Retreat, Hell!

by W. E. B Griffin

“General, I want that young officer returned to the United States as soon as he’s fit to travel. And I want to make sure the people Major McCoy named are notified as soon as possible, by an appropriate person. Have you got someone who can handle that for me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bradley said. He raised his voice, just slightly. “General Mason!”

  An Army major general walked quickly to them.

  “General,” Bradley said. “I want you to read this.”

  General Mason read the message and raised his eyes curiously to Bradley.

  “General,” Bradley began, “the President desires—”

  “What the President desires,” Truman interrupted, “is that Major Pickering—as soon as he is physically up to it—be flown to the United States to whichever Naval hospital is most convenient for his mother. And I want the people listed in that message to be notified personally—without anything said to them about keeping this a secret—by a suitable person just as soon as that can be arranged. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you,” the President said.

  “May I keep this message, sir?”

  “Why not?” Truman said, then gestured for Bradley to precede him into the conference building.

  Truman slipped into an ordinary wooden office chair at the head of a table around which the participants had arranged themselves, those who had come with the President on one side, and MacArthur and those who had come from Tokyo with him on the other.

  Everyone was standing, in deference to the President.

  “Take your seats, please,” Truman said. “General Bradley will take notes, and each of you will later get a copy, but it is for your personal use only, and not to be shared with anyone else. Clear?”

  There was a chorus of “Yessir.”

  “But before we get started, I want to tell you that General Pickering has just been informed that his son, a Marine pilot, who was shot down early in the war . . . How long ago, General?”

  “Seventy-seven days ago, Mr. President,” Pickering said softly.

  “. . . who was shot down seventy-seven days ago,” the President went on, “and has gone through God only knows what evading capture, was rescued behind the lines yesterday and is as we speak aboard the carrier USS Badoeng Strait.”

  There was a round of applause.

  “Mr. President,” MacArthur said. “If I may?”

  Truman gestured for him to go on.

  “Perhaps only I know nearly as much as General Pickering does about what Major Pickering was facing and has come through. One of the unpleasant things I have had to do recently is compose the phrasing of the citation for the decoration it was my intention to award—posthumously, I was forced to think—to this heroic young officer. I would like your permission, Mr. President, to—”

  “Give him the medal anyway?” Truman interrupted. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Mr. President, it is self-evident that Major Pickering’s valor on the battlefield was distinguished.”

  “The Distinguished Service Cross?” Truman asked.

  “The major is a Marine, Mr. President,” General Bradley said. “It would be the Navy Cross.”

  “Yes, of course,” the President said. “I agree. I don’t know how that’s done, but I’m sure that General Bradley and General MacArthur can handle that between them.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bradley said.

  The President wasn’t finished: “I also think whoever rescued him from behind enemy lines needs recognition,” he went on. “That would be Major McCoy, wouldn’t it, General Pickering?”

  “Either McCoy or one of his men, sir,” Pickering said.

  “I would suggest, Mr. President,” MacArthur said, “the Silver Star for the officer who risked his life to snatch Major Pickering from the midst of the enemy, and Bronze Stars for the others.”

  Truman looked at Omar Bradley.

  “I agree, Mr. President,” Bradley said.

  “You’ll take care of all this?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  "Okay,” the President said. “Let’s get started with this. The first thing . . .”

  [TWO]

  ABOARD THE BATAAN 30.59 DEGREES NORTH LATITUDE 172.44 DEGREES EAST LONGITUDE THE PACIFIC OCEAN 1615 15 OCTOBER 1950

  Captain George F. Hart, USMCR, gently nudged Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, with his elbow, and, when he had his attention, directed it with a just-perceptible nod of his head down the aisle of the Bataan.

  There were few passengers on the Douglas C-54 four-engine transport. Pickering and Hart were seated toward the rear, in what Hart called “the cheap seats.” In them were seated the junior officers—including the aides-de-camp of the senior officers—and the warrant officers and noncoms brought from Tokyo to do whatever was necessary for the senior officers.

