There was something about Major McCoy's tone of voice that made Sergeant Wandowski decide that he really didn't have to check the major's . ID card.

He picked up the telephone, and had the operator connect him with the commanding officer's quarters.

"Hold the major there, Sergeant," Captain Schermer ordered. "Someone will be there shortly."

Captain Schermer's Navy-gray 1950 Ford station wagon rolled up to the main gate several minutes later. A Marine captain, who looked like a circus strong man, jumped out of the front passenger seat and walked quickly to where Sergeant Wandowski was standing by the Air Force jeep. Sergeant Wandowski saluted.

The Marine captain returned the salute.

"Good evening, sir," he said.

Major McCoy, shaking his head, returned the salute.

"The general's compliments, sir," the Marine captain went on. "The general hopes that you had a pleasant flight, sir, and asks that you join him in his car."

Sergeant Wandowski took a closer look at the Ford station wagon. There was a man in the backseat from whose collar points and epaulets gleamed the silver stars of a brigadier general. Sergeant Wandowski popped to attention and saluted. The general returned the salute.

"Thank you, Captain," McCoy said. "I would be delighted to do so." He got out of the Air Force jeep, said, "Thanks for the ride, Sergeant," to the driv­er, and walked toward the Ford. The captain ran ahead of him, pulled the rear door of the station wagon open, and stood to attention as Major McCoy got in the back beside the brigadier general. Then he ran around the front and got in beside the driver.

As the station wagon drove away, Sergeant Wandowski saluted again. The captain returned his salute.

"What the hell was that all about?" Brigadier General Pickering asked.

"Considering the circumstances," Captain George F. Hart said, "I thought a little levity was in order."

"What circumstances, George?" McCoy asked.

"Where should I start?" Hart said. "For openers, Banning showed up with a hair up his ass, and the boss had to pull it out of him that Milla's in the hos­pital in Charleston with breast cancer."

"Jesus Christ!"

"You could have phrased that with a bit more tact, and substantially more respect for a senior officer," Pickering said. "But let's start with you, Ken. How are you?"

"Then you weren't wounded very early this morning?"

"How'd you hear about that?" McCoy asked, genuinely surprised. "I took a little shrapnel hit, nothing serious."

"We shall shortly find out how accurate a statement that is," Pickering said.

"Sir?"

Pickering pointed out the windshield. McCoy looked and saw they were ap­proaching a three-story building. An illuminated arrow pointed to the emer­gency entrance.

"General, I just had this thing bandaged. . . ."

"And now the hospital commander himself is going to have a look at it," Pickering said.

Two hospital Corpsmen, a nurse, and a gurney were waiting outside the emergency room door.

"I don't need that," McCoy protested.

"I had to talk him out of sending an ambulance to the airport," Hart said.

One hospital Corpsman and the nurse came quickly to the station wagon. The second Corpsman pushed the gurney up to it.

McCoy winced when he got out of the station wagon. Pickering saw it.

"I don't need that," McCoy said. "Thanks anyway."

"Get on the gurney, Ken," Pickering said. "That's not a friendly suggestion. The response I expect is Aye, aye, sir.' "

"Aye, aye, sir," McCoy said.

He winced again as the Corpsmen helped him onto the stretcher.

"Where'd you get it, Ken?" Hart asked.

"Left leg, four inches from the family jewels," McCoy said, and then re­membered the nurse, and added, "Sorry."

The nurse ignored the apology.

"Where were you first treated, Major?" she asked. "Forward aid station?"

"In the sick bay of the Mount McKinley " McCoy answered, then made the connection. "Oh. What did General Almond do? Send a message?"

"He suspected—correctly, obviously—that you might not mention what had happened to you," Pickering said.

Captain F. Howard Schermer, MC, USN, looked up from his examination of McCoy's now-unbandaged upper thigh.

"Couldn't have done it better myself," he said, then stepped away from the table and made a gesture to the nurse to apply fresh bandages.

"I presume you've been given some penicillin, Major?"

McCoy reached into the pocket of Al Haig's Army OD shirt, took out a folded sheet of paper, and handed it to the doctor.

"The doctor gave me this as I was walking out of sick bay, sir," he said.

"Walking or limping, Major?" Captain Schermer asked. He read the note. "Well, you're full of penicillin. Did he give you anything for the pain?"

McCoy went back in the shirt pocket, came out with a small vial of pills, and handed it to Captain Schermer.

"How many of these have you taken? And when?"

"None, sir."

"You're a real tough Marine, are you? Or maybe a masochist? That has to hurt like hell every time you move."

McCoy didn't reply.

Dr. Schermer walked to a sink and came back with a paper water cup.

"Take two of these now," he said, and turned to the nurse. "See that he gets one every four hours. Make sure his chart says 'do not wake to administer.' And start penicillin again in the morning."

"Yes, sir," the nurse said.

Schermer turned to Pickering.

"Well, General, the major gets at least ninety-six hours in bed," he said. "At least forty-eight of which he should spend offering prayers of gratitude that whatever hit him didn't go an inch deeper. Or four inches higher." He looked at McCoy. "I said take two of those, Major."

"Sir, could I hold off until I can call my wife? She's in Tokyo. I don't want to sound like a zombie."

"Which brings us to Mrs. McCoy," Dr. Schermer said. "Had you planned to tell your wife about your leg, Major?"

"Nothing to tell," McCoy said.

"I think she'll be just a little curious when she sees that bandaged leg," Dr. Schermer said.

"She's not going to see it, sir."

"Ernie's here, Ken," Pickering said.

"She's here?"

"She came to see Pick," Pickering said.

Schermer added, "And a combination of the train ride down here, seeing Major Pickering, and learning of Miss Priestly's death almost—I say almost— caused her to lose the baby."

"Oh, shit!"

"At the moment, her condition ranges from stable to improving slightly," Dr. Schermer said.

"I want to see her," McCoy said.

"I am wondering what her reaction will be to learning she almost lost her husband," Dr. Schermer said.

"She's a pretty tough girl," Pickering said.

"I noticed," Schermer said.

"Ken," Pickering said, "Pick took Jeanette's death pretty badly."

"I suppose," McCoy said.

"Dr. Schermer thought, and I agree, that in addition to her own worries, Ernie didn't need to be any more upset by him. So he's on his way to the States."

"He was that bad?" McCoy asked.

"He needs a lot of rest, Major. Physically and emotionally. He wasn't going to get much emotional rest here—sending him to the States, we hope, will sort of close a door on what happened to him here—and the hospital at San Diego has the facilities to take better care of him than we can here."

"I guess that answers my question, doesn't it?"

"What he did, Ken," Pickering said, "when he finally broke down, was start to cry. And he couldn't stop. And since he didn't want Ernie, or George, or Zim­merman, or-me, to see him crying, that made it worse."

"A vicious emotional circle, Major," Captain Schermer said. "We got it under control here, temporarily, with medicine, but what Major Pickering needs is a lot of time with a good psychiatrist, and they've got better ones in San Diego."

"And we haven't told Ernie about this yet, either," Pickering said.

"Jesus H. Christ!"

"Your call, Major," Dr. Schermer said. "How do we deal with your wife? If you think a telephone call would be better, if you think learning that you've been wounded would upset her even more ..."

"I'm not going to be wheeled into her room on a gurney," McCoy said.

"Can you walk?"

"And I want to go in alone," McCoy said. "And not in Al Haig's Army pants and shirt."

"Is that where that came from?" Pickering asked, chuckling. "Doctor, Cap­tain Haig is General Almond's aide-de-camp."

"There's an officers' sales store in the hospital," Dr. Schermer said. "If you will agree to be rolled there in a wheelchair—and from there to your wife's room?"

"Deal," McCoy said. "That is, if General Pickering will loan me enough money to buy a uniform."

"I think that can be worked out," Pickering said.

[FOUR]

Major Kenneth R. McCoy sat with a white hospital blanket over his knees in a wheelchair in a small dressing cubicle in the officers' sales store. He was wait­ing for his new uniform trousers to be taken in an inch at the waist, and for them to be provided with precisely the correct crotch-to-cuff length. While he was waiting, he was giving serious, just about completely futile, thought about what bright and witty comment, or comments, he would make to his wife when he walked into her room.

He had just about decided that he was not going to be able to come up with something useful when his reverie was interrupted by Captain George F. Hart coming into the cubicle with a dozen roses.

"Where the hell did you get those?" McCoy asked.

"It wasn't easy," Hart said. "A lesser dog robber than myself probably would have had to settle for one of those miniature trees—"

"Bonsai," McCoy furnished.

"—of which the Japanese seem so fond."

"Thanks, George."

"On the other hand, maybe a bonsai tree would have been better," Hart said. "The roses are going to wilt. The bonsai would last for the next century, as a souvenir of this unexpected encounter."

A Japanese seamstress pushed the curtain aside, handed McCoy the trousers, and then folded her arms over her breast, obviously intending to see how well she had done her job.

"Would you please wait outside for a minute?" McCoy said to her.

Her eyes widened when she heard the faultless Japanese. She bowed and backed out of the dressing cubicle.

"That always bugs me," Hart said. "They're always surprised as hell when one of us speaks Japanese, but a hell of a lot of them speak English."

"That's because we're barbarians, George," McCoy said. He handed Hart the hospital blanket, then started to put his left leg in the trousers. He winced.

"You need some help with that?" Hart asked.

"They are surprised when we use indoor plumbing, take showers, and don't eat with our fingers," McCoy went on as if he hadn't heard the offer of help.

He got the right leg mostly inside the trousers, and then, awkwardly, got out of the wheelchair and pulled them up. He tucked his shirttail in, then pulled up the zipper and closed the belt.

"Hand me the field scarf, please," he asked, pointing to the necktie hang­ing from a hook.

Hart handed it to him, and McCoy turned around to face the mirror and worked the field scarf under his shirt collar.

"That hurt. I was better off before I let the doc talk me into the wheelchair."

"What did you do on the plane?" Hart asked.

"Planes," McCoy corrected him. "The Beaver from Wonsan to Seoul, and it hurt to move when I got out of that. Then a C-54 to Pusan. I walked up and down the aisle in that—it was the courier plane, full of chair warmers giving me dirty looks because I was wearing Al Haig's shirt and pants—and it didn't hurt—or hurt less—when I got off it. And I walked—not far—around Pusan to keep it from getting stiff until I got on a Navy Gooney Bird that brought me here. Hospital plane, full of wounded Marines. I walked up and down the aisle of that one, too. And I was doing pretty good until I got here. Now it hurts like hell."

"Moving pulls on the sutures," Hart said.

"Thank you, Dr. Hart. I had no idea what was making me hurt."

He pulled on a tunic, examined himself in the mirror, then turned away from it.

"I think I'll pass on the wheelchair," he said.

"Not only did you give your word as an officer and gentleman, but Ernie's room is way to hell and gone across the hospital."

"Well, maybe I can ride part of the way," McCoy said, and carefully low­ered himself into the wheelchair.

Outside the room with the sign "McCoy, Mrs. Ernestine NO VISITORS," Hart took the roses from McCoy's lap and held them while McCoy got out of the wheelchair and painfully moved his leg around. Then, when McCoy nod­ded, Hart handed him the roses and pushed open the heavy door.

"That will be all, Captain Hart, thank you," McCoy said, and walked into the room.

Ernie was in bed, with the back raised, reading a book. She looked up when she saw him.

"You apparently can't read, Major," she said after a long moment. "The sign says no visitors."

"What are you reading?"

"A novel. The Egyptian."

"Is it any good?"

"It is not about Korea or childbearing," Ernie said. "What's with the roses?"

He walked to the bed and handed them to her.

If I limped, she didn't seem to notice.

"Knowing you as I do, these were somebody else's idea," Ernie said.

"Hart's," McCoy admitted. "You almost got a bonsai tree."

"Are you going to put your arms around me, or I am that repulsive in my bloated condition?"

He leaned over the bed and put his arms around her.

"Oh, Ken, I've missed you!" she said into his neck.

"Me, too, baby," he said.

"How much do you know?" Ernie asked, still speaking into his neck.

"I know it was a damned fool thing to do, taking a train down here," he said.

"I almost lost it," she said. "But I had to see Pick."

"I know."

She let him go, and sort of pushed him away.

"Okay. Now what's wrong with you?" she asked.

"Nothing's wrong with me," he said.

"You're as pale as a sheet, and there's something wrong with your leg," she said.

"I took a little piece of shrapnel," he said.

"Is that why you're walking that way?"

"What way?"

"Ken, is that why you're walking that way?"

"I suppose."

"You want to lie down with me?"

"I want to, but is it smart?"

She shifted herself to the far side of the narrow bed, then patted the near side.

He very carefully got into the bed beside her, but was unable to do so with­out wincing several times.

"I don't think this is going to work," he said.

"You want to feel him or her? Him or her just kicked me again."

"Is that good or bad?"

She took his hand and guided it to her stomach.

"Jesus!" he said. "Does it do that all the time?"

"Him or her does that frequently," Ernie said. "Do not call him or her 'it.' "

"Yes, ma'am."

Their eyes met again. He moved his hand from her stomach to her face.

"My God, I love you so much," he said.

"It took you long enough to say it," she said.

The door swung open, and Captain E Howard Schermer, MC, USN, marched in, followed by a middle-aged, gray-haired, short and stocky nurse whose badge identified her as Commander J. V. Stenten, NC, USN, Chief Nursing Services, and Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR.

"When I told you, Major McCoy," Captain Schermer said, "that you would have to spend at least the next four days in bed, I really had a bed of your own in mind."

McCoy, looking guilty, started to swing his legs out of bed.

"Belay that!" Captain Schermer ordered.

McCoy stopped moving.

"How bad is he, Doctor?" Ernie asked.

"He has been sewn up," Dr. Schermer said. "If he does what he's ordered to do, in three weeks or a month he should be as good as new."

"He very seldom does what he's ordered to do," Ernie said.

"So General Pickering has been telling me," Dr. Schermer said.

"Is there any reason another bed can't be brought in here for him?" Ernie said. "I'll see he does what he's told to do."

"It is against both regulation and policy," Dr. Schermer said.

"That wasn't her question, Captain Schermer," Pickering said.

"Doctor, the sumo bed?" Commander Stenten asked.

"You're one step ahead of me again, Commander Stenten," Captain Scher­mer said. He turned to Pickering. "What I was thinking, General, was that if, in contravention of regulation and policy, we rolled another bed in here for Major McCoy"—he pointed across the room—"the first thing either or both of them would do the minute the door was closed would be to push the beds close to each other. Neither of them should be (a) on their feet and (b) push­ing furniture around. This applies even more to Major McCoy, since he is about to take the medicine for pain prescribed, which is certain to make him more than a little groggy."

"Will you behave, Ken?" Pickering asked.

Captain Schermer ordered: "Get the bed, Commander."

"Aye, aye, sir," Chief of Nursing Services Stenten said, and went to the tele­phone on Ernie's bedside table. She dialed a number and then issued several or­ders of her own: "Chief, this is Commander Stenten. Get the sumo bed out of the attic. Bring it, now, to 308 in the Maternity Ward, together with two new mattresses and linen." She hung up, then turned to Captain Schermer. "On the way, sir."

"As a matter of historical interest," Captain Schermer said, "when we took over this hospital after the last war, we found that it was equipped to handle sumo wrestlers in need of medical attention. Some of them weigh well over two hundred kilograms—more than four hundred pounds—and they apparently didn't fit in standard Japanese hospital beds. I think these two should both fit comfortably into it."

"Thank you," Pickering said.

"But I think I should tell you, Major," Commander Stenten said, "that if you don't behave, you will almost instantly find yourself in a single bed in Ward F-7, where we care for those suffering from what is euphemistically called 'so­cial disease.' "

"Commander Stenten, Major," Captain Schermer said, "is more or less af­fectionately called, behind her back, of course, 'The Dragon Lady.' Don't cross her."

[FIVE]

Supreme Headquarters, United Nations Command

The Dai Ichi Building

Tokyo, Japan

O9OO 21 October 195O

As they started down the corridor to the office of the Supreme Commander, Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, caught the arm of Colonel Ed­ward Banning, USMC, who stopped and looked at him.

"When we march in there, Ed, we salute," Pickering said. "The Army salutes indoors."

"Yes, sir," Banning said. "I remember."

Pickering waved him down the corridor.

In the outer office, Colonel Sidney L. Huff, MacArthur's senior aide-de­camp, stood up when Pickering and Banning walked in.

"Good morning, General," he said.

"How are you, Sid?" Pickering said. "You remember Ed Banning, don't you?"

"It's been a long time, Colonel," Huff said, and put out his hand.

Neither Pickering nor Banning thought his smile looked very sincere.

"The Supreme Commander will see you now, General. He's been expect­ing you."

"Not for long, certainly, Sid," Pickering said. "You said nine o'clock, and Banning and I stood out in the corridor for fifteen minutes looking at his very expensive Rolex until it was oh eight fifty-nine fifty-five."

"Yes, sir," Huff said.

He opened the right of the double doors to MacArthur's office and an­nounced, "General Pickering, sir."

Pickering saw that Major General Charles M. Willoughby was in the office, sitting in an armchair by a coffee table.

"Come on in, Fleming," MacArthur called.

The two Marines marched in, stopped eighteen inches from MacArthur's desk, and saluted.

"Good morning, sir," Pickering said. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

"It's always a pleasure to see you, as I've told you time and again. Will you have some coffee?"

"Yes, thank you. General, you remember Colonel Banning, don't you?"

"Yes, of course," MacArthur said. "Good to see you again, Colonel. And you remember General Willoughby, of course?"

"Yes, sir, I do," Banning said.

Willoughby gave Banning his hand but didn't say anything.

"This is fortuitous, General," Pickering said to Willoughby. "I was hoping to get a couple of minutes of your time this morning."

"I'm at your disposal, General," Willoughby said.

"Thank you," Pickering said. "The reason I asked to see you, sir, was to introduce—reintroduce?—Colonel Banning to you as my deputy."

"What does that make him, General?" Willoughby asked. "His title, I mean?"

Pickering chuckled. "General, General Smith and I got a laugh out of that, too, in Washington, when he made the appointment. General Smith asked, 'If Colonel Banning is going to be Deputy to the Deputy Director of the CIA for Asia, what are we going to call his number two, when he inevitably appoints one? The Deputy to the Deputy to the Deputy Director?' "

MacArthur chuckled.

"Obviously, the nomenclature on your manning chart needs some work. But Banning is obviously a sound choice for the job, whatever the title, and I look forward to working with you again, Colonel, and I'm sure General Willoughby is similarly pleased."

"Thank you, sir," Banning said.

"Speaking of intelligence, Fleming," MacArthur said, "I got several interesting bits of intelligence just now by officer courier from Ned Almond—on an Interoffice Memorandum form, which also seems a bit incongruous, with Ned's office right now being on the Mount McKinley and mine here—which I really wanted to talk to you about." "Yes, sir?"

