Retreat, Hell!

by W. E. B Griffin

  “No. A Beaver is a regular airplane,” McCoy said.

  “Sir, can I ask what’s going on? What are we going to do with these airplanes?”

  “We ‘borrowed’ them from the Army,” McCoy said. “We’re going to use them to look for a Marine aviator who’s down somewhere between Suwon and the east coast.”

  “You ‘borrowed’ them from the Army?”

  “You could put it that way, Sergeant, yes,” McCoy said.

  Staff Sergeant Klegger smiled approvingly.

  Dunston touched McCoy’s arm, and, when he had his attention, pointed skyward.

  A Beaver was making its final approach.

  “Right on time,” McCoy said.

  “If that’s ours,” Dunston said.

  “Odds are it is,” McCoy said. “There aren’t that many of them.”

  They lost sight of the Beaver as it landed, but it quickly appeared on a taxi-way headed for them.

  “Open the doors, Sergeant,” McCoy ordered.

  Five Marines grunted as they slid open the hangar doors.

  The Beaver stopped before the open doors and shut down the engine. Lieutenant Colonel D. J. Vandenburg and Major Alex Donald climbed down from the cockpit. The Marines and all the officers pushed it into the hangar. Before they were finished, an L-19 taxied up, shut down its engine, and was pushed into the hangar by the two officers in it. The doors were closed with a loud screeching noise.

  “The good news,” Lieutenant Colonel Vandenburg said to Majors McCoy and Dunston, “is that—obviously—I was able to make good on my promise to try to get us a Beaver and an L-19. The bad news is that that particular Beaver was supposed to go to the Eighth Army commander, and I think we have to count on General Walker making a serious—one might even say furious—effort to get it back.”

  “Ouch,” McCoy said.

  “If we can keep General Walker, or his people, from getting their hands on it—or us—for three, four days, a week, I think they’ll probably be able to get him another one, and the furor will die down. But until then . . .”

  “You have any ideas how we can do that?” McCoy asked.

  “As a matter of fact, Major Donald and I did discuss the problem on the way up here,” Vandenburg said, smiling.

  “All suggestions gratefully received, Colonel,” Dunston said, smiling.

  “Since we can’t hide the Beaver, I suggest we camouflage it,” Vandenburg said, a little smugly.

  “I don’t follow you, sir.”

  “We change the tail number,” Vandenburg said. “They will be looking for . . .” He looked up at the Beaver. “. . . 507179. We change that to, say, 507167. General Walker’s Beaver is now invisible.”

  “Very clever,” McCoy said.

  “We landed here as Army five zero mumble mumble mumble,” Donald said. “When they asked me to ‘say again,’ I blew into the microphone. I figured that might buy us a little time.”

  “Only a little,” Vandenburg said. “I think General Walker’s pilot was on the horn to him before we took off from Pusan. It won’t take them long to figure out we’re the airplane Walker is looking for.”

  “And there are problems with painting new tail numbers,” Donald said. “It can’t be done in fifteen minutes, even if we had somebody to do it, and the paint to do it with. There’s paint in the mechanics’ tool kits, but they’re at Socho-Ri.”

  “Then we’ll have to change them at Socho-Ri,” McCoy said. “Why can’t we just take off now and tell the tower we’re headed for the Race Track?”

  “And never land there, you mean?” Donald asked.

  McCoy nodded.

  “If the Race Track tower asks questions, I’ll think of something to mumble,” Donald said. “But we don’t have enough fuel to make it to Socho-Ri. We’re going to have to refuel the airplanes.”

  “Sergeant,” McCoy said to Staff Sergeant Klegger, “isn’t there a trailer of AvGas here?”

  “Yes, sir. Two, each with five hundred gallons.”

  “Drag one of them in here, and get started refueling these airplanes,” McCoy ordered.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “And then get ready to move out,” McCoy went on. “Mr. Zimmerman left you maps so that you can drive to Socho-Ri, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As soon after the airplanes take off as you can, you get going.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Bill, can you stay with them until they’re out of Seoul?” McCoy asked Dunston. “Get them through roadblocks?”

