Retreat, Hell! tc-10

by W. E. B Griffin

  "Hand me the field scarf, please," he asked, pointing to the necktie hang­ing from a hook.

  Hart handed it to him, and McCoy turned around to face the mirror and worked the field scarf under his shirt collar.

  "That hurt. I was better off before I let the doc talk me into the wheelchair."

  "What did you do on the plane?" Hart asked.

  "Planes," McCoy corrected him. "The Beaver from Wonsan to Seoul, and it hurt to move when I got out of that. Then a C-54 to Pusan. I walked up and down the aisle in that—it was the courier plane, full of chair warmers giving me dirty looks because I was wearing Al Haig's shirt and pants—and it didn't hurt—or hurt less—when I got off it. And I walked—not far—around Pusan to keep it from getting stiff until I got on a Navy Gooney Bird that brought me here. Hospital plane, full of wounded Marines. I walked up and down the aisle of that one, too. And I was doing pretty good until I got here. Now it hurts like hell."

  "Moving pulls on the sutures," Hart said.

  "Thank you, Dr. Hart. I had no idea what was making me hurt."

  He pulled on a tunic, examined himself in the mirror, then turned away from it.

  "I think I'll pass on the wheelchair," he said.

  "Not only did you give your word as an officer and gentleman, but Ernie's room is way to hell and gone across the hospital."

  "Well, maybe I can ride part of the way," McCoy said, and carefully low­ered himself into the wheelchair.

  Outside the room with the sign "McCoy, Mrs. Ernestine NO VISITORS," Hart took the roses from McCoy's lap and held them while McCoy got out of the wheelchair and painfully moved his leg around. Then, when McCoy nod­ded, Hart handed him the roses and pushed open the heavy door.

  "That will be all, Captain Hart, thank you," McCoy said, and walked into the room.

  Ernie was in bed, with the back raised, reading a book. She looked up when she saw him.

  "You apparently can't read, Major," she said after a long moment. "The sign says no visitors."

  "What are you reading?"

  "A novel. The Egyptian."

  "Is it any good?"

  "It is not about Korea or childbearing," Ernie said. "What's with the roses?"

  He walked to the bed and handed them to her.

  If I limped, she didn't seem to notice.

  "Knowing you as I do, these were somebody else's idea," Ernie said.

  "Hart's," McCoy admitted. "You almost got a bonsai tree."

  "Are you going to put your arms around me, or I am that repulsive in my bloated condition?"

  He leaned over the bed and put his arms around her.

  "Oh, Ken, I've missed you!" she said into his neck.

  "Me, too, baby," he said.

  "How much do you know?" Ernie asked, still speaking into his neck.

  "I know it was a damned fool thing to do, taking a train down here," he said.

  "I almost lost it," she said. "But I had to see Pick."

  "I know."

  She let him go, and sort of pushed him away.

  "Okay. Now what's wrong with you?" she asked.

  "Nothing's wrong with me," he said.

  "You're as pale as a sheet, and there's something wrong with your leg," she said.

  "I took a little piece of shrapnel," he said.

  "Is that why you're walking that way?"

  "What way?"

  "Ken, is that why you're walking that way?"

  "I suppose."

  "You want to lie down with me?"

  "I want to, but is it smart?"

  She shifted herself to the far side of the narrow bed, then patted the near side.

  He very carefully got into the bed beside her, but was unable to do so with­out wincing several times.

  "I don't think this is going to work," he said.

  "You want to feel him or her? Him or her just kicked me again."

  "Is that good or bad?"

  She took his hand and guided it to her stomach.

  "Jesus!" he said. "Does it do that all the time?"

  "Him or her does that frequently," Ernie said. "Do not call him or her 'it.' "

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Their eyes met again. He moved his hand from her stomach to her face.

  "My God, I love you so much," he said.

  "It took you long enough to say it," she said.

  The door swung open, and Captain E Howard Schermer, MC, USN, marched in, followed by a middle-aged, gray-haired, short and stocky nurse whose badge identified her as Commander J. V. Stenten, NC, USN, Chief Nursing Services, and Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR.

