USS BADOENG STRAIT (CVE 116) 37.9 DEGREES NORTH LATITUDE 129.59 DEGREES EAST LONGITUDE THE SEA OF JAPAN 1305 14 OCTOBER 1950
Lieutenant Colonel William Dunn, USMC, still in his flight suit, had been on the bridge ever since the captain had sent for him after getting the cryptic message from Air Force three oh seven on the emergency frequency.
“Bridge, Radar,” the squawk box announced.
“Bridge,” the talker replied.
“We have a slow-moving aircraft at a thousand feet at fifteen miles heading three hundred degrees.”
“Acknowledged,” the captain responded personally. “Keep me advised.”
The captain turned to Colonel Dunn.
“That’s probably your helo,” he said. “Who else would it be?”
“Sir,” Dunn said, “it just occurred to me that an Army pilot probably has never made a carrier landing.”
“Why the hell is he coming here?” the captain asked, and then without waiting for a reply, ordered: “Turn into the wind. Prepare to recover U.S. Army helicopter.” Then he had another thought, and issued other orders. “Engine room, full astern. Flight deck, make all preparations for a crash landing.”
“Turn into the wind, aye, aye, sir,” the talker parroted into his microphone. “Prepare to recover U.S. Army helicopter, aye, aye, sir. Engine room, full astern, aye, aye, sir. Flight deck, make all preparations for a crash landing, aye, aye, sir.”
There was immediately the sound of a Klaxon, and another voice on the squawk box: “Make all preparations for a crash landing. Firemen and Corpsmen, man your stations. Make all preparations for a crash landing. Firemen and Corpsmen, man your stations.”
Then another voice on the squawk box.
“Bridge, Radio.”
“Bridge,” the talker replied.
“We are in radio contact with Army four zero zero three on Emergency Frequency One.”
“Acknowledge,” the captain said.
“Acknowledged,” the talker parroted.
The captain turned to a small control panel near his seat, moved several switches, and picked up a microphone.
“This is the captain of the Badoeng Strait,” he said.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the speaker replied metallically.
“Have you ever made a carrier landing?”
“No, sir, I have not.”
“Jesus Christ!” the captain softly said to Dunn, and then pressed the microphone button again. “I’m going to turn you over to Colonel Dunn, who is a highly experienced carrier aviator. I’m sure he’ll be able to help you.”
He handed the microphone to Dunn.
“Army zero three,” Dunn called, “what we’re doing now is losing headway—losing speed—so that the deck, which will be your runway, will be moving as slow as possible. You with me so far?”
“How slow is ‘as slow as possible’?” Major Alex Donald inquired.
“Just fast enough to maintain what we call steerage-way, ” Dunn said. “You’ll hardly notice that it’s moving at all. But we can’t stop a ship this large right away. Have you enough fuel to circle around for a couple of minutes?”
“Affirmative,” Donald replied.
“And you won’t have to worry about the wind, either. The ship will be heading into it.”
“Okay.”
The captain issued another order.
“Engine room, make turns to maintain steerageway.”
The talker repeated the order.
“Badoeng Strait, can I fly over the deck? Approaching from the back end, into the wind?”
The captain raised his eyebrows in exasperation, then nodded.
“Permission granted,” Dunn said.
The H-19A approached the Badoeng Strait head-on.
“I thought he said he was coming in over the ‘back end’?” the captain said.
When the H-19A was several hundred feet from the ship, it veered to its right and flew down the length of the carrier at about the height of the flight deck. Dunn and the captain could see the pilot looking at the ship.
When the H-19A was several hundred feet aft of the ship, Donald turned it around and then flew toward the stern, carefully adjusting his speed to that of the carrier, so that he was moving very slowly toward the deck.
“Jesus Christ, look at that!” Donald’s voice came over the radio. “The whole fucking fire department’s waiting for us.”
It was clear to both Colonel Dunn and the captain that the pilot of the helicopter believed his microphone switch was in INTERCOM rather than where it was, in TRANSMIT.
Neither officer felt this was the appropriate time to bring the pilot’s error to his attention.
