Retreat, Hell!

"I should be noble and ignore that," McCoy said, "and go upstairs and send the report. But I'm hungry, and I don't want to climb all those goddamn stairs."

"I'll get a typewriter," Vandenburg said. "You can dictate it to me while you eat." He saw the look on McCoy's face. "I'm actually a very good typist. I used to be a CIC agent; a typewriter to a CIC agent is like a rifle to a Marine."

"I wasn't asking—"

"I know, Killer," Vandenburg said, and walked out of the dining room.

"Well, Major McCoy," Vandenburg said, handing McCoy the sheets of paper he had just pulled from the typewriter, "can this old soldier type, or can he type?"

McCoy took the papers and read them.

TOP SECRET

OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE

SEOUL »ENTER TIME DATE HERE

EYES ONLY BRIG GEN FLEMING PICKERING TOKYO

REFERENCE MY MESSAGE FROM FISHBASE 30 OCTOBER 1950: QUESTIONING OF THREE EXFILTRATED STAY-BEHIND TEAMS THIS DATE CONFIRMED IN EVERY SIGNIFICANT DETAIL THE CHICOM TROOP DISPOSITIONS FURNISHED THE UNDERSIGNED BY CHICOM PRISONERS YESTERDAY.

ADDITIONALLY, ONE OF THE TEAMS CAPTURED CHICOM CAPTAIN WON SON HI, WHO WAS EXFILTRATED WITH THEM AND INTERROGATED BY THE UNDERSIGNED. DESPITE CONSIDERABLE PRESSURE HE REFUSED TO SAY ANYTHING ABOUT HIS UNIT, ORDERS, OR ANYTHING ELSE. HOWEVER, HIS IDENTITY DOCUMENTS AND A LETTER FROM HIS MOTHER, CAPTURED WITH HIM, ESTABLISHED THAT HIS UNIT WAS THE 2077TH

RECONNAISSANCE COMPANY, 42D FIELD ARMY. AT THE TIME OF HIS CAPTURE HI AND THREE NONCOMS WERE RECONNOITERING CREST OF HILL LINE WHERE TEAM HAD BEEN INSERTED. NONCOMS DIED IN ENGAGEMENT.

REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT ONE OF THE FOUR TEAMS INSERTED WAS APPARENTLY DISCOVERED BY CHICOM FORCES, AND MUST BE CONSIDERED MISSING IN ACTION, POSSIBLY CAPTURED, BUT PROBABLY KIA. CREW OF EXTRACTION AIRCRAFT REPORTED SIGNS OF HEAVY ENGAGEMENT, AND WERE THEMSELVES

DRIVEN FROM AREA BY SMALL ARMS FIRE. ZIMMERMAN IS SENDING SEPARATELY FROM FISHBASE NAMES OF THOSE LOST AND OTHER DETAILS.

AT APPROXIMATELY 1400 HOURS THIS DATE, UNDERSIGNED INTERROGATED TWO CHICOM OFFICER PRISONERS, LIEUTENANT COLONEL KEY HOW AND CAPTAIN LEE SOU, CAPTURED BY ROK 502D INFANTRY IN VICINITY OF KUDONG, APPROXIMATELY 30 MILES EAST OF EASTERN SHORE OF CHOSIN RESERVOIR. EXCEPT

THAT THESE OFFICERS MADE NO EFFORT TO CONCEAL THEIR OFFICER STATUS, IT WAS ESSENTIALLY A REPEAT OF THE POW INTERROGATION THE UNDERSIGNED MADE YESTERDAY. CHICOM FORCES WILL NOT ATTACK US FORCES UNTIL THEIR LINES ARE OVEREXTENDED BETWEEN HAMHUNG AND BORDER, WHEN QUOTE ANNIHILATION WILL BE ASSURED ENDQUOTE.

FOUR TO SIX STAY-BEHIND TEAMS WILL BE INSERTED AT DUSK TODAY, DEPENDING ON WEATHER CONDITIONS, AND A REPORT OF THEIR FINDINGS WILL BE FURNISHED AS EARLY TOMORROW AS POSSIBLE.

IN VIEW OF THE FOREGOING, THE UNDERSIGNED BELIEVES

A. THERE IS NO LONGER ANY REASON TO QUESTION THE PRESENCE OF SUBSTANTIAL CHICOM FORCES IN NORTH KOREA PREPARED TO ENTER THE WAR WHENEVER THAT DECISION IS MADE.

THAT THE CAPTURE OF A SECOND GROUP OF SENIOR CHICOM OFFICERS WHO MAKE ESSENTIALLY THE SAME STATEMENT REGARDING CHICOM INTENTIONS REINFORCES THE POSSIBIL­ITY THAT THEY ARE IN EFFECT MESSENGERS HOPING TO HAVE PLANS TO ADVANCE TO THE YALU RECONSIDERED OR CANCELED.

7 . THE UNDERSIGNED HAS CONFERRED WITH STATION CHIEF SEOUL, WHO SAYS HE HAS NOTHING CONCRETE TO CONFIRM OR QUESTION THE CONCLUSIONS DRAWN BY THE UNDERSIGNED.

K.R. MCCOY MAJOR, USMCR

ADDITION: DESPITE PARAGRAPH 7 ABOVE THE UNDERSIGNED WHOLEHEARTEDLY CONCURS WITH MAJOR MCCOY'S ANALYSIS OF THE SITUATION, AND EXPECTS WITHIN A MATTER OF DAYS TO HAVE HARD INTELLIGENCE CONFIRMING MCCOY'S ANALYSIS.

J.D. VANDENBURG, LTCOL, INF

STATION CHIEF, SEOUL

TOP SECRET

"Well, you can type," McCoy said. "But what's that 'addition' that I didn't dictate or, for that matter, ask for?"

"Well, Major, you don't have any choice. I outrank you. It stays in."

McCoy looked at him.

"Killer, you're a bright guy, figure it out for yourself," Vandenburg said. "If that got to Washington without my addition, some chair-warming sonofabitch who's never been closer to the Orient than Big Wang's One Hung Low Chi­nese Buffet and Take-Out is going to say, 'Hey, he sent this from Seoul. What about Vandenburg? We really should know what Vandenburg thinks. If Van­denburg didn't say anything, he probably thinks McCoy is as full of shit as a Christmas turkey, and we have to judge this accordingly' Now they know what I think."

"Thank you."

"My pleasure. Now we're going to put you to bed. Does your leg need a fresh bandage? Before I was a CIC agent, I was a Boy Scout. I know all about bandages."

"I find that hard to believe. You being a Boy Scout, I mean."

Vandenburg raised his right hand, three fingers extended, as a Boy Scout does when swearing an oath.

"You can trust me, Killer. I'm in the CIA," he said solemnly.

[SEVEN]

Room 39A, Neuro-Psychiatric Ward

U.S. Naval Hospital

San Diego, California

O915 2 November 19SO

Major Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, was standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom when Lieutenant Patrick McGrory, MC, USN, pushed open the wide door and entered the room.

Pick had just concluded that he looked like hell. The uniform tunic hung loosely from his shoulders, which he had more or less expected. But he hadn't thought that he might have problems with the shirt until he'd stood before the mirror, buttoned the collar button, and begun to knot the field scarf. Then he'd seen that the shirt collar was an inch—maybe two inches—too big for the skinny neck rising from his shoulders. He realized why: Without thinking, he'd bought shirts in 'his' size, which meant they were far too large for him in his walking skeleton condition.

It was too late to do anything about it.

He turned and looked at McGrory.

"Good morning, Doctor," he said. "And how is my favorite leprechaun feeling today?"

"I'm impressed," McGrory said. "That's an impressive array of fruit salad."

Pick gave him the finger.

"I mean it," McGrory said. "I was impressed when I saw the list of your medals General Dawkins sent over—"

"What?"

"I said I was impressed with the list of your medals when General Dawkins sent it over—"

"What the hell was that all about?"

"General Dawkins called the hospital commander and said that he wanted to make sure you had a uniform, as they are about to pin another medal on you—"

"Oh, shit. That was a mistake. With its typical efficiency, the Crotch put my name on somebody else's citation."

"—and that he was sending his driver over," McGrory went on, "with an official list of your medals so that you would have them on your uniform when they took your picture when they pinned the medal on you. The hospital com­mander summoned me, handed me the list, and told me to take care of it. Which I did, by telling Francis Xavier O'Malley I was sending him a list of rib­bons which he was to make up when getting you your uniform. And as I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me, I was impressed with the list, but am even more impressed now that I can see them all on your manly breast."

"Manly chicken breast," Pick said. "Or chickenly man breast?"

McGrory chuckled.

"I did notice your collar seems a wee bit roomy," McGrory said. "But for the record, you have gained eleven pounds while in my loving care. You'll get it all back, Pick. You lost a hell of a lot of weight, pal. It won't come back overnight."

"The O Club had the effrontery to serve me rice with my pork chops last night," Pick said. "I will never eat rice again in my life."

"Is that how you made it, on rice?"

"We are back to my terrible ordeal, are we? Okay. I'll give you that much. Yes, rice was a staple of my diet during my terrible ordeal. Are you now happy?"

"The longest journey begins with the first step," McGrory said solemnly. "I think Confucius said that."

"I hate to break off this fascinating conversation," Pick said, "but I told Mrs. Mitchell I'd be waiting for her in the lobby"—he looked at his wristwatch— "in six minutes."

"She's not coming," McGrory said.

The wristwatch, a battered pilot's chronometer, had a new alligator strap. It had been a strange experience watching the salesgirl in the Ship's Store re­place the old one, which had surprisingly held up all the way in Korea. He had remembered sometimes passing the time at night watching the radium-tipped sweep second hand gradually losing its luminescence, and when it had—it had usually taken about forty minutes—holding the watch to his ear for the sound of its ticking. It had been comforting, proof that there was more to the world than human-feces-fertilized rice paddies, dirt roads, and thatch-roofed stone hootches. And unpleasant people trying to kill you.

He heard what McGrory said.

"What do you mean, she's not coming?"

"She called and said she was sorry, but coming here was impossible, and would you mind taking a cab? I guess you were in the shower. You didn't an­swer your phone."

"So what happens now? I thought I had to be placed in the care of a re­sponsible person?"

So I don't have to go to the funeral. Great. I didn't want to go anyway, and McGrory probably told her he was sorry, but the policy is that nutcakes can't be released except in the company of a responsible person, so I'm off the hook.

So why am I so disappointed?

McGrory took out his pocket notebook, tore off a sheet, and handed it to Pick.

"You get in a taxi and go to Mrs. Mitchell's apartment. That's the address."

"All by myself?"

