“Well, we don’t want to run over him, do we? The admiral says to get him to change course.”
“Understand. I’ll make a run across his bow.”
0741 19 OCTOBER 1950
“McKinley, you’re not going to believe this, but my junk just hoisted a large American flag. And she is not changing course.”
“The admiral does not want the junk to approach the convoy.”
“What am I supposed to do, fire a shot across her bow?”
A new voice came over the ship-to-ship.
"DeHaven, this is Admiral Feeney. If putting a shot across her bow is necessary, then that’s what you should do.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Sir, it is my intention to come alongside the vessel and signal an order to her to change course.”
“Proceed,” the admiral said.
0746 19 OCTOBER 1950
“McKinley, DeHaven is alongside the junk. She is under power. A man in what looks like black pajamas has hailed DeHaven with a loudspeaker and says he is a Marine major named McCoy and desires to approach McKinley. Request guidance.”
"DeHaven, Admiral Feeney. The junk is not, repeat not, to approach the McKinley. Take whatever action is appropriate.”
"Aye, aye, sir.”
[FOUR]
THE BRIDGE, USS MOUNT MCKINLEY (LCC-20) 39 DEGREES 34 MINUTES NORTH LATITUDE 128 DEGREES 43 MINUTES EAST LONGITUDE THE SEA OF JAPAN 0747 19 OCTOBER 1950
“I think I know who that is,” Major General Edward M. Almond, USA, said to Rear Admiral Ignatius Feeney, USN.
“You what?”
“I suggest you give him approval to approach your ship,” Almond went on. “It might prove very interesting.”
“You’re serious, Ned, aren’t you?” Admiral Feeney asked, surprised.
Almond nodded. “Remember the islands in the Flying Fish Channel that were cleared before we got there?” he asked. “Unless I’m mistaken, that’s the man who cleared them. OSS.”
“OSS? Really?” Rear Admiral Feeney said. He reached for the ship-to-ship microphone. "DeHaven, permit the junk to approach the McKinley.”
Both Navy reconnaissance aircraft and minesweepers on the scene had reported that there were still enough mines in the approaches to the harbors of both Wonsan and Hamhung to preclude the movement of oceangoing vessels into the harbors.
The invasion fleet, both to conserve fuel and because there was no point in making speed when the anticipated course for the next thirty-six hours was one large circle after another, was moving at ten knots.
Ten knots was still considerably faster than what Admiral Feeney—who, with General Almond, was now on the McKinley’s flying bridge—understood the maximum speed of a junk under sail to be, and he was thus more than a little surprised when the junk approached the McKinley head-on, made a quick 180-degree turn, and then pulled alongside.
“I’ll be damned,” Admiral Feeney said. “That junk is motorized.”
A man wearing black pajamas stood on the forecastle of the junk, holding an electric megaphone in his hand.
“Ahoy, McKinley. Can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear,” Admiral Feeney said into the microphone of his electric megaphone.
“I have three wounded aboard,” the man in the black pajamas called.
“Including Major McCoy, apparently,” General Almond said. “Look at his leg.”
The left leg of the pajamas was torn off above the knee. A bloody compress was on the upper thigh.
“Is that your OSS man?” Admiral Feeney asked.
Almond nodded. “Admiral, you are looking at the legendary Killer McCoy, U.S. Marine Corps,” he said.
“I don’t want that junk crashing into the hull,” Admiral Feeney said almost to himself, then took the few short steps onto the bridge.
“The admiral is on the bridge!” a talker called out.
Admiral Feeney approached Captain Joseph L. Farmer, USN, the captain of the McKinley, and asked, “Have you a minute for me, sir?”
“You have the conn,” Captain Farmer said to his executive officer, then followed Feeney out onto the flying bridge.
Admiral Feeney began, “The master of that vessel—”
“Jesus, he’s been wounded!” Captain Farmer blurted.
“—reports that he has three wounded aboard. I was wondering what you think of lowering a lifeboat to the junk— not into the water—and transferring the wounded to the lifeboat from the junk as a means of getting them aboard.”
“I think we can do that, sir,” Captain Farmer said.
He went back onto the bridge.
