McCoy appeared at the door, a Thompson hanging from his shoulder. He looked around the area, then started down the stairs. Then he saw General Pickering. He smiled and raised his hand in salute.
That smile’s not going to do you a goddamn bit of good, McCoy!
Your ass is mine. You won’t forget this ass-chewing for the rest of your life.
Pickering marched coldly toward the stairs.
He watched McCoy start down the stairs again, saw him slip, or stagger, saw him grab the railing, and then fall. He ended up sprawled on his stomach at the foot of the stairs.
Two of the MPs rushed to help him.
“Back where you were!” McCoy snapped, and tried to push himself up. And fell back down again.
Pickering rushed to him. He heard two car door slams, which told him that Hart and Keller had seen what happened, and were coming.
“You all right, Ken?” Pickering heard himself asking with concern.
There goes the goddamned ass-chewing.
“Let me sit here a second, sir,” McCoy said. “I’ll be all right.”
“What the hell happened?”
“I guess I got a little dizzy, sir,” McCoy said.
“Keller wants you to do it again, Killer,” Hart said as he came up. “All he saw was the crash landing.” And then he saw McCoy’s face. “Jesus Christ! Did you break something? ”
“No,” McCoy said. “I don’t think I did my fucking leg any good, but I don’t think anything’s broken.” He looked up at Pickering. “If you’ll take the Thompson, sir, these two can get me on my feet.”
Pickering took the submachine gun.
Hart went behind McCoy, wrapped his arms around his middle, and with no apparent effort hoisted him erect.
“You’re sure nothing’s broken?” he asked.
“I would know,” McCoy said. But he didn’t protest when Hart grasped his right upper arm firmly, and motioned for Keller to do the same thing with the left one.
There was the sound of sirens, and moments later, four Military Police jeeps came onto the tarmac from behind the hangar.
“Well,” McCoy said. “I’m glad nothing was really wrong. They took their sweet time getting here.”
“What’s going on?” Pickering asked.
“I had the pilot tell the tower to send MP jeeps here,” McCoy explained.
Four MPs, one of them a lieutenant, all in sharply creased olive-drab Class A uniforms, with white leather accoutrements and plastic covers on their brimmed caps against the rain, rushed up.
“What’s going on here?” the lieutenant demanded, and belatedly recognizing the star on Pickering’s collar points and epaulets, added as he saluted, “Sir? Good evening, sir.”
“I’m going to need a forty-passenger bus,” McCoy said. “And an MP escort to the Dai Ichi Building,” McCoy said.
“What for, Ken?” Pickering asked softly.
“To transport thirty-two Red Chinese prisoners of war, sir. They were captured this morning. I understand General Willoughby doesn’t think the Chinese are in the war. If this doesn’t convince him, I don’t know what will.”
The lieutenant looked at General Pickering. “Sir, I don’t know—”
“It looks simple enough to me, Lieutenant,” Pickering said. “You heard the major. Get a bus, and get it right now.”
By the time the bus arrived, so had a half-dozen more Military Police jeeps, plus a jeep with the logotype of Stars and Stripes painted beneath the windshield, and carrying three men whose uniforms bore WAR CORRESPONDENT insignia. Everybody had a camera.
“What’s going on here?” several of them demanded at once.
“We’re about to unload some Red Chinese prisoners of war,” Pickering said, “who will be transported to the Dai Ichi Building for interrogation by General Willoughby.”
That produced a flood of questions—including “Who are you?”—all of which Pickering ignored.
“Lieutenant,” Pickering said to the MP lieutenant. “Permit the press to take pictures as the prisoners are taken off the airplane. The Geneva Convention prohibits the interview of prisoners without their permission, and I’m sure that permission will not be forthcoming. So keep them away from the prisoners. And keep the press here when the bus leaves.”
“Sir, I don’t know who you are,” the lieutenant said.
“That’s not important,” Pickering said. “I’m a general officer, and you’re a lieutenant. All right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will need a ride in one of your jeeps,” Pickering said.
