"Fair enough," McCoy said evenly, then: "Jesus, that hurt!"
"If I don't put these in right, they won't stay in. Understand?"
"May I come in?" Major General Almond asked from the doorway.
Dr. Warbasse looked up from McCoy's thigh.
"Yes, sir," he said.
"How is he?"
"He was very lucky," Dr. Warbasse said. "And what he should do is spend at least a day on his back."
"Unfortunately, Major McCoy is not subject to my orders," Almond said.
Almond held an olive-drab shirt, and trousers and a field jacket, in his hands.
"A present from Al Haig, McCoy," he said. "You're pretty much the same size."
"Thank you, sir. Tell him thank you, please."
As Almond watched, Dr. Warbasse finished the installation of the last of half a dozen sutures, painted the area with a purple antiseptic, covered the sutured area with an/adhesive bandage, and then wrapped the leg with gauze.
"If you get off that table, Major," Dr. Warbasse said, "you are doing so against medical advice."
"Thank you, Doctor," McCoy said, and sat up.
Dr. Warbasse prepared a hypodermic and stabbed McCoy three times, twice in the thigh and once in the arm.
"With that much of this stuff in you, if you were so inclined, Major, you could carouse all night with little chance of acquiring a social disease," Dr. Warbasse said. "I will now go get you a bottle of zombie pills."
"Thanks," McCoy said.
When he left the treatment room, Dr. Warbasse left the door open. Almond went to it and closed it.
"You want to tell me what's happened, McCoy?" Almond said. "Officially, or otherwise?"
McCoy did not immediately respond.
"Where were you when this happened?" Almond asked.
"A couple of miles offshore of Chongjin," McCoy said.
"You had been ashore?" Almond asked.
McCoy nodded.
"Doing?"
"Listening to Red Army low-echelon radio chatter," McCoy said.
"And?"
"I don't think the Russians are going to come in, at least now," McCoy said.
"And the Chinese?"
McCoy didn't answer.
"Why do I suspect your analysis of the situation is again not in agreement with that of General Willoughby?"
"The Chinese are going to come in, General," McCoy said. "I think there's probably as many as fifty thousand of them already in North Korea, and I now know there's five, maybe six times that many just across the border waiting to come in."
"Waiting for what?"
"Waiting for the Americans to get close to the Yalu," McCoy said.
"You have anything to substantiate that belief? Something hard?"
"No, sir."
"Nothing that would get General Willoughby to reconsider his analysis?"
"No, sir."
"Inasmuch as General Walker is about to, or already has, taken Pyongyang, the initial purpose of X Corps landing at Wonsan and striking across the peninsula is no longer valid. Under those circumstances, I suspect that I will get orders to strike with all possible speed toward the border. You think there will be Chinese intervention when we get close?"
"Yes, sir. That's what I think they'll do."
"Who have you told of your analysis?"
"I will tell General Pickering when I see him at Sasebo, sir."
"What's he doing at Sasebo?"
"I don't know, sir. Captain Dunwood just told me he's on his way there. It probably has to do with Major Pickering, sir. I think they moved him to the Navy hospital there."
"Who's Captain Dunwood?"
"He commands the Marines we borrowed from First MarDiv, sir. He's at a little base we have at Socho-Ri, on the coast."
"What was that business about a lady?"
"I didn't pick up much more than Major Pickering's girlfriend, the war correspondent, Jeanette Priestly? ..."
"I know her."
"... was killed in a plane crash on her way to Wonsan. One of my officers— Master Gunner Zimmerman, 'Fat Kraut'—was somehow involved in finding that out, and went to Sasebo to tell Major Pickering."
"That's tragic," Almond said. "The poor fellow. All that time . . . and when he's finally out of it, they have to tell him . . ."
"Yes, sir. It's a bitch." He paused, then added: "I suspect—I don't know— that's why General Pickering is headed for Sasebo."
"And why does he want you there?"
"I don't know, sir. But he wouldn't have sent for me unless he thought it was important." He reached for Al Haig's trousers and shirt. "Which means, sir, I have to get back aboard the Wind of Good Fortune."
"That's that powered junk?"
"Yes, sir. And head for Wonsan. We have a Beaver that will pick me up at the Capital ROK Division airstrip and take me to Seoul. I'll catch a plane there. Maybe a direct flight to Sasebo, if not through Tokyo."
