Under Fire

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  “We’re about to go to war over there,” Truman said. “The League of Nations failed because nobody paid any attention to it. Remember when Mussolini was getting ready to invade Ethiopia in 1936? The Emperor of Ethiopia . . . what’s his name, Dick?”

  “Haile Selassie, Mr. President,” Senator Fowler furnished.

  “Haile Selassie went to the League of Nations,” Truman went on, “and the League of Nations told Mussolini to stop. He knew the League of Nations had no teeth, so he invaded Ethiopia. And the League of Nations didn’t— couldn’t—do a damned thing about it.”

  “I remember, Mr. President,” Fowler said.

  “And so the dictators of the world—Italian, German and Japanese—drew the logical conclusion that since the League of Nations was a joke, they could get away with anything they wanted to do. And that gave us World War Two.”

  “You think the United Nations is going to be different?” Fowler asked, on the edge of sarcasm.

  “For one thing, Dick,” Truman said. “We belong to the UN; we didn’t belong to the League of Nations. For another, we now face the indescribable horrors of a nuclear war. We can’t afford to have the UN fail.”

  Fowler shrugged, in agreement.

  “The UN has just told the North Koreans to get out of South Korea,” Truman went on. “If the UN can’t make that order stick, the whole world’s likely to go up in a nuclear explosion. So the North Koreans are going to have to get out of South Korea. I’ve decided the United States has to do whatever is necessary to see that’s done.”

  “By ourselves, if necessary?” Fowler asked.

  “I don’t think it will come down to that, but if it does, yes, by ourselves.”

  “Mr. President, have you read McCoy’s assessment?” Pickering asked.

  “Admiral Hillenkoetter told me about it.”

  “McCoy feels that the Army of Occupation of Japan is neither equipped nor trained for combat—that they are facing a superior force.”

  “He’s competent to make a judgment like that?”

  “I have absolute faith in his judgment, Mr. President,” Pickering said.

  “Well, he’s been right so far, hasn’t he?” Truman said. "MacArthur feels he can ‘contain the situation.’ I told him to send a team to Korea to see how bad things really are.”

  For a long moment, no one said a word.

  “There’re two possibilities,” Truman said. “That once the North Koreans understand we’re taking action—I’ve given MacArthur permission to bomb railheads and bridges, that sort of thing—they’ll back down, as the Russians backed down in Berlin after we ran the airlift.”

  “Mr. President, they may have interpreted Acheson’s speech, leaving Korea out of our zone of interest, as meaning we would not react.”

  Truman looked at him, and nodded, and then went on.

  “The other possibility is that they—and the Russians, who are behind this—will decide it’s the League of Nations and Ethiopia all over again, and keep up their attack. That means the involvement of American ground forces. I think that’s what’s going to happen.”

  He looked between Fowler and Pickering.

  “After Pearl Harbor, President Roosevelt fired the Pearl Harbor brass—Admiral Kimmel and General Short—for what amounted to dereliction of duty. They hadn’t adequately prepared for what happened, and they deserved to be fired. General MacArthur—if we are to believe this young captain of yours, General—has not adequately prepared for what is happening there now. Do I have to explain the problems that would be caused if I relieved MacArthur for dereliction of duty and ordered him home?”

  “No, sir, Mr. President,” Fowler said.

  “If I have to say so, Dick, I’m not talking about political damage to Harry Truman. I don’t really give a damn about that.”

  “Mr. President, I will not make . . . Captain McCoy’s assessment and what happened in Tokyo will not be made available to the press,” Fowler said.

  “Or to, for example, Senator Taft?”

  Senator Robert Taft (R., Ohio) who had presidential aspirations, was one of Truman’s severest critics.

  “I won’t tell Bob, either,” Fowler said. “Or anyone else. At least for the time being.”

  “The American people are going to have enough trouble with us going to war in the first place. If we start taking a whipping in the beginning, and it came out MacArthur was warned this was coming and did nothing about it . . .”

  “I understand, Mr. President,” Fowler said.