“Don’t fuck this up, Alex,” another voice said, one Colonel Dunn recognized as that of Major Kenneth R. “The Killer” McCoy, USMCR.
“I have no intention of fucking this up,” Donald said.
The exchange caused snickers, chuckles, and several laughs from officers and sailors on the bridge and elsewhere on the ship.
The amusement on the bridge was instantly stilled when the captain said, “Knock that off!”
The H-19A was now over the aft edge of the deck, thirty feet above it. It inched down its length.
When it reached the bridge, on the superstructure called “the island,” both the captain and Colonel Dunn could see the men in the cockpit. And vice versa. Major McCoy recognized Colonel Dunn and waved and smiled at him.
“Jesus H. Christ!” the captain said.
Colonel Dunn nevertheless waved back.
The H-19A continued its slow passage over the flight deck.
“I think I have this fucking oversized ferry figured out, Ken,” Donald’s voice said. “What’s happening is that the deck is moving faster than we are.”
“So?”
“Not much faster,” Donald said, thoughtfully. “So if I went right up to the front . . . and sat down very carefully, what would happen? All we would do is maybe roll back a little. Shall I give it a shot?”
“Why not?”
The captain grabbed his microphone and opened his mouth. And then closed it.
The captain, an experienced aviator himself, realized that the pilot of the helicopter had condensed the essentials of carrier landing to one sentence: Sit down very carefully. In the time available, the captain realized he had nothing to add to that.
The H-19A was now at the forward end of the landing deck, where, very slowly, it inched downward toward the deck. One wheel touched down, and then, very quickly, the other three.
“I’ll be a sonofabitch,” the captain said softly. “He’s down!” Then he raised his voice. “Mr. Clanton, you have the conn!”
To which Lieutenant Commander Clanton, a stern-faced thirty-five-year-old, replied, “I have the conn, sir. Captain is leaving the bridge!”
The captain, with Colonel Dunn on his heels, headed for the ladder to the flight deck.
On the flight deck, fifty men—a dozen of them in aluminum-faced firefighting suits and another dozen in Corpsmen’s whites, six of these pushing two gurneys— raced toward the helicopter. Through them moved tractors and firefighting vehicles loaded with other sailors.
They all reached the helicopter even before Donald had shut down the engine, and long before he could apply the brake to the rotor.
By the time the captain and Colonel Dunn reached the helicopter, a very thin, very dirty, heavily bearded human skeleton in what was just barely recognizable as a flight suit was very gently removed from the passenger compartment and onto a gurney.
The human skeleton recognized both Colonel Dunn and the captain. His hand, fingers stiff, came up his temple.
“Hey, Billy!” he said, then: “Permission to come aboard, sir?”
“Permission granted, you sonofabitch!” Colonel Dunn replied as he returned the salute. Despite his best efforts, his voice broke halfway through the sentence.
“Make way!” one of the doctors ordered, and the gurney started to roll toward the i
sland.
McCoy climbed down from the cockpit.
The sight of a man in black pajamas in itself attracted some attention, as did the black helicopter with no markings. Eyes grew even wider when, after having crisply saluted the national colors, the man in black pajamas saluted the captain crisply, and barked, “Permission to come aboard, sir?”
The captain returned the salute.
“Good to see you again, Major,” the captain said.
“Where’d you find him, Killer?” Dunn asked.
“The Army found him—actually, he found an Army convoy that got lost trying to get to Wonsan—in the middle of the Taebaek Mountains. We must have flown right over him fifty times in the last ten days.”
“Me, too,” Dunn said. “That’s rough territory. Hard to spot anything from the air.”
Major Alex Donald walked around the tail assembly of the H-19A. Not being at all familiar with the customs of the Naval service, he did not ask permission to come aboard, but instead simply saluted the captain and Lieutenant Colonel Dunn.
“Well done, Major,” the captain said.
“He needed some help, as soon as we could get it for him,” Donald replied.
“I presume, Major,” the captain said to McCoy, “that’s why you felt the risks in bringing him here were justified?”
“Yes, sir. That and because I knew you have the communications facilities I need.”
