"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?
Why do I always suspect that Pick will do something crazy?
What he's doing here makes sense. I can see all I really need to know about this airfield making a low and slow. You can't see much from the cockpit of a Corsair on the ground.
This made sense.
They flew straight down the main runway. They were al-most at the end of it and Dunn had reached the gear control when Pick's Corsair, its wheels and flaps going up, raised the nose and gained speed.
"Thank you, K-l," Pick's voice came over the air-to-ground. "You may now tell all your friends that the Marines are here and almost landed."
That's why. He didn't have to get on the air like that.
There's something about Pick that makes him show his ass.
"Having seen just about all the Pusan offers," Pick's voice came over the air-to-air, "we will take a quick look at picturesque Chinhae, not far from here, which will take Piper Cubs and those helicopters, but where landing a Cor-sair would be a little hairy."
Chinhae was maybe thirty miles from Pusan, and Pick- with Dunn copying him-lowered his flaps and gear and flew over it. There was a single runway, with a half dozen Army light aircraft parked on the west side of it.
Dunn saw enough of it to be able to report to General Cushman that it would be usable by the Piper Cubs and helicopters of the brigade's observation squadron when they arrived.
"And now to Taegu," Pick's voice came over the air. "The second-largest city in unoccupied South Korea."
It was a flight of just a few minutes. Pick had climbed to 3,500 feet, and Dunn could see from the exposed, raw earth where trenches and other positions had been built southeast of the city, as if in anticipation that the enemy would take Taegu.
"And the war, Billy, begins just a little farther north." He switched to the air-to-ground.
"Marine Four One One. Any air controller in the area."
There was no reply, and Pick repeated the call. And again there was no reply.
"Aw, come on, fellas, any air controller in the area. We have two Marine F4-U's up here ready, willing, and able to shoot up anything you think deserves a shot."
And again, there was no reply.
Pick switched to the air-to-air frequency.
"Can you believe that, Billy? You think they're asleep? Maybe too proud to call on the Marines?"
"There has to be a reason," Dunn replied.
When he'd heard Pick calling, Dunn had thought there would be far more calls from the ground than they could possibly respond to.
`To hell with it," Pick said. "Let's go shoot up a choo-choo."
A "choo-choo"? Now, what the hell?
"Say again?"
"You never saw those wing camera shots of the Air Corps shooting up trains in Europe? I always wanted to try that, but I never saw one damned choo-choo in all of War Two."
"There was one on the `Canal," Dunn said, with a clear memory of an ancient, tiny, shot-to-pieces steam locomo-tive in his mind's eye, "but somebody shot it up before I had a chance. Is there a rail line around here?"
"I found a couple in my trusty Navion," Pick reported. "Let's hope we get lucky."
Ten minutes later, they got lucky.
"Nine o'clock, Billy," Pick's voice came over the air-to-air.
Dunn looked.
A train, a long train-mixed boxcars, flatcars, and tank cars-powered by two steam locomotives, was snaking along a river.
"I'm going to break left and get pretty close to the deck, and then turn back," Pick said. "I've got dibs on the loco-motive. In the unlikely event I miss, you can try on a sec-ond pass."
"Dibs on the locomotive"! Are you never going to grow up? Good God, you're a Marine field-grade officer!
"I'll be on your tail, Pick," Dunn said over the air-to-air.
And then Pick surprised him again, by rapidly picking up speed, as soon as he had broken to the left.
You can hit a lot more if your throttles aren't at the fire-wall. You know that. What the hell is the matter with you?
Pick completed his turn, and not more than 500 feet above the undulating terrain, turned back toward the train-
-from three or four cars of which came lines of tracer shells.
My God! Why didn't I think about antiaircraft fire?
You make a much harder target if you're flying as fast as it will go.
You knew there would be counterfire.
How?
My God, Pick, did you do a dry run in that little Navion?
You did. You crazy sonofabitch, that's exactly what you did!
Streams of tracers erupted from Pick's Corsair's wing-mounted.50-caliber Brownings.
Dunn saw them walking across the rice paddies and the river toward the locomotives. Steam began to come from the rearward locomotive's boiler. He moved the nose of his Corsair to the rear of the train and pressed the firing button on the stick. The Corsair shuddered with the recoil.
Just as he picked up his nose, the locomotive exploded.
