Retreat, Hell! tc-10

by W. E. B Griffin

  "I wish I shared your faith," she said bitterly.

  He didn't reply.

  "For the last four days," Patricia said, "ever since Dick Fowler called and told me you were on your way to Washington, I have had fantasies of having your arms around me. And I promised myself I would remember it isn't your fault. . . what's happened to Pick . . . and that I wouldn't be a bitch. . . ."

  He looked at her a moment, then nodded.

  "If you promise not to bite my jugular, Patricia," he said softly, "I'll put my arms around you."

  She didn't reply.

  He took a step toward her, then held his arms open. Very slowly, she walked into them, and he held her against him.

  "Oh, my God, Flem," she said softly, and then she began to sob. "Oh, God, I've missed you!"

  "Me, too, honey." His voice was not quite under control.

  He held her a long time, until her sobs subsided.

  Then she said, "I wish you'd take off that goddamn uniform."

  "I'll still be a Marine, honey," he said.

  "My fantasy was to feel your bare arms around me," she said softly.

  "Well," he said. "I guess it is like riding a bicycle. You never forget how."

  He was lying on his back in their bed. She was lying half on him.

  She pinched him, painfully, on the soft flesh of his inner thigh.

  He yelped.

  "I'd forgotten you do that, too," he said.

  She didn't reply.

  "Pick's got a girl," he said.

  "Pick has always had a girl," she said. "He wasn't even five years old when he talked Ernie Sage into playing doctor, and it went downhill from there."

  "This is serious, I think," Pickering said.

  "I have heard that before, and find it very hard to believe."

  "In many ways, she's very much like you."

  "You know her? That is unusual."

  "Yeah. I know her. And Ernie knows her and likes her too; they've become quite close."

  She propped herself up on her elbows and looked down at him. "Tell me about her. What do you mean, she's like me?"

  "Tough, smart, competent, and, I think, very much surprised to find her­self in love with Pick. She's a reporter, a war correspondent. Jeanette Priestly, of the Chicago Tribune."

  "I've seen her stories," she said. "No pictures."

  "Tall, graceful . . . like you. Long blond hair. Not peroxide. Blue eyes. Good-looking young woman."

  "I had a mental picture of a middle-aged frump with a short haircut," Pa­tricia said.

  "No. Very nice."

  "And they're in love?"

  "Yeah. And I mean love, rather than lust."

  "If you think that, then it is serious."

  "It had to happen eventually," Pickering said. "It's the natural order of things."

  "How's... what's her name? Jeanette?... taking what's happened to Pick?"

  "About like you, me, and Ernie," Pickering said. "Stiff upper lip. She doesn't say much. But there's really not much that can be said, is there?"

  "Do you know what happened—I mean, in detail—to Pick? How was he shot down?"

  "He was flying what they call 'low-altitude tactical interdiction sorties, seek­ing targets of opportunity,' " Pickering said. "What he was doing was shooting up locomotives."

  "Railroad locomotives?" she asked, surprised.

  "If you can take out, for example, an enemy supply train, that denies the enemy supplies and ammunition, and so on. Pick was apparently pretty good at it. He had three locomotives painted on the nose of his airplane."

  "I thought he was shot down by another airplane."

  "We pretty much have what is known as air superiority," Pickering said. "A lot—most—of aviation activity is in close support of the troops on the ground."

  "So it was antiaircraft fire?"

  "What Billy Dunn . . . You remember Colonel Dunn?"

  "The tiny little man with an Alabama accent you can cut with a knife?"

  "That's him," Pickering said. "Billy thinks that a locomotive blew up just as Pick was passing over it, and there was damage to the aircraft, most likely to the engine, from parts of the locomotive. Pick had to make an emergency land­ing; he couldn't get back to the Badoeng Strait, the aircraft carrier."

  "Was he hurt?" she asked softly.

  "Billy didn't think so, and the proof seems to be that he's covered a lot of distance. If he was injured, he couldn't move as fast and as far as he has."

  "That sounds as if you know where he is," she said.