"Yeah, against my better judgment, all by yourself."

"Why against your better judgment? What do you think I'm going to do?"

"I have already told you what I'm worried about," McGrory said. "In my experience, putting together two people—especially two people of different sexes—who are both suffering from an emotional trauma is a prescription for disaster."

"But you don't want to play God?"

"I hope I'm wrong."

"I think you can relax, Doc," Pick said. "The last thing I'm going to do is fuck up a nice lady like that."

"Good," McGrory said. "I was going to say, 'Have a nice time,' but you're going to a funeral, aren't you?"

[EIGHT]

Apartment 12-D, "Ocean View"

1OO5 Ocean Drive

San Diego, California

O955 2 November 195O

The Ocean View apartment building was a large, curved structure overlooking the Pacific Ocean. When Pick got out of the taxi, he saw a Marine Corps staff car and a Cadillac limousine parked in the curving driveway, and a black wreath hanging from the nameplate on the right side of the double doors. That sur­prised him.

Maybe the owner's patriotic. Or maybe just a nice guy. Or maybe he knew Mitchell.

When he had walked down the hospital corridor to the elevator, and then out through the lobby, he had felt what, for lack of a better term, he thought of as "funny in the feet." He felt that way now, but he understood what it was. He had figured it out in the taxi. He was wearing shoes for the first time since he'd put on flight boots the morning he'd flown off the Badoeng Strait for the last time.

Even after he had been promoted to Category II and permitted to take his meals in the Officers' Club, he'd worn slippers.

The doorman was a short, plump Mexican who directed him to the bank of elevators on the right of the lobby.

He walked down the corridor to 12-D, which also had a black wreath on the door, pushed the button, and heard chimes.

A young woman in a black dress and wearing a veiled hat opened the door to him and smiled a little uneasily.

"My name is Pickering. Mrs. Mitchell expects me."

"I'm Dianne Welch," the young woman said. "Al's wife."

Okay. Now I know who you are. I don't know an Al Welch, but you expect me to. That makes you a Marine officer's wife. The sorority has gathered to do good for a member of the sisterhood now a widow.

I really don't want to be here. I really don't belong here.

"Babs is in the living room with the family," Dianne Welch said. "Down the corridor and straight ahead."

I wish there was some way I could turn around and get out of here.

What did she say, "with the family"? What family? I thought Babs . . . Mrs. Mitchell . . . said both their families were in Kansas? No, Arkansas.

Shit!

At the threshold to the living room, whose windows overlooked the Pacific, Pick was intercepted by a Marine captain, a pilot. He saw Mrs. Mitchell stand­ing with two middle-aged women and a middle-aged man by the window. The room wasn't very large, and it was crowded, mostly with young Marine officers' wives and a few Marine officers.

Not many.

Of course not. Their husbands are off on what the Crotch euphemistically calls a Far East Deployment.

"Major Pickering?" the captain asked.

"Right."

"I was getting a little worried," the captain said.

"About what?"

"We're about to leave for Saint Paul's, sir, and you—"

"I'm here."

"Yes, sir. Sir, I'm Captain Kane. I'm the coordinating officer."

"Okay."

"Sir, you are to ride in the limousine with the widow, and at grave site, you are to sit next to Mrs. Mitchell."

"Who decided that?"

"Mrs. Mitchell, sir."

"Okay. Well, I suppose I had best pay my respects, hadn't I?"

"Yes, sir. She's over by the window with Captain Mitchell's parents and—"

"I see her. Thank you," Pick said.

He walked across the room toward Mrs. Mitchell, who smiled faintly when she saw him. She was dressed very much like the officer's wife at the door, in a simple black dress with a veiled black hat.

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you," Mrs. Mitchell said. "I'm sorry I couldn't pick you up. . . ."

"Not a problem," Pick said.

"This is Dick's mother and father," Mrs. Mitchell said. "And my mother. This is Major Pickering, who was on the Badoeng Strait with Dick."

Hands were shaken all around.

"Babs tells me you're in the hospital," Mr. Mitchell said.

"Yes, sir."

Dick Mitchell's mother looked at him as if she didn't like him.

What's that all about?

She thinks I'm fooling around with Babs. . . Mrs. Mitchell?

Or how come I'm back alive from the Badoeng Strait and Dick isn't?

"Babs didn't say why," Mrs. Mitchell's mother said.

She obviously didn't want to say "Neuro-Psychiatric Ward."

"It's sort of an extensive physical checkup."

"Really. Were you ill?"

"Pick was shot down and spent three months evading capture," Babs said.

Pick. Not Major Pickering.

"I read about that," Mr. Mitchell said. " 'Marine Pilot Rescued After Three Months.' Was that you?"

"I don't know what you read, sir."

"That sort of thing happen often?" Mr. Mitchell asked.

"No, sir. I don't think it does."

Captain Kane walked up to them.

"If it's convenient, Mrs. Mitchell, it's that time," he said.

"Anything you say," Babs said.

Kane gestured toward the door.

"You're to ride with us in the limousine," Babs Mitchell said.

"So I understand."

"I need to talk to you for a minute," Babs Mitchell said, and added, to the others, "You go ahead. We'll catch up."

That did it. Now Mama has her proof that we're fooling around. And Bab . . . Mrs. Mitchell is so naive, she doesn't even see that.

She took his arm and led him into a corridor. The door at the end was open. It was a bedroom, the bed covered with women's coats.

"I'm sorry about this," Babs Mitchell said to him. She was standing close to him, and he could smell both her perfume and her breath, which smelled like Sen-Sen.

"Sorry about what?"

"When I called them to tell them about the funeral, to invite them, they didn't say anything about coming. They told me I was making a mistake I would remember all my life—"

"He was your husband, for Christ's sake!" Pick blurted, and then quickly added, "Sorry."

"—and that was it. And then they just showed up last night. Right after Captain Whatsisname and a representative of the Officers' Wives Association showed up to tell me how they were going to help out today."

"What are you apologizing for?" Pick asked. "I don't understand."

"I thought I would call up and tell you, but the truth is I guess I really wanted you to be here."

And what did the good Dr. McGrory have to say about that? "The woman, whether she's aware of it or not, hungers for a strong male shoulder to lean on. "

"I'm glad you did," Pick said.

Am I just being polite, chivalrous? Or what? For Christ's sake, what?

"I think we'd better go," Pick said.

Leaving unsaid, Or your mother-in-law, and maybe your mother, too, will re­ally think there's something going on between us.

The rear of the Cadillac limousine provided upholstered seating for three across the backseat, and two jump seats.

Mr. Mitchell was in the jump seat, the women on the bench, leaving space for Babs on the bench and Pick on the other jump seat.

From which location, when he sat down, he was unable to be unaware of her knees and the lace hem of her slip.

Black. Black is the color of mourning. Also of sexy feminine underwear. What's the connection there? McGrory probably has a theory.

"I hope Pick—Major Pickering—won't be offended when I tell you this," Babs Mitchell said as they were rolling through San Diego. "But he's just ex­perienced a terrible loss himself."

"Is that so?" Mother Mitchell asked.

"His fiancee was in a plane crash in Korea the day he was rescued," Babs Mitchell said.

Why is she telling them this?

Because she has finally picked up on Mother Mitchell's—or her mother's—sus­picions that I am the reason she doesn't want to go home to Kan . . . Arkansas. That's why, stupid.

"Oh, how awful!" Bab's mother said, sounding sincere.

"She was on an Air Force medical supply aircraft that crashed," Pick said.

"A nurse?"

"No, ma'am, she was a war correspondent."

"Jeanette Priestman," Babs Mitchell said. "Of the Chicago . . . what?"

"Tribune," Pick said. "The Chicago Tribune. And it's Priestly, not Priest­man."

"Sorry," Babs Mitchell said.

"Don't be silly."

"My son and his wife, Major Pickering," Mr. Mitchell said, "I still don't re­ally understand why, recently became Episcopalians. The funeral service will be an Episcopal service. Are you familiar with—"

"Yes, sir," Pick said. "I was even an altar boy once."

"Were you really?"

He's pleased. He doesn't think I'm trying to get—or have already been—in his son's widows pants.

"Yes, sir, I was. And before that I sang in the choir of a church also called Saint Paul's."

"Really?"

"Yes, sir."

I think I just made the first goal for Protestant Episcopal Christian virtues.

Hell, make sure!

"Jeanette's body is being returned later this week," Pick said. "So I suppose you could say that Babs and I are trying to support each other. . . ."

Unless, of course, you are aware of the McGrory theory concerning two people of opposite sexes who have both experienced an emotional trauma.

There was a Cadillac hearse outside St. Paul's Church, through the windows of which a flag-draped casket was visible. And a flower car. And several more Marine-green staff cars. And half a platoon of Marines, in dress blues. Two-thirds of them were carrying Garands, and the others were apparently pallbearers.

A function normally performed by one's brother officers.

But they're off on a Far East Deployment and thus unavailable.

Mrs. Babs Mitchell took Major Malcolm Pickering's arm as they followed Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell and Babs's mother down the aisle of the church toward a reserved pew near the altar.

As Major Pickering dropped to the kneeling bench—

So you haven't done this in years.

So maybe you're a little hypocritical.

So what? The point of the exercise is to convince Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell, Babs's mother, and of course Mrs. Babs Mitchell herself that you are not only a fine Ma­rine Corps officer and gentleman, but a Christian gentleman who wouldn't even think of nailing Mrs. Babs Mitchell.

—he saw sitting directly across the aisle from him, in dress blues, Brigadier General Clyde W. Dawkins, USMC. Beside him was Mrs. Dawkins, looking like a slightly older version of the officers' wives who had been in Babs's—Mrs. Mitchell's—apartment.

Both looked at him. Mrs. Dawkins smiled. He smiled back.

Marines carried the casket in and set it on a catafalque in the aisle. The ceremony began.

It was, Pick thought, mercifully brief. The Marines carried the casket back down the aisle. Captain Kane came to the pew and indicated that it was now time for him to lead the widow back down the aisle and out of the church. Mrs. Mitchell took his arm, and he did so. She didn't cry. But that doesn't mean she's not all torn up. How do I know that? Does it matter? I do.

On the slow drive to the cemetery, Mr. Mitchell said, "I was surprised the cer­emony was so short."

Well, that's the way we Whiskey-palians do it. Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, and out of the church and into the ground.

"That's what Dick liked about the Episcopal church," Mrs. Babs Mitchell said. "The ... I guess the word is 'liturgy.' I thought it was a beautiful cere­mony. And Dick would have loved it when they sang 'The Marines' Hymn' as a hymn."

You're going to like this even less, Mr. Mitchell. This usually takes about two minutes, tops.

