“Why does she want to go to Tokyo?” Commander Stenten asked.
“She says she’d rather be in her own bed, at home, than here.”
“Especially since you won’t be here?” Commander Stenten asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” McCoy said.
“Let me think—long and hard—about this. After I speak with Dr. Haverty,” Dr. Schermer said.
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“And how’s your leg?”
“I don’t think I’d want to do any squat jumps, sir,” McCoy said. “But I can maneuver, and I really have to get out of here and back to work.”
“Back to what you were doing when you were hit?” Commander Stenten asked.
“No, ma’am,” McCoy said, chuckling. “I don’t think I’m quite up to that yet. But I’m okay for limited duty.”
“Let me talk this over with Dr. Haverty,” Dr. Schermer said.
[TWO]
OFFICE OF THE HOSPITAL COMMANDER U.S. NAVAL HOSPITAL U.S. NAVY BASE, SASEBO SASEBO, JAPAN 0855 25 OCTOBER 1950
“I didn’t know about her sitting up all night on a train,” Dr. Haverty said. “That explains a good deal.”
“How is she?” Dr. Schermer asked.
“At the moment, she’s fine,” Haverty replied. “But the idea of her taking another train ride . . .”
“Even flat on her back in a sleeper?” Commander Stenten asked.
The question seemed argumentative. Nurses are not permitted to question the opinions of physicians, much less argue with them. But this was not an ordinary nurse, this was the Dragon Lady.
“Well, what if she had trouble on the way?” Dr. Haverty asked.
“Yeah,” Dr. Schermer agreed. “The husband wouldn’t be much help. If something happened . . . anything could start her off again.”
“She would need medical attention right then,” Dr. Haverty said.
“But nothing a nurse couldn’t handle, right?” the Dragon Lady asked. “Worst case, she starts—”
“You’re not suggesting we send a nurse with her, are you?” Dr. Schermer asked. “I couldn’t authorize anything like that.”
“In addition to the train ride,” the Dragon Lady said, “she got a hell of an emotional shock when she heard her friend had been killed. And when she got a good look at Major Pickering. You don’t think that had anything to do with the trouble she had?”
“Of course it did,” Dr. Haverty said.
“Then you would suggest her mental peace would be a factor in whether she can carry to term or not?”
“Obviously,” Dr. Haverty said.
“She’s a nice young woman, a very nice young woman,” the Dragon Lady said. “Tough, but not as tough as she thinks she is. Who is far from home and alone.”
“That’s true.”
“The prospect of being here alone terrifies her. She wants to be in her own home,” the Dragon Lady said. “I can understand that.”
“So can I,” Captain Schermer agreed. “But what if something happens at home? She’d be alone there, too.”
“They have three live-in servants. She speaks Japanese.”
“Three live-in servants?” Captain Schermer said. “In a major’s quarters?”
“How do you know that?” Dr. Haverty asked.
“I’ve talked to her. Yeah, three live-in servants. Maybe the CIA pays better than the Marine Corps. But she’s got three servants, and she doesn’t live in government quarters. They own a house in Denenchofu.”
“Which brings us back to the question of the trip to Tokyo. As much as I’d like to, I can’t authorize sending a nurse with her.”
“I’m up to my ears in use-it-or-lose-it leave,” the Dragon Lady said. “I herewith apply for up to thirty days’ ordinary leave.”
They both looked at her in surprise.
“I’ve got some friends at Tokyo General,” the Dragon Lady said. “I can explain the situation to them and make sure they lay on whatever might be needed if it’s needed.”
Dr. Schermer looked at Dr. Haverty, and said, “Bob, if she’s not in immediate danger of losing the baby . . .”
“She really would be better off in her own bedroom. If she had quarters here, I’d recommend her release and tell her to get in bed and stay there, and to call for help the moment . . . But she doesn’t have quarters here.”
“So the question, then, is how to get her to her quarters?”