  "We have an idea where he is," Pickering said. "He finds a rice paddy some­where, and stamps out an arrow and his initials."

  "If you know where he is, then why can't you go get him?"

  "Because he has to keep moving. By the time a pilot who spots one of the arrows gets back to his aircraft carrier to report it, or by the time they can spot one of his arrows on an aerial photo—which is what happens most—and we can get people to that spot, he's three, four, five miles away. McCoy said the last time he doesn't think they missed him by more than a couple of hours."

  "But you really believe he's . . . going to come back?"

  "Yeah, I do."

  "Don't lie to me, Flem."

  The cold truth is that I don't know whether my faith that he's coming back is based on my professional assessment of the situation, or whether I'm just pissing in the wind.

  "I'm not, honey."

  The telephone on the bedside table rang.

  "Don't answer it," Patricia said. "God, we're entitled to at least a few minutes."

  "I have to, honey," he said, and stretched his arm out for the telephone.

  Patricia didn't move off him.

  "Pickering," he said.

  "The President wants to see you," Senator Fowler said without any pre­liminaries.

  "When?"

  "Right now."

  "Where?"

  "Here."

  "He's with you?"

  "That's right."

  "It'll take me a few minutes to get dressed."

  [TWO]

  There were two neatly dressed muscular men—obviously Secret Service agents—in the corridor when Pickering left his suite and walked down it to­ward Senator Fowler's suite.

  "The President is expecting you, General," one of them said to Pickering, then knocked at Fowler's door and opened it without waiting for a reply.

  Harry S Truman, President of the United States and Commander-in-Chief of its Armed Forces, was sitting on a couch in Fowler's sitting room drinking a cup of coffee. His hat was on the stable, and he was wearing one of his trade­mark bow ties. He stood up and smiled as Pickering entered the room.

  "I'm sorry to interrupt your homecoming . . ." he said, extending his hand.

  "Good morning, Mr. President," Pickering said.

  "... but as I was taking my walk, it occurred to me this would be a good time to speak with you," Truman finished. "I wanted to do that before having to make some decisions."

  "I'm at your disposal, Mr. President."

  "Will you excuse me, Mr. President?" Senator Fowler asked.

  Truman considered that.

  "Okay, Dick, if you'd rather not hear this," he said. "But you're welcome to stay."

  Fowler considered the reply, then sat down.

  "When I was in the Senate, General, I learned that there were a few mem­bers of the loyal opposition who could be trusted to place the country's inter­est above partisan politics, and Dick headed that list."

  "Thank you, Mr. President," Fowler said.

  "They were most often wrong about things," Truman said with a smile, "but they could be trusted."

  Fowler smiled at him.

  "Will you have some coffee, General?" Truman asked. "And please sit down."

  Truman pointed to the couch on which he was sitting, poured Pickering a cup of coffee, then slid to the far end of the couch and turned so that he was facing Pickering. He waited until Pickering had picked up his cup before co
n­tinuing.

  "Ralph Howe has told me of MacArthur's intention to move the X Corps around the Korean Peninsula and land it somewhere around Wonsan," he said.

  Pickering understood it was a question.

  "Yes, sir. I know. General Howe sent me a copy of his message to you. I got it in California."

  "And?" Truman asked.

  "Mr. President, I'm not qualified to question General MacArthur's strategy," Pickering said.

  "I'll be the judge of that," Truman said. "What do you think?"

  "Mr. President, there were a lot of people who thought that the Inchon Landing was a very bad idea. And from what I've learned, putting X Corps ashore at Wonsan will be a good deal easier than the Inchon operation."

  "No Flying Fish Islands to deal with?" Truman asked.

  How the hell did he hear about that?

  "No, sir."

  "You're aware that General Marshall has become Secretary of Defense?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "General Marshall tells me that MacArthur staged a clandestine operation under General Willoughby to take those islands just before the invasion."

  Pickering didn't reply.

  "Apparently, General Willoughby sent an officer to brief General Marshall on how the Inchon Landing was planned and carried out," Truman said.

