Under Fire

Special drill sessions will not be held without prior per-mission from battalion.

Ammunition will not be drawn from sealed armory stocks without prior permission from battalion.

The use of civilian and/or local governmental firing ranges is forbidden unless specifically directed by HQ USMC.

"Company, ten-hut!"

Baker Company snapped to attention.

"I will see the officers and senior noncoms in my office immediately following the formation," Captain Hart or-dered his executive officer. "Dismiss the company for training."

"Aye, aye, sir," Lieutenant Barnes said, and saluted.

Captain Hart returned the salute, did an about-face movement, and marched across the varnished wood to his office.

Lieutenant Peterson was standing just inside the office.

"Questions, Lieutenant?"

"The colonel's going to shit a brick," Lieutenant Peter-son said.

"I suppose he will," Captain Hart said. "Sometimes you have to do what you think is right even if it gives the entire Marine Corps diarrhea."

"Yes, sir," Lieutenant Peterson said. "Sir, permission to speak?"

"Granted."

"You didn't specify a time for the special drill on Satur-day. May I suggest the company report at 0430? That will give us time to get to the range by first light."

"Make it so, Lieutenant."

"Aye, aye, sir."

[THREE]

SUITE 401

THE CORONADO BEACH HOTEL

SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

1030 10 JULY 1950

Captain Kenneth R. McCoy sprang to his feet and opened the door of the suite.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he said to the two Marine brigadier generals and their aides-de-camp, both captains. "General Pickering expects you. Will you come in, please?"

"How are you, McCoy?" Brigadier General Clyde W. Dawkins said, extending his hand. "It's good to see you."

Captain McCoy had never seen either captain before, but Captain Arthur McGowan, Dawkins's aide, had heard about the legendary Captain "Killer" McCoy and looked at him curiously.

He doesn't look, McGowan thought, like either a legend or somebody known as "the Killer."

"Thank you, sir," McCoy said. "It's good to see you, sir."

Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, came into the sitting room from one of the bedrooms that offered a view of the Pacific and had long ago been converted to a bar, holding a mug of coffee in his hand.

"I was going to say, `Christ, Dawk, you didn't have to come here,'" he said, "But I think I'd better make that, `Good morning, gentlemen.'"

Dawkins chuckled.

He nodded at the officer beside him.

"I just now found out you two don't know each other; I thought you'd met on the `Canal. General Fleming Picker-ing, General Edward A. Craig."

Craig offered his hand to Pickering.

"I think you left the `Canal-" Craig began.

"Was ordered off," Pickering interjected.

"-before I got there," Craig finished. "But I know who you are, General, and I'm glad to finally get to meet you."

"General, I tried to tell General Dawkins that whenever he could find a few minutes for me, I would be in his of-fice."

"Craig and I had to go to the Navy base, coming here was easier all around, and I don't think I could have given you an uninterrupted five minutes in my office," Dawkins said. "Things are a little hectic out there."

"I can imagine."

"Craig has been named CG of the 1st Provisional Ma-rine Brigade," Dawkins said. "Which sails for Kobe, Japan, on the twelfth."

Colonel Edward J. Banning, USMC, and Marine Gun-ner Ernest W. Zimmerman came into the room.

"I didn't know you were here, too, Ed," Dawkins said.

"Good morning, General," Banning said. "It's good to see you."

"Ed Banning I know," Craig said. "Fourth Marines. Hello, Ed."

"Good morning, General," Banning replied, and added, "Mr. Zimmerman and Captain McCoy are old China Marines, too."

Craig shook Zimmerman's hand, then glanced at his watch.

"We are pressed for time," Craig said. "So if there's some place these fellows can wait... "

He nodded at McCoy, Zimmerman, and the aides-de-camp.

"Why don't you go in the bar?" Pickering said, nodding at the door to the room. "There's coffee. McCoy, you stay."

"Aye, aye, sir," McCoy said.

Captain McGowan and General Craig's aide were sur-prised, and possibly a little annoyed, that they were being excused, and Captain McCoy was not, but they and Zim-merman went into the bar and closed the door.

"I'm the self-invited guest, General," Craig said. "When Dawkins told me he was coming to see you, I invited my-self."

"You're welcome, of course," Pickering said.

"I don't think I have to convince you of the value of intel-ligence, General," Craig said. "I have practically none about Korea. If the price of getting some is bad manners..."

"Ken's got some pretty detailed knowledge of the North Korean order of battle," Pickering said, nodding at McCoy. "With the caveat that you don't ask him where he got it, and if you can give him an hour between now and 1830, when we get on a plane for Tokyo, he could brief you."

"I'll find the hour," Craig said. "Thank you."

"You're going to Tokyo, General?" Dawkins asked.

His real question, Pickering understood, is "What are you going to do in Tokyo? " and after a moment, he decided to answer it.

"What you hear in this room stays in this room, Okay?" he said.

"Agreed," Craig said.

"Yes, sir," Dawkins said.

"The President is unhappy that we were so badly sur-prised by what's happening over there," Pickering began. "And he's afraid that he's not going to get the whole pic-ture from MacArthur. He called an old buddy of his, an Army National Guard major general, Ralph Howe, to ac-tive duty, to go over there and see for himself what's hap-pened, and will happen. Then, because I'm acquainted with MacArthur, he did the same thing with me."

Craig nodded.

"May I ask what you're doing at Camp Pendleton?"

"That's Ed Banning's idea, and like most of his ideas, a good one. Howe and I will be reporting directly to the Presi-dent. If we use the normal communication channels, the odds are that our messages would be in the hands of the brass at least half an hour before they were in the President's hands. If, on the other hand, we communicate with your comm center here, with Banning getting the messages, no one would see them but Banning. We haven't worked out the details yet, but I'm sure Ed can find a secure channel from here to Washington."

"That shouldn't be a problem," Dawkins said. "If necessary, we can set up a secure radio-teletype link between here and the White House Signal Agency."

"I have to say this, Dawk," Pickering said. "I don't want one of your commo sergeants making copies of our traffic for you."

"Yes, sir," Dawkins said.

"McCoy, Zimmerman, and I are going to Japan tonight," Pickering said. "I'm going to see General MacArthur. Mc-Coy and Zimmerman are going to Korea."

"Why?" Craig asked McCoy.

"We want to interrogate prisoners, sir," McCoy said. "And see what else we can find out."

"What are you going to do about an interpreter?"

"Sir, I speak Korean, and Mr. Zimmerman speaks Chi-nese."

"At least two kinds of Chinese, General," Ed Banning said. "And Japanese. As does McCoy. McCoy also speaks Russian and-"

"I could really use officers with those skills," Craig said, and looked at Pickering. "I suppose that's out of the ques-tion?"

"I'm afraid so," Pickering said.

"How about access to what they learn?"

"With the caveat that it's not for-what do the newspa-per people say, `attribution'?-and doesn't go any fur-ther than you think it really has to, I can see no reason why Ed Banning can't filter out what he thinks would be useful to you from our traffic, and give it to you and Dawkins."

"Thank you," Craig said.

Dawkins looked at his wristwatch.

"Ed, it's that time. They expect us at the port."

Craig nodded.

"If you don't need Captain McCoy right now," Craig, said, "he could ride along with us, and I could pick his brain in the car."

"Sure," Pickering said, and then saw the look on Mc-Coy's face.

"Something I don't know about, Ken?" he asked.

"Sir, Zimmerman and I were going to go out to Pendleton and scrounge utilities, 782 gear, (Field equipment-for example, web belts, harnesses, canteens, helmets, etc) and weapons," Mc-Coy said.

"I think we can fix that," General Craig said.

He walked to the door of the bar and opened it.

"Charley," he said to his aide, "I can't imagine a Marine gunner needing help from a captain scrounging anything, but you never know. Get a car and take Mr. Zimmerman out to Pendleton and help him get whatever he thinks he needs."

"Aye, aye, sir," Craig's aide-de-camp said.

"And you better go with him," General Dawkins said to Captain McGowan. "We'll link up somewhere later."

Zimmerman looked at McCoy.

"Thompson?" he asked.

McCoy thought that over.

"I think I'd rather have a Garand," he said. "Maybe both? See if you can get a tanker's shoulder holster for me."

Zimmerman nodded.

McCoy turned to General Craig.

"Whenever you're ready, sir," he said.

[FOUR]

OFFICE OF THE CHIEF OF STAFF

HEADQUARTERS, SUPREME COMMANDER, ALLIED POWERS

THE DAI ICHI BUILDING

TOKYO, JAPAN

0830 14 JULY 1950

Major General Edward M. Almond was in his outer office talking to a tall, intense young lieutenant wearing the in-signia of an aide-de-camp when Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, trailed by Captain Kenneth R. McCoy and Marine Gunner Ernest W. Zimmerman, walked in, Almond broke off his conversation in midsentence and offered Pickering his hand.

"We heard you were here," he said, "But Al"-he nod-ded at the lieutenant-"couldn't seem to find you."

It was a question, and Pickering answered it.

"We're in the Imperial," he said. "My wife's in the hotel business, and hotel people take care of each other. They call it `comping,' and I take advantage of it whenever I can."

"I don't think Al thought of the Imperial," Almond said.

"No, sir, that's the one place I didn't look," the aide con-firmed.

"Well, I guess I don't ask if you're comfortable," Al-mond said. "But I can offer you a cup of coffee. General MacArthur expects you at 0900."

"Thank you," Pickering said. "General, this is Captain McCoy and Mr. Zimmerman."

"You look familiar, Captain," Almond said, as he shook McCoy's hand.

"Captain McCoy was stationed in Japan," Pickering an-swered for him. "With Naval intelligence."

"I thought he looked familiar," Almond said. He turned to Zimmerman and smiled. "Is it true, Mr. Zimmerman, that Marine gunners can really chew railroad spikes and spit nails?"

"Carpet tacks, sir," Zimmerman replied.

"Would you rather we talked alone, General?" Almond asked. He nodded at his aide again. "Or..."

"I think it would be helpful if we all talked," Pickering said.

"Gentlemen, this is Lieutenant Al Haig, my junior aide," Almond said, "who will round up some coffee and then join us."

"I suppose the best way to do this is to show you my or-ders," Pickering said, taking two envelopes from his pocket and handing them to Almond.

Almond opened the smaller envelope and read it.

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

JULY 8,1950

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

BRIGADIER GENERAL FLEMING PICKERING, USMCR, IN CONNECTION WITH HIS MISSION FOR ME, WILL TRAVEL TO SUCH PLACES AT SUCH TIMES AS HE FEELS APPROPRIATE, ACCOMPANIED BY SUCH STAFF AS HE DE-SIRES.

GENERAL PICKERING IS GRANTED HEREWITH A TOP-SECRET/WHITE HOUSE CLEARANCE, AND MAY, AT HIS OPTION, GRANT SUCH CLEARANCE TO HIS STAFF.

U.S. MILITARY AND GOVERNMENTAL AGEN-CIES ARE DIRECTED TO PROVIDE GENERAL PICKERING AND HIS STAFF WITH WHATEVER SUPPORT THEY MAY REQUIRE.

Harry S. Truman

HARRY S. TRUMAN

PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

"Now, that's a blanket order," Almond said, and indi-cated Lieutenant Haig with a nod of his head. "May I?"

Pickering nodded, and Almond handed the order to his aide. Then he opened and read the orders in the second en-velope.

S E C R E T

The Central Intelligence Agency

Washington, D.C.

Office of the Director

July 6, 1950

Mission Orders:

To: Brigadier General Fleming Picker-ing, USMCR Assistant Director of the CIA for Asia

By Direction of the President, and in compliance with Mission Memorandum 23-1950, Classified TOP SECRET/CIA/Director, with which you have been made familiar, you and the following mem-bers of your staff, all of whom have been granted TOP SECRET/CIA/Director security clearances, will travel to Tokyo, Japan, and such other places as you/they may feel necessary. Travel may be accomplished by U.S. Government air, sea, rail, or road transporta-tion, for which Priority AAAAA is as-signed, or by any other means you/they determine are necessary.

BANNING, Edward F., Colonel, USMC

MCCOY, Kenneth R., Captain, USMC

ZIMMERMANN, Ernest w., Master Gunner, USMC

Roscoe M. Hillenkoetter

ROSCOE M. HILLENKOETTER

Rear Admiral, USN

Director

S E C R E T

"Two questions," Almond said, as-after getting an ap-proving nod from Pickering-he handed the second orders to Haig. "Colonel Banning? And why two sets of orders? The Presidential order would seem to cover everything."

"Colonel Banning, to answer that first, General, is at Camp Pendleton in California, setting up a communica-tions link between there and the White House. I'm going to need such a link from here to Camp Pendleton, which is one of the reasons I asked to see you."

"Al, see that the General gets whatever he needs," Al-mond ordered.

"Yes, sir," Haig said.

"And so far as the orders are concerned," Pickering went on, "Captain McCoy thinks it would be a good idea to get a third set, issued by SCAP"

"Saying what, Captain?" Almond asked McCoy.

"Saying that Mr. Zimmerman and I are on a liaison mis-sion-or something like that-from SCAP, sir," McCoy said. "Preferably signed by you, sir."

"Reason?" Almond asked.

"White House and CIA orders, sir, and orders signed by General MacArthur are likely to call more attention to us than we want."

"Point taken," Almond said. "When we finish here, Al, get with Captain McCoy and give him what he needs."

"Yes, sir," Haig said.

Almond looked at McCoy.

"I presume you're going to Korea?"

"Yes, sir."

"When?"

"As soon as we have the orders from here, sir."

"You're going to need some field equipment," Almond said. "And weapons. Things are pretty primitive over there. Lieutenant Haig can help you there."

"We have what we'll need, sir," McCoy said. "But thank you."

"I wish I had an interpreter to send with you. I don't."

"McCoy speaks Korean, General," Pickering said. "Reads and writes it, too."

"If I had known that, Captain, when you were here, I would have done my best to steal you from the Naval ele-ment. I'm surprised General Willoughby didn't," Almond said. Then he paused and looked at Pickering. "General Willoughby would of course be interested in whatever in-telligence Captain McCoy turns up. It's an admission of failure on our part, obviously, but the truth is this Korean business caught us completely by surprise."

"I'm sure something can be worked out, General," Pick-ering said. "But I'm sure you'll understand that McCoy and Zimmerman have to do their job independently."

"Yes, of course," Almond said. He looked at his watch. "It might be a good idea if we walked down the corridor to the Supreme Commander's office. He doesn't mind if peo-ple are early. Late is an entirely different matter."

"Ken, don't leave until I see you," Pickering ordered, as he got to his feet.

"Aye, aye, sir."

[FIVE]

The Supreme Commander, Allied Powers, General of the Army Douglas MacArthur, rose from behind his desk and walked toward Brigadier General Fleming Pickering with his hand extended.

"My old friend is once again my comrade-in-arms, I see," he said, patting Fleming on the shoulder as he shook his hand.

"Good morning, General," Pickering said.

"Ned took good care of you on your arrival, I trust?" MacArthur said, nodding toward Major General Almond.

"General Almond has been very obliging, sir," Pickering said.

"Your quarters are all right? Everything you need?" MacArthur pursued.

"General Pickering took care of himself," Almond said. "He's at the Imperial."

"But you did meet the MATS flight?" MacArthur asked, a tone of annoyance in his voice. MATS was Military Air Transport Service.

"We came on Trans-Global," Pickering said. "It was faster, and I didn't want to take up space on an Air Force flight."

"And you knew that the Imperial would be a little nicer than the Menzies, right?" MacArthur said, chuckling.

"Yes, sir," Pickering said.

"Ned, in June of 1942, Supreme Headquarters, South-west Pacific Command-all of it, including quarters for the senior officers-was in the Menzies Hotel in Mel-bourne," MacArthur explained. "The Menzies is not about to appear on a list of great hotels of the world."

Almond laughed dutifully.

"Those black days seem like a long time ago, don't they, Fleming?" MacArthur asked.

"Yes, sir, they do," Pickering agreed.

"Ned, if you'll excuse us, I'm sure General Fleming would like a little time in private with me."

"Yes, of course, sir," Almond said, smiled, nodded at Pickering and left the office.

If it bothers Almond-El Supremo's chief of staff-to be excluded from this conversation, it didn't show on his face.

MacArthur walked to his desk, picked up a humidor, and carried it to where Pickering stood. It held long, rather thin black cigars, which Pickering suspected were Philippine. He took one.

"Thank you," he said.

"Philippine," Mac Arthur confirmed. "I think they're bet-ter than the famed Havanas."

"They're good," Pickering said, as he took a clipper from the humidor. "I remember."

MacArthur returned the humidor to his desk, and re-turned with a silver Ronson table lighter. They finished the ritual of lighting the cigars.

"If I promise beforehand not to have the messenger exe-cuted," MacArthur said, with a smile, "perhaps you'll tell me what message you bear from the President."

"The only real message I have, sir, is that the President wants you to know he has full-absolute-confidence in you," Pickering said.

MacArthur nodded, as if he expected a statement like this.

"And his concerns?" he asked.

"He doesn't want Korea to start World War Three," Pick-ering said.

"There's not much chance of that," MacArthur said. "We have nuclear superiority."

"He was concerned that this has taken us completely by surprise," Pickering said.

"And it has," MacArthur said. "That's very probably a result of our underestimating North Korea's stupidity. There's no way they can ultimately succeed in this en-deavor, and-stupidity on our part-we presumed they knew that, and that this sort of thing simply wouldn't hap-pen."

"And their successes so far have been because of the sur-prise of the attack?"

"Yes, that's a fair description. Willoughby's best judg-ment, with which I concurred, was that the risk of something like this happening was minimal. Our mistake. But with nothing to suggest something like this was in the works..."

Nothing but a report from an intelligence officer that Willoughby not only didn't want to believe, ordered de-stroyed, and then tried to bureaucratically execute the messenger.

And if I had brought that report to you the last time I was in. Tokyo, what would you have done? Put your faith in Willoughby, that's what you would have done.

"You've been traveling," MacArthur said. "Let me give you the current picture."

He gestured for Pickering to follow him to what looked like a large-scale map mounted on the wall. When he got close, Pickering saw mat it was actually one of half a dozen maps, which could be slid out from the wall one at a time.

This map showed all of South Korea, and went as far north in North Korea-above the 38th parallel-to include the North Korean capital of Pyongyang.

MacArthur took a two-foot-long pointer from a holder and held it between his hands like a riding crop. Pickering saw that the base of the varnished wood was a glistening.30-caliber rifle casing, and that the pointer was the bullet.

The bullet was black-tipped-indicating armor piercing- and Pickering wondered if that was simply coincidental.

"This is the most recent intelligence we have," MacArthur began. "Early yesterday morning, the 24th Di-vision withdrew to defensive positions along the south bank of the Kum River near Taejon."

He turned to the map and pointed to Taejon, which was roughly equidistant between Seoul-now in North Korean hands-and Pusan, a major port at the tip of the Korean peninsula, on the Straits of Korea.

"Engineers have blown all road and railroad bridges, and destroyed all ferries and flat-bottomed boats, and both the division commander and General Walker-who has es-tablished Eighth Army headquarters here at Taegu-feel these positions can be held, at least for the time being, and even that a counterattack may be possible."

That's why they retreated across the river, right, and blew the bridges? So they can counterattack?

"General Walker's front," MacArthur went on, using the pointer, "extends from Taejon northeast to Chongju, and across the Taebaek Mountains to Pyonghae-ri on the east coast. The 24th Reconnaissance Company is keeping then-eye on the most likely river crossings west of Kongju, and the 34th Infantry Regiment is here at Kongju."

And what's the 24th Reconnaissance Company-no more than 200 men, and probably far less-going to do if the North Koreans start to cross the river?

"The 19th Infantry Regiment, which just arrived, is here at Taejon," MacArthur went on, "and the 21st Infantry is a blocking position here, southeast of Taejon. The 21st has been involved in some heavy fighting, and is down to about 1,100 men."

"They lost half their strength?" Pickering blurted incred-ulously. Just in time, he stopped himself from saying what came to his lips: If they took those kind of losses, they're in no position to block anything.

Keep your mouth shut, Pickering!

"A bit more than half," MacArthur replied matter of factly. "If memory serves, they lost a little over 1,400 men, KIA, WIA, and missing, in their first week of combat."

