“You’ve got it.”
“In the last several days, we’ve been getting reports that elements of the Fourth Chinese Field Army—which has been at the Korean border since June—have begun to send at least elements of the 38th, 39th, 40th, and 42d armies across the border.”
“My God!” Dunn blurted.
“I suppose my ignorance is showing,” the captain said. “Fourth Field Army? What did you say, 38th, 39th, 40th, and 41st armies? Five armies?”
“Fortieth and 42d,” McCoy said. “The Chinese field army is something like one of ours. Like the Eighth Army. What we would call a ‘corps’ they call an ‘army.’ A field army is made up of two or more armies, like our armies usually have two or more corps. The last reliable word I had was that the strength of the Fourth Field Army was about six hundred thousand men.”
“My God, and you say they’re crossing the border, Ken?” Dunn asked.
“What I said, and why I don’t want any of this to go further than this cabin, is that I have been getting reports, which I so far can’t confirm, that elements of the Fourth Field Army—elements of those numbered armies—have begun to slip across the Yalu.”
“We’ve been flying—and so has the Air Force—reconnaissance missions all over that area,” the captain protested.
“Bill Dunston, the Korea station chief, saw the last intelligence from Supreme Headquarters, the stuff they furnished Eighth Army and X Corps. According to that, aerial reconnaissance—even the covert stuff, across the border— has not detected the Fourth Field Army as being there, and I know it’s there.”
“It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” the captain said, more than a little doubtfully. “How the hell can you hide—what did you say, six hundred thousand men?”
“In caves, in valleys, in buildings, you put them down by first light, and nobody moves, absolutely nobody moves, during daylight. They’ve had a lot of experience doing that,” McCoy said.
“I’m having trouble—no offense, McCoy—accepting this,” the captain said.
“None taken, sir.”
“You think the Chinese are going to come in, don’t you, Ken?” Dunn asked.
“I think it’s a strong possibility.”
“What—can I ask this?—do you do with your intelligence, these reports, who do you send them to?” the captain asked. “Can I presume they go through Supreme Headquarters?”
“I’m right on the line of what I can’t say, sir,” McCoy said. “We share some of our intelligence with Supreme Headquarters, General Willoughby. My boss, the Assistant Director of the CIA for Asia, gets my reports, and the decision as to what to do with them is his.”
“You share ‘some’ of your intelligence with Supreme Headquarters?” the captain asked. “Why not all of it?”
“That’s politics, sir,” McCoy said.
“What’s politics got to do with it?”
“If there is a difference of opinion, sir, about the reliability of some intel . . . What General Willoughby puts out, he puts out in the name of General MacArthur. If Willoughby says the moon is made of blue Roquefort cheese, that means MacArthur agrees. Once that announcement is made, we can’t say the moon is made of Gorgonzola, even if we are sure it is, because that would be telling General MacArthur that he’s wrong.” He paused. “I suspect I’m having diarrhea of the mouth, sir.”
“I don’t know about that, Major,” the captain said, “but frankly, it seems to me that, for a relatively junior officer, you seem to know a hell of a lot about how things work at the highest levels.”
“Sir,” Dunn said. “I have something to say that (a) will almost certainly annoy Major McCoy and (b) should not leave this cabin.”
“Let’s hear it,” the captain said, “whether or not the major is annoyed.”
“Christ, Billy!” McCoy protested.
“Let’s have it, Colonel,” the captain ordered.
“When Major McCoy was attached to Naval Element, Supreme Headquarters,” Dunn said, “he turned in to Supreme Headquarters an analysis which indicated the North Koreans were planning to invade South Korea in June. His conclusions went against those formed by General Willoughby. Not only was McCoy’s analysis ordered destroyed, but they tried to kick him out of the Marine Corps, and almost succeeded.”
“I find that, too, hard to believe,” the captain said. “Where did you get that?”
Dunn replied, “From General Pickering, sir, the Deputy Director of the CIA for Asia.”
“Jesus H. Christ!” the captain said.