"Ned said that he'd run into your man McCoy—more about that in a moment—and that McCoy had told him it is his belief that the Russians will not enter this war, but that the Chinese certainly will." It was a question as well as a statement.

"If Major McCoy said anything like that—and I don't doubt that he did— it was unofficial, out of channels, and if the rank difference were not so great, I'd say between friends. That was not the CIA speaking."

"General Almond took pains to make sure I understood that," MacArthur said. "McCoy, he said, admitted that he had absolutely nothing concrete on which to base this conclusion. But your man McCoy obviously impressed Ned to the point where Ned thought he should pass it on to me. And I would be grateful to learn what you think."

"General," Pickering said, "unofficially, out of channels, and between friends—if I may so presume—and absolutely not as a statement, or even an opinion, of the CIA, I'd bet on McCoy."

"My sources, General Pickering," Willoughby said coldly, "have turned up nothing that suggests that either the Chinese or the Soviets are coming in."

"Which I find disappointing," MacArthur said. He stopped when he saw the look on Willoughby's face. "Because, Willoughby," he went on, "if they crossed the border into northern Korea, I would have the opportunity to bloody the Chinese nose, something which could be rather easily accomplished with our available airpower, and without the political ramifications incident to our crossing the border into China."

MacArthur paused, then went on: "I was disappointed in the conclusions you have drawn from your intelligence, Willoughby, not with the intelligence."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Do you follow my reasoning, Fleming?" MacArthur asked.

"I'm not sure, sir."

"We're talking about face," MacArthur explained. "The importance of which never seems to be understood in Washington. Let me try to explain: My basic reasoning in not wanting to cross the Chinese border for any purpose, in any strength, for any distance—and, Fleming, I am fully aware there are many Washingtonians who sincerely believe I am frothing at the mouth for any ex­cuse to cross the border—is face.

"A platoon of American soldiers in Manchuria would cause the Chinese to lose face. They would be forced to regain face, not only by expelling the American force, but by retaliating. They would feel wholly justified to send a company—or even a battalion—across the border to regain face. What would happen next I can only conjecture, but I know as certainly as I do that the sun will rise in the morning that the only circumstances under which a war with China should be fought is when the objective is total victory, the total de­struction of the Chinese Communist infrastructure of government. I doubt if that could be accomplished without the use of nuclear weapons. And I cer­tainly am not advocating such a move or, indeed, any military action which, even by accident, sees even the aforementioned platoon of infantry cross the border."

Pickering thought: He wants to give meand probably Banning, and maybe even Charley Willoughbythis little lecture, of course, but I think he hopesmaybe expectsthat I will immediately report it to Truman. Which, of course, I will. Am I thereby being manipulated? Or just doing my job?

"However," MacArthur went on, "the reverse is not true. If the Chinese were to be so misguided as to send a military force—even a substantial one, say a hundred thousand men, even two hundred thousand—across the border, and we annihilated most of it—as we are completely prepared to do—and sent the rest fleeing in chaotic retreat back across the border, while they would lose some face, they wouldn't lose much. The Chinese capacity for self-delusion is limitless. They would immediately say the force they sent was inconsequential, and that they withdrew of their own choosing. And, since face does not govern my military actions, we would not retaliate—for the reasons I have just given—and the incident would end there. To our advantage. We would have reduced a substantial military force to ineffectiveness, and bloodied their nose, imparting the lesson that the United States of America cannot be pushed around with impunity."

Pickering thought: He believes that, and he's just about got me convinced, too. I wonder what Beetle Smith would think, if he were here?

"For those reasons, Fleming," MacArthur went on, "unofficially, out of channels, and between friends—if I may so presume—and absolutely not as a statement, or even an opinion, of the UNC Supreme Commander . .

He paused, waiting for appreciation of his wit, got it in the form of smiles and chuckles, and then went on: "... I really hope that General Willoughby is wrong, and your man McCoy right."

There were more appreciative responses.

"Which brings/us to him," MacArthur went on again. "Your man McCoy."

"Yes, sir?"

"Ned also told me that he had been wounded in action."

"Yes, sir. That's true."

"While behind the enemy's lines on some mission?"

"He was wounded while being exfiltrated from North Korea, where he had gone to eavesdrop on what he called 'low-level Russian radio traffic,' " Picker­ing said.

"Isn't that the job of the Army Security Agency?" General Willoughby asked.

"I can only suppose that Major McCoy didn't get what he wanted to hear from the ASA, General," Pickering said coldly.

"You'd agree, General, wouldn't you, that coordination would have ensured that your man McCoy didn't have to waste his effort—and indeed get shot in the process—if he had let the ASA do their job while he did his?"

"The trouble with that, Charley—" Pickering snapped, and was immedi­ately aware that his mouth was about to run away with him. He stopped.

Charm and courtesy is what is called for here.

Dutch Willoughby is El Supremo's fair-haired boy.

Fuck it.

"—is that you don't mean 'coordination.' You mean control by Charley Willoughby," Pickering went on. "I fired my Tokyo station chief primarily be­cause he 'coordinated' entirely too much with you. That's not our function— one of the things I wanted to make sure you understood clearly when I met with you later on to discuss your relationship with Ed Banning."

Willoughby's face showed anger and surprise. He looked at MacArthur to get his reaction.

"According to Ned Almond," MacArthur said, as if he had not heard a word of the exchange, "while it could easily have been worse, the wound—while quite painful—is not serious."

"He's in the Navy Hospital in Sasebo, sir," Pickering said.

"With your son? That's—I hate to say fortunate—but if they have to be in hospital, it's fortunate that they can be together," MacArthur said.

"My son is on his way to San Diego, sir," Pickering said. "They felt 'Diego could give him more of what he needs than they could." He paused and smiled. "But Major McCoy is not alone. Mrs. McCoy went to Sasebo to see my son, and they—concerned for her advanced pregnancy—ordered her to bed."

"She's all right?"

"She was as of when we left last night, sir. Dr. Schermer says having McCoy there is very good for her."

"Almond also said that he was afraid that McCoy would not mention his wounds to you, and if he did, you would not mention them to me. Ned wants him to have the Purple Heart."

"General Almond sent me a message to that effect, sir. One of the first things that the Deputy to the Deputy here is charged with doing is finding out how I can get a Purple Heart for him."

"That won't be a problem, Colonel," MacArthur said. "Major McCoy will receive his Purple Heart from my hands."

"Sir?" Banning and Pickering asked, surprised, in chorus.

"Whenever I can," MacArthur said, "I like to visit my wounded in hospi­tal, and personally pin the Purple Heart medal on them. I had already planned to fly to Sasebo tomorrow to do so there. And I will take great pleasure in see­ing that your man McCoy is properly decorated."

"That's very kind of you, sir," Pickering said.

"There is, of course, as always, room for you on the Bataan,"

"I appreciate that, sir, but I have a lot to do here."

"It'll be a quick trip. Depart Sasebo at 0600, go to the hospital, and then come right back."

Pickering didn't reply immediately, and MacArthur went on: "A photo of your man McCoy getting his medals from me, with you and his wife looking on—even if not for publication—would be something I daresay they would treasure for the rest of their lives."

Pickering thought: Goddamn it, he's right.

"You're right, sir. I'll be at Haneda at 0600."

"Willoughby," MacArthur asked. "When can you make time in your sched­ule for General Pickering and Colonel Banning?"

"At any time, sir."

"Now, for example?"

“Yes, sir.”

"Well, that's it, then. Welcome back to the Far East, Colonel. Good luck on your new assignment. And I'll see you, Fleming, first thing in the morning."

[SIX]

Room 3O8, Maternity Ward

U.S. Naval Hospital

U.S. Navy Base, Sasebo

Sasebo, Japan

O915 23 October 195O

Captain George F. Hart, USMCR, came through the door trailed by an Army captain—who had a Leica 35-mm camera hanging around his neck, and a bras­sard reading 'PIO' around his right sleeve—and Lieutenant (j.g.) Rosemary Hills, NC, USNR.

"Well, how are things in Honeymoon Heaven today?" he inquired cheer­fully.

"What the hell are you doing here, George?" Major Kenneth R. McCoy— who was sitting propped up in the oversized Sumo Wrestler's Special Bed shar­ing Stars and Stripes with his wife—inquired.

"Captain, the ugly one, with the inhospitable attitude," Hart said, "is Major McCoy. The good-looking one is Mrs. McCoy."

"Good morning," the captain said.

"What the hell is going on, George?" McCoy asked.

"You are about to be decorated with the Purple Heart medal by El Supremo himself," Hart said.

"Oh, bullshit!" McCoy said.

"And the Silver Star," the captain said.

"But not in that bed," Hart said. "When Colonel Huff heard about the two of you cozily together in the wrestler's bed, he made the point that it lacks the proper military flavor for this momentous occasion."

"Screw him!"

"Ken!" Mrs. McCoy said.

"And General Pickering agreed with him. You will get your Purple Heart in a wheelchair, as Mrs. McCoy, in her wheelchair, looks adoringly on."

"And the Silver Star," the captain repeated. "The Purple Heart and the Sil­ver Star."

"What the hell is he talking about, Silver Star?" McCoy asked.

"Sir, you are about to be awarded the Silver Star and the Purple Heart," the captain said.

"We don't have much time," Lieutenant (j.g.) Hills said, and rolled a wheel­chair up to Ernie's side of the bed. "Can you make it all right, Mrs. McCoy?"

"I'll be all right. But would you hand me my cosmetics kit and the hand mirror from the bathroom?"

"Just as soon as we get you into the chair," Nurse Hills said.

"You need some help, Ken?" Hart asked.

"What I want to know is, what the hell he's talking about," McCoy said. "What about the Silver Star?"

"Sir, you are about to receive, third award, the Silver Star medal," the cap­tain said.

"For what?" McCoy asked, genuinely confused.

The captain reached into his tunic pocket and came out with a thin stack of folded paper. He searched through it, peeled one sheet away from the oth­ers, and started to hand it to McCoy.

"Here's the citation, sir," he said.

"Wait until he's in the wheelchair," Hart said. "El Supremo and entourage are hot on our heels. You can read it after you're decorated."

Hart rolled a second wheelchair to the bed. McCoy, wincing, threw the light hospital blanket and sheet off his legs, swung them out of bed, and gingerly low­ered himself first to the floor and then into the wheelchair.

Hart snatched the blanket from the bed and began to arrange it around his legs.

"Jesus Christ, George!" McCoy said.

"Why don't we put the chairs against the window?" the captain said. "If we close the drapes, we have our background."

"Let me see that citation, Captain," McCoy ordered as Hart rolled him to­ward the window.

The captain handed it to him, and McCoy started to read it.

"This is absolute bullshit!" McCoy announced angrily.

"Ken!" Ernie cautioned again.

"I don't know what the hell is going on here," McCoy said. "But I'm not going to have a goddamn thing to do with it. This is pure, unadulterated bullshit!"

The door was swung open by Captain F. Howard Schermer, MC, USN, who commanded, "Attention on deck!"

General of the Army Douglas MacArthur marched into the room, trailed by Mrs. Jean MacArthur; Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR; Colonel Sidney G. Huff; two other aides-de-camp, a major and a captain; one Army photographer—the master sergeant who was usually at MacArthur's side; one Navy photographer; and half a dozen members of the medical staff of the U.S. Naval Hospital, Sasebo, including Commander J. V. Stenten, NC, USN, who was in Navy blues, and wearing all of her medals—not the ribbon repre­sentations thereof—and which occupied a substantial portion of the left side of her tunic.

"As you were," the Supreme Commander ordered as he followed Mrs. MacArthur to Mrs. McCoy in her wheelchair.

"I'm glad to see you looking so well, my dear," Jean MacArthur said, and leaned over and kissed her. Then she handed her a box of Whitman chocolates.

"Thank you," Ernie said softly.

"Good to see you again, Major McCoy," MacArthur said. "How's the leg?"

"Getting better, sir," McCoy said.

"Good," MacArthur said. "Unfortunately, we are really pressed for time. Get on with it, Sid."

"Attention to orders," Colonel Huff barked. "Supreme Headquarters, United Nations Command, Tokyo, 21 October 1950. Subject: Award of the Sil­ver Star Medal. By direction of the President, the Silver Star Medal, Third Award, is presented to Major Kenneth R. McCoy—"

"Excuse me, sir," Major McCoy said.

Huff looked at McCoy, frowned, and went on: "—United States Marine Corps Reserve—"

"Excuse me, sir," Major McCoy said, louder.

"Yes, what is it, Major?" Colonel Huff asked icily.

"With all possible respect, sir, I have read that citation, and it's . . . it's not true, sir."

"—for conspicuous gallantry in action above and beyond the call of duty—"

"Sir, I cannot accept that medal."

"Major, be silent!" Colonel Huff ordered.

"Just a minute, Sid," MacArthur said. He gestured with a regal wave of his hand for everybody to leave the room. Mrs. MacArthur, General Pickering, Colonel Huff, and Captain Schermer remained behind.

"Let me see the citation," Pickering said.

McCoy handed it to him. Pickering read it and extended it to MacArthur.

"I didn't know about the Silver Star, sir," Pickering said. "If I had, this . . . situation could have been avoided."

MacArthur read it, then raised his eyes to McCoy.

"There is something faulty, in your opinion, about the citation? Is that it, Major?"

"Yes, sir. It's completely faulty. I didn't rescue Major Pickering. He found a lost Army convoy. ..."

"So General Pickering has told me," MacArthur said. "But I put it to you, Major McCoy, that in my judgment, and I'm sure in General Pickering's as well, the citation is not entirely faulty. There is the phrase 'for conspicuous gallantry in action above and beyond the call of duty.' I find that completely justified, even if the details in the citation attached may be something less than entirely accurate."

"Sir—"

"Let me finish, Major, please," MacArthur said.

"Sorry, sir."

"What we have here is a situation in which the Commander-in-Chief, hav­ing been made aware of your conspicuous gallantry above and beyond the call of duty, decided, and announced before witnesses, including General Picker­ing and myself, that it was his desire your valor be recognized by the award of the Silver Star."

"Sir, I didn't do anything that citation says I did."

"That I think can be remedied," MacArthur said. "Sid, see that the citation attached is changed to read, 'for services of a covert and classified nature behind the enemy's lines' with no further specificity."

"Yes, sir."

"Does that satisfy you, Major McCoy?" MacArthur asked.

"Sir, I don't deserve the Silver Star."

"I think you do, Ken," Pickering said.

"And so do I. More important, so does the President," MacArthur said. "Now, Major, may I presume that when we get the others back in here, Colonel Huff can proceed without any further interruptions from you?"

After a moment, Major McCoy said, "Yes, sir."

"Get them back in here, Sid," the Supreme Commander ordered.

[SEVEN]

Aboard Naval Air Transport Service Flight 2O3 (Medical Evacuation)

32.42 Degrees North Latitude

12O.296 Degrees West Longitude

The Pacific Ocean

163O 25 October 195O

Lieutenant Commander Dwayne G. Fisher, USNR, a slightly plump, pleasant-appearing thirty-nine-year-old, came out of the door to the flight deck of the four-engined Douglas C-54 and made his way slowly down the aisle to the rear of the passenger compartment.

The aircraft was configured to carry litters. There were two lines of them, stacked three high. Almost all of the litters were occupied, and almost all of the injured were Marines. They were all strapped securely to the litters, which had thin inflatable mattresses, olive drab in color, but not unlike the air mattresses used in swimming pools. About one-third of the injured were connected to rub­ber tubing feeding them saline solutions, pain-deadening narcotics, or fresh human blood, or various combinations thereof.

Commander Fisher stopped at just about every row of litters. Sometimes he just smiled, and sometimes he said things like "How you doing, pal?" or "We're almost there. About another hour and we'll be in San Diego."

Sometimes the injured men replied, if only with a single word or two or a faint smile. Some stared at him without response. Four of the men in the lit­ters were covered with sheets. They had not survived the flight.

At the rear of the fuselage, where they had been loaded last so they could be off-loaded first, were the NPs. The stress of war had been too much for them, and they were headed for the Neuro-Psychiatric Wards of the San Diego Naval Hospital. They had all been sedated, and strapped to their litters more securely.

Commander Fisher stopped at each row of NPs, but they were out of it, and he didn't speak to them, only gave them a little smile.

At the extreme rear of the passenger compartment was a patient whom Dwayne Fisher wanted to talk to. He was an NP, but the flight physician had told him that was probably just a technical classification to get him to the States. The poor bastard was a Marine fighter pilot who'd just been rescued after three months behind the enemy's lines.

"He's nothing but skin and bones, but he's not over the edge," the flight physician had told him.

"Hi!" Commander Fisher said.

What does this asshole want?

"I understand you're also an airplane driver."

What are you doing, writing a book?

"Guilty."

"Fighters?"

And also Lockheed 1049s. You are conversing, sir, with the current holder of the Trans-Pacific scheduled passenger service speed record.

"Corsairs."

"I flew P-38s in War Two," Fisher said. "Which twin-engine time I parlayed into a job with Eastern. Where I flew these. Which kept me out of fighters when they called me up."

"Reservist?"

Dumb fucking question. If he was called up, he was in the reserve.

"Yeah. You?"

"Me, too. I was flying for Trans-Global."

"Ten-forty-nines?"

"That's all Trans-Global has."

"Nice airplane."

"Very nice."

"You were shot down?"

Back to your fucking book, are we?

"Uh-huh."

"I'm surprised they didn't grab you for NATS," Commander Fisher said. "Most of our guys are called-up airline pilots."

"They didn't."

"I just called our ETA—one hour—to San Diego," Fisher said. "It's been a long haul."

It's been a fucking nightmare.

"It's been a nightmare."

"Walking down that aisle is tough," Fisher said. "The amazing thing is, you don't get complaints."

Not from the drugged or the dead, I guess you don't.

"A couple of hours out of Honolulu, I went to the head. I saw . . . the sheets. How many didn't make it?"

"I counted four."

"I guess the rest of us are lucky, huh?"

"From what I hear, you're luckier than most. You were behind the enemy's lines for three months, right?"

"Yeah."

"And you're walking around. You look like you're in pretty good con­dition?"

"Yeah. I'm in good condition."

The way my commanding officer put it, with devastating honesty, Commander, is that I am a self-important sonofabitch whose delicate condition is my own god­damn fault. He went on to say that my childish behavior caused a lot of good peo­ple to put their necks out to save me from the consequences of my sophomoric showboating.

That should be me under one of those white sheets. Commander Fisher put out his hand.

"I better get back up and drive the bus," he said. "Nice to meet you, Major. Good luck." "Thanks."

[EIGHT]

Naval Air Station, San Diego

San Diego, California

174O 25 October 195O

As the C-54 taxied through the rain, Pick could see a line of ambulances and buses, and beside them a small army of medical personnel and a long line of poncho-covered gurneys.

The C-54 stopped on the tarmac before the passenger terminal, and when the cargo door opened, Pick saw that a forklift had been driven up to the air­craft. It held a platform, on which were four gurneys and eight Corpsmen in raincoats with Red Cross brassards.