"General, I have to ask this question," Pickering said. "What's going to happen?"

"Well, what we're doing now is buying time until rein-forcements can be brought in. Two days ago, the 2nd In-fantry Division was ordered here from the West Coast, for example. The Marines are sending a brigade; it may al-ready be at sea."

"It is," Pickering said. "Today's the fourteenth. They sailed from San Diego today for Kobe."

"You're sure?"

"I had a chance to meet with General Craig, the provi-sional brigade commander, in San Diego. That was his schedule."

"No wishful thinking involved?"

"No, sir. He said they would sail, not hoped to."

MacArthur nodded his head.

"Yesterday," he said, "the 24th Infantry-the third regi-ment of the 25th Division-debarked at Pusan, and at this moment are moving forward, which will bring the division to full strength."

If one of its regiments has lost more than half its men, then it won't be at full strength.

"Moreover, the 1st Cavalry Division is at this moment on the high seas, and the lead elements-the 5th and 8th Cavalry-are scheduled to debark here at Pohang-dong on the eighteenth."

He put the bullet-tip of his pointer on a small port on the west coast of the peninsula, and looked at Pickering to make sure that Pickering was following him.

"Delaying the enemy until we can achieve something like equal strength in the South is only part of the plan, Fleming," MacArthur said. "The other part, the part that will turn what some might consider a rout into a very bloody nose for the enemy, is not yet quite fixed in my mind, but essentially, what I plan to do-another of the reasons I asked for the Marines-is to strike somewhere far up the peninsula with an amphibious landing that will permit us to cut off the enemy's supply lines and then batter his forces to bits. They have to be made to pay for this invasion."

"Up the peninsula?" Pickering asked. "Where?"

"There are a number of possibilities," MacArthur said, using the pointer. "On the east coast of the peninsula we have suitable beaches in the Kunsan-Komie area, here. And farther north, at Taechon, Anhung, and Inchon."

Christ, Inchon is the port for Seoul. And I was in there only once, years ago, but I still have a memory of thirty-foot tides and mudflats. Inchon's not some gentle South Pa-cific beach, and the others are probably no better. Is he dreaming?

"Of all these," MacArthur went on, "I prefer Inchon, but I'm frankly a bit hesitant to say so. I don't want to be pre-mature with this, as you can well understand."

What is he doing? Ever so subtly suggesting that I don't put this invade-behind-their-lines idea of his in my report to the President?

Of course, he is.

"And on the West Coast, working northward," MacArthur went on, using the pointer, "we have Yangdok, Kangwung, and ultimately Wonsan."

Wonsan is in North Korea!

"Wonsan-although it would be tactically ideal to cut the peninsula-is out of the question at this time, as I am under orders to push the enemy out of South Korea, not invade his homeland."

Is he reading my mind?

Both the Russians and the Chinese would take an Amer-ican invasion of North Korea as an excuse to intervene in this war. Doesn't he know that?

Slow down, Pickering.

This is Douglas MacArthur talking, if not the greatest military mind of our era, then right at the top of that list.

He not only knows as much about amphibious invasions as anyone else, probably more than anyone else, but is also probably as astute a judge of Soviet and Chinese intentions as anyone in the government.

Because we misjudged Russian ambitions, a quarter of Germany is a Russian zone from which we are barred, and Berlin and Vienna are similarly divided. We had to have the Berlin Airlift to keep the Russians from forcing us out.

Because MacArthur knew what they were up to, he stood up to them.

There are no Russians in Japan, period.

"You seem lost in thought, Fleming," MacArthur said, smiling.

"This is a lot to take in at once," Pickering said.

"What we have to do is to strike decisively," MacArthur said. "Not to have to fight our way inch by inch back up the peninsula. The question is where to do so. At the least pos-sible cost in American lives. As we're already learning, the loss of life is not a high priority for the other side."

That's another good side of him. He does try to keep losses at a minimum. I saw that time and time again in World War II.

"A moment ago, I might have seemed to be suggesting that you not get into the details of my initial thinking when you report to the President," MacArthur said. "I was."

Pickering looked at him but didn't reply.

"My thinking there, Fleming, is that there is certainly go-ing to be a hunger in Washington for any action that will turn the situation around. From my standpoint, it would be better if one of my ideas were not seized upon-or the flip side of the coin, strongly objected to-until I can firm up what I think we should do, and then present a plan to the President for his approval. Or disapproval. I am not asking you to do anything that would, in any way, violate your duty to report to the President anything you believe he should hear."

You're doing exactly that, of course. I was sent here to be a reporter, not a judge. But you're right-as usual. There will be a frenzy in Washington to do something, and there is a good chance they would hop on one idea that ul-timately wouldn't work, or reject another one that would.

I can give him that much.

"I will report to the President that you have several plans under study," Pickering said, "and that I will furnish fur-ther details as they become available."

"If you think that's what you should do," MacArthur said. "One further question: Can you tell me about General Howe?"

"I've only met with him briefly. Apparently, he and the President became friends after World War One, in the Na-tional Guard." Pickering paused and went off at a tangent. "Did you know the President is a retired National Guard colonel?"

"No. But I did know he served with distinction in France, as a captain of artillery."

"Well, sir, it appears Howe rose to major general, and commanded a division in Europe. He enjoys the Presi-dent's confidence. From what I've seen of him, he's a good man."

"As you and I have both learned," MacArthur said with a smile, "it can be very useful for a field commander to have direct access to the commander-in-chief via a good man."

There comes the soft soap.

"Jeanne insists on having you for lunch," MacArthur went on. "If I sent a car for you at one, would that give you enough time to get settled?"

"Yes, thank you very much," Pickering said.

He was halfway down the corridor to General Almond's office before it occurred to him that (a) he had been dis-missed; (b) the reason he had been dismissed was that El Supremo had something important to do; (c) which was most likely a conference about either the war at the mo-ment, or his plans for the war in the future; and (d) that not only did he have every right to attend such a conference, but that's what he was supposed to be doing.

You got me that time, and good, Douglas MacArthur, but that will be the last time.

Chapter Eight

[ONE]

HEADQUARTERS

EIGHTH UNITED STATES ARMY

TAEGU, KOREA

0530 15 JULY 1950

Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, who was wearing obviously brand-new USMC utilities and 782 gear, and had an M-l Garand rifle slung over his shoulder, saluted the U.S. Army transportation corps major in charge of the Headquarters, Eighth Army motor pool, and said, "Good morning, sir."

The major was a portly man in his mid-thirties, armed with a.45 ACP pistol. His fatigue jacket was sweat-stained under his armpits, and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. His eyes showed lack of sleep, and he needed a shave.

He returned McCoy's salute with a bored gesture.

"Yes?" he asked, impatiently.

"Sir, I'm going to need a Jeep, and a trailer and some gas in jerry cans."

"Out of the fucking question, Captain," the major said. Then he took a closer look at McCoy's utilities. "Marine? I didn't know the Marines were here."

"So far, there's just two of us, sir," McCoy said, and handed the major what he thought of as "the Dai-Ichi or-ders"; they had come from SCAP headquarters in the Dai Ichi Building. "But we are going to need some wheels."

The major took the orders and read them.

SUPREME HEADQUARTERS

Allied Powers

Tokyo, Japan

14 July 1950

SUBJECT: Letter Orders

TO: MCCOY, K. R. Captain USMC

ZIMMERMAN, E.W. Master Gunner USMC

In connection with your mission, you are authorized and directed to proceed to such places in Japan and Korea at such times as may be nec-essary.

All U.S. Army, Air Force and Navy organizations under SCAP are di-rected to provide you with such lo-gistical support as you may require. Priority AAAAA is assigned for travel.

FOR THE SUPREME COMMANDER:

Edward M. Almond

EDWARD M. ALMOND

Major General, USA

Chief of Staff

EMA/ah

"So?" the major asked.

"Sir, the logistical support I need is a Jeep, trailer, and some gas in cans."

"Captain," the major said, "I don't give a good goddamn if you have orders signed by the Pesident himself, I don't have Jeeps for bird colonels, so there's none for a captain. Now do us both a favor and get the fuck out of here!"

McCoy saluted-it was not returned-and did an about-face movement and marched out from under the canvas fly that presumably was intended to shield the motor pool offi-cer's portable field desk from sun and rain.

Although General Pickering had told Captain McCoy that Eighth Army Headquarters had been "set up" in Taegu, when he and Zimmerman had arrived there after midnight-via the K-l airfield at Pusan, and hitching a ride on a truck the rest of the way-it was immediately clear that "set up" was an intention rather than a fait ac-compli.

They had spent the night uncomfortably-it was hot, and muggy, and there were hordes of mosquitoes, flies, and other insects-in their clothing on mattressless folding canvas cots in a twelve-man squad tent. When they rose at first light, they saw the tent was one of a dozen that had been set up in what looked like the playground of a school building before which had been erected a plywood sign identifying it as Headquarters EUSAK.

McCoy had been surprised that someone had found the time and material to make the sign.

They had shaved with McCoy's electric razor, plugged into the 110-volt AC outlet of a gasoline generator whose primary outlet cable fed into the school building through an open window.

There was a great deal of activity, soldiers unloading from six-by-six trucks everything from folding field desks and file cabinets to Coca-Cola coolers and barracks bags, and either carrying them into the building or simply dump-ing them to the side of the door.

McCoy had entered the building, found the G-2 section, and-surprisingly to him, he was not challenged by any-one-took a look at the situation map. The action was around someplace called Taejon. McCoy made a compass with his fingers and determined that Taejon was about sixty miles-as the crow flies, probably considerably more on winding Korea National Highway One-from Taegu. They would need wheels to get there, and to move around once they did.

When he came out of the building, he found Master Gunner Ernest W. Zimmerman, USMC, waiting for him. Zimmerman had a Thompson.45-caliber submachine gun hanging from his shoulder. Two spare magazines for it were in one of the pockets on his utility jacket, and the other bulged with two, or possibly three, hand grenades.

"No wheels, Ernie," he said. "You have any luck with ra-tions?"

"I took care of it," Zimmerman replied. "Let's get some-thing to eat, and then get the hell out of here."

"Where's the rations?"

"I'll show you when we've had something to eat," Zim-merman said, and pointed to a line of people-officers and enlisted men-moving through a chow line.

Breakfast was powdered eggs, Spam, toast, and coffee served on a multicompartment plastic tray in a canteen mess cup. At the end of the line, there was a stainless-steel tray filled with butter already liquefied by the heat.

When they had finished, Zimmerman led him outside the not-yet-completed ring of concertina barbed wire sur-rounding the headquarters compound and down a road to a field in which sat half a dozen communications vans, and finally behind the most distant van, where a Jeep sat.

It had a wooden sign reading press war correspon-dent in yellow letters mounted below the windshield. There were two cases of C-rations and two five-gallon jerry cans of gasoline in the backseat. A third jerry can was in its mount on the back of the Jeep.

Zimmerman went to the Jeep, put his Thompson on the seat, raised the hood, and then reached into one of the cav-ernous pockets of his utilities and took out a distributor cap, a distributor rotor, and the ignition wires.

He put them in place.

"Where did you get this?" McCoy asked.

"With respect, sir, the captain does not want to know," Zimmerman said, lowered the hood, fastened the hood re-tainers, and got behind the wheel. The engine started im-mediately.

"Let's get the hell out of here before the wrong guy wakes up," Zimmerman said.

McCoy jumped in the Jeep.

"Isn't that press sign going to make us conspicuous?" McCoy asked, as Zimmerman started to move.

"I thought about that," Zimmerman said. "Isn't that what we're doing? Sending reports from the war?"

Moments after they passed the entrance to the Eighth Army headquarters compound, a slight figure in an Army fatigue uniform leapt to his feet from the side of the road and jumped in front of them, angrily waving his arms.

"Guess who got up early?" McCoy said.

"That's my Jeep, you sonsofbitches!" the angry creature shouted in a high-pitched voice.

"He's a fucking fairy," Zimmerman said, as he slammed on the brakes.

"He's a she, Ernie," McCoy said, chuckling.

The creature, now recognizable as a female by the hair tucked under her fatigue camp, and a swelling in her fa-tigue jacket that was not hand grenades, stormed up to the Jeep.

"MP!" she screamed. "MP!"

McCoy looked over his shoulder back toward the MPs standing at the entrance to the Eighth Army Headquarters compound. She had attracted their attention.

He jumped out of the Jeep, went to the woman, wrapped his arms around her waist, pulled her to the Jeep, sat down-his legs outside the Jeep, and with the woman in his lap-and ordered, "Go, Ernie! Go!"

Zimmerman let the clutch out and the Jeep took off.

"If you keep struggling, we're both going to fall out," McCoy said to the woman.

"You're not going to get away with this, you bastard!" the woman said.

"When you get around the next bend, Ernie, stop," Mc-Coy ordered.

"You're going to wind up in the stockade!" the woman said.

Zimmerman made the turn in the road, then pulled to the side and stopped.

"What are you going to do, dump her here?" Zimmer-man asked.

"Only if Miss Priestly can't see the mutual benefit in the pooling of our assets," McCoy said.

"You know who I am!" Jeanette Priestly said. She was now standing by the side of the road, her hands on her hips, glowering at McCoy.

"Jeanette Priestly of the Chicago Tribune" McCoy said.

Slight recognition dawned.

"Do I know you?" she asked.

"We had dinner a couple of weeks ago in Tokyo," Mc-Coy said.

"McCoy," she said. "The Marine."

"Right," McCoy said.

"Just what the fuck do you think you're doing?" she said. "You just can't steal my Jeep."

"Let me explain your options," McCoy said. "If we leave you here by the side of the road, you can run back to the MPs and tell them you just saw your Jeep driving off down the road-"

"My stolen Jeep!"

"-they will tell you they will do what they can, and you will go to the motor pool where-as I suspect you already know-that fat slob of a major will tell you he doesn't even have enough Jeeps for full colonels-"

"You son of a bitch!"

"Which will leave you where we found each other, you walking," McCoy continued. "I can't imagine how they would do it, but let's say they radio ahead of us, and we are stopped by some other MPs...."

"That's exactly what's going to happen to you," she said. "And it's off to the stockade you go."

"First of all, I don't think they've had time to set up a stockade, but let's say we get stopped. At that point, we show them our orders, and say all we know..." He reached into his pocket and handed her the orders he had shown to the motor pool officer; she snatched them out of his hand and read them. "... is that we went to the motor officer, showed him our orders, and he said we sure had a high priority and gave us the Jeep." He paused. "Who do you think will be believed?"

"You miserable son of a bitch!" Jeanette said after a mo-ment.

"If you're going to be traveling with us, Miss Priestly, you're going to have to watch your mouth. Gunner Zim-merman is a very sensitive man. Say `hello' to Miss Priestly, Ernie, and tell her you will forgive her for swear-ing like a Parris Island DI if she promises not to do that no more."

Zimmerman smiled but didn't say anything.

Although she really didn't want to, Jeanette Priestly was aware that she was smiling, too.

"Traveling with you?" she said. "Traveling where with you?"

"We're here to see how the war is going. According to the map in the G-2, that's up around Taejon."

"What's in it for you, if I go along?" she asked.

"You've been here before; we haven't. I think we can be very useful to each other."

She thought that over a minute.

"Okay," she said. "I'll go."

"You have one more option," McCoy said. "You can ride along and wait until we get to the next MP checkpoint, and then scream that we've stolen your Jeep and kidnapped you. What would happen then, I think, is that we would all be held until a senior officer could be found to straighten things out. Which would mean that none of us would get to the war."

"You son of a bitch!" she said. There was an admiring tone in her voice.

"Are you coming, or not?"

She climbed into the backseat.

"Okay, Ernie," McCoy ordered. "Let's go."

Five minutes later, Miss Jeanette Priestly, accredited war correspondent of the Chicago Tribune, leaned forward and asked, "What happened to the other fellow? The Trans-Global captain? Who set the speed record?"

"I expect about right now Major Malcolm S. Pickering, USMC Reserve, is trying to come up with a good excuse to get out of being mobilized," McCoy said.

Zimmerman laughed.

[TWO]

HEADQUARTERS, 34TH INFANTRY REGIMENT

24TH U.S. INFANTRY DIVISION

NONSAN, SOUTH KOREA

1530 15 JULY 1950

It had not proved hard to find the headquarters of the 34th Infantry Regiment, although the best location of it Captain McCoy had been able to extract from an S-3 sergeant at 24th Infantry Division headquarters had been rather vague:

"I think it's probably here, Captain," the sergeant had said, pointing to a map. "On Route One, a little village called Nonsan. That's where it's supposed to be."

Nonsan turned out to be a typical small Korean town, a collection of thatch-roofed stone buildings surrounding a short, sort of shopping strip of connected two-story, tin-roofed buildings, two of which, according to a plywood sign, had been taken over by "Hq 34th Inf Regt."

The officer standing outside one of the stores-probably the regimental commander; there was a white colonel's ea-gle painted on his helmet-looked, McCoy thought, a lot like the motor officer at Headquarters, Eighth Army.

Not only was he a portly man armed with a.45 ACP pis-tol, his fatigue jacket sweat-stained under his armpits, and with a sweaty forehead, as the major had been, but from the moment he had seen the Jeep, it was clear he was not at all pleased at what he saw.

McCoy pulled the Jeep in beside two other Jeeps and a three-quarter-ton truck, and got out.

"Stay in the Jeep," he ordered, then walked up to the colonel and saluted.

The colonel returned the salute.

"Who's the woman?" the colonel asked.

"Miss Jeanette Priestly, of the Chicago Tribune, sir," McCoy replied.

The colonel motioned for McCoy to precede him into the building, and when they were both inside, asked, dis-gustedly, "What's she doing here?"

"She's an accredited war correspondent, sir, with orders permitting her to go wherever she wants to go."

"Jesus H. Christ!" the colonel said. "With two body-guards, right?"

"Not exactly, sir," McCoy said. "May I show you my or-ders?"

The colonel gestured impatiently for McCoy to hand them over. McCoy gave him the Dai-Ichi orders. The colonel read them and handed them back.

"Marines, huh? I thought your fatigues were a little odd."

"Yes, sir."

"Okay, Captain McCoy of the Marine Corps, what ex-actly is your mission, except for escorting a female-who has absolutely no business being here-around?"

"We've been sent here, sir, to see what's going on."

"By who? General Almond himself?"

McCoy didn't reply.

"That was a question, Captain," the colonel said, sharply.

"Sir, we work for General Pickering."

Almost visibly, the colonel searched his memory for that name, and failed.

"He's in the Dai Ichi Building?"

"Yes, sir."

"So what is your connection with the lady?"

"When Eighth Army couldn't give us a Jeep, sir, I com-mandeered hers."

"And brought her along with you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, Captain, she's your responsibility. I don't want to be responsible for her safety. Not that I could if I wanted to."

"Yes, sir."

"You want to `see what's going on'? Presumably you somehow intend to relay what you see to your boss-Gen-eral Pickering, you said?"

"Yes, sir."

"I don't have any communications that will permit you to do that, and I would be surprised if division does."

"Yes, sir."

"But it has just occurred to me," the colonel said, some-what bitterly, "presuming you can find someway to com-municate with the Dai Ichi Building, that it might be a very good thing for our senior officers to learn `what's going on' here. Come with me, Captain, and I'll tell you what I know about `what's going on.'"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

The colonel turned and walked farther into the long and narrow building, which, judging from the shelves on both walls, had been a store of some kind or another.

There were the usual officers and enlisted men, and then-equipment, of a regimental headquarters crowding the room, and the colonel had apparently elected to put his field desk at the far end, where there was another door.

As McCoy followed the colonel between the desks and around the field telephone switchboard and radio sets, he glanced into a side room.

In it were three North Korean soldiers, wearing insignia that identified them as a sergeant, a corporal, and a private. They were seated with their backs against a wall. A ser-geant with an Ml carbine sat on a folding chair, guarding them.

"Colonel," McCoy called. "Excuse me, Colonel."

The colonel looked impatiently over his shoulder. By then, McCoy had gone into the room.

"God damn!" the colonel said, and went after him.

The sergeant looked at McCoy curiously.

"Get to your feet when an officer enters a room, Sergeant!" McCoy snapped unpleasantly.

