“The evaluation doesn’t exist. The worst scenario for him is to say he was completely surprised by what happened, and strongly hint that he was let down by incompetent junior intelligence officers.”
“But your evaluation . . .”
“Doesn’t exist,” McCoy said.
Pickering looked at his watch.
“Pick’s liable to walk in any minute,” he said. “We can’t let him know about this.”
“Why not?” McCoy asked.
“You’ll show it to Pick and not to Ernie?” Pickering challenged.
McCoy went to Pickering, took the report, and handed it to his wife.
She had just begun to read it when the bells tinkled.
“You go,” Ernie ordered. “I’m reading this.”
Pick Pickering came into the room a moment later.
He and McCoy embraced.
“You may now call me ‘Speedy’ Pickering,” Pick said. “It’s official.”
Pickering handed him the sheet of notebook paper on which Colonel Stanley had written Colonel Huff’s private telephone number.
“Call Colonel Huff, identify yourself as Captain Pickering, calling for me—for General Pickering—and say that I would be honored if General and Mrs. MacArthur would join me for cocktails and dinner at the Imperial—”
“Boss, El Supremo never goes to the Imperial,” McCoy interrupted. “Or anywhere else, either, really.”
“So I read in Time,” Pickering said. “Make the call, Pick.”
“What the hell is going on?” Pick asked.
“Make the call, and then we’ll bring you up to speed,” Pickering said. “But for a quick answer, it seems like old times.”
[TWO]
NO. 7 SAKU-TUN DENENCHOFU, TOKYO, JAPAN 1805 1 JUNE 1950
The Japanese housekeeper came into the room and said something in Japanese to Ernie Sage McCoy.
“Colonel Huff for you, Captain Pickering,” Ernie translated. “There’s an extension by Ken’s chair.”
“Huff is calling to say that Supreme Commander and Mrs. MacArthur would much prefer that you come to the Embassy,” Ken McCoy said.
“Probably,” Fleming Pickering said, with a smile. He followed Pick to the telephone on the table beside Ken Mc-Coy’s armchair.
Pick picked up the telephone.
“Captain Pickering,” he said.
He held the phone away from his ear so that his father could overhear the conversation.
“This is Colonel Huff, Captain.”
“How are you, Colonel?”
“Captain, I relayed General Pickering’s invitation to the Supreme Commander. He asked me to get word to General Pickering that he and Mrs. MacArthur would much prefer that the general come to the Supreme Commander’s quarters for cocktails and dinner. Is that going to pose a problem for the General?”
“I’ll have to ask him, Colonel. Would you please hold?”
It was not the reply Colonel Huff had expected. This was clear in his voice as he said, “Of course.”
Pick covered the microphone with his hand, then whispered, “How long are we going to make him wait?”
“Sixty seconds,” Fleming Pickering said, with a smile. “Sixty seconds is a very long time when you’re hanging on a phone.”
Pick put the telephone on his shoulder, holding it in place with his chin, and then pushed the button on his aviator’s chronometer that caused the sweep second hand to start moving.
Sixty seconds seemed like a long time. Ernie Sage McCoy shook her head and smiled at her husband.
Finally Pick took the telephone from his shoulder.
“That will be fine, Colonel. What time would General MacArthur like my father to be there?”
“The Supreme Commander’s limousine will be at the Hotel Imperial at 1900. Would that be convenient?”
Fleming Pickering touched Pick’s arm and shook his head, “no.”
“Dad’s not at the Imperial, Colonel.”
“Oh?”
It was obviously a request for information. Pickering shook his head “no” again.
“And he has a car,” Pick said. “I’m sure he would prefer to have it with him. I don’t know what his schedule is after dinner, but I’m sure there will be something.”
“The Embassy at 1930, then,” Huff said. There was a tone of annoyance, slight but unmistakable, in his voice. “Would that be convenient?”
“If something comes up, Colonel, I’ll call. But I feel sure Dad can meet that schedule.”
“Thank you very much, Captain.”
“Not at all, Colonel.”