The dead were off-loaded first. Four Corpsmen came onto the aircraft, went to one of the bodies, unfastened the litter, and carried it down the aisle to the door and the waiting gurneys. The body was gently moved from the lit­ter to the gurney and covered with a poncho, but not before enough rain had fallen on the sheet to make it translucent.

Then the litter was carried back onto the aircraft, and a second body on its litter carried out to the gurneys waiting in the rain.

When all four gurneys had bodies, the forklift lowered the platform.

When it came back up, there were four Corpsmen, different ones, on it. The flight physician was now waiting for them. They exchanged a few words, then the flight physician turned to Pick.

"Okay, Major, you're next," he said. "Do you need help to go out there and get on a gurney?"

"I don't need a gurney."

"It's policy."

"Fuck your policy."

"You made it all the way here without giving anybody any trouble. Please don't start now."

"I'm not going to get on a fucking gurney."

"You're going to get on it, Major. The only question is whether you do it now or after I sedate you."

"Major," one of the Corpsmen said, "with respect. It's raining out here. Please."

Pick stood up, walked through the door, and climbed onto one of the gur­neys. One of the Corpsmen laid a poncho over him.

Three more NPs were brought off the aircraft. They were not transferred to the gurneys. Rather, their litters were laid on top of the gurneys and then they were strapped to it.

A Corpsman appeared with two lengths of canvas webbing.

"Let me get this around you, and we're on our way," he said.

"You're going to strap me to this fucking thing?"

"That's the SOP," the Corpsman said. "Take it easy. The sooner we get to the hospital, the sooner we can take it off."

Fuck it.

What do I care?

What do I care about anything?

When the straps were in place, Pick could not move his arms and wipe the rain from his exposed face.

So what the fuck?

The forklift lowered the platform, and the gurneys were rolled off it—Pick's first—with a double bump, and then to one of the buses. The buses had enor­mous rear doors that permitted the gurneys to be wheeled aboard them.

The way he was strapped in, he could raise his head. But all he could see out the bus's windshield was the open door of the bus ahead of his.

He laid his head back down.

Several minutes later, he heard the door being closed, and when he looked up, he saw a white hat come down the aisle, get behind the wheel, and start the engine.

The bus turned out of the line.

The next thing Pick saw was a sign: WELCOME TO THE U.S. NAVAL HOS­PITAL, SAN DIEGO!

Chapter Fifteen[ONE]

Room 3O8, Maternity Ward

U.S. Naval Hospital

U.S. Navy Base, Sasebo

Sasebo, Japan

O815 25 October 1950

Captain F. Howard Schermer, MC, USN, as Hospital Commander, was not re­quired to make routine morning or afternoon rounds with members of his medical staff—after all, he had a lot else to occupy his time—but of course he had the unquestioned right to do so.

When he had the time, in other words, he often would join one of the teams making rounds to keep his fingers, so to speak, on the pulse of the hospital. And he would usually ask Commander J. V. Stenten, NC, USN, his Chief of Nurs­ing Services, to accompany him. Between the two of them, very little that needed correction escaped notice.

Since McCoy, Mrs. Ernestine and later McCoy, Major K. R. had been ad­mitted, Captain Schermer had found the time to make morning and afternoon rounds of the maternity ward every day, and Commander Stenten had been free to accompany him.

There were several reasons for this, and chief among them was that both Captain Schermer and Commander Stenten genuinely liked the young couple sharing the sumo wrestler's bed. But Schermer was also aware that he had a del­icate situation in his care of Major and Mrs. McCoy.

It hadn't been, for example, the first time General of the Army and Mrs. MacArthur had come to Sasebo to visit the wounded and ill. Since the war had started, they had made ten, maybe twelve such visits. But never had Mrs. MacArthur brought a box of candy to a maternity ward patient.

And never, to his knowledge, had the hospital had in its care a CIA agent who had suffered wounds behind enemy lines. And whose commanding offi­cer, a brigadier general, the assistant director of the CIA for Asia, obviously had an interest in both of them that went beyond official to in loco parentis.

Captain Schermer, followed by Commander Stenten and then by the Rounds Staff, marched into room 308, where the patients were lying beside one another reading Stars and Stripes and So, You're Going to Be a Mother!

"Good morning," Captain Schermer said. "And how are we this morning?"

"I don't know how we are, Doctor," Mrs. McCoy replied. "But speaking for my husband and myself, I'm pregnant and uncomfortable, ready to go home, and he's pawing the ground to get out of here."

Commander Stenten chuckled.

Captain Schermer picked up their medical record clipboards from the foot of the bed and studied both.

"Well," he said. "Why don't we get Major McCoy into a wheelchair, and have Dr. Haverty have a look at you?"

One of the nurses rolled a wheelchair to his side of the bed, and another started to pull the drapes around the bed.

"I won't need that, thank you," McCoy said, and got out of the bed and slid his feet into slippers.

Dr. Schermer thought: He seems to be able to do so without pain.

Or without much pain.

Or he's very good at concealing pain.

As the privacy drapes were drawn around the bed and Lieutenant Com­mander Robert Haverty, MC, USNR, Chief of Gynecological Services, and a nurse went behind it, McCoy walked to the window and rested his rear end on the sill.

Dr. Schermer walked over to him.

"She means that, sir," McCoy said. "She wants to go home. Is there any rea­son she can't?"

"To the States? I'm afraid she doesn't meet the criteria for medical evacua­tion, and I don't think a flight that long would be the thing for her to do."

"She means Tokyo, sir," McCoy said. "We have a house there."

"You know what happened when she came here from Tokyo," Schermer said.

"She couldn't get a sleeper—for that matter, even a first-class seat—on the train, so she sat up all the way, all night, on a wooden seat in third class," McCoy said.

"I didn't know that," Schermer said as Commander Stenten stepped up be­side him.

"Neither did I, until I tried to talk her out of going back to Tokyo," McCoy said. "You're going to have to convince her there is good reason—that she would lose the baby—if she went back to Tokyo in a sleeper on the train."

"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

O855 25 October 195O

"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

O83O 26 October 195O

"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 hatch? 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

123O 28 October 195O

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."

"I didn't realize until right now that it was that bad, Ken," Pickering said, and then remembered: "Weren't you offered a chance to go into the CIA?"

McCoy nodded.

"Why didn't you?"

"I was a Marine," McCoy said. "I know what the colonel's talking about. He's a soldier."

"The same thing happened to me, in 1948, in Greece," Vandenburg went on. "They really wanted me in the CIA there, and I really didn't want to go. And I didn't. And now, all of a sudden, I'm told I'm now in the CIA. This time nobody asked me."

"Okay, I'm the villain," Howe said. "But don't mistake that for an apology, Colonel. It was my judgment that unless we got you out of the Army, you were about to be co-opted by General Willoughby, and I decided you were too valu­able an asset for General Pickering to lose."

"General, I wasn't looking for an apology," Vandenburg said. "I'm a soldier— I go where I'm sent. But General Pickering asked what was on my mind."

"And I'm glad you told me," Howe said. "The President's going to hear about this."

"General, I wish you wouldn't do that. I'm not whining," Vandenburg said.

"I didn't think you were, Colonel," Howe said. "But my job is to tell the President what I think he would be interested in hearing. And that's what I'm going to do."

"Ken," Pickering asked, "did the same sort of thing happen to Ed Banning when the OSS was disestablished?"

"Sir, Colonel Banning was a regular before the war. He's a Citadel gradu­ate. You know what a fine Marine he is. He was never given command of a battalion, much less a regiment, and he was never promoted above colonel. For that matter, they never used him as an intelligence officer."

"Then why did he stay in the Marine Corps?" Pickering blurted. "God knows, he doesn't need the money."

"He's a Marine, General," McCoy said. "He knows it, even if there are a lot of bastards in the Corps who don't want to acknowledge it."

"That's the end of my contribution to this," General Howe said. "But I'm going to stick around so that I'll be able to tell the President what the new broom is sweeping, and where."

"I'd like to know what you two," Pickering said, pointing at Vandenburg and McCoy, "think the priorities are. You first, McCoy."

"Finding out when the Chinese are coming in," McCoy said. "The 1st MarDiv landed at Wonsan yesterday—"

"Only part of them, McCoy," Howe interrupted. "The 1st Marine Air Wing is ashore and operating out of Wonsan—and Bob Hope and a USO troupe have entertained them there. Even I was there. But there are still elements of the division sailing around in circles waiting for the mines at Wonsan to be cleared. When I saw General Almond—when he told me what had happened to you—he had just had himself flown off the Mount McKinley on a helicopter. I guess by tonight—certainly by tomorrow—everybody should be ashore. The Marines, I mean. They're not going to even try to land the 7th Infantry Divi­sion at Wonsan; they're going to land at Iwon."

"That's a hundred sixty, seventy miles north of Wonsan," McCoy said. "When's that supposed to happen?"

"Tomorrow," Howe said.

"Pyongyang has fallen," McCoy said. "Which means there is no need for X Corps to start back across the peninsula. Which means that pretty soon they'll be ordered to move north instead—"

"They already have been," Howe interrupted again. He looked at Picker­ing. "I was in Wonsan last night and this morning. I used the L-19." Pickering nodded. "Almond already has his orders. The Capital ROK Division will con­tinue advancing up the coastline toward the Russian border. The ROK 3rd Di­vision is going to go north from Hamhung to the Chosin Reservoir, and then up to the Manchurian border. When the 1st MarDiv gets organized ashore, they will follow the 3rd ROK, and—I don't think the 3rd ROK has been told this—pass through their lines, probably near the reservoir, and beat them to the Manchurian border to make sure our Koreans don't cross it. The 7th Di­vision, once it's ashore at Iwon, will attack north straight for the Manchurian border."

"I didn't hear any of this in Tokyo," Pickering said, more than a little bitterly.

"Did you talk to MacArthur?" Howe asked.

Pickering shook his head no.

"Almond told me he got his orders via officer courier," Howe went on. "They're probably known only to the Bataan Gang in the Dai Ichi Building, and they wouldn't tell you unless MacArthur specifically ordered them to. . . ."

"And I didn't ask," Pickering said. "They wouldn't have lied to me if I asked, but I didn't ask."

"Okay. Well, that's it," Howe said. "That's all I know."

"Sir, in these circumstances," McCoy said, "our obvious priority is to get as early a warning of the Chinese intervention as possible, especially since no one else thinks it will happen."

"I think General Almond does," Howe said. "He didn't come right out and say so, but I had the feeling he won't be terribly surprised to encounter the Chi­nese Red Army."

"How do you propose to get 'as early a warning as possible'?" Pickering asked.

"Well, that opens a new can of worms," McCoy said.

"Let's have it," Pickering said.

"Well, while Colonel Van and I were looking for General Dean and Pick— "

"One final question about that," Howe interrupted. "What about General Dean? I know the President will ask."

"I'm afraid all indications are that he's in China, sir," Vandenburg said.

"Okay. You did your best, and I'll make sure the President knows that," Howe said. "Go on, McCoy. Sorry for the interruption."

"When we were looking for the General and Pick, we also trained the men—the Marines we have on loan—as overnight stay-behinds. By that I mean, we dropped them off and went back the next day and got them."

"Using the Sikorsky helicopters, you mean?" Pickering asked.

"Yes, sir.”

"And using—what was the term you used—'overnight stay-behinds'?"

"That's my term, sir. It's not in any book."

"Very little of anything you've ever done since I've known you has been in any book," Pickering said.

"What they do, General," Vandenburg said, "is find someplace where they won't be seen—where nobody would expect them to be—and then they just listen. The last thing they want to do is get in a firefight. There's no way they could win."

"How do you know where to put them?" Pickering said.

"We fly over in the daytime in one of the L-19s," McCoy said. "Zimmer­man or I go along in the backseat. We point out to the pilot where we would like to leave them—usually on some hilltop—and the pilot—who will fly the Big Black Bird—decides if he can go in there or not."

"You're landing helicopters on mountaintops?" Pickering demanded of Major Alex Donald.

"Most of the time we just hover, sir," Donald said. "A couple of feet off the ground. There's no place to touch the wheels down."

"You've been making these flights?" Pickering asked.

"Most of them," McCoy answered for him.

"And this works?"

"Not all the time. But it's all we've got," McCoy said.

"Did you know about this?" Pickering asked Howe.

Howe shook his head no. "This is not my area of expertise," he said.

"What did you mean, Ken, when you said 'a new can of worms'?" Picker­ing asked.

"Well, sir, when we did it north of the line, Zimmerman and I and some of the original Marines from the Flying Fish Channel operation, plus, of course, our Koreans, did it. We never did it with the Marines we borrowed from the 5th Marines."

"Why not?"

"Our Marines are volunteers, sir. The guys we borrowed from the 5th Marines didn't volunteer for anything. I don't think we should send people to do something like this if they're not volunteers."

"Why not?" Howe said. "I don't remember anybody saying 'volunteers take one step forward' when the 5th Marines were ordered to land at Inchon."

"If our guys are discovered, sir, that's just about it for them. That's not like Inchon. We can't go get them."

"And you don't think they'd volunteer if they were asked?"

"I think they probably would, sir, but . . ."

"But what?"

"We borrowed them, sir. The 5th Marines expect them back. What do we say if we can't return them? That they're missing on a mission we can't talk about?"

"Why not?" Howe asked.

"The Marines don't leave people behind, sir. There would be a lot of ques­tions asked we couldn't answer. But people would keep asking them. Pretty soon, a lot of eyes—angry eyes—would be looking at us, looking damned close at us, and we just can't afford that."

"There wouldn't be that problem, would there, if the men from the 5th Marines were no longer assigned to the 5th Marines?" Howe asked.

"What are you thinking, Ralph?" Pickering asked.

"I think McCoy should go to Socho-Ri, explain what he wants these guys to do, explain why they can only do it if they're in the CIA, ask if anyone wants to be in the CIA, and send the names of those that do to Tokyo. Between you and me, Fleming, with an Operational Immediate message or two, they can be in the CIA by this time tomorrow."

Pickering happened to glance at Colonel Vandenburg.

"You've been pretty quiet through all this, Colonel," Pickering said.

"Sir, no one's said anything I disagree with," Vandenburg said.

"And you have no suggestion or comment to make?"

"Yes, sir. I suggest you get on the 1700 courier with General Howe, so you can run this transfer to the CIA business through from Tokyo. McCoy's right— we have to get off the dime. Either do this, if these men volunteer, or think of something else. And right now, I can't think of anything else."

"That'll teach you to ask questions, Fleming," General Howe said.

[FIVE]

Emergency Room

U.S. Naval Hospital

San Diego, California

23O5 27 October 195O

(15O5 28 October 195O Socho-Ri Local Time)

"What the hell is this?" Lieutenant Marjorie Wallace, NC, USN, asked of Lieu­tenant (j.g.) James C. Levell, MC, USNR, pointing out the door,

Lieutenant (j.g.) Levell was the medical officer on duty in the emergency room, and Lieutenant Wallace the nurse in charge. They were in a small glass-walled cubicle savoring a rare moment of respite from their late-evening emer­gency room duties.

A Packard limousine had stopped outside the emergency room. A civilian couple—a tall, slim, silver-haired woman in her fifties, and a portly, dignified, somewhat jowly man who looked about ten years older—were marching pur­posefully into the emergency room entrance lobby.

"I've seen him before, somewhere," Lieutenant (j.g.) Levell said, adding, "Let the Corpsman handle it."

The Corpsman with the responsibility of dealing with whatever came through the emergency room door proved unable to handle it. Ninety seconds later, he came into the glass-walled cubicle where Dr. Levell and Nurse Wal­lace were.

"Sir," the Corpsman said, "there's a civilian—two civilians . . ."

"I saw them. What's up?"

"They want to see whoever's in charge, sir," the Corpsman said.

"Now what?" Dr. Levell said, stubbed out his cigarette, pushed himself off the desk, and walked out of the glass-walled cubicle.

He walked up to the couple—I know this guy from somewhere—and smiled at them.

"May I help you, sir?"

"We're here to see one of your patients," the man said, and added an ex­planation that was more of an accusation. "There's no one answering the door at the main entrance."

"Well, sir, the main entrance closes after visiting hours, which are over at nine, I'm afraid."

"Lieutenant, I think the best way to get this over with quickly would be for you to get the hospital commander on the line."

"I'm not sure I follow you, sir," Dr. Levell said, "but I'd like to suggest that you come back at nine tomorrow morning, when visiting hours begin. There's just no way—"

"Get the hospital commander on the phone, Lieutenant," the man said. "Tell him Senator Fowler is in his emergency room."

Oh, Jesus. That's who it is! Richardson K. Fowler in the goddamn flesh! I knew I knew that face!

"Senator, will you come with me, please? We'll see if we can get the hospi­tal commander on the phone for you."

"Thank you very much," Senator Fowler said.

"Senator," Captain W. Ainsley Unger, Jr., MC, USN, said five minutes later, "there's obviously been a communications foul-up somewhere. If I had known you were coming . . ."

"Captain—or do I call you 'Doctor'?"

"Either's fine, Senator."

"This is Mrs. Patricia—Mrs. Fleming—Pickering. Her son, Major Mal­colm S. Pickering, Marine Reserves, was flown in here last night from Japan. We want to see him."

"Well, Senator, visiting hours—"

"Are over. The young doctor made that clear. Let me put it this way: Mrs. Pickering is determined to see her son, who spent most of the last three months evading capture in Korea, and I am determined that she shall. Now, can you arrange this for us, or should I get on the telephone to the Secretary of the Navy?"

"I'm sure an exception can be made," Captain Unger said. "Do you hap­pen to know where in the hospital your son is, Mrs. Pickering?"

"Room 16," Patricia Fleming said, "NP Ward."

The effect of that announcement was evident on Dr. Unger's face.

"I suspect NP stands for Neuro-Psychiatric," Patricia Fleming said. "Does it?"

"Yes, ma'am, it does. And that may complicate things, as you can well understand."

"I want to see my son," Patricia Fleming said flatly.

"May I make a suggestion, Mrs. Pickering?" Dr. Unger said.

"Of course."

"I think it would be best if you had a word with his attending physician be­fore you see him."

"That makes sense, Patty," Senator Fowler said.

"Okay," Patricia Fleming said, "as long as I have the word with him now, tonight."

"Yes, of course," Dr. Unger said.

Lieutenant Patrick McGrory, MC, USN, looked a little flushed when he came into Captain Unger's office. Senator Fowler wondered if he was flushed because he had run or trotted in response to the captain's call, or whether, perhaps, the young Navy doctor had had a belt or two.

Dr. McGrory immediately put the question to rest.

"I was in the Officers' Club, sir," he said to Captain Unger. "I didn't expect to be called upon to discuss Major Pickering tonight."

"You're not drunk, certainly." j

"Well, I wouldn't want to drive, sir, but I'm not drunk."

"Doctor, you probably recognize Senator Fowler," Captain Unger said.