In the limousine on the way back to the Ocean View, Mrs. Babs Mitchell did not cry. She sat across from Pick with the folded flag in her lap, stroking it with her finger tips.

She had cried three times during the graveside ceremony. First when Gen­eral Dawkins, on behalf of a grateful nation, handed her the folded flag.

Then she had cried when the bugler played taps.

I felt a little weepy then myself.

And she had cried when the firing squad did their little ballet, which had put Major Pickering in the probably prohibited-by-regulation position of hold­ing a weeping female closely with his left arm while he saluted with his right. Every time there had been the crack of twenty blank cartridges going off si­multaneously, Mrs. Babs Mitchell had cringed, and he could feel her bosom pressing against him.

The two squads of Marines who would fire the salute were already lined up, standing at parade rest.

Mrs. Mitchell took Major Pickering's arm and he led her from the limou­sine to a line of folding chairs set up under a tent.

The pallbearers carried the casket from the hearse and began to set it down on the casket-lowering machine.

"Oh, God," Mrs. Babs Mitchell said softly. "I guess this is really it. Oh, Dick!"

When Pick looked down at her, tears were rolling down her cheeks and she had a handkerchief to her mouth, trying to hold back the sobs.

Without thinking about it, Pick put his arm around her shoulders.

Then she gave in to the sobs.

Pick gave her a comforting squeeze.

She took a deep breath, exhaled audibly, took the handkerchief from her mouth, and looked up at him.

"Thank you," she said. "I'll be all right."

He removed his arm from her shoulders.

The priest took up his position at the head of the casket and began the graveside service.

On the curved driveway outside the Ocean View, Major Pickering told Mrs. Babs Mitchell that he was sorry but he was going to have to get back to the hospital.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. But my pass is about to expire."

"Thank you for coming," Mrs. Babs Mitchell said.

"It was an honor."

"No, I mean it," she said. "Thank you."

She stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek, and he felt again the pressure of her bosom against him.

"I'll come to see you," she said. "All right?"

"That would be very nice."

Now, why the fuck did I say that?

You're a highly skilled liar with a good imagination.

Why couldn't you come up with something clever that would cut this off once and for good right now?

He shook hands with Mrs. Babs Mitchell's mother and Captain Mitchell's parents, and turned and walked down the curved driveway toward a taxi stand without looking back.

Chapter Eighteen

[ONE]

The President's Office

Blair House

Pennsylvania Avenue

Washington, D.C.

19OO 2 November 195O

"Who's this Lieutenant Colonel. . . Vandenburg?" the President of the United States asked after reading McCoy's message.

"He's the officer the Pentagon sent to see if General Dean could be rescued," Major General Ralph Howe said. "I suggested that he be transferred to the CIA to keep him out of Willoughby's hands."

"I remember now. It says here he's the Seoul station chief," Truman said.

"After I got your message about him, Mr. President," Walter Bedell Smith said, "I told General Bradley that was your desire. He placed him on indefinite duty with the CIA, and I so notified General Pickering. I can only suppose Gen­eral Pickering designated him as Seoul station chief."

"Good man?"

"General Bradley thought he was the best man for that job," Smith said. "I mean, trying to get General Dean back."

"Ralph?"

"First-class man, Mr. President. I understand why he and the Killer get along so well."

"So well that he'd going along with ... I'm not going to call that young man 'Killer' . . . McCoy because they're pals?"

"No, sir," Howe said firmly. "He would not."

"Vandenburg's the fellow who stole General Walker's airplane, right?"

"Mr. President, I said nothing of the kind," Howe said, smiling. "But I admit that he's probably justifiably high on the list of suspects."

"Huh," the President snorted. "Well, you say he's a good man, and he goes along with McCoy all the way. Where does that leave us?"

"I think there is no longer any question that there are substantial numbers of Red Chinese in Korea, Mr. President," Howe said.

"I never really doubted that. What about this business about the Chinese sending us a message?"

"I don't know, sir. I'd bet on McCoy."

"Okay. Let's take that as a given. So what do we do about it?"

"First thing this morning, Mr. President," Smith said, "I checked with the Pentagon. There was nothing in the overnight messages from the Dai Ichi Building suggesting that the Supreme Command has changed its mind about the Red Chinese coming in."

"That makes things difficult, doesn't it?" Truman said. "I find myself in the position of agreeing with a major—and a lieutenant colonel—and disagreeing with a five-star general who Ralph, General Pickering, and ninety percent of the American people think is a military genius."

"Mr. President, may I make a suggestion?"

"I'm wide open for suggestions."

"You could have the Army urgent-message General MacArthur saying they have intelligence suggesting there has been a substantial movement of ChiCom forces to the border and probably across it. And what does General MacArthur think?"

"Why not just send him a message saying the CIA has interrogated four se­nior Chinese Communist officers?" Truman asked. Then he added: "Don't bother to answer that. I can't do that, because they know who the CIA people there are, and we're right back to me telling a five-star military genius he's wrong."

"I think Beetle's idea is a good one, Mr. President," General Howe said.

Truman looked directly at him for perhaps thirty seconds.

"Okay," he said finally. "That's what we'll do. But I want you to write the message, Ralph."

"Why me, Mr. President?"

"Because, of the three of us, you're the only one who really knows Emperor Douglas the First. I don't think we had an hour together on Wake Island. And God only knows what kind of a message he'd get from the Pentagon if Smith just told them I wanted a message sent. Either it would be mostly an apology for questioning his genius, or it would be designed to get a response they know would make me mad. What I want him to do when he gets the message is per­sonally think it over, and not just buck it down to General Willoughby. You know how to phrase it to make him do that."

"Okay. Good thinking," Howe said thoughtfully.

"And when you two have finished writing it, I want you, Smith, to take it to the Pentagon, give it to General Bradley, and tell him I want it sent as-is and right now."

"He's not going to like that, Harry . . . Mr. President," Howe said.

"He doesn't have to like it. I'm not sure about some of the others, but I am absolutely sure General Bradley knows who is Commander-in-Chief," Tru­man said.

"Will there be anything else, Mr. President?" Howe asked.

"Yes," the President said. "Get me the names of those Marines who are missing, the 'stay-behinds' who got caught. When this is over, I want to write their families."

"That's very generous of you, Mr. President—" Smith began.

" 'Generous' is not the word," Truman interrupted him.

"I was about to say, sir, it is generous of you to find the time."

"Abraham Lincoln did it when he was living across the street," Truman said. "And as bad as things are, things were worse for him when he did it."

"Yes, sir," Smith said.

"I'll get the names and addresses of the next of kin, Mr. President," Smith said.

"And that reminds me," the President said. "What about the Navy Cross for Pickering's son?"

"The commandant assures me, Mr. President, that the decoration will be awarded within the next forty-eight hours. And he told me that yesterday. He may have it already."

"Okay. Thank you."

[TWO]

8O23d Transportation Company (Depot, Forward)

Hamhung, North Korea

1Z3S 2 November 195O

The maps Captain Francis P. MacNamara had obtained from the X Corps Engineer—not without difficulty; maps were in short supply—showed that it was approximately sixty miles by highway from Wonsan to Hamhung, and a few miles farther, no highway, to Hungnam, which was on the Sea of Japan.

The problem was that this was Korea, where a highway was any two-lane paved road, and the definition of "paved" was loose. It often meant that it was paved with a thin layer of gravel. Furthermore, the road—there was only one "highway"—had not been built to withstand the traffic now moving up it, in terms of either weight or numbers.

The United States X Corps was on the move. The order had been issued to advance to the Chinese border. That meant not only the American 7th In­fantry Division and 1st Marine Division, and the four ROK Divisions, which were "up front," but the mind-boggling support and logistical train needed to support it.

It wasn't simply a question of supplying the attacking divisions with food, fuel, and ammunition, or even also moving their supporting tactical units, the separate tank and artillery battalions, and so on—and their food, fuel, and am­munition—but the nonfighting units had also been ordered moved out of Wonsan. These ranged from Mobile Army Surgical Hospitals to Quartermas­ter Ration Depots, Ordnance Ammunition Supply Points, down to smaller units such as Water Purification Platoons, Shower Points, and a Mobile Den­tal Surgical Detachment.

Into this mix, all trying to move up the same winding, crumbling, narrow two-lane "highway," Colonel T. Howard Kennedy, the X Corps Transportation Officer, had added Captain MacNamara's 8023d Transportation Company (Depot, Forward) and the Replacement Company of the 7th United States In­fantry Division.

It was worse than anything MacNamara had seen in France in World War II, and when he first got into the line of moving vehicles, he had used his experience in France to predict that it would take six hours to move the sixty miles. It took eighteen.

Not all of that time—in fact very little—was spent on the move. Most of it was spent stopped, as units, or individual vehicles, with a higher priority passed them on the left lane. The basic rule of thumb was that medical sup­plies went first, then ammunition, then food.

Overworked, and thus sometimes snarling, military policemen guided high-priority convoys onto the left lane, past stopped convoys with lesser priorities.

The first military police officer Captain MacNamara encountered had asked him for his movement priority, which would then be painted on the lead ve­hicle for the edification of military police along the route.

"Verbal orders of the X Corps Transportation Officer," MacNamara had replied, with as much assurance as he could muster. "The colonel said, 'Time is of the essence.' "

The MP officer, also a captain, had smiled at him.

"Good try, Captain," he said, and dabbed a blue paint circle on the wind­shield of MacNamara's jeep. Within an hour or so, MacNamara understood that the blue circle indicated a priority way down on the list.

Several times MacNamara seriously considered replacing the blue circle with a yellow one. Yellow seemed to represent the priority immediately after ra­tion trucks, and there was an assortment of paint in one of the mobile work­shops he had included in the first convoy, but he decided against it. For one thing, it didn't seem right, and for another, he didn't want another letter of rep­rimand in his service record, which he would get, sure as Christ made little green apples, if he was caught.

He wondered how long it was going to take him to return from wherever he was going in the Hamhung-Hungnam area to Wonsan. The southbound lane, so to speak, of the highway was usually crowded with northbound vehi­cles with a priority. Only a few vehicles were passing him going south.

He wondered if maybe he could somehow get a message to the officers he had left behind, telling them to saddle up and get moving as soon as they could because he would not be returning. In the end, he decided against this, too. It was his responsibility to go back and set things up, and he would.

Sixteen and a half hours after MacNamara had left Wonsan, he was again stopped in the right lane as priority convoys passed him in the left. Another MP officer, this one a lieutenant, came southward down the shoulder of the road in a jeep.

"Where are you headed, Captain?"

"Hamhung, Hungnam," MacNamara replied.

