Pickering’s bedroom was actually a suite within a suite. There was a bedroom, a private bath, and a small room holding a desk and chair and a leather-upholstered chair with a footstool.
Pickering was sitting in the chair, holding a cup of coffee. He was not on the telephone, which meant that his conversation with Mrs. Pickering was over.
Hart signaled with a wave of his hand for Master Sergeant Paul Keller to follow him into the small room.
Pickering didn’t seem to notice their presence.
“It’s about that time, boss,” Hart said. “We better get out to Haneda. Trans-Global may surprise us all by arriving on time.”
Hart got neither the laugh nor the dirty look he expected from Pickering. Instead, Pickering looked at them thoughtfully.
“Sir?” Hart asked.
“I want a straight answer from you two,” Pickering said. “You listening, Paul?”
“Yes, sir?”
“A lot has gone on in Korea that I don’t—we don’t, and especially Colonel Banning doesn’t—know much about. The helicopters, for one thing, and this Army lieutenant colonel who apparently has not only stolen a Beaver from the Eighth Army commander but seems to have taken over our villa in Seoul,” Pickering said. “Right?”
“That’s right, sir,” Hart said. “Are you worried about Colonel Vandenberg?”
Pickering didn’t respond.
“George,” he went on, “you and I have never been inside the Seoul villa, and all we know about it is what Bill Dunston has told us about it.”
“The Killer seems impressed with this Vandenburg guy,” Hart said.
Again, Pickering didn’t respond.
“Neither have we been to Socho-Ri,” Pickering said.
“No, we haven’t,” Hart agreed.
“And obviously, Banning should meet Dunston and Vandenburg, and have them and McCoy and Zimmerman bring him up to speed on what’s going on. All of these things would seem to indicate that we get Banning and ourselves to Seoul as quickly as possible, even if Ed Banning’s ass is dragging after having flown halfway around the world.”
“Makes sense to me, boss,” Hart said.
“Okay, here’s the question, and kindness should not color your answer: Who made that decision, your steel-backed, cold-blooded commander thinking of nothing but the mission, or a father who desperately wants to see his son?”
There was silence.
“You first, Paul,” Pickering said.
“Jesus, General,” Keller said. “If it was me, and if my son, if I had one, was just coming back from wherever the hell he’s been, I’d be on the next plane to Korea, and I wouldn’t even think of Dunston and Socho-Ri and the rest of it.”
Pickering met his eyes for a moment, then looked around for Hart. Hart was across the room, on the telephone.
“Whoever that it is, George, it’ll have to wait,” Pickering said. “I want an answer.”
Hart covered the telephone microphone with his hand.
“Where are we going? Pusan or Seoul?” he asked.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning if we can get on the 1500 courier plane to Seoul, you’ll have time to meet Colonel Vandenburg this afternoon and tonight, then fly to Socho-Ri in the morning and see the Killer and Zimmerman, and then be in Pusan probably four, five hours before the tin can can get Pick off the carrier and deliver him there. Which means, your choice, you can have Dunston fly to Seoul from Pusan this afternoon—my suggestion—or have him wait for you in Pusan.”
“That’s not an answer to my question,” Pickering said.
“Yes it is, boss,” Hart said softly but firmly. “I kept my mouth shut when you and the Killer were going through that ‘we can’t use a helicopter that’s needed to transport the wounded to look for him’ noble Marine Corps bullshit, but enough’s enough. You have valid reasons to go to Korea. Be glad you do. You and Pick are entitled to get together. Now, where are we going, Pusan or Seoul?”
After a long pause, Pickering said, “Seoul.”
Hart nodded and returned to the telephone.
“Brigadier General F. Pickering, USMC, will require three seats on the 1500 courier to Seoul,” he said.
Whoever he was talking to said something.
“Hey, Captain!” Hart barked into the phone, interrupting the person on the other end. “Whoa! Save your breath! I don’t give a good goddamn if you have seats available or not. We have a priority that’ll bump anybody but Douglas MacArthur, and we intend to use it. Am I getting through to you?”
Hart turned to Pickering, intending to smile at him. He saw that Pickering had stood up and was looking out the window. As Hart watched, Pickering blew his nose loudly.
“We’re on the 1500, boss,” Hart said.
General Pickering nodded his understanding, but he didn’t trust his voice to speak.
[TWO]
USS MANSFIELD (DD-728) 37.54 DEGREES NORTH LATITUDE 130.05 DEGREES EAST LONGITUDE THE SEA OF JAPAN 1505 16 OCTOBER 1950
Lieutenant Commander C. Lewis Matthews III, USN, a very large, open-faced thirty-nine-year-old, took a final look out the spray-soaked window of his bridge, then walked to the rear of the bridge and pressed the ANNOUNCE lever on the public-address system control panel mounted on the bulkhead.
