"Pick," she said, and started to push herself out of the chair. Her face suddenly showed pain and went pale. "Oh, for Christ's sake!" she said faintly but angrily.
"Mrs. McCoy, are you all right?" Captain Schermer said as he walked across the room to her.
"No, I don't think I am," Ernie said. "Goddamn it all to hell!"
Captain Schermer took a close, if brief, look at her.
"Young woman, you stay right where you are," he ordered, and then went to the door.
"Nurse!" he called loudly. "Get a gurney in here!"
He went back to Ernie.
"Doctor, I don't want to lose this baby," she said softly.
"Of course you don't," Captain Schermer said. "And we're going to do everything we can to see that you don't.'
"Jesus H. Christ!" Pick said.
"Hang in there, Ernie!" Pick called as the gurney rolled out the door.
"Oh, shit," Ernie Zimmerman said when the gurney was gone and the door had swung closed. "Why the hell did I tell her about Jeanette?"
"She would have found out," Pick said. "If you are looking for the culprit in this little tragedy, you have to look no further than me."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Zimmerman asked.
"Think about it, old buddy," Pick said. "If I hadn't been engaged in trying to become the first locomotive ace in Marine Corps history, I wouldn't have been shot down, would I?"
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, Pick," Zimmerman said.
"And if I hadn't been shot down, then Ernie wouldn't have been worried about me for all that time, would she?"
"We were all worried about you," Zimmerman said.
"Yeah, but I don't think you love me, old buddy, and, more to the point, you are not with child," Pick said. "This is the fourth time she's tried to make the Killer a daddy. Did you know that?"
"He told me."
"And having been shot down, and not having the balls to do the decent thing, I hung around for all that time, until God, in his infinite wisdom, made that Army convoy make a wrong turn, so I could find them and thus save my miserable ass."
"Jesus!"
"And if I had not been flown here, then Ernie would not have felt obliged to take a daylong train ride in her delicate condition to come all the way down here to welcome the hero home, would she?"
"Coming here was dumb," Zimmerman agreed.
"Where, upon arrival, you told her that the hero's girlfriend, her friend because of me, was now a corpse burned beyond recognition. . . ."
"Jesus, I told you I feel sorry as hell about that. I should have known better."
"And I told you she would have found out," Pick said. "This isn't your fault, old buddy, it's mine."
The door opened and Lieutenant (j.g.) Rosemary Hills entered the room.
"Mrs. McCoy has been taken to the women's ward," she announced. "There are several very skilled gynecologists on staff—"
"Whoopee!" Pickering said sharply.
"Captain Schermer says that you are to wait here for him," Lieutenant Hills said to Zimmerman. "He wants to talk to you."
"Okay," Zimmerman said.
"And he wants the telephone number of her sponsor."
"What the hell is a sponsor?" Pick asked.
"Her husband, for example."
"Her husband doesn't have a telephone right now," Zimmerman said.
"He's in Korea?" Lieutenant Hills asked. Zimmerman nodded. "Then we'll want to send a message to his unit," she said.
"That's not possible," Zimmerman said.
"Why not?" she asked.
"I can't get into that," Zimmerman said.
"You're going to have to explain that," she said.
"I don't have to explain anything to you," Zimmerman said flatly.
"What would you say, Florence Nightingale," Pick asked, "if I were to tell you that the lady's husband, as we speak, is in enemy territory, behind the lines, so to speak, eavesdropping on the Russians?"
She looked at him almost in horror.
"And if it's all the same to you," Pick went on, "I would rather not have him learn right now that the man the poor bastard thinks of as his best friend has caused his wife to have another miscarriage."
"Pick, shut the fuck up," Zimmerman said.
Lieutenant Hills looked between them, then fled the room.
[THREE]
The USS DeHaven (DD 727)
39 Degrees 36 Minutes North Latitude
128 Degrees 43 Minutes East Longitude
The Sea of Japan
O72S 19 October 195O
The vessels transporting the X United States Army Corps from Inchon to Wonsan—attack transports, cargo ships, tankers, and the "screening force" to protect them against any potential danger—were spread out over miles of the Sea of Japan.