McCoy pushed himself off the surgical table. There was pain, and he winced. He turned his back to Almond and slid the black pajama trousers down, and then, with effort, put his leg into the Army trousers.
"What happened this morning, McCoy? How did you take the hit?"
"Bad luck, sir. We had just gotten aboard the Wind of Good Fortune when all of a sudden there was a floodlight on us, and a North Korean—or maybe a Russian—patrol boat out there. We had .50 Brownings fore and aft, and we shot it up pretty quickly. But not until after they got their machine gun—and the damned mortar that got me—into action."
McCoy put on Captain Haig's shirt, then tucked it into the trousers.
"Tell Al thanks, please, sir," he said. "I really didn't want to have to go find a uniform somewhere."
"He will be pleased he could help," Almond said. "You're sure you're all right to get back on the junk?"
"Once I get aboard, I'll be all right, General. I was thinking maybe they could rig a bosun's chair and lower me into her."
"I'm sure they can," Almond said. "Thank you, McCoy."
"No thanks necessary, sir," McCoy said. "I'm just glad they don't shoot the messenger with the bad news anymore."
Ten minutes later, McCoy was lowered without incident in a bosun's chair onto the forecastle of the Wind of Good Fortune. As soon as he was aboard and out of the chair, she turned away from the Mount McKinley and headed westward toward Wonsan.
"Admiral, how much trouble is it going to be to get a message to the commanding officer of the hospital at Sasebo?" General Almond asked of Rear Admiral Feeney.
"No problem at all. What's the message?"
Almond handed him a sheet of paper fresh from Captain Al Haig's portable typewriter.
URGENT UNCLASSIFIED
COMMANDING OFFICER, NAVY HOSPITAL, SASEBO
TO BE DELIVERED TO BRIGADIER GENERAL FLEMING PICKERING, USMC, AS SOON AS POSSIBLE
PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM MAJOR GENERAL ALMOND, X CORPS PERSONAL MESSAGE BEGINS
DEAR FLEMING,
YOU KNOW WHERE I AM. I HAVE JUST MET WITH MAJOR MCCOY, WHO IS EN ROUTE TO SASEBO PER YOUR ORDERS.
HE GAVE ME SOME DISTRESSING INFORMATION WHICH I AM SURE HE WILL SHARE WITH YOU. IT IS A GREAT PITY THAT HE HAS NOTHING SOLID ENOUGH TO BACK IT UP TO FORCE A CHANGE OF ANALYSIS BY THOSE WHO HAVE TO BE CONVINCED. I AM CONVINCED HE IS RIGHT, BUT THAT DOESN'T MATTER, DOES IT?
MAJOR MCCOY IS TRAVELING AGAINST MEDICAL ADVICE, HAVING SUFFERED WOUNDS IN AN EARLY MORNING ENGAGEMENT TODAY. HE DID THE NEXT THING TO REFUSING MEDICAL TREATMENT IN ORDER TO COMPLETE HIS MISSION AND COMPLY WITH YOUR ORDER THAT HE GO TO SASEBO.
INASMUCH AS I STRONGLY SUSPECT THAT HE WILL NOT MENTION THIS TO YOU, AND THUS IT WILL NOT BECOME A MATTER OF OFFICIAL RECORD, I TELL YOU SO THAT HE MAY AT LEAST BE AWARDED THE PURPLE HEART.
IT SHOULD GO WITHOUT SAYING THAT I AM DELIGHTED THAT YOUR SON IS BACK FROM HIS UNIMAGINABLE ORDEAL.
WHERE DO THESE FINE YOUNG MEN COME FROM? I LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING YOU SOON.
BEST PERSONAL REGARDS.
; NED
END PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM GEN ALMOND TO GEN PICKERING
Chapter Fourteen
[ONE]
Fishbase Communications Hootch
Socho-Ri, South Korea
O747 19 October 19SO
"Cancel Bail Out, sir?" Staff Sergeant Al Preston, USMC, asked just as soon as Captain Dunwood had taken off his headset and turned from the radio.
Staff Sergeant Preston was wearing black pajamas and a black headband, and his face was smeared with black and dark brown grease. He had a Thompson .45-ACP-caliber submachine gun slung from his right shoulder. A canvas bag bulging with spare Thompson magazines and hand grenades hung from his left shoulder.
