“I’m a Marine officer,” Banning said.
“And a good one. But as a human being, you’re a goddamn fool,” Pickering said.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, sir,” Banning said.
“Where is she? What hospital?”
“Charleston,” Banning said.
“These are your orders, Colonel. You are to go up to the third floor of this building. There you will find a Korean woman named Di-san. You will order her to send an Urgent Message to the Commanding Officer, Marine Barracks, Charleston. Quote—Urgently require report status Mrs. Milla Banning, presently in Whateverthehell Hospital Charleston. Update hourly or more frequently, as necessary, until notified otherwise. Signature, Pickering, Brig. Gen. CIA Deputy Director for Asia—Unquote.”
“General, with respect, that’s . . .”
“What? Not authorized?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, maybe not, Colonel. But the only person who can challenge me is a retired Army general named Smith, and I don’t think he will. You have your orders, Colonel.”
After a long moment, Ed Banning said, “Aye, aye, sir.”
He started back toward the entrance and then turned.
“Sir, I’d really be grateful if you could keep this between us.”
“You’d rather appear to be a horse’s ass than admit you have human emotions? Like hell I will.”
Banning didn’t reply, but neither did he continue toward the house.
“Get moving, Ed,” Pickering said. After a moment, Banning nodded and then walked quickly toward the house.
XIII
[ONE]
USS BADOENG STRAIT (CVE-116) 39.58 DEGREES NORTH LATITUDE 128.33 DEGREES EAST LONGITUDE THE SEA OF JAPAN 1125 17 OCTOBER 1950
The Badoeng Strait was at sea about fifty miles east of a midpoint between Hungnam and Wonsan.
There had not been much call for air strikes from any of the units of I ROK Corps, which was pursuing the retreating North Korean army up the rugged east coast of the Korean Peninsula.
With about two-thirds of his fuel remaining, Lieutenant Colonel William C. Dunn, USMC, had decided to take his three-Corsair flight north of Chongjin, which would place them close to the borders between North Korea and China, and North Korea and Manchuria.
He could then take a look around, then fly down the east coast of the peninsula, looking for targets of opportunity on the way back to the Badoeng Strait.
For a number of reasons, starting with the fact that he was a good Marine officer who obeyed his orders, he was very careful not only not to cross the border but to keep far enough south of it so that it could not be credibly charged that he had violated either Chinese or Russian territory, even by mistake.
But he did take the flight inland far enough and high enough so that over extreme Northern Korea, he could look down and across the borders into both China and Manchuria.
He saw nothing that suggested the presence of troops massed on either side of the border prepared to enter the conflict. He had in mind, of course, what McCoy had told him and the skipper in the captain’s cabin on the Badoeng Strait about 600,000 Chinese either on their side of the border, or already starting to cross into North Korea.
It was possible, of course, that McCoy was dead wrong. It was also possible that McCoy was right. Again.
On the way back down the coast, they found the targets of opportunity they knew would be there, and made strafing passes at North Korean troops either on the roads or hiding on either side of them. They stopped this only when the fuel available became sort of questionable and most of their ammunition had been expended. It made no sense to either run out of fuel or to return to the Badoeng Strait with a lot of ammunition unfired.
Colonel Dunn brought the flight down pretty close to the deck and flew over Socho-Ri. The H-19As were not in sight, which meant either that their camouflage was very good or that they were off someplace. He decided it was the camouflage, because Major Donald, the Army pilot, had told him they preferred to make their flights in the very early hours or just before nightfall, so as to provide as small a “window of possible observation” as possible.
He dipped his wings as Marines on the ground, recognizing the gull-winged fighters, came out of the thatch-roofed, stone-walled houses and waved at them.
Then he climbed to 5,000 feet and headed for the Badoeng Strait.
He landed last, as was his custom, caught the second wire, and was jerked to a halt.
As he hauled himself out of the cockpit, he saw one of the ship’s officers on the deck, obviously waiting for him.
The officer, a blond-headed lieutenant j.g., saluted as Dunn jumped from the wing root to the deck.
“Shooting back, were they, Colonel?”