Pick hung the phone up.
“How’d I do?”
“You annoyed Huff. There will be a reward in heaven,” Pickering said.
Ernie Sage McCoy, smiling, shook her head again.
The maid reappeared almost immediately, and delivered another message in Japanese.
“Another call for Captain Pickering,” Ernie translated.
“I’ll bet I know who that is, Ken,” Fleming Pickering said, and when he had McCoy’s attention, went on in a credible mockery of General Charles Willoughby’s pronounced German accent: “ ‘Ven der Supreme Commander says he vill send hiss limousine, Cheneral Pickering vill ride in der limousine, or I vill haf him shot!’ ”
McCoy chuckled.
Pick picked up the telephone.
“Captain Pickering,” he said, then: “Oh, hello, Uncle Charley. What’s up?”
There was a pause.
“Oh, hell, I thought you forgot about that. And there’s no way I can get out of it?”
Another pause.
“Okay. I’ll be right there. But see how short you can make it, okay? I want to have dinner with the guy who married my childhood sweetheart.”
He chuckled and hung up.
“Charley Ansley says ‘Hi, Ernie,’ ” he said.
“And?” Ernie said.
“There’s going to be a press conference, and the entire future of Trans-Global Airways depends on my being there.”
“Why don’t you take Ken and Ernie with you,” Fleming Pickering said. “And then out to dinner.”
He could tell from McCoy’s face that he didn’t want to go. And from Ernie’s that she did.
“Honey?” she asked.
“Sure, why not?” McCoy said.
[THREE]
THE RESIDENCE OF THE SUPREME COMMANDER, ALLIED POWERS TOKYO, JAPAN 1930 1 JUNE 1950
The two impeccably turned-out Army military policemen at the gate to what had been the U.S. Embassy compound and was now the residence of the Supreme Commander, Allied Powers, who had been at Parade Rest—standing stiffly erect, with the hands folded on the small of the back—came, very precisely and very slowly, to attention and very slowly raised their hands in salute as the 1941 Cadillac limousine approached the gate.
They held the salute until the gate opened and the limousine passed through, before very slowly bringing their rigid hands down from the forward lip of their chromed steel helmets and returning to Parade Rest.
The motions were artificial, more like ballet movements than a military gesture—
Like, the passenger of the limousine thought, somewhat unkindly, like those clowns standing in front of Bucking-ham Palace in those comic opera bearskin hats.
What’s that all about? Does El Supremo think he’s the Mikado? They already have an emperor of Japan, I just drove past his palace.
Yeah, but the truth of the matter is, that ridiculous emperor doesn’t have any power, and this one, El Supremo, does.
He is the Supreme Commander, Allied Powers.
He sends for the Emperor—I saw that in the newspaper—and the Emperor comes. Jesus Christ, Douglas MacArthur is the king of Japan.
Watch your temper, Fleming Pickering!
You’re here to help Killer McCoy, not to tell El Supremo what a pompous ass he is.
There were a second matched set of MPs standing at either side of the door of what had been the U.S. Amb
assador’s residence, and they, too, repeated the slow-motion salute as the limousine pulled up before the building and an officer—a major in the regalia of an aide-de-camp—came quickly down the shallow flight of steps.
He pulled the passenger door open and stood at attention.
“Good evening, General Pickering,” he said. “The Supreme Commander expects you, sir. If you’ll be good enough to come with me?”
“Thank you,” Pickering said, got out of the limousine, and walked into the residence ahead of the major.
Colonel Stanley, who had come to the Imperial Hotel, was waiting for Pickering in the main corridor of the building.
“Good evening, General,” he said, offering his hand. “The Supreme Commander and Mrs. MacArthur are in the library.”
“Hello, Colonel,” Pickering said.
Stanley pushed open double doors, stepped into the center of the opening, and announced:
“Brigadier General Pickering, USMC!”
The only thing missing is four clowns in purple tights blowing trumpets with flags on them.