  “I’m glad you do,” Truman said. He looked between the two of them again. “Now I’m getting hungry. I had no appetite at all when I walked in here.”

  “Mr. President,” Pickering said. “I don’t want McCoy hurt by what he did.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen to Captain McCoy, General,” Truman said. “The Commandant of the Marine Corps has been ordered (a) not to separate him and (b) to have him report as soon as possible to Admiral Hillenkoetter. I declined to tell the Commandant what this is all about, and I’m not going to tell any of the brass, either.”

  “I don’t want him hurt, Mr. President,” Pickering repeated. “He’s a captain. When people are looking for scapegoats, captains are expendable.”

  “What Captain McCoy needs is a protector in high places—is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes, Mr. President, I guess it is.”

  Truman looked at him for a moment, then nodded and smiled.

  “I was going to save this for later,” Truman said, “but we’re clearing the decks, right?”

  “I don’t think I follow you, Mr. President.”

  “How’s your health, General? Could you pass a physical? ”

  “Yes, sir, I probably could.”

  What the hell is he suggesting? That I go back in the Marines?

  “I think what’s about to happen to you, General, is going to happen to a large number of other people in the next few weeks,” Truman said.

  “Sir?”

  Truman walked to a wall-side credenza, picked up a telephone, and dialed a number from memory.

  “This is the President,” he said. “Get the Commandant of the Marine Corps for me, will you, please?”

  It took less than sixty seconds.

  “This is the President, General,” Truman said. “I understand you’re acquainted with Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMC Reserve?”

  There was a very short pause.

  “Please cause the necessary orders to be issued calling the general to active service for an indefinite period, effective immediately, and further placing him on duty with the Central Intelligence Agency,” Truman ordered. “It won’t be necessary to notify him—he’s with me now.”

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Pickering said.

  Truman put the phone down and turned to Pickering.

  “Take as long as you need before actually reporting to Admiral Hillenkoetter,” he said. “But obviously, the sooner the better.”

  He smiled at Pickering’s obvious discomfiture.

  “Can we now have our breakfast?” he asked.

  [SIX]

  OFFICE OF THE DEPUTY CHIEF FOR OFFICER RECORDS OFFICE OF THE ASSISTANT CHIEF OF STAFF, G-1 HEADQUARTERS, CAMP PENDLETON, CALIFORNIA 2330 29 JUNE 1950

  Captain Kenneth R. McCoy had learned the legalities of leave as a PFC of the 4th Marines in Shanghai.

  Leave is earned at the rate of 2.5 days per month, which adds up to 30 days a year. Leave may be accrued up to a total of 60 days; anything over that is lost. Leave begins at 0001 the first day of leave and ends at 2359 on the last day.

  He also believed that whatever was going to happen to him—now that there was a war—was not going to happen after duty hours, specifically, after 1630, on 29 June, the last day of his leave.

  When he and Ernie had arrived in San Diego at 1545 that afternoon, therefore, he had gone to the Coronado Beach Hotel, gotten the key to the room from the desk clerk, gone upstairs, had a shower, and the
n gone down to the bar with Ernie to have a drink and discuss with her the possibilities.

  There were several of them, starting with the most likely one, that the war in Korea was so new that there had not been time for the Corps to put into effect any new we’re-going -to-war regulations. In that case, Captain McCoy would be separated from the Naval service on 30 June 1950.

  It was also possible that we’re-going-to-war regulations had been put into effect, and the most likely result of that would be that separations from the Naval service would be suspended either indefinitely, or, as they had been in War II, for the duration of the war plus six months.

  It was also possible that while they’d been off seeing Ernie’s folks, and the Bannings and the Zimmermans, Eighth & Eye had come through with the determination that ex-Corporal, now Captain, McCoy should be allowed to reenlist in the Corps as a staff sergeant, or a gunnery sergeant, or a master sergeant, and that he would be separated from commissioned service, but not the Marine Corps, and he could volunteer to reenlist as a staff sergeant or a gunnery sergeant, or a master sergeant, and if he didn’t voluntarily do so, be retained as a private, USMC, until a determination about what the hell to do about this guy could be reached.