  "When I told you, Major McCoy," Captain Schermer said, "that you would have to spend at least the next four days in bed, I really had a bed of your own in mind."

  McCoy, looking guilty, started to swing his legs out of bed.

  "Belay that!" Captain Schermer ordered.

  McCoy stopped moving.

  "How bad is he, Doctor?" Ernie asked.

  "He has been sewn up," Dr. Schermer said. "If he does what he's ordered to do, in three weeks or a month he should be as good as new."

  "He very seldom does what he's ordered to do," Ernie said.

  "So General Pickering has been telling me," Dr. Schermer said.

  "Is there any reason another bed can't be brought in here for him?" Ernie said. "I'll see he does what he's told to do."

  "It is against both regulation and policy," Dr. Schermer said.

  "That wasn't her question, Captain Schermer," Pickering said.

  "Doctor, the sumo bed?" Commander Stenten asked.

  "You're one step ahead of me again, Commander Stenten," Captain Scher­mer said. He turned to Pickering. "What I was thinking, General, was that if, in contravention of regulation and policy, we rolled another bed in here for Major McCoy"—he pointed across the room—"the first thing either or both of them would do the minute the door was closed would be to push the beds close to each other. Neither of them should be (a) on their feet and (b) push­ing furniture around. This applies even more to Major McCoy, since he is about to take the medicine for pain prescribed, which is certain to make him more than a little groggy."

  "Will you behave, Ken?" Pickering asked.

  Captain Schermer ordered: "Get the bed, Commander."

  "Aye, aye, sir," Chief of Nursing Services Stenten said, and went to the tele­phone on Ernie's bedside table. She dialed a number and then issued several or­ders of her own: "Chief, this is Commander Stenten. Get the sumo bed out of the attic. Bring it, now, to 308 in the Maternity Ward, together with two new mattresses and linen." She hung up, then turned to Captain Schermer. "On the way, sir."

  "As a matter of historical interest," Captain Schermer said, "when we took over this hospital after the last war, we found that it was equipped to handle sumo wrestlers in need of medical attention. Some of them weigh well over two hundred kilograms—more than four hundred pounds—and they apparently didn't fit in standard Japanese hospital beds. I think these two should both fit comfortably into it."

  "Thank you," Pickering said.

  "But I think I should tell you, Major," Commander Stenten said, "that if you don't behave, you will almost instantly find yourself in a single bed in Ward F-7, where we care for those suffering from what is euphemistically called 'so­cial disease.' "

  "Commander Stenten, Major," Captain Schermer said, "is more or less af­fectionately called, behind her back, of course, 'The Dragon Lady.' Don't cross her."

  [FIVE]

  Supreme Headquarters, United Nations Command

  The Dai Ichi Building

  Tokyo, Japan

  O9OO 21 October 195O

  As they started down the corridor to the office of the Supreme Commander, Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, caught the arm of Colonel Ed­ward Banning, USMC, who stopped and looked at him.

  "When we march in there, Ed, we salute," Pickering said. "The Army salutes indoors."

  "Yes, sir," Banning said. "I remember."

&nbs
p; Pickering waved him down the corridor.

  In the outer office, Colonel Sidney L. Huff, MacArthur's senior aide-de­camp, stood up when Pickering and Banning walked in.

  "Good morning, General," he said.

  "How are you, Sid?" Pickering said. "You remember Ed Banning, don't you?"

  "It's been a long time, Colonel," Huff said, and put out his hand.

  Neither Pickering nor Banning thought his smile looked very sincere.

  "The Supreme Commander will see you now, General. He's been expect­ing you."

  "Not for long, certainly, Sid," Pickering said. "You said nine o'clock, and Banning and I stood out in the corridor for fifteen minutes looking at his very expensive Rolex until it was oh eight fifty-nine fifty-five."

  "Yes, sir," Huff said.

  He opened the right of the double doors to MacArthur's office and an­nounced, "General Pickering, sir."

  Pickering saw that Major General Charles M. Willoughby was in the office, sitting in an armchair by a coffee table.

