“Colonel,” Dawkins said. “Listen to me carefully. I’ll tell you what you are going to do vis-à-vis Captain McCoy, who is at this moment en route here. You will immediately receive him in your office. Ninety seconds after you receive him in your office, he will depart your office on leave until the last day of his active service as an officer. When he reports back here on that last day of service, you will have arranged for the hospital to give him his separation physical examination on a personal basis—that is to say, it will take no longer than sixty minutes. If the hospital has any problem with that, have them contact me. When Captain McCoy has his separation physical in hand, you will personally hand him his final pay and his travel orders to his home of record, and wish him well in his civilian career. You understand all that?”
“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Colonel Brewer said.
“See that it happens, Harry,” Dawkins said to Colonel Wade.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Come on, Art,” General Dawkins said to Captain McGowan, and walked out of the room.
[SIX]
OFFICE OF THE CHIEF FOR OFFICER RECORDS OFFICE OF THE ASSISTANT CHIEF OF STAFF, G-1 HEADQUARTERS CAMP PENDLETON, CALIFORNIA 1610 8 JUNE 1950
“You wanted to see me, Colonel?” Major Robert B. Macklin, USMC, inquired of Lieutenant Colonel Peter S. Brewer, USMC, from Brewer’s open office door.
“Come in, Macklin,” Brewer said, “and close the door.”
“Yes, sir.”
“About this Captain McCoy, Macklin . . .”
“Yes, sir?”
“I want to make sure I have this straight in my mind,” Brewer said. “From what you told me, you served with him. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where was that?”
“I was on several occasions stationed in the same places as McCoy, sir, but I don’t know if that could be construed as ‘serving with’ him, sir.”
“For example?”
“The first time I ran into McCoy, sir, I was in intelligence in the 4th Marines in Shanghai, and he was a machine-gun section leader in one of the companies. I knew of his reputation there.”
“Which was?”
“Sir, I . . . uh . . . I’m a bit reluctant, under the circumstances . . .”
“This is just between you and me, Macklin. Let’s have it.”
“He was known as ‘the Killer,’ sir. He got into a knife fight—a drunken brawl, as I understand it—with some Italian Marines, and killed one of them. I was surprised that he wasn’t court-martialed for that, and even more surprised when I was an instructor at the Officer Candidate School at Quantico, when McCoy showed up there.”
“I see.”
“At the time, knowing what kind of a man he was, I recommended that he be dropped from the officer training program. I just didn’t think he was officer material, sir.”
“But he was commissioned anyway, despite your recommendation? ”
“Sir, the Corps was desperately short of officers at the time, scraping the bottom of the barrel. The Quantico sergeant major, for example, was a sergeant major one day and a lieutenant colonel the next.”
“Really? What was his name? Do you remember?”
“Yes, sir. Stecker. Jack NMI Stecker.”
“You serve with McCoy anywhere else, Macklin?”
“When the OSS was formed, sir, there was a levy on the Corps for officers with intelligence experience in China. And/or who had some knowledge of Oriental languages. Both McCoy and I were assigned to the OSS. He had some smattering knowledge of Chinese, I believe.”
“And that’s how you came to understand his personal characteristics, his ‘payday-to-payday’ philosophy of life?”
“Yes, sir. I suppose it is. May I ask—?”
Brewer put his hand up to silence him.
“I hardly know where to begin, Major Macklin,” he said. “Let me start with Brigadier General Jack NMI Stecker, holder of the Medal of Honor, under whom it was my privilege to serve when he was special assistant to General Vandegrift, when he was Commandant of the Corps. You weren’t suggesting, a moment ago, that he was something like Captain McCoy, someone who really shouldn’t have been an officer in the first place, much less a lieutenant colonel and ultimately a brigadier general, were you?”
“No, sir. General Stecker was a fine Marine officer. But, if I may say so, he was sort of the exception to the rule.”
“Not like McCoy, is what you’re saying?”
“Not at all like McCoy, sir.”
“Would you be interested to learn that whatever other problems Captain McCoy has at the moment, paying the rent is not one of them?”
"Sir?”
“I just came from Colonel Wade’s office, Macklin, where I very much fear I left General Dawkins with the impression that I don’t know what’s going on around here.”
“Sir?”
“Both General Dawkins—who is obviously personally acquainted with Captain McCoy—and Colonel Wade— who had a somewhat different opinion from yours of Mc-Coy’s service to the Corps even before we had a look at his records—are convinced the Corps is making a stupid mistake in separating Captain McCoy from the service.”
“I can only suggest, sir, that the general and the colonel are privy to information about Captain McCoy that I’m not.”
“You didn’t know that he was both wounded and decorated for valor when the Marine Raiders made the Makin Island raid?”
“That never came to my attention, sir.”
“Did it ever come to your attention that Captain McCoy was awarded the Victoria Cross by the Brits for his service to the Australian coastwatcher service?”
“No, sir, it did not.”
“How about his award of the Distinguished Service Medal for his having established a weather station in the Gobi Desert in Japanese-occupied Manchuria?”
“No, sir.”
“There are several possibilities here, Major,” Colonel Brewer said, almost conversationally.