  Pickering saw Brigadier General Courtney Whitney coming down the aisle to the rear of the airplane. In doing so he passed a number of rows of empty seats. There was little question in Pickering’s mind that Whitney was headed for him. He was the only senior officer sitting in the cheap seats.

  Whitney stopped at Pickering’s seat.

  “General Pickering,” he said, “the Supreme Commander would like to see you at your convenience.”

  “Thank you, General Whitney,” Pickering said.

  Whitney turned and started back toward the front of the aircraft.

  Pickering looked at Hart with a raised eyebrow. Hart smiled, hunched his shoulders, and feigned a shiver. Pickering smiled back. It had indeed been an icy encounter. Another one.

  Brigadier General Whitney and Brigadier General Pickering had not exchanged a word on Wake Island, and Pickering hadn’t thought—until Whitney came down the aisle—that they would exchange one on the way to Japan.

  Pickering waited until Whitney had taken his seat before unfastening his seat belt and standing up. Whitney took the seat nearest to the door of MacArthur’s compartment. It was the seat traditionally reserved for the most senior of MacArthur’s staff aboard.

  Pickering knocked at the door to MacArthur’s compartment and was told to come in.

  “Ah, Fleming!” MacArthur said, coming half out of his chair to offer Pickering his hand. “I was afraid you might have been asleep. I told Whitney not to disturb you.”

  “I was awake, sir,” Pickering said.

  MacArthur waved him into the seat facing his.

  “First, of course, I had to go through the messages from Tokyo.” He indicated several manila folders that were imprinted with TOP SECRET in red. “And then I had to let poor Whitney down gently.”

  “Sir?”

  “Entre nous,” MacArthur said. “I have been trying for some time to get him a second star. I thought perhaps a private word between myself and General Bradley might help—”

  My God! Pickering thought. He actually tried to use a meeting between him and the President of the United States to get one of the Bataan Gang promoted!

  He wanted to make a man who never commanded a company, much less a regiment, a major general!

  Who are you to talk, General Pickering? The only unit you’ve ever commanded was a squad.

  MacArthur had left the rest of the sentence unspoken, but when he saw the surprise on Pickering’s face, he went on.

  “I was surprised, too,” he said. “I thought Bradley would arrange it as a personal courtesy to me, but all he said was that he would ‘look into it,’ which, of course, is a polite way of saying no.”

  Pickering couldn’t think of a reply.

  “I thought I would tell you this,” MacArthur went on, “because you’ve just learned you’re not going to get the promotion you so richly deserved.”

  “Are you talking about General Smith being named Director of the CIA, sir?”

  “Of course.”

  “You heard that I was being considered?”

  “I have a few friends in the Pentagon,” MacArthur said. “Not many, but a few. You were the logical choic
e for the job. But you were obviously tarnished with the brush of being someone held in very high regard by the Viceroy of Japan.”

  Pickering’s surprise was again evident on his face.

  “Oh, I know they call me that,” MacArthur said. “They also call me ‘Dugout Doug,’ which I don’t really think is fair. And ‘El Supremo.’ ”

  “I’m guilty of the latter, General,” Pickering said. “I don’t think anyone uses that as a pejorative. It’s sort of like calling a company commander ‘the Old Man.’ ”

  MacArthur smiled but said, “That too. ‘The Old Man in the Dai Ichi Building.’ ”

  “General, before President Truman named General Smith, I told him I didn’t think I was qualified to be Director of the CIA.”

  “It got as far—before you took a Pentagon knife in the back—as the President actually offering you the job, did it?”

  “The President told me, when he told me that he had named General Smith, that he had considered me but decided General Smith was the best man for the job. I told him I completely agreed.”

  “You know Smith?”

  “I met him for the first time after I spoke with the President.”