“Yes, sir.”
"General,” McCoy said. “I want to go to the Dai Ichi Building. ”
“Hart and Keller are going to take you to the hospital, Major, and I don’t want any argument. I’ll meet you there.”
“I really would like to see the prisoners go into the Dai Ichi Building, sir.”
“Even if I told you Ernie’s back in the hospital?” Pickering asked.
McCoy’s face showed his stunned reaction, but he didn’t say anything.
Pickering took pity on him.
“She’s all right, Ken. It’s probably another false alarm.”
“Then there’s no real reason I couldn’t go to the Dai Ichi Building, is there, sir?”
Pickering looked at him for a long moment.
“I guess you’ve earned that, McCoy,” Pickering said. “Lieutenant, I won’t need that ride. Why don’t you start off-loading the prisoners?”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said.
“George, bring the car around for Major McCoy,” Pickering ordered, then climbed the stairs up to the Bataan after the lieutenant.
[FIVE]
ROOM 39A, NEURO-PSYCHIATRIC WARD U.S. NAVAL HOSPITAL SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA 1430 2 NOVEMBER 1950
In Tokyo, and in Korea, it was the middle of the night, and it was raining, a cold, steady drizzle. Halfway around the world, in San Diego, California, it was midafternoon on what Brigadier General Clyde W. Dawkins somewhat grumpily thought of as “another goddamn perfect Southern California day.”
In the back of his mind, there had been a faint, perhaps somewhat disloyal, hope that there would suddenly develop a thunderstorm of such proportions that a full-scale retreat parade would be out of the question. His last check of the weather, just before he got in his staff car at Camp Pendleton, had completely dashed that hope. The weather was perfect and it was going to stay that way.
Major Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, was not in his room when he pushed open the door and marched in.
The nurse on duty in the ward said, “General, if you had asked me, I could have told you he’s in the Officers’ Club.”
General Dawkins turned to Captain Arthur McGowan, his aide-de-camp.
“Go fetch him, Art. Bring him up here to his room,” he ordered.
Major Pickering appeared in his room ten minutes later, smiling happily.
“May the major express his deep appreciation for the general’s very timely interruption?” he asked.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Major Pickering reached into the pocket of his hospital bathrobe and brought forth a very thick wad of twenty-dollar bills, which he waved happily.
“Straight poker,” he said. “I was on a roll. I would never have been allowed to walk away from that table with everybody’s money had this splendid young officer”—he pointed at Captain McGowan—“not marched into the Ping-Pong room and announced, ‘General Dawkins’s compliments, Major. The general desires to see you at your earliest convenience.’ ”
Dawkins smiled and shook his head.
“Art, give us a minute alone, will you?” Dawkins said.
Pick waited until McGowan had left the room, then asked, “Why do I think I’m not going to like this?”
“Sit down, Pick, and don’t open your mouth until I give you permission. That’s an order. Say, ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ ”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Pick said, and sat down in the
folding chair.
“At 1700 hours this date, there will be a retreat parade at Camp Pendleton . . .”
“Yes, sir?” Pick asked.
Dawkins held up his index finger, indicating he really wanted silence.
“. . . in which,” Dawkins went on, “approximately a regiment of Marines stationed at Camp Pendleton, plus approximately a heavy company—about six boot platoons—of new Marines who are graduating from the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego, as we speak, plus a company-sized group of Marines from Naval Air Station Miramar, will participate. Additionally, there will be a fly-over by fighter aircraft from Miramar and from Marine Corps Air Station El Toro.
“The purpose of this exercise is to present, under appropriate circumstances, various decorations to members of the Marine Corps. Fifteen decorations, in all, will be presented, ranging upward in prestige from the Purple Heart to the Navy Cross, which, as you know, is the nation’s second-highest medal for valor. We are sure the recruits, now Marines, will be inspired to see all the heroes in the flesh.”
He stopped, looked at Pick, and raised his index finger again.
