Retreat, Hell!

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Jesus H. Fucking Christ!”

  He sounded disgusted, or frustrated, or both.

  The Vehicle, Heavy Vehicle Recovery 6 × 6 Mark III A2 was now suspended five feet in the air, swinging slowly back and forth.

  “I said slowly, you dumb sonofabitch!” the seaman called to someone on deck. His voice did not need amplification.

  The seaman then made very small, very gentle upward movements of his hands. There was another electric motor hum, and, just perceptibly, the Vehicle, Heavy Vehicle Recovery 6 × 6 Mark III A2 began to inch upward again.

  Then there was another screeching noise, this time lasting no more than ten seconds.

  The wrecker continued to rise very slowly until it was about level with the deck.

  The seaman made a cutting motion across his throat.

  The wrecker stopped rising and swung back and forth on the cables.

  Very slowly the seaman, the palms of his hands now vertical, made a pushing motion with his left hand. There was the sound of an electric motor, and very slowly the boom holding the rear of the wrecker moved inward. When the wrecker was perpendicular to the wharf, the seaman made a cutting motion with his left hand and then a pushing motion with his right. The boom holding the cables attached to the front of the wrecker began to swing inward. After thirty seconds—which seemed longer—the truck was completely inboard and again aligned with the keel of the Captain J.C. Buffett.

  “Okay!” the seaman shouted. “For the love of Christ, don’t let that heavy sonofabitch get away from you! Slowly, fucking slowly!”

  Very slowly, the wrecker began to descend into a hold of the Captain J.C. Buffett. In thirty seconds or so it was out of sight, but the seaman continued to stand on the wharf, his hands on his hips, looking upward until the hum of the electric motors died.

  A moment after that there was another electrical hum, a lesser sound this time. And then one of the booms swung outward.

  Colonel Kennedy and Captain MacNamara were both surprised to see another seaman standing on the hook at the end of the cable being lowered to the wharf. The seaman stepped casually off the hook, then engaged in a short conversation with the seaman in charge of the operation.

  Both shook their heads, and then the seaman who had ridden down on the hook shrugged, as the seaman who’d been on the wharf threw up his hands in a gesture of resignation, or frustration, or both.

  The seaman who had been on the hook stepped back onto it, made a take me up gesture with his hand, and immediately began to rise into the air.

  It reminded Colonel Kennedy of how a circus high-wire performer rises to the high wire.

  The seaman walked over to Colonel Kennedy and Captain MacNamara. He addressed Captain MacNamara.

  “That’s it, pal,” he announced. “That’s the last of the big fuckers I’m going to try to take aboard.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Colonel Kennedy said.

  “I said that’s the last of those heavy fucking trucks that goes aboard the Captain J.C. Buffett.”

  “That’s simply not acceptable,” Colonel Kennedy said.

  " ’Acceptable’ ?” the seaman parroted. “Who the fuck are you to tell me what goes aboard the Captain J.C. Buffett?”

  “I think I had better discuss this with one of the ship’s officers,” Kennedy said. “Preferably with her captain. Presumably I can find him aboard?”

  “You are discussing this with her captain,” the seaman said. “Who the fuck did you think you were talking to?”

  “You’re the captain?”

  “Captain John F. X. Moran at your service, Colonel.”

  “Captain, obviously I owe you an apology—”

  “Not yet,” Captain Moran interrupted.

  “Thank you,” Kennedy said. “Captain, the vehicles we’re trying to load aboard your ship are essential to an operation. . . .”

  “Putting the X Corps ashore at Wonsan,” Moran offered helpfully.

  Colonel Kennedy found that helpfulness disturbing. For one thing, that the invasion force was headed for Wonsan was classified Top Secret. Colonel Kennedy wasn’t at all sure that Captain Moran had that kind of a security clearance, much less the Need to Know, at this point, the destination. He was sure that he was not supposed to casually introduce it into conversation the way he had.

  “Wonsan?” Kennedy asked. “Who said anything about Wonsan?”