“Excuse me?” Dunn asked as he returned the salute.
The j.g. pointed to the rear of the Corsair’s fuselage and its vertical stabilizer.
“I’ll be damned!” Dunn said. There were seven holes in the Corsair—five in the fuselage and two in the vertical stabilizer. They looked like .50-caliber holes.
“I didn’t see any tracers coming close,” Dunn said, as much to himself as to the j.g.
“The captain’s compliments, Colonel. The captain would be pleased if you would take lunch with him.”
“Would the captain be pleased to see me immediately, or more pleased after I’ve had a shower?”
“I think the captain would prefer the latter, sir,” the j.g. said, smiling.
“My compliments to the captain, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Dunn went to the pilot’s ready room and listened as Captain Jack Derwinski and Lieutenant Sam Williams, the two pilots who had flown the sortie with him, were debriefed by an air intelligence officer.
Finally, the AIO turned to him.
“Colonel?”
“I have nothing to add,” Dunn said. That was true. They had flown an observation/interdiction mission, seen nothing of interest, and engaged targets of opportunity—small units of North Korean ground troops—and then come home. Then he remembered, and added: “There was some antiaircraft fire from the ground, probably .50-caliber machine gun.”
“How do you know that, Colonel? For the record.”
“Because there are seven half-inch holes in my fuselage and vertical stabilizer,” Dunn said, “that I know weren’t there when I took off.”
“No shit, Colonel?” Jack Derwinski said, obviously surprised. “I didn’t see any tracers.”
“Neither did I, Captain Derwinski,” Dunn said with a smile, “which, as a devout believer in the adage that the one that gets you is the one you don’t see, I find just a wee bit disconcerting.”
“You didn’t feel anything?” Derwinski pursued.
Dunn shook his head no.
“They must have just gone through the skin without hitting anything else,” Dunn said, then turned to the AIO. “You better make that fourteen holes in my airplane. Seven in and seven, thank the good Lord, out.”
“Yes, sir,” the AIO said, smiling. “Fourteen holes.”
Dunn filled a china mug with coffee from the machine and carried it with him to his cabin.
He showered, shaved, put on fresh khakis, and made his way to the bridge.
The captain waved him onto the bridge.
“I understand the bad guys have been shooting back at you, Colonel,” he said.
“Worse than that, sir,” Dunn said. “Somebody has apparently been teaching them how to shoot.”
“Ready for a little lunch?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
The captain pushed himself out of his chair and led Dunn off the bridge to his cabin, where a white-jacketed steward and a table set for two were waiting for them.
“We can serve ourselves, Danny. Thank you,” the captain said to the steward as he waved Dunn into a chair.
He waited for the steward to leave them, then said, “You went pretty far north today, did you?”
&n
bsp; “Yes, sir.”
“See anything interesting? Of the sort your friend in the black pajamas was talking about?”
“No, sir.”
“He scared me with that talk of six hundred thousand Chinese,” the captain said. “You think he was right?”
“Killer McCoy, over the years, has been right most of the time,” Dunn said.
The captain lifted a dome off one serving plate and then another, and lowered the domes to the table. Lunch was pork chops, mashed potatoes, and green beans.
“Help yourself,” the captain said as he forked a pork chop to his plate.
Dunn, filling his plate, said: “I was thinking—today, as a matter of fact, on our way back to the ship, when I didn’t see a sign of a Chinese platoon, much less a field army— that if I had to bet, I’d bet on McCoy. He doesn’t say something unless he believes it.”
“I hope he’s wrong now,” the captain said. “This part of the world is a lousy place to have to fight a war in the winter.”
“The troops seem to think they’ll be home for Christmas, ” Dunn said.
“Let’s hope they’re right,” the captain said, then: “Changing the subject, you have a message straight from CNO.”
“I have a message from CNO?”
“Yeah,” the captain said, then took it from his pocket and handed it to him.
“I thought you were pulling my chain, sir,” Dunn said as he unfolded the single sheet of teletypewriter paper.