"Which?"

"I don't know. I have to find somewhere to set up—on the highway, prefer­ably. I'm a vehicle replacement outfit. And I've got the advance party of the 7th Repple-Depple with me. They need a place too."

"When I come back, say, in thirty minutes or so, you—just you—follow me. The turn off to Hamhung's about five miles up the road. You can find a place, or places, to set up while the rest of your convoy is still on the highway."

MacNamara had little trouble finding a suitable area for the 8023d. It was about half a mile in on the turnoff to Hamhung. The only thing wrong with it was that it was terraced, which would seem to indicate that it had once been a rice paddy, or paddies.

It was dry now, and obviously hadn't been a rice paddy for some years. That left the question in his mind: How long would human shit contaminate a rice paddy?

He had no idea. But it didn't matter. He had seen enough of the area to know that the terrain was either rocky hills or flat areas that either were or once had been a rice paddy. He thought the one he had chosen didn't smell all that rotten, but on the other hand, he had smelled so many rotten things since ar­riving in the Land of the Morning Calm that he suspected his sniffer had been overwhelmed.

He consoled himself with the thought that it was now getting chilly—it had been as cold as a witch's teat in the jeep overnight—and one of the prerogatives of being a Transportation Depot commander was being able to tell your non-com in charge of the Radiator Repair Section to rig a heater for your jeep, and that would keep the smell down.

He set up a temporary headquarters in one of the mobile service vans he had thoughtfully included in the convoy. Nature called, and he didn't think it would wait until the men dug a quick latrine, so he went up the hill a little and dropped his trousers behind a large boulder.

The wind coming off the hill was surprisingly unpleasant on the cheeks of his ass, and he thought that about the first thing the men were going to do when they finished laying the perimeter barbed wire was build another latrine like the one he had just finished building in Wonsan.

Jesus! If I can get through to Wonsan on a landline, I can tell Lieutenant Wright to just put the sonofabitch on the back of a tank retriever. I'll have to tell Wright to cover it with a tarpaulin so people won't know what it is. But that would save a lot of work.

As soon as I finish my dump, I'm going to see if 1 can find a phone. There's no telling how long it'll take to get the X Corps Signal Company to lay a couple of lines in here.

He heard a sound he hadn't heard since those CIA guys dropped in on the 8023d in Inchon. Fluckata-fluckata-fluckata.

He looked up and around and, as the fluckata-fluckata-fluckata fluckata-fluckata-fluckata sound grew louder, located it in the sky.

It was flying over the road in the direction of Hungnam.

It was painted black. He wondered if it was one of the two he had seen at Inchon. He wondered what the hell it was doing.

Jesus, if I could get my hands on one of those, I'd have that goddamn latrine up here tonight!

[THREE]

Office of the Commanding General

Headquarters X United States Corps (Forward)

Wonsan, North Korea

1245 2 November 195O

The black H-19A fluttered to the ground fifty yards from a collection of vehi­cles of all descriptions parked in a somewhat random pattern outside a two-story brick building that had, before the war, housed a regional secondary school. The downwash from the rotor blades blew leaves all over the area as the helicopter touched down.

There was much activity as Engineers, Signal Corps personnel, and other technicians set up the X Corps headquarters. As Major Alex Donald, USA— very carefully, to make sure he didn't run into cables strung between telephone poles— set the H-19A down, Major K. R. McCoy, USMCR, saw two flags, their poles set in what looked like artillery shell casings, in front of a van, a 6 X 6 truck onto which was mounted a square boxlike structure.

Such vehicles usually housed either communications gear or the machines required for some sort of maintenance function, but were sometimes used as mobile offices. That was obviously the case here. The flags hung limply on their staffs, but McCoy could see that one of them was the blue and white X Corps flag, and the other was solid red with white stars. That meant the van was oc­cupied for the moment by the X Corps Commander, until the support troops working frantically in and around the school building could get his office and command post set up there.

The moment the H-19A touched down, McCoy unstrapped himself and climbed down from the cockpit. The Big Black Bird had attracted the atten­tion of a lot of people in the area, more than a few of whom noticed that the guy getting out of the helicopter—a Marine officer—seemed to be in some dis­comfort. A few even wondered why, but their primary interest was in the heli­copter itself.

How come the goddamn jarheads have a big machine like that, and The Gen­eral himself has only a couple of lousy H-13s?

There were two MPs, armed with Thompson submachine guns, guarding access to the general's van, and McCoy had to wait until they verified his story that he was Major McCoy, and General Almond expected him. But finally he was passed, and walked to the van, stood on the lower step of the folding steps to the van, and rapped on the door with his knuckles.

After a moment, Captain Al Haig pushed the door outward, saw McCoy, and waved him inside. McCoy carefully hoisted himself into the van.

It was simply furnished. There were three identical desks. A master sergeant sat at one of the desks along the wall, using a typewriter. An identical desk sit­ting next to the master sergeant's desk—it had four field telephones on it—was obviously Captain Haig's. Major General Edward M. Almond sat at the third desk, all the way inside the van and facing the door. It held two field tele­phones and the leather map case Almond always carried with him.

"Major McCoy, sir," Haig said.

McCoy saluted.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" he asked.

"What happened to your pajamas?" Almond asked.

"I've been interrogating prisoners, sir," McCoy said. "They seem to be more impressed with a Marine than by someone in pajamas."

Almond chuckled, and shook his head as he opened the long flap of his leather map case, came out with a sheet of paper, and handed it wordlessly to McCoy.

TOP SECRET

URGENT

SUPREME HEADQUARTERS UNITED NATIONS COMMAND TOKYO 0730 31 OCTOBER 1950

EYES ONLY COMMANDING GENERAL X CORPS

PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM GENARMY MACARTHUR TO MAJ~GEN ALMOND BEGINS

MY DEAR NED,

I HAVE CAREFULLY CONSIDERED YOUR URGENT OF 101.5 30 OCTOBER.

GENERAL WILLOUGHBY, WHO HAS ABSOLUTELY NO INTELLIGENCE DATA WHICH EVEN SUGGESTS THERE ARE CHINESE COMMUNIST FORCES OF ANY SIGNIFICANCE IN NORTH KOREA, THEREFORE BELIEVES THE SIZE OF THE CHINESE FORCE, IF INDEED IT WAS A CHINESE FORCE, WHICH ATTACKED THE INFANTRY REGIMENT OF THE 3RD ROK DIVISION 29 OCTOBER, WAS NOT AS LARGE AS REPORTED TO YOU.

HE POINTS OUT THAT MAJGEN LEE DO WAS SHORT MONTHS AGO A LIEUTENANT COLONEL, MAY NOT HAVE PROVEN CAPABLE OF COMMANDING A DIVISION-SIZE FORCE, AND WHEN HIS DIVISION FAILED TO REPEL WHAT WILLOUGHBY FEELS WAS PROBABLY A REGIMENTAL-SIZE ATTACK, AT MOST, EXAGGERATED THE ATTACKING STRENGTH TO JUSTIFY HIS LOSS OF THE BATTLE.

HOWEVER, SINCE YOU OBVIOUSLY FEEL SO STRONGLY ABOUT THIS, AND BECAUSE OF MY OWN PROFOUND FAITH IN YOUR JUDGMENT AND BATTLEFIELD SKILL, I HAVE DIRECTED WILLOUGHBY TO PROCEED TO YOUR HEADQUARTERS TO CONFER WITH YOU AND SEE FOR HIMSELF.

THE BATAAN IS BEING PREPARED FOR THE FLIGHT AS THIS IS WRITTEN.

VICTORY IS WITHIN OUR GRASP, MY DEAR NED. WITH PERSONAL REGARDS,

MACARTHUR

GENERAL OF THE ARMY

SUPREME COMMANDER

END PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM GENARMY MACARTHUR TO MAJGEN ALMOND

TOP SECRET

McCoy muttered "Jesus Christ!" and raised his eyes to General Almond.

Almond put up his hand to silence him.

"Jerry," he called. "Do not list Major McCoy's visit in the diary, and go deaf. You understand?"

"Can't hear you, sir," the master sergeant said.

"He's sending Willoughby here?" McCoy asked.

"General Willoughby visited Wonsan yesterday," Almond said. "And stayed there long enough—probably forty-five minutes—to see and hear enough so that he could get on the Bataan and return to Tokyo to assure General MacArthur that he has nothing to worry about; there are no ChiCom forces in North Korea to speak of."

"What do we have to do to convince that sonofabitch?" McCoy exploded.

"It's a good thing Sergeant Youngman is deaf," Almond said. "Otherwise he would be shocked at such vulgar and disrespectful language coming from a Ma­rine officer."

"Sorry, sir."

"However much justified," Almond said. "McCoy, did you ... uh ... send the intelligence I had the feeling you were going to send?"

"Yes, sir. And I said when I had further confirmation from my stay-behinds, I would send it, and I sent that confirmation. This time it was a lieutenant colonel with the same message."

"I thought you probably had," Almond said.

"Sonofabitch!" McCoy said, and put his hand to his forehead and wiped it.

"You just staggered, McCoy," Almond said. "Are you all right? Jerry, get Major McCoy a chair."

Master Sergeant Youngman jumped to carry his chair to McCoy.

McCoy eased himself into it.

"Thank you, Sergeant," he said.

"Can I get you anything, McCoy?" Captain Haig asked.

McCoy raised his head and looked at him.

"I honest to God could use a drink," he said.

Almond pulled open a desk drawer and came out with a bottle of Old For­rester bourbon.

"Is this a good idea?" Almond asked. "You look feverish. Do you have a fever?'

He didn't wait for an answer, but instead came around the desk and put his fingers to McCoy's forehead.

"You have a fever," he announced. "Is this whiskey a good idea?"

"I'll be all right, sir," McCoy said.

Almond signaled Haig to hand over the glass Haig had in his hand. He poured whiskey into it and McCoy drank it down.

"Thank you," he said. He looked at Almond. "I had a bad early morn­ing, sir."

"Did you?"

"We were exfiltrating stay-behinds," he said. "One of the teams was over­run. We brought the bodies back with us."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"They were ... uh ... pretty badly mutilated," McCoy said softly. "And we didn't think to take ponchos with us. So ... uh ... the reason I'm not in my pajamas is ... uh ... that they really needed to be washed."

"How many men?" Almond asked softly.

"Four, sir. It was their first time out—they were some of the Marines that you borrowed to guard the hangar at Kimpo, and who I asked to volunteer for this stay-behind exercise."

He held his hand to his head for a moment.

"And that sonofabitch says there are no Chinese? Who does he think is running the ridges, looking for my stay-behinds? The North Koreans? They left their dead behind, too, so that there could be no question who did the .. . god­damn fucking butchery."

