Under Fire

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  “Not far from Hiroshima, east,” Pick said.

  McCoy bent over the map, found what he was looking for, and laid a plastic ruler on the map.

  “It’s almost exactly two hundred miles from Iwakuni to Pusan,” McCoy announced. “Most of it over the East China Sea. Can you fly that far in a Piper Cub?”

  “If I wind the rubber bands real tight,” Pick said. “From the coast, it’s just a little over a hundred miles. You can make that in a Cub. Step one, get a Cub. Step two, fly to Iwakuni. See if there isn’t a small field on the coast somewhere where I could take on fuel. . . .”

  “Pick, that sounds—”

  “General,” McCoy interrupted, “if Pick had a Cub in Korea, it would make things a lot easier for Zimmerman and me.”

  “What about this Marine Corps air station?” General Pickering asked. “Couldn’t you borrow a plane there? Or—with Ken and Zimmerman in the picture—borrow one from the Army, or the Air Force, there?”

  “General,” McCoy said. “I have to steal Jeeps in Korea. What light airplanes Eighth Army has they are not about to willingly loan to anybody. And I would really hate to make them loan us one; they need what they have.”

  “What makes you think there’s an airplane here they don’t need and would willingly lend us?”

  McCoy and Pick smiled at each other.

  “With all possible respect, General, sir,” Pick said, smiling, “we lower grade officers sometimes suspect that senior officers sometimes have more logistical support than they actually need.”

  “In other words, if I decide you really need an airplane, better that I take one away from the brass?”

  “Very well put, sir, if I may say so, with all due respect, General, sir,” Pick said.

  Pickering shook his head.

  “Did you bring a Marine uniform with you?” General Pickering asked.

  Pick nodded.

  “We brought all our gear in footlockers,” he said. “They wouldn’t fit in a cab, but they’re going to bring them into town in a pickup. Mine should be here any minute. I told them to take Stu James’s to the Hokkaido.”

  “Well, as soon as it gets here, put a uniform on. General Almond—El Supremo’s chief of staff—is coming here. You can tell him yourself what junior officers think about excess logistics for senior officers.”

  McCoy smiled at Pick’s discomfiture. Pickering saw it.

  “Your smile is premature, Captain McCoy,” he said. “General Almond is coming here to see you.”

  “What for?”

  “He didn’t say, but he made it pretty clear that he’d rather Willoughby didn’t know about it,” Pickering said. He turned to Pick and went on: “If you can convince General Almond that getting you an airplane makes sense, it would solve a lot of problems. He can order it. If I ask anyone else, there will be fifty reasons offered why one can’t be spared.”

  “I’ll give it a good shot,” Pick said. “I really would like to see the airfields, get a feel for the place, before the squadron gets here.”

  “Almond’s a reasonable man,” General Pickering said. “When General Cushman was here, trying to talk MacArthur out of putting all Marine aviation under the Air Force—”

  “Jesus Christ!” Pick exploded. “What’s that all about?”

  “The phrase General Stratemeyer—the Air Force three-star who’s the SCAP Air Force commander—used was ‘optimum usage of available aviation assets,’ ” Pickering said. “The phrase General Cushman used was ‘reduction by ninety percent of the combat efficiency of the 1st Marine Brigade if they lost control of their aviation.’ ”

  “You were there?” Pick asked. His father nodded.

  “I’m afraid to ask who won,” Pick said. “Christ, I’ve been on maneuvers with the Army and the Air Force. The Air Force just doesn’t understand close air support.”

  “So General Cushman said,” Pickering said. “He phrased it a little more delicately. What Almond said, very respectfully, was ‘General, I would suggest we defer to the feelings of the Marine Corps.’ El Supremo gave him a long, cold, look, and then said, ‘I don’t think we are in any position to risk lowering Marine combat efficiency in any degree. Subject to later review, the Marine Corps may retain control of their aviation.’ It was close, Pick. I think if Almond hadn’t said what he did, you’d be under Air Force control.”