“Attention all hands. This is the captain speaking,” he announced. He knew that within seconds he would have the attention of every man aboard.
On being given command of the Mansfield, he had received advice from both his father and grandfather. In addition to a good deal else, they had both told him to stay the hell off the PA system unless he had something important to say.
“Don’t fall in love with the sound of your own voice,” Vice Admiral Charles L. Matthews, USN, Ret., his grandfather, had told him. “Remember the little kid who kept crying ‘wolf.’ ”
Rear Admiral C. L. Matthews, Jr., his father, had put much the same thought this way: “Stay off the squawk box, Lew, unless you have something really important to say. When you say ‘This is the captain speaking,’ you want everybody to pay attention, not groan and say, ‘Jesus Christ, again?’ ”
Lew Matthews had taken that advice, and right now was glad he had.
“We’re about to pull alongside the Badoeng Strait,” Captain Lew Matthews announced. “We are going to make an underway transfer of two officers from Badoeng Strait. One of them is a physician. The other is a Marine pilot who was shot down right after this war started, and has been behind the enemy’s lines until his rescue yesterday. Once we have them aboard, we will make for Pusan at best speed, where a hospital plane will be waiting to fly the Marine to the hospital at Sasebo. Do this right. The one thing this Marine doesn’t need after all he’s gone through is to take a bath in the Sea of Japan.”
He let go of the ANNOUNCE lever and walked to the spray-soaked window of the bridge, took a look at the seas and the gray bulk of the Badoeng Strait dead ahead, and shook his head.
He turned and caught the attention of the officer of the deck, then pointed to himself.
“The captain has the conn!” the officer of the deck announced.
“Bring us alongside the Badoeng Strait,” Matthews ordered the helmsman, describing with his finger how he wanted the Mansfield to move and where.
He turned to the officer of the deck and nodded.
The officer of the deck went to the control panel, depressed the ANNOUNCE lever, and said, “Attention all hands. Make all preparations for underway personnel transfer.”
[THREE]
USS BADOENG STRAIT (CVE -116) 37.54 DEGREES NORTH LATITUDE 130.05 DEGREES EAST LONGITUDE THE SEA OF JAPAN 1515 16 OCTOBER 1950
Lieutenant Bruce D. Patterson, MC, USNR, wearing foul-weather gear and an inflated life jacket, was sitting in a bosun’s chair. The chair—an item of Navy gear evolved from a sort of canvas seat that hauled sailors aloft to work on masts and sails, and thus was probably as old as the anchor—was suspended under a cable that had been rigged between one of th
e higher decks of the USS Mansfield and an interior strong point in the USS Badoeng Strait that was accessible through a square port in her side.
“All things considered, Major Pickering,” Lieutenant Patterson said, “I very much regret ever having met you.”
Major Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, who was also wearing foul-weather gear and an inflated life jacket, and was strapped into a second bosun’s chair, smiled, shrugged, held out both hands in front of him, and said, “Jeez, Doc, I thought you liked me.”
There was laughter from the dozen Marine aviators who were on hand to watch Good Ol’ Pick get transferred to the destroyer.
Another Marine aviator in a flight suit walked up to them.
“I don’t suppose it occurred to any of you guys that you might be in the way down here,” Lieutenant Colonel William C. Dunn, USMC, said.
Lieutenant Colonel Dunn was not in a very good mood. He had just finished what he considered the most unpleasant duty laid upon a commanding officer.
And it was still painfully fresh in his mind:
USS BADOENG STRAIT (CVE - 116) MARINE AIR GROUP 33 A T SEA
16 October 1950
MRS. BARBARA C. MITCHELL
APARTMENT 12-D, “OCEANVIEW”
1005 OCEAN DRIVE
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
DEAR BABS:
BY NOW, I’M SURE THAT YOU HAVE BEEN OFFICIALLY NOTIFIED OF DICK’S DEATH. I THOUGHT THAT YOU WOULD BE INTERESTED IN WHAT I CAN TELL YOU OF WHAT HAPPENED.
WE WERE IN A SIX-CORSAIR FLIGHT OVER NORTH KOREA, NEAR HUNGNAM, ON THE EAST COAST OF THE KOREAN PENINSULA. OUR MISSION WAS IN SUPPORT OF THE I REPUBLIC OF KOREA CORPS, WHICH IS IN PURSUIT OF RETREATING NORTH KOREAN ARMY FORCES.
WHAT WE WERE CHARGED WITH DOING WAS INTERDICTING NORTH KOREA TROOPS TO BOTH SLOW THEIR RETREAT AND HIT THEM AS HARD AS WE CAN. WHEN THE SOUTH KOREANS DID NOT HAVE A TARGET FOR US, WE MADE SWEEPS OVER THE AREA, LOOKING FOR SUITABLE TARGETS OURSELVES.