"Take it easy, Major," Almond said.

"Sorry, sir," McCoy said.

"You want some more of this?" Almond said, touching the bottle of Old Forrester.

McCoy looked at the bottle and then at Almond, and then reached for the bottle.

"I should say, 'No, thank you, sir,' " he said. "But with one more drink in me, maybe I'll have the courage to offer a really off-the-wall suggestion."

"What?" Almond asked.

McCoy tossed down another drink and shook his head, as if to clear it.

"If you dismiss this out of hand, sir," he said, "I'll understand."

"Dismiss what?"

"Why don't we march some prisoners into the goddamn Dai Ichi Building? Twenty, twenty-five ordinary Chinese Red Army soldiers, right into Willoughby's office."

"Christ," Haig said disparagingly.

"Could you get the Bataan back here?" McCoy pursued.

Almond looked at McCoy for a long moment.

"I suppose I could get an Air Force plane," McCoy said. "But that would take time, and if this is going to happen, it has to happen now. And if I used the Bataan, it would mean you were involved, and proof that I hadn't borrowed the Chinese from Chiang Kai-shek."

Almond didn't say anything at all.

"Sir, my orders state that I am to get any assistance I need from any mili­tary organization," McCoy said.

"Such as the X United States Corps?" Almond asked.

"Yes, sir. I don't have the orders with me. But you've seen them, sir."

"What I think you need, McCoy ..." Haig began, and stopped when Al­mond raised his hand.

"You do have some imaginative ideas, don't you, Major McCoy?" Almond asked thoughtfully. "And you try to cover all the possibilities, don't you? I sup­pose that's very useful in your line of work."

"General, if I hadn't proposed that, I'd have regretted it, really regretted it, later," McCoy said. He turned to Haig. "And that wasn't the booze speaking, Al. I owed it to those Marines I brought back in pieces this morning."

"I understand," Haig said. "I wasn't—"

"Jerry," General Almond interrupted him. "Get your pad."

"Yes, sir."

Master Sergeant Youngman went quickly to his desk and returned with a stenographer's notebook. "Ready, sir," he said.

"Classification, Top Secret, Priority, Operational Immediate. To Supreme Headquarters, UNC, Tokyo. Unless the Supreme Commander personally, re­peat personally, rescinds this order, the Bataan will be immediately, repeat im­mediately, dispatched to Hamhung. I will be advised of departure time and ETA. The signature block, Jerry, is Edward M. Almond, Major General, USA, Chief of Staff, Supreme Headquarters, United Nations Command."

"Jesus," Master Sergeant Youngman said softly.

"Take it over to the comm center and get it out right now," Almond said.

"Yes, sir."

[FOUR]

Haneda Airfield

Tokyo, Japan

213O 2 November 195O

Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, wishing he had thought to wear his raincoat, stood in the cold drizzle until he was sure the four-engine airplane landing was indeed the Bataan. Then he got in the front seat of the Buick.

He was not in a very good mood. For one thing, he wasn't sure that McCoy was even going to be on the airplane.

When he had—five hours before, in desperation—telephoned General Douglas MacArthur and asked for his assistance in finding McCoy, MacArthur had asked why.

"May I ask why you need him here so urgently? And frankly, I'm a bit surprised to hear that he has recovered sufficiently from his wounds to be in Korea at all."

"Mrs. McCoy called me from Tokyo General an hour ago, sir. She felt it best to be in a hospital—"

"She's having the baby?"

"Possibly, sir. They don't know if this is another false alarm or not, but. . . if she delivers, the child would be a month, maybe five weeks, premature, so they're hoping for the false alarm. I'm at the hospital now. I just spoke with her physician, and he said it would benefit her—perhaps keep her from delivering now—if her husband could be with her. And if something goes wrong . . . Sir, I thought it over carefully before asking. I think McCoy is entitled to a little extra consideration."

"I quite agree. A splendid young officer. I'll get an urgent off immediately to General Almond, asking him to locate him, and making sure he has a space on the Bataan."

"Sir? What about the Bataan?

"General Almond ordered the Bataan to Korea. I don't know why, but I sus­pect he wishes to bring his disagreement with General Willoughby about the possibility of the Chinese entering the war to me personally. Anyway, the Bataan is there, and it can bring Major McCoy when it returns here."

"Sir, has there ... I realize this line is not secure, sir ... been any change in General Willoughby's position on that matter?"

"No. And that's the source of the friction between Willoughby and Al­mond. Between you and me, Fleming, I sent Willoughby over there to placate Almond. Apparently, it wasn't enough, and he wants to plead his case in per­son. Almond has dug in his heels like a mule, frankly."

"Yes, sir. General, I very much appreciate your courtesy to me in what re­ally is a personal matter."

"That's what friends are for, Fleming," MacArthur said, "if I may coin a phrase. I'll tell Jean about Mrs. McCoy, of course. I'm sure she will want to call on her."

A telephone call five minutes before to the hospital had reported there was no change in Mrs. McCoy's condition, and Pickering tried to console himself with that knowledge.

He was more than a little annoyed with McCoy for a number of reasons, based on what he had learned when he finally got through to Fishbase looking for him.

Zimmerman had told him he didn't know where he was exactly.

"When he brought the bodies back from the exfiltration this morning, General . . . Did you get that message, sir?"

"There were KIA?"

"Four, sir. The Chinks apparently did a real job on them. To send us a mes­sage, the Killer said."

"Define 'real job' for me, Zimmerman."

"Well, sir, it looks like they tortured them before they killed them, and then they cut up the bodies pretty badly. It wasn't pretty. The Killer was pretty upset."

"Did I understand you correctly, Zimmerman? McCoy made the run in the H-19 to extract the teams?"

"That's 'exfiltrate,' sir," Zimmerman had courteously corrected him. "Yes, sir. He was on one of the Big Black Birds, and I was on the other."

"I expressly ordered him not to go on infiltration missions," Pickering had said. "And I thought you were aware of that."

"Sir," Zimmerman said uncomfortably, "what the Killer said you said we couldn't do was stay behind ourselves."

"I'll discuss that with him when I see him," Pickering had said. "But—and this is in the nature of an order, Ernie, so pay attention—if you see McCoy be­fore I do, you are to relay to him my orders that neither of you are to make ex­traction runs anymore under any conditions. Is there anything about that you don't understand?"

"Yes, sir, there is."

"What's that?"

"I understand about the Killer, sir. He's really in shitty shape. But I'm fine, sir. Why can't I go?"

"Ernie McCoy is in the hospital again—"

"Oh, shit!"

"—and if I can locate him, he's coming to Japan. That leaves you in charge, and I can't risk losing you. Okay? No further questions?"

"No, sir."

"I'll let you know what happens with Mrs. McCoy," Pickering said.

"That's the Bataan," Pickering said to Captain George F. Hart, USMCR, who was in the backseat, and Master Sergeant Paul T. Keller, USA, who was behind the wheel.

"I saw it out the window, General," Hart said innocently.

"Meaning I didn't have to stand out there and get rained on?" Pickering snapped.

"Now that I think of it, General . . ."

Keller chuckled.

"I don't know why I put up with either one of you," Pickering said.

"Maybe because we're lovable, sir?" Hart asked.

"I'm going to really give McCoy hell—if he's on that airplane—and I will be highly annoyed if either of you acts as if it's funny," Pickering said.

"General ..." Hart said.

"What?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Out with it, goddamn it, George!"

"General, you've told me—Christ, I don't know how many times—never to give an order you know won't be obeyed."

"And I should have known McCoy was not going to obey that order? Is that what you're saying?"

"General, you asked me," Hart said.

"Here it comes," Keller said, pointing out the window, as the Bataan turned off the taxiway and approached the tarmac in front of the hangar.

"You two stay in the car," Pickering ordered. "If McCoy is on the Bataan, I'm going to take him under the wing and bite off a large chunk of his ass, and I don't want an audience."

Ground crewmen rolled up movable steps to the rear door of the airplane. Pickering got out of the front seat and walked toward it.

The Bataans door opened and four military policemen, wearing steel hel­mets and other battlefield accoutrements, and carrying Thompson submachine guns, came down the stairs and quickly assumed positions facing the stairs.

What the hell is going on here?

McCoy appeared at the door, a Thompson hanging from his shoulder. He looked around the area, then started down the stairs. Then he saw General Pick­ering. He smiled and raised his hand in salute.

That smile's not going to do you a goddamn bit of good, McCoy!

Your ass is mine. You won't forget this ass-chewing for the rest of your life.

Pickering marched coldly toward the stairs.

He watched McCoy start down the stairs again, saw him slip, or stagger, saw him grab the railing, and then fall. He ended up sprawled on his stomach at the foot of the stairs.

Two of the MPs rushed to help him.

"Back where you were!" McCoy snapped, and tried to push himself up. And fell back down again.

Pickering rushed to him. He heard two car door slams, which told him that Hart and Keller had seen what happened, and were coming.

"You all right, Ken?" Pickering heard himself asking with concern.

There goes the goddamned ass-chewing.

"Let me sit here a second, sir," McCoy said. "I'll be all right."

"What the hell happened?"

"I guess I got a little dizzy, sir," McCoy said.

"Keller wants you to do it again, Killer," Hart said as he came up. "All he saw was the crash landing." And then he saw McCoy's face. "Jesus Christ! Did you break something?"

"No," McCoy said. "I don't think I did my fucking leg any good, but I don't think anything's broken." He looked up at Pickering. "If you'll take the Thomp­son, sir, these two can get me on my feet."

Pickering took the submachine gun.

Hart went behind McCoy, wrapped his arms around his middle, and with no apparent effort hoisted him erect.

"You're sure nothing's broken?" he asked.

"I would know," McCoy said. But he didn't protest when Hart grasped his right upper arm firmly, and motioned for Keller to do the same thing with the left one.

There was the sound of sirens, and moments later, four Military Police jeeps came onto the tarmac from behind the hangar.

"Well," McCoy said. "I'm glad nothing was really wrong. They took their sweet time getting here."

"What's going on?" Pickering asked.

"I had the pilot tell the tower to send MP jeeps here," McCoy explained.

Four MPs, one of them a lieutenant, all in sharply creased olive-drab Class A uniforms, with white leather accoutrements and plastic covers on their brimmed caps against the rain, rushed up.

"What's going on here?" the lieutenant demanded, and belatedly recogniz­ing the star on Pickering's collar points and epaulets, added as he saluted, "Sir? Good evening, sir."

"I'm going to need a forty-passenger bus," McCoy said. "And an MP escort to the Dai Ichi Building," McCoy said.

