"General Almond sent me a message to that effect, sir. One of the first things that the Deputy to the Deputy here is charged with doing is finding out how I can get a Purple Heart for him."
"That won't be a problem, Colonel," MacArthur said. "Major McCoy will receive his Purple Heart from my hands."
"Sir?" Banning and Pickering asked, surprised, in chorus.
"Whenever I can," MacArthur said, "I like to visit my wounded in hospital, and personally pin the Purple Heart medal on them. I had already planned to fly to Sasebo tomorrow to do so there. And I will take great pleasure in seeing that your man McCoy is properly decorated."
"That's very kind of you, sir," Pickering said.
"There is, of course, as always, room for you on the Bataan,"
"I appreciate that, sir, but I have a lot to do here."
"It'll be a quick trip. Depart Sasebo at 0600, go to the hospital, and then come right back."
Pickering didn't reply immediately, and MacArthur went on: "A photo of your man McCoy getting his medals from me, with you and his wife looking on—even if not for publication—would be something I daresay they would treasure for the rest of their lives."
Pickering thought: Goddamn it, he's right.
"You're right, sir. I'll be at Haneda at 0600."
"Willoughby," MacArthur asked. "When can you make time in your schedule for General Pickering and Colonel Banning?"
"At any time, sir."
"Now, for example?"
“Yes, sir.”
"Well, that's it, then. Welcome back to the Far East, Colonel. Good luck on your new assignment. And I'll see you, Fleming, first thing in the morning."
[SIX]
Room 3O8, Maternity Ward
U.S. Naval Hospital
U.S. Navy Base, Sasebo
Sasebo, Japan
O915 23 October 195O
Captain George F. Hart, USMCR, came through the door trailed by an Army captain—who had a Leica 35-mm camera hanging around his neck, and a brassard reading 'PIO' around his right sleeve—and Lieutenant (j.g.) Rosemary Hills, NC, USNR.
"Well, how are things in Honeymoon Heaven today?" he inquired cheerfully.
"What the hell are you doing here, George?" Major Kenneth R. McCoy— who was sitting propped up in the oversized Sumo Wrestler's Special Bed sharing Stars and Stripes with his wife—inquired.
"Captain, the ugly one, with the inhospitable attitude," Hart said, "is Major McCoy. The good-looking one is Mrs. McCoy."
"Good morning," the captain said.
"What the hell is going on, George?" McCoy asked.
"You are about to be decorated with the Purple Heart medal by El Supremo himself," Hart said.
"Oh, bullshit!" McCoy said.
"And the Silver Star," the captain said.
"But not in that bed," Hart said. "When Colonel Huff heard about the two of you cozily together in the wrestler's bed, he made the point that it lacks the proper military flavor for this momentous occasion."
"Screw him!"
"Ken!" Mrs. McCoy said.
"And General Pickering agreed with him. You will get your Purple Heart in a wheelchair, as Mrs. McCoy, in her wheelchair, looks adoringly on."
"And the Silver Star," the captain repeated. "The Purple Heart and the Silver Star."
"What the hell is he talking about, Silver Star?" McCoy asked.
"Sir, you are about to be awarded the Silver Star and the Purple Heart," the captain said.
"We don't have much time," Lieutenant (j.g.) Hills said, and rolled a wheelchair up to Ernie's side of the bed. "Can you make it all right, Mrs. McCoy?"
"I'll be all right. But would you hand me my cosmetics kit and the hand mirror from the bathroom?"
"Just as soon as we get you into the chair," Nurse Hills said.
"You need some help, Ken?" Hart asked.
"What I want to know is, what the hell he's talking about," McCoy said. "What about the Silver Star?"
"Sir, you are about to receive, third award, the Silver Star medal," the captain said.
"For what?" McCoy asked, genuinely confused.
The captain reached into his tunic pocket and came out with a thin stack of folded paper. He searched through it, peeled one sheet away from the others, and started to hand it to McCoy.
"Here's the citation, sir," he said.
"Wait until he's in the wheelchair," Hart said. "El Supremo and entourage are hot on our heels. You can read it after you're decorated."
