Thunder in the Morning Calm

by Don Brown

  The swimmers arrived within a minute or so and climbed up on the pontoons. They reached up and guided the metal basket down and opened the door of the aircraft.

  They strapped Frank’s body in first, and the basket swung out over the water, hanging from the steel cable. Gunner and Keith watched as the basket ascended up into the chopper. A couple of minutes later, the basket was lowered again. “Keith, you’re next,” Gunner said.

  Keith protested. “Marines don’t go before ladies,” he said, seeming to come back to life.

  But Pak refused. “Once you are aboard that helicopter,” she said, “you will be almost home in your country again. You have waited many years for this.”

  Gunner and the others sided with Pak, so Keith went next. He was followed by Pak, then Jung-Hoon, and then Jackrabbit. Gunner insisted on going last.

  With everyone finally settled in the helicopter, Jackrabbit quietly told the pilot and copilot that he needed to take care of some unfinished business. He explained how he had rigged the Cessna with explosives to send it to the bottom and keep it out of the hands of the North Koreans.

  With the helicopter still within range and angled to look back at the floatplane, Jackrabbit pushed the remote. “Good to go,” he told the pilot.

  They headed for the Truman, and Jackrabbit watched the Cessna as it got smaller and smaller. Then … POOF! A column of black smoke billowed out and hung there like a death shroud, then was lifted up and away by the wind. Jackrabbit smiled. The plane was gone. He saw only the sea.

  Fifteen minutes later, the Seahawk flew in over the fantail of the USS Harry S. Truman. The chopper hovered over the flight deck and slowly feathered down and landed.

  Deck crews rushed to the helicopter and opened the cargo door. Two Navy corpsmen were the first aboard the helicopter. They removed Frank’s body, first covering it with a white sheet and loading it on a stretcher.

  Commander Lawrence Berman, the ship’s senior medical officer, climbed aboard next and walked over to Keith. “Sir, I’m Dr. Berman. I’m the ship’s doctor. Would you come with me, please?” Pak, Jackrabbit, and Jung-Hoon then stepped out onto the windy deck. Gunner was last.

  Three senior officers formed an arms-folded semicircle outside the chopper. They included the Truman’s commanding officer, Captain Charles Harrison; her executive officer, Commander Rawlinson Petty; and Captain Anthony Farrow, Admiral Hampton’s chief of staff.

  “Good morning, sir,” Gunner said to the senior of the three, Captain Harrison.

  “Welcome back aboard, Commander,” Harrison said.

  “Commander,” Captain Farrow said, “you just have time to go get cleaned up, get in your uniform, and report to the admiral at ten-thirty hours.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  USS Harry S. Truman

  the Yellow Sea

  Lieutenant Commander McCormick.” The admiral dragged out every syllable as if he were about to start the dreaded Chinese waterboard torture. “Where have you been?” Hampton sat back in his chair and played with his pencil as he looked at Gunner.

  “Sir, you told me to take leave.” Gunner stood at attention in his Navy service dress-blue uniform, staring straight ahead and not daring to make eye contact.

  “Yes, I suppose I did, didn’t I?”

  Gunner did not respond.

  “Of course I don’t recall ordering you also to transform yourself into a one-man Rambo squad.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Or even a three-man Rambo squad.”

  Gunner hesitated. “No, sir, you did not.”

  Hampton stood, crossed his arms, and walked over to the side of his office. He didn’t look at Gunner. “We’ve interviewed Colonel Jung-Hoon and Lieutenant Colonel Davenport.” The admiral shook his head. “We know what happened.”

  “Understand, sir.”

  “Boy, when you decide to associate yourself with retired Special Forces guys, you don’t mess around, do you?”

  Gunner didn’t know what to say. “Unfortunately, sir, there weren’t many retired Navy SEALs that I could find in South Korea.”

  “You sure fooled the North Koreans.”

  Again, Gunner did not respond.