"Goddamn, Billy! Look at that!" Pick's delighted voice came over the air-to-air.
A second later, there was an orange glow from one of the tank cars, and a split second after that, an enormous explo-sion.
Dunn flew for half a second through the fireball, and then was on the other side.
He saw Pick's Corsair climbing steeply and got on his tail again.
"Did you see that sonofabitch blow up?" Pick's voice asked, excitedly.
"I saw it. We also got what had to be a gasoline tank car."
"You got the tank car," Pick said. "I got the choo-choo."
"Whatever you say," Dunn replied.
"Your ADF working?" Pick asked.
Dunn checked.
"Affirmative," he said.
"Mine isn't," Pick replied matter-of-factly. "I guess I lost that antenna."
"Any other damage?"
"The gauges are all in the green," Pick said. "There's some openings in the wing I don't remember seeing be-fore, but I don't see any gas leaking. Do you think you can find Kobe, Colonel?"
"Get on my wing, Pick," Dunn ordered.
He advanced his throttle and pulled his Corsair beside Pick's.
Pick's canopy was open. He had a long cigar in his mouth, and was using the cockpit lighter to fire it up. The lighter was technically called "the spot heater," because smoking was supposed to be forbidden in the cockpit. Ig-noring all that, Pick had the cigar going, then he raised his eyes to Dunn and waved cheerfully.
Dunn shook his head and moved ahead of him, on a course for Kobe.
[FOUR]
In her capacity as a journalist, Miss Priestly decided it was
her duty to meet the two Corsairs when they returned from the first Marine aviation combat sortie in Korea.
The first thing she thought was that she was really going to pay the arrogant sonofabitch back for that "his turf" crack.
The second thing she thought was My God, he looks tired.
The third thing she thought was My God, there's holes all over the fuselage. He was hit. He could have been shot down!
Major Pickering jumped off the wing root of the Corsair.
"Well, what an unexpected pleasure. How are you, Miss Priestly?"
"You knew I was here," she snapped. And then was sur-prised to hear herself ask, "Pick, are you all right?"
"Couldn't be better, except after when I have a double scotch, when I'll really be in good shape."
"There's bullet holes in your airplane!"
"No. I don't think so. I think that's part of a locomotive."
"A locomotive?"
"I got one. Billy got a gasoline tank car," he said.
"A locomotive?"
"Yeah. And there's an old Marine Corps custom about that. Every pilot who gets a locomotive gets to kiss the first pretty girl he sees."
"Good luck," she said. "I hope you find one."
And then he put his hand on her cheek and shrugged.
"What the hell," he said. "It might have worked. And I really wanted to kiss you."
He dropped his hand and started to turn from her.
She caught the sleeve of his flight suit. It was damp with sweat.
He probably smells like a horse.
Then she raised her face and kissed him, and it lasted much longer than she intended, and while she was kissing him, she realized that there probably wouldn't be a double bed and room-service champagne, but this was going to be one of those rare times when the urge and the opportunity had really come together.
[FIVE]
REPLACEMENT BATTALION (PROVISIONAL)
CAMP PENDLETON, CALIFORNIA
0705 29 JULY 1950
At the time it had been asked for and promised, Marine Corps assistance in the production of the motion picture film Halls of Montezuma, which would star Richard Widmark, had seemed like a splendid idea.
The script had been reviewed, and while there was a cer-tain melodramatic aspect to it, there was nothing in it that would in any way reflect adversely on the United States Marine Corps. To the contrary, Richard Widmark's charac-ter manifested traits of selfless heroism in keeping with the highest traditions of the Marine Corps.
And it was to be a major film, which would appear on the screens of at least half the motion picture theaters in the United States.
As one senior officer put it privately to Marine Corps Commandant Cates, "What we get, for loaning them a cou-ple of companies of infantry, the use of the boondocks at Pendleton, and letting them take pictures of amphibious landings under close air support-which we're going to run anyway-is really a two-hour recruiting film. I think it's a win-win situation for the Corps, and I recommend we do it."
That was then, nine months before the Army of the Peo-ple's Democratic Republic of North Korea had crossed the 38th Parallel and started for Pusan.
Now was now. The last thing the United States Marine Corps needed at Camp Pendleton now was a civilian army of motion picture production people running around the reservation, and expecting-demanding-what they had been promised, "full cooperation."