ON THE AFTERNOON OF 14 OCTOBER, I DIVIDED THE FLIGHT INTO THREE TWO-CORSAIR ELEMENTS, WITH MYSELF AND MY WINGMAN, LIEUTENANT STAN SUPROWSKI, IN THE LEAD AND FIVE HUNDRED FEET ABOVE THE SECOND ELEMENT, WHICH WAS CAPTAIN JACK DERWINSKI, WHOM I KNOW YOU KNOW, AND WHO WAS A CLOSE FRIEND OF DICK’S. LIEUTENANT SAM WILLIAMS WAS FLYING AS JACK’S WINGMAN. THEY WERE FIVE HUNDRED FEET ABOVE THE THIRD ELEMENT, WHICH WAS DICK, WITH CAPTAIN LESTER STEPPES FLYING ON HIS WING.
A LITTLE AFTER TWO-THIRTY, FROM MY GREATER ALTITUDE, I WAS ABLE TO SEE A COLUMN OF TROOPS MIXED WITH SOME TRUCKS AND OTHER VEHICLES. TO MAKE SURE THEY WERE NOT FRIENDLY FORCES, I PASSED THE WORD THAT I WOULD MAKE A PASS OVER THEM, AND THAT IF THEY WERE INDEED THE ENEMY, THE OTHERS WERE TO ATTACK, STARTING WITH SUPROWSKI, WHO WAS NOW A THOUSAND FEET BEHIND ME, AND THEN THE OTHER TWO ELEMENTS.
I MADE THE PASS, AND RECEIVED SOME SMALL-CALIBER FIRE, WHEREUPON I GAVE THE ORDER FOR THE OTHERS TO ATTACK.
I THEN PULLED UP, MADE A 180-DEGREE TURN, AND SHORTLY THEREAFTER WAS FLYING A THOUSAND FEET OR SO BEHIND DICK AND CAPTAIN STEPPES AT NO MORE THAN TWO HUNDRED FEET OFF THE DECK. I COULD SEE DICK AND LESTER’S TRACER AMMUNITION STRIKING THE ENEMY COLUMN.
AND THEN, TO MY HORROR, I SAW DICK GO IN. ACTUALLY, IT HAPPENED SO QUICKLY THAT THE FIRST SIGN OF TROUBLE I SAW WAS THE FIREBALL OF DICK’S AIRCRAFT.
THERE IS NO QUESTION WHATEVER IN MY MIND THAT HE DIED INSTANTLY, AND IT IS ENTIRELY LIKELY THAT DICK WAS STRUCK AND KILLED BY ANTIAIRCRAFT MACHINE-GUN FIRE BEFORE HIS CORSAIR CRASHED.
ON MY FIRST PASS OVER THE CRASH SITE—SECONDS LATER—THERE WAS NOTHING TO BE SEEN BUT THE FIREBALL. ON SUBSEQUENT PASSES, AFTER THE FIRE HAD BURNED ITSELF OUT, I WAS FORCED TO CONCLUDE THAT NO ONE COULD HAVE SURVIVED THE CRASH.
ON RETURNING TO THE BADOENG STRAIT, I WAS ABLE TO MAKE CONTACT WITH A MARINE UNIT ON SHORE WHICH HAS ACCESS TO AN H-19 HELICOPTER, AND THEY ARE AS THIS IS WRITTEN IN THE PROCESS OF GETTING DICK’S REMAINS. I KNOW THEY WILL DO THEIR VERY BEST, NOT ONLY AS FELLOW MARINES, BUT BECAUSE AMONG THEM IS A MASTER GUNNER WHO KNEW DICK IN NORTH CAROLINA, AND HELD HIM IN BOTH HIGH ESTEEM AND AFFECTION.
AS SOON AS I LEARN ANYTHING ABOUT THIS, I WILL IMMEDIATELY LET YOU KNOW.
I DON’T THINK I HAVE TO TELL YOU HOW ALL THE MARINES IN MAG33 FELT ABOUT DICK. HE WAS A SUPERB PILOT, AND A FINE MARINE OFFICER, AND WE SHALL ALL MISS HIM VERY MUCH.
THIS WILL PROBABLY OFFER LITTLE IN THE WAY OF CONSOLATION, BUT I HAVE JUST BEEN NOTIFIED THAT MY RECOMMENDATION FOR THE AWARD OF THE DISTINGUISHED FLYING CROSS HAS BEEN APPROVED. THAT WILL BE HIS THIRD AWARD OF THE DFC.
IF THERE IS ANYTHING I CAN DO TO BE OF SERVICE AT ANY TIME, PLEASE LET ME KNOW.