  “Sure. You’re going with them?”

  “Yeah. I want to show Colonel Vandenburg what we have at Socho-Ri, and the sooner we can put the L-19 to work conducting our own search for Pickering, the better. ”

  The hangar door screeched open wide enough to admit a tanker trailer.

  [SIX]

  8023D TRANSPORTATION COMPANY (DEPOT, FORWARD) INCHON, SOUTH KOREA 1425 8 OCTOBER 1950

  Captain Francis P. MacNamara, Transportation Corps, was not at all surprised when he got a “heads-up” call that the X Corps Transportation Officer, Colonel T. Howard Kennedy, would be in the Inchon area and would pay the Eighty-Twenty-Three a visit.

  MacNamara had been expecting such a “visit.” He would not have been surprised if he had gotten an official call announcing a formal inspection of the unit. Certainly, the status of readiness of the Eighty-Twenty-Three would be of interest to the staff officers of X Corps, and so far there had been no contact of any sort.

  He was, of course, a little nervous. He knew that the purpose of an inspection—by whatever name—was to find fault with whatever was being inspected.

  But he was ready. There had been very little “business” for the Eighty-Twenty-Three since he’d started to set up shop. There had been that interesting business of issuing vehicles to the CIA a week before, and he had exchanged twenty-seven of his vehicles for damaged vehicles. But that had not at all taxed the capabilities of the Eighty-Twenty-Three. He felt sure he could conduct one hundred vehicle exchanges a day easily, and more if pressed.

  But the lack of business had permitted getting the Eighty-Twenty -Three into very good shape. Not only had his shops repaired all but seven of the exchanged vehicles and returned them to the Ready for Exchange lines, but there had been time to establish creature comforts for his men.

  The squad tents in which they were housed now had wooden floors, doors, and electric lights. A section of the garage building had been converted to a mess hall, with picnic-table-type seating for the lower ranks, and chairs and tables for First Three Graders and officers.

  He was serving three hot meals a day, and had set up two shower points, one for the men and a second for the noncoms and officers, which they shared on a simple schedule. Similarly, he had set up three latrines, one outside under canvas, and two—by repairing existing facilities—in the main building, one for the officers and another for the noncoms.

  He had even established a unit laundry. He’d had to bend regulations a little to do this. Koreans were performing this service, in exchange for the garbage from the mess and five jerry cans of gasoline daily. Inasmuch as this service was provided outside the depot area, he didn’t think it would come to the attention of anyone visiting the Eighty-Twenty -Three. If it did, he was prepared to argue that it was a question of troop morale. Men whose uniforms quickly became grease- and oil-stained, and who took a great deal of comfort in knowing that after their shower they could put on fresh clothing, were obviously going to be happier than those who had to either wash their clothing themselves or go to one of the X Corps shower points outside the depot and exchange them.

  Not to mention, of course, that his laundry service returned uniforms that were even pressed. In the case of the officers, starched and pressed. The uniforms available for exchange were those that had simply been washed and dried in the enormous machines of the shower point.

  Immediately after the “heads-up” call, Captain MacNamara had sent his runner to announc
e an officer’s call, and when his four lieutenants came to the CP, he told them what was going to happen.

  He said that when he walked through the shop and around the depot perimeter, as he planned to do in thirty minutes, he didn’t want to see anyone unshaved or in a dirty uniform. He said, as they knew, he didn’t insist that steel helmets and web gear be worn while the men were working, but he expected to see both near those working. Those on perimeter guard he expected to see looking alert and with their weapons as clean as possible, and they better be wearing their helmets and web gear.

  And thirty minutes later he took a quick tour of the Eighty-Twenty-Three, and found only a few things—he insisted that a large poster of a nearly naked redhead be removed from the wall of one of the work bays, for example—that needed correction. Then he started a second tour of the Eighty-Twenty-Three, this time a slow one.