“Well, Colonel Dunn will see that you have what you need,” the captain said. “And when you’re finished, perhaps you would be good enough to come to the bridge and tell me what you can to satisfy my curiosity.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” McCoy said.
[FOUR]
COMMUNICATIONS CENTER USS BADOENG STRAIT (CVE 116) 37.9 DEGREES NORTH LATITUDE 129.56 DEGREES EAST LONGITUDE THE SEA OF JAPAN 1315 14 OCTOBER 1950
The communications officer on duty answered the buzz to unlock the port himself. When he saw Lieutenant Colonel Dunn and a man wearing what appeared to be black pajamas, he opened his mouth to say something, but Dunn cut him off.
“This officer has a message to dispatch,” Dunn said.
“Yes, sir?”
“You want to let us in, please?” Dunn asked.
“Yes, sir,” the commo officer said, and stepped out of the way.
“May I have the message, sir?” the commo officer said.
“I’ll have to type it out,” McCoy said.
“One of my men will be happy—”
“I’ll type it myself, thank you,” McCoy said. “Lieutenant, this is one of those messages that the fewer people see, the better. There will be no copies. Can you handle a Top Secret encryption yourself?”
The commo officer looked between McCoy and Dunn, then said, “That’s unusual, but yes, sir.”
“Can I have that typewriter a moment?” McCoy asked a white hat seated at a work table.
The commo officer nodded his approval and the white hat stood up.
McCoy sat down, rolled the carriage to eject a standard message form made up of an original and three carbons, then rolled a single sheet of paper into the machine.
He typed very rapidly, then took the message from the typewriter and handed it to Dunn, who read it.
“Two things, Ken,” he said, somewhat hesitantly. “Considering the addressees, isn’t that ‘dirty, unshaven, and very hungry’ business a little informal?”
“If I just said, ‘in pretty good shape’ or something like that, everyone would wonder what I wasn’t saying,” McCoy said.
“And can you do that? Ask somebody ‘not to disseminate’ Top Secret information, and then give it to them?”
“I guess we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?” McCoy said, and smiled, took the sheet of paper from Dunn, and handed it to the commo officer.
“Will you encrypt this and send it Operational Immediate, please?”
The commo officer took it, read it, looked at McCoy, and then sat down at the cryptographic machine and began to enter McCoy’s message.
TOP SECRET
OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE
1320 14OCT1950
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
FROM OFFICER IN CHARGE CIA SEOUL ABOARD USS BADOENG STRAIT
EYES ONLY MASTER SERGEANT PAUL T
KELLER USA COMMUNICATIONS CENTER
SUPREME HEADQUARTERS UNITED NATIONS
COMMAND TOKYO
ENCRYPT USING SPECIAL CODE AND TRANSMIT AS OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE THE FOLLOWING
MESSAGE BEGINS
EYES ONLY
DIRECTOR CIA WASHINGTON DC
DEPUTY DIRECTOR CIA FOR ASIA
CHIEF PRESIDENTIAL MISSION TO KOREA
SEOUL
CIA STATION CHIEF SEOUL
COMMANDANT USMC WASHINGTON DC
MAJOR MALCOLM S. PICKERING USMCR
RETURNED TO US CONTROL 1200 14OCT1950.
TRANSPORTED USS BADOENG STRAIT AS OF
1300 14OCT1950.
SUBJECT OFFICER IS DIRTY, UNSHAVEN, AND VERY HUNGRY, BUT IS UNWOUNDED, UNINJURED, AND IN SOUND PSYCHOLOGICAL CONDITION.
FOLLOWING CIVILIAN PERSONNEL SHOULD BE CONTACTED BY MOST EXPEDITIOUS MEANS, ASKED NOT TO DISSEMINATE INFORMATION ABOVE TO OTHERS AND ON AGREEMENT BE NOTIFIED OF SUBJECT OFFICER’S RETURN AND CONDITION.