“In what I personally regard an act of courage,” Dunn went on, “McCoy got his draft copy of his analysis to General Pickering, for whom he had worked when they were both in the OSS during World War Two. General Pickering took McCoy’s analysis to Admiral Hillencoetter, the Director of the CIA. The admiral didn’t believe it, either, apparently, until the North Koreans came across the border. But when that happened, the admiral gave McCoy’s analysis to the President, who thereupon called General Pickering to active duty, named him Deputy Director of the CIA for Asia, and ordered the Commandant of the Marine Corps that McCoy not only not be involuntarily separated but that he be assigned to General Pickering.”
“I really don’t know what to say,” the captain said.
“Sir,” McCoy said, “with all possible respect, I ask you to forget this conversation ever took place.”
“Forget this conversation? How could I ever do that? But you have my word that what was said in this cabin will never get out of this cabin. And if I owe you an apology, Major, consider it humbly offered.”
“No apology is necessary, sir. None of this conversation would have happened if I hadn’t run off at the mouth.”
“What I think happened there, Killer,” Dunn said, “is that even you, the legendary Killer McCoy, was understandably emotionally upset with relief when you snatched your best friend literally from death’s door. Under those circumstances, a moment’s indiscretion is understandable.”
“I didn’t do anything, Billy,” McCoy said. “I told you, Pick found a lost Army convoy.”
Thirty minutes later, the black H-19A lifted off the flight deck of the USS Badoeng Strait without incident and headed for the eastern shore of the Korean Peninsula.
[SIX]
USAF AIRFIELD K-1 PUSAN, SOUTH KOREA 1405 14 OCTOBER 1950
After Ernie McCoy dropped her at Haneda Airfield, outside Tokyo, Miss Jeanette Priestly of the Chicago Tribune had been told that there were no direct flights from Japan to the airstrip at Wonsan. Just returned to service, the airstrip would take nothing larger than twin-engined C-47 aircraft. But inasmuch as there were very limited refueling capabilities at Wonsan, and the C-47 could not make it to Wonsan from Tokyo with enough fuel remaining to make it back to K-1 at Pusan, Tokyo-Wonsan service was out of the question.
What she would have to do is fly first to K-1, then see what she could do there about further transportation to Wonsan.
With some difficulty, she managed to get a seat on the next Pusan-bound C-54.
The dispatcher at Pusan base operations was polite but firm.
To board a Wonsan-bound aircraft, it would be necessary for her to have an authorization from the Eighth Army Rear Press Officer. There could be no exceptions. And no, he could not provide her with transportation to the Eighth Army Rear Press Office. Perhaps if she called them, they might be willing to send a jeep for her.
Jeanette went to the highway, took off her cap, unbraided her long blond hair, and let it fall around her shoulders.
The drivers of the first two jeeps to pass her stared openmouthed at the sight of a fatigues-clad lady with long blond hair hitchhiking. The driver of the third jeep slammed on his brakes, backed up, and told her he would carry her anywhere in the Orient she wanted to go.
He dropped her at the Eighth Army Rear Press Office, a collection of Quonset huts near the railroad station in downtown Pusan.
There, first a corporal, then a technical sergeant, then a ca
ptain, and finally a major with a very neatly trimmed pencil-line mustache told her essentially the same thing, that there was a lot of demand for air passage to Wonsan— “Every reporter in Korea wants to be able to say they were waiting on the beach when X Corps landed”—and there was only a limited amount of space available for nonessential travelers, like reporters.
There was a list, to which her name would be appended. With a little luck, she might be able to get on a plane to Wonsan tomorrow, but it would most likely not be until the day after.
Jeanette hitchhiked back to K-1, and wandered around the field until she saw a C-47 standing in front of a hangar from the doors of which hung a huge red cross.
A little investigation revealed that this was the point at which medical supplies, which have the highest priority, were loaded aboard transport aircraft.
She dazzled the pilot with a smile, asked him where he was going, and was told that he was going round robin Pusan-Seoul-Wonsan-Pusan, which meant, he explained, that he would first fly to Seoul, where he would discharge cargo and take on enough fuel to fly across the peninsula to Wonsan, where he would discharge the rest of his cargo and take aboard wounded requiring evacuation via Pusan, and fly to Pusan.