The sergeant did so with very little enthusiasm.

The colonel appeared at the door, his mouth open to speak.

McCoy spoke first. He pointed at the North Korean pri-vate.

"That applies to you, too," he said, nastily, in Korean.

The private looked for a moment as if he was going to stand, but then relaxed against the wall.

"On your feet, all of you," McCoy barked, in Korean.

They all stood up.

"Have you eaten?" McCoy asked. "Do you need water?"

The North Korean sergeant said "water" in Korean.

The private glowered at him.

"Colonel," McCoy said, "the private of the 83rd Motor-cycle Regiment, the one with the good leather boots, is al-most certainly an officer, and very probably speaks English. Most of the officers of the 83rd do. I will speak with him, with all of them, after your sergeant gets them water, rations, and some cigarettes."

The colonel looked at McCoy for a long moment, then turned to the sergeant.

"You heard the captain," he said. "Get a canteen and a box of C-rations in here."

McCoy took the sergeant's carbine from him and held it on his hip, like a hunter, until the sergeant returned with two canteens and a box of C-rations.

He set the box on the floor, and tried to hand one of the canteens to the North Korean sergeant. He shook his head, "no."

"Take the water," McCoy ordered in Korean. "You are all prisoners. I give the orders here, not your officer."

The sergeant looked at the private, then took the can-teen.

"Bingo," McCoy said, very softly, to the colonel, handed the American sergeant his carbine, and walked out of the room.

He walked out of earshot of the room, then stopped.

"You speak Korean. I'm impressed," the colonel said.

"Are they your prisoners, sir? Or did you inherit them?"

"My third battalion captured them," the colonel said. "Division was supposed to send for them-take them for interrogation...."

"They're from the 83rd Motorcycle Regiment," McCoy said. "They're pretty good. The regimental commander is-the last I heard, a Colonel Pak Sun Hae, who used to be a lieutenant in the Soviet Army. They're well trained, and well equipped."

"Which is, sadly, more than I can say about the 34th In-fantry," the colonel said.

"Colonel, for my purposes-it would make them even more uncomfortable than they are-I'd like Miss Priestly to take their picture. Would that be all right?"

The colonel thought that over.

"Why not?" he said, after a minute, and turned to a master sergeant standing nearby. "There's a lady and a Marine in a Jeep outside, Sergeant. Would you ask them to come in, please?"

`Tell her to bring her camera, Sergeant," McCoy or-dered.

As Jeanette Priestly followed Zimmerman and the ser-geant through the narrow building, there were looks of dis-belief on the faces of the regimental officers and soldiers.

"With the caveat that I don't think you should be here," the colonel said, "welcome to the 34th Infantry, Miss Priestly."

"Thank you," she said, and looked at McCoy. "What's up?"

"There're three North Korean prisoners in there," Mc-Coy said, pointing. "I want you to take their picture. Plural. Pictures."

"And then you take my film, right?"

"No. I don't want your film. When you have it processed in Tokyo, I'm sure they'll make prints for G-2. Ernie, you go in there and see if you think any of them speak Chinese. The little guy in the good boots is, I suspect, an officer. He's not going to say much, but if you think one of the oth-ers speaks Chinese, take him someplace and see what he knows. They're from the 83rd Motorcycle Regiment."

Zimmerman nodded. "Aye, aye, sir."

"I would like to use the ladies' room," Jeanette an-nounced.

"I'm afraid we can't offer you much, Miss Priestly," the colonel said.

"I didn't expect that you could," she said, and smiled dazzlingly at him. "Why don't you call me `Jennie,' Colonel. We're friends, right?"

"Sergeant, escort Miss Priestly to the latrine, and stand guard," the colonel ordered. Then he turned to McCoy. "Would you like to have a look at the map, Captain?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

The map, covered with transparent celluloid, was mounted on a sheet of plywood against the wall behind the colonel's desk.

"Here we are now, the regiment-and the division- strung out along the Kum River." He pointed.

"Yesterday morning, Item Company of my 3rd Battal-ion, here, on the south bank of the Kum, was brought under tank fire at about 0600-first light. No real damage was done, but the artillery forward observer couldn't come up with the coordinates of the tanks, so we couldn't hurt them either.

"About the same time, an outpost of Love Company- here on the far left flank-reported seeing two barges ferrying North Koreans across the river two miles to their west. Accidentally, or intentionally, they were out of range of any of our artillery.

"By 0930, they had five hundred men across the river. The North Korean artillery was working, and they brought Love Company under fire, at about the same time as did the mortars of the North Koreans who had crossed the river: 0935 to 0940."

The colonel stopped and looked at McCoy.

"Have you ever been under mortar and artillery fire, Cap-tain? Or have you spent your entire career in intelligence?"

"I've been under fire, sir."

"More than once?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you remember the first time?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where was that?"

"In the Philippines, sir. The Japanese used naval gunfire before landing."

"Were you afraid?"

"Very much, sir."

"Did you `withdraw'?"

"Sir?"

"Did you `withdraw'-the new word for that is `bug out'?"

"No, sir."

"Do you remember why not?"

"No, sir," McCoy said. "We were there to try to repel the landing barges."

"My first time was in Italy," the colonel said. "I shat my pants. But I didn't bug out."

"Sir?"

"The company commander of Love Company, Captain, within minutes of coming under fire, `withdrew.' Not only personally, but ordered his soldiers to do likewise."

McCoy did not reply.

"As it turned out," the colonel went on, "it wasn't as bad as it could have been. The artillery fire on Love Company was apparently a diversionary attack to conceal their real intention, which was to move to the south in this direc-tion-he pointed-and sever the road here. If they had at-tacked the deserted positions of Love Company..."

"I think I get the picture, sir," McCoy said.

"I relieved the officer in question, of course, as soon as what he had done came to my attention, but I didn't come into that information until some time after it happened. By that time-several hours later, whatever time it took them to move three miles against virtually no opposition-ap-proximately three hundred North Korean infantry were here, on this road, near the village of Samyo.

"So was the 63rd Field Artillery Battalion, 105-mm howitzers. They had been providing much of my artillery support. The North Koreans launched an immediate attack against them. Tell me, Captain, how are Marine can-noneers armed?"

"Sir?"

"Are they armed with carbines?"

"I'm not sure. It's my understanding that the officers, and some senior non corns, can elect to carry carbines..."

"But the junior NCOs and privates have Ml Garands, and are trained in their use?"

"Sir, every Marine is a rifleman."

"There were very few Garands in the 63rd Field Ar-tillery," the colonel said, matter of factly, "which is the ex-planation offered for the failure of the 63rd to adequately defend itself by an officer who managed to escape the de-bacle there."

"Sir?"

"Wouldn't you agree that roughly two hundred men- which was the strength of the 63rd-should be able to hold out longer than two hours against three hundred infantry, not supported by artillery?"

"Yes, sir, I would."

"The enemy attacked the 63rd at approximately 1330. By 1530, the enemy had killed or captured all but a lucky few officers and men who managed to escape, and cap-tured all of the 63rd Field's vehicles, cannon, and a consid-erable supply of ammunition."

"They got all the guns?" McCoy asked, incredulously.

"All of them. And before the 63rd was able to spike them," the colonel said, confirmed.

"Jesus!" McCoy said.

"At about this time," the colonel went on, "Item Company learned for the first time that Love Company had bugged out, and that the enemy was astride its road to the rear. The company commander asked for permission to withdraw, and 3rd battalion commander recommended that it be granted; he said that he didn't think the re-formed Love Company- he described them as `demoralized'-could be trusted to counterattack and reopen the road behind Love Company. I gave permission for the withdrawal."

The colonel let that sink in and then went on.

"It was necessary for them to `withdraw' over the moun-tains-the roads were in enemy hands-and they eventu-ally made it here. Without a substantial percentage of their crew-served weapons, which simply could not be carried over the mountains."

The colonel gave McCoy time to absorb that, and then went on:

"I have no reason, Captain, to believe that the 19th In-fantry will fare any better than the 34th has, for the same reasons. One of the reasons I believe that to be true is that the division's third regiment, the 21st Infantry, in three days of fighting, has lost about half its officers and men."

"Half?"

"Half," the colonel confirmed. "What was left of the 21st was gathered near Taejon, and reorganized. Reorga-nized, rather than reconstituted, which implies bringing a unit up to strength. There is no replacement system in place from which replacements for losses can be drawn. What happened to the 21st is that an attempt has been made to form companies and battalions from its remnants.

"What that means, of course, is that when the 21st goes back into combat, very few, if any, of the men will have served*-much less trained-together. Moreover, because many officers are among the dead and missing, many com-panies-perhaps most-will be commanded by lieutenants who were platoon leaders four days ago, and many pla-toons will be led by sergeants. In some cases, corporals.

"Early this morning, the 21st was trucked from Taejon to Okchon, here." He pointed on the map. "That's about ten miles east of Taejon. They have been ordered to set up positions here, on the Seoul-Pusan highway, about halfway between Okchon and Taegu. If the enemy elects to attack down the highway-or to take the high ground on either side of the highway-resistance to those sort of moves will obviously be hindered by the lack of artillery. In fact, I sus-pect that when the North Koreans attack, their assigned ar-tillery will be augmented by the 105-mm tubes the 63rd Field lost."

Again, the colonel paused to give McCoy time to absorb what he had told him.

"And there will, of course, be another attack. If not this afternoon, then during the night, or at the very latest, very early in the morning. The only question is where." He paused. "That, Captain, is `what's going on.' I really hope you can find communications somewhere and get through to the Dai Ichi Building. Somehow, I suspect that they don't know what's going on.'"

"Colonel, your prisoners are from the 83rd Motorcycle Regiment. It's one of their best-sort of an elite regimental combat team-normally attached to their 6th Division. Maybe if I-"

"If you know that, Captain, I have to presume that's common knowledge around the Dai Ichi Building. I won-der why they didn't think we would be interested to know that."

"I'm not sure how common that information is around SCAP, sir."

"So you-whatever organization you work for-had that information, but didn't pass it on?"

There was a perceptible pause before McCoy replied.

"Colonel, I'm only a captain. I gather intelligence, not disseminate it. I can't answer your question."

"You were saying, about the prisoners?"

"Maybe I can learn something from them, sir, about their intentions. Because it's highly mobile, I suspect that its officers have to be told more about the overall picture than officers are in standard units."

"That would be helpful," the colonel said. "Providing you do it quickly. I want you-especially the woman-out of here as soon as possible. I'm going to have enough on my platter without having to worry about her. Or you."

"Sir, with respect. I have no authority over Miss Priestly. Even if I returned her Jeep to her, there's no way I can make her leave, go back to Eighth Army. And I need that Jeep."

"And if I order you to get in your Jeep and, taking Miss Priestly with you, to get the hell out of here?"

"Sir, with respect, I'm not subject to your orders."

The colonel looked at him intently for a long moment.

"You intend to stay, then?"

"Yes, sir, for the time being. I really would like to talk to some more prisoners."

"It's occurred to you, I presume, that if you stay, you're likely to become a prisoner yourself?"

"Yes, sir, it has."

After a moment, the colonel nodded.

"Okay. I gave it my best shot. Will you need me, or any of my men, to deal with the prisoners?"

"No, thank you, sir."

[THREE]

"The corporal speaks Cantonese," Zimmerman reported outside the room where the prisoners had been held. "He was willing to talk, but he didn't know much. But you're right, they are from the 83rd Motorcycle Regiment, and the little guy is an officer."

"Who speaks English?"

"And Russian."

"That's interesting," McCoy said. "What's his rank?"

Zimmerman nodded, in agreement with "interesting," and then shrugged.

"The corporal didn't know. He said when he got drafted to do a little reconnaissance-there were originally five of them, two of them got killed when they ran into one of our patrols, where they got caught-the little guy was already wearing the private's jacket. But one of the others, one who got blown away, called him `sir,' and he was obviously in charge."

"What else did the corporal have to say?"

"He said that after they took Seoul, the regiment was taken out of action, and sent down the peninsula right be-hind the units on the line. Now they're getting ready to go back into action. Soon."

"No specifics?"

"No, but it can't be far off, Ken. It looks to me as if this guy, the officer, is an intel officer. Maybe not even from the 83rd. He wanted a closeup of where they were going, and got himself bagged."

"Did the 6th Division come up?"

"They're here. The corporal didn't know if the 83rd was attached to them or not."

"How's your Russian these days, Ernie?"

"Not bad. Milla Banning and Mae-Su decided the kids should know how to speak it, and then Banning got in the act. We have Russian suppers, talk only Russian. I'm all right with it."

"Let's go talk to the officer," McCoy said. "Where's the corporal?"

"I had him put in another room, to get him away from the officer."

"You go in there, tell the guard to put the sergeant with the corporal, make a show of chambering your Thompson, and in a couple of minutes, I'll come in. You pop to when I do."

"Got it," Zimmerman said.

"Where's Priestly?"

Zimmerman pointed out the door, to where Jeanette Priestly was talking to several GIs, who were beaming at her.

McCoy nodded and motioned for Zimmerman to enter the room where the prisoners were being held. A minute later, the American sergeant came out, holding his carbine in one hand, and with his other on the North Korean sergeant's shoulder.

McCoy looked at his watch, then helped himself to a cup of coffee from an electric pot next to one of the radios- and thus a source of 110 volts AC-and exactly five min-utes later, put the mess kit coffee cup down and walked into the room where the North Korean officer was being held.

Zimmerman, who had been sitting on a folding chair, popped to rigid attention. McCoy made an impatient ges-ture with his hand, and Zimmerman relaxed slightly.

"My friend," McCoy said, conversationally, in Russian, "I'm a little pressed for time, so I suggest it would be to your advantage to make the most of what time I can give you."

There was a flicker of surprise on the North Korean offi-cer's face, immediately replaced by one intended to show that he didn't understand a word.

"All right, we'll do it in Korean," McCoy said, switching to that language, "although my Korean is not as good as my Russian." He switched to English: "Or perhaps you would prefer English?"

The officer looked at him in what was supposed to con-vey a complete lack of comprehension.

McCoy went back to Russian:

"The fortunes of war have gone against you, Major," he said.

There was another flicker of surprise in the North Ko-rean's eyes, and McCoy thought it was reasonable to pre-sume that his guess that the man was a major was right on the money.

"With a little luck, Major, at this very minute, you could be sitting in a POW enclosure, as a simple private, biding your time until the forces of international socialism over-whelmed the capitalist imperialists and you were liberated. But that didn't happen. What happened is that I happened to come by here. We are not soldiers. We are Marines. Moreover, we are more or less-probably more than less-in the same line of work."

"He understood that, Captain," Zimmerman said, in En-glish. "I could tell by his eyes. But I also saw in his eyes that he won't be useful, so may I suggest, considering the time, that-"

"I would rather not dispose of him," McCoy said, and chuckled. "Professional courtesy, Ernest. You and I could easily find ourselves in his position."

"Sir, with respect, I suggest we have him shot, and be on our way."

"Kim Si Yong," the North Korean said, in English. "Seven-five-eight-eight-nine."

"Ah," McCoy said, now in English, "the major is par-tially familiar with the Geneva Convention."

"Partially?" Zimmerman asked.

"The Convention requires that prisoners of war furnish their captors with their name, rank, and service number. I did not hear a rank, did you?"

"No, sir," Zimmerman said.

"He has therefore not complied with the Geneva Con-vention," McCoy explained. "Not that it matters anyway, for under Paragraph Seventeen, Subsection B, since he is an officer, wearing a private soldier's uniform, it may be presumed that he is not a combatant, entitled to the protec-tion of the convention, but instead a spy, who may be legally executed."

"Under those circumstances, may I respectfully suggest we have him shot, and be on our way?"

McCoy looked at the North Korean officer, then shrugged, and appeared to be on the verge of leaving the room.

"Kim Si Yong," the North Korean said, in English. "Ma-jor, seven-five-eight-eight-nine. I claim the protection of the Geneva Convention."

McCoy switched to Russian.

"Major Kim," he said. "There's one small problem with that. Your government is not a signatory to the Geneva Convention. That means that it is at the option of your cap-tors-and that means me-whether or not to apply it to prisoners. The other problem you have is your confession that you are an officer masquerading as a private soldier, which changes your position from prisoner of war to spy."

"Sir, with all respect," Zimmerman said, in Russian. "He probably doesn't know anything we don't already know. Sir, we're already going to be very late-"

McCoy held up his hand to silence him.

"Major, as a professional courtesy between fellow intel-ligence officers, let me explain your options," McCoy said. "They do not include being returned to your side anytime soon, so put that out of your mind. They do include being shot in the next few minutes as a spy. Keep that in your mind. Now we know that the 83rd Motorcycle Regiment, which has been kept out of the fighting since Seoul, will lead the attack of the 6th Division. We don't know when that attack will take place. If you tell us when that attack will take place, you will not be shot immediately. You will be kept here until the time you tell us the attack will take place. If it occurs when you say it will, I will personally deliver you to Eighth Army Headquarters, and guarantee that you are treated as an officer prisoner under the Geneva Convention. If it does not take place when you tell us it will, you will be shot at that time. I will give you as long as it takes me to go to the latrine to make up your mind."

McCoy walked out of the room, looked at his watch, picked up the mess kit coffee cup where he had laid it down, finished drinking it, and precisely five minutes after he had left the room, walked back into it.

Five minutes after that, he walked back out of the room, found the colonel, and told him what he had learned.

"You believe this officer, Captain?"

"Sir, I believe he thought I was prepared to have him shot. What he may have done is tell me that attack will be at 0300, because he knows it will be earlier; if it's earlier, and we're overrun, then he might be freed. I don't think it will be after 0300, because he thinks he'll be shot if it doesn't happen then."

"They don't usually start anything in the middle of the night," the colonel said, thoughtfully. "But they're on a roll, and it would give them the advantage of surprise."

McCoy didn't reply. The colonel paused again, obvi-ously in thought, and then said, "I'll pass this on to divi-sion. And order a fifty-percent alert from nightfall. You're still determined to stay here?"

"Yes, sir."

"And Miss Priestly?"

"If Zimmerman and I stay, sir, I don't think there's much chance of getting her to leave."

"Then I suggest you find someplace where you'll have protection from incoming," the colonel said. "They're cer-tainly going to fire their tubes-and probably the 105s they took from the 63rd Field Artillery-as a prelude to the at-tack, whenever they decide to make it."

"Yes, sir," McCoy said. "Sir, I'd like to go see the 19th Infantry. Would you have objection to my taking the major with me?"

"What are you going to do, put him in the back of Miss Priestly's Jeep with Miss Priestly?"

"Actually, sir, I thought I'd put him in the front seat with Gunner Zimmerman and Miss Priestly, and I would ride in the back."

What could have been a smile appeared momentarily on the colonel's lips.

"Just make sure she's in the Jeep, Captain," he said.

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Here, I'll show you on the map where I think the 19th CP is," the colonel said.

[FOUR]

HEADQUARTERS 19TH INFANTRY REGIMENT

24TH INFANTRY DIVISION

KONGJU, SOUTH KOREA

1805 15 JULY 1950

"Jesus H. Christ!" the Garand-armed corporal standing to one side of the sandbagged door of the command post ex-claimed when he saw the Jeep with a Korean in the front seat and the American woman in the back.

He walked over to the Jeep.

After apparently thinking it over first, he saluted.

"Yes, sir? Can I help you?"

"You can keep an eye on this enemy officer while we go inside," McCoy said.

"Enemy officer" caught the ear of a major who had been standing talking to a sergeant on the other side of the sand-bagged entrance. He walked over to the Jeep.

McCoy saluted.

"Enemy officer?" the major asked, then "Marines?" and finally, "War correspondent?"

"Yes, sir, three times," McCoy said.

"The only thing I can do for you is advise you to get back to Division," the major said. "We've just been advised to expect an attack anytime from darkness-which means just about now-`til 0300."

"Yes, sir, we know," McCoy said.

"This is no place for you, ma'am," the major said to Jeanette.

"Jeanette Priestly, Chicago Tribune" she said, with a dazzling smile, and offered the major her hand.

"We have a Korean sergeant who speaks some English," the major said to McCoy. "I'd like him to talk to your pris-oner." Then he had a second thought: "Public relations? What are you doing with a prisoner?"

Here we go again.