“The reason for the Marines from Miramar and the fly-over by planes from El Toro and Miramar is because the Navy Cross is to be awarded to one of their own.”
He stopped.
“You may speak, Major Pickering,” he said.
“You are not talking about me,” Pick said.
“I am talking about you. My adjutant will read aloud, for the edification of all concerned, the citation I showed you a couple of days ago.”
“But, Dawk, I told you that wasn’t my citation!”
“Under the present circumstances, Major, I think it would be best if you addressed me as ‘General Dawkins.’ ”
“Aye, aye, sir. But it’s bullshit, and you know it.”
“I attempted, Major, to raise your doubts about the wording of the citation to the commandant,” Dawkins said. “The commandant called me personally. He said that he had just had a visit from the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, who used to be an Army four-star, and who told him the President of the United States had asked him to find out if the Navy Cross he had ordered for you had been awarded, and if not, why not, and if not, when would it be. The wording of the citation was not open for discussion.”
“It’s bullshit,” Pick repeated. “I won’t take it.”
“It may be bullshit, but you will take it, and you will not make any comment now, or in the future, to anyone, including me, that will in any way suggest that there is something wrong with the wording of the citation, or that you did not do what the citation says you did.” Dawkins paused. “Say, ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ ”
“General, ‘Aye, aye, sir’ means I understand and will comply with the order. I’m not sure I can do that.”
“Yes, goddamn you, Pick, you will. You’re a Marine officer, and you will take an order. Say, ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ ”
“Jesus Christ!”
“You can—and knowing you as I do, you’re entirely capable of—doing something this afternoon to protect what you think is your honor. ‘I cannot, in good conscience, accept this . . .’ or something similar. If you do that, you will be pissing on the Marine Corps, insulting a lot of good Marines, and personally embarrassing me. Your call, Pick. But you will get into a uniform, and you will get in the car that will carry you out to Pendleton, and you will line up with the others to be decorated, or so help me Christ, I’ll have you court-martialed.”
Dawkins pushed himself abruptly out of the chrome, plastic-upholstered armchair and headed for the door.
“General!” Picked called after him.
Dawkins turned.
“I really don’t give a shit about getting court-martialed, ” Pick said. “But for you, Dawk, because of . . . If you think it’s important that I . . . Aye, aye, sir.”
Dawkins looked at him for a moment, then nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “Thank you. Now tit for tat: So far as deserving the Navy Cross is concerned, I put you in for the Navy Cross on Guadalcanal. Before I put Billy Dunn in for his. They said we could have only one—I never understood that, but that’s what they said—and they decided it should go to Billy, because he was the squadron commander. I protested as loudly as I could, and was told to butt out. I’ve always felt you deserved it more than he does.”
“Jesus Christ!” Pick said.
“And if you want, you can tell Billy I told you that, and on my word as a Marine officer, I’ll confirm it. Or you can be a good Marine officer and keep that between us.”
“Yes, sir,” Pick said.
“See you on the parade ground, Major,” Dawkins said, and pushed the door with his hand to swing it open. It didn’t, and he pushed harder, and this time it swung outward.
Captain McGowan was standing there. Mrs. Babs Mitchell was standing behind him.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Mitchell,” General Dawkins said, holding open the door. “Please come in. I was just leaving.”
“Am I interrupting anything?” Mrs. Babs Mitchell asked.
“No, you’re not,” Dawkins said. “We have concluded our business. Good afternoon, ma’am.”
Mrs. Babs Mitchell entered the room. General Dawkins went through the door and it swung closed after him.
“Was it all right that I came without calling first?” Babs Mitchell asked.
No. Jesus Christ, those eyes!
“Of course. The general got me out of a poker game at just the right time.”
“Excuse me?”
“I was playing poker at the club,” Pick said, and pulled the thick wad of bills from his bathrobe pocket. “And I was way ahead, and wanted to quit, but couldn’t think of a way to.”
Jesus Christ, I’m babbling!