Haverty nodded.
“Commander Stenten,” Captain Schermer said, “in connection with your Temporary Duty to confer with the nursing staff of the U.S. Army General Hospital, Tokyo, you are authorized up to thirty days’ ordinary leave.”
“Thank you, sir,” the Dragon Lady said.
[THREE]
ROOM 16, NEURO-PSYCHIATRIC WARD U.S. NAVAL HOSPITAL SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA 0830 26 OCTOBER 1950
“Come on in, Major,” Lieutenant Patrick McGrory, MC, USN, said to Major Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR.
Pickering was in pajamas, a blue bathrobe, and felt slippers. After a moment’s hesitation, he walked into the office.
“Have a seat,” McGrory said. “I’m Pat McGrory.”
He leaned across his desk and put his hand out.
Pick made no move to take the hand.
“Funny about the seat,” Pick said. “I seem to remember that officers are supposed to get out of their seats when a more senior officer enters a room.”
McGrory stood up. “Sorry,” he said.
“As you were,” Pick said.
McGrory smiled.
“Does that mean I can sit down now?” he asked.
“Be my guest, Mr. McGrory,” Pick said.
“Actually, that’s Dr. McGrory, sir.”
“Be my guest, Dr. McGrory.”
“I’m a psychiatrist,” McGrory said as he sat and motioned for Pick to do the same. “And you are in the psychiatric ward of the U.S. Naval Hospital, San Diego. This is our initial—sometimes called ‘the welcoming’—interview.”
“I never would have guessed, with the locked doors and the steel screens on the windows.”
McGrory smiled at him.
“Funny, nobody told me I was nuts in Japan,” Pick said. “They told me—rather unnecessarily—that I was a little underweight and that my teeth are loose in my gums, but the word ‘nuts’ never came up. At least until yesterday when the guy on the airplane threatened to stick a needle in my arm unless I got on his gurney and allowed myself to be strapped in.”
“I heard about that,” McGrory said. “And I understand you said rude things to the nurse when she wouldn’t let you use the telephone.”
“I wanted to call my mother,” Pick said. “And I am unable to understand why I couldn’t.”
“Well, for one thing, you had just got in, and you hadn’t had your initial interview, in which the rules are explained. You can call your mother as soon as we’re finished here.”
“And when will that be?”
“Shortly.”
“Tell me about the rules,” Pick said.
“They vary from patient to patient—”
“Tell me about the ones that apply to me.”
“—depending on that patient’s problems.”
“My problems are my teeth are a little loose in my gums and I’m a little underweight.”
“You have gone through what I understand is one hell of an ordeal. Do you want to tell me about that?”
“No.”
“Any reason why not?”
“I’d prefer to forget about it.”
“That’s understandable,” McGrory said. “But from my viewpoint, the Navy’s viewpoint, we have to wonder what damage your ordeal caused.”
“We’re back to the loose teeth and lost weight,” Pick said.
“The lost weight we can deal with by giving you a lot to eat. The food here’s pretty good. And, I’m told, as you get your weight back, the loose teeth problem will gradually go away.”
“Then why am I locked up in the booby h
atch? That’s all that’s wrong with me.”
“And I hope to be able to soon certify, after we’ve talked some, that there are fifty-two cards in your deck.”
“Plus a couple of jokers. Take my word for it.”
“There are three categories of patients here. You—because you just got here and have not been evaluated—are in Category One, which means that you are restricted to the ward. If you need anything from the Ship’s Store, for example, you give a list to the nurse, and she’ll see that you’ll get it. You’re not allowed to have money in your possession. When you move up to Category Two . . .”
“Let me guess. I can have money in my possession?”
“With which you can settle your Ship’s Store bill. Which brings that up. When was the last time you were paid?”
“I guess four months ago, something like that.”
McGrory made a note on a lined pad.
“When you move up to Category Two, they’ll give you a partial pay,” he went on. “It will take some time before your records catch up with you.”