  "Come on in, Fleming," MacArthur called.

  The two Marines marched in, stopped eighteen inches from MacArthur's desk, and saluted.

  "Good morning, sir," Pickering said. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

  "It's always a pleasure to see you, as I've told you time and again. Will you have some coffee?"

  "Yes, thank you. General, you remember Colonel Banning, don't you?"

  "Yes, of course," MacArthur said. "Good to see you again, Colonel. And you remember General Willoughby, of course?"

  "Yes, sir, I do," Banning said.

  Willoughby gave Banning his hand but didn't say anything.

  "This is fortuitous, General," Pickering said to Willoughby. "I was hoping to get a couple of minutes of your time this morning."

  "I'm at your disposal, General," Willoughby said.

  "Thank you," Pickering said. "The reason I asked to see you, sir, was to introduce—reintroduce?—Colonel Banning to you as my deputy."

  "What does that make him, General?" Willoughby asked. "His title, I mean?"

  Pickering chuckled. "General, General Smith and I got a laugh out of that, too, in Washington, when he made the appointment. General Smith asked, 'If Colonel Banning is going to be Deputy to the Deputy Director of the CIA for Asia, what are we going to call his number two, when he inevitably appoints one? The Deputy to the Deputy to the Deputy Director?' "

  MacArthur chuckled.

  "Obviously, the nomenclature on your manning chart needs some work. But Banning is obviously a sound choice for the job, whatever the title, and I look forward to working with you again, Colonel, and I'm sure General Willoughby is similarly pleased."

  "Thank you, sir," Banning said.

  "Speaking of intelligence, Fleming," MacArthur said, "I got several interesting bits of intelligence just now by officer courier from Ned Almond—on an Interoffice Memorandum form, which also seems a bit incongruous, with Ned's office right now being on the Mount McKinley and mine here—which I really wanted to talk to you about." "Yes, sir?"

  "Ned said that he'd run into your man McCoy—more about that in a moment—and that McCoy had told him it is his belief that the Russians will not enter this war, but that the Chinese certainly will." It was a question as well as a statement.

  "If Major McCoy said anything like that—and I don't doubt that he did— it was unofficial, out of channels, and if the rank difference were not so great, I'd say between friends. That was not the CIA speaking."

  "General Almond took pains to make sure I understood that," MacArthur said. "McCoy, he said, admitted that he had absolutely nothing concrete on which to base this conclusion. But your man McCoy obviously impressed Ned to the point where Ned thought he should pass it on to me. And I would be grateful to learn what you think."

  "General," Pickering said, "unofficially, out of channels, and between friends—if I may so presume—and absolutely not as a statement, or even an opinion, of the CIA, I'd bet on McCoy."

  "My sources, General Pickering," Willoughby said coldly, "have turned up nothing that suggests that either the Chinese or the Soviets are coming in."

  "Which I find disappointing," MacArthur said. He stopped when he saw the look on Willoughby's face. "Because, Willoughby," he went on, "if they crossed the border into northern Korea, I would have the opportunity to bloody the Chinese nose, something which could be rather easily accomplished with our available airpower, and without the political ramifications incident to our crossing the border into China."

  MacArthur paused, then went on: "I was disappointed in the conclusions you have drawn from your intelligence, Willoughby, not with the intelligence."

  "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

  "Do you follow my reasoning, Fleming?" MacArthur asked.

  "I'm not sure, sir."

  "We're talking about face," MacArthur explained. "The importance of which never seems to be understood in Washington. Let me try to explain: My basic reasoning in not wanting to cross the Chinese border for any purpose, in any strength, for any distance—and, Fleming, I am fully aware there are many Washingtonians who sincerely believe I am frothing at the mouth for any ex­cuse to cross the border—is face.

  "A platoon of American soldiers in Manchuria would cause the Chinese to lose face. They would be forced to regain face, not only by expelling the American force, but by retaliating. They would feel wholly justified to send a company—or even a battalion—across the border to regain face. What would happen next I can only conjecture, but I know as certainly as I do that the sun will rise in the morning that the only circumstances under which a war with China should be fought is when the objective is total victory, the total de­struction of the Chinese Communist infrastructure of government. I doubt if that could be accomplished without the use of nuclear weapons. And I cer­tainly am not advocating such a move or, indeed, any military action which, even by accident, sees even the aforementioned platoon of infantry cross the border."