  “I think I’m starting to like this guy,” Pick said.

  “I don’t think he’s been co-opted by the Bataan Gang,” Pickering said.

  Pick’s footlocker appeared five minutes later, and he had just enough time to shower and shave and put a uniform on before there was a knock at the door, and without waiting for a response, the CIC guard in the corridor opened it and Major General Almond entered the room.

  “You wanted to see me, General?” Almond asked.

  That question was asked for the benefit of the CIC guy, Pickering realized. Almond knows that Willoughby—and possibly MacArthur, too—gets a report on everything that happens here.

  “Yes, sir, I did. Thank you for coming.”

  The CIC agent closed the door.

  “General, this is my son, Major Malcolm Pickering,” Pickering said. “I wanted you to meet him. He has something to ask you.”

  Almond met Pickering’s eyes for a moment before offering his hand to Pick.

  We have just agreed on our story. “Pickering wanted me to meet his son.”

  God, poor Almond. He has to spend his life walking the razor’s edge between disloyalty to his general and keeping his integrity.

  “How do you do, Major?” Almond said. “You’re here with General Cushman?”

  “In a sense, sir. My squadron, VMF-243, was mobilized on the twenty-third. When the squadron gets here, we’ll be under General Cushman’s command.”

  “And when do you think that will be?”

  "Sir, they should sail within a day or two. They may already have. ”

  “That sounds a little improbable, Major,” Almond challenged.

  “Sir, we trained to be able to fly aboard a carrier within forty-eight hours.”

  “And you won’t need any additional training, equipping, filling out the ranks, that sort of thing, before you go aboard an aircraft carrier for active service?”

  “We’re a little better than ninety percent on our enlisted men, sir. And we have one hundred percent of our officers. The squadron’s ready to go, sir.”

  “You’re here,” Almond said, making it a question.

  “Yes, sir. My exec and I flew in this morning, commercial, as sort of the advance party.”

  “Sort of?”

  “Well, sir, we won’t go on active duty until the squadron gets here.”

  “You’re in uniform.”

  “Sir, the CO of VMF-243 has the authority to call up people for seventy-two hours for special training. I called myself and my exec up.”

  Almond smiled. “That sounds highly practical and very irregular.”

  Pick shrugged.

  “What do you know about the 1st Provisional Marine Brigade?” Almond asked.

  “Sir, I’m not sure I understand the question.”

  Almond turned to McCoy.

  “You’re Captain McCoy, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You look familiar, Captain,” Almond said, as he shook McCoy’s hand. “Do we know each other?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Captain McCoy was stationed here recently, General,” General Pickering said. “With the Naval Element, SCAP.”

  “I thought I’d seen the face,” Almond said.

  Either he’s got one hell of a poker face, or he doesn’t know a thing about McCoy’s analysis, or that Willoughby buried a knife in McCoy’s back.

  “Major,” Almond went on, “your father’s aide-de-camp reported to your father, who relayed the information to me, that when a regiment arrived for Korean duty yesterday in Pusan, the ranks were filled with recent basic training graduates; there had been no opportun
ity for the unit to train together; no opportunity for the men to zero their individual weapons; and that their crew-served weapons, heavy machine guns and mortars were still packed in cosmoline. ” He paused and looked at McCoy. “That is the essence of what you said?”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “So my question to you, Major, is what is the 1st Provisional Marine Brigade like, in that context?”

  “I think it will be in much better shape than that, sir,” Pick said.

  “Is that Marine Corps pride speaking, or do you know?”

  “Sir, I know a lot of the officers who are with the brigade. They tell me that most of the officers, and non-coms are War Two veterans, and most of the Marines have been with the 1st Marine Division for some time. When they formed the brigade, they didn’t just send in bodies, but intact squads, platoons, companies from the division, with their officers and noncoms. Men who have trained together, sir.” He chuckled. “Sir, these are Marines. I can’t believe they haven’t zeroed their rifles. Or that their machine guns are packed in cosmoline. They’ll get off their ships ready to fight.”