Hart rolled a second wheelchair to the bed. McCoy, wincing, threw the light hospital blanket and sheet off his legs, swung them out of bed, and gingerly lowered himself first to the floor and then into the wheelchair.
Hart snatched the blanket from the bed and began to arrange it around his legs.
"Jesus Christ, George!" McCoy said.
"Why don't we put the chairs against the window?" the captain said. "If we close the drapes, we have our background."
"Let me see that citation, Captain," McCoy ordered as Hart rolled him toward the window.
The captain handed it to him, and McCoy started to read it.
"This is absolute bullshit!" McCoy announced angrily.
"Ken!" Ernie cautioned again.
"I don't know what the hell is going on here," McCoy said. "But I'm not going to have a goddamn thing to do with it. This is pure, unadulterated bullshit!"
The door was swung open by Captain F. Howard Schermer, MC, USN, who commanded, "Attention on deck!"
General of the Army Douglas MacArthur marched into the room, trailed by Mrs. Jean MacArthur; Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR; Colonel Sidney G. Huff; two other aides-de-camp, a major and a captain; one Army photographer—the master sergeant who was usually at MacArthur's side; one Navy photographer; and half a dozen members of the medical staff of the U.S. Naval Hospital, Sasebo, including Commander J. V. Stenten, NC, USN, who was in Navy blues, and wearing all of her medals—not the ribbon representations thereof—and which occupied a substantial portion of the left side of her tunic.
"As you were," the Supreme Commander ordered as he followed Mrs. MacArthur to Mrs. McCoy in her wheelchair.
"I'm glad to see you looking so well, my dear," Jean MacArthur said, and leaned over and kissed her. Then she handed her a box of Whitman chocolates.
"Thank you," Ernie said softly.
"Good to see you again, Major McCoy," MacArthur said. "How's the leg?"
"Getting better, sir," McCoy said.
"Good," MacArthur said. "Unfortunately, we are really pressed for time. Get on with it, Sid."
"Attention to orders," Colonel Huff barked. "Supreme Headquarters, United Nations Command, Tokyo, 21 October 1950. Subject: Award of the Silver Star Medal. By direction of the President, the Silver Star Medal, Third Award, is presented to Major Kenneth R. McCoy—"
"Excuse me, sir," Major McCoy said.
Huff looked at McCoy, frowned, and went on: "—United States Marine Corps Reserve—"
"Excuse me, sir," Major McCoy said, louder.
"Yes, what is it, Major?" Colonel Huff asked icily.
"With all possible respect, sir, I have read that citation, and it's . . . it's not true, sir."
"—for conspicuous gallantry in action above and beyond the call of duty—"
"Sir, I cannot accept that medal."
"Major, be silent!" Colonel Huff ordered.
"Just a minute, Sid," MacArthur said. He gestured with a regal wave of his hand for everybody to leave the room. Mrs. MacArthur, General Pickering, Colonel Huff, and Captain Schermer remained behind.
"Let me see the citation," Pickering said.
McCoy handed it to him. Pickering read it and extended it to MacArthur.
"I didn't know about the Silver Star, sir," Pickering said. "If I had, this . . . situation could have been avoided."
MacArthur read it, then raised his eyes to McCoy.
"There is something faulty, in your opinion, about the citation? Is
that it, Major?"
"Yes, sir. It's completely faulty. I didn't rescue Major Pickering. He found a lost Army convoy. ..."
"So General Pickering has told me," MacArthur said. "But I put it to you, Major McCoy, that in my judgment, and I'm sure in General Pickering's as well, the citation is not entirely faulty. There is the phrase 'for conspicuous gallantry in action above and beyond the call of duty.' I find that completely justified, even if the details in the citation attached may be something less than entirely accurate."
"Sir—"
"Let me finish, Major, please," MacArthur said.
"Sorry, sir."
"What we have here is a situation in which the Commander-in-Chief, having been made aware of your conspicuous gallantry above and beyond the call of duty, decided, and announced before witnesses, including General Pickering and myself, that it was his desire your valor be recognized by the award of the Silver Star."
"Sir, I didn't do anything that citation says I did."
