That Pick had not been brought up short by a direct order to stop flying all over the Korean landscape looking for a locomotive to shoot up instead of what he was supposed to do, was what was known at the Command and General Staff College as a failure of command supervision. Major Pickering’s asshole behavior had been tolerated, not stopped, by his commander, whose name was Dunn, William C.
Phrased another way, what that meant was that Colonel Billy Dunn was really responsible for all the lives risked, and all the effort spent, to save Pick Pickering’s ass, because if he had done his job, Pick would not have been shot down trying to become the first locomotive ace in the Marine Corps.
“You ready, Doc?” Chief Orlovski asked.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Patterson replied.
“CHAIR AWAY!” Orlovski bellowed.
Dr. Patterson, in disturbingly quick order, felt himself being hauled up vertically, then moving horizontally off the Badoeng Strait, then sinking suddenly toward the Sea of Japan, then felt his feet being knocked out from under him as they actually encountered the Sea of Japan, then rising vertically and sideways at once, and then having strong male arms wrapped around him, and then dropping with a thump to the deck as someone released the bosun’s chair from the cable.
Major Pickering turned to Lieutenant Colonel Dunn.
“I really don’t want to do that, Billy,” he said.
“Shut up, Pick,” Dunn said, not very pleasantly.
Two sailors, supervised by a chief petty officer, began to attach Major Pickering’s chair to the cable.
“As a matter of fact,” Major Pickering said, “I’ll be goddamned if I’ll do that.” He looked over his shoulder, saw Chief Orlovski, and ordered: “Get me out of this thing, Chief.”
Pick started to unfasten the straps, and was startled to find Colonel Dunn’s hand roughly knocking his fingers away from the buckle.
“Hook him up, Chief,” Dunn ordered. “He’s going.”
“I am like hell!” Pick protested.
“You’re going, Pick,” Colonel Dunn said. “Goddamn you!”
“In my delicate condition, I really think it’s ill-advised,” Pick said lightly, and added, “I really would prefer to wait for weather that will permit me to fly off this vessel, as befitting a Marine officer, aviator, and gentleman, if that’s all right with you, Colonel, sir.”
“No, it’s not all right with me, you self-important sonofabitch, ” Dunn said furiously. “Your delicate condition is your own goddamn fault. And we both know it.” Dunn turned to Orlovski: “Snap it up, Chief!”
“What the hell is wrong with you, Billy?” Pick demanded.
“There’s not a damn thing wrong with me. Your problem is that you have never, not fucking ever, really understood you’re a Marine officer who does what he’s ordered to do.”
“What brought this on?” Pick asked, genuinely surprised at Dunn’s tone.
“You really don’t care how much trouble your childish behavior has caused, do you? Or how many good people have put their necks out to save you from the consequences of your sophomoric showboating, do you?”
“Jesus Christ!” Pick said softly.
“Haul him away, Chief!” Dunn ordered coldly.
Chief Petty Officer Felix J. Orlovski bellowed, “CHAIR AWAY!”
Ninety seconds later, after a brief but thoroughly soaking dip in the Sea of Japan, Major Pickering was sitting on the deck of the USS Mansfield.
A ruddy-faced chief bent over Pickering to help him out of the bosun’s chair.
“I’m really sorry you got dunked, Major,” he said, obviously meaning it. “It was the last goddamn thing I wanted to have happen to you.”
“Chief, the skipper says the major is to go to his cabin,” a voice said.
Pickering moved his head and saw a full lieutenant standing beside the chief.
“You all right, sir?” the lieutenant asked.
“I’m fine,” Pick said.
The chief and the lieutenant hauled him to his feet and gently led him through a port into the Mansfield’s superstructure.
Pick felt the Mansfield lean as she turned away from the Badoeng Strait.
[FOUR]
USAF AIRFIELD K-16 SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA 1750 16 OCTOBER 1950
Major William R. Dunston, TC, USA, was waiting in the passenger section of base operations at K-16 when the 1500 courier flight from Haneda arrived.
He saluted somewhat sloppily when Pickering walked into the building, trailed by Banning and Hart.