“Sir?”
“One of which is that you are the most stupid sonofabitch ever to wear the insignia of a Marine major. Among the others are that you are a lying sonofabitch with a personal vendetta—for reasons I don’t even want to think about—against Captain McCoy.”
“Sir—”
“Shut your mouth, Major,” Brewer snapped. “Until I make up my mind which it is, and what I’m going to do about it, you will report to the Headquarters Commandant for an indefinite period of temporary duty. I don’t know what else he will have you doing, but you will start by inventorying every company supply room on the base. You are dismissed, Major.”
[SEVEN]
THE DIRECTOR’S OFFICE EAST BUILDING, THE CIA COMPLEX 2430 E STREET WASHINGTON, D.C. 0930 9 JUNE 1950
“The Director will see you now, Senator,” the executive assistant to the Director of the CIA said, and held open the door to an inner office.
Senator Richardson K. Fowler and Fleming Pickering rose from a dark green leather couch and walked toward the office.
Rear Admiral Roscoe Hillenkoetter, a tall, imposing, silver-haired man, came from around his desk with his hand extended.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting, Senator,” he said.
Pickering and Fowler had been in the outer office no more than three minutes.
In holders behind the admiral’s desk were three flags: the national colors, the CIA flag, and a blue flag with the two stars of a rear admiral.
“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Admiral, ” Fowler said.
“Anytime, Senator, you know that,” Hillenkoetter said, and extended his hand to Pickering.
“This is my very good friend, Fleming Pickering,” Fowler said.
“How do you do, sir?” Hillenkoetter said. “What is it they say, ‘any friend of . . .’ ? I’m trying to place the name.”
“I’m chairman of the board of Pacific and Far East Shipping, ” Pickering said.
That, too, rings a bell, but no prize
. There’s something else. What?
“First, let me offer coffee,” Hillenkoetter said, “and then you can tell me how I can be of service.”
A younger woman than the admiral’s executive assistant appeared with a silver coffee service.
There was silence as she served coffee.
Pickering, Pickering, where have I heard that name before?
Oh, yeah!
Pearl Harbor. Right after the attack. He was a reserve four-striper; Navy Secretary Knox’s personal representative. Abrasive bastard. Thought he knew everything, and didn’t like anything the Navy was doing. Or had done.
And after that, what?
He was in the OSS. He was the deputy director of the OSS for the Pacific. Or was he? The OSS guy was a Marine brigadier, not a Navy captain.
Admiral Nimitz liked the OSS guy. Maybe there’s two Pickerings—brothers, maybe.
What is he after, a job?
The young woman left the office.
“You were the assistant director of the OSS in the Pacific, ” Hillenkoetter said. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Pickering?”
“General Pickering was the assistant director for the Pacific, ” Fowler corrected him.
“Excuse me,” Hillenkoetter said. “For the Pacific.”
“Yes, I was,” Pickering said.
“General Pickering has just come from Tokyo,” Fowler said.
“Is that so?”
“Admiral, before we go any further,” Fowler said. “If you have a recorder operating, please turn it off.”
“I beg your pardon?” Hillenkoetter asked, surprised and indignant.
“If you have a recorder operating,” Fowler repeated, “please turn it off.”
Hillenkoetter didn’t reply; he didn’t trust himself to speak.
Who does this arrogant sonofabitch think he is, coming into my office and telling me to turn off my recorder?
“Franklin Roosevelt had the Oval Office wired to record interesting conversations,” Fowler went on, amiably, reasonably. “I have no reason to believe Harry Truman had it removed. If I were in your shoes, I’d have such a device. I suspect you do, and I’m asking you to turn it off. There are some things that should not be recorded for posterity.”
Hillenkoetter felt his temper rise.
Like a senator pressuring me to give his buddy a job, for example?
Who does he think he is?
He thinks he’s a power in the Senate. He knows he’s a power in the Senate. Ergo sum, one of the most powerful men in the country.
Hillenkoetter pressed a lever on his intercom box.
“Mrs. Warburg, would you please turn off the recording device?”
“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Warburg replied.
Her surprise was evident in her voice. One of the reasons the admiral had kept Senator Fowler waiting was to make sure the recorder was working.
One did not let one’s guard down when a senator—any senator, much less Richardson K. Fowler (R., Cal.)—called one at one’s home and asked for a meeting at your earliest convenience, say, nine o’clock tomorrow morning.
“Thank you,” Fowler said.
Hillenkoetter didn’t reply.
Fowler looked at Pickering and made a give it to me motion with his index finger.
Pickering took a fat business-size envelope from his interior jacket pocket and handed it to Fowler. Fowler handed it to Hillenkoetter.
"Take a look at that, Admiral, if you would, please,” Fowler said.
Hillenkoetter opened the envelope and took out the sheaf of paper.
“What is this?”
“Before we talk about it, Admiral,” Fowler said, “it might be a good idea for you to have some idea of what we’re talking about.”
Hillenkoetter’s lips tightened, but he didn’t reply. It took him three minutes to read the document.
“This would appear to be an intelligence assessment,” he said finally. “But there’s no heading, no transmission letter. Where did this come from?”