Jeanette told him that was really fascinating, the sort of a human-interest story her editors were always interested in, the sort of a story that would be reprinted in a lot of newspapers.
“Where did you say you were from, Lieutenant?” Jeanette asked, taking the lens cap off her Leica.
“Louisville, Kentucky.”
“The Louisville Courier usually prints everything I write,” Jeanette said. “Why don’t you just stand there by the boxes with the big red crosses on them.”
“That’s human blood, ma’am,” he said, “fresh human blood, straight from the States.”
“Fascinating,” Jeanette said. “Let me make sure I have your name spelled right.”
Lieutenant Jefferson C. Whaleburton, of Louisville, Kentucky, did not question Miss Priestly’s statement that he didn’t have to get permission to take her on the round robin, that journalists such as herself could go anywhere the story took them. She showed him her “invitational orders” from Supreme Headquarters, which authorized her to travel anywhere with the Far East Command.
As they flew up the Korean Peninsula—Jeanette sat on a fold-down seat between the pilot’s and copilot’s seats— Lieutenant Whaleburton pointed out the windshield and told her the dark clouds on the horizon were a front moving down from Manchuria.
“Weather said it’s not moving very fast and shouldn’t give us any trouble, either to Seoul or across to Wonsan,” he said.
[SEVEN]
NO. 7 SAKU-TUN DENENCHOFU, TOKYO, JAPAN 1505 14 OCTOBER 1950
Jai-Hu-san, the housekeeper for Major and Mrs. Kenneth R. McCoy, did not speak English. Master Sergeant Paul T. Keller, U.S. Army, did not speak Japanese. Jai-Hu-san, moreover, was very fond of Mrs. Ernestine McCoy, aware of the problems of her pregnancy, and absolutely unwilling to disturb her rest by waking her simply because some Yankee soldier said he had to speak to her.
It was only when the barbarian sergeant began to shout Ernie-san’s name that Jai-Hu-san relented and went to the McCoy bedroom.
“The sergeant with the red face is here,” Jai-Hu-san announced after gently waking her employer. “He is very rude, and he will not go away.”
“I’ll deal with it,” Ernie said. “Thank you.”
She hurriedly put on and buttoned a kimono over her sleeping gown and swollen belly. Then she saw herself in the mirror. Not only was her hair mussed, but she had smeared her makeup tossing around on the bed, trying to get to sleep.
The baby was now kicking with some regularity, very often when she was trying to take her mind off Ken, Pick, and her condition and get some sleep.
“I can’t go out there like this!” she said, aloud, and went into her bathroom.
She began to remove her lipstick with a tissue.
Who am I kidding? I don’t give a damn what I look like. I’m afraid to go to the door. Paul wouldn’t be here in the middle of the afternoon unless he had something to tell me that won’t wait. And I’m afraid to hear what it is that won’t wait.
She reapplied her lipstick and ran a brush through her hair, then looked at herself in the mirror again, exhaled audibly, and then walked through the house to the front door. Jai-Hu-san walked behind her.
“Hi, Paul,” she called cheerfully. “What’s up?”
“What did I do, get you out of bed? The Dragon Lady wouldn’t let me in until I raised hell.”
“I was taking a nap,” Ernie said. “What’s going on?”
“Major Pickering is aboard the Badoeng Strait,” Keller said. “ ‘Dirty, unshaven, very hungry, but not wounded or injured, and in sound psychological condition.’ ”
“Major Pickering has never been in sound psychological condition,” Ernie said. “Are you sure, Paul? How do you know?”
“There was an Operational Immediate from the Badoeng Strait,” Keller said. “Signed by the major.”
“What major?”
“Your husband, my boss,” Keller said. “I guess the Killer carried him there after he found him. I just finished encrypting it and sending it to the States.”
“Don’t call him Killer,” Ernie said.
And then she felt herself starting to fall, and the lights went out.
The next thing she knew, she was looking up at Keller, who was gently wiping her face with a cool wet cloth.
Ernie pushed his hand away and sat up.
She saw she was on cushions on the tatami.