  “Jesus Christ!” Moran said disgustedly. “If you really don’t know about Wonsan, Colonel, what’s going on here is the reloading of X Corps, which will then be transported around to the other side of the Korean Peninsula and landed at Wonsan.”

  Colonel Kennedy decided not to respond directly.

  “The X Corps Operations Officer sent me here to see that the heavy vehicles, such as the wrecker you just loaded aboard, were loaded aboard last, so they may be unloaded first when you reach your destination.”

  “Colonel, let me try to explain this to you. When I off-loaded those vehicles when we came here, I just about completely fucked up the motors, booms, winches, and other equipment aboard. I knew it would. My gear is not designed to handle such heavy loads. But I figured, what the hell, the important thing is to get these vehicles ashore—I can get the gear repaired when I’m back in San Diego. But now I’m told I’m going to Wonsan, not ’Diego, and I have to load all this stuff back aboard, and then unload it again at Wonsan— where I understand there will be no functioning shoreside equipment to unload me.” He paused, then went on: “Still with me, Colonel?”

  Colonel Kennedy nodded and said, “Go on, please.”

  “What I can do, Colonel,” Moran went on, “is use the ship’s gear to load the lighter stuff—the jeeps, three-quarter -ton ammo carriers, and the six-by-sixes. I can also probably unload them in Wonsan, presuming I don’t fuck up my gear any more than it’s already fucked up by loading the heavy stuff.” He paused, and went on: “Am I getting through to you, Colonel?”

  “Yes, you are,” Colonel Kennedy said. “There’s absolutely no chance—”

  “Not a fucking chance. Now, do I start to see how much of the light stuff I can get aboard before the fucking tide starts going down and leaves me stranded in the fucking mud? Or what?”

  “Under the circumstances, I think it would be best to start loading the lighter vehicles,” Colonel Kennedy said.

  “Believe it or not, I’m sorry as hell about this,” Captain Moran said, and then walked back to where he had originally been standing.

  He looked up at the ship.

  “Okay, get those fucking lines down here,” he called. “We’re now going to start loading the light stuff.”

  Colonel Kennedy turned to Captain MacNamara.

  “It looks as if we have a problem, Captain,” he said. “What I suppose I’m going to have to do is see the Port Master, and see if these heavy vehicles can be loaded aboard another vessel.”

  “Yes, sir,” MacNamara said. “Colonel, can I make a suggestion?”

  “Absolutely.”

  "Let me take them overland, across the peninsula,” MacNamara said.

  “I don’t think I follow you,” Kennedy admitted.

  “Colonel, maybe I jumped the gun a little, but when Captain Moran told me that X Corps was going to be re-landed at Wonsan, I looked at the maps.”

  “And?”

  “Excuse me, sir, I have to get the line moving,” MacNamara said, and trotted toward the lines of vehicles ready to be loaded. He jumped up on the running board of a GMC 6 × 6, and a moment later Kennedy saw a soldier appear behind the wheel. He started the 6 × 6’s engine and drove down the wharf toward where Captain Moran was impatiently waiting for the truck with MacNamara still on the running board.

  MacNamara dropped nimbly off the truck as it passed Kennedy.

  “Sorry, sir. That man was asleep,” MacNamara said, as if he considered that a personal insult.

  “You were saying something, Captain, about moving the heavy vehicles overland?” Kennedy asked.

&n
bsp; “Yes, sir. Colonel, I’ve got a map in my jeep. Can I show you what I think?”

  “Why not?” Kennedy said.

  [FIVE]

  OFFICE OF THE CHIEF OF STAFF HEADQUARTERS X U.S. CORPS SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA 1720 11 OCTOBER 1950

  “Kennedy,” the chief of staff said, “this was not what I expected to hear from you when I told you to report on your progress.”

  “I know,” Colonel Kennedy said. “I wish it were otherwise. ”

  “Well, what do you want to do about it?”

  “If we could get an LST . . .”

  “Fine. See the Port Captain, and tell him I want these heavy vehicles available as soon as possible at Wonsan.”

  “Sir, I did that. He says there is no space on the available LSTs. They can’t carry all the tanks we want to move as it is.”