“What other great privileges go with Category Two?”
“You have freedom of the building, which means that you can go to the Ship’s Store, and the movies—”
“Whoopee!”
“—and the Officers’ Club for your meals, if you so desire, and where, I understand, intoxicants of various types are on sale.”
“You trust the loonies with booze, do you?”
“Until they demonstrate they can’t be trusted with it,” McGrory said. “The uniform for Category Two patients is the bathrobe and pajamas. That’s so we can easily recognize them if they give in to temptation and walk out the door. Then they’re brought back and it’s Category One all over again.”
“Fascinating! And Category Three?”
“When you work your way up to Category Three, you are permitted passes. That means you can go, in uniform, on little tours of the local area we organize. Free bus service, of course. And, sometimes, when accompanied by a responsible family member or friend—have you got a girlfriend?”
“Not anymore.”
“Pity. What happened?”
“None of your goddamn business, Doctor.”
“Well, in Category Three, if you had—or get—a girlfriend, and we thought she was responsible, you could get a six-hour, sometimes an all-day, pass with her.”
“No girlfriend.”
“As I said, a pity.”
“Is there a Category Four?”
“No. If we don’t think you’re going to hurt yourself or someone else, there’s no sense in keeping you here.”
“Why don’t we just start with that? I’m not going to hurt myself or anyone else. I’m probably at least as sane as you are. So why do we have to play this game?”
“It’s policy.”
“Fuck your policy.”
“You’re fond of that phrase, aren’t you? That’s what you told the doctor on the med-evacuation flight.”
“It’s a useful phrase.”
“Any questions, Major?”
“How do I get out of this chickenshit outfit?”
McGrory laughed.
“By working your way up through Category Three. That means we’re going to have to talk.”
“About . . . what was it you said, my ‘ordeal’?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t hold your breath, Doctor.”
“I hadn’t intended to,” McGrory said. “Well, that’s it. You can go back to your room and fill out your Ship’s Store list. And call your mother. If she wants to come see you, that can be arranged. The nurse’ll explain the rules, visiting hours, et cetera. I’ll see you later.”
“I don’t have any choice there, do I?”
“No. Afraid not. For what it’s worth, Major: You can make this as easy or hard as you want. Your choice.”
Pick stood up, looked at Dr. McGrory for a moment, and then started out of the office.
His right foot came out of the slipper. He looked down, then kicked off the left slipper and walked down the corridor barefoot.
[FOUR]
THE RACE TRACK SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA 1230 28 OCTOBER 1950
Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, jumped nimbly to the ground from the rear door of the Beaver, exchanged salutes with Lieutenant Colonel D. J. Vandenburg, USA, and then looked back at the airplane. Major Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, was climbing down from the copilot’s seat.
McCoy could not conceal that stretching his leg to get his foot onto the step mounted on the landing gear strut was painful, or that it hurt like hell when he jumped the rest of the way to the ground.
Pickering glanced at Vandenburg and saw on his face that he had seen the same thing he had.
McCoy saluted Vandenburg crisply and smiled.
“I see the colonel has appropriated my vehicle,” he said, gesturing toward the Russian jeep.
“I didn’t expect to see you back so soon,” Vandenburg said.
“He says he’s fine,” Pickering said. “I have very serious doubts about that.”
“I’m all right, sir,” McCoy said.
“In a pig’s ass, you are,” Vandenburg said.
Major Alex Donald, who had flown to Pusan to pick up Pickering and McCoy, finished shutting down the airplane and climbed down from the cockpit.
He saluted Vandenburg and said, “Every time I come in here in the Beaver, I devoutly hope there is truth in that crack that the best place to hide something is in plain sight.”
“I’m told General Walker remains convinced his missing airplane is somewhere in Korea,” Vandenburg said. “The last I heard, he was looking around Pusan.” He paused and then looked at Pickering. “We’re going to have to talk about that, sir. The Beaver is assigned to the Presidential Mission, and General Howe—”
“Let’s talk about it at lunch,” Pickering said. “Is there going to be any trouble about the airplane while it’s here?”