“Jesus, you went down like a polled ox, whatever the hell that means,” Paul said. “Are you all right, Ernie?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
Ernie saw the look on Jai-Hu-san’s face. It was clear that she thought Keller had told her something so awful that it had caused her to pass out.
“The red-faced barbarian brought very good news, Jai-Hu -san,” Ernie said. “He is a very good man.”
“You went unconscious,” Jai-Hu-san said. “You could have hurt yourself and the baby.”
“I think I better call for an ambulance,” Paul Keller said, getting to his feet.
“No,” Ernie said flatly. “I don’t need an ambulance.”
“I think I should call an ambulance,” Paul repeated.
Ernie looked at him.
He’s trembling; his face is as white as a sheet.
Christ, is he going to faint?
“What you should do, Paul,” Ernie said, “is first sit down. Before you fall down. Jai-Hu-san will get you a stiff drink. I will watch you drink it, because I don’t get any in my condition. That out of the way, we will then try to put a call in to Pick’s mother.”
“At least let me call a doctor.”
“If I thought I needed a doctor, I’d tell you,” Ernie said.
Then she had another thought.
“Where’s the general?” she said.
“He’s with the President, on the way to Wake Island. MacArthur left here for Wake at seven this morning.”
“How will he hear about this?”
“The President is never out of touch,” Keller said. “They will forward my—Major McCoy’s—message to him wherever he is, and there’s always a cryptographer with the President. He’ll get it, Ernie.”
“And we’re going to have to get word to Jeanette, too,” Ernie said. “She’s on her way to Wonsan.”
“I wish you’d let me call a doctor.”
“Do you think you can find her?”
“That shouldn’t be hard,” Keller said. “As soon as I leave here, I’ll start calling around. She’s probably at the Press Center in Pusan.”
“First things first, Paul,” Ernie said. “Go sit on the couch before you fall down, and Jai-Hu-san will bring you a drink.”
“First things first I’m going to get you a doctor!”
Ernie, la
boriously, assisted by Jai-Hu-san, got to her feet.
She walked to Keller, who was just over six feet one and weighed just over two hundred pounds, put her hands on her hips, and looked up at him.
“For Christ’s sake, Paul, go sit on the goddamn couch!”
Master Sergeant Paul T. Keller, USA, walked over to the couch and sat down.
[EIGHT]
The weather was getting nasty by the time Lieutenant Whaleburton put the C-47 down at K-16, and by the time they took off the weather was, in Whaleburton’s phraseology, “marginal.”
“Not a problem, Miss Priestly,” he said. “If it gets any worse, we’ll just head for Pusan.”
The weather got worse.
Thirty minutes out of Seoul, Lieutenant Whaleburton said, “If I get up in that soup, I’ll never find Wonsan, so what I’m going to do is drop down below it. And if it gets any worse than this, I’m going to head for Pusan. But I really would like to get that blood to Wonsan.”
It quickly got worse, much worse, with lots of turbulence.
When Lieutenant Whaleburton saw the ridge in the Taebaek mountain range ahead of him, he of course pulled back on the yoke to get over it.
He almost made it.
The right wingtip made contact with the granite of the peak, spinning the aircraft around and down. Before it stopped moving down the mountainside, it came apart and the aviation gasoline exploded.
Lieutenant Whaleburton didn’t even have time to make a radio report.
XI
[ONE]
WAKE ISLAND 0625 15 OCTOBER 1950
As the Independence landed, Brigadier General Fleming Pickering saw, with a sense of relief, that the Bataan was already on the ground. He’d overheard some of President Truman’s staff wondering if that was going to happen, whether, in other words, MacArthur would time his landing so that the President would arrive first and have to wait for the Supreme Commander to arrive from Tokyo.
At first, Pickering had dismissed the conjecture as utter nonsense, but then he thought about it and had to admit that MacArthur was indeed capable of doing something like that. It was, he thought, like two children playing King of the Hill, except that Truman and MacArthur were not children, and Truman was, if not a king, than certainly the most powerful man on the planet. A king worried that one of his faithful subjects had his eyes on the throne.
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