  Ken and Ernie had had two drinks in the bar, then walked hand in hand along the beach, and then gone back and had a very nice dinner in the hotel dining room, and then gone to their room and had another shower, this one together, and then fooled around in the conjugal bed until 2215, when he’d risen from the bed, dressed in a uniform, told his wife not to go anywhere, he’d be back just as soon as he’d signed off leave at Pendleton.

  Then he’d gotten in the Buick and driven out to Pendleton, arriving, as he had planned, at the office of the Deputy Chief for officer records with thirty minutes to spare.

  There was a master gunner and a corporal on duty. The master gunner, a portly man in his late forties, did not bellow “attention on deck” when McCoy pushed the door open. Master gunners rarely—if ever—pay that much military courtesy to lowly captains, especially at almost midnight.

  “Good evening,” McCoy said. “Where do I sign off leave?”

  “What’s your name, Captain?” the master gunner asked.

  “McCoy.”

  The master gunner reached for the telephone on his desk.

  “Mister, I asked you a question,” McCoy said.

  There was a tone in McCoy’s voice—a tone of command, of I’m a captain and you’re a master gunner, and you will respect that difference in rank—that the master gunner did not expect.

  He had been told by Major Robert B. Macklin to keep an eye out for Captain McCoy, Kenneth R. Out of school, between old warriors, he had told the master gunner that he knew McCoy, that the Corps had finally realized McCoy should have never been commissioned in the first place, and that McCoy had reported to Pendleton for involuntary separation. He had told him further that Eighth & Eye had determined that McCoy should be offered the chance to enlist as a gunnery sergeant on his separation.

  That fact—that tomorrow Captain McCoy would either be a civilian or a gunnery sergeant—had influenced the master gunner’s decision not to stand up or call “attention on deck” when McCoy had come in the office.

  The master gunner now made another decision—based on right now this clown’s still a captain—and let the telephone fall back in its cradle.

  “Sir,” he said. “My orders are to inform Major Macklin the moment you showed up here.”

  “Have you any idea what that’s all about?” McCoy asked.

  “No, sir, I don’t. But if the captain will have a seat, I’m sure it will be cleared up in a couple of minutes.”

  He reached for the telephone again.

  “Get Colonel Brewer on the horn, please,” McCoy said.

  “Sir?”

  “You heard me,” McCoy said.

  The master gunner made another decision, based both on the tone of the clown’s voice and the fact that he was still a captain, and dialed Colonel Brewer’s quarters number.

  He was aware that McCoy’s eyes were on him.

  Colonel Brewer answered on the third ring.

  “Sir. Matthews. I have a Captain McCoy here in the office. He asked me to call you.”

  “Finally!” Colonel Brewer said. “Put him on, Matthews.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Master Gunner Matthews said, and held out the phone to the clown.

  “McCoy, sir,” McCoy said. “Sorry to bother you at home.”

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear your voice,” Brewer said. “Stay right there. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. ”

  “Sir, my wife expects me to be coming back to the hotel. ”

  “Call her and tell her that’s on hold; I’ll explain everything when I see you.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” McCoy said, and broke the connection with his finger. He looked at Matthews. “How do I get an outside line? I have to call ’Diego.”

  “Captain, that phone’s for official business.”

  “You’re an interesting man, mister,” McCoy said. “Most master gunners I know are anything but chickenshit.” He paused. “What do I do? Dial operator?”

  “Nine,” Master Gunner Matthews said.

  McCoy called Ernie and told her something had come up, and he would be delayed; he could call when he knew something.

  Matthews took the telephone from McCoy and started to dial.

  “You are not to inform Major Macklin that I have spoken to Colonel Brewer. You understand that? That was an order,” McCoy said.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Master Gunner Matthews said, finished dialing, and when Major Macklin answered, informed him that Captain McCoy was in the office.