Pickering restrained a smile when he saw that Dunston, who was not what could be described as a fine figure of a man, and additionally was wearing mussed, somewhat soiled fatigues and could have used a haircut, had failed the First Impressions Test of Colonel Edward J. Banning, USMC.
“Bill, this is Colonel Ed Banning,” Pickering said.
“Welcome to the Land of the Morning Calm,” Dunston said. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“Does it really?” Banning said a little stiffly.
Pickering thought: What’s ruffling Banning’s feathers? Dunston’s appearance? Or that he hasn’t used the word “sir”?
“Yeah,” Dunston continued, “when the Killer heard you were coming, he told me all about you.”
Pickering saw that Hart was also amused by the exchange.
“Where is Major McCoy?” Pickering asked.
“I don’t really know,” Dunston said. “When I got the heads-up from Keller, I got on the horn to Socho-Ri, and Zimmerman said they got the three clicks a little after three this morning.”
“ ‘The three clicks’?” Banning asked.
“Meaning they got ashore okay. . . . Should we be talking about this in here?”
“Good point. Let’s go outside,” Pickering said.
Dunston led them to the end of a line of parked vehicles.
“What the hell is this thing?” Pickering asked.
“This is the Killer’s Russian jeep,” Dunston said. “He took it away from an NK colonel. He had it over in Socho-Ri, but when he sent Jennings here, he sent the Russian Rolls with him and said to keep it here.”
“Is that what you call it, the Russian Rolls?” Pickering asked, chuckling.
“Who’s Jennings?” Banning asked. It was almost an interruption.
“Tech Sergeant,” Dunston said. “He and Zimmerman and the Killer were in the Marine Raiders. Good man. He’s been with us since Pusan.”
“You know McCoy hates to be called Killer, don’t you, Major?” Banning asked.
“Yeah, well, I guess I’m one of the privileged few who can,” Dunston said. “We’re pretty close, Colonel.”
Pickering saw that Banning found that hard to accept.
Dunston got behind the wheel, and Pickering got in beside him.
“Nobody can hear us here,” Pickering said when Banning and Hart had climbed over the back into the rear seat. “What about McCoy? Where is he?”
“Well, they—the Killer and two of my Koreans—went ashore a few miles north of Chongjin,” Dunston said. “The Wind of Good Fortune got the three clicks a little after three this morning.”
“Your Koreans?” Banning asked.
“The Wind of Good Fortune is the flagship of our fleet, Colonel,” George Hart offered quickly. “It’s a diesel-powered junk.”
He did that, Pickering thought, because he sensed that Dunston has had enough of Banning’s attitude and was about to snap back at Banning. What the hell is wrong with Ed Banning?
Banning’s glance at Hart did not suggest anything close to gratitude.
“My Koreans, Colonel,” Dunston said coldly, “are what few agents I have left of the agents I had before the war. McCoy’s Koreans are the ones he’s borrowed from Colonel Pak at I ROK Corps. We tell them apart that way.”
“Three clicks?” Pickering asked, more to forestall another question from Banning than for information. He had made a guess—as it turned out, the right one—about what three clicks meant.
“You push the mike button three times, General, but don’t say anything,” Dunston said. “It means you’re safely ashore.”
“Ashore a few miles north of where?” Banning asked.
“Chongjin,” Dunston said. “It’s a town—”
“On the Sea of Japan, about sixty miles from the Chinese and Russian borders,” Banning said impatiently. “I know where it is. What’s he doing there?”
“Vandenburg got him some radios from the Army Security Agency,” Dunston said. “He’s going to listen to what he calls low-level Russian radio traffic.”
“I was under the impression the ASA was responsible for intercepting enemy communications,” Banning said.
“That’s their job,” Dunston agreed a little sarcastically.
“Then what—”
Pickering, who was sitting sidewards on the front seat of the vehicle, dropped his hand to Banning’s knee and silenced him.
Pickering thought: I don’t know what’s wrong with Banning—maybe fatigue from the long flight; or maybe he doesn’t think Dunston is showing him the proper respect— but he’s acting like an inspector general, and Dunston doesn’t like it. I don’t want—can’t have—the two of them scrapping.