"Sir, Gunner Zimmerman and I are not public relations," he said, and handed the major the "Dai-Ichi" orders. "I found it necessary to commandeer her Jeep when Eighth Army didn't have one for us."

The major read the orders, his eyebrows rising as he did.

"I think we'd better go see the regimental commander, Captain," he said.

The regimental colonel was a slight man with a mustache. Somehow he had managed to remain dapper despite the heat, the dust and everything else.

"I don't want to seem inhospitable, Captain," he said, looking up at McCoy after he'd read the orders. "But we're a little busy here. Can we cut to the chase? What are two Ma-rine officers doing here with a female war correspondent?"

He, too, had a second thought.

"Fred, ask the lady and the other officer to come in here," he said to the major. "And bring the prisoner." He looked at McCoy. "We're expecting an attack at any time; there will certainly be artillery."

"Yes, sir," the major said, and went out of the sand-bagged CP.

"That information came from the prisoner, sir," McCoy said.

The colonel looked at him, waiting for him to go on.

"He's a major attached to the 83rd Motorcycle Regi-ment-probably their G-2. He was making a reconnais-sance when he was captured by a squad from the 34th Infantry doing the same thing."

"How do you know this?"

"He told me."

"You speak Korean?"

"Yes, sir."

The colonel's eyebrows rose.

"How'd you get him to talk?"

"I told him that since he was an officer wearing a pri-vate's uniform, he was subject to being shot as a spy."

"I'm starting to like you, Captain," the colonel said. "What else did he have to say?"

"He said the attack will start at 0300, with the 83rd Mo-torcycle Regiment and the 6th Division."

"And you believe him?"

"I told him if it doesn't happen at 0300, I'll have him shot. If it does, I'll take him to the 24th Division Head-quarters and see that he's treated as an officer prisoner."

"So you're not a two-man Marine bodyguard for a fe-male war correspondent?" the colonel asked, smiling.

"No, sir."

"With those orders, you could be anything. What is your `mission'? Your orders are a little vague about that."

`To see what's going on here, sir."

"For General Almond himself?"

"Actually for General Pickering, sir."

The colonel, as the 34th Regiment's commander had done, searched his memory back for "Pickering" and came up blank.

"In the Dai-Ichi Building?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Where does the lady fit in?"

"Eighth Army didn't have wheels for us, sir. So I com-mandeered hers."

"And brought her along?"

"Yes, sir."

"Okay. I'll tell you `what's going on,'" he said. "Appar-ently largely based on your intelligence, we expect an at-tack sometime between right now and 0300. The only signs we've had of anything are reports-half a dozen re-ports-of small groups of North Koreans trying to wade across the Kum River"-he turned to his map and pointed'-"in this area."

He turned back to face McCoy.

"Small groups," he said. "I think they know we're short on artillery. You heard about the 63rd Field Artillery get-ting overrun?..."

McCoy nodded.

"... and are reluctant to fire what little we have on groups of five or six men. And they're also aware of the location of our positions. As a ballpark figure, my regiment is holding three times as much line as I was taught was the absolute maximum at Leavenworth, (Graduation from the U.S. Army Command and General Staff College is a prerequisite for promotion to colonel and being given command of a regiment.) and there are holes in it. The North Koreans are wading across where, in many cases, it is impossible for us to bring small-arms fire to bear."

"Can you give us a guide to some of these positions?"

"Why?"

"I'd like to try to get another prisoner or two, sir."

"I'd like another one, too," the colonel said. "Particu-larly since you speak Korean. I can send you up here"- he pointed at the map again-"with Major Allman, my G-3, and one of his sergeants. It'll be really dark in an hour..."

"Thank you, sir."

"... which means that you and the lady will have to re-main here for the night. Which means that you had better hope we can hold out until first light, because you won't be able to get out of here before then."

"I understand, sir."

[FIVE]

Five minutes after Major Allman, Captain McCoy, and Master Gunner Zimmerman had started out from the regi-mental command post for the outpost positions of Baker Company, 1st Battalion, 19th Infantry, a female voice called out, "Hey, guys, wait for me!"

"Miss Priestly," Major Allman said, dryly, "has appar-ently chosen to ignore the colonel's suggestion to remain in the CP."

"Escaped from the CP is more like it," Captain McCoy said.

"Fuck her," Master Gunner Zimmerman said.

"That thought has occurred to me," Major Allman said. "But this isn't the time nor place. The question is what do we do about her, here and now?"

"The light's failing," McCoy said. "We don't have time to take her back."

"Your call, Captain," Allman said.

"I don't see where we have a choice," McCoy said.

He started walking again.

Three minutes later, the war correspondent of the Chicago Tribune caught up with them. She had a Leica III-c 35-mm camera hanging around her neck, and was carry-ing a.30-caliber carbine in her hand.

"You're supposed to be a noncombatant," McCoy said.

"I should use it on you, you son of a bitch," Jeanette said, conversationally, "for leaving me back there."

Five minutes later, they reached the Baker Company CP-which was nothing more than a sandbag reinforced shelter on the military crest (The military crest of a hill is just below the actual crest, and therefore is not under enemy observation.) of a small hill overlooking the river.

The company commander was not there; the first ser-geant said he was out checking positions. He showed them-on a hand-drawn map-where they were, on the other side of the bill, overlooking the river, and thus visible to the enemy.

`This is as far as you go, Jeanette," McCoy said. "If nec-essary, I'll have you tied up."

"Where are you going?" she demanded.

"Zimmerman and I are going to go down to the posi-tions, the foxholes. We're going to try to get a prisoner. Maybe two."

"And I don't get to watch?" she asked, angry and disap-pointed.

"There's an FO OP right up there," the first sergeant of-fered helpfully, pointing. A forward observer's observation post. "It's sandbagged. She could watch from there. They've got binoculars."

"And you'd go with her, right?" Major Allman asked, smiling.

"Yes, sir."

"I don't think so, Jeanette," McCoy said. "How do I know you'd stay in the OP?"

"I'll stay there," she said.

"I'll make sure she doesn't leave the OP," Major Allman said, and added: "Unless you'd rather have me go to the outposts with you."

"I don't think that would be necessary, sir," McCoy said. "Thank you."

It took McCoy and Zimmerman another five minutes to climb past the military crest of the hill, and then to run, zigzagging, down the other side until they reached an obvi-ously freshly dug, sandbag-reinforced two-man foxhole.

It held two men, manning an air-cooled Browning.30-caliber machine gun on a tripod. There were half a dozen cans of ammunition in the hole, and half a dozen hand grenades-with their pins in, and the tape still holding the safety lever in place-were laid out neatly on the sand-bags.

The sergeant and the PFC manning the gun were sur-prised when two officers suddenly joined them, and even more surprised when they saw the Marine Corps emblem painted on Zimmerman's utilities jacket.

McCoy looked back up the hill for the forward ob-server's position, and easily found it-its brown sandbag reinforcement stood out from the vegetation-which meant the enemy could also see it.

He turned to the sergeant, who so far had neither said a word nor saluted.

"Sergeant, they tell me there's North Koreans trying to wade across the river," he said.

The sergeant pointed over Zimmerman's shoulder. Mc-Coy and Zimmerman looked where he pointed. Zimmerman reached into one of the cavernous pockets of his utili-ties and came out with a pair of binoculars.

At what McCoy estimated to be from 450 to 500 yards, half a dozen men were wading across the Kum River. When Zimmerman had his look through his binoculars and handed them to him, McCoy saw that the North Koreans were holding their weapons and packs over their heads.

He handed the binoculars back to Zimmerman.

"Sergeant, have you been ordered not to fire?" McCoy asked.

"We're not that heavy on ammo," the sergeant said, pointing at the ammunition cans. "I decided we better save that for later."

"And your rifle?" McCoy asked, pointing to an M-l Garand resting against the sandbags beside a.30-caliber carbine.

"You can't hit them with a rifle at that range, sir," the sergeant said.

Zimmerman looked at the sergeant incredulously, and opened his mouth. McCoy held up a hand to silence him.

"Sergeant," McCoy said, not unkindly, "when I had an air-cooled thirty-caliber Browning machine-gun section, we were taught that if you could hit something with a machine gun, you could hit it with a rifle. It's the same cartridge."

The sergeant shrugged.

Zimmerman made a give it to me gesture toward Mc-Coy's Garand, and McCoy handed it to him.

The sergeant and the PFC were now fascinated.

"Where's the zero?" Zimmerman asked.

`Two hundred," McCoy said.

"You're sure? I really hate to fuck with the sights."

"Give it back, Ernie," McCoy ordered. "You spot for me."

Zimmerman shrugged, and handed the Garand back.

McCoy moved up to the sandbags, tried the sitting posi-tion, found that it placed him too low to fire, and assumed the kneeling position.

Then he reached up and moved two of the grenades out of the way.

"Sergeant," he said. "If you think you might need those grenades in a hurry, it might be a good idea to take the tape off now."

The sergeant looked at him a moment, and then offered a noncommittal, "Yes, sir."

McCoy pounded the sandbag with the fore end of the Garand until the groove in the sandbag provided what he thought was adequate support. Then, with quick sure movements born of long practice, he unlooped the leather sling of the Garand from the stock, adjusted the brass hooks, and arranged it around his arm.

The sergeant and the PFC looked at him in fascination.

McCoy took a sight, then looked up at Zimmerman, who nodded and put the binoculars to his eyes.

McCoy took another sight and squeezed one off, then- very much as if they were on a known-distance rifle range firing at bull's-eye targets-looked up at Zimmerman-the coach-to see how he was doing.

"You got the one closest to this bank," Zimmerman re-ported.

"I held a foot over his head," McCoy said, and then reached into his utilities jacket pocket for an eight-round Garand clip. He laid it on the sandbags beside the hand grenades and resumed his shooting position.

In the next sixty seconds, he fired the remaining seven cartridges in the Garand. The empty clip flew out of the open breech in an arc. Before it hit the ground, he reached for the spare clip and a moment later thumbed it into the Garand, and slammed the operating rod with the heel of his hand, ensuring that the fresh cartridge would be fully chambered. Then he quickly got in firing position again.

"They're gone, Ken," Zimmerman said. "Their side of the river. You got three of them, maybe four."

"Jesus Christ!" the sergeant said.

"And in the Marine Corps, the captain's considered only a so-so shot," Zimmerman said, oozing sincerity.

"And in the Marine Corps, Master Gunner Zimmerman has a reputation for being as good a man as they come with the Garand " McCoy said, "and that's not bullshit."

He pointed at the PFC's Garand.

"Is that zeroed?"

"We got a chance to fire a couple of cups before we left Japan, sir."

"What Mr. Zimmerman's going to do now, Sergeant, is have a look at that Garand, and then-if the light doesn't go-help you zero it at two hundred yards."

"Jesus," the PFC said. "Thank you."

"And then, when it's dark, you and I, Ernie, are going to go down to the bank and see if we can't grab a prisoner."

Zimmerman nodded.

[SIX]

HEADQUARTERS 19TH INFANTRY REGIMENT

24TH INFANTRY DIVISION

KONGJU, SOUTH KOREA

0300 16 JULY 1950

"Incoming!" one of the sergeants in the G-3 section called out excitedly.

Quite unnecessarily, for everyone present had heard the sound an artillery shell makes in flight.

The impact came a moment later, a hundred yards away.

"It looks like you're going to live, Major," Zimmerman said to their North Korean prisoner. "I was beginning to wonder."

"There will be more, much more," the major said.

McCoy wondered: Was that a gratis offer of more infor-mation, or is he hoping that when they fire for effect, it will be right on our heads?

And then he wondered: Would I have caved in the way he did? Or Zimmerman? There's two sides to that tell-the-enemy-nothing business. What's the point of dying if it's not going to change things?

His reverie was interrupted by more incoming.

Lots of incoming: Between the sound of the exploding incoming rounds, there could be heard the rumble of ar-tillery-a lot of artillery-firing.

Very little seems to be directed at us, here at regimental headquarters, which probably means that it's being di-rected at positions on the line.

They know where the positions are. They've been infil-trating men across the river all night. And some certainly infiltrated back, carrying maps on which are marked the position of every last goddamn foxhole and machine gun.

And some stayed, and hidden by the darkness are calling in the shots: Right 200, up 50, fire for effect.

And if there is counterfire, I don't hear it.

The 19th is not going to be able to do much about turn-ing this attack, if that sergeant and PFC are typical of the kind of people they've got. They don't know what the hell they're supposed to do, and if you don't know what to do, or what's going to happen, you're liable to panic.

The real question for us is how soon is it going to hap-pen? It would be suicide to try to drive away from here now. Maybe at first light, it will be different. Maybe at first light, they'll make the major assault, and that means they're likely to lift the artillery barrage. That would give us a chance.

He looked at Miss Jeanette Priestly of the Chicago Trib-une, who was sitting beside Major Allman on the floor, against the wall.

So if we can't get out of here, what do I do with you?

Tough broad. If she's about to become hysterical- which is always what I feel like doing when they're firing artillery at me-it sure doesn't show on her face.

If we're overrun, do I place my faith in the humanity of the Army of the People's Democratic Republic of North Korea, and let her get captured?

It's possible that an officer might recognize the propa-ganda value of capturing a female-the only female- American war correspondent, and she would be treated well, so they could put her on display.

It's more likely that she would be raped on the spot by the squad that comes in here, and if she lives through that, taken to maybe a battalion, where she would be raped all over again.

Maybe, she might get lucky and get killed before the troops actually arrive.

And if that doesn't happen, do I do the kind thing? When the Apaches attacked the wagon trains and set-tlers, they always saved the last couple of rounds to do the kind thing for the women.

And that's about what we have here, the Apaches attack-ing the outnumbered good guys. And the 7th Cavalry isn't going to suddenly appear at the gallop with the flags flying and the bugles sounding "charge " to save our ass. Oh, shit!

What you should have done, McCoy, is dump her at the side of the road, as Zimmerman suggested. Why the hell didn't you?

Unkind thought: If I didn't have to play Sir Galahad with you, Ernie and I could make it out of here on foot.

He searched in his pack and came out with one of his last four cigars.

Zimmerman looked at him but didn't say anything. McCoy reached up his left sleeve and came out with a dagger.

Jeanette Priestly saw that, and her attention drew that of Major Allman to McCoy and his dagger.

McCoy carefully laid the cigar against the plywood top of a folding desk, and chopped at it with the dagger. One half fell to the floor. He tossed it to Zimmerman. "Next time, bring your own," he said.

"Aye, aye, sir."

McCoy returned the dagger to its sheath, pulled his util-ity jacket sleeve down over it, produced a wooden match, and carefully started to light his cigar.

"What's with the knife?" Jeanette Priestly asked. McCoy ignored her.

"I don't think I've ever seen one like that before," Jeanette Priestly said.

"It's not a knife, it's a dagger," Zimmerman furnished helpfully. "That's a Fairbairn."

"I don't know what that means, either," she said, flash-ing Zimmerman a dazzling smile.

"It was invented by an Englishman named Fairbairn," Zimmerman went on. "When he ran the police in Shang-hai. Hell of a knife fighter."

What the hell turned his mouth on?

Oh. He likes her.

Likes her, as opposed to having the hots for her. She's tough.

"But it's so small," Jeanette pursued. "Is it really... what... a lethal weapon?"

"Huh!" Zimmerman snorted. "Yeah, it's lethal. Three Eye-talian Marines jumped him one time in Shanghai. He took two of them out with that dagger. That's how come they call him `Killer.'"

"Shut your goddamn mouth, Zimmerman," McCoy said, his voice icily furious.

Zimmerman, as if he suddenly realized what he had done, looked stricken.

"They call him `Killer'?" Jeanette relentlessly pursued.

"And you, too, goddamn you!" McCoy said. "Just shut the hell up!"

Her eyebrows went up, but she didn't say anything else.

The artillery and mortar barrage lasted about an hour, but even before it did, there were reports from the outposts of large numbers of North Koreans coming across the Kum River.

When the artillery barrage lifted, and Major Allman and others tried to call the battalion and company CPs, in many cases there was no response.

Major Allman, sensing McCoy's eyes on him when he failed to make three connections in a row, said, "I guess the artillery cut a lot of wire."

"Yes, sir," McCoy said.

Or the outposts, the platoons, and maybe even the com-panies have been overrun.

McCoy went outside the command post. It was black dark. There was the sound of small-aims fire.

He went back into the command post.

"Let's go," he ordered.

"I thought you said we couldn't leave until light," Jeanette said.

"If you want to stay, stay," McCoy said, and turned to the North Korean major.

"Let's go, Major," he said, in Russian.

The major got to his feet.

"If you try to run, you will die," McCoy added. "They're not here yet."

It took them forty-five minutes, running with the Jeep's blackout lights, to reach 24th Division Headquarters, and when McCoy asked where the provost marshal was, so that he could not only turn the prisoner over to military police but make sure that he was treated as an officer, he was told that the provost marshal had been pressed into service with the 21st Infantry, and the MPs had been fed into the 21st as replacement riflemen.

Taking the major with them, McCoy drove back to Eighth Army Headquarters in Taegu. There was a POW compound there, and McCoy was able to get rid of the prisoner.

They exchanged salutes. The major then offered his hand. After a moment's hesitation, McCoy took it and wished him good luck.

But despite the "Dai-Ichi" orders, he got no further with the Eighth Army signal officer than he had with the Eighth Army headquarters motor officer when he'd arrived in Ko-rea.

"Captain, I don't care if you have orders from General MacArthur himself, I've got Operational Immediate mes-sages in there that should have been sent hours ago, and I will not delay them further so that you can send your re-port."

And once again he got back into the Jeep.

"Pusan," he said to Zimmerman. "K-l. Their commo is tied up."

"I have dispatches to send," Jeanette protested indig-nantly.

"I should probably encourage you to wait until the commo has cleared," McCoy said. "But, from the way the signal officer talked, that's not going to happen anytime soon. If you're in a rush to get something out..."

"`rush' is a massive understatement," Jeanette said,

"... then I suggest you come back to Tokyo with us."

Jeanette thought that over for a full two seconds.

"Okay," she said. `Tokyo it is. I really need a good hot bath anyway."

They departed K-1, outside Pusan, at one o'clock the next morning, aboard an Air Force Douglas C-54.

After they broke ground, McCoy took out his notebook and wrote down the time.

Then he did the arithmetic in his head.

He and Zimmerman had landed in Korea just after mid-night on the fifteenth, and they were leaving forty-eight hours later.

But two days was enough. I saw enough to know that the Eighth United States Army really has its ass in a crack, and unless something happens soon, they'll get pushed into the sea at Pusan.

Chapter Nine

[ONE]

U.S. NAVY/MARINE CORPS RESERVE TRAINING CENTER

ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI

1025 21 JULY 1950

Captain George F. Hart, USMCR, commanding Company B, 55th Marines, USMC Reserve, was more or less hiding in his office when First Lieutenant Paul T. Peterson, USMC, Baker Company's inspector/instructor, came in with a copy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch in his hand.

"There's a story in here I thought you would like to see, sir," he said. "Apparently things are pretty bad over there."

"Thank you," Hart said.

By "over there," Peterson obviously meant Korea.

It seemed self-evident that "apparently things are pretty bad over there"; otherwise Company B 55th Marines would not have been called to active duty for "an indefinite period."

The official call had come forty-eight hours, more or less, before.

The Marine Corps had found Captain Hart, USMCR, in the office of the second deputy commissioner of the St. Louis Police Department, discussing a particularly unpleas-ant murder, that of a teenaged prostitute whose obscenely mutilated body had been found floating in the river.

The deputy commissioner had taken the call, then handed Hart the telephone: "For you, George."

Hart had taken the phone and answered it with the an-nouncement, "This had better be pretty goddamned impor-tant!"

His caller had chuckled.

"Well, the Marine Corps thinks it is, Captain," he said. "This is Colonel Bartlett, G-l Section, Headquarters, Ma-rine Corps."

"Yes, sir?"

The second deputy commissioner looked at Hart with unabashed curiosity.

"This is your official notification, Captain," Colonel Bartlett said, "Baker Company, 55th Marines, USMC Re-serve, is called to active duty, for an indefinite period of service, as of 0001 hours today. You and your men are or-dered to report to your reserve training station within twenty-four hours prepared for active service. Any ques-tions?"

