Under Fire

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  “Yes, of course,” Almond said. He looked at his watch. “It might be a good idea if we walked down the corridor to the Supreme Commander’s office. He doesn’t mind if people are early. Late is an entirely different matter.”

  “Ken, don’t leave until I see you,” Pickering ordered, as he got to his feet.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  [FIVE]

  The Supreme Commander, Allied Powers, General of the Army Douglas MacArthur, rose from behind his desk and walked toward Brigadier General Fleming Pickering with his hand extended.

  “My old friend is once again my comrade-in-arms, I see,” he said, patting Fleming on the shoulder as he shook his hand.

  “Good morning, General,” Pickering said.

  “Ned took good care of you on your arrival, I trust?” MacArthur said, nodding toward Major General Almond.

  “General Almond has been very obliging, sir,” Pickering said.

  “Your quarters are all right? Everything you need?” MacArthur pursued.

  “General Pickering took care of himself,” Almond said. “He’s at the Imperial.”

  “But you did meet the MATS flight?” MacArthur asked, a tone of annoyance in his voice. MATS was Military Air Transport Service.

  “We came on Trans-Global,” Pickering said. “It was faster, and I didn’t want to take up space on an Air Force flight.”

  “And you knew that the Imperial would be a little nicer than the Menzies, right?” MacArthur said, chuckling.

  “Yes, sir,” Pickering said.

  “Ned, in June of 1942, Supreme Headquarters, Southwest Pacific Command—all of it, including quarters for the senior officers—was in the Menzies Hotel in Melbourne, ” MacArthur explained. “The Menzies is not about to appear on a list of great hotels of the world.”

  Almond laughed dutifully.

  “Those black days seem like a long time ago, don’t they, Fleming?” MacArthur asked.

  “Yes, sir, they do,” Pickering agreed.

  “Ned, if you’ll excuse us, I’m sure General Fleming would like a little time in private with me.”

  “Yes, of course, sir,” Almond said, smiled, nodded at Pickering and left the office.

  If it bothers Almond—El Supremo’s chief of staff—to be excluded from this conversation, it didn’t show on his face.

  MacArthur walked to his desk, picked up a humidor, and carried it to where Pickering stood. It held long, rather thin black cigars, which Pickering suspected were Philippine. He took one.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Philippine,” MacArthur confirmed. “I think they’re better than the famed Havanas.”

  “They’re good,” Pickering said, as he took a clipper from the humidor. “I remember.”

  MacArthur returned the humidor to his desk, and returned with a silver Ronson table lighter. They finished the ritual of lighting the cigars.

  “If I promise beforehand not to have the messenger executed, ” MacArthur said, with a smile, “perhaps you’ll tell me what message you bear from the President.”

  “The only real message I have, sir, is that the President wants you to know he has full—absolute—confidence in you,” Pickering said.

  MacArthur nodded, as if he expected a statement like this.

  “And his concerns?” he asked.

  “He doesn’t want Korea to start World War Three,” Pickering said.

  “There’s not much chance of that,” MacArthur said. “We have nuclear superiority.”

  “He was concerned that this has taken us completely by surprise,” Pickering said.

  “And it has,” MacArthur said. “That’s very probably a result of our underestimating North Korea’s stupidity. There’s no way they can ultimately succeed in this endeavor, and—stupidity on our part—we presumed they knew that, and that this sort of thing simply wouldn’t happen. ”

  “And their successes so far have been because of the surprise of the attack?”

  “Yes, that’s a fair description. Willoughby’s best judgment, with which I concurred, was that the risk of something like this happening was minimal. Our mistake. But with nothing to suggest something like this was in the works . . .”

  Nothing but a report from an intelligence officer that Willoughby not only didn’t want to believe, ordered destroyed, and then tried to bureaucratically execute the messenger.

  And if I had brought that report to you the last time I was in Tokyo, what would you have done? Put your faith in Willoughby, that’s what you would have done.