SECRET
URGENT
WASHINGTON DC 0945 16 OCTOBER 1950
FROM: CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS
SUBJECT: CITATION FOR DECORATION FOR MAJOR M.S. PICKERING, USMCR
TO: COMMANDING OFFICER MAG 33 ABOARD BADOENG STRAIT
INFO: CHAIRMAN JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF
NAVAL LIAISON OFFICER TO THE
PRESIDENT
SUPREME COMMANDER UNITED NATIONS
COMMAND TOKYO
COMMANDANT USMC
COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF PACIFIC
1. IT IS THE DESIRE OF THE PRESIDENT THAT MAJOR MALCOLM S. PICKERING, USMCR, BE AWARDED THE NAVY CROSS FOR HIS HEROISM AND VALOR ABOVE AND BEYOND THE CALL OF DUTY DURING THE PERIOD HE SPENT BEHIND ENEMY LINES BETWEEN HIS BEING SHOT DOWN AND HIS RESCUE.
2. IT IS DIRECTED THAT YOUa. ACKNOWLEDGE RECEIPT OF THIS MESSAGE BY URGENT MESSAGE.
b. IMMEDIATELY PREPARE A SUITABLE CITATION FOR THIS AWARD AND FORWARD IT BY THE MOST EXPEDITIOUS MEANS THROUGH APPROPRIATE CHANNELS TO CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS, ATTN: CHIEF, AWARDS BRANCH.
c. FURNISH CNO A COPY OF THE PROPOSED CITATION BY URGENT MESSAGE AT THE TIME YOU BEGIN TO FORWARD IT THROUGH APPROPRIATE CHANNELS. (SEE 2.A. ABOVE)
FOR THE CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS
WALLACE T. GERARD
VICE ADMIRAL
DEPUTY CNO
SECRET
“No,” Dunn blurted. “I won’t do it.”
“Excuse me?”
“I won’t do it,” Dunn repeated.
“What are you talking about, Billy?” the captain asked.
“Pickering did nothing that merits the award of the Navy Cross,” Dunn said.
“The President seems to think he does,” the captain said.
“Pickering did what he was expected to do,” Dunn said. “He evaded capture until he was able to get back. That’s all.”
“Colonel,” the captain said formally, then reached over and took the message from Dunn’s hand and read from it: " ’It is the desire of the President that Major Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, be awarded the Navy Cross.’ That seems to settle the question, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Let the President write the citation. I won’t.”
The captain dropped his eyes to the message and read from it again: “ ‘You will immediately prepare a suitable citation for this award....’ That sounds pretty clear to me.”
“Not only was Pickering not doing anything more than any shot-down pilot is expected to do, but it was his fault— and mine—that he got shot down in the first place.”
“You want to explain that to me, Colonel?” the captain asked somewhat coldly.
“What he was doing when he was shot down was trying to become the first locomotive ace in the Marine Corps,” Dunn said. “I knew what he was doing, and I didn’t stop him.”
“What do you mean, ‘locomotive ace’?”
“He wanted credit for shooting up five locomotives; in his mind that would make him a locomotive ace. He’d already checked with the Air Force to see if any Air Force pilot was credited with more locomotives in World War Two.”
The captain looked at him, shook his head, but said nothing.
“It was a joke to him,” Dunn said. “The whole war is a joke to him. And I knew what he was doing and didn’t stop him.”
“I thought you were old pals.”
“He was my wingman at Guadalcanal,” Dunn said. “I love the sonofabitch, but I am not going to go through with this nonsense of giving him the Navy Cross. What he did was cause a lot of good people to put their dicks on the chopping block to save his sorry ass, and I am not going to help him get a medal like that for being a three-star horse’s ass and, for that matter, a lousy Marine officer.”
“Calm down, Colonel,” the captain said.
“I beg your pardon for my language, sir,” Dunn said. “But I am not going to go along with this bullshit.”
The captain raised his hand in a gesture that meant take it easy.
“Jesus!” Dunn said disgustedly.
The captain said nothing.