  “Interesting, isn’t it? You take leave, as I ordered. You purchase a yellow aircraft. You decide to take that plane, according to the flight plan, to Japan with your two newfound friends, who happen to be the meanest, baddest, fighting machines in all of South Korea not dubbed with the title Navy SEAL. Your pilot calls in a distress signal. Two hours or so after that, the flagship North Korean frigate, the Najin, blows up and sinks … although I can’t give you credit for that one.” The admiral paused and shook his head. “Less than forty-eight hours later, you show up in another private single-engine plane, flown out of China, this one with pontoons, and right before my fighter pilot shoots it down, your pilot lands it in the Yellow Sea. My choppers pull you and your two buddies out, along with a Korean woman, the body of an old man, plus another old man. Both US Marines who have been in prison in North Korea for sixty years. You entered a Communist dictatorship, without authority, when military tensions are high with the United States. And you proceed to attack and obliterate a Communist military prison and kill who-knows-how-many North Korean soldiers.”

  Gunner stood there. “I don’t know what to say, sir.”

  “You know I could court-martial you for this, don’t you?”

  “Sir,” Gunner said, “I am prepared to resign my commission and plead guilty to whatever charges JAG wants to throw at me.”

  Another awkward period of silence.

  “Yes, well, I appreciate the offer. That would save me a lot of trouble.” The admiral sat back down in his chair and twirled his yellow number 2 pencil between his fingers. “But before you do that, I at least want to tell you what we’ve found out about the two gentlemen you brought back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We did dental impressions of them both and matched them against records held at the National Military Personnel Records Center in St. Louis.” He picked up a sheet of paper. “The deceased is HN3 Frank Dinardo, of Oak Park, Illinois. Eighty-four years old. He was a Navy hospital corpsman detached to the First Marine Division. He volunteered for service with the First Marine Division in Korea.”

  Hampton laid down that paper and picked up another. “The other is a Second Lieutenant Robert Keith Pendleton, age eighty-three, actually now Colonel Robert Keith Pendleton, because he was promoted in absentia as an MIA — of Suffolk, Virginia.”

  Hampton looked up from the paper. “That name ring a bell?”

  Gunner looked down. Had he heard that right? His heart fired into afterburner mode.

  “Yes, I thought that might break that stiff stance of yours.” The admiral’s stern face showed a tinge of a smile, but not for long. “Colonel Pendleton is suffering from shell shock, from fatigue, from dehydration, from arthritis, from an infected foot as a result of a slice from a whip, and from malnourishment. They’ve got an IV in him and are pumping in antibiotics. Other than that, Dr. Berman says he’ll be fine.”

  Hampton laid the paper down. “Your grandfather, Commander, is one tough Marine.”

  Gunner felt tears welling in his eyes.

  “At ease, Commander. Relax for a second.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He wiped his eyes. “I thought my grandfather had died a few days ago. They said they had buried a Marine named Robert.”

  “Yes, we interviewed Colonel Pendleton about that. That Robert was Second Lieutenant Robert Harold Ward of North Carolina, your grandfather’s best friend. Your grandfather, years ago, started going by his middle name of Keith to avoid confusion and out of deference to Lieutenant Ward, who saved his life under fire at Chosin Reservoir.”

  “So that explains the name.”

  “Yes, that explains your grandfather’s name,” Hampton said. “It does not explain my quandary with you, Commander.” He eyed Gunner with a piercing stare. “So the question now is, what do I do about you? Pu
t another way, has the end justified the means in this case? A means in which, I might point out, you have violated a whole host of standing orders and regulations.”

  Gunner wasn’t sure if that was a rhetorical question or one that required a response. “As I said, sir, I offer my resignation now and plead guilty to whatever JAG throws at me.”

  “You know,” Admiral Hampton said, seeming to ignore Gunner, “this ship is named for a guy who had a sign on his desk that said, ‘The Buck Stops Here.’ I’ve always admired that about Truman. Fearless decision maker.”

  “Yes, sir, he was.”

  “And out here, at sea” — he crossed his arms and nodded his head — “with the ships of this strike group, the buck stops with me.”

  “Yes, sir, it does.”