  “Jesus Christ! Kennedy, we’ve got to do something!”

  “Captain MacNamara has an off-the-wall idea—”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He commands the vehicle exchange unit.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “He suggests moving the wreckers and the tank retrieval vehicles by road.”

  Kennedy was surprised when the chief of staff did not frown, snort derisively, or say “Jesus Christ!” disgustedly, as he was wont to do when presented with a wild and/or stupid idea. In fact, the chief of staff was apparently giving the idea some thought.

  The chief of staff snorted, but thoughtfully, not derisively.

  “Think of it as a chess game, Kennedy,” he said. “As we move pieces around the board—in this case the landing beaches at Wonsan.”

  “Okay,” Kennedy said agreeably.

  “First the landing craft go in.”

  “Right.”

  “And right on the heels of the landing craft—sometimes right with them—come the LSTs.”

  “Right.”

  “And what happens to the LSTs after they land the tanks? They get out of the way, right?”

  “That’s true.”

  “They wait for the freighters to come in close and drop anchor, right, and then take on supplies and ferry them to the beach, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The chief of staff raised his voice: “Sergeant Miller! Bring me a map of the east coast.”

  “Coming up, sir!” Sergeant Miller replied, and a moment later entered the chief of staff’s office, removing a map from its tube as he walked. He laid it on the chief of staff’s desk, anchoring its corners with two cans of Planters peanuts, a coffee cup, and a large stapler.

  The chief of staff stood up and leaned over the map. Colonel Kennedy walked around the desk and stood beside him.

  “We own Suwon,” the chief of staff said, pointing. “And we own Wonju and Kangnung. And Highway Four runs all the way from Suwon to Kangnung. And we’re only talking about”—he made a compass with his fingers—“about 120, maybe 140 miles, tops. All of it on a paved highway.”

  “That’s about right,” Colonel Kennedy agreed.

  The chief of staff used his fingers as a compass again.

  “And about that far, 120 miles or so, from Kangnung to Wonsan.”

  “Uh-huh, that’s about right.”

  “The last I heard, the Capital ROK Division has moved at least this far”—he pointed—“close to Kansong, which is only seventy-five miles, give or take, from Wonsan, and on another paved highway.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Colonel Kennedy said, “According to the map, the highway ends fifteen miles north of Kansong.”

  Now Colonel Kennedy received one of the chief of staff’s derisive snorts.

  “The highway does, Howard. But there are villages all along the coast here”—he pointed—“from Kuum-ni to Tokchong. I’ll bet there are roads of some sort to all of them.”

  “There probably are,” Colonel Kennedy agreed.

  “Tokchong is only thirty-five miles south of Wonsan,” the chief of staff said. “I think there is a good chance that by the time the invasion fleet arrives off Wonsan, we’ll own that real estate.”

  “That would seem a reasonable assumption,” Kennedy agreed.

  “Worst case,” the chief of staff said, “for some reason, the vehicles cannot make it over the highway to Kangnung. That seems unlikely.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Presuming they can make it to Kangnung, they can’t make it much farther north along Highway Five. That also seems unlikely, but let’s take that for the purpose of argument. The LSTs dump their tanks at Wonsan and immediately head for Kangnung. They make about fifteen miles an hour, which would get them there in eight hours. An hour there to load the trucks and another eight hours back to Wonsan, where—since the vehicles would not have to be unloaded by cranes, et cetera—they could simply be driven off the LSTs and be available.”

  “Interesting,” Colonel Kennedy said.

  “That’s a lot better—getting them there seventeen hours after the landing—than not getting them there at all, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And the farther north they could go along Highway Five, the less travel time for the LSTs. And if the Capital ROK Division has by that time taken Wonsan, which I think is likely, we won’t have to use the LSTs at all. Just drive these vehicles all the way to Wonsan, and set up shop, maybe even before X Corps lands there.”

  “That’s certainly a possibility,” Colonel Kennedy agreed.