"No, sir."

"I have a few for you. Unofficially. What would be your estimate of the percentage of your officers and men who will actually report within twenty-four hours?"

"All my officers, sir, and probably ninety-five percent or better of the men."

"And the percentage, officers first, prepared to perform in the jobs?"

"All of them, sir."

"And the men?"

"I have fourteen kids who have yet to go through boot camp, sir. With that exception..."

"And your equipment?"

"Well, sir, we have some things that need replacement, but generally, we're in pretty good shape."

"Including weapons?"

"Individual and crew-served weapons are up to snuff, sir. We ran everybody-including the kids who haven't been to boot camp-through the annual qualifying course. Finished last week."

"Really?" Colonel Bartlett asked, obviously surprised. "I didn't know you had a range."

"The police loaned us theirs, sir."

"Then you're really ready to go, aren't you?" Colonel Bartlett asked, rhetorically, as if surprised, or pleased, or both.

"Yes, sir."

"If it were necessary, how soon could you depart your reserve training station?"

"I'd like to have seventy-two hours, sir, but we could leave in forty-eight."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, sir. Sir, may I ask where we're going?"

"That hasn't been decided yet, Captain, but I feel sure you'll be ordered to either Camp Lejeune or Camp Pendleton. There will be official confirmation of your mobiliza-tion, by Western Union. And as soon as it is decided where you will go, you will be notified by telephone, with West-ern Union confirmation to follow. Any other questions?"

"No, sir."

"Good morning, Captain Hart."

"Good morning, sir."

Hart put the telephone down and looked at the second deputy commissioner.

"You've been mobilized?" the commissioner asked.

"As of midnight last night," Hart replied. "It looks as if I'm back in the Marine Corps."

"You have to leave right away? What do you suggest we do about this?" He pointed at the case file.

Hart shrugged.

"I'm in the Marine Corps now, Commissioner," he said. "Right away means I go from here to the Reserve Center."

"I thought they'd give you a couple of weeks to settle your affairs," the commissioner said.

"I didn't," Hart said. "I thought if they called us at all, they would want us as of the day before."

He looked down at the case file, at the gruesome photo-graph of the victim's body. He tapped the photo.

"Gut feeling: A sicko did this, not a pimp. If he's getting his rocks off this way, he's going to do it again. I was going to suggest setting up a team, under me, of vice guys. Look for the sicko. If I'm not here, that means setting it up under Fred Mayer, because he's a captain, and Teddy, who I pre-sume will take my job, is only a lieutenant. But Fred's a vice cop...."

"I'll set it up under Teddy," the commissioner said. "Mayer will understand."

The hell he will. He'll be pissed and fight Teddy every step of the way, and then when Teddy bags this scumbag, he`ll try to take the credit.

But it's really none of my business anymore, not "for an indefinite period."

"That's what I would recommend, Commissioner," Hart said.

The commissioner stood up, holding out his hand.

"Jesus, we can't even throw you a `goodbye and good luck' party, can we, George?"

"It doesn't look that way, Commissioner."

"Well, Jesus, George! Take care of yourself. Don't do anything heroic!"

"I won't," Hart said.

Company B had a telephone tree call system. When a mes-sage had to be delivered as quickly as possible, it began at the top. Hart would call three of his officers. They in turn would call three other people, who would call three other people, until the system had worked its way down through the ranks to the privates.

The system was copied from that used by the St. Louis Police Department, to notify off-duty officers in case of emergency.

When Hart parked his unmarked car behind the Reserve Training Center and went inside wondering when he would return the car to the police garage, Lieutenant Peter-son had already "lit the tree" and was making a list of those who hadn't answered their telephone.

Hart changed into utilities, then called Mrs. Louise Schwartz Hart and told her the company had been mobi-lized, and he didn't know when he could get home, cer-tainly not in the next couple of hours.

"Oh, my God, honey!" Louise said.

"We knew it was coming, baby."

"I was praying it wouldn't," Louise said.

Hart knew she meant just that. She had been on her knees, asking God not to send her husband to war. She did the same thing every time he left the house to go on duty. Dear God, please send George home alive.

He called her four hours later and asked her to meet him downtown; he had to turn the car in, and he might as well do it now as later.

By that time, a lot of people had already shown up at the training center.

Peterson told him he had made arrangements with Kramer's Kafeteria, across from the training center, to feed the men, and asked if he should order the breaking out of cots for the men. Hart told him no.

"I don't think we'll get orders to move out tonight, and even if we do, there will be time to light the tree and get peo-ple back. Have the first sergeant run a check of their 782 gear, then send them home with orders to be here at six in the morning."

"Oh six hundred, aye, aye, sir."

And then Peterson told him that he had called the Post-Dispatch and told them Baker Company had been mobi-lized, and the Post-Dispatch wanted to know when would be a convenient time for them to send a reporter and a pho-tographer to take some pictures.

"Tomorrow morning at nine." "Oh nine hundred, aye, aye, sir."

When Louise met him in the Dodge at the police garage downtown, she was all dressed up and making a real effort to be cheerful, which made it worse.

"Can you have supper with us?"

"Sure," he said. "But I'll have to spend the night at the training center."

Over supper with Louise and the kids-she made roast pork with oven-roasted potatoes, which she knew he liked-he decided to hell with spending the night at the training center. He would spend his last night in his own bed with his wife; if something came up, they could call him.

Peterson called him at two in the morning to report they'd just had a call.

Five cars had been added to "the Texan," which ran be-tween Chicago and Dallas, and would arrive in St. Louis at 1725. One of the cars was a baggage car. Two were sleep-ers, and the other two coaches. It might, or might not, be possible that an additional two sleeping cars would be found in Dallas, where all the cars would be attached to a train to Camp Joseph Pendleton. Freight cars not being available at this time, Company B's Jeeps and trucks would have to be left behind.

Furthermore, since it wasn't sure if the dining car on the train could accommodate an unexpected 233 additional passengers, Company B was to be prepared to feed the men C- and/or 10-in-l rations.

"Orders, sir?"

"First thing in the morning, we'll truck the gear to the station," Hart ordered. "Check with the motor sergeant and see if he can get at least one Jeep-the more the better-in the baggage car."

"I don't believe that's authorized, sir."

"And then ask Karl Kramer what he can do about put-ting dinner and breakfast together so that we can take that with us, too."

"Sir," Lieutenant Peterson said, "they said confirmation of our orders would follow by Western Union. They're quite specific about feeding C-rations, and leaving the vehi-cles behind."

"Somehow, I think that telegram is going to get lost in the shuffle," Hart said. "You've been to Pendleton. You want to take long hikes around it?"

"No, sir."

"Light the tree at 0430. I want everybody at the center by 0600."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"I'll be there about five," Hart said.

"Yes, sir."

"You can relax, Paul," Hart said. "I'll take the heat for the Jeeps and the picnic lunches."

He hung the phone up and looked at Louise.

"Honey," he said. "I'd rather say so long here, than have you at the center. I'll be pretty busy. There's really, come to think of it, no point in you driving me there, either. I'll call dispatch and have a black-and-white pick me up and take me."

She nodded, but didn't say anything.

When he arrived at the Navy/Marine Corps Reserve Train-ing Center at 0505, he was surprised to see a Navy staff car parked outside and a Marine major he'd never seen before, wearing a dress blue uniform, waiting for him inside. The major was accompanied by two photographers, one a Ma-rine, the other a sailor.

The major said they had driven down overnight from Chicago, where the major was in charge of Marine Corps recruiting for "the five-state area."

Hart had no idea what that meant.

The major said they were going both to assist the press in their coverage of the departure of Company B for active service, and to cover it for recruiting purposes as well. He had, the major said, already arranged with the mayor and other local dignitaries to be at Union Station when Com-pany B marched up there to board the train.

Hart said nothing, because he didn't trust himself to speak.

His immediate reaction had been that the whole public relations business was bullshit, and he didn't have time to fool with it.

But he was a captain, and captains do what majors want.

After he had had his breakfast, he had accustomed him-self to the picture-taking and the parade to the railroad sta-tion. The men seemed to like the attention, and it really didn't do any harm.

When he came back from Kramer's Kafeteria, he saw- because he had failed to officially "discourage" it-that the men-and three of his officers-had arrived with wives, mothers, children, cousins, and four rather spectacular girl-friends.

There were a number of things wrong with that, starting with the presence of the civilians interfering with what they had to do before they left, and that most of the wives, mothers, children, and cousins and two of the four spectac-ular girlfriends had wanted to meet "the skipper."

Plus, of course, he had made Louise stay at home. And she was sure to hear that the families had been at the cen-ter. If by no other way than on the pages of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, whose photographers had shown a good deal of interest in the spectacular girlfriends.

He had finally decided to hell with it, he'd call Louise and tell her to come to the Center, and while she was at it, to get the kids out of school, and bring them, too.

"Oh, all right," Louise said. "But I'll have to call Teddy back and tell him not to pick us up here."

Lieutenant Theodosus Korakulous, now Acting Chief, Homicide Bureau, had called Louise and offered to take her and the kids to Union Station.

"If you're with me," Teddy had told Louise, "we can get through the barriers. Traffic told me it looks like a lot of people are going to be there."

He had not wanted to go back into the main room to try to smile confidently at one more wife/mother/spectacular girlfriend and assure her he would take good care of the Family Marine now going off to war.

He wasn't at all sure that he could do that. He was a Ma-rine captain, he had thought at least a dozen times that morning, but he really knew zero, zip, zilch about being a Marine Infantry company commander.

So he'd been more or less hiding in his office when Lieutenant Paul Peterson had come in to show him a story in the Post-Dispatch he "thought he'd like to see."

THE MARINES ARE COMING!!! BUT IN TIME??

By Jeanette Priestly

Chicago Tribune War Correspondent

With the 24th Infantry Division in Korea

Taejon, Korea-July 16-(DELAYED) The Eighth United States Army provided a Jeep for this correspondent to cover the war. Two Marines, saying they needed it more than I did, stole it from me. Within hours, on the front lines of the 34th and 19th Infantry Regi-ments of the battered and retreating 24th Di-vision, I was glad they had.

When Marine captain Kenneth R McCoy and Marine Master Gunner Ernest W. Zimmerman commandeered my Jeep, they told me bluntly that this was no place for a woman, and only with great reluctance agreed to take me with them wherever they were go-ing. Their only other option was to leave me on the side of the road. The Marine Corps code of never abandoning their dead or wounded was extended in this case to include a female war cor-respondent.

Where they were go-ing was the front lines of this war, sent to see how the Eighth U.S. Army and particularly the 24th Division was handling the North Ko-rean invasion.

The Marine Corps sent two experts to in-vestigate. Both McCoy, a lithe, good-looking of-ficer in his late twenties, who is known as "the Killer" in the Marine Corps, and Master Gun-ner Ernest W. Zimmer-man, a stocky, muscular man a few years older, served with the leg-endary Marine Raiders in World War H.

What they-and this correspondent-saw was not encouraging. Within minutes of arriving at the command post of the 34th Infantry, we learned that in the pre-vious 48 hours, the 21st Infantry, one of the two other regiments making up, with supporting units, the 24th Division, had lost over half its strength in combat.

Worse, their breakup and retreat in the face of the North Korean on-slaught had been so quick and complete that the enemy had been able to overrun the 65th Field Artillery Battalion, which had been in their support. Almost a thousand officers and men, and their intact cannon and a large sup-ply of ammunition, fell into the hands of the North Koreans.

There were three North Korean prisoners at the 34th Infantry Command Post. An American patrol had captured them on a re-connaissance mission. They had not been in-terrogated, as no one in the 34th Infantry spoke Korean, and calls to di-vision headquarters to pick up the prisoners had gone unanswered.

McCoy and Zimmer-man:-both speak Ko-rean-not only uncovered that one of them, who was wearing a private's uniform, was an officer, but got from him the en-emy's intentions for the rest of the day, including the units that would make the attack.

Taking the officer with us, we moved to the 19th Infantry com-mand post, where the attack was supposed to take place at three the next morning. McCoy and Zimmerman went to the regiments' most forward outposts to see if they could take an-other prisoner.

This correspondent was taken to an artillery forward observer post by a major, who prom-ised to have me tied up if I tried to go farther forward. From there I could see Zimmerman and McCoy making their way to a machine-gun outpost, beyond which was only the en-emy.

Through powerful, tripod-mounted binoc-ulars, I could clearly see a half-dozen North Ko-rean soldiers wading across the Kum River. When I asked why the enemy was not being fired upon, the major explained that it appar-ently had been decided to conserve artillery and machine-gun ammuni-tion for the expected at-tack.

"And they're out of rifle range," die major added.

At that moment, through my binoculars, I could see McCoy un-limbering the.30-caliber Garand rifle he carried slung from his shoulder. Most Army officers arm themselves with the.45 Colt pistol or the.30-caliber carbine.

"He's wasting his time," the major said.

McCoy opened fire, dropping three, possi-bly four, of the North Koreans in less than a minute, and sending the survivors scurrying for safety on the far bank of the river.

Darkness fell then, and the major insisted we go back to the regimental CP. Two hours later, when McCoy and Zim-merman hadn't shown up, I grew concerned. The major, without much conviction, told me he was sure they would be all right.

An hour after that, they appeared, calmly leading two North Ko-rean prisoners.

At three in the morn-ing, the North Korean artillery barrage-the terrifying prelude to the attack to follow-began.

We were all then sitting on the floor of the com-mand post. McCoy calmly took a long black cigar from his pack. Zim-merman looked at it hungrily. McCoy took a lethal-looking dagger from its sheath, strapped to his left arm, calmly cut the cigar in half, and gave half to Zimmerman.

The artillery and mor-tar barrage lasted an hour. The only thing McCoy had to say, a professional judgment, was that some of "the incom-ing sounds like 105," which meant the North Koreans were using the 105-mm howitzers cap-tured from the 65th Field Artillery against the 19th Infantry.

Shortly afterward, Mc-Coy went outside the CP, listened in the darkness to the sounds of the bat-tie developing, and re-turned to announce that it was time for us to go.

Taking the North Korean officer prisoner with us, we drove-using blackout lights only- back to the 24th Division headquarters. McCoy learned that he could not turn the prisoner over to the POW compound there because there was none. The military police who would normally run the compound had been pressed into service as re-placement riflemen. The provost marshal himself had been pressed into service as an infantry of-ficer.

We then drove back to Eighth Army headquar-ters in Taegu, where McCoy was finally able to turn the North Ko-rean officer over to the military police. They ex-changed salutes and shook hands.

Communications at Eighth Army headquar-ters were overwhelmed by high-priority mes-sages reporting to Tokyo the disaster that was taking place all over the peninsula. McCoy realized that he could deliver his report to his superiors in Tokyo quicker if he went to Japan, rather than wait-ing for Eighth Army to find time to transmit it, and announced he was going to Pusan to see if he could find a plane.

There was zero chance that this reporter's dis-patches could be trans-mitted from Taejon, so I went with him. We drove to Pusan and flew out for Tachikawa Air Base, outside Tokyo, just after midnight on an Air Force C-54.

In Tokyo, we learned not only that the 19th and 34th Infantry Regi-ments had been forced to "withdraw" to new posi-tions farther south, but that the 24th division commander, Major General William F. Dean, had not been seen since he had personally gone out with a bazooka to use against North Ko-rean tanks, and it was feared that he had been captured or killed.

McCoy and Zimmer-man are by nature taci-turn men, and they certainly were not about to offer their opinion of what they saw to a war correspondent. But it wasn't at all hard, during the time we spent to-gether, to read their faces. And what their faces said-the individ-ual courage of the offi-cers and men aside-was that the Eighth United States Army was not prepared for this war, is tak-ing a terrible beating, and may not be able to halt die North Koreans.

The Marines are com-ing.

The question is, will they get here in time? And will they be able to do a better job than the Eighth Army has so far?

"What do you think, sir?" Lieutenant Peterson asked when Hart had finished reading the article.

"I know the two Marines she was with," Hart replied, thinking out loud. Then he looked at Peterson. "I don't know what to think, Paul."

"You know them, sir?"

"In the last war, they called people like that `the Old Breed,'" Hart said. "I wonder what they call them now."

[TWO]

OFFICE OF THE SENIOR INSPECTOR/INSTRUCTOR

EL TORO MARINE CORPS AIR STATION, CALIFORNIA

1025 21 JULY 1950

Brigadier General Lawrence C. Taylor, USMC, whose pro-motion to flag officer rank had occurred shortly before his graduation from the U.S. Army War College on 30 May, had elected to take thirty days' leave before reporting for duty at Headquarters, USMC.

For one thing, the year had been a rough one, and there hadn't been much time to spend with his family. For an-other, unless he took some leave, he was going to lose it, as regulations dictated the forfeiture of leave in excess of sixty days. Finally, he suspected that as a brand-new one-star, there would not be an opportunity to take much-if any-leave in the next year.

Both he and Margaret, his wife, had Scottish roots, and had always wanted to see Scotland, so they talked it over, decided that they could afford it, and that it was really now or never, and went.

It was not as easy for him as he first thought it would be. It was necessary for him, as a serving officer, to get per-mission to leave the country. There were forms to fill out, listing where he wanted to go and why, and permission didn't come when he expected it to, and he had to spend time on the phone to Eighth and Eye to make sure he would have permission in time to leave.

Permission came seventy-two hours before they were scheduled to leave. That just about gave them enough time to leave the kids with Margaret's mother in upstate New York and get to New York for the TWA flight to Scotland. They flew on a Trans-Global Airways Lockheed Constellation, which was really very nice, and on the way decided all the paperwork was worthwhile. It was going to be sort of like a second honeymoon.

On 28 June, when he learned of the North Korean inva-sion in the Glasgow newspaper, he had-with more than a little difficulty-managed to get through on the telephone to Eighth and Eye and asked if he should report for duty. He was told that would not be necessary.

And when he reported for duty, they didn't seem to know what to do with him, except to suggest that it might not be wise "in the present circumstances" to plan on spending two years at Eighth and Eye, which was the origi-nal plan.

General Taylor was thus able to consider the possibil-ity-slight but real-that, should there be a war and an ex-pansion of the Marine Corps, he might find himself serving with a Marine division in the field, or in command of a base-Parris Island, for example, while the incumbent there went off to a field command-instead of shuffling paper at Eighth and Eye.

That fascinating prospect was shattered when General Cates, on 13 July, summoned him to his office and told him (a) that on the fourteenth he was going to issue a confiden-tial order to the Corps to prepare for mobilization and (b) that he thought General Taylor could be of most use to the Corps by going to the West Coast and doing what he could to facilitate the mobilization of the Marine Corps Reserve.

General Taylor took a plane that night for Camp Pendleton, with Margaret and the kids to follow by auto. The West Coast assignment was temporary duty, which meant that their furniture would be stored, rather than shipped to California.

At Camp Pendleton, Brigadier General Clyde W. Dawkins, the deputy commanding general, told General Taylor he was glad he was there, as he expected there would be "administrative problems" in the mobilization of Marine Reserve Aviation, and anything that Taylor could do to "sort things out" would be a real contribution.

General Taylor had not met General Dawkins previ-ously, which he supposed was because Dawkins was wear-ing the golden wings of a Marine aviator, and Taylor had come up through artillery. He also wondered privately why Dawkins, an aviator, was deputy commander of Pendleton, which was not a Marine aviation facility. Logic would seem to dictate that a Marine aviator would be more suited to "sort out" the "administrative problems" involved in mobilizing Marine aviation, and someone such as himself, an experienced ground officer, would be better suited to be the deputy commander of Camp Pendleton.

General Dawkins said that it would probably be best that General Taylor "pitch his tent" at the El Toro Marine Corps Air Station, not far from Pendleton, rather than on the Pendleton Reservation.

"Pendleton is going to be one huge Chinese fire drill when the mobilization starts," Dawkins said. "You'll be more productive there than here. There's a light colonel there-John X. O'Halloran, good man-as inspector/in-structor. You can use his office and people."

At El Toro, General Taylor was given quarters in a small building set aside for visiting senior officers. As soon as he unpacked, he went into the small town of El Toro itself to find someplace for Margaret and the kids. He quickly learned that there was the opposite of an abundance of fur-nished rental houses or apartments in the area, and what was available was priced accordingly.