“I had my secretary excerpt the pertinent data from the original,” Pickering said.
“From the original official document?”
Pickering nodded.
“Such a document would be classified,” Hillenkoetter said, thinking out loud. “Secret, at least. How did you come into possession of the original?”
“The original document was prepared by an officer who worked for me during the war,” Pickering said. “I believe what he says in that assessment.”
“I’ve seen nothing from our people there, or from General MacArthur’s intelligence people, that suggests anything like this,” Hillenkoetter said.
“That assessment was given to General Willoughby,” Pickering said. “Who not only ordered it destroyed, but had the officer who prepared it ordered from Japan.”
“That sounds like an accusation, General,” Hillenkoetter said.
“It’s a statement of fact,” Pickering said.
“Why would he do something like that?”
“God only knows,” Pickering said. “The fact is, he did.”
“And the officer who prepared it, rather than destroying it, gave it to you? Is that about it?”
“That’s it,” Pickering said.
“General Willoughby is not only a fine officer, but I would say the most experienced intelligence officer in the Far East,” Hillenkoetter said.
“Does the name Wendell Fertig mean anything to you, Admiral?” Pickering asked.
Hillenkoetter searched his mind.
“The guerrilla in the Philippines?” He smiled, and added, “The reservist who promoted himself to general?”
“The guerrilla in the Philippines who, when the Army finally got back to Mindanao, had thirty thousand armed, uniformed, and organized troops under his command waiting for them,” Pickering said. “During the war, he forced the Japanese to divert a quarter of a million men to dealing with him.”
Hillenkoetter, his face showing surprise at the coldly angry intensity of Pickering’s response, looked at him and waited for him to continue.
“Before, at President Roosevelt’s direction, I sent a team of agents into Mindanao to establish contact with General Fertig, General Willoughby, speaking for MacArthur, stated flatly that there was no possibility of meaningful guerrilla operations in the Pacific.”
Hillenkoetter took a moment to digest that.
“I gather your relationship with General MacArthur was difficult?” he asked.
“Anyone’s relationship with General MacArthur is difficult, ” Pickering said. “But if you are asking what I think you are, our personal relationship was—is—just fine. I had dinner with him and Mrs. MacArthur last week.”
“And did you bring this . . . this assessment up to him?”
“General MacArthur’s loyalty to his staff, especially those who were with him in the Philippines, is legendary,” Pickering said. “I know Douglas MacArthur well enough to know that it would have been a waste of time.”
“And, I daresay, he might have asked the uncomfortable question, how you came to be in possession of the assessment in the first place?”
Pickering didn’t reply.
“The officer who gave you this assessment should not have done so,” Hillenkoetter said.
“Is that going to be your reaction to this, Admiral?” Pickering asked, coldly. “Someone dared to go out of channels, and therefore what he had to say is not relevant?”
“Easy, Flem,” Senator Fowler said.
“I didn’t say that, General,” Hillenkoetter said.
“That was the implication,” Pickering said.
“I’ll need the officer’s name,” Hillenkoetter said.
“I’m not going to give it to you,” Pickering said, flatly.
“I can get it,” Hillenkoetter flared.
“If you did that, Admiral, this whole thing would probably wind up in the newspapers,” Senator Fowler said. “I don’t think you want that any more than we do.”
Hillenkoetter, while waiting to hear that the recording system was functioning, had gone over the CIA’s most recent “informal biography” of Fowler, Richardson K. (R., Cal.) and was thus freshly reminded that the senator owned the San Francisco Courier-Herald, nine smaller newspapers, six radio stations, and five television stations, including one radio station and one television station in Washington, D.C.
“This is a matter of national security, Senator,” Hillenkoetter said, and immediately regretted it.
“That’s why we’re here, Admiral,” Pickering said.
Hillenkoetter glared at him, realized he was doing so, and turned to Fowler.
“What is it you would like me to do, Senator?” he asked.
“At the very least, light a fire under your people in Japan and Hong Kong and Formosa and see why they haven’t come up with an assessment like this,” Pickering said.
“I was asking the senator, General,” Hillenkoetter said.
“What General Pickering suggests seems like a good first step,” Fowler said. “Followed closely by step two, which would be keeping me advised, on a daily basis, of what your people develop.”
“Senator, my channel to the Senate is via the Senate Oversight Committee on Intelligence. I’m not sure I’m authorized to do that.”
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want you to do anything you’re not authorized to do,” Fowler said, reasonably. “So what I’m apparently going to have to do is go to Senator Driggs, whom I had appointed to the chairmanship of the Oversight Committee, and ask him to give you permission to give me what I want. I think Jack Driggs would want to know why I’m interested.”
“Another option would be to bring this to the attention of the President,” Hillenkoetter said.
“Whatever you think is best for all concerned,” Fowler said. “I’m going to have lunch with President Truman at half past twelve. Would you like me to bring it up with him then?”
They locked eyes for a moment.
“Senator,” Hillenkoetter said, “I mean this as a compliment. You really know how to play hardball, don’t you?”
“I’ve heard that unfounded accusation before,” Fowler said.
“May I speak out of school?” Admiral Hillenkoetter asked.
Under Fire Page 11