SINCERELY,
William C. Dunn
WILLIAM C. DUNN
LIEUTENANT COLONEL, USMC
COMMANDING
Dunn walked up to Pickering.
“Jesus, Billy,” Pickering said. “How about cutting a little slack? The guys just came to see me off.”
Dunn didn’t respond directly. He thrust a large oilskin envelope at Pickering. “Can I rely on you to get this in the mail as soon as you get to Japan?” he asked.
“Depends on what’s in it,” Pick said.
“My condolence letter to Babs Mitchell.”
Pick’s smile faded. “Sure,” he said, and took the envelope and stuffed it inside the foul-weather gear.
Dunn walked to the open door and peered out.
He saw that while weather conditions could not—yet—be accurately described as a storm, there were strong winds, five-to eight-foot swells, and it was raining, sometimes in gusts.
He saw that as the Mansfield and Badoeng Strait moved through the sea, with an intended space of fifty feet between them, they did not move up and down in unison. Only when the Mansfield, moving upward, for example, was exactly on a level with the Badoeng Strait, moving downward, was the cable stretched between them fairly level.
At all other times, it formed a loop, with one of the vessels at the top of the loop and the other at the bottom.
In addition, if the seas caused one vessel to lean to port and the other to starboard, the cable would be subject to a stress capable of snapping it as they moved apart unless additional cable was released from the winch. Conversely, if the vessels leaned toward each other, the lower part of the loop tended to go into the water, unless the cable was quickly winched in.
Dunn pulled his head in and looked at Chief Petty Officer Felix J. Orlovski, who had been in the Navy longer than many of his sailors were old.
“How are we doing with this, Chief?”
“We’re about to make a test run, sir,” the chief said, and pointed upward to the cable. A third bosun’s chair was hooked to it.
“What’s that strapped inside?” Dunn asked.
“The doc’s medical bag, sir, and some weights to bring it to two hundred pounds. You want me to go ahead, sir?”
Dunn nodded, and Chief Orlovski bellowed, “CHAIR AWAY!”
The chair began to move between the ships. When it was almost exactly in the middle between them, the two vessels leaned toward each other. The loop in the cable dropped the bosun’s chair to the surface of the sea, where it sank briefly beneath it.
When the two ships leaned away from each other, the loop straightened and the bosun’s chair rose out of the water. As it continued to move toward the Mansfield, everyone watching the “transfer” could see that Lieutenant Patterson’s medical bag and the weights that had been in the seat were no longer there.
Major Pickering said, “I am offering three-to-five the doc never makes it”—there was appreciative laughter from the pilots—“in which case, the colonel’s going to have to think of some better way to get me off this vessel.”
More laughter.
Dunn looked coldly at Pickering but said nothing.
He had been giving Pickering a lot of thought ever since the Air Force pilot had relayed McCoy’s “Bingo, heads up” message.
His first reaction had been personal: joy and relief that Pickering had not perished in some desolate rice paddy or at the end of
some North Korean’s bayonet. That was understandable. They had been close friends since Guadalcanal, when, flying VMF-229 Grumman Wildcats off of Fighter One, Second Lieutenant Pickering had been First Lieutenant Dunn’s wingman.
His second reaction, he’d originally thought, was sort of cold-blooded professional. Pickering’s return to the Badoeng Strait after everyone—including himself—had decided he wouldn’t come back at all was going to do a great deal to restore the sagging morale Dick Mitchell’s death had caused among his pilots.
The first unkind or unpleasant thought had come when the Army pilot had flown the black H-19A out to the Badoeng Strait. For one thing, he had heard and believed that helicopters—particularly new ones, and the H-19A was as new as they came—were notoriously unreliable. Somebody who knew what he was talking about had told him that if it were not for the helicopter’s ability to land practically anywhere—or, for that matter, to flutter without power to the ground in what they called an “autorotation”—they would be banned as a general hazard to mankind.
It was well over one hundred miles from Socho-Ri to where the Badoeng Strait cruised in the Sea of Japan. Finding the ship itself was risky. And if the H-19A had engine trouble, the “can land anywhere” and “autorotation” safety features would be useless at sea. It could flutter to the sea intact, of course, but then it would immediately begin to sink.
Dunn hadn’t thought the H-19A would have life jackets—much less a rubber lifeboat—aboard, and he checked, and it didn’t. Everybody on board would have died if they hadn’t been able to make it to the Badoeng Strait.
And that was only the beginning of the problem. The Army aviator who had flown the machine had never landed on an aircraft carrier before. Dunn had admired his courage, and later his flying skill, but he had thought that if it hadn’t been for Pick trying to become the first Marine locomotive ace, he wouldn’t have been shot down, and no one would have had to risk their lives to save his ass.
Retreat, Hell! Page 37