  “Okay. So the thing to do, I think, is see if the vehicles can make it to Kangnung. I suggest the best way to do that is make a trial run. Send a couple of wreckers and a couple of tank retrievers and see what happens. It would probably be best—the NKs may have some left-behinds in the area—to send a couple of tanks with them.”

  “I agree.”

  “If the test run is successful, we can start moving all the heavy vehicles. Obviously, it would be better to have them on the east coast, however close to Wonsan, than sitting on the wharf in Inchon, on the other side of the peninsula.”

  “Obviously,” Colonel Kennedy agreed.

  “Go see Bob and tell him I said to give you a couple of tanks, and then get your show on the road, Howard.”

  “Right,” Colonel Kennedy said.

  [SIX]

  ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE WASHINGTON, D.C. 1105 13 OCTOBER 1950

  There was already a line of limousines parked not far from the Independence, the President’s Douglas C-54 transport, when Senator Richardson K. Fowler’s Packard limousine was passed by the Secret Service agents and allowed to drive onto the tarmac.

  The dignitaries the other limousines had carried to the airport, and some of their aides, were gathered around the movable stairway leading up to the aircraft. Two USAF master sergeants stood at Parade Rest on either side of the stairs.

  When Fowler’s Packard stopped, Captain George F. Hart, USMCR, got out of the front passenger seat and immediately went to the trunk, opened it, and took out two Valv-Paks and handed them over to another Air Force master sergeant, who was in charge of the luggage.

  Fred Delmore, Fowler’s chauffeur, got from behind the wheel and opened the rear passenger door. Mrs. Patricia Pickering, in a thigh-length Persian lamb coat, got out first, followed by Senator Fowler and finally Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR.

  Fowler stood by the car, making no effort to join, or even greet, the dignitaries gathered at the stairway. After a moment, one of the dignitaries, a bald Army officer, broke away from the group and walked to the Fowler limousine.

  He was wearing an ordinary woolen olive-drab “Ike” jacket-and-trousers uniform, identical to those worn by enlisted men. The only differences were the solid gold piping on his overseas cap and a small circle of five stars pinned to each epaulet. General of the Army Omar Bradley had recently been promoted to the highest rank in the Army by Truman, the first—and, as it turned out, only—such promotion since World War II.

  After a moment, several of the others started after him.

  “Good morning, Sen
ator,” Bradley said, smiling and putting out his hand.

  “General Bradley, how are you, sir?” Fowler replied. “I don’t think you know General and Mrs. Pickering, do you?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” Bradley said. He offered his hand to Patricia Pickering. “An honor, ma’am,” he said.

  Pickering saluted, and Bradley returned it. They shook hands.

  “How do you do, sir?” Pickering said.

  “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, General,” Bradley said. “General Smith has been saying all sorts of nice things about you, and I wanted you to know that I’m really pleased that the two of you will be running the CIA.”

  “General Smith will be running it, General,” Pickering said. “I’m just a temporary hired hand.”

  Three other men had now walked up to them.

  “I don’t think you know any of these people, do you, Flem?” Fowler said, then proceeded to introduce him to Secretary of the Army Frank Pace—whose youth surprised Pickering—and two state department officers, Dean Rusk and Philip Jessup.

  There wasn’t time to do more than shake hands as the Presidential caravan rolled up.

  Harry S Truman got out of the black Cadillac first, and a moment later a tall, thin man in what Pickering thought of as a “banker’s black” suit joined him. He was Averill Harriman, who was Truman’s national security adviser. He held the personal rank of ambassador-at-large.

  Truman headed for the stairway, but then saw Fowler and the Pickerings and turned and walked toward them. After a moment, Harriman followed him.

  “Senator,” Truman said, smiling. “How nice of you to come to see us off.”

  “Your Majesty’s loyal opposition could do no less,” Fowler replied.

  Pickering saluted. Truman nodded and smiled at him.

  “I’m sorry he didn’t have more time at home, Mrs. Pickering,” Truman said.

  “A little time is better than none, Mr. President,” Patricia Pickering replied.

  “How nice to see you, Patricia!” Harriman exclaimed, putting out his hand.