Vandenburg pointed toward the base operations shack. Coming toward them from it were Technical Sergeant J. M. Jennings, USMC, and two other Marines, all armed with Thompson submachine guns.
“I thought a perimeter guard might be in order,” Vandenburg said matter-of-factly.
Jennings saluted.
“You all right, Major?” he asked. “We heard you got—”
“I’m fine, Jennings, thank you,” McCoy said.
“You may have to carry him to the Russian jeep, Sergeant,” Pickering said. “But aside from that—”
McCoy trotted to the Russian jeep, jumped nimbly into the backseat, and called, “Anytime the general is ready, sir!”
Pickering turned his back to him and said to Vandenburg and Jennings, “That obviously hurt him. Let’s act as if we don’t think so. But one of the things I intended to tell you, Colonel, is that under no circumstances is he to go forward of our lines.”
“I understand, sir.”
“And if you or any of your men hear that he’s planning to do something like that, Sergeant, you are to tell Colonel Vandenburg.”
Jennings nodded. “Aye, aye, sir.”
“Let’s go get some lunch,” Pickering said, and started toward the jeep.
Major General Ralph Howe, NGUS, was sitting at the dining room table in The House, drinking coffee with Master Sergeant Charley Rogers. The table was set for lunch.
“I’m surprised to see you, McCoy,” Howe said. “General Almond told me you took a pretty good hit.”
“A little piece of shrapnel, sir,” McCoy replied. “I’m all right.”
“That is not exactly the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but,” Pickering said as he shook hands with Howe. “Major McCoy is on limited duty. You do understand that, don’t you, Major McCoy? Limited?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. Then let’s have some lunch and decide where we go from here.”
Master Sergeant Charley Rogers stood up and went through the swinging door into the kitchen. A moment later, two
Korean women came through it carrying china tureens. Rogers followed them into the room.
“Fish chowder and chicken and dumplings,” he said. “If it tastes as good as it smells, we’re in luck.”
“So far as I’m concerned in your where-we-go-from-here scenario, Fleming,” General Howe said, “Charley and I are on the 1700 courier flight to Tokyo, where I will make my manners to General MacArthur, and then get on a plane—a Trans-Global flight, you should be pleased to learn—for the States.”
“You’re really determined to leave me all alone here, are you?”
“There are a lot of things I have to say to the President that I don’t want to put on paper,” Howe said. “After I tell him what I think he should hear, and he wants me to come back over here, I will.”
Pickering nodded.
“I think the first thing on this agenda,” Howe said as he smiled thanks for the fish chowder being ladled into his bowl, “should be Colonel Van’s new status, with which he’s not entirely delighted. I wanted to make sure he understands that while I’m sure you’re delighted to have him, his transfer to the CIA—you—was my idea, not yours.”
“I have to tell you, Colonel,” Pickering said, “that it makes sense to me, and I feel a little foolish for not having thought of it myself.”
Vandenburg didn’t say anything, but it was clear that he had made the decision not to say what he was thinking.
“Let’s get it out in the open, Colonel,” Pickering said. “What’s on your mind?”
Vandenburg met Pickering’s eyes, then shrugged.
“General, in War Two, when I was asked to join the OSS, I decided I could be of more use where I was, in counterintelligence. I never regretted that decision to stay in the Army. Especially after the war, when the OSS was disbanded and my friends who had gone into the OSS— I’m talking about career officers—went back to the Army. They were treated like lepers, sir.”
McCoy snorted. “Lepers with a social disease?” he asked. “ ‘Where were you when we were fighting the war?’ ”
“Exactly.” Vandenburg looked at Pickering and then went on: “Ken told me just about the same thing happened to him when he went back to the Marine Corps.”
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