  “You’ve been traveling,” MacArthur said. “Let me give you the current picture.”

  He gestured for Pickering to follow him to what looked like a large-scale map mounted on the wall. When he got close, Pickering saw that it was actually one of half a dozen maps, which could be slid out from the wall one at a time.

  This map showed all of South Korea, and went as far north in North Korea—above the 38th parallel—to include the North Korean capital of Pyongyang.

  MacArthur took a two-foot-long pointer from a holder and held it between his hands like a riding crop. Pickering saw that the base of the varnished wood was a glistening .30-caliber rifle casing, and that the pointer was the bullet.

  The bullet was black-tipped—indicating armor piercing— and Pickering wondered if that was simply coincidental.

  “This is the most recent intelligence we have,” MacArthur began. “Early yesterday morning, the 24th Division withdrew to defensive positions along the south bank of the Kum River near Taejon.”

  He turned to the map and pointed to Taejon, which was roughly equidistant between Seoul—now in North Korean hands—and Pusan, a major port at the tip of the Korean peninsula, on the Straits of Korea.

  “Engineers have blown all road and railroad bridges, and destroyed all ferries and flat-bottomed boats, and both the division commander and General Walker—who has established Eighth Army headquarters here at Taegu—feel these positions can be held, at least for the time being, and even that a counterattack may be possible.”

  That’s why they retreated across the river, right, and blew the bridges? So they can counterattack?

  “General Walker’s front,” MacArthur went on, using the pointer, “extends from Taejon northeast to Chongju, and across the Taebaek Mountains to Pyonghae-ri on the east coast. The 24th Reconnaissance Company is keeping their eye on the most likely river crossings west of Kongju, and the 34th Infantry Regiment is here at Kongju.”

  And what’s the 24th Reconnaissance Company—no more than 200 men, and probably far less—going to do if the North Koreans start to cross the river?

  “The 19th Infantry Regiment, which just arrived, is here at Taejon,” MacArthur went on, “and the 21st Infantry is a blocking position here, southeast of Taejon. The 21st has been involved in some heavy fighting, and is down to about 1,100 men.”

  “They lost half their strength?” Pickering blurted incredulously. Just in time, he stopped himself from saying what came to his lips: If they took those kind of losses, they’re in no position to block anything.

  Keep your mouth shut, Pickering!

  “A bit more than half,” MacArthur replied matter of factly. “If memory serves, they lost a little over 1,400 men,

  Kia, wia, and missing, in their first week of combat.”

  “General, I have to ask this question,” Pickering said. “What’s going to happen?”

  “Well, what we’re doing now is buying time until reinforcements can be brought in. Two days ago, the 2nd Infantry Division was ordered here from the West Coast, for example. The Marines are sending a brigade; it may already be at sea.”

  “It is,” Pickering said. “Today’s the fourteenth. They sailed from San Diego today for Kobe.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I had a chance to meet with General Craig, the provisional brigade commander, in San Diego. That was his schedule.”

  “No wishful thinking involved?”

  “No, sir. He sa
id they would sail, not hoped to.”

  MacArthur nodded his head.

  “Yesterday,” he said, “the 24th Infantry—the third regiment of the 25th Division—debarked at Pusan, and at this moment are moving forward, which will bring the division to full strength.”

  If one of its regiments has lost more than half its men, then it won’t be at full strength.

  “Moreover, the 1st Cavalry Division is at this moment on the high seas, and the lead elements—the 5th and 8th Cavalry—are scheduled to debark here at Pohang-dong on the eighteenth.”

  He put the bullet-tip of his pointer on a small port on the west coast of the peninsula, and looked at Pickering to make sure that Pickering was following him.

  “Delaying the enemy until we can achieve something like equal strength in the South is only part of the plan, Fleming,” MacArthur said. “The other part, the part that will turn what some might consider a rout into a very bloody nose for the enemy, is not yet quite fixed in my mind, but essentially, what I plan to do—another of the reasons I asked for the Marines—is to strike somewhere far up the peninsula with an amphibious landing that will permit us to cut off the enemy’s supply lines and then batter his forces to bits. They have to be made to pay for this invasion.”