  "Yes, sir."

  "And General Marshall told me," Truman said.

  Pickering didn't reply.

  "I was a little surprised to hear the story," Truman said. "I hadn't heard it from the CIA—Admiral Hillencoetter—at all, and the story I got from Ralph Howe was that it was your clandestine operation, and that not even General MacArthur knew about it until it was a done deed."

  Pickering didn't reply.

  "I'd like an explanation, if you don't mind, General," Truman said.

  "Mr. President, I accept responsibility for what happened," Pickering said.

  "Why did you feel it was necessary to keep the Supreme Commander in the dark?" Truman said.

  "Sir, I was at the Dai Ichi Building meetings at which the landing was dis­cussed. Very senior members of the planning staff raised the question of the Fly­ing Fish Channel Islands, and when was the best time to neutralize them. It was General MacArthur's decision that they be neutralized as the invasion fleet steamed down the channel. I thought—"

  " 'MacArthur is wrong. Those islands have to be neutralized earlier, and I can do it'?" Truman asked.

  "I didn't think I would have much chance of getting General MacArthur to reverse his position, as doing so would fly in the face of the recommenda­tions of his staff officers."

  "So you took it upon yourself to stage this clandestine operation, without telling either General MacArthur or seeking permission from Admiral Hillen­coetter to take an action known to be contrary to the wishes of General MacArthur?"

  "Sir, if my operation failed, the original plan to neutralize the islands would have taken place."

  "So you took it upon yourself to stage this clandestine operation, without telling either General MacArthur or seeking permission from Admiral Hillen­coetter to take an action known to be contrary to the wishes of General MacArthur?" Truman asked verbatim again.

  "Yes, sir. That's what I did."

  "I think some people would describe that behavior as ... the phrase 'loose cannon' comes to mind."

  Pickering didn't respond.

  Senator Fowler shook his head in disbelief, or perhaps resignation, at what Truman had revealed.

  "I'm not one of those people," Truman said. "Sometimes you have to do what you know is right, regardless of the consequences."

  He let that sink in.

  "And what did the Supreme Commander have to say to you when he found out what you had done?"

  Pickering, without realizing what he was doing, smiled at the memory.

  "Why are you smiling, General?"

  "Sir . . . When I told General MacArthur, he announced to his staff that it was his clandestine operation."

  Truman smiled back.

  " 'Victory has a thousand fathers'? Something like that? He wasn't angry with you?"

  "If he was, it didn't show, Mr. President."

  "Ralph tells me that, too," Truman said. "That MacArthur seems genuinely fond of you."

  Pickering didn't reply.

  "That was really a question, General," Truman said.

  "I'm not sure if 'fond' is the right word, Mr. President," Pickering replied. "I admire him—"

  "Warts and all?" Truman interrupted.

  "The latter overwhelm the former, Mr. President. I think his biggest wart... he's something like the architect Frank Lloyd Wright, who said, 'It's difficult to be humble when you know you're great.' "

  Truman chuckled.

  "I'll have to remember that one," he said.

  "When they made me a sergeant in France, Mr. President, a wise old gun­nery sergeant took me aside and told me the worst mistake I could make as a sergeant was to think I could be friends with my men."

  Truman nodded.

  "I think MacArthur knows that, practices that. What I suppose I'm saying is that he and Jean are lonely in the residence. Then I show up. Three things: I knew him—slightly—socially in Manila before the war. And I was with him through most of the Second War. And I'm not subordinate to him. And he knows that I like him. For those reasons, they include me in ... how do I say this? . . . their personal family."

  "In other words, he's not trying to either pick your brain or influence me through you?"

  "That, too, sir, frankly."

  "Tell me how you think he's going to act with regard to the new Secretary of Defense, General Marshall."

  "I don't think he had much respect for Secretary Johnson, Mr. Presi­dent. ..."

  "That wasn't the question."

  "I think he will be pleased to have a soldier as Secretary of Defense, Mr. President."

  "Even one he once described, in an efficiency report, as 'not being fit for regimental command'?" Truman challenged.