  “How is it that you, an aviator, know the officers of a division? ”

  “Sir, we train together. When we get a call from the ground to hit something, we usually recognize the voice asking for the strike.”

  “How far down does that go? Battalion? Company?”

  “Sometimes to platoon, sir.”

  “Well, I’m impressed,” Almond said. “And frankly a little relieved. Generals Cushman and Craig told me essentially what you’ve been telling me, but I like to get confirmation from the people actually doing things. Senior officers can only hope the junior officers are doing what they’re supposed to do.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pick said.

  “General,” General Pickering said, “Pick made an interesting observation a little while ago, just before you came. He said that most senior officers have more logistical support than they actually need.”

  “Interesting,” Almond said. “Tell me, General, why am I getting the feeling I am about to be ambushed by Marines?”

  “I have no idea, General,” Pickering said.

  “And that there’s a hook in the phrase ‘more logistical support than they actually need’?”

  “Now that you mention it, General . . .” Pickering said.

  “What, Pickering?” Almond said, smiling.

  “Pick wants to borrow a light aircraft, and make a personal survey of airfields in Korea,” Pickering said. “And my aide-de-camp tells me that having access to a light airplane in Korea would make his work there considerably easier.”

  Almond looked at Pickering for a long moment.

  “Is that an official request from the Assistant Director of the CIA for Asia?”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “There are very few light aircraft left in Japan,” Almond said. “I ordered almost all of them sent to Korea.”

  Disappointment showed on Pick’s face.

  “I was afraid that might be the case, sir. But I had to ask.”

  "There are four at SCAP,” Almond went on. “Two L-19s, one L-4—that’s a Piper Cub—and one L-17, that’s a four-seater North American Navion.”

  “Sir, if I could have the Cub for a couple of days . . .”

  “You can’t,” Almond said. “That’s mine. I call it ‘The Blue Goose.’ ”

  “I understand, sir,” Pick said.

  Curiosity overwhelmed General Pickering.

  “Why the ‘Blue Goose’?” he asked. “Goose suggests . . . the index finger raised in a vulgar manner.”

  “Somehow that lettering appeared on the nacelle shortly after every other general officer on the SCAP staff got a new L-19 but me,” Almond said. “You are the first senior officer to ask me what it means.”

  Pickering chuckled.

  “The L-19s are out, too,” Almond went on. “One belongs to General Willoughby, and the other to the G-3, who really needs it. That leaves General MacArthur’s Navion. He rarely uses it. General Willoughby uses it rather often. So what I’m going to do is go back to the Dai Ichi Building and inform the Supreme Commander that General Pickering asked to see me here to meet his son, and to ask for the use of a light aircraft. I’m going to tell the Supreme Commander that I told you, General Pickering, that I would bring your request to his attention, and that, barring objections from him, I would see if I could find one for you. I don’t think the Supreme Commander will object. Then I’m going to send Al Haig, my aide, out to Haneda to inform the people there that with the permission of the Supreme Commander, the L-17 will be picked up by General Pickering’s pilot for purposes not known to me.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Pick said.

  “It might be wise to get the aircraft out of Tokyo as soon as possible,” Almond said.

  “Yes, sir,” Pick said.

  “There’s always tit-for-tat,” Almond said to Pickering. “Okay?”

  “What can I do for you, General?” Pickering replied.

  “I’d like to see McCoy’s—and, come to think of it, Major Pickering’s—reports on what they find. Unofficially. I sometimes wonder if the reports we’re getting at the daily briefings are designed to spare General MacArthur unnecessary concern.”

  In other words, you suspect—with damned good reason— that Willoughby isn’t reporting anything to MacArthur he doesn’t think he should know.

  “I’ll see you get them,” Pickering said.

  Almond nodded.

  “Major,” he said to Pick, “it might be a good idea if you happened to be around the SCAP hangar at Haneda, in case Captain Haig might show up there.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll be there,” Pick said.