"What for, Ken?" Pickering asked softly.

"To transport thirty-two Red Chinese prisoners of war, sir. They were cap­tured this morning. I understand General Willoughby doesn't think the Chi­nese are in the war. If this doesn't convince him, I don't know what will."

The lieutenant looked at General Pickering. "Sir, I don't know—"

"It looks simple enough to me, Lieutenant," Pickering said. "You heard the major. Get a bus, and get it right now."

By the time the bus arrived, so had a half-dozen more Military Police jeeps, plus a jeep with the logotype of Stars and Stripes painted beneath the windshield, and carrying three men whose uniforms bore WAR CORRESPONDENT insignia. Everybody had a camera.

"What's going on here?" several of them demanded at once.

"We're about to unload some Red Chinese prisoners of war," Pickering said, "who will be transported to the Dai Ichi Building for interrogation by Gen­eral Willoughby."

That produced a flood of questions—including "Who are you?"—all of which Pickering ignored.

"Lieutenant," Pickering said to the MP lieutenant. "Permit the press to take pictures as the prisoners are taken off the airplane. The Geneva Conven­tion prohibits the interview of prisoners without their permission, and I'm sure that permission will not be forthcoming. So keep them away from the prison­ers. And keep the press here when the bus leaves."

"Sir, I don't know who you are," the lieutenant said.

"That's not important," Pickering said. "I'm a general officer, and you're a lieutenant. All right?"

"Yes, sir."

"I will need a ride in one of your jeeps," Pickering said.

"Yes, sir."

"General," McCoy said. "I want to go to the Dai Ichi Building."

"Hart and Keller are going to take you to the hospital, Major, and I don't want any argument. I'll meet you there."

"I really would like to see the prisoners go into the Dai Ichi Building, sir."

"Even if I told you Ernie's back in the hospital?" Pickering asked.

McCoy's face showed his stunned reaction, but he didn't say anything.

Pickering took pity on him.

"She's all right, Ken. It's probably another false alarm."

"Then there's no real reason I couldn't go to the Dai Ichi Building, is there, sir?"

Pickering looked at him for a long moment.

"I guess you've earned that, McCoy," Pickering said. "Lieutenant, I won't need that ride. Why don't you start off-loading the prisoners?"

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said.

"George, bring the car around for Major McCoy," Pickering ordered, then climbed the stairs up to the Bataan after the lieutenant.

[FIVE]

Room 39A, Neuro-Psychiatric Ward

U.S. Naval Hospital

San Diego, California

143O 2 November 195O

In Tokyo, and in Korea, it was the middle of the night, and it was raining, a cold, steady drizzle. Halfway around the world, in San Diego, California, it was midafternoon on what Brigadier General Clyde W Dawkins some­what grumpily thought of as "another goddamn perfect Southern Califor­nia day."

In the back of his mind, there had been a faint, perhaps somewhat dis­loyal, hope that there would suddenly develop a thunderstorm of such pro­portions that a full-scale retreat parade would be out of the question. His last check of the weather, just before he got in his staff car at Camp Pendleton, had completely dashed that hope. The weather was perfect and it was going to stay that way.

Major Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, was not in his room when he pushed open the door and marched in.

The nurse on duty in the ward said, "General, if you had asked me, I could have told you he's in the Officers' Club."

General Dawkins turned to Captain Arthur McGowan, his aide-de-camp.

"Go fetch him, Art. Bring him up here to his room," he ordered.

Major Pickering appeared in his room ten minutes later, smiling happily.

"May the major express his deep appreciation for the general's very timely interruption?" he asked.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Major Pickering reached into the pocket of his hospital bathrobe and brought forth a very thick wad of twenty-dollar bills, which he waved happily.

"Straight poker," he said. "I was on a roll. I would never have been allowed to walk away from that table with everybody's money had this splendid young officer"—he pointed at Captain McGowan—"not marched into the Ping-Pong room and announced, 'General Dawkins's compliments, Major. The general de­sires to see you at your earliest convenience.' "

Dawkins smiled and shook his head.

"Art, give us a minute alone, will you?" Dawkins said.

Pick waited until McGowan had left the room, then asked, "Why do I think I'm not going to like this?"

"Sit down, Pick, and don't open your mouth until I give you permission. That's an order. Say, 'Aye, aye, sir.' "

"Aye, aye, sir," Pick said, and sat down in the folding chair.

"At 1700 hours this date, there will be a retreat parade at Camp Pendleton ..."

"Yes, sir?" Pick asked.

Dawkins held up his index finger, indicating he really wanted silence.

". . . in which," Dawkins went on, "approximately a regiment of Marines stationed at Camp Pendleton, plus approximately a heavy company—about six boot platoons—of new Marines who are graduating from the Marine Corps Re­cruit Depot, San Diego, as we speak, plus a company-sized group of Marines from Marine Corps Air Station Miramar, will participate. Additionally, there will be a flyover by fighter aircraft from Miramar and from Marine Corps Air Station El Toro.

"The purpose of this exercise is to present, under appropriate circumstances, various decorations to members of the Marine Corps. Fifteen decorations, in all, will be presented, ranging upward in prestige from the Purple Heart to the Navy Cross, which, as you know, is the nation's second-highest medal for valor. We are sure the recruits, now Marines, will be inspired to see all the heroes in the flesh."

He stopped, looked at Pick, and raised his index finger again.

"The reason for the Marines from Miramar and the flyover by planes from El Toro and Miramar is because the Navy Cross is to be awarded to one of their own."

He stopped.

"You may speak, Major Pickering," he said.

"You are not talking about me," Pick said.

"I am talking about you. My adjutant will read aloud, for the edification of all concerned, the citation I showed you a couple of days ago."

"But, Dawk, I told you that wasn't my citation!"

"Under the present circumstances, Major, I think it would be best if you addressed me as 'General Dawkins.' "

"Aye, aye, sir. But it's bullshit, and you know it."

"I attempted, Major, to raise your doubts about the wording of the citation to the commandant," Dawkins said. "The commandant called me personally. He said that he had just had a visit from the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, who used to be an Army four-star, and who told him the President of the United States had asked him to find out if the Navy Cross he had ordered for you had been awarded, and if not, why not, and if not, when would it be. The wording of the citation was not open for discussion."

"It's bullshit," Pick repeated. "I won't take it."

"It may be bullshit, but you will take it, and you will not make any com­ment now, or in the future, to anyone, including me, that will in any way sug­gest that there is something wrong with the wording of the citation, or that you did not do what the citation says you did." Dawkins paused. "Say, 'Aye, aye, sir.' " ,

"General, Aye, aye, sir' means I understand and will comply with the order. I'm not sure I can do that."

"Yes, goddamn you, Pick, you will. You're a Marine officer, and you will take an order. Say, 'Aye, aye, sir.' "

"Jesus Christ!"

"You can—and knowing you as I do, you're entirely capable of—doing something this afternoon to protect what you think is your honor. 'I cannot, in good conscience, accept this . . .' or something similar. If you do that, you will be pissing on the Marine Corps, insulting a lot of good Marines, and per­sonally embarrassing me. Your call, Pick. But you will get into a uniform, and you will get in the car that will carry you out to Pendleton, and you will line up with the others to be decorated, or so help me Christ, I'll have you court-martialed."

Dawkins pushed himself abruptly out of the chrome, plastic-upholstered armchair and headed for the door.

"General!" Picked called after him.

Dawkins turned.

"I really don't give a shit about getting court-martialed," Pick said. "But for you, Dawk, because of ... If you think it's important that I ... Aye, aye, sir."

Dawkins looked at him for a moment, then nodded.

"Okay," he said. "Thank you. Now tit for tat: So far as deserving the Navy Cross is concerned, I put you in for the Navy Cross on Guadalcanal. Before I put Billy Dunn in for his. They said we could have only one—I never under­stood that, but that's what they said—and they decided it should go to Billy, because he was the squadron commander. I protested as loudly as I could, and was told to butt out. I've always felt you deserved it more than he does."

"Jesus Christ!" Pick said.

"And if you want, you can tell Billy I told you that, and on my word as a Marine officer, I'll confirm it. Or you can be a good Marine officer and keep that between us."

"Yes, sir," Pick said.

"See you on the parade ground, Major," Dawkins said, and pushed the door with his hand to swing it open. It didn't, and he pushed harder, and this time it swung outward.

Captain McGowan was standing there. Mrs. Babs Mitchell was standing be­hind him.

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Mitchell," General Dawkins said, holding open the door. "Please come in. I was just leaving."

"Am I interrupting anything?" Mrs. Babs Mitchell asked.

"No, you're not," Dawkins said. "We have concluded our business. Good afternoon, ma'am."

Mrs. Babs Mitchell entered the room. General Dawkins went through the door and it swung closed after him.

"Was it all right that I came without calling first?" Babs Mitchell asked.

No. Jesus Christ, those eyes!

"Of course. The general got me out of a poker game at just the right time."

"Excuse me?"

"I was playing poker at the club," Pick said, and pulled the thick wad of bills from his bathrobe pocket. "And I was way ahead, and wanted to quit, but couldn't think of a way to."

Jesus Christ, I'm babbling!

"Oh," she said, obviously confused. Then she asked, "You won all that money?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "How are you doing?"

"Fine," she said. "How about you?"

I'm just trying to sort out that I'm going to get a Navy Cross I absolutely don't deserve but have to take for the good of the Corps, but that's all right, because I didn't get the Navy Cross Billy Dunn got, even though I deserved it more than he did.

And when 1 saw you, my heart jumped.

In addition to which, I learned, just before I went to the club to play poker so that I wouldn't have to think about it, that Jeanette's body is already here. A day early. Flown to the States, probably because of Dad, as cargo in a lockheed Con­stellation of Trans-Global Airways. Too late to reschedule the welcoming ceremony, of course, so that will be held tomorrow, as per schedule. And I have absolutely no idea how I'm going to handle that.

Aside from that, everything's just hunky-dory.

"I'm fine."

"You look a little funny, Pick," Babs said. "Are you sure?"

When she looks at me that way . . .

"I'm fine."

The door swung inward, and General Dawkins walked back in.

"Excuse me," he said.

"Is it too much to hope there's been a change in the schedule?" Pick asked.

"There may be," Dawkins said. "Depending on Mrs. Mitchell."

"I don't understand," Babs said.

"Mrs. Mitchell, Captain McGowan tells me that you haven't received your husband's decorations," Dawkins said.

"I told . . . whatever his name is, the next-of-kin officer, that I would pre­fer to get them later, that I wasn't up to two ceremonies, the funeral, and that," she said.