  He thought it would look better if Colonel T. Howard Kennedy found him keeping a personal supervisory eye on things, rather than sitting in the CP, drinking coffee, and reading Stars and Stripes.

  From what MacNamara had heard—and, for that matter, seen—the war was just about over. The linkup with Eighth Army advancing from the south had been made, and he’d heard that the UN had given permission to MacArthur to chase the North Koreans back across the 38th Parallel and destroy what was left of their army.

  There were a lot of implications to be drawn from that, and MacNamara had been around the Army long enough to make them.

  Many of the troops here would be withdrawn, either— at first, at least—to Japan or all the way back to the States. That didn’t mean they would take all their wheeled vehicles with them. For one thing, that would take a lot of shipping, and for another, it didn’t make a lot of sense to haul vehicles that had been used hard in the war and needed Third and Fourth Echelon maintenance all the way back to the States when that maintenance could be performed a lot cheaper in Japan.

  And MacNamara believed that it was unlikely the Army was going to allow itself to be caught again with its pants down, logistically speaking. From what he’d seen and heard, there had been almost nothing in the depots in Japan when the war started, and that had hurt bad.

  It seemed very likely to MacNamara that what would happen, once the war was over in a couple of weeks, was that the Army would restock the depots in Japan with the vehicles that had come from the States. There would be ordnance depots in Japan like the Anniston Depot in Alabama, with stocks of rebuilt-to-specification vehicles ready for immediate issue.

  And there was certainly a role to play in that for units like the Eighty-Twenty-Three generally, and, if he played his cards right, for Captain Francis P. MacNamara specifically.

  He didn’t want to get too enthusiastic about it, only to be later kicked in the balls, but it seemed possible, even likely, that he could stay on active duty long enough to get his promotion to major. He was eligible.

  If that happened, that meant he would be retired as a major when he had his twenty years in, even if he got RIF’d again back to master sergeant.

  But it was also possible, if less likely, that he could stay on active duty, particularly if he was right about the Army setting up an Anniston-type depot in Japan when the war was over, and go all the way to twenty years and retirement as a major.

  Hell, maybe even make lieutenant colonel before he retired.

  All it would take for this to happen would be for the brass to notice that he had done a hell of a good job with the Eighty-Twenty-Three and was just the man they needed for what was going to happen after the war.

  Colonel Kennedy arrived fifteen minutes into Captain MacNamara’s second tour of the depot.

  MacNamara saw him arrive—in a three-jeep convoy— but pretended not to see him until the “visiting party” had parked their jeeps and walked down to him between two rows of Ready for Exchange vehicles.

  Then he hurriedly walked to them, saluted, and announced, “Good morning, sir. Captain MacNamara, Francis P., commanding.”

  Colonel Kennedy returned the salute.

  “Quite an operation you have here, Captain,” he said. “Very impressive.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Can you give me some quick stats? What’s ready for issue?”

  “Everything you see, sir, except for those beyond-my-capacity -to-repair vehicles”—he pointed—“over there. There are seven in that category, sir. There are five hundred seventy-nine wheeled vehicles of all types ready for issue, sir.”

  “Five hundred seventy-nine, eh?”

  “Yes, sir. Would the colonel like a specific breakdown?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Colonel Kennedy said. “I didn’t really realize there were that many.”

  “Yes, sir. And all ready for immediate exchange.”

  “I understand there was some difficulty in getting them off-loaded at Inchon when you came.”

  “The heavier stuff—the tank transporters, some of the larger wreckers—gave us a little trouble, sir. But we managed to get everything off-loaded without trouble.”

  “And the tides, too, I’m sure, posed a problem?”

  “Yes, sir. We really had to push when the ship was at the dock to get as much off before the ship had to go back down the channel again.”

  “Somebody said, you know, that Inchon was the worst possible place, because of those tides, to stage a landing.”