A piercing whistle and then Captain Farmer’s voice came over the ship’s loudspeakers a moment later. “Attention all hands. All, repeat all, nonessential personnel will leave the port-side boat deck immediately. Port-side Lifeboat One Crew report to your station immediately. Medical Emergency Team report to port-side Lifeboat One immediately.”
The captain came back on the flying bridge.
A much younger voice—that of the talker—repeated the orders he had just broadcast.
The admiral, the general, and the captain watched silently from the flying bridge as the port-side Number One lifeboat’s davits swung the lifeboat away from the ship, and then—after an ensign and three white hats got aboard—lowered it slowly toward the sea.
When the lifeboat was even with the forecastle of the junk, the man with the bandage on his upper left thigh threw a line to a white hat in the lifeboat, who hauled on it and pulled the junk slowly sidewards to the lifeboat.
Five men in black pajamas, all Orientals, appeared on the deck of the junk, then began to move three wounded men up onto the forecastle. Two of them had to be carried. The third was able, with help, to make it up the ladder on his feet.
Balancing precariously on the forecastle, they managed to manhandle the two more seriously wounded men into the lifeboat. Then the man who could walk and finally the American jumped into the lifeboat.
The line holding the junk to the lifeboat was cut, and the junk’s helmsman turned her away from the Mount McKinley.
Electric motors whirred and the lifeboat began to rise against the McKinley’s hull, and then was swung inboard.
The American with the bloody compress on his thigh jumped to the deck first.
He winced in pain, saluted the colors aft, then an officer on the deck.
“Permission to board, sir?” he asked.
“Granted,” the officer said, visibly surprised.
A Navy doctor and half a dozen Corpsmen began to take the wounded from the lifeboat and to place them on aluminum stretchers.
“How are you, Major McCoy?” General Edward M. Almond asked. “That is not pro forma. What’s with your leg?”
McCoy saluted him.
“I took a piece of shrapnel, sir,” he said. “I don’t think it’s serious.”
“Take Major McCoy to sick bay,” Almond ordered.
“Sir, with respect, I need to get a message off as soon as I can. Sick bay will have to wait.”
“What sort of a message?”
“We lost our radios, sir,” McCoy said. “I don’t want them mounting a rescue mission when they don’t hear from us.”
Almond turned to Admiral Feeney.
“The Navy can accommodate the major, can it not?” he asked. “Admiral, this is Major McCoy.”
“Welcome aboard, son,” Admiral Feeney said. “If you’re able to walk, I know the way to the radio room.”
“I can walk, sir. Thank you.”
McCoy gave the chief radioman the frequency, then eased himself into a plastic upholstered metal chair before a rack of communications equipment. The chief handed him a microphone and headset.
“Fishbase, this is Flying Fish,” McCoy said into the microphone. “Fishbase, Flying Fish.”
The reply came immediately: “Go, Flying Fish.”
“Flying Fish is three clicks as of 0530.”
“Understand three clicks as of 0530. What are your coordinates? ”
/>
“Aboard a Navy vessel at sea. If Bail Out is under way, cancel. If Bail Out is under way, cancel. Acknowledge.”
“Acknowledge cancel Bail Out. Bail Out was just about to launch.”
“Who is this?”
“Car Salesman.”
“Killer here. Where Fat Kraut?”
“Sasebo.”
“Say again?”
“Fat Kraut Sasebo. Big Daddy en route Sasebo.”
“What’s up?”
“From Big Daddy. Killer will proceed Sasebo ASAP. Acknowledge.”
“Acknowledge proceed Sasebo ASAP. What’s up?”
“Little Daddy is in Sasebo. Lady Friend bought farm. Fat Kraut carrying bad news.”
“Say again?”
“Fat Kraut carrying bad news, Lady Friend bought farm, to Little Daddy in Sasebo.”
“Understand Lady Friend bought farm. Where’s Beaver?”
“Beaver here.”
“Send Beaver Korean Marine. Wait for me. Acknowledge. ”
“Acknowledge Beaver to wait for you at Korean Marine.”