  Pickering thought: He wants to give me—and probably Banning, and maybe even Charley Willoughby—this little lecture, of course, but I think he hopes— maybe expects—that I will immediately report it to Truman. Which, of course, I will. Am I thereby being manipulated? Or just doing my job?

  "However," MacArthur went on, "the reverse is not true. If the Chinese were to be so misguided as to send a military force—even a substantial one, say a hundred thousand men, even two hundred thousand—across the border, and we annihilated most of it—as we are completely prepared to do—and sent the rest fleeing in chaotic retreat back across the border, while they would lose some face, they wouldn't lose much. The Chinese capacity for self-delusion is limitless. They would immediately say the force they sent was inconsequential, and that they withdrew of their own choosing. And, since face does not govern my military actions, we would not retaliate—for the reasons I have just given—and the incident would end there. To our advantage. We would have reduced a substantial military force to ineffectiveness, and bloodied their nose, imparting the lesson that the United States of America cannot be pushed around with impunity."

  Pickering thought: He believes that, and he's just about got me convinced, too. I wonder what Beetle Smith would think, if he were here?

  "For those reasons, Fleming," MacArthur went on, "unofficially, out of channels, and between friends—if I may so presume—and absolutely not as a statement, or even an opinion, of the UNC Supreme Commander . .

  He paused, waiting for appreciation of his wit, got it in the form of smiles and chuckles, and then went on: "... I really hope that General Willoughby is wrong, and your man McCoy right."

  There were more appreciative responses.

  "Which brings/us to him," MacArthur went on again. "Your man McCoy."

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Ned also told me that he had been wounded in action."

  "Yes, sir. That's true."

  "While behind the enemy's lines on some mission?"

  "He was w
ounded while being exfiltrated from North Korea, where he had gone to eavesdrop on what he called 'low-level Russian radio traffic,' " Picker­ing said.

  "Isn't that the job of the Army Security Agency?" General Willoughby asked.

  "I can only suppose that Major McCoy didn't get what he wanted to hear from the ASA, General," Pickering said coldly.

  "You'd agree, General, wouldn't you, that coordination would have ensured that your man McCoy didn't have to waste his effort—and indeed get shot in the process—if he had let the ASA do their job while he did his?"

  "The trouble with that, Charley—" Pickering snapped, and was immedi­ately aware that his mouth was about to run away with him. He stopped.

  Charm and courtesy is what is called for here.

  Dutch Willoughby is El Supremo's fair-haired boy.

  Fuck it.

  "—is that you don't mean 'coordination.' You mean control by Charley Willoughby," Pickering went on. "I fired my Tokyo station chief primarily be­cause he 'coordinated' entirely too much with you. That's not our function— one of the things I wanted to make sure you understood clearly when I met with you later on to discuss your relationship with Ed Banning."

  Willoughby's face showed anger and surprise. He looked at MacArthur to get his reaction.

  "According to Ned Almond," MacArthur said, as if he had not heard a word of the exchange, "while it could easily have been worse, the wound—while quite painful—is not serious."

  "He's in the Navy Hospital in Sasebo, sir," Pickering said.

  "With your son? That's—I hate to say fortunate—but if they have to be in hospital, it's fortunate that they can be together," MacArthur said.

  "My son is on his way to San Diego, sir," Pickering said. "They felt 'Diego could give him more of what he needs than they could." He paused and smiled. "But Major McCoy is not alone. Mrs. McCoy went to Sasebo to see my son, and they—concerned for her advanced pregnancy—ordered her to bed."

  "She's all right?"

  "She was as of when we left last night, sir. Dr. Schermer says having McCoy there is very good for her."

  "Almond also said that he was afraid that McCoy would not mention his wounds to you, and if he did, you would not mention them to me. Ned wants him to have the Purple Heart."