"Yes, sir, indeed I do," McGrory said with a smile, putting out his hand. "I even voted for you, Senator, thereby enraging my staunchly Democrat family."

Fowler beamed.

"How do you do, Doctor?" Fowler said. "I have myself been known to take a little nip at the end of a hard day."

"You've a connection with Major Pickering, Senator?"

"I'm his godfather," Fowler said. "And this is his mother, Mrs. Patricia Pick­ering, who has herself been known to take a little nip after duty hours." He paused and looked at Captain Unger. "I mention that, Captain, to make the point that neither Mrs. Pickering nor I are in any way offended because Dr. Mc­Grory has had a drink or two."

"I'm glad you understand," Unger said. "And I know how hard Dr. Mc­Grory works."

"Let's talk about my son," Patricia Pickering said.

"Okay," McGrory said. "He's a hard-nose. I'm pleased to see that it's prob­ably genetic, rather than a symptom of his condition."

"I would suggest, Doctor, that the trait may be genetically inherited from both parents," Fowler offered. "Has he spoken of his father?"

"No. Right now, he's not talking to me at all."

"What, exactly, is wrong with him?" Patricia Fleming demanded.

"Physically, he's thirty, forty, maybe more pounds underweight. He appar­ently didn't get much to eat while he was evading capture. His teeth are a little loose in his gums, but a dental surgeon assures me that the situation will clear itself up as we fatten him up. He looks like a scarecrow; be prepared for that when you see him."

"He's in the Neuro-Psychiatric Ward," Patricia Fleming stated, making it a question. As McGrory framed his response, she impatiently demanded, "Why?"

"Well, despite what healthy, hearty, courageous young men like your son like to think, Mrs. Pickering, experience has shown that no one goes through what your son has gone through without some psychological effect."

"And in his case, what is that effect?" she snapped.

"Just so we understand one another, Mrs. Pickering," McGrory said, "I'm on your son's side. I'm going to help him. I'm one of the good guys."

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Okay. Right now he's acting like a perfectly normal young man. That doesn't mean he is perfectly normal. And I won't be able to judge what dam­age he's suffered, or begin to deal with it, until he tells me what he went through, and he's told me that's none of my business."

"There's something I think I should tell you, Doctor," Fowler said. "For the first time in his life, I think, he was in love. I mean, his father tells me that he was in love."

"You mentioned his father before," McGrory said. "Is there something you think I should know about him, about Major Pickering's relationship with his father? Have there been problems there?"

"They're two peas from the same pod," Patricia Fleming said. "They are so alike, it's frightening."

"His father is Brigadier General Pickering, US Marine Corps," Fowler said. "The Deputy Director of the CIA for Asia."

"He didn't get into that at all, and I certainly would have remembered that," McGrory said. "What about this love affair? Did that give him problems?"

"The day before Pick was rescued," Fowler said, "his girlfriend—she was more to him than 'girlfriend' implies—who was a war correspondent . . . Jeanette Priestly, of the Chicago Tribunet . . ."

McGrory nodded, indicating that he knew who she was.

". . . was on an Air Force medical supply airplane. Trying to get into Wonsan, North Korea, it crashed, exploded, and burned. There were no survivors."

"Oh, the poor bastard!" McGrory said, and sighed audibly. And then, hav­ing heard himself, he quickly added: "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Pickering."

"Doctor, the way you said that proved to me that you meant what you said about being on Pick's side. You are one of the good guys, and I apologize for my rudeness to you before."

"Okay," McGrory said after a moment. "We're friends. That will help a good deal."

"May I ask what happens now?" Patricia asked.

"Well—don't misunderstand this; I'm grateful to hear about anything that's given him a problem—we first have to get him to talk about what he went through, and then about the girl." He paused, visibly in thought, and then went on. "Just before I was summoned here from the club, with three, four drinks in me, I had just about decided that the standard technique for dealing with patients who won't talk probably won't work with Major Pickering."

"I don't understand," Patricia said.

"The carrot and the stick," McGrory said. "If they're cooperative, they get to go to the club, even on passes—short, four- or six-hour passes, with a re­sponsible person—and if they don't, we keep them in the ward in their bathrobes and slippers." '

"I see," she said. "He's not going to like that. But it's also likely to get his back up, and—"

"The thought occurred to me," McGrory interrupted her, "that if he could evade capture for as long as he did, escaping from the ward would be child's play for him. We'd catch him, eventually, of course, but that would only serve to increase his resentment. And what we're trying to do is help him, not make him obey the rules. Let me think about that some more. If he understands that he's not going back to duty until I say so, then maybe he will start talking to me. Maybe a couple of stiff belts every afternoon at seventeen hundred is medically indicated."

He looked between them.

"Okay. Do you want to see him now?"

"Can we?" Patricia Pickering said.

"He's outside. He doesn't know why. But I know him at least well enough to know that having you two see him in the NP Ward would not be good for him." He looked at Captain Unger. "May we use your office for about five min­utes, Captain?"

"Of course," Unger said. "Would you like me to leave?"

"No, sir, I'd rather that you stayed," McGrory said. "Mrs. Pickering, you heard the five minutes?"

"I'm grateful for that, Doctor," Patricia Pickering said.

"You can come back tomorrow, of course, but I really wish you wouldn't come every day."

"Whatever you say, Doctor."

McGrory got to his feet and walked to the door.

"You may come in now, Major Pickering," he said, and stepped out of the way.

Pick marched somewhat warily into the room and saw his mother.

He stopped.

Fowler thought: Jesus Christ, he looks like a cadaver. I hope Patty can keep a straight face.

"Boy, I thought we'd done this for the last time," Pick said. He raised his voice to a teenage falsetto: "Momma, Uncle Dick, I don't care what they told you I did, I didn't do it."

Fowler chuckled. "Dr. McGrory," he explained, "I have often found myself accompanying Mrs. Pickering to one of Pick's boarding schools when he had some difficulty with the rules."

"How are you, son?" Patricia Pickering asked.

"Well, now that they've stopped beating me, taken off the chains, and let me out of the straitjacket, not so bad, really. How about yourself?"

"Am I going to get a kiss and a hug?"

"Sure. You're still my best girl," Pick said, and went to his mother and put his arms around her. Then he hugged her very tight.

Fowler saw that tears were running down Pick's cheeks. He looked at Dr. McGrory, caught his eye, then quickly pointed to his own cheeks.

McGrory nodded, smiled, winked, and gave him a thumbs-up.

Pick let go of his mother. He put out his hand to Fowler.

"How are you, Uncle Dick?" he asked.

[SIX]

Fishbase

Socho-Ri, South Korea

1535 28 October 195O

The message exchange had been in the clear and cryptic. Captain Howard C. Dunwood, USMCR, had taken it himself.

"Fishbase, this is House. How read?"

"House, Fishbase. Read you five by five," Dunwood had replied into the mi­crophone in the commo hootch.

"Killer en route Fishbase. ETA fifteen-twenty. Acknowledge."

"Fishbase acknowledges Killer ETA fifteen-twenty."

"House, clear."

"Fishbase, clear."

That had been a little over an hour ago. Dunwood figured if it was going to take the Killer—Major McCoy—about an hour, and the message had come from the house, that made it pretty clear that McCoy was coming from Seoul, and in the Beaver.

Dunwood was a little surprised that McCoy was returning to Socho-Ri so soon. Both Master Gunner Zimmerman and Major Alex Donald had told him McCoy had taken a fairly serious hit while exfiltrating from up north on the Wind of Good Fortune, and the last word Dunwood had had was that he was in the Naval Hospital in Sasebo.

He wondered if Master Gunner Zimmerman had heard McCoy was com­ing and hadn't, intentionally or otherwise, told him. Dunwood thought—and it was not a criticism—that Zimmerman was the High Priest of Need to Know. Since there was no reason why Dunwood needed to be told McCoy was com­ing back, if Zimmerman knew, he hadn't told Dunwood.

But when Dunwood left the commo hootch and went to Zimmerman— who was inspecting the two teams who would be practicing insertions at twi­light—and told him, Zimmerman looked surprised.

He didn't say anything, he just looked surprised and nodded. Zimmerman, it could be fairly said, was the opposite of loquacious. For that reason, Dunwood had not discussed his thoughts about having himself—and as many of his Marines as wanted to—officially transferred to the CIA. He didn't think he would get any answer beyond "you better talk to the Killer" out of Zimmerman.

From the time he'd first told Staff Sergeant Al Preston, USMC, about his idea—the day McCoy had finally called in to say he was okay, just as Dunwood was about to launch the Bailout Mission—he'd given it a lot of thought. There was a lot to think about.

He realized there was a real possibility that when he finally said some­thing—not knowing when, or even if, McCoy was coming back, he had Major Dunston in mind as the man to talk to—he would be told, politely or other­wise, "No, thanks, Dunwood. We're about through with you and your men, and you'll soon be back with the 5th Marines."

With that possibility in mind, Dunwood had given a lot of thought to counterarguments.

For one thing, he had been running Fishbase since Zimmerman had been ordered to Sasebo, even before they thought McCoy had probably been detected and gone missing up north. He had had the Bailout Mission up and ready to go. That was a hell of a lot different than running a perimeter guard around the hangar at K-16.

While Dunwood liked what for lack of a better word was the "informality" of Fishbase, he had to admit that the absolute absence of an official chain of command posed some problems.

There was an unofficial chain of command, of course. Master Gunner Zim­merman, USMC, gave the orders, and Captain Dunwood, USMCR, and Major Alex Donald, USA, obeyed them. In the normal military scheme of things, ma­jors give orders to captains who give them to warrant officers, not the other way around.

At least Alex Donald and the pilots and crews of the Big Black Birds—and now the "borrowed" Beaver, and the two L-19s—knew where they stood. By command of General MacArthur himself they had been transferred to the CIA. By stretching it a little, you could say that Donald was getting his orders from the Army lieutenant colonel, Vandenburg, at The House in Seoul.

But the facts there were that Zimmerman told Vandenburg only what he thought Vandenburg had the need to know, and so far as Dunwood knew, Vandenburg hadn't even offered a suggestion about what the people at Fishbase should be doing.

Officially, Charley Company, 5th Marines, Captain Howard C. Dunwood, USMCR, commanding, was, by verbal order of the Commanding General, 1st MarDiv, on temporary duty of an unspecified nature for an indefinite period. And there were problems with that.

For one thing, Dunwood very seriously doubted if anyone in the 5th Marines—for that matter, the entire 1st MarDiv—had any idea where they were. He knew the division had landed at Wonsan.

He knew no one in 1st MarDiv knew what they were doing. Which lately had been practicing insertions and extractions using the Big Black Birds, which nobody was supposed to know about. And practicing for what? The shot-down Marine pilot they had been looking for had been found. Or he had found the Army. Anyway, he didn't need to be found, so what were they doing with the practice insertions/extractions?

The latest wrinkle in that was the idea of one of his Marines. Instead of jumping out of the door of the H-19s as they hovered several feet off the ground, they made the insertion by half sliding, half climbing down a twenty-foot-long knotted rope from the door of the Big Black Birds.

What the hell were they practicing for, night after night?

When Captain Dunwood had posed, as tactfully as he knew how, that ques­tion to Master Gunner Zimmerman, the response had been succinct but not very illuminating: "Because that's what the Killer said to do."

There were administrative problems, too. Every other day or so, when the Beaver made a supply run, it carried with it a bag of mail from home, and took out the letters the Marines had written. No stamps were necessary; you wrote "Free" on the envelope where the stamp would normally go.

Among his other duties, Captain Dunwood had been appointed censor for Fishbase, not only for his Marines but for everybody else, including the Army Aviation people. Master Gunner Zimmerman had made the appointment, and his accompanying orders had been brief.

"You read anything about where we are, what we're doing, or the Big Black Birds, anything, burn the letter."

Presumably, everybody's service records were with the 5th Marines. That meant that no one was getting paid. No one had been paid since they went to Sasebo from Pusan, before the Inchon invasion.

It didn't matter, practically. There was nothing on which to spend money, or for that matter anywhere to spend it. And the Beaver—and trucks—brought in a steady stream of supplies, including creature comforts, cigarettes, cigars, shaving cream, and the like, and of course beer, all of which was free. There had even been a shipment of utilities, underwear, winter clothing, and boots.

In the just over an hour between the heads-up from The House and the ar­rival of the Beaver, Captain Dunwood made up his mind. The first thing he was going to do when Major McCoy got out of the airplane was ask for a minute of his time.

He didn't know exactly what he was going to say, but he would think of something.

He could always think of something to say. Being able to think on his feet, say the right thing, was what had made him "Salesman of the Month" at Mike O'Brien's DeSoto-Plymouth Agency in East Orange, New Jersey, month after month.

Major Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, climbed down somewhat awkwardly from the right side of the Beaver and surveyed his staff—Captain Dunwood and Mas­ter Gunner Zimmerman—who were on hand to greet him.

"You're back?" Zimmerman asked. "What's with the leg?"

"I'm all right," McCoy said. "We brought two pigs and three crates of chick­ens, which have made a real mess of the airplane. Get it cleaned up before that—'shit' is the word—has a chance to dry."

"Okay," Zimmerman said.

"Use Koreans; I need to talk to the Marines. Your Marines, Dunwood."

"Yes, sir," Dunwood said. "Sir, may I have a minute or two?"

"Just as soon as I finish talking to your Marines," McCoy said. "Get them under the camouflage."

"Aye, aye, sir," Dunwood said. "I just need a couple of minutes, sir."

"When I'm finished talking to your Marines," McCoy said, not very pleasantly.

"Yes, sir."

Jesus Christ, is he going to tell us, "Thank you. And give my regards to the 5th Marines when you get back there"?

"Can everybody hear me?" Major McCoy asked five minutes later, as he stood on the landing-gear strut of one of the H-19s under the camouflage netting.

There were murmurs that he could be heard.

"I don't really know where to begin," McCoy said. "Okay. Say what's on my mind. One of the first things I learned when I came in the Corps was never to volunteer for anything. So what I'm looking for here is volunteers."

There was laughter.

"Major, we heard you was shot?" a voice called.

"I took a piece of shrapnel," McCoy said. "I was almost a soprano, but aside from that, I'm okay."

He looked around the Marines gathered in a half-circle around him.

"From here on, what I say is Top Secret," he said. "If the wrong people hear what I'm about to say, people will die. I want that clearly understood."

There had been murmurs and whispered conversation. Now there was silence.

"X Corps has landed farther north," McCoy began. "Their orders are to strike northward, past the Chosin Reservoir, to the Manchurian border. There is a very good chance the Chinese are going to come into the war just as soon as we get close to the border.

"I think there are several hundred thousand of them. I don't think many people agree with me. I know they don't. But that's what I believe. So what I need to do is put people out ahead of our forces—both 1st MarDiv and the Army's 7th Infantry Division—to find out where the Chinese are, so that our people at least have some warning.

"The way to do that, I think, is to insert people, listening posts, in enemy territory. That's what you've been practicing to do. There are lots of problems with this, starting with the fact that if the Chinese detect you there, that'll be it. We can't risk losing one or both of the Big Black Birds trying to rescue peo­ple. The two we have is all there is.

"And I can't either send you on missions like these as Marines, even as vol­unteers. Marines don't abandon people to the enemy. We're going to have to do just that. And since this whole thing is secret, we can't afford to have some well-meaning Marine wanting to live up to 'we're Marines, we don't leave peo­ple, dead or alive, behind,' and asking questions we can't answer."

"So what are you asking, Major?" a voice called.

"The rules don't apply to Marines serving in the CIA," McCoy said. "So I need people to volunteer for the CIA."

Now there were murmurs.

Captain Dunwood, who had been standing to one side of the half-circle, walked toward the center.

"Sir?"

McCoy silenced him with a hand raised, palm outward.

"There will be no pressure on anybody to volunteer. I'm not sure I would. But now that the cat's out of the bag—and this isn't a threat—what happens now is that we're all in the bag. Mail will come in, but none goes out, except for a final letter saying you'll be out of touch for a while. And when this is over, those who don't think going into the CIA makes sense will be sent to the States. If there's a leak, Naval Intelligence will find out, and there'll be court-martials. But if you keep your mouth shut, no one will even know you were asked to volunteer."

"Sir?" Dunwood said again.

McCoy glared at him.

"You have something to say, Captain?"

"Yes, sir. Sir, the thing is, some of us, the noncoms and me, and the noncoms and the Marines, having been trying to think of a way to ask you how we could transfer to the CIA."

"It's not all air-delivered live pigs and cold beer, Captain. You're aware of that?"

"Yes, sir, we know that."

"And when you finally get back to the Corps, if you get back to the Corps, some sonofabitch is going to ask where you were when he was fighting the war, and you won't be able to tell him. You understand that, too?"

"Yes, sir."

"Those of you who would like to go into the CIA, give your names to Cap­tain Dunwood," McCoy said.

There was a sudden mass movement to get close to Captain Dunwood.

McCoy jumped off the landing strut and went into the passenger com­partment of the H-19.

Zimmerman quickly moved—almost ran—from where he had been stand­ing to the helicopter and climbed inside.

He found McCoy leaning against the fuselage wall. There were tears on McCoy's cheeks.

"When this fucking leg hurts, it fucking hurts," McCoy said. "I didn't want to let them see me."

"Your leg, my ass," Zimmerman said. "What did you expect, Killer? Those guys are Marines."




Chapter Sixteen

[ONE]

Room 39A, Neuro-Psychiatrie Ward

U.S. Naval Hospital

San Diego, California

O83O 3O October 195O

The room assigned to Major Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, was furnished with a hospital bed, a white cabinet to the left of the bed, a white table to the right, a plastic-upholstered chrome armchair, and a folding metal chair.

When the door swung open, Major Pickering was sitting in the armchair with his slippered bare feet resting on the folding chair. He was reading Time magazine.

He glanced up from the magazine and started to get to his feet.

"As you were," Brigadier General Clyde W. Dawkins, USMC, a tall, tanned, thin, sharp-featured forty-year-old, said, and reinforced the order by making a pushing motion with his right hand.

Major Pickering ignored both the order and the signal and stood up.

"Good morning, sir," Pick said.

Dawkins smiled, turned, and waved another officer, a captain, festooned with the regalia of an aide-de-camp, into the room.

"Captain McGowan," General Dawkins inquired, "looking at that ugly, skinny officer, would you believe he had half the Marines in Korea looking for him?"

"Sir, I understand there's a shortage of pilots," Captain Arthur McGowan, a tall, slim twenty-nine-year-old, who wore the ring of the United States Naval Academy, said with a smile.

Dawkins saw Pick's face.

"Not funny?"

"No, sir."

Dawkins nodded.

"How are you, Pick?" he asked, putting out his hand. "It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you, sir," Pick said, shaking it.

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Sir, as of today, I have been promoted to Loony Category Two, which means I no longer have to give the nurse a list of what I need from the Ship's Store. And they are going to give me a partial pay."