“Contact Wild Bill Junior. Arrange transportation for me Seoul Sasebo. ETA Korean Marine 1200. Acknowledge. ”
“Acknowledge Killer ETA Korean Marine 1200. Wild Bill Junior to arrange transportation Seoul Sasebo.”
“What happened to Lady Friend?”
“Gooney Bird went in on way to Wonsan.”
“Advise Big Daddy I’m en route Sasebo. Acknowledge.”
“Acknowledge advise Big Daddy Killer en route Sasebo.”
“Send replacement crew for Wind on Beaver. We took two KIA, three WIA. Acknowledge.”
“Acknowledge replacement crew on Beaver. How Killer?”
“Killer fine. Mind the store, Car Salesman. Flying Fish out.”
“Fishbase clear.”
McCoy laid the microphone on the desk and took off the headset.
“About the only thing I understood about all that, Major McCoy,” General Almond said, “was ‘Killer fine.’ And that’s just not so. You’re bleeding all over the linoleum.”
He pointed. There was a small puddle of blood on the linoleum under McCoy’s chair.
“Can you make it to sick bay under your own power? Or shall we get you onto a stretcher?” Almond asked.
“I’ve got to get to Wonsan, sir. I’m all right.”
“You’re not going anywhere until they have a look at your leg. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, there’s nothing in there,” Lieutenant Warren Warbasse, MC, USNR, said to Major McCoy, who was lying prone on a medical table in sick bay. “And no serious muscle damage that I can see.”
“They got lucky,” McCoy said. “Hitting something with a mortar from a small boat under way isn’t easy. I think I actually saw the round coming in.”
“A half inch the other way, and what sliced your thigh would not have bounced off,” Dr. Warbasse said.
“Four inches the other way, and I’d be a soprano,” McCoy said.
“The sutures I’m going to put in will disappear,” Dr. Warbasse said. “There is a danger of infection, of course. The penicillin I’ll give you will probably take care of that. You need a day on your back, and when you get up, it will hurt like hell every time you put weight on it.”
“I don’t have time to spend a day on my back. Can you give me something for the pain that won’t turn me into a zombie?”
“I can give you something—reluctantly—that will handle the pain,” Dr. Warbasse said as he started the first stitch. “The more you take of it, the more you’ll become a zombie.”
“Fair enough,” McCoy said evenly, then: “Jesus, that hurt!”
“If I don’t put these in right, they won’t stay in. Understand? ”
“May I come in?” Major General Almond asked from the doorway.
Dr. Warbasse looked up from McCoy’s thigh.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“How is he?”
“He was very lucky,” Dr. Warbasse said. “And what he should do is spend at least a day on his back.”
“Unfortunately, Major McCoy is not subject to my orders, ” Almond said.
Almond held an olive-drab shirt, and trousers and a field jacket, in his hands.
“A present from Al Haig, McCoy,” he said. “You’re pretty much the same size.”
“Thank you, sir. Tell him thank you, please.”
As Almond watched, Dr. Warbasse finished the installation of the last of half a dozen sutures, painted the area with a purple antiseptic, covered the sutured area with an adhesive bandage, and then wrapped the leg with gauze.
“If you get off that table, Major,” Dr. Warbasse said, “you are doing so against medical advice.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” McCoy said, and sat up.
Dr. Warbasse prepared a hypodermic and stabbed McCoy three times, twice in the thigh and once in the arm.
“With that much of this stuff in you, if you were so inclined, Major, you could carouse all night with little chance of acquiring a social disease,” Dr. Warbasse said. “I will now go get you a bottle of zombie pills.”
“Thanks,” McCoy said.
When he left the treatment room, Dr. Warbasse left the door open. Almond went to it and closed it.
“You want to tell me what’s happened, McCoy?” Almond said. “Officially, or otherwise?”
McCoy did not immediately respond.
“Where were you when this happened?” Almond asked.
“A couple of miles offshore of Chongjin,” McCoy said.
“You had been ashore?” Almond asked.
McCoy nodded.
“Doing?”
“Listening to Red Army low-echelon radio chatter,” McCoy said.
“And?”
“I don’t think the Russians are going to come in, at least now,” McCoy said.