"Bail Out will not be necessary. Major McCoy is aboard 'a Navy vessel at sea,' " Dunwood said. "He couldn't say which one in the clear, but more than likely one of the ships carrying First MarDiv to Wonsan."
"What did they do, lose their radio?" Preston asked.
I really can't tell, Dunwood thought, if Preston is relieved that Bail Out has been canceled, or disappointed.
"That, too, I'm sure. Something went wrong," Dunwood said. "Major McCoy didn't say what, but he said there are two KIA and three WIA. We're to send a replacement crew for the Wind of Good Fortune to Wonsan. On the Beaver."
"Sir, is there any reason I couldn't get in on that?"
"You surprise me, Preston,' Dunwood said. "Here you are, a Marine with over six years' combat experience, and a staff sergeant. You're supposed to be bright enough to know that volunteering is something smart Marines just don't do."
"Sir, this is different," Preston said a little uncomfortably.
"How so?" Dunwood asked.
"This isn't like the regular Corps, sir. You know?"
Preston gestured around the communications hootch.
"You mean because of the refrigerator?" Dunwood asked innocently.
The hootch—because of the generator powering the radios, and because there was always an officer or senior noncom on duty—also housed a bright white Kenmore refrigerator that they had flown in on the Beaver from The House in Seoul.
"The refrigerator?" Preston asked, confused.
"You're right," Dunwood said. "I don't think even the commanding general of First MarDiv has a refrigerator full of Asahi beer."
"I wasn't talking about the refrigerator, sir," Preston said. "Jesus!"
"I'm a little confused, Preston. What are you talking about?"
"Sir, this isn't the Pusan Perimeter, is it?"
"No, it's not. I can't ever remember getting a cold beer when we were in the perimeter. Or, for that matter, a warm one."
Preston looked at him in bafflement for a long moment. Finally, he asked, "Sir, is there any particular reason the captain is pulling the sergeant's chain?"
"Oddly enough, Preston, there is."
"What's that, sir?"
"It can't go any further than this hootch," Dunwood said.
"Yes, sir."
"I've been thinking of volunteering myself," Dunwood said.
"For what, sir?"
"What I have been thinking is that sooner or later, they're going to send us back to the 5th Marines, and I don't really want to go back."
"I've been wondering how long this detail will last," Preston said.
"And I really don't want to go back to the 5th Marines," Dunwood went on. "Where one of two things would happen. They'd bring the company back up to strength, run us through some kind of training cycle, and put us back on the line. It would be the perimeter all over again. Or the war will be over, and they'll bring the company back up to strength, run us through a longer training cycle, and it would be Camp Pendleton all over again."
"Yeah," Preston said. "I've been thinking about that, too. So what are you thinking of volunteering for?"
"The CIA7," Dunwood said.
"How would you do that?"
"I don't really know. What I do know is that Major McCoy and Gunner Zimmerman are Marines—good ones, they were both Marine Raiders—and they're in the CIA. And we work for General Pickering, who's a Marine. I don't know how it works, but I'm really thinking seriously about asking Major McCoy what he thinks."
Sergeant Preston looked at him for a long time, expressionless, before he finally asked, "Sir, is there any way I could get in on that?"
"I'm not pulling your chain now, Preston. I'm serious about this."
"I sort of like this operation," Preston said.
"Major McCoy—I just told you—said he took two KIA and three WIA. To which his reaction was, send a replacement crew. You like that?"
"I'm not saying this is fun, sir. Don't get me wrong. But I know what we're doing here is important. I suppose when we were running around the perimeter saving the Army's ass, that was important, too. But if I'm going to get blown away, I'd rather it was because I fucked up, not because I was trying to un-fuck-up what some stranger's fucked up. You know what I mean?"
"Yes, I do," Dunwood said.
"What I really like about this operation is that the major and Gunner Zimmerman get things done. And they tell you what to do and don't stand over your shoulder making sure you do it. Shit, when the gunner left here after we found that lady's crispy corpse, all he said was, 'Take over, Captain Dunwood.' "
" 'Crispy corpse'? Jesus Christ, Preston! Show a little respect!"