"You look like hell," Dawkins said. "But your legendary fast lip is obviously still functioning well."

"No disrespect was intended, sir."

"I wish you'd sit down," Dawkins said.

"Aye, aye, sir," Pick said, and sat down.

"Art," Dawkins said as he turned the folding chair around and sat backward in it. "Flash your smile at the nurse and see if you can't get us some coffee."

"Yes, sir," McGowan said. "How do you take yours, Major?"

"Black, please," Pick said.

McGowan left the room.

"Billy Dunn tell you I was here?" Pick asked.

"Actually, the news came from a little higher up in the chain of command. How is Billy?"

"He was fine, the last time I saw him. More than a little disgusted with me— and justifiably so—but fine."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Pick," Dawkins said.

"Just before the bosun's chair moved me from the Badoeng Strait to the de­stroyer Mansfield—"

"You mean while you were under way?" Dawkins asked.

"Yes, sir."

"I've seen that, but I've never done it," Dawkins said. "I don't like the no­tion of being dangled over the ocean like that. How was it?"

"Not very pleasant, sir. Sir, may I go on?"

"Sorry, Pick. You were saying?"

"I was saying that Colonel Dunn told me what he thought of me," Pick said. "What he said was that I was a self-important showboating sonofabitch whose current troubles were my own fault, that I had put the necks of a lot of good people at risk because of my showboating, and that I have never really under­stood that I'm a Marine officer."

Dawkins looked at him for a moment in surprise.

"My first reaction is that Billy must have had a very bad day," Dawkins said.

"Just before I got in the bosun's chair, Billy handed me a letter to mail from Japan he'd written to the wife—correction, the widow—of one of his guys who had just plowed in," Pick said. "Dick Mitchell. Writing those letters is always tough for Billy. But that wasn't what was bothering him."

"What was?"

"Me. Everything he said about me was absolutely true."

"You want to explain that?"

"What I was doing when I went in was shooting up locomotives," Pick said.

"So what?"

"I was doing this because it amused me," Pick said. "I thought it would be amusing to become the first Marine Corps locomotive ace in history."

Dawkins looked at him without saying anything.

"I had three steam engines painted on the fuselage of my Corsair," Pick went on, "under the impressive row of Japanese meatballs from War Two. I even wrote the Air Force asking if they had a record of how many steam engines had been shot up in War Two, and if so, by who, to see who and what I was com­peting against."

"Jesus!" Dawkins said.

"Billy, of course, thought this was bullshit, dangerous bullshit, and told me to stop. And of course I ignored him, a senior officer. Proving his point that I have never understood that I am a Marine officer."

"What happened when you went in?"

"You mean, what put me on the ground?"

Dawkins nodded.

"I made a run at a train," Pick said. "Came in over the end of it, right on the deck, and worked my fire up the length of it. Sometimes, if there's gas on the train, you can set it off with tracer rounds; we were loading one tracer in five rounds. I don't remember any gasoline explosion, but I saw the loco­motive go up just before I passed over it and began my pull up. Immediately, large and small parts of the locomotive punctured my beautiful Corsair in Lord knows how many places. I lost power, hydraulics, et cetera, et cetera. There was a rather large rice paddy convenient, so I set it down, got out, and got maybe one hundred yards away—maybe a little farther—before it caught on fire and blew up. The landing wasn't really all that bad. I dumped a Corsair on Tinian just before the war was over—couldn't get the right gear down—that was re­ally a hell of a lot worse."

The door opened and Captain McGowan returned with three china cups of coffee.

"Be careful," he said. "It's hotter than hell."

"Thank you, Art," Dawkins said, then turned back to Pick. "Were you on fire?"

"No, sir."

"I thought maybe the antiaircraft, tracers, or exploding shells might have got you."

"No, sir. No ack-ack."

"And you're sure you weren't on fire?"

"Yes, sir."

"How badly were you hurt in the crash?"

"Not at all, sir."

"How close did you come to the village?"

"Sir?"

"Was there a village where you went in?"

"No, sir."

"Give me the citation, Art," Dawkins ordered. McGowan went into his tunic pocket and came out with an envelope. Dawkins took a sheet of paper from it and read it.

"Where were the Marines—the grunts—when all this happened?" Dawkins asked.

"I was nowhere near the lines, sir. I guess I was four, maybe five miles into enemy territory."

"And the weather? What was the weather like?"

"It was good weather, sir."

"Just about everything you have told me, Major Pickering," Dawkins said, "is inconsistent with this."

"What is that, sir?"

"It's the citation to accompany your Navy Cross," Dawkins said, meeting his eyes.

"What Navy Cross, sir?" Pick asked, visibly confused.

"The one the President is going to pin on you," Dawkins said. "Or if he can't fit you into his busy schedule, and the commandant is similarly occupied, and the commanding general of Camp Pendleton can't make it, I will pin on you."

"May I see that, sir?"

Dawkins handed it to him, and Pick read it.

As he did, he shook his head and several times muttered an obscenity.

"This- is somebody else's citation," he said, finally, as he handed the sheet of paper back to Dawkins. "It has to be. The weather—I told you—was good. Ceiling and visibility were unlimited. I was not flying close support for the grunts. There was no antiaircraft. I was not on fire, and if there was a village or a school, I didn't see either. Jesus, what a fuckup!"

"I don't think there's more than one Major Malcolm S. Pickering in the Corps, Pick, and that's the name on the citation," Dawkins said.

"General, that's not my citation. I did nothing to deserve any kind of a medal. I probably should have been court-martialed for what I was doing."

"I'll look into this," Dawkins said. "In the meantime—this is an order, Pick—I don't want you saying anything to anybody about this."

"Aye, aye, sir," Pick said. "If that got out, the Corps would look pretty god­damn stupid."

"The order to give you the Navy Cross, I am reliably informed, came from the President, personally," Dawkins said. "Anything to say about that?"

"Only that I really don't understand any of this, sir," Pick said.

"Okay. I'll look into it and get back to you," Dawkins said. He smiled at Pick. "This Chinese fire drill aside, I'm really glad that you made it back, Pick. You were gone so long that we were all really getting worried."

"Thank you, sir."

"As soon as they'll let you, my wife wants you to come out to the base for dinner."

"I accept, thank you. I'm not entirely sure about you, sir, but I'm sure Mrs. Dawkins qualifies."

"Qualifies for what?"

"When they give me a pass out of this place, it has to be in the company of a responsible person."

Dawkins looked at him a moment, shaking his head as if in disbelief.

"Captain McGowan," he said. "We have just had proof that this officer be­longs in the Neuro-Psychiatric Ward. No sane Marine major would say such a thing to a very senior officer such as myself. Even if he did on more than one occasion save my tail while we were off winning World War Two all by ourselves."

"Yes, sir," Captain McGowan said.

"You understood, Pick, that it was an order you are not to mention this Navy Cross business to anyone, right?"

"Yes, sir. Not a problem, sir. The only visitor I expect is my mother, and I wouldn't tell her something like that. And I don't expect any more visitors. The fewer people who know where I am, the better."

"Hey, you have absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about being in here. Despite what Billy Dunn said when his mouth ran away with him, I'm sure he is as proud of the way you evaded capture for so long as I am. And so are just about all of the pilots who know what you must have gone through. What you did—proving it can be done—is probably going to keep a lot of other shot-down pilots from giving up."

"The general's right, Major," Captain McGowan said.

"I'm always right, Art," Dawkins said. "I'm a general. Write that down."

Pick and McGowan chuckled.

Dawkins pushed himself out of the folding chair and extended his hand to Pick.

"Welcome home, Pick," he said. "We'll see you soon."

[TWO]

Headquarters X U.S. Corps

Wonsan, North Korea

O62O 3O October 195O

"Jade, Jade," Major Alex Donald said into his microphone. "How do you read?"

"Jade reads aircraft calling five by five," a metallic voice responded.

"Jade, this is Army four zero zero three."

"Go ahead, four zero zero three."

"Jade, four double zero three is approximately three miles from your field. Be advised four double zero three is a Sikorsky H-19 helicopter painted black in color. I say again, an H-19 painted black in color."

The control tower at Jade—the landing strip serving X Corps Headquarters— took a good thirty seconds to respond, and when it did there was a new voice on the radio.

"Four zero zero three, Jade reads a black H-19. Confirm."

"Four double zero three confirms. Please take necessary action to ensure strip defense does not engage. I say again, make sure no one shoots at us."

"Four zero zero three. Do not approach at this time. Action requested will take five or more minutes. Jade will advise when you may approach."

"Thank you, Jade," Donald said, looked at Major Kenneth R. McCoy in the copilot's seat, and released the microphone switch.

Major Donald was genuinely concerned about the strip defense. He had set it up himself. There had been virtually no enemy aerial attacks on American ground forces, or for that matter even enemy aerial observation of American po­sitions. But that didn't mean there were never going to be any.

He had, therefore, when he had been the Assistant X Corps Army Aviation Officer, spent a good deal of time thinking, planning, and setting up airfield defense. The basic weapons of the defense he had planned and set up were .50-caliber Browning machine guns, four of them, in a mount permitting simulta­neous fire by one man, on White half-tracked armored cars.

There were "multiple-fifties" located at each end of the strip. The other two were positioned, depending on where the strip was located, so that they could fire on attacking aircraft without firing into the rather extensive X Corps headquarters tents or buildings.

The multiple-fifties put out a lot of fire.

There were other machine guns positioned around the landing strip, but it was the multiple-fifties he was worried about. He had had a good deal of trou­ble getting them onto the Table of Authorized Equipment, and then talking the G-l into providing their crews. Each weapon had a four-man crew: the vehi­cle driver, the assistant vehicle driver, the gunner, and the assistant gunner. The assistant vehicle driver also functioned as an assistant gunner, which meant he kept a steady supply of loaded cans of .50-caliber ammunition moving from the ammunition trailer that the White towed, and helped the assistant gunner in other ways, including using an entrenchment tool to shovel red-hot fired car­tridge cases from the bed of the White.

A really astonishing number of them would accumulate whenever the four Brownings were fired.

One of the problems Major Donald had recognized and done what he could to, get around was that the crews of the multiple-fifties were aware that the enemy had yet to stage aerial attacks on an Army airstrip. That translated to mean that their assignment was bullshit. They just sat there in the hot sun (or, now, the getting-colder-by-the-day icy winds) and nothing happened.

Major Donald had done what he could to motivate them. He told them that if the enemy attacked from the air, they would be the first, and really only, de­fense the airstrip and indeed the entire X Corps Headquarters complex was going to have. He told them they had a great responsibility.

And he also arranged for them to have quickly removable canvas sun shields to protect them in the summer, and, preparing for the winter, to have oil-fired stoves called Cannon heaters specially rigged so they could be mounted in the bed of each of the Whites and keep the crews warm in the cold.

Thus, Donald had spent a lot of time and thought and effort establishing airstrip protection, and thought he had done a good job, especially in moti­vating the men. He was convinced they were on the alert, ready to instantly fill the skies over the airstrip with a steady stream of .50-caliber projectiles the mo­ment they thought the airstrip was being threatened.

Threatened, for example, by a rotary-wing aircraft of a type they had not seen before, and which was painted black and completely devoid of American markings.

Major Donald knew that the Killer wouldn't have ordered him to fly into the X Corps airstrip on the way back from dropping two stay-behind teams in the mountains unless there was a good reason, but wished that the Killer had elected to travel by some other means than in one of the Big Black Birds.

Major Donald thought there was a very good chance his careful planning and training for the defense of the X Corps airstrip was about to come around and bite him in the ass.

Major Donald had ten—not five—minutes to consider what the fire from a multiple-fifty would do to the delicate innards of an H-19A Sikorsky before the radio went off.

"Army four zero zero three, Jade."

“Go.”

"You are cleared for an approach from the north and touchdown on the threshold of the active runway. You will hold, I say again, you will hold, on the threshold until further orders. Be advised there is light aircraft traffic in the area. Acknowledge."

"Four double zero three understand approach from the north and hold on the threshold after touchdown. Beginning approach at this time."

As he made the approach, Major Donald was able to clearly see—which sur­prised him not at all—the four large black barrels of the White-mounted multiple-fifty tracking his approach with care and what he thought might just be eagerness.

"Jade, I'm on the ground and holding on the threshold."

"Four zero zero three, I have you in sight. You will be met."

McCoy pointed out the cockpit window. Two jeeps, each with a pedestal-mounted .30-caliber air-cooled Browning, were racing down the runway to­ward them.

Both stopped twenty yards from the Big Black Bird. The .30s were now trained on the cockpit.

A lieutenant colonel got out of one of the jeeps, drew his pistol, and marched somewhat warily up to the helicopter.

Donald put his head and both of his arms out his window and waved.

"Sir, it's Donald," he called from the window.

The lieutenant colonel almost certainly couldn't hear over the roar of the engine, but he recognized the face.

Neither could Donald nor McCoy hear the lieutenant colonel mutter, in ei­ther disbelief or disgust, "Jesus H. Christ!"

But they saw him holster his pistol, make arm signals to both the machine-gunners in the jeeps and in the multiple-fifty half-track, telling them there was no hazard and to deflect their weapons. Then he made a. follow me gesture to the Big Black Bird and got in his jeep and started back down the runway.

Donald waited until the jeeps were halfway down the runway, then taxied the H-19 down it after them.

They stopped before an obviously hastily built corrugated tin building on which was a sign: OPERATIONS.

McCoy very carefully climbed down from the cockpit and went inside the fuselage. Donald climbed down far more agilely and went to the lieutenant colonel, who shook his hand and gestured unbelievingly at the Big Black Bird.

When McCoy came out of the fuselage, everybody saw that not only was he wearing what looked like black pajamas but that he was carrying a wire hanger over his shoulder. Its white paper wrapping read NAVY EXCHANGE SER­VICE SASEBO.

"Colonel, this is Major McCoy," Donald said.

"That's an interesting uniform you're wearing, Major," the lieutenant colonel said. "And what is that, somebody's laundry?"

"Yes, sir. That's just what it is," McCoy said. "It belongs to Captain Haig. And I'd really like to get him on the phone as soon as I can."

"You want to tell me what's going on here?"

"Respectfully, sir, no, I don't," McCoy said. "May I use the phone, please, sir?"

"Of course," the lieutenant colonel said. He waved McCoy ahead of him into the tin building and handed him a field telephone, then cranked it for him. "Haig's number is Jade Seven," he said.

"Jade Seven," McCoy told the operator, and a moment later Al Haig's voice came over the line.

"Haig, this is McCoy. I'd really like to talk to the general."

"That can very easily be arranged, sir," Captain Haig said. "My last orders in that area were 'If that's who I think it is, get him up here. The airstrip'll give you a jeep.'"

"Thank you," McCoy said. He handed the telephone back to the lieutenant colonel. "Sir, could we get a ride to the CP?"

"I'll take you myself," the lieutenant colonel said.

The X Corps Command Post was a dirt-floored Quonset hut. Captain Al Haig was standing in front of it waiting for McCoy.

"I thought you were in the hospital," Haig said in greeting.

"I was," McCoy said, and handed him the hanger. "Your uniform. Thanks for the loan."

"You actually had this stuff dry-cleaned?" Haig said.

"It seemed like the thing to do," McCoy said.

"Well, thank you very much," Haig said. "The general is waiting for you. In his mess."

The Jade Room, the General's Mess, was another dirt-floored Quonset hut a few yards from the Command Post. One end of it was partitioned off to pro­vide privacy for the half-dozen general officers of Headquarters, X United States Corps.

Only one of them, the Corps Commander, was in the mess. He was sitting on a folding metal chair before a rough-appearing wooden table. There was a tablecloth, however, and white china.

"Hello, McCoy," Major General Edward M. Almond said. "Have you had breakfast?"

"Good morning, sir," McCoy replied. "No, sir, I have not."

"Sit down," Almond ordered, and then saw what Captain Haig had in his hand. "What's that, Al?"

"Major McCoy returned the uniform he borrowed, sir," Haig said.

Almond shook his head.

"There were some real eggs from the Mount McKinley" Almond said. "But they never got up here. I'm sure there's some left in the sergeant's mess, but what I can offer is powdered eggs with a lot of Tabasco."

"Anything is fine, sir," McCoy said.

"I watched your helicopter come in," Almond said. "Does that mean the secret is compromised?'

"We'll have to go on that premise, sir," McCoy said. "All we can do is hope they won't be able to figure out right away what we're doing with them."

"Which is?"

"We're leaving overnight observation teams where we hope they'll be able to learn something about the Chinese."

"Hence the black pajamas? I'm surprised you're up to doing something like that."

"I hadn't planned to stay overnight, sir. They're a precaution."

"How's the leg?"

"Getting better every day, thank you, sir."

"We've had an interesting development, McCoy," Almond said as he but­tered a piece of toast.

"Yes, sir?"

"The 3d ROK Division, which had been advancing toward—and was close to—the Chosin Reservoir, has encountered unusually strong resistance. They have, in fact, been turned, and are in a retrograde movement."

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir."

"They have reported they came under attack by what they estimate to be three regiments of the enemy, supported by artillery and tanks."

"That's a good deal more North Korean strength than I would have thought 'they had in that area, sir," McCoy replied.

"I was a little surprised myself, McCoy," Almond said. "The 3d ROK is tak­ing up—has taken up—a defensive position south of the reservoir. As soon as I finish my breakfast, I'm going to helicopter up there and have a personal look at the situation."

"Yes, sir."

"And one of the things I hope to do when I'm there is be able to put to rest a rumor circulating that this division-sized enemy force is not North Korean but rather Chinese."

"There's a rumor like that, sir?"

"Now, you and I both know that's highly unlikely, if not outright impossi­ble, don't we? General Willoughby has assured us there is virtually no chance of, and certainly no intelligence suggesting, Chinese intervention, hasn't he?"

"Yes, sir. He certainly has."

"I thought you might find that interesting, Major McCoy," General Almond said. "If I had a means to do so, I'd suggest you come along with me. But un­fortunately, I have only two operational helicopters, H-13s, and so there is room only for me and one of my Korean interpreters, who speaks Chinese. I can't even take Al Haig with me."

"General, I wonder how you and your interpreter and Captain Haig would feel about going with me in my Big Black Bird? The problem there is that it doesn't have any markings on it. ..."

"Major, I would think that would fall under what is known as 'an exigency of the military service.' It's regretful that you were unable to fully comply with the Rules of Land Warfare by applying the required identification markings to your helicopter, but I don't think that should keep us from using it, do you?"

"Sir, my concern was friendly fire from the 3d ROK. They've never seen a helicopter like this."

"Al," Almond ordered, "before we go, have someone get in touch with 3d ROK and tell them they are not, repeat not, to engage any aerial target until I personally give orders to the contrary. If necessary, send an L-19, and drop a written order."

"Yes, sir."

"On second thought, both communicate with and send an L-19," Almond ordered.

"I'll get right on it, sir," Captain Haig said.