A white-jacketed steward—obviously a Filipino, but not the Philippine Scouts Master Sergeant Pickering remembered as MacArthur’s personal servant—stood almost at attention before a sideboard on which bottles, glasses, and silver bowls of ice, lemons, and maraschino cherries were laid out.
MacArthur stood with his wife and three officers at the far end of a long, rather narrow table on which sat a silver-flowered bowl. Pickering knew two of the three officers, Major General Charles A. Willoughby and Colonel Sidney Huff. The third officer, a stocky, somewhat pale-faced major general, he had never seen before.
He missed and looked for Lieutenant General Richard Sutherland, who had been MacArthur’s chief of staff throughout World War II, until he remembered reading that Sutherland had been returned home for unspecified reasons of health.
Sutherland, Willoughby, and Huff—and their underlings—had been “The Bataan Gang,” MacArthur’s intimate circle.
If that two-star is here, with the Bataan Gang, he must be Sutherland’s replacement.
“Fleming, my friend,” MacArthur called in his sonorous voice. “How wonderful to see you!”
Pickering walked along the table toward him.
“It’s good to see you, General,” he said, offering his hand.
Jean MacArthur stepped close, offering her hand and then her cheek.
“Jean, you look wonderful,” Pickering said, as he kissed her cheek.
“General,” Willoughby said. He was a large, imposing, erect man.
“General” came out “Cheneral.” I wonder if Ol’ Charley knew that, behind his back, he had been known—and probably still is—as “Adolf” and “Der Führer.”
“General,” Pickering replied, then turned to Colonel Huff.
“Good to see you, Sid,” he said. “How are you?”
“General,” Huff said. His smile was strained.
“And you don’t know General Almond,” MacArthur said. “Ned took Dick Sutherland’s place as chief of staff.”
Almond offered his hand.
“I’ve heard a good deal about you, General,” he said.
“If you’ve heard it from these two,” Pickering said, indicating Huff and Willoughby, “then I deny everything.”
Jean MacArthur laughed. MacArthur smiled, and so did Huff and Willoughby, but for them it was visibly an effort.
A photographer, a middle-aged master sergeant, appeared, holding a Speed Graphic camera.
The subjects of the photography were posed in three different positions: all the officers standing together, with MacArthur and Pickering in the middle; MacArthur and Pickering standing together; and MacArthur, Mrs. MacArthur, and Pickering with Mrs. MacArthur in the middle.
The photographer left and the Filipino steward served drinks. Pickering was not offered a choice, but when he sipped at his whiskey and water the taste was familiar.
Somewhere, obviously, it has been filed away that Pickering, Fleming BG, USMCR, likes Famous Grouse whiskey.
“Old times, my dear Fleming,” MacArthur said, raising his glass.
“Old times, General,” Pickering repeated.
“I was just telling Almond,” MacArthur said, “that you were in Australia when, having been ordered from Corregidor, Jean and I and the others arrived.”
“I remember it well,” Pickering said.
“What I remember was that you were a Navy captain,” Jean MacArthur said, “who I remembered as a friend, as a merchant marine captain in Manila. And then you went to the Guadalcanal invasion, and the next time I saw you, you were a Marine general officer. I never quite understood that.”
“Either did I, Jean,” Pickering said. “There were a lot of us who received commissions in the services for which we were clearly not qualified.”
“Now, that’s simply not true,” MacArthur said. “You were a splendid officer. Your contributions, not only to my campaigns, but to the entire war effort in the Pacific, prove that beyond any question.”
He turned to General Almond.
“General Pickering was not only deeply involved in the planning of my invasion of Guadalcanal, but went ashore with the first wave of Marines to make that landing . . .”
That’s not true.
I was involved in the planning, but only because I knew shipping and the practical knowledge of the subject on the part of most of the logisticians involved—Army, Navy, and Marine Corps—was practically nonexistent.
And I was not in the first wave of Marines to land on Guadalcanal, or the second, or the third. I didn’t go ashore until I heard that the MCCAWLEY was about to sail away, leaving the Marines on the beach, and I realized that I couldn’t live with myself if I sailed with her. Then I went ashore.