In desperation, he rented a small, unattractive apartment that cost 125 percent of his housing allowance, and one that he knew would disappoint Margaret and the kids. They'd had really nice quarters at the War College, and the apartment was a real comedown.

And then he went to work at El Toro to prepare for the mobilization, which was almost certain to happen.

Lieutenant Colonel O'Halloran, USMC, the inspector/instructor, was a muscular, red-haired Irishman. He wore an Annapolis ring, which immediately made General Tay-lor feel confident in him, even if he was also wearing the gold wings of a Marine aviator. Five minutes into their first conversation, they were agreed that calling an immediate meeting of the commanding officers of the three reserve squadrons on the West Coast to bring them up to speed on what was very likely going to happen was the first thing to do.

Two of the three squadron commanders showed up as ordered at 0800 19 July. The third-the commanding offi-cer of VMF-243-did not. His name was Major Malcolm S. Pickering.

Lieutenant Colonel O'Halloran was not at the meeting either. He sent word-which was not the same thing as re-questing permission to do so-that he was going to spend the morning checking on enlisted housing for the flood of reservists soon to arrive at El Toro.

Since he could not ask O'Halloran what he recom-mended should be done about the officer who had not, in Marine parlance, "been at the prescribed place at the pre-scribed time in the properly appointed uniform" and was thus technically absent without leave, General Taylor in-quired of Technical Sergeant Saul Cohen, the senior staff NCO of the I and I staff, if he had been able to contact Major Pickering.

"Not exactly, sir. I left word at his office to tell him as soon as he got back."

"Back from where?"

"No telling, sir. Major Pickering travels a lot."

"And the executive officer of VMF-243? Did you con-tact him?"

"Same story, sir. As I understand it, he's with Major Pickering. Permission to speak out of school, sir?"

"Go ahead."

"VMF-243's the best of our squadrons. They just about aced the annual inspection. And I'm sure Major Pickering will be here when he's really needed."

"Just to remove any possible misunderstanding, Sergeant," General Taylor said, "I have the authority to de-termine when the major's presence is really needed."

"Yes, sir."

The meeting with the other two squadron commanders did not go well. Neither of them made much of an effort to conceal their opinion that they had developed a good work-ing relationship with the inspector/instructor and the last thing they needed when they were about to get called back to the Corps was to have to answer dumb questions posed by some strange brigadier who wasn't even an aviator.

General Taylor told Technical Sergeant Cohen to make sure there was a note in Major Pickering's box at the Bach-elor Officer's Quarters instructing him to report to him, no matter what the hour, as soon as he got to El Toro.

"Sir, Major Pickering doesn't use the BOQ. But I'll try to get word to him at the Coronado Beach."

"The Coronado Beach? The hotel?"

"Yes, sir. VFM-243-the officers and the staff non-coms-stay there when they're on El Toro for training. Buck sergeants and under stay on El Toro in the barracks."

"Let me be sure I understand you, Sergeant. You're telling me that the officers and staff noncommissioned offi-cers of VMF-243 have been staying in a hotel when they're on active duty for training?"

"Yes, sir."

"How can they afford that?"

"I think the hotel gives them a special rate, sir."

At this point, General Taylor told Sergeant Cohen to bring him the records of both Major Pickering and Captain Stuart W. James, the executive officer of VFM-243.

It didn't take him long to learn that neither officer had come into the Marine Corps-as he had-from the United States Naval Academy. Major Pickering had graduated from Harvard, and gone through Officer Candidate School. Captain James had gone through the Navy V-12 program at Yale, which earned him a commission on his graduation.

Both had good records in World War II. Major Pickering had become an ace on Guadalcanal, and one more down-ing of an enemy aircraft would have made Captain Stuart an ace. James had not been on Guadalcanal, but flipping between the records, General Taylor learned that both had been assigned to the same squadron later in the war, during the last campaigns, including the invasion of Okinawa.

Both had had some problems living up to the standards expected of officers and gentlemen. Pickering's record in-cluded three letters of official reprimand for conduct unbe-coming an officer and a gentleman, and Stuart's record had two such letters. One of them made reference to joint ac-tion. They both had been reprimanded for using provoking language to a shore patrol officer then acting in his official capacity.

When he saw that, since their release from active duty after World War II, both officers had been employed by Trans-Global Airways, and that both had been in VMF-243 since its organization as a reserve component of the Corps, it was not hard for General Taylor to form an initial opin-ion of the two:

Hotshot, Ivy League-educated, Marine fighter pilots, wartime buddies who had probably joined the Marine Corps reserve because it gave them the opportunity simul-taneously to continue flying high performance aircraft and get paid for doing so. They had apparently not been able to secure civilian employment as pilots. Trans-Global Air-ways was employing both as "flight coordinators." General Taylor wasn't sure what a "flight coordinator" was, but it didn't seem to imply that either officer was involved in ac-tual flight.

At 1015, Sergeant Cohen knocked at the door of Gen-eral Taylor's-until recently, Lieutenant Colonel John X. O'Halloran's-office, was granted permission to enter, en-tered, and reported that both Major Pickering and Captain Stuart were in the office.

They were supposed to be here forty-eight-no, fifty- hours ago.

"Sergeant, will you please find Colonel O'Halloran and ask him to drop whatever he's doing and come here?"

"Aye, aye, sir."

When Sergeant Cohen left, General Taylor got a quick look through the door and saw Major Pickering and Cap-tain Stuart. They were in flight clothing, that is to say, brownish, multipocketed coveralls and fur-collared leather jackets. So far as General Taylor knew, the wearing of flight clothing was proscribed when not actually engaged in flight operations.

Both officers were bent over a newspaper, spread out on Technical Sergeant Cohen's desk.

There was also reverse observation. One of them looked through the open door, saw General Taylor, elbowed the other, who then had a moment's glance at General Taylor before Sergeant Cohen closed the door.

Lieutenant Colonel O'Halloran came into his old office by a side door three minutes later.

"I'm sorry if I interrupted something, Colonel, but I thought you should be here for this," General Taylor said.

"No problem, sir. For what, sir?"

General Taylor pressed the lever on his intercom box.

"Sergeant Cohen, would you ask Major Pickering and Captain Stuart to come in, please?"

After a polite knock at the door, the two officers entered. The taller of them had the newspaper tucked under his arm, where his cover would normally be. His cover, if any, was not in sight.

"Good morning, sir," he said to General Taylor, adding, "How goes it, Red?" to Lieutenant Colonel O'Halloran.

"You are?" General Taylor inquired, somewhat icily.

"General Taylor," O'Halloran said. "This is Major Mal-colm S. Pickering."

Major Pickering offered General Taylor his hand.

"How do you do, sir?" he asked, adding, "My friends call me `Pick.'"

General Taylor was about to comment that he had virtu-ally no interest in what Major Pickering's friends called him, when Pickering went on:

"You've seen the paper, Red?"

O'Halloran shook his head, "no."

"Guess who's already in Korea?" Pickering said.

O'Halloran indicated by gesture and shrug that he had no idea.

"The Killer," Major Pickering said. "The story's on page one."

"No kidding?" O'Halloran said, as he reached for the newspaper. He then remembered General Taylor, and added: "Major Pickering is referring to a mutual friend, sir. A Marine officer."

"Is that so?"

"Killer McCoy, sir," O'Halloran said.

"What I really would like to know, Colonel, as I'm sure you would, is why Major Pickering is some fifty hours late in reporting as ordered."

"I'm sorry about that, sir," Major Pickering said. "When I got the word, I came-Stu and I came-as quickly as we could."

"And that took fifty hours?"

"Actually, sir-I figured it out just a couple of minutes ago-from the time we got the word, it took us thirty-one hours."

"Where were you? In Siberia?"

"Scotland, sir."

"Scotland?"

"Prestwick, Scotland, sir."

"I reviewed your records a day or so ago, Major. I found nothing indicating that you had permission to leave the continental United States."

"We don't need permission, sir," Pickering said. "We've got a waiver."

"That's the case, General," Colonel O'Halloran said.

"I'm fascinated," General Taylor said. "Who granted a waiver? Why?"

"Eighth and Eye, sir. They chose to interpret the regula-tion as not applying to us. As much time as we spend out of the country, it would be a real pain in the ass for them, as well as for us, to have to fill out those permission requests, and go through the routine, every time we left."

"I see. Colonel O'Halloran, I assume you're familiar with this?"

"Yes, sir, I am."

"Why didn't you inform me?"

"Sir, the subject never came up."

"Why, Major, do you spend as much time as you tell me you do out of the country?"

It was obvious from the look in Major Pickering's eyes that he was surprised at the question.

"Sir, we're in the airline business," Pickering said.

"And your duties as `flight coordinator' require exten-sive travel outside the country? What exactly is a flight co-ordinator?"

For the first time, there was a crack in what General Tay-lor thought of as an offensive degree of self-confidence in Major Pickering's demeanor.

Major Pickering looked nervously at Lieutenant Colonel O'Halloran.

"In the case of Captain James and myself, General," he said, carefully, "it means that we sort of supervise the flight activities of Trans-Global Airways."

"Sort of?"

"Sir," Colonel O'Halloran said, "Major Pickering is president of Trans-Global Airways and chief pilot. And you're what, Stu?"

"Standardization pilot," James replied.

President and chief pilot? Standardization pilot? That's not what it says in their records.

"Major, I'm a little curious. Why does it say `flight coor-dinator' on your records?"

"A year or so ago, sir, there was concern that, in the event of mobilization, some pilots would try to get out of it by saying that they were essential to an essential industry. The phrase `airline pilot' raised a red flag at Eighth and Eye. So we got around that by changing our job titles."

"You didn't consider that deceptive? Perhaps even knowingly causing a false statement or document to be is-sued?"

"Well, sir, since it was not my intention-or Captain James's-to try to get out of being mobilized, we didn't think it mattered."

"And your employer went along with this deception?"

"Sir, I figured I could call myself a stewardess if I wanted, and it got the chair-warmers at Eighth and Eye off my back."

Prior to his attendance at the War College, General Tay-lor had spent a three-year tour in administrative duties at Eighth and Eye.

It is beyond comprehension that an Annapolis man, even a Marine aviator, would have knowledge of something like this, and not only do nothing about it, but, by not doing anything about it, lend it respectability.

"Colonel O'Halloran," General Taylor said. "I will wish to discuss this with you at some length."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Major Pickering, it is my belief that your squadron will shortly be called to active duty...."

"As of 23 July, sir. And I wanted to talk to you about that."

"The twenty-third?" Colonel O'Halloran asked. "You're sure about that, Pick?"

Pickering nodded.

"I'm sure, Red."

Majors do not call lieutenant colonels by their nick-names, certainly not in the presence of a flag officer they have never seen before. O'Halloran should have called him on that. But flag officers do not question, much less reprimand, lieutenant colonels in the presence of majors. I will deal with that later.

"You seem to be privy to information Headquarters, USMC, has not yet seen fit to share with me, Major," Gen-eral Taylor said.

"Yes, sir, I probably am. The warning order will be is-sued tomorrow, with the order itself coming the next day."

"How do you know that, Major?"

"I'm not at liberty to tell you that, sir. But I'm sure Gen-eral Dawkins will confirm the mobilization dates."

"General Dawkins told you, is that what you're saying?"

"No, sir. I happened to be with General Dawkins when we both learned about the dates."

"From whom?" General Taylor snapped.

He heard the tone of his voice and was thus aware that he was a hairbreadth from losing his temper.

"Sir, that's what I'm not at liberty to tell you."

"Can you tell me what you were doing with General Dawkins?"

"Yes, sir. I knew the mobilization was coming, and I wanted to ask General Dawkins about getting a week, ten days' delay for Captain James and myself before report-ing."

"And General Dawkins's reaction to this request?"

"He said it made sense to him, and you would be the man to see, sir."

"You have to fly off to Scotland again," General Taylor heard himself saying, "and reporting for active duty in two days would be inconvenient. Is that what you're saying, Ma-jor?"

Again there was a visible crack in Major Pickering's composure.

"Sir, what I told The Dawk was-"

" `The Dawk'? `The Dawk'?" General Taylor exploded. "Do I have to remind you, Major, that you're speaking of a general officer?"

"Sorry, sir. That slipped out," Pickering said. "General, I'm not trying to get out of mobilization...."

"You just told me you wanted a delay!"

General Taylor was aware he was almost shouting, which meant that he was losing/had lost his temper, and this made him even more angry.

"General," Colonel O'Halloran said. "I'm sure Major Pickering intended no disrespect to General Dawkins, sir. Sir, both Major Pickering and I flew for General Dawkins out of Fighter One on Guadalcanal..."

"Is that so?"

"... and everyone there referred to then Lieutenant Colonel Dawkins as `The Dawk' in much the same re-spectful way one refers to the commanding officer as `the old man' or `the skipper,' sir."

Taylor glowered at O'Halloran, but didn't reply directly.

"Tell me, Major Pickering," General Taylor said, "why you think it would be to the advantage of the Marine Corps to delay for a week or ten days your recall to active duty? And that of Captain James?"

"Sir, with your permission, Captain James and I will catch the 0800 Trans-Global flight to Tokyo tomorrow morning. There's a lot we can do if we get over there now, before the squadron...."

"What makes you think your squadron will be sent to Korea? More information to which I'm not privy?"

"No, sir, but VMF-243 is the best prepared squadron on the West Coast. We're ready to go, sir. I think Colonel O'Halloran will confirm that."

"Yes, sir, VMF-243 can be ready to fly onto a carrier twenty-four hours after mobilization," O'Halloran said.

"And if James and I can get over there now, there's all sorts of things we can do for the squadron. Or squadrons, if they decide to send more than one right away. And then we would just go on active duty to coincide with the arrival of the carrier in Kobe."

"Sir, with respect," O'Halloran said. "What Major Pick-ering suggests makes a good deal of sense. There are a large number of things-"

General Taylor silenced Colonel O'Halloran by raising his hand.

He did not trust himself to speak. No officer, much less a flag officer, should lose his temper in the presence of sub-ordinates.

After a moment, he decided he had his temper suffi-ciently under control.

"Major," he said, as calmly as he could manage, "would you and Captain James please step outside for a minute? I'd like a word with Colonel O'Halloran."

"Yes, sir," Major Pickering said, and nodded his head to Captain James to precede him out of the room.

General Taylor waited until the door had closed behind them, then looked at Colonel O'Halloran, who was smiling at him.

"Major Pickering is an interesting officer, isn't he, Gen-eral?"

" `Interesting' is an interesting choice of word, Colonel," General Taylor said. "Let me ask you-"

The telephone on what had been Lieutenant Colonel O'Halloran's desk rang. O'Halloran picked it up.

"Colonel O'Halloran," he said, and then: "Yes, sir. He's right here."

He handed the telephone to General Taylor.

"It's General Dawkins for you, sir," he said.

General Taylor took the telephone.

"Good morning, General," he said.

"You getting settled in all right over there?" Dawkins asked.

"I'm working on that, General."

"Did Pick Pickering-Major Pickering-show up there yet?"

"Yes, he did. As a matter of fact, General, he was fifty hours late in reporting."

"He said he was in Scotland," Dawkins said. "He was just in here, suggesting that his recall be delayed for a week or ten days so he could go to Japan and set things up before his squadron gets there."

"He so informed me."

"I told him that you were the person to see about that, but after he left, I gave it a second thought."

"I see," General Taylor said. "Colonel O'Halloran and I were just about to discuss that-"

"I decided I could probably handle it easier than you could," Dawkins interrupted. "I just got off the horn with Eighth and Eye. When the mobilization order comes down, it will state that Pickering and his exec, Captain James, will enter upon active duty effective on the arrival in the Far East of VMF-243, or on 21 August, whichever occurs first."

"I see," General Taylor said. "Isn't that a little unusual, General?"

"These are unusual times, Taylor, and Pickering is an unusual man."

"I'm sure you gave the matter thought, General," Taylor said.

"Actually, it didn't require much thought," Dawkins said. "The question was the best way to do it. I have to run, Taylor. Let's see if we can find time to have lunch."

The line went dead.

Taylor put the telephone in its cradle and looked at O'Halloran.

"General Dawkins," he reported evenly, "has arranged for Major Pickering and Captain James to enter upon ac-tive duty on the arrival of VMF-243 in the Far East, or on 21 August, whichever occurs first."

"Yes, sir."

"In these circumstances, I suggest that we call him back in here and so inform him. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tell me, Colonel, is that the way things are normally done in Marine aviation?"

"Well, sometimes, sir, we bend the regulations a little to get the job done."

"So I am learning," General Taylor said.

[THREE]

THE SUPREME COMMANDER'S CONFERENCE ROOM

HEADQUARTERS, SUPREME COMMANDER, ALLIED

POWERS

THE DAI-ICHI BUILDING

TOKYO, JAPAN

1035 25 JULY 1950

The briefer, a natty, crew-cutted major, turned from the map on which he had just located the positions of the North Korean forces advancing on Pusan, came almost to attention with his pointer held along his trouser leg, and, addressing Major General Charles A. Willoughby, who sat at the end of the table closest to the maps, said, "That's all I have, sir."

"Do you have any questions, sir?" Willoughby asked.

General of the Army Douglas MacArthur, the Supreme Commander, who was sitting at the far end of the long, highly polished table, took a long pull at a thin black cigar and after a moment, shook his head, "no."

"Anyone else?" Willoughby asked. He looked at Major General Edward M. Almond, the SCAP chief of staff who was at the left side of the table next to MacArthur. "Gen-eral Almond?"

Almond shook his head, "no."

"General Stratemeyer?"

Lieutenant General George E. Stratemeyer, the senior Air Force officer on the SCAP staff, who was sitting next to Almond, shook his head, "no."

"Admiral Joy?"

Rear Admiral C. Turner Joy, the senior Naval officer on the SCAP staff, who was sitting across the table from Willoughby's own empty chair, shook his head, "no."

"General Whitney?"

Major General Courtney Whitney, the SCAP G-3, who was sitting next to Stratemeyer, shook his head, "no."

Willoughby looked at Brigadier General Fleming Pick-ering, who was sitting next to Stratemeyer and across from Almond.

"Thank you, Major," Willoughby said. "That will be all." Then he added, "Leave the map," and took his seat.

"Yes, sir," the major said, and walked out of the room.

General Almond got to his feet and walked to the end of the table, so that he was standing in front of the map.

"Sir?" he asked MacArthur.

"General Pickering," MacArthur asked, "have you any-thing to add?"

Brigadier General Fleming Pickering rose.

"No, sir," he said.

Was that simply courtesy on El Supremo's part? Or was he letting Willoughby know he shouldn't ignore me?

"Then I believe our business is concluded," MacArthur intoned, getting to his feet. "Thank you, gentlemen."

The dozen officers at the table, all general or flag offi-cers, rose to their feet as MacArthur walked to the door that led to his office and passed through it.

General Almond pushed the map back into its storage space.

The other senior officers began to stuff the documents they had brought to the briefing back into their briefcases.

Almond sensed Pickering's eyes on him and walked to him.

"You look as if you have something on your mind, Gen-eral," he said.

Pickering met Almond's eyes.

"I didn't think the briefing was the place to bring this up..."

"But?" Almond asked.

"I had people on the wharf in Pusan yesterday when the 29th Infantry debarked from Okinawa," Pickering said. "They told me the regiment has only two battalions..."

"Peacetime TO and E," Almond said. "You told me the 1st Marine Division's regiments were similarly under-strength."

"Yes, sir," Pickering said. "General, my people..."

"You're speaking of... your aide-de-camp?" Almond asked, a slight smile on his face.

Pickering nodded. "Yes, I am."

Almond had been present at a luncheon meeting when MacArthur had announced that Pickering was going to have to do something about an aide-de-camp.

"I have one, sir," Pickering said. "Captain McCoy."

That had not been the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Pickering did not have an aide-de-camp. He didn't think he needed one. But he knew MacArthur well enough to know that if MacArthur thought he needed an aide-de-camp, and there was no suitable young Marine of-ficer available, he would give him a suitable young Army officer "for the presents"

There were a number of things wrong with that, starting with the fact that any bright young officer assigned to SCAP would naturally feel his loyalties lay with SCAP-either the SCAP, MacArthur, or SCAP generally, which would include Almond, the SCAP chief of staff, and Willoughby, the SCAP G-2, rather than solely to Brigadier General Fleming Pickering.