  “From everything I hear, he was the brains behind Eisenhower,” MacArthur said. “Well, for the record, I think you would have been the best man for the job.”

  “I respectfully disagree,” Pickering said with a smile.

  “Well, it’s water over the dam,” MacArthur said.

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “As soon as we get within radio range of Tokyo, I’ll set the wheels in motion about your son,” MacArthur said. “The first step, obviously, is to get a more precise indication of his physical condition than . . . What did the message say, ‘very dirty and very hungry’?”

  Pickering chuckled.

  “It also said, ‘uninjured, unwounded, and in sound psychological condition,’ ” he said.

  MacArthur acted as if Pickering hadn’t spoken.

  “And once we have that information,” he went on, “which shouldn’t take long to acquire, we can decide whether it would be best for you to fly out to the Badoeng Strait, and arrange for that, or to wait until your boy is to be flown from the carrier to Tokyo.”

  “That’s very kind of you, General,” Pickering said.

  “Not at all,” MacArthur said. “I’m delighted that everything has turned out so well for you.”

  MacArthur stood up. After a moment, Pickering realized that he was being dismissed and got hurriedly to his feet.

  MacArthur put his hand on Pickering’s arm in an affectionate gesture.

  “I hate to turn you into a runner, but would you mind sending Colonel Thebideaux in here as you pass through the cabin? He’s the plump little chap with the shiny cranium.”

  “Yes, sir, of course. And thank you again, General.”

  MacArthur didn’t reply. He smiled faintly and sat back down.

  Pickering left the compartment, closing the door after him. Halfway down the aisle, he spotted a plump little lieutenant colonel with a shiny cranium. When he got closer, he saw that he was wearing a nameplate with THEBIDEAUX etched on it. When he got to the seat, Pickering squatted.

  “Colonel Thebideaux,” he said, “General MacArthur would like to see you.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Pickering went to the cheap seats and slipped in beside George Hart.

  “What’s up?”

  “As soon as we’re in radio contact with Tokyo,” Pickering replied, “El Supremo will ‘set the wheels in motion’ to get me together with Pick. Either fly me out to the carrier or have Pick flown to Tokyo.”

  “That was nice of him,” Hart said.

  “I thought so.”

  “That’s all he wanted?”

  “That’s all he wanted.”

  Hart pursed his lips and shrugged.

  [THREE]

  HANEDA AIRFIELD TOKYO, JAPAN 2105 15 OCTOBER 1950

  As the Bataan taxied up to what he thought of as “El Supremo’s Hangar,” Brigadier General Fleming Pickering saw Master Sergeant Paul Keller leaning on the front fender of his Buick.

  So much for the secrecy about El Supremo’s movements, he thought. Willoughby and Company almost certainly didn’t call Keller and give him our ETA. Paul knows how to find out “top secret” things like that.

  As usual, he waited until the important members of MacArthur’s staff deplaned before unfastening his seat belt and standing up.

  When he came down the stairs, he was surprised to see MacArthur standing impatiently by the open door of his black Cadillac limousine. Willoughby was with him.

  When MacArthur saw him, he motioned him over.

  “Fleming, why don’t you get a good night’s sleep and then come by the office first thing in the morning?” MacArthur said. “Willoughby is still collecting information about your boy, and by, say, eight, we should know just about everything.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  MacArthur nodded and ducked inside the Cadillac. Willoughby trotted around the rear of the limousine and got in beside him. The limousine, preceded by the usual escort of chrome-helmeted MPs in highly polished jeeps, rolled off.

  Pickering walked to his Buick. Keller straightened and saluted. Pickering returned it.

  “You got the good news, General?” Keller asked.

  “The President told me at Wake Island,” Pickering said, and got in the front seat. Keller got behind the wheel and turned to him.

  “Okay, while George is getting the luggage, this is what I know,” Keller said.

  Master sergeants are not supposed to refer to commissioned officers by their Christian names, but rather than being disrespectful, Pickering thought, it was an indication that Keller both liked Hart and considered everybody part of a special team.