  “Good. I’m glad you understand that. So here’s my official report to Washington that will follow you for the rest of your life.” He put on reading glasses and looked down and picked up a sheet of paper and began reading.

  Lieutenant Commander CP (Gunner) McCormick, while on leave to the Republic of Korea, chartered a private aircraft with two friends for a Thanksgiving weekend furlough to Japan. While in flight, said aircraft developed engine, electrical, and navigational problems, and with the pilot losing total navigational control of the aircraft, it flew hundreds of miles off course and crash-landed in the Sea of Japan near the North Korean coastline. Miraculously, McCormick and his friends survived and were washed ashore behind enemy lines. Attempting to survive in enemy territory at a time of heightened tensions, with the US and North Korean naval forces exchanging fire, Commander McCormick and his colleagues evaded the enemy and, while attempting to escape, came across South Korean and American sympathizers living in the North. Rebel elements within the North Korean Army opposed to Kim Jong-il informed McCormick of the existence of a secret POW camp reported to house a small number of Americans from the Korean War. This knowledge disturbed Commander McCormick, and he persuaded rebel forces to help him organize an underground commando raid, which resulted in the rescue of two US Marines who had been imprisoned more than sixty years, unbeknownst to the United States government. One of the Marines, unfortunately, was killed during the escape into China. The second, Colonel Robert Keith Pendleton, survived and was safely transported back to USS Harry S. Truman, en route to being reunited with his family in the United States.

  Therefore, for extreme gallantry and risk of life in actual combat with an armed enemy force and going beyond the call of duty, Lieutenant Commander Christianson Pendleton McCormick is hereby nominated by this command for receipt of the Navy Cross. Also nominated are Lieutenant Colonel John Michael Davenport, US Army (retired), and Colonel Jung-Hoon Sohn of the Army of the Republic of Korea (retired).

  “Sir …”

  “Your request to resign is denied. Now get out of my office, you bonehead! You’ve got some catching up to do!”

  CHAPTER 27

  US Navy C-40A Clipper

  over Havelock, North Carolina

  five days later

  The big US Navy jet banked to the right, and from the far-right seat next to the window on the first row, Keith looked out and saw the forest of green Carolina pines and the sparkling rivers below. The panorama of green and blue provided his first close-up view of the continental United States in more than sixty years. Though he had kissed the ground at Hickam Field in Hawaii and enjoyed his three days of recuperation at Pearl Harbor Naval Hospital, his heart leaped for joy at the sight of the East Coast. For the trees and rivers of coastal North Carolina were but a few short miles from Camp Lejeune, where he had reported for duty with the Marines as a young butter-bar second lieutenant. Not only that, but when they landed, he would be only 150 miles from home in Suffolk, Virginia.

  “Colonel. Commander.” The Navy lieutenant copilot, who had stepped out of the cockpit, interrupted his thoughts. “The pilot says we’re on final approach for landing at Cherry Point. If you would please strap in, we’ll be on the ground in about five minutes.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant,” Keith said. The click of his seat belt sent his mind racing again.

  Only two weeks ago, he had been slashed by the bullwhip of a savage North Korean guard, convinced he would die a forgotten man, never again to see home this side of heaven.

  Now, here he was in a modern Navy jet, decked out in the uniform of a full-bird colonel in the United States Marine Corps, sitting beside a naval officer grandson he had never met before, who had not taken his hand off his arm for virtually the whole flight from Hawaii.

  In the rows behind them, the commandant of the Marine Corps had flown out from Washington to join them on the flight back from Hawaii, along with the secretary of the Navy, along with CINCPAC, the four-star admiral in command of all the US Pacific forces. In the seat across the aisle, an attractive lady, a public-affairs officer, a Lieutenant Colonel Meg Owens, had tagged along for two days to make sure Keith did and said everything right.

  Surely this was all a dream.

  The jet descended rapidly now, and Keith’s ears registered the descent. He gazed out his window at the tops of the loblolly pines blurring by outside the window, and then the concrete runway came rushing toward them.

  A slight bump signaled the plane had touched down, then a rushing windy sound as the jet braked on the runway.