That was understandable. The Supreme Commander was the Supreme Commander. Supreme Commanders were in command of everything, especially including all one-star generals.

And MacArthur and Willoughby-and possibly Al-mond, although Pickering wasn't sure about Almond-had done a number of things, possibly simply courtesy, to make Pickering seem like, feel like, a member of the SCAP staff.

He had been given an Army staff car (a Buick, normally reserved for major generals or better, rather than a Ford or Chevrolet) and a driver, for one thing. He had been given an office, staffed by a master sergeant and two other en-listed men, in the Dai Ichi Building, "on the SCAP's floor."

A seat had been reserved for him at the daily briefings/staff conference. He had been offered quarters, in sort of a compound set aside for senior officers, and two or-derlies to staff it.

This would have been very nice if Pickering had been assigned to the SCAP staff, but that wasn't the case. Offi-cially, he was the Assistant Director of the Central Intelli-gence Agency for Asia. The CIA was not under MacArthur's command, although the CIA station chief in Tokyo was under mandate to "coordinate with SCAP."

More than that, Pickering was under orders from the President of the United States to report directly to him his assessment of all things in the Far East, including General of the Army Douglas MacArthur.

Pickering had quickly learned that the CIA Tokyo sta-tion chief (whose cover was senior economic advisor to SCAP) had quarters in the VIP compound, a staff car, and considered himself a member of the SCAP staff.

If he could have, Pickering would have relieved the sta-tion chief on the spot for permitting himself to be sucked into the MacArthur magnetic field. The CIA was not sup-posed to be subordinate to the local military commander or his staff. But he realized that would have been counterpro-ductive. For one thing, it would have waved a red flag in MacArthur's face. For another, he didn't know who he could get to replace him.

Pickering had declined the VIP quarters, saying that he was more comfortable in the Imperial Hotel. When Willoughby heard about that, he replaced the driver of Pickering's staff car with an agent of the Counterintelligence Corps wearing a sergeant's uniform, and assigned other CIC agents, in civilian clothing, to provide around-the-clock security for Pickering in the Imperial Hotel.

Willoughby's rationale for that was that the Assistant Director of the CIA for Asia obviously needed to be pro-tected. That was possibly true, but it also meant that CIC agents, who reported to Willoughby, had Pickering under observation around the clock.

Pickering typed out his own reports to President Tru-man, personally encrypted them, and personally took them to the communications center in the Dai Ichi Building, waited until their receipt had been acknowledged by Colonel Ed Banning at Camp Pendleton, and then person-ally burned them.

When Pickering told MacArthur that he already had an aide, Captain McCoy, General Willoughby had been visi-bly startled to hear the name, and Almond had picked up on that, too.

"The same McCoy?" MacArthur had inquired.

"Yes, sir."

"Ned," MacArthur said to Almond, "during the war, when we were setting up our guerrilla operations in the Philippines, Pickering set up an operation to establish con-tact with Americans who had refused to surrender. He sent a young Marine officer-this Captain McCoy-into Min-danao by submarine. Outstanding young officer. I person-ally decorated him with the Silver Star for that."

That was even less the truth, the whole truth, and noth-ing but the truth. MacArthur had originally flatly stated that guerrilla operations in the Philippines were impossi-ble.

President Roosevelt had learned there had been radio contact with a reserve officer named Fertig on Mindanao. Fertig, a lieutenant colonel, had promoted himself to brigadier general and named himself commanding general of U.S. forces in the Philippines. MacArthur and Willoughby had let it be known they believed the poor fel-low had lost his senses, and repeated their firm belief that guerrilla action in the Philippine Islands was, regrettably, impossible.

Roosevelt had personally ordered Pickering to send someone onto the Japanese-occupied island of Mindanao to get the facts. Lieutenant Kenneth R. McCoy, Gunnery Sergeant Ernest Zimmerman, and twenty-year-old Staff Sergeant Stephen M. Koffler, a radio operator, had infil-trated Mindanao by submarine and found Fertig.

McCoy's report that Fertig was not only sane (he had promoted himself to brigadier general on the reasonable assumption that few, if any, American or Philippine sol-diers who had escaped Japanese capture would rush to place themselves under the command of a reserve lieu-tenant colonel) but prepared, if supplied, to do the Japa-nese considerable harm. Roosevelt had ordered that Fertig be supplied. At that point, MacArthur had begun to call Fertig and his U.S. forces in the Philippines "my guerrillas in the Philippines."

When the U.S. Army stormed ashore later in the war on Mindanao, Fertig was waiting for them with than 30,000 armed, uniformed, and trained guerrillas. USFIP even had a band. In very real terms, except for artillery and tanks, USFIP was an American Army Corps. Army Corps are commanded by lieutenant generals. MacArthur continued to refer to Fertig as "that reserve lieutenant colonel."

In the face of that gross distortion of the facts, Pickering had felt considerably less guilty about saying McCoy was his aide.

"And what did your `aide-de-camp' have to say about what he saw on the wharf at Pusan?" Almond asked, smiling.

"General, this was an observation by an experienced of-ficer, not, per se, a criticism," Pickering said.

Almond nodded his understanding.

"McCoy said that most of the enlisted men are fresh from basic training, and that the officers and noncoms are also mostly replacements. There has been no opportunity for them to train together, nor has there been an opportu-nity for them to fire or zero their weapons."

Almond looked pained.

"Zimmerman checked their crew-served weapons,"

Pickering went on. "He knows about weapons. The 29th has been issued new.50-caliber Browning machine guns; they were still in cosmoline when they were off-loaded from the ships in Pusan. None of their mortars have been test-fired."

"God!" Almond said.

"The 29th was ordered to move immediately to Chinju, where it will be attached to the 19th Infantry of the 24th Division. The 19th has taken a shellacking in the last cou-ple of days-you heard the G-3 briefing just now. In these circumstances, McCoy doesn't think that either unit is go-ing to be able to offer much real resistance to the North Koreans."

Almond was silent a moment.

"I agree. That information would not have contributed anything to the staff conference, in the sense that anything could be done about it by anybody at that table. But I thank you for it."

"I thought you should know, sir."

"What Walker is doing is trying to buy enough time to set up a perimeter around Pusan, and hold that until we can augment our forces."

"I understand, sir," Pickering said.

"Between you and me, Pickering, that's all that can be done at the moment. The arrival of the Marine Brigade will strengthen the perimeter, of course, and the 27th Infantry is about to arrive. I understand they're better prepared to fight than, for example, the 29th is."

Pickering didn't reply.

"Maybe we'll get lucky," Almond said, as if to himself. And then he added, "Your `aide.' Is he still in Korea?"

"No, sir. He came in early this morning."

"I'd like to talk to him," Almond said. "Would that be possible?"

"Yes, sir. Of course. You tell me where and when."

"Would it be an imposition if I came by the Imperial?"

"No, sir. Of course not."

"I have to see General MacArthur," Almond said. "He normally sends for me fifteen, twenty minutes after the staff meeting. And there's no telling how long that will take; he's doing the preliminary planning for the amphibi-ous operation up the peninsula. But when that's over, I think I'll be free. If I'm not, I'll call. That Okay with you?"

"That's fine with me, sir. McCoy will be waiting for you."

"I don't want to make talking to him official," Almond said. "You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then I'll see you in an hour or two," Almond said, of-fered his hand, and left the conference room.

Chapter Ten

[ONE]

THE DEWEY SUITE

THE IMPERIAL HOTEL

TOKYO, JAPAN

1105 25 JULY 1950

When Captain Malcolm S. Pickering of Trans-Global Air-ways started to walk down the corridor toward the Dewey Suite, he was mildly curious to see an American in a busi-ness suit-a young one, not more than twenty-one, he thought-sitting in an armchair in the corridor reading the Stars and Stripes.

He had apparently been there some time, for on a table beside him was a coffee Thermos and the remains of breakfast pastries.

Pick just had time to guess, some kind of guard, when there was proof. The young man stood up and blocked his way.

"May I help you, sir?" he asked.

"I'm going in there," Pick said, pointing at the next door down the corridor.

"May I ask why, sir?"

"I'm here to see General Pickering."

"Are you expected, sir?"

"No, I'm not."

"Sir, I'm sorry...."

"Knock on the door and tell General Pickering that Cap-tain Pickering requests an audience," Pick ordered, sound-ing more like a Marine officer than an airline pilot. He heard himself, and added, "I'm his son. It'll be all right."

After a moment's indecision, the young man went to the door to the Dewey Suite and knocked.

Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, in khakis, tieless, opened the door, then made a gesture to the young man to permit Pick to pass.

He entered the room. His father, dressed like McCoy, was looking at a map spread out on a table in the middle of the sitting room. He smiled when he saw his son.

"When did you get in?" he asked.

"A couple of hours ago. I dropped Stu James off at the Hokkaido and then came here. What's with the guard?"

"That's General Willoughby's idea," Fleming Pickering said.

"Oh?"

"He said it was his responsibility to see that `someone like me' was `secure.'"

"Secure from what?"

"Captain McCoy," Pickering said wryly, "who some people suspect is a cynic, suggests that General Willoughby wants to keep an eye on me for his security. Anyway, when I declined to move into some officers' com-pound where he could keep an eye on me, he sent me a guard here for the same purpose. Guards, plural. There's some young man sitting out there around the clock."

"I thought maybe he was there to protect our well-publicized hero-Dead-Eye McCoy-from a horde of adoring fans."

General Pickering chuckled.

"You saw the story, I gather?"

"The whole world has seen the story," Pick said. "I un-derstand the recruiters have long lines of eager young men wanting to emulate him."

"I knew that fucking woman was trouble the first time I saw her," McCoy said.

"Speaking of women, Dead-Eye," Pick said, "you better clean up your language and send the native girls back to the village. Your wife's about to arrive."

"I hope you're kidding," General Pickering said.

"Uh-uh," Pick said. "Expect her in seventy-two hours, more or less."

"Jesus, couldn't you talk her out of it?" McCoy asked.

"Your wife took lessons in determination from his wife," Pick said, nodding at his father. "I tried, honest to God."

"I won't be here," McCoy said.

"Ken's been sort of commuting to Korea," General Pick-ering said. "It's the only way I can get accurate informa-tion in less than a week."

"And how are things in the `Land of the Morning Calm'?"

"Not good, Pick," General Pickering said.

"Well, fear not, the Marines are coming," Pick said. "You know there's a provisional brigade on the high seas, for Kobe, I suppose?"

"They're being diverted to Pusan," General Pickering said. "We found out yesterday."

"If we still hold Pusan when they get there," McCoy said.

"Are things that bad?" Pick asked.

"Yeah, they are," McCoy said, matter-of-factly.

"What shape is the provisional brigade in?" General Pickering asked.

"I saw General Dawkins at Pendleton," Pick said. "Ed Banning was there. They knew I was coming here, and asked me to relay this to you."

"Relay what?" McCoy asked.

"Okay. The 1st Marine Division at Pendleton was not, apparently, a division as we remember. Way understrength. And that got practically stripped to form the provisional brigade. So the way the Corps decided to deal with that was to transfer people from the 2nd Marine Division at Camp Lejeune to Pendleton to fill out the 1st Marine Divi-sion, bring it to wartime strength. Since there weren't enough people to strip from the 2nd Division to do this, they also ordered to Pendleton whatever Marines they could find anywhere-Marine Barracks at Charleston, re-cruiting offices, et cetera, et cetera. No sooner had they started this than the word came to bring the 2nd Division to wartime strength. The only way to do that was mobilize the entire reserve!'

"Including you?" General Pickering asked.

"VMF-243 was mobilized two days ago," Pick said.

"So what are you doing here?" McCoy asked.

"I got a delay for Stu James and me, so that we could come here and get the lay of the land," Pick said. "We go on active duty when the squadron gets here." He paused and looked at McCoy. "I don't suppose you're brimming with information about airfields, et cetera, in Korea?"

"Not much," McCoy said. "The ones we still hold are full of Air Force planes."

"I really want to take a look at what's there," Pick said. "Dad, can you get me an airplane?"

"Get you an airplane?" General Pickering asked, incred-ulously.

"I'm not talking about a fighter. What I'd really like to have is a Piper Cub, something like that."

"I don't know, Pick," General Pickering said, dubiously.

"There's a Marine Corps air station at Iwakuni," Pick said. "I don't know what's there. That's one of the things I want to find out."

"Where's that?" McCoy asked.

"Not far from Hiroshima, east," Pick said.

McCoy bent over the map, found what he was looking for, and laid a plastic ruler on the map.

"It's almost exactly two hundred miles from Iwakuni to Pusan," McCoy announced. "Most of it over the East China Sea. Can you fly that far in a Piper Cub?"

"If I wind the rubber bands real tight," Pick said. "From the coast, it's just a little over a hundred miles. You can make that in a Cub. Step one, get a Cub. Step two, fly to Iwakuni. See if there isn't a small field on the coast some-where where I could take on fuel...."

"Pick, that sounds-"

"General," McCoy interrupted, "if Pick had a Cub in Korea, it would make things a lot easier for Zimmerman and me."

"What about this Marine Corps air station?" General Pickering asked. "Couldn't you borrow a plane there? Or-with Ken and Zimmerman in the picture-borrow one from the Army, or the Air Force, there?"

"General," McCoy said. "I have to steal Jeeps in Korea. What light airplanes Eighth Army has they are not about to willingly loan to anybody. And I would really hate to make them loan us one; they need what they have."

"What makes you think there's an airplane here they don't need and would willingly lend us?"

McCoy and Pick smiled at each other.

"With all possible respect, General, sir," Pick said, smil-ing, "we lower grade officers sometimes suspect that se-nior officers sometimes have more logistical support than they actually need."

"In other words, if I decide you really need an airplane, better that I take one away from the brass?"

"Very well put, sir, if I may say so, with all due respect, General, sir," Pick said.

Pickering shook his head.

"Did you bring a Marine uniform with you?" General Pickering asked.

Pick nodded.

"We brought all our gear in footlockers," he said. "They wouldn't fit in a cab, but they're going to bring them into town in a pickup. Mine should be here any minute. I told them to take Stu James's to the Hokkaido."

"Well, as soon as it gets here, put a uniform on. General Almond-El Supremo's chief of staff-is coming here. You can tell him yourself what junior officers think about excess logistics for senior officers."

McCoy smiled at Pick's discomfiture. Pickering saw it.

"Your smile is premature, Captain McCoy," he said. "General Almond is coming here to see you."

"What for?"

"He didn't say, but he made it pretty clear that he'd rather Willoughby didn't know about it," Pickering said. He turned to Pick and went on: "If you can convince Gen-eral Almond that getting you an airplane makes sense, it would solve a lot of problems. He can order it. If I ask any-one else, there will be fifty reasons offered why one can't be spared."

"I'll give it a good shot," Pick said. "I really would like to see the airfields, get a feel for the place, before the squadron gets here."

"Almond's a reasonable man," General Pickering said. "When General Cushman was here, trying to talk Mac Arthur out of putting all Marine aviation under the Air Force-"

"Jesus Christ!" Pick exploded. "What's that all about?"

"The phrase General Stratemeyer-the Air Force three-star who's the SCAP Air Force commander -used was `optimum usage of available aviation assets,'" Pickering said. "The phrase General Cushman used was reduction by ninety percent of the combat efficiency of the 1st Ma-rine Brigade if they lost control of their aviation.'"

"You were there?" Pick asked. His father nodded.

"I'm afraid to ask who won," Pick said. "Christ, I've been on maneuvers with the Army and the Air Force. The Air Force just doesn't understand close air support."

"So General Cushman said," Pickering said. "He phrased it a little more delicately. What Almond said, very respectfully, was `General, I would suggest we defer to the feelings of the Marine Corps.' El Supremo gave him a long, cold, look, and then said, `I don't think we are in any position to risk lowering Marine combat efficiency in any degree. Subject to later review, the Marine Corps may re-tain control of their aviation.' It was close, Pick. I think if Almond hadn't said what he did, you'd be under Air Force control."

"I think I'm starting to like this guy," Pick said.

"I don't think he's been co-opted by the Bataan Gang," Pickering said.

Pick's footlocker appeared five minutes later, and he had just enough time to shower and shave and put a uniform on before there was a knock at the door, and without waiting for a response, the CIC guard in the corridor opened it and Major General Almond entered the room.

"You wanted to see me, General?" Almond asked.

That question was asked for the benefit of the CIC guy, Pickering realized. Almond knows that Willoughby-and possibly MacArthur, too-gets a report on everything that happens here.

"Yes, sir, I did. Thank you for coming."

The CIC agent closed the door.

"General, this is my son, Major Malcolm Pickering," Pickering said. "I wanted you to meet him. He has some-thing to ask you."

Almond met Pickering's eyes for a moment before of-fering his hand to Pick.

We have just agreed on our story. "Pickering wanted me to meet his son."

God, poor Almond. He has to spend his life walking the razor's edge between disloyalty to his general and keeping his integrity.

"How do you do, Major?" Almond said. "You're here with General Cushman?"

"In a sense, sir. My squadron, VMF-243, was mobilized on the twenty-third. When the squadron gets here, we'll be under General Cushman's command."

"And when do you think that will be?"

"Sir, they should sail within a day or two. They may al-ready have."

"That sounds a little improbable, Major," Almond chal-lenged.

"Sir, we trained to be able to fly aboard a carrier within forty-eight hours."

"And you won't need any additional training, equipping, filling out the ranks, that sort of thing, before you go aboard an aircraft carrier for active service?"

"We're a little better than ninety percent on our enlisted men, sir. And we have one hundred percent of our officers. The squadron's ready to go, sir."

"You're here," Almond said, making it a question.

"Yes, sir. My exec and I flew in this morning, commer-cial, as sort of the advance party."

"Sort of?"

"Well, sir, we won't go on active duty until the squadron gets here."

"You're in uniform."

"Sir, the CO of VMF-243 has the authority to call up people for seventy-two hours for special training. I called myself and my exec up."

Almond smiled. "That sounds highly practical and very irregular."

Pick shrugged.

"What do you know about the 1st Provisional Marine Brigade?" Almond asked.

"Sir, I'm not sure I understand the question."

Almond turned to McCoy.

"You're Captain McCoy, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"You look familiar, Captain," Almond said, as he shook McCoy's hand. "Do we know each other?"

"No, sir."

"Captain McCoy was stationed here recently, General," General Pickering said. "With the Naval Element, SCAP."

"I thought I'd seen the face," Almond said.

Either he's got one hell of a poker face, or he doesn't know a thing about McCoy's analysis, or that Willoughby buried a knife in McCoy's back.

"Major," Almond went on, "your father's aide-de-camp reported to your father, who relayed the information to me, that when a regiment arrived for Korean duty yesterday in Pusan, the ranks were filled with recent basic training graduates; there had been no opportunity for the unit to train together; no opportunity for the men to zero their in-dividual weapons; and that their crew-served weapons, heavy machine guns and mortars were still packed in cosmoline." He paused and looked at McCoy. "That is the essence of what you said?"

"Yes, sir, it is."

"So my question to you, Major, is what is the 1st Provi-sional Marine Brigade like, in that context?"

"I think it will be in much better shape than that, sir," Pick said.

"Is that Marine Corps pride speaking, or do you know?"

"Sir, I know a lot of the officers who are with the brigade. They tell me that most of the officers, and non-coms are War Two veterans, and most of the Marines have been with the 1st Marine Division for some time. When they formed the brigade, they didn't just send in bodies, but intact squads, platoons, companies from the division, with their officers and noncoms. Men who have trained to-gether, sir." He chuckled. "Sir, these are Marines. I can't believe they haven't zeroed their rifles. Or that their ma-chine guns are packed in cosmoline. They'll get off their ships ready to fight."

"How is it that you, an aviator, know the officers of a di-vision?"

"Sir, we train together. When we get a call from the ground to hit something, we usually recognize the voice asking for the strike."

"How far down does that go? Battalion? Company?"

"Sometimes to platoon, sir."

"Well, I'm impressed," Almond said. "And frankly a lit-tle relieved. Generals Cushman and Craig told me essen-tially what you've been telling me, but I like to get confirmation from the people actually doing things. Senior officers can only hope the junior officers are doing what they're supposed to do."