"If you don't like this idea, just say no. I assure you I'll understand," Dawkins said. "This afternoon, there is going to be a retreat parade at Camp Pendleton, during which a number of Marines are to be decorated—"

"Oh, I don't think so, General," Babs interrupted.

"—including Major Pickering," Dawkins went on, "who will receive the Navy Cross."

Babs looked at Pick.

Oh, Christ, don't look at me that way!

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked.

"He didn't know until I told him just now," Dawkins said.

"What are you proposing, General Dawkins?" Babs Mitchell asked. "That I get Dick's medals at the parade?"

"Yes, ma'am. That's just what I am suggesting."

"Thank you, but no, thank you," she said.

"I understand," Dawkins said.

“Pick, what do you think?" Babs asked, looking into his eyes. "Wouldn't I be out of place?"

I really wish you wouldn't turn to me for advice, Mrs. Mitchell, he thought. I'm the last sonofabitch in the world who should be offering advice to you.

"No. No, you wouldn't be out of place. You're entitled to Dick's medals. And getting them at a retreat parade would be something you'd remember the rest of your life."

She exhaled audibly.

"Maybe you're right," Babs said, and turned to Dawkins. "All right, Gen­eral. What do I have to do?"

"I'm going to send an officer to escort Major Pickering," Dawkins said. "Would you like him to pick you up, too, and take you out to Pendleton?"

She thought a moment.

"Yes. That would probably be best. What time?"

"The retreat parade starts at 1700, which means you'd have to leave San Diego at, say, 1600."

She looked at her watch. "That doesn't give me much time to dress. Sim­ple black dress, hat, and gloves?"

"Spoken like a true Marine officer's wife," Dawkins said. And then heard what he had said. "That was intended to be a compliment, Mrs. Dawkins."

"And I took it as one," Babs Mitchell said. "That's what I was, until re­cently—a Marine officer's wife."

She put her hand on Pick's arm. The warmth of her fingers immediately went through the thin hospital bathrobe.

You really have absolutely no idea what you're doing to me, do you?

"I'll see you in a little while," she said. "I'm relying on you to get me through this. The escort officer will pick you up first, and then me, right?"

"I think that would be best," General Dawkins said.

When she took her hand from Pick's arm and headed for the door, Captain McGowan pushed it open and held it open as she passed through it, and then General Dawkins followed. Then he went through it and it swung shut.

Major Pickering stared at it for a long time, until he realized he was hold­ing his arm where Mrs. Babs Mitchell had held it.

Then he said, "Shit!" and went to his bed side table and took out a bottle of Listerine mouthwash, which he had had tht foresight to fill with scotch in the Officers' Club, and took a long pull, and then another.

[SIX]

The Parade Ground

Marine Corps Base Camp Joseph H. Pendleton, California

171O 2 November 195O

Brigadier General Clyde W. Dawkins, USMC, rose from his chair in the re­viewing stand and walked to the lectern at the forward edge. He tapped the mi­crophone with his finger, which caused the loudspeakers mounted on poles to pop loudly.

"Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests, Marines," General Dawkins began. "Two of the officers to be decorated today recently flew together off the aircraft carrier USS Badoeng Strait. One of them is here only in spirit. His dec­orations will be accepted by his widow."

There was a sudden, rapidly-growing-in-volume roar of aircraft engines.

Three Corsairs in a V formation appeared low in the sky, and then three more, and then three more.

They flew no more than five hundred feet above the parade ground and then began to pull up. The center Corsair in the third V applied FULL MILITARY EMERGENCY POWER, increased the angle of his climb, and changed course to the right, left the formation, and disappeared into the sky.

General Dawkins again addressed the parade.

"Marines to be decorated, front and center!" he barked.

The band began to play "The Marines' Hymn."

[SEVEN]

The Ocean View Apartments

1OO5 Ocean Drive

San Diego, California

185O 2 November 195O

"Would you like to come in for a minute, Pick?" Mrs. Babs Mitchell asked as the Marine-green Chevrolet pulled into the driveway.

I would gladly sell my soul to Satan, or whoever else would have it, to go up there with you and never come out.

"Thanks, but no thanks. I'm a little weary. Call me?"

"Of course."

The escort officer walked Mrs. Mitchell to the lobby, watched through the glass door until she got on the elevator, and then walked back to the staff car and got in beside Major Pickering.

"You all right, sir?"

"No. But I will be just as soon as we get to the bar in the Coronado Beach Hotel and I have a pick-me-up. Or three."

"Sir, my orders are to make sure you make it safely back to the hospital."

"Screw your orders," Pick said. "If General Dawkins finds out—and I can see no reason why he should—I'll take the heat. Sergeant, the Coronado Beach Hotel."

"Aye, aye, sir," the sergeant driving said.

[EIGHT]

Air Cargo Terminal

Trans-Global Airways

Lindbergh Field

San Diego, California

2O25 2 November 195O

"I'm not sure about this, ma'am," the assistant station manager said to Mrs. Babs Mitchell. "He said I wasn't to let anybody in here."

"It's all right," Babs said. "We're friends."

"If you say so," the assistant station manager said, and put his key to the lock in the metal door in the hangar door.

Babs stepped through it.

There were lights in the hangar, but they were mounted high against the roof, and the hangar was crowded with pallets of air freight waiting for shipment—most of it, she saw, addressed to "Transportation Officer, 1st Mar-Div, Korea"—and it was some time before she saw him.

He was standing with his hands on his hips—looking oddly belligerent— before a coffin shipping case in a far corner of the hangar.

She watched for more than a minute, and he didn't move.

She didn't want him to hear her coming across the gritty concrete, so, stand­ing on one leg at a time, she took off her shoes before she walked to him.

And he didn't sense her presence—which surprised her—until she touched his arm.

"Hey, Pick," she said. "How are you doing?"

"How the hell did you find me?"

"Well, I was worried about you, so I went to the hospital and you weren't in your room, and you weren't in the Officers' Club, and then I remembered hearing on the radio that her . . . her ..."

"Jeanette's body?"

"Yeah. Jeanette's body would be formally received, or whatever they said, in the morning. And I thought that maybe it had come in early, and you might be out here. So I called up and asked for you, and he said you weren't here, but I could tell he was lying, so I came out. Wrong move?"

"What made you think I'd be out here?"

"I just knew. I know how you think."

Jesus Christ, I hope not.

He didn't reply.

"I'm surprised they let you in. You really don't work for Trans-Global any­more, do you? I mean, you're on military leave, right?"

"I own the airline," Pick said. "That probably had something to do with the station manager letting me in."

"You own the airline like I'm Marilyn Monroe."

Jesus Christ, she doesn't know!

"I slipped him twenty bucks from my poker winnings," Pick said.

Jesus, I can smell her.

"What happened to your shoes? Blister?" he asked.

"No. I didn't want to startle you, so I took them off. How you doing?"

"After twenty, thirty minutes of solemn contemplation, I decided that Jeanette is not really inside this Container, Human Remains," Pick said. "So it doesn't really matter that it's not covered with the flag."

"There'll be a flag tomorrow, won't there?"

"Probably. I don't know. I don't care. I'm not going. I said good-bye to her twice, once over there, and I'm doing it again now. Have just finished doing it, now."

She took his hand with both of hers.

You don't really want to do that, Mrs. Babs Mitchell. My high moral charac­ter is weakened in direct proportion to the amount of imbibed booze. The needle on the Moral Scruples Remaining indicator is already in the red.

"I'm sorry, Pick."

"You shouldn't be. Despite popular legend to the contrary, the real bastards of this world do get what is coming to them. Or don't get what they would re­ally like to have."

"I'm not sure I follow that."

"That's probably because I am just a wee bit tiddly."

"I noticed," she said matter-of-factly. "If you're really finished, I'll take you home."

By that, obviously, you mean home to room 39A in the loony ward.

"I thought I'd catch a cab and go back to the Coronado Beach," he said. "But I will take a ride as far as the passenger terminal, where I can catch a cab."

"Why there?"

"Because that's where the cabstand is."

"I meant the Coronado Beach Hotel?"

"Because I have an apartment there, where I can have a few drinks in pri­vate, and thus not disgrace my officer's uniform by being shitfaced in a public establishment, or run afoul of the hospital O Club regulations."

"You have an apartment there?"

"Yeah, I have an apartment there."

"If you're ready, I'll take you there."

"That would be a very bad idea," he said. "As a matter of fact, I will not, thank you just the same, take a ride to the passenger terminal."

"Why would that be a very bad idea?"

"Because I'm having a hell of a hard time keeping from putting my arms around you while standing in front of Jeanette's casket, and I know goddamn well what would happen in your car. Much less my apartment."

She looked into his eyes.

"Okay. Now you know," Pick said. "That's the kind of a prick I am. And the sooner you get away from me, and the farther away you get, the better."

"Okay. I'm warned," she said. "Let's go."

"Didn't you hear what I said?"

"I heard you."

"But you don't believe me? Is that it?"

"I had a couple of drinks before I went looking for you," Babs said. "Time to think very seriously about the dangers of someone like myself being desper­ate for another man in my life, of someone like you being especially vulnera­ble to someone like me."

"And?"

"I had another drink and went looking for you."

"Jesus, Babs!" he said softly.

"The drinks I had are wearing off, so if we're going to do this, you'd better get another couple in me pretty soon."

"I don't think you know what you're saying," he said.

"Yeah, I do. Why not, Pick? Who are we going to hurt?"

"The last thing in the world I want to do is hurt you, add to your prob­lems," Pick said.

"I know," she said. She put her hand on his cheek. "Likewise. Who knows? Maybe we can solve each other's problems. It seems to me worth trying. What has either one of us got to lose?"

"Jesus H. Christ!"

"Come on, let's go," she said, and took his hand and led him away from the Container, Human Remains. Halfway to the hangar door, he freed his hand and put his arm around her shoulder. Six steps farther, he stopped, put both arms around her, and kissed her.

[NINE]

Apartment A

The P&FE/Trans-Global Suite

Coronado Beach Hotel

San Diego, California

O83O 3 November I95O

"I think this is what your friend Dr. McGrory would call 'postcoital depres­sion,' " Babs Mitchell said to Pick Pickering.

They were having a room-service breakfast; both were wearing hotel-furnished terry-cloth robes. The robe concealed all the curvature of her body.

It doesn't matter. I can see her face. Even without makeup, she's beautiful.

Okay. Here it comes. You knew goddamn well it would.

"Now that I've thought it over..."

"Something bothering you?"

"I had too much to drink last night," she said. "You must think I'm really a slut."

"No I don't," he said.

"You don't?"

"I don't."

"I wish I could believe that."

"Believe it."