At the head of the screening force as it steamed north was the destroyer DeHaven. Her commander, Commander J. Brewer Welsh, USN, a lithe thirty-seven-year-old with closely cropped brown hair, was on the bridge.
"Captain," the officer of the deck said. "I have a radar target five miles dead ahead."
Captain Welsh was interested but not alarmed. There was no reason to believe the target in any way posed a danger to the invasion fleet. Carrier aircraft were patrolling the area. They would have reported the presence of any naval force long before the DeHaven’s radar picked it up.
Captain Walsh looked at the radar screen.
"Probably a fishing boat of some kind," he opined. "He's about to get a surprise, isn't he?"
He nevertheless reached for the ship-to-ship microphone.
"McKinley, DeHaven, "he said.
The USS Mount McKinley was the command vessel of the convoy. It carried aboard both the senior Naval officer of the convoy and the senior officer of the Army and Marine Corps troops who were to be landed.
"Go, DeHaven" an officer on the bridge of the McKinley replied.
"I have a radar target at about five miles, probably a fishing vessel."
"And?"
"I'm waiting until I have him in sight until I do anything."
"There's some Corsairs overhead. I'll have them take a look, and advise."
"Roger, thank you. DeHaven out."
O728 19 October 195O
Two Navy Corsairs approached the DeHaven from dead ahead at less than a thousand feet, dipped their wings, and then began to climb.
O729 19 October 195O
"DeHaven, McKinley, the Corsairs report it's a junk. I think that they probably woke them up, and they'll get out of the way." "Thank you, McKinley."
O731 19 October 195O
"McKinley, DeHaven, I have the junk in sight. Unless they're blind, they have to see us, but they are not changing course. And it looks to me as if she's under power."
"Junks don't have power, DeHaven. They are propelled by what are called 'sails.' "
"Thank you so much."
"They'll probably get out of the way when they see more than one vessel headed their way. Advise."
"Will do."
O735 19 October 195O
"McKihley, DeHaven, my junk is not changing course."
"Well, we don't want to run over him, do we? The admiral says to get him to change course."
"Understand. I'll make a run across his bow."
O741 19 October 195O
"McKinley, you're not going to believe this, but my junk just hoisted a large American flag. And she is not changing course."
"The admiral does not want the junk to approach the convoy."
"What am I supposed to do, fire a shot across her bow?"
A new voice came over the ship-to-ship.
"DeHaven, this is Admiral Feeney. If putting a shot across her bow is necessary, then that's what you should do."
"Aye, aye, sir. Sir, it is my intention to come alongside the vessel and signal an order to her to change course."
"Proceed," the admiral said.
O746 19 October 195O
"McKin
ley, DeHaven is alongside the junk. She is under power. A man in what looks like black pajamas has hailed DeHaven with a loudspeaker and says he is a Marine major named McCoy and desires to approach McKinley. Request guidance."
"DeHaven, Admiral Feeney. The junk is not, repeat not, to approach the McKinley. Take whatever action is appropriate."
"Aye, aye, sir."
[FOUR]
The Bridge, USS Mount McKinley (LCC-2O)
39 Degrees 34 Minutes North Latitude
128 Degrees 43 Minutes East Longitude
The Sea of Japan
O747 19 October 195O
"I think I know who that is," Major General Edward M. Almond, USA, said to Rear Admiral Ignatius Feeney, USN.
"You what?"
"I suggest you give him approval to approach your ship," Almond went on.
"It might prove very interesting."
"You're serious, Ned, aren't you?" Admiral Feeney asked, surprised.
Almond nodded. "Remember the islands in the Flying Fish Channel that were cleared before we got there?" he asked. "Unless I'm mistaken, that's the man who cleared them. OSS."
"OSS? Really?" Rear Admiral Feeney said. He reached for the ship-to-ship microphone. "DeHaven, permit the junk to approach the McKinley."
Both Navy reconnaissance aircraft and minesweepers on the scene had reported that there were still enough mines in the approaches to the harbors of both Wonsan and Hamhung to preclude the movement of oceangoing vessels into the harbors.