"That I think can be remedied," MacArthur said. "Sid, see that the citation attached is changed to read, 'for services of a covert and classified nature behind the enemy's lines' with no further specificity."
"Yes, sir."
"Does that satisfy you, Major McCoy?" MacArthur asked.
"Sir, I don't deserve the Silver Star."
"I think you do, Ken," Pickering said.
"And so do I. More important, so does the President," MacArthur said. "Now, Major, may I presume that when we get the others back in here, Colonel Huff can proceed without any further interruptions from you?"
After a moment, Major McCoy said, "Yes, sir."
"Get them back in here, Sid," the Supreme Commander ordered.
[SEVEN]
Aboard Naval Air Transport Service Flight 2O3 (Medical Evacuation)
32.42 Degrees North Latitude
12O.296 Degrees West Longitude
The Pacific Ocean
163O 25 October 195O
Lieutenant Commander Dwayne G. Fisher, USNR, a slightly plump, pleasant-appearing thirty-nine-year-old, came out of the door to the flight deck of the four-engined Douglas C-54 and made his way slowly down the aisle to the rear of the passenger compartment.
The aircraft was configured to carry litters. There were two lines of them, stacked three high. Almost all of the litters were occupied, and almost all of the injured were Marines. They were all strapped securely to the litters, which had thin inflatable mattresses, olive drab in color, but not unlike the air mattresses used in swimming pools. About one-third of the injured were connected to rubber tubing feeding them saline solutions, pain-deadening narcotics, or fresh human blood, or various combinations thereof.
Commander Fisher stopped at just about every row of litters. Sometimes he just smiled, and sometimes he said things like "How you doing, pal?" or "We're almost there. About another hour and we'll be in San Diego."
Sometimes the injured men replied, if only with a single word or two or a faint smile. Some stared at him without response. Four of the men in the litters were covered with sheets. They had not survived the flight.
At the rear of the fuselage, where they had been loaded last so they could be off-loaded first, were the NPs. The stress of war had been too much for them, and they were headed for the Neuro-Psychiatric Wards of the San Diego Naval Hospital. They had all been sedated, and strapped to their litters more securely.
Commander Fisher stopped at each row of NPs, but they were out of it, and he didn't speak to them, only gave them a little smile.
At the extreme rear of the passenger compartment was a patient whom Dwayne Fisher wanted to talk to. He was an NP, but the flight physician had told him that was probably just a technical classification to get him to the States. The poor bastard was a Marine fighter pilot who'd just been rescued after three months behind the enemy's lines.
"He's nothing but skin and bones, but he's not over the edge," the flight physician had told him.
"Hi!" Commander Fisher said.
What does this asshole want?
"I understand you're also an airplane driver."
What are you doing, writing a book?
"Guilty."
"Fighters?"
And also Lockheed 1049s. You are conversing, sir, with the current holder of the Trans-Pacific scheduled passenger service speed record.
"Corsairs."
"I flew P-38s in War Two," Fisher said. "Which twin-engine time I parlayed into a job with Eastern. Where I flew these. Which kept me out of fighters when they called me up."
"Reservist?"
Dumb fucking question. If he was called up, he was in the reserve.
"Yeah. You?"
"Me, too. I was flying for Trans-Global."
"Ten-forty-nines?"
"That's all Trans-Global has."
"Nice airplane."
"Very nice."
"You were shot down?"
Back to your fucking book, are we?
"Uh-huh."
"I'm surprised they didn't grab you for NATS," Commander Fisher said. "Most of our guys are called-up airline pilots."
"They didn't."
"I just called our ETA—one hour—to San Diego," Fisher said. "It's been a long haul."
It's been a fucking nightmare.
"It's been a nightmare."
"Walking down that aisle is tough," Fisher said. "The amazing thing is, you don't get complaints."
Not from the drugged or the dead, I guess you don't.
"A couple of hours out of Honolulu, I went to the head. I saw . . . the sheets. How many didn't make it?"
"I counted four."
"I guess the rest of us are lucky, huh?"
"From what I hear, you're luckier than most. You were behind the enemy's lines for three months, right?"