"Al, could you call the airstrip and make sure Donald fuels the Big Black Bird?" McCoy asked.

"Done," Haig said.

Almond chuckled.

"You're speaking of Major Donald?" the general asked. "My former assis­tant Army Aviation officer? Now a member of your . . . organization?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you got him wearing pajamas?"

"No, sir. He has more faith in his helo than I do."

" All things come to he who waits,' " Almond quoted. "I believe that."

"Sir?"

"The day General MacArthur ordered me to transfer those machines to you, and I told Major Donald, he was heartbroken that he would not be able to show me what a wonderful machine his new toy was. Now he can."

"Major Donald and the helicopters have been very useful, sir," McCoy replied.

"That's what he said, McCoy. He told me—and General MacArthur—that the helicopter was going to ... What exactly did he say? Oh, yes: 'usher in a new era of battlefield mobility.' "

"I've heard the sales pitch, sir. Many times."

Almond chuckled, then looked at him thoughtfully.

"How are they going to function in the snow, McCoy? In twenty-, thirty-degrees-below-zero weather?"

"I guess we're about to find out, sir."

"On the subject of your organization, McCoy, I've got to warn you that the commanding general of 1st MarDiv is looking for your scalp."

"Do you know why, sir?"

"Something about that company of Marines I borrowed to guard Major Donald's hangar in Seoul. He has been informed they won't be returning; that they are now members of your organization."

"Yes, sir, they are."

"He asked me if I knew anything about the transfer. I told him no. Then he said ... I don't think I'd better tell you what he said. But he did ask me to tell him if you ever showed up here."

"Their transfer was General Howe's idea, sir. His and General Pickering's."

"I have the feeling he suspects you were behind it," Almond said. "Or that I was and don't want to admit it."

"Why would he doubt your word, sir?"

"I have the feeling he's not in my legion of admirers," Almond said. "His primary purpose in coming to see me was to discuss . . . No. To be honest, it was to question, to request that I reconsider my orders to the 1st MarDiv. They've been ordered to proceed as quickly as possible past the Chosin Res­ervoir. ..."

"General Howe told me, sir. And he told me those were General Mac-Arthur's orders to you. That the quick dash to the border was not your idea."

Almond looked at McCoy for a minute.

"Let me explain something to you, Major," he said. "In case you ever find yourself far more senior and in a position like mine. The orders came from Gen­eral MacArthur. When I got them— They came by officer courier, did General Howe tell you that?"

"Yes, sir."

"—I had the choice of saying 'Yes, sir' and carrying them out, or asking permission to discuss my questions, my doubts about them, with General MacArthur. I decided that General MacArthur had his reasons for the order, and that, my personal reservations about them aside, I had no grounds to ask him to reconsider them. When I made that decision, they became my orders. You can't tell a subordinate, 'Here's your orders. I don't like them much, but here they are. Don't blame me. They came from above.' I'm surprised you haven't learned that."

"I understand, sir."

"And since I gave my orders to General Smith regarding what I want the 1st MarDiv to do, I have had a chance to reflect on General MacArthur's orders to me. They were obviously based on General MacArthur's assessment of the sit­uation. I remembered the doubts many people had about the Inchon Landing. The general was right then, and I must presume he made the correct decision in this instance."

"Yes, sir."

"His decision obviously was based on his consideration of the intelligence available to him. That intelligence concluded—General Willoughby con­cluded—there is only a very remote possibility that the Chinese will enter this conflict. When General MacArthur accepted General Willoughby's conclu­sions, it became his conclusion. A Corps Commander is not permitted to ques­tion conclusions drawn by the Supreme Commander. You following me, Major?" Yes, sir.

"Only a superior headquarters can question the Supreme Commander's judgments. And a subordinate organization commander cannot go over the head of the Supreme Commander to make his doubts known to higher head­quarters."

"Yes, sir."

Almond looked at him again for a long moment.

"I don't know what we're going to find when we get to the 3d ROK, Major McCoy. But I'm not going to comment on whatever we do. I want to be in a position—and I want you to be in a position—to be able to truthfully state that whatever you report to your superiors was in no way influenced by me."

"Yes, sir. I understand."

McCoy got one final long look.

"I really hope you do, McCoy," he said, finally. "Now, if you've finished your breakfast, why don't we see what's going on at the 3d ROK Division?"

[THREE]

Headquarters, 3d ROK Division

Eleven Miles Southeast of East Shore, Chosin Reservoir

O8O5 3O October 195O

McCoy had suggested—and General Almond had quickly agreed—that the Corps Commander should ride in the copilot's seat "because he could get a bet­ter look at the terrain from there."

McCoy rode in the passenger compartment with Captain Haig, an ROK major named Pak Sun, and two X Corps Military Policemen armed with Thomp­son submachine guns. With the exception of Haig, no one had ever ridden in a helicopter before, and it was obvious—at least at first—that they were more afraid of the helicopter than they were of the prospect of meeting the enemy.

Major Sun shouted in McCoy's ear, over the roar of the engine, announc­ing that he had attended the University of California, Los Angeles, on a swim­ming scholarship. McCoy just nodded and smiled.

The flight took about fifteen minutes, and as they made their approach, McCoy saw a Cessna L-19, with the X Corps' blue-and-white "X" shoulder patch painted on the engine nacelle. The small, high-wing observation aircraft was flying a circular pattern around the landing strip, which was a gravel "paved" road running parallel to the line of rocky hills on which the 3d ROK Division had set up its defensive positions.

He wondered if the airplane was there on orders, in case it was required to provide something, or whether the pilot was just curious about the black, un­marked H-19.

An ROK major general in a surprisingly natty fatigue uniform was waiting for them with a driver and two MPs in a highly polished jeep.

Major Sun began to translate the introductions, and presented Major Gen­eral Lee Do, ROK, to Major General Edward M. Almond, USA. General Al­mond looked at McCoy with a question on his face. McCoy shook his head no, and Almond said, "Leave Major McCoy out of this, Sun."

Sun nodded his head in acknowledgment and McCoy was not introduced.

General Almond said he wanted to go up the hill, to the emplacements, to see for himself what was going on.

"Do you want to go, McCoy?"

Instead of replying directly, McCoy turned to the ROK general.

"General," he asked in faultless Korean, "where are you keeping your prisoners?"

Major Sun was as surprised that McCoy spoke Korean as was the ROK general.

The ROK general pointed down the road. McCoy saw the prisoners, and the moment he saw them—both from the bones of their faces and their quilted cotton uniforms—he knew they were Chinese.

"They don't look Korean to me, sir," McCoy said to Almond. "With Gen­eral Do's permission, I think I'll go talk to them."

"I think it's best you do that alone, Major McCoy," Almond said.

"Yes, sir."

"Do you want Haig to go with you?" Almond asked.

"No, sir. Thank you. Major Donald and I have a little good cop-bad cop routine we've practiced, in anticipation of something like this. Put on your nasty face, Major Donald, and lead me to the prisoners."

"Yes, sir," Donald said.

"I'm sorry I'm going to miss that," General Almond said as he got in the front seat of the shiny jeep. Haig and the two MPs got in the back. Since that left no room for him, the driver was left behind when General Do got behind the wheel and drove off.

McCoy went into the fuselage and came out with a Thompson. He handed it to the ROK soldier, a young sergeant.

"You come with us, please, Sergeant," McCoy ordered. "What I want you to do is point the weapon at the prisoners, acting as if nothing would give you greater pleasure than if the major gave you permission to shoot them."

"Are we going to shoot them, sir?" the ROK sergeant asked.

"Unfortunately, Sergeant, they are more valuable alive than dead."

"Yes, sir," the sergeant said. He was visibly disappointed.

"Okay, Alex, lead on," McCoy said.

The prisoners—there were sixteen of them; McCoy counted as he and Donald walked down the line—were sitting lined up against the side of the road, their backs against a vertical section of rocky hill that had been excavated. Two ROK soldiers, one with a Garand and the other with a carbine, guarded them.

The prisoners' hands and feet were bound. The ropes on their feet were further tied to the prisoner on either side, to discourage somebody from run­ning away.

There was a double purpose—triple if you counted simple curiosity—in the march past. McCoy wanted them all to see Alex Donald glowering at them. And he wanted to see if he could detect from boots or a wristwatch, or simply an attitude, whether one or more of them, despite the enlisted men's uniforms they were all wearing, was an officer.

Alex finished his march past and stood in the road, about halfway down inc­line of prisoners, and glowered at them. McCoy walked in front of him. The driver took the Thompson from his shoulder and chambered a round. The prisoners looked at him nervously.

Number Four is glaring, McCoy thought. His uniform is pretty clean, too. I think I have found an officer.

"Good morning," McCoy said in Cantonese. "The officer is from the head­quarters of Generalissimo MacArthur."

Well, they speak Cantonese. There are three looks of' noncomprehension. The rest are fascinated. Which almost certainly means the three "who don't understand"including Number Fourare either officers or noncoms. Probably officers.

"He wishes to ask you all some questions," McCoy went on almost con­versationally, in Cantonese. "Your answers will determine which of you will be taken to a prisoner-of-war compound and which will not."

He switched to English. "Shall we shoot one or two to put them in the right frame of mind?"

"Let's wait a bit," Donald replied.

Either none of them speaks English, or they're better at concealing fear than I think they are.

He turned and spoke softly to Major Donald.

"Start with Number Four," he said. "Let's take a chance. You say to me, 'I think this one is an officer.' We'll wing it from there."

Donald nodded, then made a curt follow me gesture and walked toward the fourth prisoner in the line.

[FOUR]

TOP SECRET

URGENT HQ X CORPS 1015 30 OCTOBER 1950

EYES ONLY SUPREME COMMANDER UNC

PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM MAJGEN ALMOND TO GENARMY MACARTHUR BEGINS

SIR

REFERENCE: OPERATIONAL MAP 403


AT APPROXIMATELY 2100 29OCT50 THE 26TH INFANTRY 3D ROK DIV THEN ADVANCING TOWARD THE CHOSIN RESERVOIR ALONG THE LINE COORDINATES 323.121 DASH 324.303 CAME UNDER MASSIVE ATTACK BY A LARGE, TANK REINFORCED ENEMY FORCE OF DIVISIONAL STRENGTH.


THE LINES OF THE 26TH WERE BREACHED, AND THE REGIMENT IN SOME DISARRAY WAS FORCED TO WITHDRAW SOUTHEASTWARDLY AND HAS ESTABLISHED DEFENSIVE POSITIONS ALONG THE LINE COORDINATES 313.405 DASH 312.555.


AT FIRST LIGHT THIS MORNING I WENT TO HQ 3D ROK DIV TO CONFER WITH MAJGEN LEE DO. IT IS HIS OPINION THAT THE ATTACKING FORCE WAS NOT NORTH KOREAN BUT CHINESE. AFTER INTERROGATION OF SIXTEEN (16) ENEMY PRISONERS IN MY PRESENCE BY ROK MAJ SUN OF MY HEADQUARTERS WHO IS FLUENT IN CHINESE I AM FORCED TO CONCLUDE THAT THE PRISONERS TAKEN ARE IN FACT CHINESE, SPECIFICALLY MEMBERS OF THE 124TH RED CHINESE INFANTRY DIVISION.


4. ALL OF THE PRISONERS WERE CAPTURED WHILE ON A RECONNAISSANCE MISSION. TWO ARE OFFICERS, A MAJOR AND A SENIOR LIEUTENANT. BOTH, DURING THE INTERROGATION I WITNESSED, ADMITTED THEY WERE CHINESE, AND ASSIGNED TO THE 124TH RED CHINESE DIVISION. BOTH STATED THAT THE 124TH IS NOT REPEAT NOT ATTACHED TO OR SUBORDINATE TO ANY NORTH KOREAN COMMAND OR HEADQUARTERS BUT IS OPERATING ON ITS OWN, UNDER THE COMMAND OF THE RED CHINESE 42D FIELD ARMY. THE CAPTAIN STATED THE 42D FIELD ARMY IS ENTIRELY INSIDE NORTH KOREA, AND HAS THE MISSION OF EXPELLING UNITED NATIONS FORCES QUOTE FROM ALL AREAS NOW OCCUPIED BY UNITED NATIONS FORCES ENDQUOTE.

5. HE FURTHER STATED THERE WERE OTHER RED CHINESE FORCES NOW PRESENT IN NORTH KOREA, CONSISTING OF AT LEAST ONE MORE FIELD ARMY, CHARGED WITH THE SAME MISSION, BUT WAS UNABLE OR UNWILLING TO MAKE FURTHER IDENTIFICATION OF SUCH FORCES.

RESPECTFULLY SUBMITTED

EDWARD M. ALMOND

MAJOR GENERAL

COMMANDING X US CORPS

END PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM MAJGEN ALMOND TO GENARMY MACARTHUR

TOP SECRET

[FIVE]

TOP SECRET

OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE

FISHBASE 1125 30 OCTOBER 1950

EYES ONLY BRIG GEN FLEMING PICKERING TOKYO

VIA STATION CHIEFS SEOUL AND PUSAN

TO ENSURE DELIVERY BOTH INTERMEDIATE ADDRESSEES WILL FORWARD FOLLOWING MESSAGE TO GENERAL

PICKERING IMMEDIATELY ON RECEIPT

MESSAGE BEGINS


AT APPROXIMATELY 0900 THIS DATE UNDERSIGNED COMPLETED INTERROGATION OF TWO SIGNIFICANT PRISONERS HELD BY 3D ROK DIVISION IN VICINITY OF CHOSIN RESERVOIR. MAJOR SIN HOW LEE AND SENIOR LIEUTENANT WONG SU OF CHICOM 42D ARMY WERE CAPTURED BY ROKS WHILE ON A RECONNAISSANCE MISSION PRECEDING A SUCCESSFUL DIVISION SIZE ATTACK, WITH ARMOR, ON 26TH INFANTRY, 3D ROKDIV BY CHICOM 124TH INFANTRY DIVISION. THE ATTACK SUCCEEDED AND ENTIRE 3D ROK DIVISION WAS RENDERED SEVENTY-FIVE PERCENT INEFFECTIVE.

BOTH OFFICERS WERE UNUSUALLY COOPERATIVE DURING INTERROGATION BECAUSE OF THEIR BELIEF THAT AN OVERWHELMING STRENGTH OF CHINESE FORCES WAS ABOUT TO ENTER WAR, AND THEY WILL SHORTLY BE RELEASED FROM CAPTIVITY.

THE INFORMATION THEY PROVIDED CONFIRMS IN EVERY IMPORTANT DETAIL WHAT THE UNDERSIGNED HAS LEARNED FROM OTHER SOURCES. MOREOVER, BOTH OFFICERS, WHO SAID THEY SERVED IN INTELLIGENCE LIAISON CAPACITIES BETWEEN CHICOM 4TH FIELD ARMY AND 42D ARMY, HAD AN USUALLY DETAILED KNOWLEDGE OF US X CORPS INTENTIONS.

THEY STATED CHICOM ATTACKS ON ROK UNITS WILL CONTINUE BUT ATTACKS ON US FORCES WILL PROBABLY WAIT UNTIL US FORCES ARE STRETCHED OUT BETWEEN EAST COAST PORTS AND THE CHINESE BORDER, WHEN QUOTE THEY WILL BE EASIER TO COMPLETELY ANNIHILATE ENDQUOTE.

BASED ON INFORMATION PROVIDED, STAY-BEHINDS WILL BE INSERTED TONIGHT AT VARIOUS PLACES WHERE THEY WILL BE IN A POSITION TO LOCATE AND CONFIRM IDENTITY OF CHICOM FORCES AS DESCRIBED BY PRISONERS. THEIR CONFIRMATION WILL FOLLOW IMMEDIATELY IF AND WHEN AVAILABLE.

IN VIEW OF THE COOPERATIVE SPIRIT OF THE PRISONERS ONCE THEY BELIEVED THEY WERE BEING INTERVIEWED BY SENIOR US INTELLIGENCE OFFICERS BOTH WITH REGARD TO IDENTIFYING AND LOCATING CHICOM FORCES AND SPEAKING OF CHICOM INTENTIONS THE POSSIBILITY MUST BE CONSIDERED THAT THEY WERE ORDERED TO PERMIT THEMSELVES TO BE CAPTURED SO THAT AMERICAN COMMANDERS WOULD RECONSIDER OR CANCEL MOVEMENT TO THE CHINESE BORDER. THIS POSSIBILITY WOULD SEEM MORE LIKELY IF STAY-BEHINDS INDEPENDENTLY VERIFY CHICOM UNIT IDENTITY, LOCATION, AND STRENGTH.

THIS INTEL HAS NOT REPEAT NOT BEEN FURNISHED TO X CORPS OR 1ST MARDIV. IN LATTER CASE, THIS IS BECAUSE UNDERSIGNED HAS LEARNED GEN SMITH IS VERY DISPLEASED WITH TRANSFER OF PERSONNEL TO CIA.

MCCOY, MAJ, USMCR

TOP SECRET

[SIX]

Room 39A, Neuro-Psychiatric Ward

U.S. Naval Hospital

San Diego, California

O945 31 October 195O

When Lieutenant Patrick McGrory, MC, USN, pushed open the door he found Major Malcolm S. Pickering in pajamas and robe sitting in his plastic-upholstered chrome armchair attempting, without much success, to spin play­ing cards into his wastebasket, which he had placed on his metal folding chair.

"A little bored, are we?" McGrory inquired.

"I'm looking forward with immense anticipation to the arrival, about now, of a Corpsman who will ask if I would like some canned grapefruit juice, if you find that of interest, Doctor."

"Well, cheer up, you're about to have a visitor."

"Well, then I guess I'd better clean up the mess"—he pointed to what looked like far more than one deck of playing cards on and beneath the folding chair. McGrory remembered the Ship's Store sold playing cards in packs of four decks—"before Mommy gets here, hadn't I?"

"It's not your mother," McGrory said. "It's somebody's wife. Can I leave here assured that you will behave as an officer and a gentleman?"

"Is her name Dawkins? Tiny little woman?"

"No. It's somebody else's wife. You are going to behave?"

"What does she want?"

"To bring a little cheer into your drab life, I suppose."

"I don't want to see anybody."

"Too late, I cleared her in. If there is misbehavior, there will not be marti­nis at the cocktail hour. Understood?"

Pick gave him the finger.

McGrory put his right hand on his hip, waved the left, and in a feminine lisp said, "Oh, you Marines are so crude!"

Pick had to laugh.

"I'll see you in a while," McGrory said, and the door swung closed.

Three minutes later, just after Pick had finished picking up the cards, dump­ing them in the wastebasket, and putting the wastebasket back where it be­longed, the door opened.

A good-looking young woman put her head into the room.

Wholesome, not striking, Major Pickering thought. But, all in all, a very at­tractive package.

"Major Pickering?" she asked.

"Guilty," he said.

"I'm Barbara Mitchell," she said.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Dick's wife," she said, and then corrected herself: "Dick's widow."