One of the problems that crossed the desk of Brigadier General Clyde W. Dawkins shortly after it had been made clear the Corps was going to war again was in the form of a succinct note from the sergeant major.
General:
The Hollywood Marines are starting to arrive.
Maj L. K. Winslow (Pub Info) has been assigned to 1st Prov Brigade.
Sgt Major Neely.
Major L. K. Winslow, who had been on the staff of the G-3, had been detailed to the Public Information Office to deal with the Halls of Montezuma motion picture produc-tion company. He was a good officer. When Brigadier General Craig had begun to staff the 1st Provisional Marine Brigade, one of the first officers he'd asked for was Major L. K. Winslow.
That meant there was no officer now charged with deal-ing with the movie people.
General Dawkins had summoned Sergeant Major Neely to his office.
"What do we do about this?"
"Sir, we have a major who is now spending most of his time inventorying supply rooms."
"A major doing what?" Dawkins had blurted, then re-membered hearing that Major Macklin-having somehow irked the G-l-had been sent to contemplate his sins while he inventoried supply rooms. "You mean Major Macklin?"
Sergeant Major Neely nodded.
"I don't know..."
"The PIO is up to his ass in alligators," Neely said. "Somebody has to deal with the Hollywood Marines."
There is no reason, Dawkins decided at the moment, that Macklin can't contemplate his sins, whatever they were, while dealing with the Hollywood Marines.
"Send for Major Macklin, please, Sergeant Major," Dawkins ordered.
"Aye, aye, sir."
In the forty-five minutes it took to notify Major Macklin that the deputy commanding general wished to speak to him personally, and for Macklin to reach Dawkins's office, Dawkins had a little-very little-time to ruminate on his decision.
He was aware that he was not one of those who thought the Richard Widmark cinematic opus was a great thing for the Marine Corps. He was further aware that he had heard somewhere that this Macklin character was a three-star asshole. He was forced to draw the conclusion that he had allowed his personal feelings to color his decision; that he had sent an asshole to deal with the Hollywood assholes.
That was not the thing to do. The Marine Corps had de-cided the movie was in the best interests of the Marine Corps, and that being the case, it behooved him to support the movie as best he could, which obviously meant he shouldn't send this asshole major to deal with the Holly-wood assholes.
He would have to find some really competent officer, on a par with Major L. K. Winslow, to assist the Hollywood people in their production.
Just about at the time he had reached this conclusion, Sergeant Major Neely stuck his head in the door and re-ported that Major Robert B. Macklin, USMC, had arrived.
"Send him in, please," Dawkins had ordered. Since he had summoned him, courtesy required that he at least talk to him.
Major Macklin-who was, Dawkins was somewhat sur-prised to see, a good-looking, trim, shipshape Marine offi-cer-entered the office, walked to precisely eighteen inches from General Dawkins's desk, and came to atten-tion.
"Major Macklin, Robert B., reporting as ordered, sir."
"At ease, Major," Dawkins said.
Macklin stood at ease.
"This may sound like a strange question, Macklin, but do you have any public relations experience?"
"Yes, sir, I do."
That's not what I expected to hear.
"In the Corps?"
"Yes, sir."
`Tell me about it," Dawkins ordered.
"Sir, when I returned from the `Canal-"
"You were on Guadalcanal?" Dawkins asked.
I'll be damned.
"Actually, sir, I was on Gavutu."
"Then why did you say `Guadalcanal'?"
"I've found, sir, that it's easier to say Guadalcanal than have to explain that Gavutu was a nearby island."
That's true. Gavutu is not well-known.
"What were you doing on Gavutu?"
"Actually, sir, I didn't get a chance to do much on Gavutu. I went in with the ParaMarines and took a hit be-fore I reached the beach."
The ParaMarines were decimated-literally, they lost ten percent of their men-landing on Gavutu.
"I see," Dawkins said. "And?"
"I was on limited duty, sir, and the Corps assigned me to a war bond tour. It had several aces from Guadalcanal."
"Oddly enough, I'm familiar with that tour. Several of those aces were mine. And you were the pub
lic relations guy for that tour?"
"Yes, sir, and*-I was still on limited duty, sir-for oth-ers that followed."
W E B Griffin - Corp 09 - Under Fire Page 36