"Oh, God, what have we done?"

After a moment, Pick solemnly said, "If that question was addressed to the Deity, I'm sorry to have to tell you He's not available at the moment. But—as one of His favorite people on this particular planet—I feel confident in telling you that when He finally gets around to answering your query, He will say something like 'Nothing wrong.' Or 'Good for you.'

" 'One of His favorite people'?" Babs parroted incredulously.

"I have the proof," Pick said. "He put us together, didn't he? Just when we really needed each other. Would He have done that if He didn't like us?"

"Oh, God, I'd like to believe that."

"I told you, He's not available at the moment. But you can believe it."

She stood, walked around the room-service cart, and put her arms around his neck from behind.

"Oh, God, I really hope this works," she said.

"For the third time, I'm sorry to have to tell—"

"I'm going to have to stop saying that, aren't I?"

"I don't know. He'll probably wonder why you stopped talking to Him."

She pulled on his ears, and he twisted in his chair, and somehow his face wound up inside her bathrobe. And then, somehow, the bathrobe became com­pletely unfastened and fell from her shoulders.

He had just picked her up and thrown her over his shoulder and announced, "Me Tarzan, you Jane! We go make whoopee-whoopee, okay?" when the door chimes sounded.

"Come back next year," Pick callled loudly.

"It's Captain McGowan, sir."

"Oh, shit," Pick said softly. Then he raised his voice. "Be right with you, Art."

He carried Babs into the bedroom, dumped her unceremoniously on the bed, and went to answer the door.

"Got a message for you, sir," Captain McGowan said.

"From General Dawkins?"

"No, sir. From Japan." He handed it to him, then said, "Sir, when you go back to the hospital . . . The general told them he'd asked you to spend the night, and didn't think he had to ask their permission. They were about to send the Shore Patrol looking for you."

"My compliments to the general,, Captain, and please relay my appreciation for his understanding of the situation."

"Yes, sir, I'll do that. Good morning, sir."

Pick tore open the envelope.

UNCLASSIFIED

URGENT

OFFICE OF THE CIA DEPUTY DIRECTOR FOR ASIA TOKYO

0305 3NOVEMBER1950 TOKYO TIME

TO MAJOR MALCOLM S. PICKERING, USMCR

DETACHMENT OF PATIENTS

US NAVAL HOSPITAL SAN DIEGO

VIA BRIG GEN C W DAWKINS, USMC CAMP PENDLETON, CALIFORNIA

PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM DDCIA TOKYO TO MAJ PICKERING

BEGINS

MAJOR AND MRS KENNETH R. MCCOY, USMCR, ANNOUNCE THE BIRTH OF THEIR SON, PICKERING KENNETH MCCOY, IN TOKYO JAPAN AT 0215 3NOVEMBER1950. MOTHER AND CHILD ARE DOING WELL.

END PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM DDCIA TOKYO

Pick went to the bedroom door. "What was that all about?"

"One more proof that He likes me, sweetheart," Pick said, and sat on the edge of the bed and handed her the message.

Christ, she doesn't even know who the Killer and Ernie are.

She handed it back to him.

"Friends of yours?" Babs asked.

"Yeah. You'll like them," Pick said.

"If you're happy," Babs said, "I'm happy."

AFTERWORD

I was an X Corps sergeant/combat correspondent in Korea shortly after the events fictionally chronicled in this book took place. As such, I was able to read the official version of what happened in the X Corps and 1st Marine Division After Action Reports.

What follows are the facts as we now know them, from our own sources and from those of the Communist Chinese, more than half a century after the conflict.

On 3 November 1950, Major General Charles Willoughby announced to the press that there "possibly" were from 16,500 to a maximum of 34,000 Red Chinese soldiers in Korea.

There were, in fact, 180,000 Chinese soldiers facing the Eighth United States Army on the west of Korea, and about 120,000 facing the X United States Corps in the east. They had begun crossing the Yalu River and entering North Korea in October 1950, each carrying a personal weapon, eighty rounds of am­munition, sometimes three or four "stick" hand grenades, and a week's supply of rations, dried fish, rice, and tea. There were some machine guns and some mortars, all hand-carried.

They moved in at night, halting two hours before daybreak to prepare camouflaged positions. They then slept through the day. Anyone seen moving was shot on the spot, and his body hastily concealed from American aerial ob­servation.

Red Chinese and American historians are generally agreed that the first bat­tle of the Chinese intervention was the attack by the Communists' 124th Di­vision on the 3d ROK Division, which was then advancing near the Chosin Reservoir. The 3d ROK retreated thirty miles south. The 7th Marines coun­terattacked, killing more than 1,500 Chinese and virtually destroying the 124th Division in a three-day battle.

The Chinese pulled back to plan, and it was decided then that the primary mission of their Ninth Army Group would be the destruction of the U.S. 1st Marine Division.

Misinterpreting this inactivity of the Chinese—and still grossly underesti­mating the size of the enemy forces—General of the Army Douglas MacArthur ordered X Corps and Eighth Army to stage attacks designed to, as MacArthur said, "end the war by Christmas."

The attacks didn't.

On Friday, 25 November 1950, preceded by a heavy and lengthy artillery barrage, General Walton Walker's Eighth Army began its march to the Yalu.

Initially, there was very little resistance. But on the night of 25-26 No­vember 1950, the Chinese struck with overwhelming force. By morning, they had broken through Walker's lines, and the Eighth Army's right flank was ex­posed. The Turkish Brigade was sent to plug the hole, and was virtually de­stroyed.

By nightfall, Walker had ordered the beginning of what has been called the longest retreat in the history of the U.S. Army: 275 miles in six weeks, during which the Eighth Army suffered 10,000 casualties.

In the east, on 27 November 1950, Major General Edward M. Almond's X Corps—about 100,000 men, including the 1st Marine Division—began to strike for the Yalu.

The 1st Marine Division commander, Major General "Howling Mad" Smith—who openly disliked his orders from Almond and MacArthur but had nevertheless begun to comply with them—positioned about 7,000 Marines to lead the fight.

They were unaware that three Red Chinese divisions, about 30,000 men, were in the mountains on either side of the Yudam-ni Valley, ready to attack, and that the rest of the Chinese Ninth Army Group was moving to cut the main supply route in many places once that attack began.

Nor had they heard about the beating the Eighth Army had taken the day before, and was taking as their attack began.

General Smith's 5th and 7th Marines had some initial success, destroying one Red Chinese division and mauling another. But by the end of the sec­ond day, the Chinese plan to chop up the main supply route was also meet­ing success.

And on the Chosin Reservoir's east shore, the Chinese, in division strength, for all practical purposes wiped out the hopelessly outnumbered 7th Infantry Division's 31st Regimental Combat Team, including a reinforcement by just over a thousand men of the 1st Battalion, 32d Infantry (Task Force Faith, so named for its commander, Lieutenant Colonel Don Carlos Faith).

On 30 November, General Almond ordered General Smith to withdraw, and thus began the thirteen-day retreat in sub-zero temperatures from Yudam-ni to Hungnam, which deservedly has become Marine legend:

To move down the one-lane road, it was first necessary for the Marines to clear the Chinese from the ridges on each side of the valley.

The Marines did so, one ridgeline after another.

Marine Aviation flew close ground support missions whenever the weather permitted.

Marine Artillery provided what support it could.

For nine days, over the thirty miles from Yudam-ni to Chinghung-ni, where the 3d U.S. Army Infantry Division had established a line, the Marines were in constant combat with ten Chinese Communist divisions.

It was during this period that General O. P. Smith was quoted as saying, "Retreat, hell! We're just attacking in another direction!"—although there is some doubt about the attribution.

The first "Retreat, hell!" comment came in France during World War I, when orders were issued for the Marines to retreat. "Retreat, hell! We just got here!" one said. The line was already part of Marine legend by 1950, and some­body certainly must have said it at the Chosin Reservoir.

During this period, too, the legendary Marine Colonel Lewis B. "Chesty" Puller, who was then commanding the 1st Marines, did say something near the Chosin Reservoir about which there is no question:

"Don't you forget that you're 1st Marines! Not all the Communists in hell can overrun you!"

The Marines came out, bringing with them their weapons, their vehicles, their wounded, most of their dead, and a substantial number of Army soldiers they had rescued from certain capture or death.

The 1st Marine Division had suffered 718 Killed in Action, 3,508 Wounded in Action, and 7,313 "noncombat" casualties due to frostbite. There were 192 Marines Missing in Action.

Fourteen Marines were named Medal of Honor recipients. The Marine Corps estimates 25,000 Chinese were killed and another 12,500 were wounded. The U.S. Army estimates there were 30,000 Chinese KIA and another 30,000 Chinese were frostbitten.

On Christmas Eve, 1950, the 1st Marine Division, with the rest of the X United States Corps, was evacuated by sea from Hamhung. X Corps took with it more than 100,000 Korean refugees. The only thing they left for the enemy were some engineering bridge timbers.

On Christmas Eve, 1950, Lieutenant General Walton H. Walker was killed in a jeep accident. Lieutenant General Matthew B. Ridgway was named to re­place him.

On 11 April 1951, President Truman sent, through ordinary Army chan­nels, a message to General of the Army Douglas MacArthur, which read:

"I deeply regret that it becomes my duty as President and Commander-in-Chief of the United States Military Forces to replace you as Supreme Commander."

General Ridgway was named to replace him.

After he came home, was promoted, and retired, I had the unique privilege of coming to know Lieutenant General Edward M. Almond and of having him talk to me—usually in his basement office in his home—at length about his role in the Korean campaign, and his relationships with General of the Army Dou­glas MacArthur and other members of the Supreme Commander's staff.

One day, when I—and if memory serves, my twelve-year old Boy Scout son Bill—arrived for lunch at General Almond's gracious hillside home in Anniston, Alabama, he met me at the door and handed me a letter he said he had just received.

General Almond was then well into his seventies, but his eyes were still a brilliant blue, and when I looked at him, I thought I saw the beginnings of tears.

The letter was on Marine Corps General Officer's stationery. There were three red stars at the top.

The letter was from Lieutenant General Lewis B. Puller, USMC.

It began:

MY DEAR GENERAL ALMOND,

ON THE OCCASION OF MY RETIREMENT FROM THE UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS, I FELT DUTY BOUND TO WRITE TO YOU TO TELL YOU THAT YOU WERE THE FINEST COMBAT COMMANDER UNDER WHOM I WAS EVER PRIVILEGED TO SERVE.

There was more to the letter, now long forgotten, but I shall never forget those opening lines, or General Almond's reaction to them.

W. E. B. Griffin

Pilar, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

6 August 2003