Oh, shit! Jesus Christ, did that fucking McGrory know this? Is this his idea of therapy?

"I was sorry to hear about Dick," Pick said as he got to his feet. "He was a fine man."

"May I come in?"

"Of course," Pick said. And then his mouth ran away with him. "I'll even let you sit in the upholstered chair."

She gave him a strange look.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I guess you noticed this is the lunatic ward. I'm afraid you'll have to take that into account."

"It's all right," she said. "And that doctor—McGrory?—said that you were in here only for evaluation, that you were . . ."

"Harmless? True. Ill-mannered, but harmless."

She walked past him and sat down in the armchair.

Nice tail.

What the fuck's the matter with you?

This is not a potential piece of tail; this is a lady whose husband just went in.

And what would you do with apiece of tail if one jumped at you?

Even one not the widow of a fellow Marine officer and Naval aviator fallen in honorable combat?

Being the prick you know you are, you'd probably nail it.

"I got a very nice letter about Dick from Colonel Dunn," Mrs. Mitchell said. "Actually, I got a letter about a week ago, and then yesterday there was an­other letter from Colonel Dunn, with a carbon copy of the first letter. He said that he wanted to make sure I had gotten the first. He said he'd given it to you to mail when you were taken off the Badoeng Strait, but that you were in pretty bad shape and it might have been . . . misplaced."

He didn't reply.

"Anyway, somewhere in his second letter he said that you were being sent here, so I had the impulse, and gave in to it, to come see if there was anything I could do for you. Bad idea, huh?"

"Not at all," Pick said. "I very much appreciate your coming."

"Really?"

"Really. Dr. McGrory is a fine fellow, but he's not much to look at."

She smiled uneasily.

Your fucking mouth is out of control. There was a clear implication there that you like looking at her.

What a fucking insensitive thing to say to a widow!

I hope she thinks I am nuts.

"Is there?" she asked.

"Is there what?"

"Anything I can do for you? Anything you need?"

Don't even start to think what you started to think. You sonofabitch!

"I'm really in pretty good shape. I really think I should be asking you that question. How are you doing?"

"Well, you tell yourself over and over that you married a Marine pilot, and that sometimes they go away and don't come back. But when it happens, you just don't believe it for a while. It's unreal."

Yeah, I know. When it happens, you just don't believe it for a while.

"I think I understand," Pick said.

She didn't challenge the statement, but he saw in her eyes that she simply thought he was being nice.

She doesn't want to hear your problems. She's got a load of her own.

"The same day I was rescued," he heard himself saying, "my girlfriend—we were talking about getting married—was in an Air Force medical supply Gooney Bird that went down in Korea."

"Oh, how terrible for you!" she said.

"You're right, you just don't believe it for a while," he said.

"She was a nurse?"

"A war correspondent," he said. "Jeanette Priestly. Of the Chicago Tribune."

"Oh, I saw that in the paper," she said. "I'm so sorry."

"Thank you," he said.

"I didn't believe it when the notification team came," she said. "I guess I didn't believe it until yesterday, when they called up to ask 'what my wishes were with regard to funeral arrangements.' Then it really sank in."

"What were they talking about?" Pick asked.

"Well, they've recovered what they call Dick's 'remains.' Why can't they say 'body'?"

"I don't know," Pick confessed.

"And they wanted to know 'my wishes.' "

"What about? Where to ... bury him?"

"Uh-huh. And when did I want to accept his Distinguished Flying Cross? At the funeral, or separately?"

"What did you decide?"

"Well, he's not going back to Arkansas. He hated Arkansas."

"That's where his family is?"

She nodded. "Mine, too."

"Are you going there? What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. The only thing I know is that I'm not going to go back to Arkansas. I'm going to bury Dick here. We were happy here."

"You mean in San Diego?"

"At the National Cemetery, on Point Loma?"

"I know it."

"It overlooks the ocean. Dick loved the ocean. I do, too. Maybe because there's no ocean in Arkansas."

"I grew up on the ocean," Pick said. "And I love it, too."

"Where?"

"San Francisco," Pick said. "My parents have a place on the ocean a little south of San Francisco."

"You're not a regular, are you?" she asked.

He shook his head no.

"Just a weekend warrior," he said.

"What did you do as a civilian?"

"I flew for an airline," he said. "Trans-Global."

"That's what I'd like to do," she said.

"Fly for an airline? I don't think they have lady pilots."

She giggled, and smiled at him. Jesus Christ, I could fall into those eyes.

"No, silly. I meant see if I could get a job as a stewardess. Maybe I could get a recommendation from you at Trans-Global? Absolutely no experience, but willing to learn. Free to travel. No family ties."

"I thought you said your family was in Arkansas."

"They were annoyed—Dick's family and mine, both—when I wouldn't go 'home' when Dick shipped out. There were words then. And when I wouldn't go home . . . after Dick died, there were more words."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Pick said.

"And I'm sorry I told you," she said, and stood up. "I really am. I came here to see what I could do for you, and here I am, telling you all about my woes." "Haven't you ever heard 'misery loves company'?"

"Yeah, but I don't think it means what you're suggesting."

"What do you think it means?"

"It means that people that complain, whine a lot, like to be around people who complain and whine a lot."

"I think people like you and me, Mrs. Mitchell, who have lost the most im­portant person in our lives, have every right to feel a little sorry for ourselves. This miserable person, Mrs. Mitchell, hopes that your standing up doesn't mean you're going to leave."

She met his eyes again.

Jesus, she looks right through me!

"I was about to say 'I have to run,' " she said. "That would have implied I have somewhere to go. I don't, really. So if you'd like me to stay awhile, Major Pickering, I'd like to."

"Pick," he said. "My name is Malcolm, but nobody calls me that."

She put out her hand.

"Babs," she said. "How do you do?"

"You mean aside from being in the loony bin?"

She giggled and looked at him again and smiled, and Pick realized he was holding on to her hand longer than he should be. He quickly let go. He saw a faint blush on her face, and decided that proved she had picked up on the hand-holding.

You may relax, Mrs. Babs Mitchell. The one thing this miserable sonofabitch is not going to do is one fucking thing that will give you any reason to suspect that I'm even thinking of anything that could resemble a pass.

[SEVEN]

Room 39A, Neuro-Psychiatric Ward

U.S. Naval Hospital

San Diego, California

13OS 31 October 195O

"I was wondering when you were going to show up," Major Malcolm S. Pick­ering said to Lieutenant Patrick McGrory, MC, USN, when McGrory came into the room.

"I'm flattered," McGrory said. "I didn't think you cared. Especially after I saw you and your visitor in the O Club."

"It was lunchtime, I offered to take her to lunch," Pick said. "That's all there was to that. No, that's not true. Tell me how much I have to tell you about my terrible ordeal to get a six-hour pass the day after tomorrow."

"What the hell was it, lust at first sight?"

"The lady is burying her husband. She asked me to attend the service and the funeral. Jesus Christ, McGrory!"

"She told me she was a Marine pilot's wife. She didn't say he was dead."

"He flew a Corsair off the Badoeng Strait and then into the ground," Pick said. "He was a very nice guy. She doesn't have any family, and I intend to be there with her when she buries him. Don't fuck with me on this, Doc."

"I won't even demand that you describe your ordeal, Pick," McGrory said. "You probably wouldn't tell me the truth anyway. I want you to talk about it with me when you want to, not before."

"I get the pass?"

McGrory nodded. "Thank you."

"I don't know if I'm saying this as your friend or your physician, Pick, but either way, I think it has to be said."

"What has to be said?"

"There's what I call the boomerang syndrome in the relations between men and women. Most commonly it's when a divorced guy, after lifting the skirts of every bimbo in town, finds and falls in love with a twin—physically or psy­chologically, and often both—of his detested ex-wife. When there is a death— in this instance, there are two deaths—the woman, whether she's aware of it or not, hungers for a strong male shoulder to lean on, and the man—although he may hate himself for it—starts looking for a replacement for his lost love."

"It's not like that here, Doc," Pick said.

"You're on goddamned thin ice, Pick, in a situation like this. If you don't want to hurt the woman, keep your distance. If you don't want to get kicked in the balls again—this widow is not your late girlfriend—keep your distance."

"How did you hear about my late girlfriend?"

"In my first transoceanic telephone call," McGrory said.

"Your father told me. They're sending her body back, too, and he thought I should know." "Were you going to tell me about that, McGrory?" Dr. McGrory chose to ignore the question.

"If you're going to be going on pass the day after tomorrow," Dr. McGrory said as he took his notebook from his shirt pocket, "you'll have to have a uni­form. I'll give you an authorization for the officers' sales store, and to prove what a really good guy I am, I'll call the manager—a Jewish boy named Francis Xavier O'Malley— and tell him you're a friend of mine, and really need the uni­form tailored by tomorrow at seventeen hundred."

"Were you going to tell me about Jeanette's body, McGrory?"

"That was then, no. This is now, and I just did. They're going to have a formal—what the hell is the word?—'reception ceremony' for it at North Is­land Naval Air Station in three, four days."

"And am I going to get to go to this 'reception ceremony'?"

"That depends on how you behave when you bury the lady's husband," Dr. McGrory said.

He tore a page from his notebook and handed it to Pick.

"Give that to O'Malley," he said. "And don't let them cut the material too much when they take it in. I have every hope that you'll soon be a little heavier."

Pick chuckled. "I didn't think about that," he said. "I guess I'm now a 42-Skeletal, right?"

"Something like that. I also am entertaining boyish hopes that when we're through burying people, you'll understand that I really am trying to be a friend, and that you'll start talking to me."

"Life is funny, McGrory," Pick said. "The one thing you can be sure of is that you can't predict the future."

Chapter Seventeen


[ONE]

8O23d Transportation Company (Depot, Forward)

Wonsan, North Korea

1335 31 October 195O

"You can look at it now, sir," First Sergeant Jackson J. Jamison said to Captain Francis P. MacNamara. "It's just about done, and I think we have the finest crapper in Wonsan."

"Well, let's have a look at it," MacNamara said, and left his tent and fol­lowed Jamison past a long line of three-quarter-ton trucks to the edifice to which Jamison had made reference.

It sat on a small rise in the compound close to—but not too close to; Mac­Namara had selected the site himself—the men's tents. It had a wooden frame, to which canvas had been nailed.

There was a door at each end, for ventilation. Inside was a four-holer of smooth, unpainted wood. There was a sort of center pole, a sturdy six-by-six timber, to which a box had been nailed. The box held a dozen rolls of toilet paper, half a dozen spray cans of DDT, which would both kill the flies and sort of serve as a deodorant, and a box of candles.

MacNamara walked to the rear of the structure and examined his person­ally designed waste-disposal system. This consisted of cut-in-half fifty-five-gallon fuel barrels to which handles had been welded. A wooden shelf structure permitted the half-barrels to be slid under the holes in the four-holer. They would be changed twice a day.

Five minutes later, just as Captain MacNamara decided he was very pleased with the latrine he had designed and ordered constructed for his men, First Sergeant Jamison touched his arm and directed his attention to the line of three-quarter trucks down which they had recently walked.

A jeep was now coming down the line. Standing up in the front seat was Colonel T. Howard Kennedy, the X Corps Transportation Officer.

Captain MacNamara had three thoughts.

He's looking for me. I wonder what he wants?

Who does he think he is? Patton?

If I handle the sonofabitch right, he might be helpful in me getting to stay on active duty when the war is over, as it looks like it's going to be any day now.

MacNamara said, "Damn good job, First Sergeant. Tell the men."

"Yes, sir."

MacNamara then hurried around to the front of the latrine, and saluted crisply as Colonel Kennedy drove up.

"You weren't in your office, MacNamara," Colonel Kennedy said, more of an accusation than an observation.

"I was having a look at the new latrine, sir. Perhaps the colonel would like to have a look?"

Kennedy gave him a strange look.

"Perhaps some other time, MacNamara," Colonel Kennedy said.

"Yes, sir. I realize the colonel's a busy man."

"You have no idea how busy," Kennedy agreed, then turned to the business at hand. "MacNamara, I want you, right now, to start moving your vehicles up around Hamhung. You're too far south to do anybody any good here."

"Yes, sir. Where in Hamhung would you like me to set up, sir?"

"Anyplace you can do your job, Captain," Colonel Kennedy said, somewhat abruptly. "But start moving now. Not after supper, not tomorrow morn­ing—now."

"Yes, sir," MacNamara said.

Colonel Kennedy looked at him for a moment, then said: "It's important that we get your vehicles north, MacNamara. X Corps is attacking north, and we'll be moving rapidly. If you have any trouble, let me know. Can you think of any problems right now?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well?"

"Drivers, sir," MacNamara replied.

"What about drivers?"

"Sir, I have right at six hundred vehicles to move. I have four officers and one hundred thirty-seven men—I have eight in hospital—and with just that many men, I'll have to make a lot of trips. Four, at least."

"You know, I didn't think about drivers," Colonel Kennedy confessed. "Let me get back to you, MacNamara. In the meantime, get off the dime."

"Yes, sir."

An hour later, Colonel Kennedy returned.

"We're going to kill two birds with one stone, MacNamara," he said, sound­ing pleased with himself. "Maybe more than two."

"Yes, sir?"

"The 7th Infantry Division Replacement Company has to be moved to Hamhung, too. Tents, equipment, and men. Instead of having them moved by a Transportation Truck Company, you're going to move them."

"Yes, sir."

"They have about three hundred replacements waiting assignment," he said. "I figure one in two of them should be able to drive a truck, and just about all of them should be able to drive a jeep."

"Yes, sir."

"That should give you all the drivers you need. Hie thee over to the Reple-Deple, MacNamara, they'll be expecting you."

"Yes, sir."

"Time is of the essence, MacNamara. Time is of the essence."

"Yes, sir."

Captain Roscoe T. Quigley, Adjutant General's Corps, who commanded the 7th Infantry Division Replacement Company, had quickly informed Captain Mac­Namara that he wasn't exactly happy with his orders from Colonel Kennedy, which he described as "verbal and vague in the extreme."

"I don't even know where I am to set up in Hamhung," he said, almost wistfully.

The moment he laid eyes on Captain Roscoe T. Quigley, AGC, a tall and slender officer with a pencil-line mustache, MacNamara had decided that Quigley (a) would much prefer to be in a heated office somewhere carefully checking Daily Morning Reports for prohibited strikeovers than where he was, trying to keep warm and dry in a leaking, dirt-floored tent, with the responsi­bility for feeding and housing three hundred-plus soldiers and (b) that Quigley, like most AGC officers in his experience, would be a real pain in the ass if he didn't quickly understand who was giving the orders.

"I think I know what we should do, Captain Quigley," MacNamara had said, firmly.

"What's that?"

"You and I will lead the advance party," MacNamara said. "A small convoy—say, no more than twenty six-by-sixes ..."

"That's a small convoy?"

"We have six hundred vehicles to move. Yes, Quigley, I'd say twenty against six hundred is a small convoy. Wouldn't you?"

"I had no idea there were that many vehicles."

"You and I—taking with us two of my officers and, say, forty of my men, and as many of your officers and men as you think you'll need—will go to Hamhung, reconnoiter the area, locate suitable areas for your replace­ment depot and my unit, and start setting up. Then you and I, having learned the route and the problems encountered on it, will bring enough non-coms back here, where they will set up convoys of the others. In the mean­time, while you and I are up north, I will have my first sergeant run what I suppose you could call a driver's school for the drivers. You have any prob­lems with that?"

"When had you ... uh ... planned to ... uh ... launch your convoy?"

"In an hour," MacNamara said.

"You mean today?"

"Colonel Kennedy told me, Quigley, that time is of the essence," MacNamara said. "You can do what you like, of course, but I'm going to start for Hamhung in an hour."

"Oh, I'll go with you, of course, Captain MacNamara," Captain Quigley said. "But I was wondering about an escort, I guess is what I mean."

"What do you mean by an escort?"

"I think we have to consider the possibility that we may encounter the enemy on the road."

"I doubt it," MacNamara said. "If there were enemy forces in the area, I'm sure Colonel Kennedy would have told me. Anyway, we're going to have, say, at least five men on each truck, times twenty trucks, which means we'll have at least a hundred men. That ought to be enough to defend ourselves."

"Well, I'll get right on it, of course, but it will take some time to issue am­munition to ... What did you say, one hundred men?"

"They have weapons but no ammunition?"

"You wouldn't believe the incidents that happen when the men in the re­placement stream have access to live ammunition," Captain Quigley said. "It's like the O.K. Corral."

"Well, they better have live ammo now," MacNamara said. "A full com­bat load."

"You're right, of course," Quigley said.

"I'll be back in an hour," MacNamara said.

[TWO]

The Director's Office

East Building, The CIA Complex

243O E Street

Washington, D.C.

1615 31 October 195O

"May I come in, General?" Major General Roger J. Buchanan, USA, Ret'd., in­quired of Walter Bedell Smith after he had been standing for two minutes—it seemed longer—in the open door, waiting for Smith to look up from what he was reading.

Smith lifted his eyes to the door and made a waving motion with his hand.

"Sure, Roger," Smith said. "What have you got?"

General Buchanan had worked for Smith through most of the time Smith had been General of the Army Dwight David Eisenhower's Chief of Staff at Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force in Europe, and had come to work for Smith shortly after Smith had been named Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.

"An urgent Eyes Only The Director from General Pickering," Buchanan said, walking to the desk and laying a manila folder on Smith's desk. Smith opened it. It was a thin sheaf of paper, each sheet bearing stamps reading TOP SECRET and EYES ONLY THE DIRECTOR at the top and bottom.

Smith picked up the sheet and started to read it, then looked at Buchanan.

"You haven't read this, right?" he asked.

"Of course not, General," Buchanan said. "It's classified Top Secret, Eyes Only The Director."

They both chuckled. It was a private joke. They both knew that it was im­possible to transmit an Eyes Only message that would be seen only by the eyes of the addressee. It had to be seen by the cryptographer (and probably, since this was a high-level message, by the officer supervising the cryptographer) when it was dispatched, and then by the cryptographer at the receiving end (and again, more than likely by his superior). And then, after it had been deliv­ered—in this case, to the director's office—it had to be read by the Director's Executive Assistant (General Buchanan), who had to know everything the di­rector knew.

About the only use Smith and Buchanan thought the Eyes Only classifica­tion had was that Eyes Only messages—if they weren't immediately shredded and burned—had their own filing cabinet. Which also meant that the officer in charge of classified documents had to read it to know where to file it, or what it was he was shredding and burning.

Smith bent slightly over his desk and began to read the message.


TOP SECRET

URGENT

TOKYO 1605 30 OCTOBER 1950

FROM DEPUTY DIRECTOR FOR ASIA

TO (EYES ONLY) DIRECTOR, CIA, WASHINGTON

DEAR MR. DIRECTOR,

ATTACHED HERETO IS A MESSAGE I RECEIVED TWO HOURS AGO FROM MAJOR KENNETH R MCCOY, USMCR, PRESENTLY IN KOREA.