"Yeah."
"And you're walking around. You look like you're in pretty good condition?"
"Yeah. I'm in good condition."
The way my commanding officer put it, with devastating honesty, Commander, is that I am a self-important sonofabitch whose delicate condition is my own goddamn fault. He went on to say that my childish behavior caused a lot of good people to put their necks out to save me from the consequences of my sophomoric showboating.
That should be me under one of those white sheets. Commander Fisher put out his hand.
"I better get back up and drive the bus," he said. "Nice to meet you, Major. Good luck." "Thanks."
[EIGHT]
Naval Air Station, San Diego
San Diego, California
174O 25 October 195O
As the C-54 taxied through the rain, Pick could see a line of ambulances and buses, and beside them a small army of medical personnel and a long line of poncho-covered gurneys.
The C-54 stopped on the tarmac before the passenger terminal, and when the cargo door opened, Pick saw that a forklift had been driven up to the aircraft. It held a platform, on which were four gurneys and eight Corpsmen in raincoats with Red Cross brassards.
The dead were off-loaded first. Four Corpsmen came onto the aircraft, went to one of the bodies, unfastened the litter, and carried it down the aisle to the door and the waiting gurneys. The body was gently moved from the litter to the gurney and covered with a poncho, but not before enough rain had fallen on the sheet to make it translucent.
Then the litter was carried back onto the aircraft, and a second body on its litter carried out to the gurneys waiting in the rain.
When all four gurneys had bodies, the forklift lowered the platform.
When it came back up, there were four Corpsmen, different ones, on it. The flight physician was now waiting for them. They exchanged a few words, then the flight physician turned to Pick.
"Okay, Major, you're next," he said. "Do you need help to go out there and get on a gurney?"
"I don't need a gurney."
"It's policy."
"Fuck your policy."
"You made it all the way here witho
ut giving anybody any trouble. Please don't start now."
"I'm not going to get on a fucking gurney."
"You're going to get on it, Major. The only question is whether you do it now or after I sedate you."
"Major," one of the Corpsmen said, "with respect. It's raining out here. Please."
Pick stood up, walked through the door, and climbed onto one of the gurneys. One of the Corpsmen laid a poncho over him.
Three more NPs were brought off the aircraft. They were not transferred to the gurneys. Rather, their litters were laid on top of the gurneys and then they were strapped to it.
A Corpsman appeared with two lengths of canvas webbing.
"Let me get this around you, and we're on our way," he said.
"You're going to strap me to this fucking thing?"
"That's the SOP," the Corpsman said. "Take it easy. The sooner we get to the hospital, the sooner we can take it off."
Fuck it.
What do I care?
What do I care about anything?
When the straps were in place, Pick could not move his arms and wipe the rain from his exposed face.
So what the fuck?
The forklift lowered the platform, and the gurneys were rolled off it—Pick's first—with a double bump, and then to one of the buses. The buses had enormous rear doors that permitted the gurneys to be wheeled aboard them.
The way he was strapped in, he could raise his head. But all he could see out the bus's windshield was the open door of the bus ahead of his.
He laid his head back down.
Several minutes later, he heard the door being closed, and when he looked up, he saw a white hat come down the aisle, get behind the wheel, and start the engine.
The bus turned out of the line.
The next thing Pick saw was a sign: WELCOME TO THE U.S. NAVAL HOSPITAL, SAN DIEGO!
Chapter Fifteen[ONE]
Room 3O8, Maternity Ward
U.S. Naval Hospital
U.S. Navy Base, Sasebo
Sasebo, Japan
O815 25 October 1950
Captain F. Howard Schermer, MC, USN, as Hospital Commander, was not required to make routine morning or afternoon rounds with members of his medical staff—after all, he had a lot else to occupy his time—but of course he had the unquestioned right to do so.
When he had the time, in other words, he often would join one of the teams making rounds to keep his fingers, so to speak, on the pulse of the hospital. And he would usually ask Commander J. V. Stenten, NC, USN, his Chief of Nursing Services, to accompany him. Between the two of them, very little that needed correction escaped notice.
Retreat, Hell! tc-10 Page 44