“And the Chinese?”
McCoy didn’t answer.
“Why do I suspect your analysis of the situation is again not in agreement with that of General Willoughby?”
“The Chinese are going to come in, General,” McCoy said. “I think there’s probably as many as fifty thousand of them already in North Korea, and I now know there’s five, maybe six times that many just across the border waiting to come in.”
“Waiting for what?”
“Waiting for the Americans to get close to the Yalu,” McCoy said.
“You have anything to substantiate that belief? Something hard?”
“No, sir.”
“Nothing that would get General Willoughby to reconsider his analysis?”
“No, sir.”
“Inasmuch as General Walker is about to, or already has, taken Pyongyang, the initial purpose of X Corps landing at Wonsan and striking across the peninsula is no longer valid. Under those circumstances, I suspect that I will get orders to strike with all possible speed toward the border. You think there will be Chinese intervention when we get close?”
“Yes, sir. That’s what I think they’ll do.”
“Who have you told of your analysis?”
“I will tell General Pickering when I see him at Sasebo, sir.”
“What’s he doing at Sasebo?”
“I don’t know, sir. Captain Dunwood just told me he’s on his way there. It probably has to do with Major Pickering, sir. I think they moved him to the Navy hospital there.”
“Who’s Captain Dunwood?”
“He commands the Marines we borrowed from First MarDiv, sir. He’s at a little base we have at Socho-Ri, on the coast.”
“What was that business about a lady?”
“I didn’t pick up much more than Major Pickering’s girlfriend, the war correspondent, Jeanette Priestly? . . .”
“I know her.”
“. . . was killed in a plane crash on her way to Wonsan. One of my officers—Master Gunner Zimmerman, ‘Fat Kraut’—was somehow involved in finding that out, and went to Sasebo to tell Major Pickering.”
&nb
sp; “That’s tragic,” Almond said. “The poor fellow. All that time . . . and when he’s finally out of it, they have to tell him . . .”
“Yes, sir. It’s a bitch.” He paused, then added: “I suspect—I don’t know—that’s why General Pickering is headed for Sasebo.”
“And why does he want you there?”
“I don’t know, sir. But he wouldn’t have sent for me unless he thought it was important.” He reached for Al Haig’s trousers and shirt. “Which means, sir, I have to get back aboard the Wind of Good Fortune.”
“That’s that powered junk?”
“Yes, sir. And head for Wonsan. We have a Beaver that will pick me up at the Capital ROK Division airstrip and take me to Seoul. I’ll catch a plane there. Maybe a direct flight to Sasebo, if not through Tokyo.”
McCoy pushed himself off the surgical table. There was pain, and he winced. He turned his back to Almond and slid the black pajama trousers down, and then, with effort, put his leg into the Army trousers.
“What happened this morning, McCoy? How did you take the hit?”
“Bad luck, sir. We had just gotten aboard the Wind of Good Fortune when all of a sudden there was a floodlight on us, and a North Korean—or maybe a Russian—patrol boat out there. We had .50 Brownings fore and aft, and we shot it up pretty quickly. But not until after they got their machine gun—and the damned mortar that got me—into action.”
McCoy put on Captain Haig’s shirt, then tucked it into the trousers.
“Tell Al thanks, please, sir,” he said. “I really didn’t want to have to go find a uniform somewhere.”
“He will be pleased he could help,” Almond said. “You’re sure you’re all right to get back on the junk?”
“Once I get aboard, I’ll be all right, General. I was thinking maybe they could rig a bosun’s chair and lower me into her.”
“I’m sure they can,” Almond said. “Thank you, McCoy.”
“No thanks necessary, sir,” McCoy said. “I’m just glad they don’t shoot the messenger with the bad news anymore.”
Ten minutes later, McCoy was lowered without incident in a bosun’s chair onto the forecastle of the Wind of Good Fortune. As soon as he was aboard and out of the chair, she turned away from the Mount McKinley and headed westward toward Wonsan.
“Admiral, how much trouble is it going to be to get a message to the commanding officer of the hospital at Sasebo?” General Almond asked of Rear Admiral Feeney.
Retreat, Hell! Page 42