"Yes, sir," Pick said.

"General," General Pickering said, "Pick made an inter-esting observation a little while ago, just before you came. He said that most senior officers have more logistical sup-port than they actually need."

"Interesting," Almond said. `Tell me, General, why am I getting the feeling I am about to be ambushed by Marines?"

"I have no idea, General," Pickering said.

"And that there's a hook in the phrase `more logistical support than they actually need'?"

"Now that you mention it, General..." Pickering said.

"What, Pickering?" Almond said, smiling.

"Pick wants to borrow a light aircraft, and make a per-sonal survey of airfields in Korea," Pickering said. "And my aide-de-camp tells me that having access to a light air-plane in Korea would make his work there considerably easier."

Almond looked at Pickering for a long moment.

"Is that an official request from the Assistant Director of the CIA for Asia?"

"Yes, sir, it is."

"There are very few light aircraft left in Japan," Almond said. "I ordered almost all of them sent to Korea."

Disappointment showed on Pick's face.

"I was afraid that might be the case, sir. But I had to ask."

"There are four at SCAP," Almond went on. `Two L-19s, one L-4-that's a Piper Cub-and one L-17, that's a four-seater North American Navion."

"Sir, if I could have the Cub for a couple of days..."

"You can't," Almond said. "That's mine. I call it `The Blue Goose.'"

"I understand, sir," Pick said.

Curiosity overwhelmed General Pickering.

"Why the `Blue Goose' he asked. "Goose suggests... the index finger raised in a vulgar manner."

"Somehow that lettering appeared on the nacelle shortly after every other general officer on the SCAP staff got a new L-19 but me," Almond said. "You are the first senior officer to ask me what it means."

Pickering chuckled.

"The L-19s are out, too," Almond went on. "One be-longs to General Willoughby, and the other to the G-3, who really needs it. That leaves General MacArthur's Navion. He rarely uses it. General Willoughby uses it rather often. So what I'm going to do is go back to the Dai Ichi Building and inform the Supreme Commander that General Pickering asked to see me here to meet his son, and to ask for the use of a light aircraft. I'm going to tell the Supreme Commander that I told you, General Picker-ing, that I would bring your request to his attention, and that, barring objections from him, I would see if I could find one for you. I don't think the Supreme Commander will object. Then I'm going to send Al Haig, my aide, out to Haneda to inform the people there that with the permis-sion of the Supreme Commander, the L-17 will be picked up by General Pickering's pilot for purposes not known to me."

"Thank you, sir," Pick said.

"It might be wise to get the aircraft out of Tokyo as soon as possible," Almond said.

"Yes, sir," Pick said.

"There's always tit-for-tat," Almond said to Pickering. "Okay?"

"What can I do for you, General?" Pickering replied.

"I'd like to see McCoy's-and, come to think of it, Ma-jor Pickering's-reports on what they find. Unofficially. I sometimes wonder if the reports we're getting at the daily briefings are designed to spare General MacArthur unnec-essary concern."

In other words, you suspect-with damned good reason- that Willoughby isn't reporting anything to MacArthur he doesn't think he should know.

"I'll see you get them," Pickering said.

Almond nodded.

"Major," he said to Pick, "it might be a good idea if you happened to be around the SCAP hangar at Haneda, in case Captain Haig might show up there."

"Yes, sir, I'll be there," Pick said.

Almond walked to the door and opened it. Then he turned and, in a voice loud enough to ensure the CIC could hear it, said, "I'll take your request to the Supreme Com-mander as soon as I can."

"Thank you, sir," Pickering said.

They smiled at each other, and then Almond went through the door.

[TWO]

THE PRESS CLUB

TOKYO, JAPAN

1530 28 JULY 1950

It was alleged by many of Miss Jeanette Priestly's associ-ates in the SCAP (and now UN Command) press corps- all of whom were male-that the Chicago Tribune's war correspondent had a Jesuit-like attitude regarding the de-velopment of her sources. That, in other words, the end justified the means.

While it was obviously not true that Miss Priestly would fuck a gorilla to get a story-as was sometimes alleged around the press club bar-it was on the other hand true that Miss Priestly was not above looking soulfully into the eyes of some virile major-or general or, for that matter, PFC-simultaneously allowing him to glimpse down her blouse at her bosom, onto which she often sprayed Chanel No. 5, and perhaps even laying a soft hand on his, if she thought the individual concerned was possessed of knowl-edge that would give her a story. Or, more recently, in Ko-rea, if he had access to a Jeep, or space on an airplane.

But she did not take these sources of news or air passage space to bed in payment for their cooperation. While it had been some time since she had lost the moral right to virginal white, the facts were that the urge and the opportu-nity had not coincided for quite some time.

Jeanette was honest enough to admit to herself that she had been strongly drawn to Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, USMC, probably because he had seemed like the only man in Korea who knew what he was doing. And he was cute. But he hadn't made a pass at her, and if he had, where could they have gone to share carnal bliss?

The green rice fields of Korea in the summer are fertil-ized with human feces, the smell from which tends to dampen romantic ardor.

And since they had been together in Korea, she had never seen McCoy again, so he was added in her mind to her long list of missed opportunities.

And sometimes, when everything else was right, some-thing in her psyche made her back off. There was no deny-ing that the Trans-Global Airways pilot, the one who had set the speed record, and whose father was a buddy of MacArthur, Pickering, was the legendary answer to a maiden's prayer. Tall, good-looking, wicked eyes, and with an undeniable charm. And rich.

Pickering had obviously been smitten with her. If he'd been a horse, he would have been neighing and tearing up the carpet with his hooves. And, if she had been willing to drop her almost maidenly reticence, there would have been a soft bed in the Imperial Hotel, with room service cham-pagne. And she had heard somewhere that airline pilots could provide free tickets, which was something to think about, too.

But there was something about Captain Pickering of Trans-Global Airways that turned on her alarm system. She had not become a foreign-now war-correspondent for the Tribune by making herself vulnerable. As the boys in the press club bar would phrase it, she knew how to keep her ass covered, literally and figuratively.

She could have made an ass of herself over Pickering, and she rarely put herself in that position. And anyway, he was gone. Since it was unlikely that she would ever see him again, she put him out of her mind.

Jeanette had learned that her best sources of information came from men who both lusted after her and were pissed off about something, who wanted to tell her something that she would write about, and put somebody else's ass in a crack.

When she saw Major Lem T. Scott, Signal Corps, U.S. Army, smile at her as she walked into the press club bar, she knew that in addition to whatever lustful fantasies might be running through his head, he was really there to tell her something.

Major Scott was a tall, rather good-looking man in his early thirties. He was an Army aviator, which gained him sort of unofficial membership in the press club. No journal-ist was going to kick an Army aviator out of the press club. Sooner or later, every journalist had to beg a ride in one of the Army's fleet of light aircraft. In the sure and certain knowledge that some journalist would stand drinks for them on the expense account, Army aviators often went to the press club bar.

It took Jeanette about thirty minutes to get from Major Scott what he had obviously come to the press club bar to tell her, "accidentally, in conversation."

Major Scott was attached to the Flight Section, Head-quarters, SCAP. Most of the light Army aircraft, and then-pilots, had been sent to Korea by General Almond. General MacArthur's personal light aircraft, a North American L-17 Navion, had not, and consequently neither had Major Scott, who was MacArthur's Navion pilot.

Possibly, Jeanette thought somewhat unkindly, because he had not been there, Major Scott wanted to be in action in Korea. It wouldn't be so bad, he said, if he was actually flying the Supreme Commander around, but he wasn't even doing that. The Supreme Commander had loaned his Navion to the CIA, and he had absolutely nothing to do, except once in a while fly one of the two L-19s that were left at the SCAP flight section.

Jeanette had long ago learned that letting a source think you know more than you actually do was a way to put them at ease. All she knew about the CIA in Japan was that it was rumored that MacArthur's economic advisor, Jonathan Loomis, was the CIA Tokyo station chief.

"What do you suppose Jonathan Loomis is doing with the general's Navion?"

"It's not Loomis," Scott said. "It's his boss, a Marine general named Pickering. He lives in the Imperial Hotel."

This was the first Miss Priestly had heard that General Fleming Pickering had any connection with the CIA at all. He'd even denied being a general.

The sonofabitch!

"Well, what do you suppose that General Pickering's doing with the Supreme Commander's Navion?"

"I don't know. He's got some Marine major flying it. He brings it back to Haneda for service. I know he's been in Korea. And all over Japan. I don't know who, if anybody, he's had with him.... The CIA doesn't say much."

"Huh," Jeanette said, thoughtfully.

"Just before I came here this afternoon," Scott added. "I found out this major is flying the Navion to Kobe first thing in the morning."

That was interesting. Another source had told her that the aviation elements of the First Provisional Marine Brigade would arrive at Kobe two days from now. She had already made reservations to take the train to Kobe to meet them.

"Anyone going with him?"

"I don't know, but if you're thinking of trying to catch a ride with him, forget it. Whatever they're doing, they don't want anyone to know about it."

In another five minutes, Jeanette was sure that she had extracted from Major Scott all that interested her, and, try-ing to sound as sincere as possible, told him she was really sorry she couldn't have dinner with him. Another time.

It wasn't a long walk from the press club to the Imperial Hotel, but it was hotter than she thought it was, and she ar-rived at the Imperial sweaty.

When she tried to call General Pickering on the house phone, the operator politely denied having a guest by that name. Jeanette took the elevator to the floor on which the Dewey Suite was located and started down the corridor.

She was stopped by a young American in civilian cloth-ing who politely asked what she wanted. She took her press credentials from her purse, and while the young man-obviously a guard-was examining them, said that she was there to interview General Pickering.

"Ma'am, this is a restricted area. I'll have to ask you to leave."

"I want to see General Pickering."

"Ma'am, this is a restricted area. I'll have to ask you to leave."

With ten minutes to spare, Jeanette managed to make the train to Kobe. She arrived there after midnight, and took a cab to the U.S. Naval Base, Kobe.

Lieutenant Commander Gregory F. Porter, USN, the public affairs officer, was disturbed and annoyed that she had heard that Marine aviation would be arriving in the very near future, and was afraid she would break the story-"Marine Aviation to Debark at Kobe"-before it happened. There was no censorship, he told her, but he re-ally hoped she could see her way clear to embargo the story until the Marines actually got there. The other way might really give aid and comfort to the enemy. If she would embargo the story, the Navy information officer would do everything he could to help her get the story once the Marines were actually there.

Jeanette told him she understood completely, and would happily hold the story until told its publication would in no way give aid and comfort to the enemy. Lieutenant Com-mander Porter was grateful, and said that he would be hon-ored to buy her breakfast in the morning, at which time he might have some other news for her that she might find of interest.

The dining room of the Kobe U.S. Naval Base Officer's Mess provided a good view of the airfield, and at 0815 the next morning, while she was eating a surprisingly good grapefruit, Miss Priestly saw a North American Navion touch down smoothly on the runway.

"Oh, I didn't know the Army used this field," she said to Lieutenant Commander Porter. "General MacArthur has an airplane just like that."

"Actually, Jeanette," the commander said. "That's his. But he's not in it."

"Who is?" she asked, sweetly.

"Right now, that's classified," Commander Porter said. "But if you'll give me another couple of hours, I'll tell you all about it. And I'll even get you some exclusive pictures of something I think you'll agree is one hell of a story."

Jeanette had already decided that Commander Porter was no dope, and that he had told her all she was going to hear until he decided to tell her more, so she smiled sweetly at him, laid her hand on his and said, "Thank you."

She looked to see if she could see who was in the Navion, but it taxied out of sight.

At 1015, Commander Porter found Jeanette in the lounge of the Officers' Club and led her back to the table at which they had breakfast.

"In a very few minutes, you're going to see something very interesting-perhaps even historic-out there. I'm not at liberty to tell you what now, but you have my word I will at the proper time, and I'll have those exclusive pic-tures I promised you."

He's talking, probably, about the first Marine planes that will land here. But if I get the pictures first, and exclu-sively...

"You're very kind, Greg," she said, softly, and touched his hand with hers.

"I'll see you shortly," he said.

At 1025, two Chance-Vought F4U Corsairs dropped out of the sky and landed. The word Marines was lettered large on their fuselages.

"The Marines have landed," Jeanette said, out loud, and just slightly sarcastically, although there was no one in the dining room to hear her.

The Corsairs parked on the tarmac and shut down. Ground crewmen approached them as a fuel truck drove up. First two Navy photographers, carrying Speed-Graphic press cameras, and then Lieutenant Commander Porter and another man, wearing those overalls pilots wear, walked up to the air-planes as their pilots got out.

I'll be damned, if I didn't know better, that pilot looks just like Captain Pickering of Trans-Global Airways.

The pilot of the first Corsair saluted the pilot who looked just like Captain Pickering of Trans-Global Airways and Commander Porter.

Then Pick Pickering's doppelganger walked up to the pilot of the second Corsair and saluted him, then wrapped his arms around him, picked him off the ground, and kissed him on the forehead.

The ground crewmen swarmed around the aircraft, refu-eling them, circling them, examining them.

The pilot of the second Corsair and-damn it, that is him-Pick Pickering were herded reluctantly to the na-celle of one of the Corsairs and the Navy photographer took their picture.

Then the pilot of the second Corsair climbed back into his aircraft, and Pickering climbed into the other one.

What the hell is he doing?

He looked down from the cockpit to make sure there. was a fire extinguisher in place, then made a I'm-gonna-wind-it-up motion with his hand, and then the propeller be-gan to turn slowly and a moment later, in a cloud of blue smoke, the engine caught.

My God, he's going to fly that thing!

A moment after that, with Pickering's Corsair leading, both aircraft taxied toward the runway.

The Navy photographers trotted toward the runway so they would be in position to photograph the takeoff. Com-mander Porter and the pilot who was now without an air-plane walked toward the officers' mess.

Jeanette could quite clearly see the takeoff of the two aircraft-including the pilot of the first aircraft, who had

earphones cocked jauntily on his head, and was without any possibility of mistake whatever, Captain Pick Picker-ing of Trans-Global Airways.

Commander Porter and the pilot came into the dining room.

"What you have just seen, Jeanette," Commander Porter announced somewhat dramatically, "what you will within thirty minutes have the first, and exclusive, photos of, was the takeoff of the first Marine aviation combat sortie to Ko-rea."

"Who was flying... who was the pilot who took his air-plane?" Jeanette demanded.

"Major Malcolm S. Pickering, ma'am," the pilot said.

"The other pilot was Lieutenant Colonel William C. Dunn," Commander Porter said.

"Why did you give him your airplane?"

"Pick's the skipper, ma'am," the pilot said. "Of VMF-243. He didn't ask me. Skipper's order, ma'am, they don't ask."

"What happened, Jeanette," Commander Porter said, "was that Major Pickering came to the Far East before his squadron. And flew orientation missions to Korea..."

"In MacArthur's Navion?" she asked, incredulously.

"Yes, ma'am."

"And then Colonel Dunn and... excuse me, Jeanette, may I present Captain David Freewall of USMC Reserve Fighter Squadron 243? Freewall, this is Miss Jeanette Priestly of the Chicago Tribune."

"I know," Captain Freewall said.

"You do?"

"Yes, ma'am," Captain Freewall said, smiling at her. "The last thing Ol' Pick said to me before he climbed in the airplane was that the penalty for treading on his turf was two broken legs."

Jeanette looked at him wordlessly for a long moment.

"Treading on his turf"? Does that arrogant sonofabitch actually think I'm his turf?

She turned to Commander Porter.

"You were saying, Commander?"

"Well, when the Badoeng Strait-the aircraft carrier, Jeanette, that brought Marine Air Group 33 from San Diego-got close enough to fly Corsairs off her to here, Major Pickering communicated with Colonel Dunn..."

"They're ol' pals, Miss Priestly," Captain Freewall said. "They go back to Guadalcanal. And for a regular, Colonel Billy's a pretty good ol' boy."

"Colonel Billy, is that what they call him?" Jeanette asked.

"... offering Colonel William C. Dunn," Commander Porter went on, "the opportunity, if he so desired, of making an orientation flight/cum sortie, of Korea three days before he would have otherwise have had the opportunity to do so. And Colonel Dunn-his first name is William; middle ini-tial C, and that's Dee You En En-accepted."

"I see."

"And very shortly, other aircraft from the Badoeng Strait and Sicily, the other aircraft carrier in the task force, will begin to land here to prepare for Korean service. But you saw, and will have exclusive photos of, the takeoff of the first combat sortie."

"What kind of `combat sortie'?" Jeanette said.

"In this case, it will be what they call targets of opportu-nity," Captain Freewall said. "Which means they'll take on anything that looks like the enemy."

"I was under the impression that Major Pickering was an airline pilot-"

"Captain," Captain Freewall corrected her. "Ol' Pick's an airline captain."

"And is he qualified to go out and `take on anything that looks like the enemy'?"

"I think you could say he is, ma'am," Freewall said. "Ol' Pick's capable of just about anything."

Including, the arrogant bastard, of considering me his turf.

"The other aircraft from the Sicily and the Badoeng Strait will shortly be arriving, Jeanette," Commander Porter said. "Perhaps you'd like to watch that from the control tower?"

"Yes, I would, thank you very much," Jeanette said.

"When did you say you thought Colonel Dunn and Major Pickering will be getting back?"

`Two, two and a half hours," Commander Porter said.

[THREE]

K-l USAF AIR FIELD

PUSAN, KOREA

1137 29 JULY 1950

Lieutenant Colonel William C. Dunn could see the Korean landmass approaching, was aware that Pick had had them in a gentle descent from 10,000 feet for the last couple of minutes, and knew that something was up.

It was about 375 miles from Kobe to Pusan, which Pick had said was their "first destination in the Picturesque Land of the Morning Calm."

They had been wheels-up at Kobe at 1040, and they had been indicating a little better than 400 miles per hour. That meant they would reach Pusan in a tittle under an hour, and just about an hour had passed.

"K-l, Marine Four One One," Pick's voice came over the air-to-ground.

"Four One One, K-l."

"K-l, Marine Four One One, a two-plane F4-U flight, at five thousand, about five minutes east. Request permission for a low-speed, low-level pass of your airfield."

My God, what's he want to do that for?

And they're not going to let him.

He said it was the only decent airfield in Korea. There-fore it will be crowded. Therefore they won't want two fighters buzzing the place.

"Say again, One One?" the K-l tower operator asked, incredulously.

"Request a low-speed, low-level pass over your field in about three and a half minutes."

"One One, be advised there is heavy traffic in the area. State purpose of low-level pass."

"K-l, One One. Two purposes. Purpose one, visual ob-servation of possible emergency landing field. Purpose two, to confirm the rumors that the Marines are about to get in your little war."

"One One, permission denied."

"K-l, your other option is to let us land, following which we will want to taxi all over the field to have a look from the ground. If you grant permission for a low-level pass, we will be out of your hair in less than sixty seconds. Your call, K-l."

"Stand by, Marine One One."

"One One standing by. We are now at three thousand feet, and have the field in sight."

There was a sixty-second delay, during which the two Corsairs dropped below two thousand feet.

"Attention all aircraft in the vicinity of K-l. Be on the lookout for two Marine Corsair aircraft approaching from the east at low level. They will make a low-level, low-speed pass over this field. Marine One One, you are cleared for one low-level, low-speed pass, east to west."

"Thank you ever so much," Pick's voice said. Then, over the air-to-air radio: "Billy, you get that?"

"Affirmative," Lieutenant Colonel Dunn said into his microphone.

"Low and slow, Billy," Pick ordered. "Here we go."

Dunn saw Pick put the nose of his Corsair down, and fol-lowed him. Pick dropped to about a thousand feet over the water, and lower than that once they crossed the shoreline.

"Flaps and wheels, Colonel, sir," Pick's voice said.

The airport was dead ahead.

Dunn's Corsair slowed as he lowered the gear and ap-plied flaps. The airspeed indicator, after a moment, showed that he was close to stalling speed. The airfield was dead ahead; Dunn saw a Navy R5D transport turning off the runway.

Well, he apparently meant low and slow. Why did I think we were going to buzz the place at 400 knots?