  "Yes, sir. I know that story, sir. Your question was 'How will he get along with General Marshall?' I don't think there will be any problems in that regard."

  "Did you ever hear that he described General Eisenhower as 'the best clerk I ever had'?" Truman asked.

  "Yes, sir. I've heard that story."

  "The United Nations has voted to permit the UN Command—which is of course General MacArthur—to enter North Korea and destroy the North Ko­rean Army," Truman said. "You're aware of that, right?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I'm concerned that General MacArthur might cross the Chinese and/or Russian borders, which would give them an excuse to enter the war. I don't want that. Do you think he understands that?"

  "Yes, sir. I'm sure he does."

  "How does General MacArthur rate the chances of the Chinese, in partic­ular, entering the war when it becomes apparent that the North Korean Army has been destroyed? Even if we don't cross the border, or bomb across it?"

  "I don't think he thinks they'll come in the war, sir."

  "And you?"

  "I don't know, Mr. President."

  "You don't have an opinion, or you don't want to disagree with General MacArthur?"

  "I don't think the possibility that they might enter the war should be dis­missed, sir."

  "I sent the Supreme Commander a personal message—phrased in much the same way as the one I sent you—saying that I would like to talk to him here," Truman said. "His reply was that he thought it would be 'unwise at this time' to come here, but he would, of course, if he was ordered to come. I have been wondering if he meant just what he said, or whether, should something go wrong—the Chinese enter the war, for example—while he was here, it would be my fault, because I ordered him to leave the Far East."

  "Sir, I think he's understandably reluctant to give up his command, for any length of time, for any reason."

  "I'm the President, General. I'm the Commander-in-Chief. When I send for somebody, they should come.
"

  "Sir, you asked my opinion," Pickering said.

  "Yes, I did, and you gave it," Truman said, and suddenly got to his feet. "Thank you for your candor, General."

  He started for the door and then turned.

  "I'm meeting General MacArthur halfway," Truman said. "That is, the Commander-in-Chief of this country is going to get on an airplane and fly to Wake Island and meet one of his generals, who is too busy to come here."

  "Yes, sir," Pickering said.

  "I may decide I want you to go with me. Or would that interfere with your schedule?"

  "Mr. President, I'm completely at your disposal."

  "Thank you," Truman said, and walked out the door.

  "Jesus H. Christ!" Pickering said when the door had closed.

  "Indeed," Senator Fowler chuckled. "I would hazard the guess that Ol' Harry's just a little piqued with MacArthur."

  "And I'm probably at least partially responsible," Pickering said.

  "I wouldn't flatter myself and think that, Flem," Fowler said.

  "Well, finding the silver lining in that black cloud," Pickering said. "I guess that settles the question of his offering me the CIA, doesn't it?"

  "In my professional opinion, Fleming, you are absolutely wrong about that."

  "You're kidding!"

  "Uh-uh," Senator Fowler said, shaking his head. "I'll give you seven-to-three for a hundred bucks that I'm looking at the next Director of the Central Intel­ligence Agency."

  [THREE]

  The House

  Seoul, South Korea

  O725 6 October 195O

  "That's the fifth time you've looked at your watch in the last five minutes," Lieu­tenant Colonel D. J. Vandenburg said to Major Kenneth R. McCoy. "Expect­ing somebody?"

  They were at the dining room table. The dishes and silverware had been cleaned away, and the table was covered with large maps of Korea, and with stacks of reports—many of them written in Korean—that reported sightings of Prisoners of War held by the North Koreans.

  "Dunston," McCoy said. "I guess he couldn't catch a ride in an airplane. And General Howe. I'm getting a little worried about both of them."

  "General Howe is fine, thank you for your concern," Major General Ralph Howe said, walking into the dining room trailed by Master Sergeant Charley Rogers.

  Howe draped the web strap of his M-2 Grease Gun on the back of a chair and sat down. Then he gestured impatiently for McCoy and Vandenburg, who had come to attention, to relax. Rogers, after glancing at the map, sat down on the other side of the table.