“. . . where General Vandegrift immediately put him into the breach as his intelligence officer, to replace an officer who fell in action . . .”
Well, that’s true.
“. . . and, when leaving Guadalcanal on a destroyer,” MacArthur went on sonorously, “despite grievous wounds, Pickering assumed command when her captain was killed in a Japanese attack . . .”
It wasn’t anywhere near as heroic as you’re making it sound. I was on the bridge when her captain was killed; I’m a master mariner; and when a ship’s master can’t perform his duties, the next best qualified man takes over. That goes back to the Phoenicians. That’s all I did.
“. . . for which he was decorated at the personal order of Admiral Nimitz,” MacArthur continued.
And I’ve always wondered if Nimitz didn’t regret having done so, when Roosevelt shoved the OSS down his throat on my back.
“And of the many Distinguished Service Medals it was my privilege to award, Fleming, I can think of none more deserving than yours.”
What did the Killer say about the DSM? “It’s the senior officers’ Good Conduct Medal, awarded to rear-area chair-warmers who have gone three consecutive months without catching the clap.”
“That’s very kind of you, General,” Pickering said. He turned to General Almond. “What happened was that Secretary of the Navy Knox wanted me to do some intelligence work for him, and decided that I could do that job better as a Marine.”
“You were never a Marine, previously?” Almond asked, surprised.
“In the First World War, I was a teenaged Marine buck sergeant,” Pickering said.
“And in the First World War, as a teenaged enlisted man, General Pickering was awarded the Navy Cross,” MacArthur said, almost triumphantly, as if winning an argument. “I really don’t understand you, Fleming. Modesty is certainly a virtue, but denying that you’re not every bit as much a soldier as anyone in this room is simply absurd.” He paused and then drove home his point. “You’re one of us, Fleming. Wouldn’t you agree, Willoughby?”
“Yes, sir, I agree,” General Willoughby said.
“Huff?”
“Absolutely, General,” Colonel Huff said.
“
You’re all very kind to think of me that way,” Pickering said.
And there is absolutely no chance of me getting MacArthur alone for a minute to talk to him about McCoy and the North Koreans. These three are going to be here all night—this is obviously a command performance for them.
I could, of course, ask him for a moment alone, and bring up the subject. But that would make it clear that McCoy had gone “out of channels,” and the fact is, I shouldn’t know what I do. McCoy still thinks of me as “his general,” but he’s wrong. I’m not his general, and he should not have shown me that.
Jesus H. Christ! What the hell am I going to do?
[FOUR]
CONFERENCE ROOM B THE HOTEL HOKKAIDO TOKYO, JAPAN 1715 1 JUNE 1950
Charley Ansley was waiting for Pick in the corridor outside the hastily rented room in which a tablecloth-draped table had been set up facing four rows of folding chairs.
When he saw Ernie Sage McCoy and Ken McCoy with Pick, he smiled. He had come to know both well in the early years of World War II, when, at Fleming Pickering’s request, he had given them the use of his cabin cruiser in San Diego. Housing in San Diego at that time had been in very short supply, and absolutely unavailable to couples who were not legally joined in matrimony.
He had been at their wedding, when Ken came home from a hush-hush mission in the Gobi Desert with brand new major’s leaves on his uniform.
“God, it’s good to see you,” he said, extending his left arm to embrace Ernie as he extended his hand to McCoy. “How’s my favorite Marine?”
“I thought I was your favorite Marine,” Pick said.
“No, you’re my favorite Trans-Global pilot, and not only because you are going to go in there and smile, and be modest, and restrain your well-known tendency to be a wiseass.”
“Nice to see you, Mr. Ansley,” McCoy said, smiling.
“Maybe not ‘Uncle Charley,’ like the prodigal son here, but at least ‘Charley,’ Okay?”
McCoy nodded.
“Pick,” Ansley asked, “do you think your father would mind if I called the Imperial and had them set up a bar, and hors d’oeuvres, in his suite?”
“Yes,” Pick said, simply, smiling.
Under Fire Page 6