  “Up the peninsula?” Pickering asked. “Where?”

  “There are a number of possibilities,” MacArthur said, using the pointer. “On the east coast of the peninsula we have suitable beaches in the Kunsan-Komie area, here. And farther north, at Taechon, Anhung, and Inchon.”

  Christ, Inchon is the port for Seoul. And I was in there only once, years ago, but I still have a memory of thirty-foot tides and mudflats. Inchon’s not some gentle South Pacific beach, and the others are probably no better. Is he dreaming?

  “Of all these,” MacArthur went on, “I prefer Inchon, but I’m frankly a bit hesitant to say so. I don’t want to be premature with this, as you can well understand.”

  What is he doing? Ever so subtly suggesting that I don’t put this invade-behind-their-lines idea of his in my report to the President?

  Of course, he is.

  “And on the West Coast, working northward,” MacArthur went on, using the pointer, “we have Yangdok, Kangwung, and ultimately Wonsan.”

  Wonsan is in North Korea!

  “Wonsan—although it would be tactically ideal to cut the peninsula—is out of the question at this time, as I am under orders to push the enemy out of South Korea, not invade his homeland.”

  Is he reading my mind?

  Both the Russians and the Chinese would take an American invasion of North Korea as an excuse to intervene in this war. Doesn’t he know that?

  Slow down, Pickering.

  This is Douglas MacArthur talking, if not the greatest military mind of our era, then right at the top of that list.

  He not only knows as much about amphibious invasions as anyone else, probably more than anyone else, but is also probably as astute a judge of Soviet and Chinese intentions as anyone in the government.

  Because we misjudged Russian ambitions, a quarter of Germany is a Russian zone from which we are barred, and Berlin and Vienna are similarly divided. We had to have the Berlin Airlift to keep the Russians from forcing us out.

  Because MacArthur knew what they were up to, he stood up to them.

  There are no Russians in Japan, period.

  “You seem lost in thought, Fleming,” MacArthur said, smiling.

  “This is a lot to take in at once,” Pickering said.

  “What we have to do is to strike decisively,” MacArthur said. “Not to have to fight our way inch by inch back up the peninsula. The question is where to do so. At the least possible cost in American lives. As we’re already learning, the loss of life is not a high priority for the other side.”

  That’s another good side of him. He does try to keep losses at a minimum. I saw that time and time again in World War II.

  “A moment ago, I might have seemed to be suggesting that you not get into the details of my initial thinking when you report to the President,” MacArthur said. “I was.”

  Pickering looked at him but didn’t reply.

  “My thinking there, Fleming, is that there is certainly going to be a hunger in Washington for any action that will turn the situation around. From my standpoint, it would be better if one of my ideas were not seized upon—or the flip side of the coin, strongly objected to—until I can firm up what I think we should do, and then present a plan to the President for his approval. Or disapproval. I am not asking you to do anything that would, in any way, violate your duty to report to the President anything you believe he should hear.”

  You’re doing exactly that, of course. I was sent here to be a reporter, not a judge. But you’re right—as usual. There will be a frenzy in Washington to do something, and there is a good chance they would hop on one idea that ultimately wouldn’t work, or reject another one that would.

  I can give him that much.

  “I will report to the President that you have several plans under study,” Pickering said, “and that I will furnish further details as they become available.”

  “If you think that’s what you should do,” MacArthur said. “One further question: Can you tell me about General Howe?”

  “I’ve only met with him briefly. Apparently, he and the President became friends after World War One, in the National Guard.” Pickering paused and went off at a tangent. “Did you know the President is a retired National Guard colonel?”

  “No. But I did know he served with distinction in France, as a captain of artillery.”