“There was a standing order at Fighter One on the ’Canal,” Dunn said. “No buzzing the field, period. We couldn’t risk the airplanes. Pick used to do full-emergency-power barrel rolls over the field every time he shot down an airplane,” Dunn said. “And sometimes just whenever the hell he felt like it. That’s when I should have pulled the wiseass bastard up short.”
“When you have your emotions under control, Colonel, let me know,” the captain said coldly.
Dunn looked at him for a long moment.
“My apologies, sir,” he said finally.
“What are you going to do?” the captain asked. “You have been ordered by the Chief of Naval Operations to immediately prepare ‘a suitable citation.’ ”
“I’m unable to comply with that order, sir.”
The captain said nothing.
“A lot of good men have earned the Navy Cross—” Dunn began.
“Including you, Colonel,” the captain interrupted. “Is that what this is about?”
“—and giving Major Pickering the decoration for having done nothing beyond what he was expected to do,” Dunn went on, “would be an insult to every one of them.”
“Be that as it may, the Commander-in-Chief ‘desires’ that Pickering be awarded the Navy Cross. You can’t fight that, Colonel. You have an order. You have no choice but to obey it.”
“I am unable to do that, sir,” Dunn said.
Thirty minutes later, a message went out from the Badoeng Strait.
SECRET
URGENT
BADOENG STRAIT 1405 17 OCTOBER 1950
FROM: COMMANDING OFFICER MAG 33
TO: CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS
ATTN: CHIEF, AWARDS BRANCH
1. REFERENCE PARA 2. MSG CNO SUBJ: CITATION FOR DECORATION FOR MAJOR M.S. PICKERING, USMCR DATED 16 OCT 1950
2. THE UNDERSIGNED IS UNABLE TO COMPLY.
WILLIAM C. DUNN
LIEUTENANT COLONEL, USMC
COMMANDING
SECRET
[TWO]
U.S. NAVAL HOSPITAL U.S. NAVY BASE, SASEBO SASEBO, JAPAN 1625 18 OCTOBER 1950
Lieutenant (j.g.) Rosemary Hills, Nurse Corps, USNR—a five-three, one-hundred-fifteen-pound twenty-three-year-old from Chicago—had the duty, which placed her at a desk in the nurses’ station of Ward 4-G between 1600 and 2400 hours.
There were six Corpsmen always on duty in Ward 4-G, and usually two or three of them could be found at the nurses’
station. They dealt with the routine operations of Ward 4-G, and turned to Lieutenant Hills only when something required the attention of the ward nurse on duty, a registered nurse, or a commissioned officer, or any combination thereof.
She was a little uncomfortable when she glanced up from her desk and saw a Marine standing on the other side of the counter, obviously wanting something, and saw there was no Corpsman behind the counter—or anywhere in sight—to deal with him.
Lieutenant Hills had not been in the Navy very long, and was not completely familiar with all the subtleties of Navy rank and protocol, and was even less familiar with those of the Marine Corps.
She knew from the rank insignia on his collar points and shoulders that the man standing before her was a master gunner, which was the equivalent of a Navy warrant officer, which meant that he ranked between the senior enlisted Marine and the junior Marine officer.
She remembered, too, from orientation at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center, that Marine master gunners were special, as lieutenants—Marine and Navy—were ordinary. There were very few master gunners, and they were all ex-senior enlisted Marines with all sorts of experience that qualified them to be master gunners.
The ribbons and other decorations on this one’s tunic— she recognized only a few of them—seemed to attest to that. Judging by just the number of them, this master gunner had been in every war since the American Revolution, and wounded in all of them.
One of the medals on his chest she did recognize was the Purple Heart, awarded for having been wounded in action. She had seen enough of them pinned on hospital gowns here in the ward to know what that was. The master gunner’s Purple Heart medal was just about covered with little things—Lieutenant Hills had forgotten what they called the little things—pinned to it. But she knew that each one of the little things meant a different award of the Purple Heart for getting wounded in action.
Lieutenant Hills saw that he was carrying a small canvas bag in his left hand, as a woman carries a bag. She wondered what was in it.
Then she realized that she had no idea how master gunners were addressed.
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