I ATTACH GREAT IMPORTANCE TO IT FOR SEVERAL REASONS:

1 . IT IS THE FIRST TIME MCCOY HAS FLATLY STATED THAT SUBSTANTIAL CHINESE COMMUNIST FORCES ARE ALREADY IN NORTH KOREA. HERETOFORE, HE HAS MADE IT CLEAR THAT HE HAS HAD NO HARD INTELLIGENCE TO BACK HIS BELIEF THAT THIS IS THE CASE. I CONSIDER IT GERMANE TO POINT OUT THAT MCCOY SPEAKS CANTONESE FLUENTLY AND IS A HIGHLY SKILLED INTERROGATOR. THERE IS NO POSSIBILITY THAT HE DID NOT UNDERSTAND, OR MISCONSTRUED, WHAT WAS SAID TO HIM BY THE CHINESE PRISONERS.


I ATTACH GREAT IMPORTANCE TO THE POSSIBILITY MCCOY SUGGESTS THAT THE PRISONERS ARE IN EFFECT MESSENGERS SENT TO MAKE IT CLEAR THAT CHINESE MILITARY FORCES WILL ENTER THE CONFLICT IF EIGHTH ARMY AND X CORPS CONTINUE TO ADVANCE TOWARD THE MANCHURIAN AND SOVIET BORDERS.


I HAVE JUST CONFERRED WITH MAJOR GENERAL CHARLES WILLOUGHBY, GENERAL MACARTHUR'S INTELLIGENCE OFFICER. WITHOUT MAKING REFERENCE TO MAJOR MCCOY'S MESSAGE, I ASKED GENERAL WILLOUGHBY IF HE HAS HAD ANY NEW INTELLIGENCE WHICH HAS GIVEN HIM CAUSE TO RECONSIDER


HIS BELIEF THAT THE ENTRY OF THE CHINESE INTO THE CONFLICT IS HIGHLY UNLIKELY, AND EVEN IF THERE WAS SUCH INTERVENTION, IT COULD BE EASILY DEALT WITH BY EIGHTH ARMY AND X CORPS. GENERAL WILLOUGHBY STATED HE HAS HAD NO INDICATION WHATEVER THAT ANY CHINESE FORCES HAVE


CROSSED INTO NORTH KOREA FROM MANCHURIA, AND HE THEREFORE HAS HAD NO REASON TO RECONSIDER HIS POSITION.


RESPECTFULLY SUBMITTED,

FLEMING PICKERING, DEPUTY DIRECTOR FOR ASIA

ONE ATTACHMENT, TOP SECRET URGENT MSG FISHBASE 1125 30 OCTOBER 1950 TO DEP DIR FOR ASIA

TOP SECRET

"Very interesting," Smith said, raising his eyes to General Buchanan.

"He's putting a lot of weight on the judgments of a pretty junior officer, isn't he?"

"From what I hear, a rather unusual 'pretty junior officer,' " Smith said. "The President is taken with him, I know that."

"What are you going to do, General?"

Smith pointed to a red telephone on his desk.

"Get on there, Roger," Smith ordered, "and ask when the President can see me."

"Yes, sir."

Buchanan picked up the handset and was about to push Button Two, which would cause the telephone in the outer office of the President's office in Blair House to ring, when, with a sudden movement, Walter Bedell Smith reached over and pressed the switch in the base of the telephone, halting the call.

Buchanan looked at him in surprise.

"Roger," Smith said, "the Director would like to see the President, not Gen­eral Smith."

"Whatever you say, sir," General Buchanan said.

"These are white shirts and multicolored neckties we have on," Smith said. "And there are no epaulets with stars on them on our shoulders. We're going to have to keep that in mind. Starting with you. You can call me anything but 'General.' "

"Certainly, Your Holiness," Buchanan said.

Smith chuckled and took his finger off the telephone switch. Buchanan pushed Button Two.

"This is Roger Buchanan of the Director's office," he said. "Director Smith would like to see the President as soon as possible."

Smith mimed clapping his hands and mouthed, "Very good, Mr. Buchanan."

Buchanan smiled at him, then said "Thank you" into the telephone. Then he covered the microphone with his hand. "He's there, Mr. Director. She's going to ask him."

Less than thirty seconds later, Buchanan said, "Yes, sir, he is. Hold one, Mr. President."

He handed the phone to Smith.

"Good afternoon, Mr. President," Smith said into the phone, then listened for a moment and added, "I'm glad to hear that, sir. I would like his opinion of what I want to show you. I'll leave directly. Thank you, Mr. President."

He put the phone in its cradle.

"General Howe is with the President," Smith said. "Fresh from the Far East." He pushed himself out of his chair and walked quickly toward his office door. Buchanan picked up the red telephone and pushed Button Nine. "This is Gen . . . this is Roger Buchanan. The Director's car at the door— now," he ordered.

[THREE]

The President's Office

Blair House

Pennsylvania Avenue

Washington, D.C.

1655 31 October 195O

"That was quick, Mr. Smith," Harry S Truman said to Walter Bedell Smith.

Smith looked around the room and saw there was no one in it but the Pres­ident and Major General Ralph Howe, NGUS, who was in civilian clothing. That pleased him. That meant that the President would not, out of courtesy, show Pickering's Eyes Only to any one of a number of people around him who really didn't have to—shouldn't—see it.

"I came as quickly as I could manage, Mr. President," Smith said.

"I think I should say this," Truman said as he shook his hand. "I wasn't try­ing to be distant, formal, when I called you 'Mister.' I'm just not comfortable with 'Beetle.' It sounds disrespectful."

"Mr. President, you can call me anything you'd like to call me."

"How about 'Smith'? Would that be all right? Or even 'Smitty'?"

"Either would be fine, Mr. President," Smith said.

"Maybe 'Smitty' goes a little too far the other way," Truman said. "Smith, you remember General Howe, don't you?"

"Yes, sir. Of course. Welcome home, General."

"Thank you," Howe said.

"When you called, Smith, I was just about to send Ralph over to see you. I have ordered him to repeat to you some of the unkind things he's been telling me about Douglas the First, Emperor of Japan, and his Royal Court."

"I'll be interested to hear them, sir. At your convenience, General."

"What Ralph tells you is to go no farther," Truman said. "Especially not across the Potomac to the Pentagon."

"I understand, Mr. President," Smith said.

"What have you got for me?" Truman asked.

"An Eyes Only from General Pickering," Smith said.

He started, somewhat awkwardly, to try to open his briefcase.

"That would be a lot easier if you were sitting down," Truman said.

"Thank you, Mr. President," Smith said, and found a place on a small couch.

"Are you a drinking man, Smith?" the President asked. "Or is it a little early for you?"

Smith hesitated, and finally said, "I take a drink from time to time, sir."

"Ralph and I are about to have a very stiff Jack Daniel's," the President said. "Is that all right, or would you like something else?"

"Jack Daniel's would be fine, sir, thank you."

Howe got out of his chair and walked to the door.

"Charley, get us three Jack Daniel's—better make that a bottle—and ice, et cetera," he ordered, then came back in time to carry the envelope Smith had finally gotten out of his briefcase to the President.

Truman opened the envelope, took out the contents, and then pushed him­self far back in his red leather judge's chair to read it. He did so carefully, put the papers back in the manila folder, and then, just as Charley Rogers, also in civilian clothing, came into the office trailed by a white-jacketed steward, threw the folder on his desk and said angrily, "Sonofabitch!"

"Mr. President?" Charley Rogers asked.

"Not you, Charley," Truman said. He pointed to the manila folder. "Hand that to your boss, and then sit down and have a drink with us."

Rogers moved to comply as the steward poured the drinks.

"That'll be all, when you finish, thank you," Truman said to the steward. "Leave the bottle."

The steward quickly finished what he was doing and left the room.

"Charley, do you know Director Smith?" Truman asked.

"No, sir."

"This is Charley Rogers," the President said. "Master Sergeant Charley Rogers. He and I go as far back as General Howe and myself." He paused, then added, "One vote the other way, and it would more than likely be General Rogers and Master Sergeant Howe."

"Sir?" Smith asked, confused.

"When we mobilized for the First War," Truman said, "we elected our of­ficers. Did you know that?"

"I think I heard something about that, sir," Smith said.

"I got my commission, captain, and command of Battery B that way. I was elected to it," Truman said. "Ralph got his the same way. He beat Charley by one vote ..."

"True," Howe said.

"... and Charley didn't want to be a second lieutenant..."

"Also true," Rogers said, chuckling. "I still don't."

". . . so he became First Sergeant," Truman finished. "I've often thought electing officers is a pretty good way to get them."

Rogers and Smith shook hands.

"Well, Ralph?" the President asked. "What do you think of that message?"

"Mr. President," Howe said, "from what Pickering says, and knowing McCoy as well as I do, I'd say you can take this to the bank."

"Unfortunately, it's not as simple as taking it to the bank," Truman said. "It has to go to the Pentagon. And that opens a whole new can of worms. There's a lot of pressure on me to relieve Douglas MacArthur. If they see this, that'll give them one more argument that he's—how do I say this?—past his prime. And should go. Ralph tells me that he's a military genius, and Pickering agrees with him."

"General Howe . . ." Smith began, then stopped to look at the President for permission to go on. Truman nodded. "You said you place credence in this major's intelligence?"

"That's right, I do."

"It doesn't surprise you at all that he seems to have intelligence that refutes what we're hearing from General MacArthur?"

"The only thing that surprised me . . . What do I call you? 'General'?"

"Not 'General,' please," Smith said. "I really don't mind 'Beetle.' "

"Okay, Beetle. The only thing that surprised me—and now that I think about, it didn't really surprise me—was that the Killer was back in Korea. Charley and I saw him just before we left Seoul to come home. General Almond told me he took a pretty good hit."

"What did you say, Ralph?" the President asked. " 'Took a pretty good hit'? What do you mean?"

"The Killer? Is that what they call him?" Smith asked, chuckling.

"His friends can," Howe said. "Charley and I are in that category."

" 'Took a hit,' Ralph?" the President pursued. "Back in Korea from where?"

"The Navy Hospital in Sasebo," Howe said. "He was in North Korea, way up where the Russian, Manchurian, and North Korean borders come together, listening to Soviet Army radio traffic. On his way out, he got hit."

"You didn't tell me that, Ralph," the President said.

"I didn't think it was important. All he heard was routine stuff. Not enough to be able to say the Russians won't come in, but enough to make him think they probably won't."

"Goddamn it, Ralph," the President said. "I meant about him getting hit. How badly?"

"Apparently not badly enough to keep him from going back to Korea," Howe said.

"Presumably he had General Pickering's okay?"

"Mr. President," Charley Rogers said, "if the Killer thought he should be in Korea, he'd go if he had to crawl, and I don't think General Pickering would try to stop him." He paused, then added: "He wasn't crawling, sir. He was limping, and you could tell he was in some pain, but—"

"Sonofabitch," the President said.

"You sound as if you're angry with him, Har .. . Mr. President," Howe said. "Don't shoot the messenger."

"My displeasure, General, is with Emperor Douglas the First, and this deaf, dumb, and blind intelligence officer of his, not Major McCoy," the President said. "And my displeasure is such that, knowing myself, I know that whatever decision I make right now I'll regret later."

"You have time, sir," Smith said. "McCoy's message said he was going to in­sert observation teams to verify what the prisoners told him. It'll be twenty-odd hours before we get that report, probably."

"Yeah," the President said, then grunted. "When I heard what he did to res­cue Pickering's son, I told General Bradley I wanted him decorated. With the Silver Star. Did that happen?"

"I understand General MacArthur ... at least intended ... to make the pre­sentation himself," Rogers said. "McCoy didn't say anything about it. He wouldn't."

"Goddamn it, I was decorating him, not the goddamn Emperor!" Truman exploded. "Give him another medal. Give him a ... Legion of Merit. That's for senior officers, isn't it? He's been functioning like a senior officer—give him a senior officer's medal!"

The President saw the look on Rogers's face.

"You find that amusing, Charley?" Truman challenged. "Why is that amusing?"

"I'm afraid to tell you, sir," Rogers said.

"What's so goddamn funny, Charley?" the President said, and there was menace in his tone.

"The thing is, sir," Rogers said carefully, "that enlisted men, like me, and junior officers, like Major McCoy, who are close to the men, consider the Le­gion of Merit to be the brass's good-conduct medal. If they don't get social dis­ease for six consecutive months, they get the Legion of Merit."

Howe laughed. Truman glowered at him.

Then Truman laughed.

"I never heard that before," he said, shaking his head. "Did you, Smith?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. President," Smith said. "My wife told me, when I was given the Legion of Merit."

That produced a hearty laugh from the President.

"Well, then, to hell with the Legion of Merit for McCoy," the President said. "Give him something else. Give him another Silver Star." He paused. "Will you relay my wishes to the Pentagon for me, Smith? Right now, I don't want to talk to anybody over there."

"Yes, sir, of course."

"And while you're at it," the President ordered, "find out if Pickering's boy got the Navy Cross I ordered for him. If he doesn't have it already, find out why."

"Yes, Mr. President."

"You can tell me tomorrow when you come back here to tell me what McCoy's men have learned about Red Chinese troop dispositions."

"Yes, sir."

The President extended his empty glass to Charley Rogers and said, as much to himself as to the men in the room, "If I relieve MacArthur now because he's indulging this intelligence officer of his and is not taking the proper action, and McCoy is wrong, and the Chinese don't come in, every Republican in the coun­try is going to say I cheated him out of his victory at the last moment for po­litical reasons. And that's exactly what it will look like."

No one said anything.

Charley Rogers handed him a fresh drink.

The President took it and leaned against his desk, and stirred the ice cubes thoughtfully with his index finger.

Then he smiled.

"Six months without VD, huh?" he chuckled. "I wonder if I should tell Bess about that one?"

"I wouldn't, Har . . . Mr. President," Howe said.

"Hell, I couldn't," the President said. "If I did, Bess would immediately start to examine the ribbons of every general she saw, and God help the poor gen­eral who didn't have a Legion of Merit." He laughed, then raised his glass to Rogers. "Thank you very much, Charley. I needed a laugh."

[FOUR]

The House

Seoul, South Korea

1655 1 November 195O

"All of my life, Major McCoy," Lieutenant Colonel J. D. Vandenburg, USA, greeted Major K. R. McCoy, USMCR, as McCoy walked into the dining room, "I was told that Marines, whatever the situation, are models of military sarto­rial splendor. I have to tell you, you are shattering that illusion."

McCoy was wearing black pajamas, U.S. Army combat boots, a fur-collared Army zippered flight jacket, and a huge black fur cap, which he took off as he smiled at Vandenburg.

"I really like the hat," Vandenburg said.

"I took it away from a Chinese officer—"

"You're sure he was a Chinese officer?" Vandenburg interrupted.

"I am sure he was a Chinese officer," McCoy said. "He told me he got it in Russia. I believed that because he spoke pretty good Russian. I'm going to give it to my wife. I think it's Persian lamb. I thought maybe she could make a muff out of it. Or a purse, maybe."

Vandenburg picked up the hat and examined it.

"Or wear it as a hat," he said. "That's very nice. Only senior officers would get such finery."

"He admitted to being a lieutenant colonel," McCoy said. "I suspect he's more than that."

"I was fascinated with your idea that the first Chinese you interrogated were messengers. ..."

"Can we talk about that after I get something to eat?" McCoy asked as he took off his flight jacket. "I haven't had anything to eat since breakfast, and that was cold powdered eggs."

"Sorry, I didn't think. You want something to drink?"

"I'd like a stiff shot of scotch, and then a cup—several cups—of hot coffee."

McCoy walked to the door to the kitchen and spoke with the housekeeper, who told him there was cold chicken and cold pork, but that it would take only a minute to heat it up."

"Heat it up, please," McCoy said, "but get me some coffee right now, please."

When he turned around, Vandenburg had put a bottle of Famous Grouse and a glass on the table.

"You want ice? Water?" he asked.

"This is medicinal, not social," McCoy said. "Straight is fine."

"Against the cold? Or do you hurt?"

McCoy lowered himself carefully into a chair, then splashed two inches of whiskey into the glass, picked it up, and drank about half.

He exhaled audibly, then said: "Both. If I keep moving, I'm fine. But when I sit with my knees bent—as I have just been doing in the L-19—it gets stiff, and then it hurts when I move. If I don't move and get cold—and it was cold as hell up in the L-19—it's worse."

"You probably should still be in the hospital in Sasebo," Vandenburg said.

"If I knew where I could lay my hands on somebody who speaks Russian and Cantonese and knows what questions to ask, that's where I would be."

The housekeeper appeared with a silver coffeepot and a cup and saucer. When she had half-filled the cup, McCoy told her to stop and poured the rest of the scotch in with the coffee.

He took a sip.

"You were telling me about the colonel with the hat," Vandenburg said.

"Let's do this like the professionals we're supposed to be," McCoy said. "We have a map?"

Vandenburg nodded, pointed to half a dozen maps rolled up and standing in a corner of the room, and then went and got one.

"Northeast Korea, right?"

"Better bring one of the northwest, too," McCoy said.

McCoy took a healthy sip from his coffee cup and then stood up as Van­denburg laid a map of northeast Korea on the table and anchored it in place with whiskey glasses.

"The first Chinese I talked to were captured here," McCoy said, using his finger as a pointer, "southeast of the Chosin Reservoir. The positions he gave me of ChiCom forces here, and here, and here, all checked out."

"Interesting," Vandenburg said.

"One of the reasons I came here was to get confirmation to General Pick­ering as soon as I could," McCoy said.

"And the other reason—reasons?"

"I thought if you had turned up the same sort of intel, it probably should go in the same report," McCoy said. "I have the feeling there are only two senior people who don't think I'm a nutcase on the loose. Pickering and Almond."

"Almond believes you?" Vandenburg asked.

McCoy nodded. Then he asked, "Have you got anything that would back me up?"

"A hell of a lot of rumors and unconfirmed sightings, but nothing solid, I'm afraid. Just before you came in, I got a report that the 24th Division—they're on the west coast, past Chongju, almost to the Yalu—has taken some Chinese prisoners, but it was too late for me to go up there today. I'm going to go at first light."

"I have to send my report tonight," McCoy said.

Vandenburg nodded his understanding.

"The colonel with the hat was captured here," McCoy said, pointing again at the map, "thirty miles east of the eastern shore of the Chosin Reservoir. Same scenario as before, except this guy was wearing an officer's uniform, and I didn't have to 'discover' that he was an officer. But he said and did the same things. The Chinese are coming in with overwhelming force, which they intend to use when X Corps is stretched out making a dash for the border. And he gave me troop dispositions. I hope I can check those out tonight, but I'm going to be very surprised if they don't check out."

"If they do, that would support your idea that they're sending us a message, right?"

"I think it would," McCoy said. "What the hell else could it mean?"

The housekeeper came into the dining room carrying a plate of roast pork, rice, and gravy.

Загрузка...