MRS FLEMING PICKERING C/O FOSTER HOTELS SAN FRANCISCO CAL
MRS K.R. MCCOY, TOKYO, JAPAN
MISS JEANETTE PRIESTLY C/O PRESS RELATIONS OFFICER, SUPREME HEADQUARTERS UNITED NATIONS COMMAND TOKYO
MCCOY MAJ USMCR
MESSAGE ENDS
K.R. MCCOY
MAJOR USMCR
[FIVE]
The captain, who was sitting in his chair facing aft, as if expecting them, waved Lieutenant Colonel Dunn and Major McCoy onto the bridge.
“Colonel Dunn get you everything you needed, Major?” the captain asked.
“Yes, sir, thank you,” McCoy said.
“The ship’s surgeon was just here,” the captain said. “There’s nothing life-threatening wrong with Major Pickering. But that’s because he’s here. The doc said he wouldn’t like to hazard a guess how much longer he would have lasted if you hadn’t found him when you did.” He paused, and shook his head. “And what a way to die that would have been.”
“Sir?”
“I suppose I’m violating the major’s privacy, but I think you have a right to know, if I do. What was really threatening his life was dehydration. He has dysentery. That’s unpleasant anytime, but it usually won’t kill you, according to the doc, if you have enough liquids. Pickering heard somewhere that you get dysentery from bad water—and he’d had some bad water and had dysentery—so what he decided to do was not drink water he hadn’t boiled. That might not cure the dysentery, but it might. Drinking more bad water would not cure it.”
“My God!” Dunn said.
“Major Pickering told the doc,” the captain went on, “that he’d run out of boiled water four, five days ago, and hadn’t had a chance to boil any more. So he didn’t drink anything. Meanwhile, the dysentery continued to drain what liquids were left in his body. They’re dripping glucose into both arms now, and the doc says he should have the dysentery under control shortly. The doc also says he belongs on a hospital ship, not here.”
“Sir, I knew you had the communications I needed,” McCoy said.
“I won’t ask you questions, McCoy, that I know you won’t answer. But those pajamas of yours do make me curious. ”
“When I put them on this morning, sir, I had no intention of going aboard a man-of-war.”
“Meaning you’re not going to explain them, right?” the captain said, smiling.
“They’re sort of a disguise, sir. I can’t pass for an Asiatic in the daylight, but at night, in clothes like this, if they can’t get a good look at me, I can.”
“Until you open your mouth, you mean?”
“I speak Korean, sir.”
“Who don’t you want to spot you as an American? Can I ask that?”
; “At first light this morning, sir, we inserted agents north of Wonsan,” McCoy said.
“Using that black Sikorsky?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You were on the ground, behind enemy lines, this morning?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How often do you do that sort of thing?”
“It’s what we do, sir. We do it just about daily.”
“You’re a braver man than I am, Gunga Din,” the captain said.
“It’s not what you think, sir. If you know what you’re doing, it’s not all that dangerous.”
The captain snorted.
“I’m not being modest, sir. What scared me was just now.”
“Excuse me?”
“When we came out to the Badoeng Strait, sir, and Major Donald told me he had no idea how we were going to land on a carrier. That was high-pucker-factor time for me, sir.”
The captain smiled. “I took the liberty of seeing what I could do about that,” he said. “Take a look.”
He pointed down to the flight deck. McCoy followed his finger and saw Major Alex Donald and two other men in flight suits standing near the H-19A. They were making gestures with their hands. Donald was nodding his head.
“Those are helo pilots,” the captain said. “I asked them to give your pilot a quick course in carrier takeoff in a helicopter.”
“Sir, I am profoundly grateful,” McCoy said.
“Major, I would be pleased if you and Colonel Dunn and your pilot would take lunch with me in my cabin,” the captain said.
“That’s very kind, sir.”
Major McCoy suspected—correctly—that even the captain of a vessel like the USS Badoeng Strait did not routinely luncheon on what was served by a white-jacketed steward to the four of them in the captain’s cabin.
It began with cream of mushroom soup, went through roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, baked potatoes, and green beans, and ended with strawberry shortcake.
Over their coffee, the captain asked another question.
“If you’re uncomfortable answering this, McCoy, just don’t answer it. But do your agents get information for you? Anything you can tell me?”
McCoy hesitated, then said: “May I have your word that it will go no further than this cabin, sir?”
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