“Oh,” she said, obviously confused. Then she asked, “You won all that money?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “How are you doing?”
“Fine,” she said. “How about you?”
I’m just trying to sort out that I’m going to get a Navy Cross I absolutely don’t deserve but have to take for the good of the Corps, but that’s all right, because I didn’t get the Navy Cross Billy Dunn got, even though I deserved it more than he did.
And when I saw you, my heart jumped.
In addition to which, I learned, just before I went to the club to play poker so that I wouldn’t have to think about it, that Jeanette’s body is already here. A day early. Flown to the States, probably because of Dad, as cargo in a Lockheed Constellation of Trans-Global Airways. Too late to reschedule the welcoming ceremony, of course, so that will be held tomorrow, as per schedule. And I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to handle that.
Aside from that, everything’s just hunky-dory.
“I’m fine.”
“You look a little funny, Pick,” Babs said. “Are you sure?”
When she looks at me that way . . .
“I’m fine.”
The door swung inward, and General Dawkins walked back in.
“Excuse me,” he said.
“Is it too much to hope there’s been a change in the schedule?” Pick asked.
“There may be,” Dawkins said. “Depending on Mrs. Mitchell.”
“I don’t understand,” Babs said.
“Mrs. Mitchell, Captain McGowan tells me that you haven’t received your husband’s decorations,” Dawkins said.
“I told . . . whatever his name is, the next-of-kin officer, that I would prefer to get them later, that I wasn’t up to two ceremonies, the funeral, and that,” she said.
“If you don’t like this idea, just say no. I assure you I’ll understand,” Dawkins said. “This afternoon, there is going to be a retreat parade at Camp Pendleton, during which a number of Marines are to be decorated—”
“Oh, I don’t think so, General,” Babs interrupted.
“—including Major Pickering,” Dawkins went on, “who will receive the Navy Cross.”
Babs looked
at Pick.
Oh, Christ, don’t look at me that way!
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.
“He didn’t know until I told him just now,” Dawkins said.
“What are you proposing, General Dawkins?” Babs Mitchell asked. “That I get Dick’s medals at the parade? ”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s just what I am suggesting.”
“Thank you, but no, thank you,” she said.
“I understand,” Dawkins said.
“Pick, what do you think?” Babs asked, looking into his eyes. “Wouldn’t I be out of place?”
I really wish you wouldn’t turn to me for advice, Mrs. Mitchell, he thought. I’m the last sonofabitch in the world who should be offering advice to you.
“No. No, you wouldn’t be out of place. You’re entitled to Dick’s medals. And getting them at a retreat parade would be something you’d remember the rest of your life.”
She exhaled audibly.
“Maybe you’re right,” Babs said, and turned to Dawkins. “All right, General. What do I have to do?”
“I’m going to send an officer to escort Major Pickering, ” Dawkins said. “Would you like him to pick you up, too, and take you out to Pendleton?”
She thought a moment.
“Yes. That would probably be best. What time?”
“The retreat parade starts at 1700, which means you’d have to leave San Diego at, say, 1600.”
She looked at her watch. “That doesn’t give me much time to dress. Simple black dress, hat, and gloves?”
“Spoken like a true Marine officer’s wife,” Dawkins said. And then heard what he had said. “That was intended to be a compliment, Mrs. Mitchell.”
“And I took it as one,” Babs Mitchell said. “That’s what I was, until recently—a Marine officer’s wife.”
She put her hand on Pick’s arm. The warmth of her fingers immediately went through the thin hospital bathrobe.
You really have absolutely no idea what you’re doing to me, do you?
“I’ll see you in a little while,” she said. “I’m relying on you to get me through this. The escort officer will pick you up first, and then me, right?”
“I think that would be best,” General Dawkins said.
When she took her hand from Pick’s arm and headed for the door, Captain McGowan pushed it open and held it open as she passed through it, and then General Dawkins followed. Then he went through it and it swung shut.
Retreat, Hell! Page 58