  As the plane taxied around, the Cherry Point control tower came into view, and under it, on the tarmac, Keith saw a sea of men and women in Marine Corps green and navy blue behind an army of cameramen and reporters. Several reporters stood with their backs to the plane, talking into their microphones, obviously hoping to film the arriving jet as a visual backdrop to their reports.

  The plane came to a stop.

  “Welcome home, Granddaddy.” Gunner smiled and patted him on the hand.

  “Almost home, son,” Keith said. “Not quite yet.”

  Outside, two Marine staff sergeants rolled a portable stairway up to the jet’s cabin door. The copilot stepped out of the cockpit and opened the door. A rush of chilly air blew into the cabin.

  The public-affairs officer looked over at Keith. “Okay, sir, just to remind you of the itinerary, the honor guard will remove Petty Officer Dinardo’s casket from the rear of the aircraft. We will watch those ceremonies on closed-circuit television from here in our seats. After that, you will descend the ladder along with Lieutenant Commander McCormick. The president will be waiting for you at the bottom of the stairway. He will have a few prepared remarks. After that, your daughter will greet you. We have a Marine Corps helicopter waiting to take you, your daughter, and Commander McCormick directly to Corbin Hall.”

  Keith smiled at the mention of Corbin Hall.

  “Any questions, sir?”

  “No, I think that has it. Thank you.”

  Television screens over the seats flashed on, showing the tail section of the aircraft. A coffin draped with the flag of the United States of America slowly descended on a lift from the rear of the plane. Standing at attention waiting for it were six enlisted Marines who made up the pallbearer honor guard and a United States Navy chaplain. They wore dress-blue uniforms with white belts and white gloves. Swords dangled from their belts.

  The Marines stepped forward and lifted the casket. Then, moving in perfect unison, they took one step backward away from the lift. The Marine Corps band began a slow, mournful rendition of the “Navy Hymn.” The Marines moved slowly, step by step, carrying the flag-draped coffin to a black hearse parked on the tarmac. The Marine band stopped playing, and the US Navy Chorus, standing in blue crackerjack uniforms beside the hearse, began to sing a cappella the words of the hymn as the Marines loaded the coffin into the hearse.

  Eternal Father, strong to save,

  Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,

  Who bidd’st the mighty ocean deep,

  Its own appointed limits keep.

  Oh hear us as we cry to Thee,

  For those in peril on the sea!

  “Color guar
d. Pree-zent … arms!”

  “Fire!”… BOOM!

  “Fire!”… BOOM!

  “Fire!”… BOOM!

  Three volleys of rifle shots cracked the Carolina blue sky. Then a reverent silence blanketed the tarmac.

  Keith watched as the hearse moved forward and drove out of view. They were home. Frank was gone.

  A moment passed.

  “Colonel. Commander McCormick,” the public-affairs officer said. “It’s time.”

  Keith and Gunner stood and walked to the entrance of the aircraft as the Marine Band trumpet section broke into “Ruffles and Flourishes.” Then the red-jacketed band began playing a piece of music that Keith had feared he would never hear again.

  From the Halls of Montezuma

  To the shores of Tripoli;

  They stepped out into the sunshine at the top of the portable stairway to thunderous sustained applause.

  We will fight our country’s battles

  In the air, on land and sea;

  They walked down the stairway, waving to a sea of a thousand camera flashes.

  First to fight for right and freedom

  And to keep our honor clean;

  At the bottom, they walked together out on the tarmac. The applause continued.

  We are proud to claim the title

  Of United States Marine.

  The applause kept on and on. Keith realized that the PAO officer and the commandant of the Marine Corps and several other dignitaries were now standing close behind him.

  “This way, Colonel,” the public-affairs officer said. They walked toward the podium set up on the field. And there, to one side of the podium with a blue covering and a round emblem with the phrase “Seal of the President of the United States,” stood a smiling salt-and-pepper-haired man in a navy blue suit and red tie. He was applauding. A limousine with the presidential seal on the back passenger door was parked nearby.