The invasion fleet, both to conserve fuel and because there was no point in making speed when the anticipated course for the next thirty-six hours was one large circle after another, was moving at ten knots.
Ten knots was still considerably faster than what Admiral Feeney—who, with General Almond, was now on the McKinleys flying bridge—understood the maximum speed of a junk under sail to be, and he was thus more than a little surprised when the junk approached the McKinley head-on, made a quick 180-degree turn, and then pulled alongside.
"I'll be damned," Admiral Feeney said. "That junk is motorized."
A man wearing black pajamas stood on the forecastle of the junk, holding an electric megaphone in his hand.
"Ahoy, McKinley. Can you hear me?"
"Loud and clear," Admiral Feeney said into the microphone of his electric megaphone.
"I have three wounded aboard," the man in the black pajamas called.
"Including Major McCoy, apparently," General Almond said. "Look at his leg."
The left leg of the pajamas was torn off above the knee. A bloody compress was on the upper thigh.
"Is that your OSS man?" Admiral Feeney asked.
Almond nodded. "Admiral, you are looking at the legendary Killer McCoy, U.S. Marine Corps," he said.
"I don't want that junk crashing into the hull," Admiral Feeney said almost to himself, then took the few short steps onto the bridge.
"The admiral is on the bridge!" a talker called out.
Admiral Feeney approached Captain Joseph L. Farmer, USN, the captain of the McKinley, and asked, "Have you a minute for me, sir?"
"You have the conn," Captain Farmer said to his executive officer, then followed Feeney out onto the flying bridge.
Admiral Feeney began, "The master of that vessel—"
"Jesus, he's been wounded!" Captain Farmer blurted.
"—reports that he has three wounded aboard. I was wondering what you think of lowering a lifeboat to the junk—not into the water—and transferring the wounded to the lifeboat from the junk as a means of getting them aboard."
"I think we can do that, sir," Captain Farmer said.
He went back onto the bridge.
A piercing whistle and then Captain Farmer's voice came over the ship's loudspeakers a moment later. "Attention all hands. All, repeat all, nonessential personnel will immediately leave the port-side boat deck immediately. Port-side Lifeboat One Crew report to your station immediately. Medical Emergency Team report to port-side Lifeboat One immediately."
The captain came back on the flying bridge.
A much younger voice—that of the talker—repeated the orders he had just broadcast.
The admiral, the general, and the captain watched silently from the flying bridge as the port-side Number One lifeboat's davits swung the lifeboat away from the ship, and then—after an ensign and three white hats got aboard— lowered it slowly toward the sea.
When the lifeboat was even with the forecastle of the junk, the man with the bandage on his upper left thigh threw a line to a white hat in the lifeboat, who hauled on it and pulled the junk slowly sidewards to the lifeboat.
Five men in black pajamas, all Orientals, appeared on the deck of the junk, then began to move three wounded men up onto the forecastle. Two of them had to be carried. The third was able, with help, to make it up the ladder on his feet.
Balancing precariously on the forecastle, they managed to manhandle the two more seriously wounded men into the lifeboat. Then the man who could walk and finally the American jumped into the lifeboat.
The line holding the junk to the lifeboat was cut, and the junk's helmsman turned her away from the Mount McKinley.
Electric motors whirred and the lifeboat began to rise against the McKinley's hull, and then was swung inboard.
The American with the bloody compress on his thigh jumped to the deck first.
He winced in pain, then saluted an officer on the deck.
"Permission to board, sir?" he asked.
"Granted," the officer said, visibly surprised.
The man saluted the colors aft.
A Navy doctor and half a dozen Corpsmen began to take the wounded from the lifeboat and to place them on aluminum stretchers.
"How are you, Major McCoy?" General Edward M. Almond asked. "That is not pro forma. What's with your leg?"
McCoy saluted him.
"I took a piece of shrapnel, sir," he said. "I don't think it's serious."
"Take Major McCoy to sick bay," Almond ordered.
"Sir, with respect, I need to get a message off as soon as I can. Sick bay will have to wait."
"What sort of a message?"
