two minutes, followed by a portly lieutenant colonel wearing pilot’s wings and the insignia of an aide-de-camp to a three-star general, and another lieutenant colonel, also a pilot, whose collar carried the insignia of the Transportation Corps.
“Colonel,” the portly lieutenant colonel said, “this is some sort of joke, right?”
“What’s a joke?”
“About you taking this airplane.”
“I wasn’t joking about that.”
“This airplane belongs to General Walker,” the portly lieutenant colonel said. “Do you understand that?”
“Colonel, this airplane belongs to the U.S. Army,” Vandenburg said. “And I have what I’m sure is the highest priority to put it to use.”
“I’d like to see that authority!”
“Certainly,” Vandenburg said, and handed him an envelope.
The eyes of both lieutenant colonels grew wide as they read it.
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D. C.
JULY 8TH 1950
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:
MAJOR GENERAL RALPH HOWE, USAR, IN CONNECTION WITH HIS MISSION FOR ME, WILL TRAVEL TO SUCH PLACES AT SUCH TIMES AS HE FEELS APPROPRIATE, ACCOMPANIED BY SUCH STAFF AS HE DESIRES.
GENERAL HOWE IS GRANTED HEREWITH A TOP-SECRET/WHITE HOUSE CLEARANCE, AND MAY, AT HIS OPTION, GRANT SUCH CLEARANCE TO HIS STAFF.
U.S. MILITARY AND GOVERNMENTAL AGENCIES ARE DIRECTED TO PROVIDE GENERAL HOWE AND HIS STAFF WITH WHATEVER SUPPORT THEY MAY REQUIRE.
Harry S Truman
HARRY S TRUMAN
PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES
1st Indorsement
Headquarters, Presidential Mission In the Field (Korea) 7 October 1950
Lieutenant Colonel D. J. Vandenburg, USA, of my staff is designated Deputy Chief of Mission.
Major Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, of my staff is designated Vice Chief of Mission.
Ralph Howe
RALPH HOWE
MAJOR GENERAL
CHIEF OF MISSION
“Are there any questions, gentlemen?”
“General Walker’s not going to like this!” the lieutenant colonel with the aide-de-camp insignia said as he handed the orders back.
“Colonel,” Vandenburg said, man-to-man, “I understand how you feel. In your place, I�
��d feel the same way. Hell hath no fury like a general who doesn’t get what he wants, right? But what can I do? We all live under the Chain of Command. General Howe, who reports directly to the President, doesn’t need any more authority than what I’ve shown you he has. And he sent me here to get a Beaver and two L-19s. I don’t have any more choice in this matter than you do.”
Neither lieutenant colonel replied.
“Now, while the corporal is taking that paint off the door, can we look at what L-19s are available?” Vandenburg asked reasonably.
“There’s only one here at the moment,” the Transportation Corps lieutenant colonel said. “There should be some more coming in in the next three or four days.”
“I can only hope General Howe will understand,” Vandenburg said, his voice suggesting he didn’t believe that at all. “He sent me to get two.”
[FIVE]
HANGAR 13 KIMPO AIRFIELD (K-14) SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA 1245 8 OCTOBER 1950
Major Kenneth R. McCoy was driving the Russian jeep and Major William Dunston was sitting behind him. The Marines on perimeter guard around the hangar recognized them and passed them without question, but the moment they reached the hangar, Staff Sergeant Sam Klegger, who had been left in charge when the others went to Socho-Ri, came through the door.
He saluted, and McCoy and Dunston returned it.
“From the look on your face, Sergeant,” McCoy said, “you have a question on your mind.”
“Good afternoon, sir,” Staff Sergeant Klegger said. “Yes, sir. Actually, some of the men have been a little curious why we’re guarding a hangar with nothing in it.”
“There is about to be something in it,” McCoy said. “About an hour ago, we got a message from Taejon saying that two airplanes will arrive here right about now. A Beaver and an L-19. When they get close to the hangar, I want the doors opened, quickly, and as quickly closed once we get the airplanes inside.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Is that what they call those helos, ‘Beavers’?”
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