Dunston started the engine and backed out of the parking slot.
[FIVE]
THE HOUSE SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA 1910 16 OCTOBER 1950
Major General Ralph Howe, NGUS, Lieutenant Colonel D. J. Vandenburg, USA, Master Sergeant Charley Rogers, NGUS, Technical Sergeant J. M. Jennings, USMC, and an Army captain wearing a fur-collared aviator’s jacket were sitting at the dining room table when Pickering, Banning, Hart, and Dunston walked in.
Everyone but Howe made some movement to stand. Pickering signaled for them to stay where they were.
“I will claim the privilege of rank, Flem,” Howe said, “and be the first to tell you how delighted I am your son’s safe.”
“Thank you,” Pickering said.
“I suppose I’d better do the introductions,” Howe said. “General, this is Colonel D. J. Vandenburg . . .”
Pickering offered him his hand.
“How are you, Colonel?”
“Sir, we’re all happy Major Pickering is back with us.”
“Thank you,” Pickering said.
“. . . and this is Captain Lew Miller,” Howe went on, “who flies the Beaver.”
“I’ve heard about the Beaver,” Pickering said, smiling at Vandenburg. “How are you, Captain?”
“How do you do, sir?” Miller said.
“And J. M. Jennings,” Howe said, “who has the dubious distinction of having been a Marine Raider with McCoy and Zimmerman.”
“ ‘Dubious distinction’?” Jennings said, and then: “How do you do, sir?”
“The phrase, General Howe,” Pickering said, “is great distinction.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jennings said.
“I’m sorry, Sergeant,” Pickering said, “that you’ve had to be alone with all these dogfaces, but that’s changed. Ed Banning and I have landed, and the situation is well in hand.”
“Oh, God!” Howe said, shaking his head. He put out his hand to Banning. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Colonel, all good. And this is Charley Rogers, who the jarheads around here refer to—behind our backs, of course—as the ‘Retread Doggie General’s Retread Dog Robber.’ ”
“How do you do, General?” Banning said to Howe, and shook his hand. He shook Rogers’s hand but said nothing to him.
Howe said, “I don’t know if Marines drink champagne—for that matter, if they even know what it is—but when Bill Dunston heard about your son and you coming, he put a couple of bottles in the refrigerator in case a celebration was in order, and I suggest one is.”
“My God!” Pickering said. “A house like this, with champagne in a refrigerator, in what my favorite journalist refers to as ‘the battered capital of this war-torn nation’? Pay attention, Ed, these doggies really know how to live. See if you can find out how they do it!”
There was laughter from everyone but Banning, who came up with a somewhat restrained smile.
Dunston went through the door to the kitchen, and a moment later Lai-Min, the housekeeper, came through it carrying a tray with two bottles of champagne in coolers and champagne glasses on it. She set it on the table, went back into the kitchen, and came back with another tray. This one held hors d’oeuvres.
“I will be damned!” Pickering said.
“More than likely,” Howe said, mock serious.
Dunston came back into the room, and he and Hart opened the champagne and poured.
Howe raised his glass. “Major Malcolm S. Pickering,” he toasted. “Who has proved he’s as good a Marine as his father, and probably a lot smarter.”
Pickering took a swallow and then raised his glass again.
“How about to Major Ken McCoy and whoever was with him when he found Pick?” he said.
“Well, I’ll drink to the Killer anytime,” Howe said. “But that’s not exactly what happened, Flem.”
“Excuse me?”
Howe gestured to Jennings, whose face showed he would much rather not have to tell the story.
“Sir, what happened was that we were coming back to Socho-Ri in a Big Black Bird after having picked up a recon patrol—”
“You’re talking about a helicopter?” Banning interrupted.
“Yes, sir,” Jennings said. “And we heard somebody— ‘Road Service’—calling for any U.S. aircraft—”
“Road Service?” Banning parroted. Pickering looked at him sharply.