"I wasn't being disrespectful, sir. That's what it was. When we put them bodies in the shelter halves, they was crisp. Like a barbecued pig."
"You know what I thought when the gunner left me in charge?" Dunwood asked, as much of himself as Preston. "I was happy, proud, like a second lieutenant getting his first platoon. And then I thought I must be crazy. I'm not a real Marine. I'm a weekend warrior, a goddamned car salesman—where do you think Major McCoy got Car Salesman as my call sign? Gunner Zimmerman is fat and German, and he's Fat Kraut, and I'm Car Salesman, because that's all I really am, a car salesman that got called up—"
"You're a Marine, sir, a goddamned good one," Preston interrupted. "Don't tell me different. I was in the perimeter with you from day fucking one until they pulled us out."
"What I was about to say," Dunwood went on after a moment, "was that the proof of that was that here I was, a captain, taking orders from a master gunner, and it didn't bother me at all. And then I realized I liked being here, doing what we're doing, a hell of a lot more than I ever liked selling cars."
"How the hell do you think I feel?" Preston asked. "Christ, sir, I was on recruiting duty. One minute telling some pimply-faced high school kid that once he gets to put on dress blues, he won't be able to handle all the pussy that'll be coming his way, and the next minute telling his mother that Sonny Boy not only will have a chance to further his education in the crotch, but will receive, just about every day, moral counseling from a clergyman of his choice of faith."
Dunwood laughed out loud.
"Are you suggesting, Sergeant Preston, that when I raise the question of CIA service to Major McCoy, I should mention your name?"
Preston considered that for a long moment.
"No, sir," he said finally. "I don't want you to do that."
"Change your mind, all of a sudden?"
"If the rest of the guys heard I did that, they'd all be pissed. I can't think of a one of them that really wants to go back to the 5th Marines. What I'll do, if you tell me what Major McCoy tells you, and it looks at least possible, is go see him myself."
Dunwood didn't reply.
"Or . . ." Preston had a second thought. "How much time do we have before the major gets back and you talk to him?"
"I have no idea when he'll be back. Or Gunner Zimmerman."
"I can ask the guys, who wants to go back to the crotch, and who wants to stay here . . . and get in the CIA official. And then everybody who wants the CIA can go see the major together."
"All right," Dunwood said. "I'll let you know what Major McCoy says."
"What about me going as replacement crew on the boa
t?"
"Take someone with you—another Marine. The rest Koreans. If Major McCoy or Gunner Zimmerman says you can go on the Wind of Good Fortune, it's okay with me. But get that grease off your face and get out of the pajamas before you go. You better take a replacement radio, too."
"Aye, aye, sir," Staff Sergeant Preston said.
[TWO]
Office of the Chief, Awards Branch
Office of the Chief of Naval Operations
Washington, D.C.
164O 19 October 195O
The duty day at CNO/CAB ended at 1600, but when Commander John T. Davis, USN/went to the office door of Captain Archie M. Young, USN, the chief, and/found him still hard at work at his desk, he was not at all surprised.
There were gold aviator's wings on Captain Young's breast, and submariner's gold dolphins on Commander Davis's breast. They pinned them on each day— as they had every right to do—even though Commander Davis had left the silent service four years before, and Captain Young had last sat in a cockpit eight years before.
Both had "busted the physical" and been disqualified for further service in the air/beneath the sea. Captain Young had told his career counselor in the Bureau of Personnel that he would really rather find anything else useful to do around the Navy than be a grounded aviator at a Naval air station or aboard a carrier, and Commander Davis had told his career counselor that he would rather do anything but stand on a wharf somewhere and watch a boat head out on patrol.
Neither wanted a berth in the surface Navy, either. That didn't leave much— unless they wanted to go back to school and get a law degree, or something along that line—but supply and personnel. They had each given personnel a shot, and to their surprise learned that it was really not as boring as they thought it would be—actually, sometimes it was a hell of a challenge—and that they were very good at their new specialty.
Today, Commander Davis thought, was one of those times when it appeared there was going to be a hell of a challenge.
Captain Young raised his eyes from his desk and took off his glasses.
"What have you got, Jack, that has kept you from rushing home to a cold martini?"
"I thought I would seek your wise guidance on this one, sir," Davis said. "Commander MAG-33 has been heard from."
Retreat, Hell! tc-10 Page 41