  “Well, sir, it appears Howe rose to major general, and commanded a division in Europe. He enjoys the President’s confidence. From what I’ve seen of him, he’s a good man.”

  “As you and I have both learned,” MacArthur said with a smile, “it can be very useful for a field commander to have direct access to the commander-in-chief via a good man.”

  There comes the soft soap.

  “Jeanne insists on having you for lunch,” MacArthur went on. “If I sent a car for you at one, would that give you enough time to get settled?”

  “Yes, thank you very much,” Pickering said.

  He was halfway down the corridor to General Almond’s office before it occurred to him that (a) he had been dismissed; (b) the reason he had been dismissed was that El Supremo had something important to do; (c) which was most likely a conference about either the war at the moment, or his plans for the war in the future; and (d) that not only did he have every right to attend such a conference, but that’s what he was supposed to be doing.

  You got me that time, and good, Douglas MacArthur, but that will be the last time.

  VIII

  [ONE]

  HEADQUARTERS EIGHTH UNITED STATES ARMY TAEGU, KOREA 0530 15 JULY 1950

  Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, who was wearing obviously brand-new USMC utilities and 782 gear, and had an M-1 Garand rifle slung over his shoulder, saluted the U.S. Army transportation corps major in charge of the Headquarters, Eighth Army motor pool, and said, “Good morning, sir.”

  The major was a portly man in his mid-thirties, armed with a .45 ACP pistol. His fatigue jacket was sweat-stained under his armpits, and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. His eyes showed lack of sleep, and he needed a shave.

  He returned McCoy’s salute with a bored gesture.

  “Yes?” he asked, impatiently.

  “Sir, I’m going to need a Jeep, and a trailer and some gas in jerry cans.”

  “Out of the fucking question, Captain,” the major said. Then he took a closer look at McCoy’s utilities. “Marine? I didn’t know the Marines were here.”

  “So far, there’s just two of us, sir,” McCoy said, and handed the major what he thought of as “the Dai-Ichi orders”; they had come from SCAP headquarters in the Dai Ichi Building. “But we are going to need some wheels.”

  The major took the orders and read them.

  SUPREME HEADQ
UARTERS

  Allied Powers Tokyo, Japan

  14 July 1950

  SUBJECT: Letter Orders

  TO: MCCOY, K. R. Captain USMC ZIMMERMAN, E.W. Master Gunner USMCIn connection with your mission, you are authorized and directed to proceed to such places in Japan and Korea at such times as may be necessary.

  All U.S. Army, Air Force and Navy organizations under SCAP are directed to provide you with such logistical support as you may require. Priority AAAAA is assigned for travel.

  FOR THE SUPREME COMMANDER:

  Edward M. Almond

  EDWARD M. ALMOND

  Major General, USA

  Chief of Staff

  EMA/ah

  “So?” the major asked.

  “Sir, the logistical support I need is a Jeep, trailer, and some gas in cans.”

  “Captain,” the major said, “I don’t give a good goddamn if you have orders signed by the President himself, I don’t have Jeeps for bird colonels, so there’s none for a captain. Now do us both a favor and get the fuck out of here!”

  McCoy saluted—it was not returned—and did an about-face movement and marched out from under the canvas fly that presumably was intended to shield the motor pool officer’s portable field desk from sun and rain.

  Although General Pickering had told Captain McCoy that Eighth Army Headquarters had been “set up” in Taegu, when he and Zimmerman had arrived there after midnight—via the K-1 airfield at Pusan, and hitching a ride on a truck the rest of the way—it was immediately clear that “set up” was an intention rather than a fait accompli.

  They had spent the night uncomfortably—it was hot, and muggy, and there were hordes of mosquitoes, flies, and other insects—in their clothing on mattressless folding canvas cots in a twelve-man squad tent. When they rose at first light, they saw the tent was one of a dozen that had been set up in what looked like the playground of a school building before which had been erected a plywood sign identifying it as Headquarters EUSAK.

  McCoy had been surprised that someone had found the time and material to make the sign.