“Yes, sir,” Jennings went on. “We found out later it was an Army convoy, a couple of tanks and some heavy vehicles, trying to find a land route to Wonsan. We even knew them. Anyway, we didn’t reply, of course—”
“Why not?” Banning interrupted.
“Ed, for Christ’s sake, let Sergeant Jennings finish,” Pickering snapped, and immediately regretted it.
The remark earned him a look of gratitude from Jennings and a look of astonishment, even hurt, from Banning.
“But an Air Force F-51 did,” Jennings went on. “And Road Service told him they’d just picked up a shot-down pilot and needed to get him to a hospital. The Air Force guy asked for a location, and it was about five miles from where we were, so the Kil . . . Major McCoy told Major Donald to go there, and see if we could land, and so we did. What we found was that the Army was lost, and Major Pickering had seen them and come out from where he was hiding.”
Pickering saw Jennings smile.
“What’s funny, Sergeant?” he asked.
“Well, sir, what Major Pickering did was come down the road to the doggie convoy with his hands over his head, singing ‘The Marines’ Hymn’ as loud as he could and shouting ‘Don’t shoot’ between lines.”
“Jesus Christ!” Pickering said, smiling at the image.
“Anyway, sir, we could get in where they were, so we loaded Major Pickering on the Big Black Bird—they left me behind to show the Army the road to Wonsan—and flew on to Socho-Ri, took on fuel, and then flew him out to the aircraft carrier. But we didn’t find him, sir, although God knows we sure looked hard for him—the major found the Army.”
Pickering smiled and shook his head.
“What difference does it make, Flem?” Howe asked. “He’s back. That’s all that counts.”
“There’s a small problem,” Pickering said, smiling. “It has been decided at the highest level—by that I mean agreement between El Supremo, General of the Army Omar Bradley, and the President himself—that McCoy gets the Silver Star for his valor in finding Pick—”
“Goddamn!” Jennings said, chuckling.
“And everybody with him gets the Bronze Star,” Pickering went on. He stopped himself as he was about to add “and the President agreed with MacArthur that Pick gets the Navy Cross.”
Why did I stop? So Proud Papa won’t be boasting?
No, it’s something else.
Becau
se I don’t see where what he did deserves the Navy Cross?
I didn’t think I deserved mine, either. I was just doing what a Marine is supposed to do.
Isn’t that what Pick did? What a Marine is supposed to do?
How the hell did I get on this line of thought?
“General,” Jennings said, “I didn’t do anything that should get me the Bronze Star.”
“I’ll straighten it out,” Pickering said. He raised his champagne glass to Jennings and smiled.
“I’m about to send a message I think you ought to see,” Howe said. “Can we go upstairs for a minute?”
“Sure,” Pickering said. “What’s upstairs?”
“The communications,” Howe said. He smiled. “I keep forgetting the laird of this manor has never been here before. I’ll have to show you around.”
“It’s not what I expected,” Pickering said.
“Very few things ever are,” Howe said with a smile as he waved Pickering out of the room ahead of him.
They went through the foyer and up the stairs. Pickering was not surprised to find Koreans armed with Thompson submachine guns blocking entrance to the corridors on both the second and third floors, but he was surprised when Howe knocked on a door on the third floor and it was answered by a Korean woman holding a .45-ACP-caliber Grease Gun.
“Di-san,” Howe said, “this is General Pickering.”
She smiled. In perfect English, she said, “General, we were happy to hear your son has been rescued.”
“Thank you,” Pickering said.
"I want to show General Pickering my message,” Howe said.
She nodded, motioned them into the room, and took several sheets of typewriter paper from a table.
TOP SECRET/PRESIDENTIAL
OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
<<<<
TRANSMISSION>>>>> TOKYO TIME 16
OCTOBER 1950
FROM: CHIEF PRESIDENTIAL MISSION TO FAR EAST
VIA: USMC SPECIAL COMMUNICATIONS CENTER CAMP PENDLETON CAL
TO: WHITE HOUSE COMMUNICATIONS CENTER WASHINGTON DC EYES ONLY THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES
Retreat, Hell! Page 38