  He hung up the phone and looked at McCoy.

  “Major Macklin, sir, says that you are not to leave the office until he gets here.”

  “Okay,” McCoy said.

  “Captain, I’m just following my orders.”

  “I understand.”

  “Major Macklin led me to understand that you know each other,” Matthews said.

  “Then you probably have had a fascinating recital of my time in the Corps,” McCoy said. “Yes, mister, Major Macklin and I know each other very well.”

  Matthews met McCoy’s eyes.

  “Corporal,” he ordered. “Get the captain a cup of coffee. ”

  Major Robert B. Macklin, USMC, and Lieutenant Colonel Peter S. Brewer showed up in the office within three minutes of each other, Macklin first. Macklin was in full uniform.

  “Attention on deck!” Master Gunner Matthews bellowed when Macklin came through the door.

  He, McCoy, and the corporal popped to attention.

  “As you were,” Macklin said. He walked up to McCoy.

  “Where the hell have you been, McCoy?”

  “Sir, I have been on ordinary leave.”

  “I spent several hours on the telephone in a fruitless search for you,” Macklin said.

  McCoy didn’t reply.

  “Get Colonel Brewer on the telephone for me,” Macklin ordered.

  Master Gunner Matthews dialed a number.

  After a long moment, looking at McCoy, Matthews reported, “Sir, there is no answer.”

  “Try it again,” Macklin ordered, and then turned back to McCoy. “My orders are to notify Colonel Brewer the moment I have located you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In the event I am unable to reach him tonight, I have no intention of letting you out of sight again,” Macklin said. “Mister Matthews, is there a cot here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Am I to understand, Major, that I’m under some sort of restriction? Am I under arrest?”

  “What you are, Captain, is ordered not to leave this room until I establish contact with Colonel Brewer. I don’t know what you’ve done now, McCoy, but I hope they throw the book at you.”

  “Yes, sir,” McCoy said.

  “Attention on deck,” Master Gunner Matthews bellowed, as Lieut
enant Colonel Brewer came through the door.

  Colonel Brewer was wearing Bermuda shorts and a red T-shirt with a gold representation of the Marine emblem covering most of the chest.

  “As you were,” Brewer said. He turned to Macklin. “That will be all, Macklin,” he said. “You can go home now. Sorry to have to have ruined your evening, but this was important.”

  McCoy looked between Macklin and Matthews.

  “Sir,” he said. “Mister Matthews had the duty. Major Macklin just got here.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Brewer said. “Between now and 0800, Macklin, try to come up with a good reason for your not being here until Captain McCoy showed up as you were ordered to do.”

  “Sir . . .”

  “I’ll hear your reasons at 0800. You are dismissed.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Macklin said, and with as much dignity as he could muster, came to attention, did a left-face movement, and walked out of the building.

  “Sir, can I ask what’s going on?” McCoy asked.

  “I hardly know where to begin,” Brewer said. “But first things first: Matthews, in this order, call General Dawkins at his quarters and tell him Captain McCoy has shown up, and then call Colonel Wade and tell him the same thing and that General Dawkins has been notified.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Attention on deck!” Master Gunner Matthews bellowed, as Brigadier General Clyde W. Dawkins came into the building.

  “As you were,” General Dawkins said.

  He crossed the room to Captain McCoy.

  “Goddamn, Killer, where have you been?” he said, and then he wrapped his arms around him. “Christ, it’s good to see you!”

  “It’s good to see you, too, sir,” McCoy said.

  “Let me start with the good news. You’re not getting the boot. The bad news is that I’m ordered to get you to Washington as soon as possible. To that end, an Air Force F- 94—that’s a two-seater jet—has been waiting for you at Miramar for the last three days.”

  “Sir, my wife is at the Coronado Beach. . . .”

  “I’m a general now, Killer, indulge me,” Dawkins said. “Let me finish before you start arguing with me.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Your orders are to report here for duty,” Dawkins said, and handed him a three-by-five card.