"We lost our radios, sir," McCoy said. "I don't want them mounting a rescue mission when they don't hear from us."
Almond turned to Admiral Feeney.
"The Navy can accommodate the major, can it not?" he asked. "Admiral, this is Major McCoy."
"Welcome aboard, son," Admiral Feeney said. "If you're able to walk, I know the way to the radio room."
"I can walk, sir. Thank you."
McCoy gave the chief radioman the frequency, then eased himself into a plastic upholstered metal chair before a rack of communications equipment. The chief handed him a microphone and headset.
"Fishbase, this is Flying Fish," McCoy said into the microphone. "Fishbase, Flying Fish."
The reply came immediately: "Go, Flying Fish."
"Flying Fish is three clicks as of 0530."
"Understand three clicks as of 0530. What are your coordinates?"
"Aboard a Navy vessel at sea. If Bail Out is under way, cancel. If Bail Out is underway, cancel. Acknowledge."
"Acknowledge cancel Bail Out. Bail Out was just about to launch."
"Who’s this?"
"Car Salesman."
"Killer here. Where Fat Kraut?"
"Sasebo."
“Say again?”
"Fat Kraut Sasebo. Big Daddy en route Sasebo."
"What’s up?"
"From Big Daddy. Killer will proceed Sasebo ASAP. Acknowledge."
"Acknowledge proceed Sasebo ASAP. What's up?"
"Little Daddy is in Sasebo. Lady Friend bought farm. Fat Kraut carrying bad news."
"Say again?"
"Fat Kraut carrying bad news, Lady Friend bought farm, to Little Daddy in Sasebo."
"Understand Lady Friend bought farm. Where's Beaver?"
"Beaver here."
"Send Beaver Korean Marine. Wait for me. Acknowledge."
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"Acknowledge Beaver to wait for you at Korean Marine."
"Contact Wild Bill Junior. Arrange transportation for me Seoul Sasebo. ETA Korean Marine 1200. Acknowledge."
"Acknowledge Killer ETA Korean Marine 1200. Wild Bill Junior to arrange transportation Seoul Sasebo."
"What happened to Lady Friend?"
"Gooney Bird went in on way to Wonsan."
"Advise Big Daddy I'm en route Sasebo. Acknowledge."
"Acknowledge advise Big Daddy Killer en route Sasebo."
"Send replacement crew for Wind on Beaver. We took two KIA, three WIA. Acknowledge."
"Acknowledge replacement crew on Beaver. How Killer?"
"Killer fine. Mind the store, Car Salesman. Flying Fish out."
"Fishbase clear."
McCoy laid the microphone on the desk and took off the headset.
"About the only thing I understood about all that, Major McCoy," General Almond said, "was 'Killer fine.' And that's just not so. You're bleeding all over the linoleum."
He pointed. There was a small puddle of blood on the linoleum under McCoy's chair.
"Can you make it to sick bay under your own power? Or shall we get you onto a stretcher?" Almond asked.
"I've got to get to Wonsan, sir. I'm all right."
"You're not going anywhere until they have a look at your leg. Clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, there's nothing in there," Lieutenant Warren Warbasse, MC, USNR, said to Major McCoy, who was lying prone on a medical table in sick bay. "And no serious muscle damage that I can see."
"They got lucky," McCoy said. "Hitting something with a mortar from a small boat under way isn't easy. I think I actually saw the round coming in."
"A half inch the other way, and what sliced your thigh would not have bounced off," Dr. Warbasse said.
"Four inches the other way, and I'd be a soprano," McCoy said.
"The sutures I'm going to put in will disappear," Dr. Warbasse said. "There is a danger of infection, of course. The penicillin I'll give you will probably take care of that. You need a day on your back, and when you get up, it will hurt like hell every time you put weight on it."
"I don't have time to spend a day on my back. Can you give me something for the pain that won't turn me into a zombie?"
"I can give you something—reluctantly—that will handle the pain," Dr. Warbasse said as he started the first stitch. "The more you take of it, the more you'll become a zombie."
Retreat, Hell! tc-10 Page 40