  “Well, we did it, sir.”

  “And you think you learned from the experience?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sure we did.”

  “Well, perhaps that will make things a little easier for you now,” Colonel Kennedy said.

  “Sir?”

  “As soon as you can, Captain, start moving your vehicles back to Inchon. Check with the port captain, and see where he wants you to operate for the on-loading.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it. I’m a little surprised that we’re going back to Japan so soon.”

  “I didn’t say anything about Japan, Captain,” Colonel Kennedy said. "X Corps has been ordered to reembark to make another landing elsewhere.”

  “Yes, sir. Where would that be?”

  “You’ll be informed in good time,” Colonel Kennedy said. He put out his hand. “You’ve done a good job here, Captain. Keep it up.”

  “Yes, sir,” MacNamara said.

  IX

  [ONE]

  BLAIR HOUSE PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE, NW WASHINGTON, D.C. 1005 11 OCTOBER 1950

  There was a knock at the closed door of Harry S Truman’s study, but the President, who was reading what he thought of as one more windy damned report, didn’t pay much attention to it.

  There were knocks at his study door all day and all night, followed a moment later by whoever was there—his secretary, usually—opening it and standing there waiting until she had his attention.

  When, a full sixty seconds later, Truman raised his eyes to see who it was, the door was still closed. He watched the door, waiting for it to open. It didn’t. He had just about decided that he hadn’t heard a knock after all when there was another.

  “Come in,” the President called, not entirely cordially.

  The door immediately opened and a Marine sergeant in dress blue uniform marched in, stopped precisely eighteen inches from the President’s desk, saluted crisply, and barked, “An eyes-only message for the Commander-in-Chief, sir!” and extended a business-size white envelope toward the President.

  “Thank you, son,” Truman said, and returned the salute.

  Harry S Truman knew very well that salutes were supposed to be only for members of the armed forces in uniform, but had rationalized that by reminding himself that not only was he Commander-in-Chief, but every month the Treasurer of the United States mailed a pension check to Colonel Harry S Truman, NG, Retired. He’d worn the uniform, and if he wanted to return this boy’s salute, he damned well was going to.

  The sergeant snapped to a Parade Rest position.

  “Stand at ease,” Truman said. />
  The sergeant snapped to a slightly—only slightly— less rigid position and stared eight inches over the President’s head.

  There was little question in the President’s mind that he was about to read a message from Ralph Howe. All other messages were delivered by either his secretary or, in the case of Eyes-Only, by one of the Signal Corps officers or warrant officers in the message center.

  Except for Eyes-Only messages from Ralph Howe and Fleming Pickering. These were invariably delivered by a Marine. Truman had finally figured out that the Marines had stationed two of their own in the message center, round-the-clock, a Marine cryptographer who got all the messages from Camp Pendleton addressed to the President, and decoded it, and another Marine in dress blues to personally deliver it.

  It was just like the Marines, the President thought, to do something like that.

  He realized and admitted that the thought was much less sarcastic than it had been before this damned Korean business started. He had not then been much of a fan of the United States Marine Corps, and had been quoted as saying he didn’t see why the Navy needed its own army, and perhaps—to save the taxpayer’s dollar—it was time to do away with it.

  Korea had changed that. The Army had really dropped the ball over there, and the Marine Corps had saved their ass. That wasn’t Marine Corps public relations talking. Ralph Howe had reported that from over there, and even General Walker had come right out and said that if it hadn’t been for the Marines, he didn’t think he would have been able to hold at the Pusan Perimeter.

  Truman slit the envelope open with a small penknife, took out the contents—four sheets of neatly single-spaced typewriter copy—and read them twice. First, a quick glance, and then again, slowly.

  Then he folded the sheets of paper and put them back in the envelope. He looked at the Marine sergeant.

  “Sergeant . . .” The Marine snapped to attention like a spring. “That’ll be all, son. Would you ask one of the Secret Service agents to come in, please? Thank you.”