  Almond walked to the door and opened it. Then he turned and, in a voice loud enough to ensure the CIC could hear it, said, “I’ll take your request to the Supreme Commander as soon as I can.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Pickering said.

  They smiled at each other, and then Almond went through the door.

  [TWO]

  THE PRESS CLUB TOKYO, JAPAN 1530 28 JULY 1950

  It was alleged by many of Miss Jeanette Priestly’s associates in the SCAP (and now UN Command) press corps— all of whom were male—that the Chicago Tribune’s war correspondent had a Jesuit-like attitude regarding the development of her sources. That, in other words, the end justified the means.

  While it was obviously not true that Miss Priestly would fuck a gorilla to get a story—as was sometimes alleged around the press club bar—it was on the other hand true that Miss Priestly was not above looking soulfully into the eyes of some virile major—or general or, for that matter, PFC—simultaneously allowing him to glimpse down her blouse at her bosom, onto which she often sprayed Chanel No. 5, and perhaps even laying a soft hand on his, if she thought the individual concerned was possessed of knowledge that would give her a story. Or, more recently, in Korea, if he had access to a Jeep, or space on an airplane.

  But she did not take these sources of news or air passage space to bed in payment for their cooperation. While it had been some time since she had lost the moral right to virginal white, the facts were that the urge and the opportunity had not coincided for quite some time.

  Jeanette was honest enough to admit to herself that she had been strongly drawn to Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, USMC, probably because he had seemed like the only man in Korea who knew what he was doing. And he was cute. But he hadn’t made a pass at her, and if he had, where could they have gone to share carnal bliss?

  The green rice fields of Korea in the summer are fertilized with human feces, the smell from which tends to dampen romantic ardor.

  And since they had been together in Korea, she had never seen McCoy again, so he was added in her mind to her long list of missed opportunities.

  And sometimes, when everything else was right, something in her psyche made her back off. There was no denying that the Trans-Global Airways pilot, the one who had set the speed record, and whose
father was a buddy of MacArthur, Pickering, was the legendary answer to a maiden’s prayer. Tall, good-looking, wicked eyes, and with an undeniable charm. And rich.

  Pickering had obviously been smitten with her. If he’d been a horse, he would have been neighing and tearing up the carpet with his hooves. And, if she had been willing to drop her almost maidenly reticence, there would have been a soft bed in the Imperial Hotel, with room service champagne. And she had heard somewhere that airline pilots could provide free tickets, which was something to think about, too.

  But there was something about Captain Pickering of Trans-Global Airways that turned on her alarm system. She had not become a foreign—now war—correspondent for the Tribune by making herself vulnerable. As the boys in the press club bar would phrase it, she knew how to keep her ass covered, literally and figuratively.

  She could have made an ass of herself over Pickering, and she rarely put herself in that position. And anyway, he was gone. Since it was unlikely that she would ever see him again, she put him out of her mind.

  Jeanette had learned that her best sources of information came from men who both lusted after her and were pissed off about something, who wanted to tell her something that she would write about, and put somebody else’s ass in a crack.

  When she saw Major Lem T. Scott, Signal Corps, U.S. Army, smile at her as she walked into the press club bar, she knew that in addition to whatever lustful fantasies might be running through his head, he was really there to tell her something.

  Major Scott was a tall, rather good-looking man in his early thirties. He was an Army aviator, which gained him sort of unofficial membership in the press club. No journalist was going to kick an Army aviator out of the press club. Sooner or later, every journalist had to beg a ride in one of the Army’s fleet of light aircraft. In the sure and certain knowledge that some journalist would stand drinks for them on the expense account, Army aviators often went to the press club bar.

  It took Jeanette about thirty minutes to get from Major Scott what he had obviously come to the press club bar to tell her, “accidentally, in conversation.”

  Major Scott was attached to the Flight Section, Headquarters, SCAP. Most of the light Army aircraft, and their pilots, had been sent to Korea by General Almond. General MacArthur’s personal light aircraft, a North American L-17 Navion, had not, and consequently neither had Major Scott, who was MacArthur’s Navion pilot.