  “As soon as I got The Killer’s message off,” Keller began, “I went to Denenchofu and told Ernie.”

  “Good for you,” Pickering said.

  “Whereupon, she passed out,” Keller said. “Scaring the bejesus out of me.”

  “My God! Is she all right?”

  “She says she is. I tried to make her go to the hospital, or at least let me call a doctor, but she wouldn’t let me.”

  “Before we go to the hotel, Paul, we’ll swing by Denenchofu, ” Pickering ordered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did she hurt herself when she fell?”

  “She says no, but I still think she ought to see a doctor.”

  “So do I.”

  “Anyway, right after that happened, we put in a call to Mrs. Pickering. We found her in Washington.”

  “So she knows?”

  “Yes, sir. She said that she’d just gotten off the line with Colonel Banning and he’d already told her.”

  “He probably called her immediately after reading the decrypt of McCoy’s message.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s what I thought. I haven’t been able to get in touch with the blond war correspondent. Ernie said I missed her at the house by a couple of hours, that she’s on her way to Wonsan. I tried to call her at Wonsan. They said she wasn’t there, so I called the Press Center at Eighth Army Rear in Pusan. They didn’t know where she was, but she’s on a list of press people trying to get to Wonsan. She’ll turn up.”

  “And what do we hear about my son?”

  “All I know is what’s in Killer’s message. I think that’s probably what it is. He isn’t hurt, he’s okay psychologically, he’s hungry, and he needs a shower and a shave.”

  “Thank you, Paul,” Pickering said. “I suppose we’ll have more news in the morning.”

  “I’m sure we will, sir.”

  [FOUR]

  THE IMPERIAL HOTEL TOKYO, JAPAN 0210 15 OCTOBER 1950

  Master Sergeant Paul Keller answered the telephone before it had a chance to ring twice.

  “General Pickering’s quarters, Sergeant Keller,” he said. Then he listened briefly, covered the microphone with his hand, an
d turned to Pickering, who was sitting sprawled beside Captain George Hart on the couch. Both were holding drinks in their hands.

  “I’ve got Mrs. Pickering on the horn, General.”

  “Thank you,” Pickering said. “You two can now go to bed.”

  Hart stood up, drained his drink, and nodded at Keller as a signal for him to precede him out of the room. When Keller had gone through the door, Hart looked at Pickering, who was looking at him curiously, his raised eyebrow asking, “Jesus, right now, George?”

  “General,” Hart said, “would it be too much to ask Mrs. Pickering to call my wife and tell her we got Pick back? She’s been holding her breath. Actually, she’s been praying.”

  “Of course not,” Pickering said, reaching out his hand for the telephone.

  “Good night, sir,” Hart said, and walked out of the room.

  “Patricia?” Pickering said to the telephone.

  “Flem?”

  She sounds sleepy.

  Jesus Christ, I have no idea what time it is in the States. Did I wake her up?

  “How many other calls do you get from men at this time of day?”

  “Quite a few, actually,” she said. “And two minutes ago I got a telegram from the Secretary of the Navy . . .” She paused, and he had a mental image of her picking it up and reading from it. “. . . who is ‘pleased to inform you that your son Major Malcolm Pickering has been returned to U.S. control’ and that ‘further information will be furnished when available.’ ”

  “I guess the system kicked in,” he said.

  “Have you seen him? Where are you?”

  “In the Imperial. We got back here a couple of hours ago.”

  “Thank you for calling me immediately,” she said sarcastically.

  “I was with Ernie,” he said, trying to explain and apologize. “Trying to get her to see a doctor.”

  “What’s wrong with her?” she asked, concern replacing her anger.

  “I don’t think anything is. But when Keller told her about Pick, she fainted.”

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “She wouldn’t see a doctor,” he said.

  “Tell her that her mother and I are on the way,” Patricia said.