Possibly, Jeanette thought somewhat unkindly, because he had not been there, Major Scott wanted to be in action in Korea. It wouldn’t be so bad, he said, if he was actually flying the Supreme Commander around, but he wasn’t even doing that. The Supreme Commander had loaned his Navion to the CIA, and he had absolutely nothing to do, except once in a while fly one of the two L-19s that were left at the SCAP flight section.
Jeanette had long ago learned that letting a source think you know more than you actually do was a way to put them at ease. All she knew about the CIA in Japan was that it was rumored that MacArthur’s economic advisor, Jonathan Loomis, was the CIA Tokyo station chief.
“What do you suppose Jonathan Loomis is doing with the general’s Navion?”
“It’s not Loomis,” Scott said. “It’s his boss, a Marine general named Pickering. He lives in the Imperial Hotel.”
This was the first Miss Priestly had heard that General Fleming Pickering had any connection with the CIA at all. He’d even denied being a general.
The sonofabitch!
“Well, what do you suppose that General Pickering’s doing with the Supreme Commander’s Navion?”
“I don’t know. He’s got some Marine major flying it. He brings it back to Haneda for service. I know he’s been in Korea. And all over Japan. I don’t know who, if anybody, he’s had with him. . . . The CIA doesn’t say much.”
“Huh,” Jeanette said, thoughtfully.
“Just before I came here this afternoon,” Scott added. “I found out this major is flying the Navion to Kobe first thing in the morning.”
That was interesting. Another source had told her that the aviation elements of the First Provisional Marine Brigade would arrive at Kobe two days from now. She had already made reservations to take the train to Kobe to meet them.
“Anyone going with him?”
“I don’t know, but if you’re thinking of trying to catch a ride with him, forget it. Whatever they’re doing, they don’t want anyone to know about it.”
In another five minutes, Jeanette was sure that she had extracted from Major Scott all that interested her, and, trying to sound as sincere as possible, told him she was really sorry she couldn’t have dinner with him. Another time.
It wasn’t a long walk from the press club to the Imperial Hotel, but it was hotter than she thought it was, and she arrived at the Imperial sweaty.
When she tried to call General Pickering on the house phone, the operator politely denied having a guest by that name. Jeanette took the elevator to the floor on which the Dewey Suite was located and started down the corridor.
She was stopped by a young American in civilian clothing who politely asked what she wanted. She took her press credentials from her purse, and while the young man—obviously a guard—was examining them, said that she was there to interview General Pickering.
“Ma’am, this is a restricted area. I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“I want to see General Pickering.”
“Ma’am, this is a restricted area. I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
With ten minutes to spare, Jeanette managed to make the train to Kobe. She arrived there after midnight, and took a cab to the U.S. Naval Base, Kobe.
Lieutenant Commander Gregory F. Porter, USN, the public affairs officer, was disturbed and annoyed that she had heard that Marine aviation would be arriving in the very near future, and was afraid she would break the story—“Marine Aviation to Debark at Kobe”—before it happened. There was no censorship, he told her, but he really hoped she could see her way clear to embargo the story until the Marines actually got there. The other way might really give aid and comfort to the enemy. If she would embargo the story, the Navy information officer would do everything he could to help her get the story once the Marines were actually there.
Jeanette told him she understood completely, and would happily hold the story until told its publication would in no way give aid and comfort to the enemy. Lieutenant Commander Porter was grateful, and said that he would be honored to buy her breakfast in the morning, at which time he might have some other news for her that she might find of interest.
The dining room of the Kobe U.S. Naval Base Officer’s Mess provided a good view of the airfield, and at 0815 the next morning, while she was eating a surprisingly good grapefruit, Miss Priestly saw a North American Navion touch down smoothly on the runway.
“Oh, I didn’t know the Army used this field,” she said to Lieutenant Commander Porter. “General MacArthur has an airplane just like that.”
“Actually, Jeanette,” the commander said. “That’s his. But he’s not in it.”
“Who is?” she asked, sweetly.
“Right now, that’s classified,” Commander Porter said. “But if you’ll give me another couple of hours, I’ll tell you all about it. And I’ll even get you some exclusive pictures of something I think you’ll agree is one hell of a story.”
Jeanette had already decided that Commander Porter was no dope, and that he had told her all she was going to hear until he decided to tell her more, so she smiled sweetly at him, laid her hand on his and said, “Thank you.”
She looked to see if she could see who was in the Navion, but it taxied out of sight.
At 1015, Commander Porter found Jeanette in the lounge of the Officers’ Club and led her back to the table at which they had breakfast.
“In a very few minutes, you’re going to see something very interesting—perhaps even historic—out there. I’m not at liberty to tell you what now, but you have my word I will at the proper time, and I’ll have those exclusive pictures I promised you.”
He’s talking, probably, about the first Marine planes that will land here. But if I get the pictures first, and exclusively . . .
“You’re very kind, Greg,” she said, softly, and touched his hand with hers.
“I’ll see you shortly,” he said.
At 1025, two Chance-Vought F4U Corsairs dropped out of the sky and landed. The word Marines was lettered large on their fuselages.
“The Marines have landed,” Jeanette said, out loud, and just slightly sarcastically, although there was no one in the dining room to hear her.
The Corsairs parked on the tarmac and shut down. Ground crewmen approached them as a fuel truck drove up. First two Navy photographers, carrying Speed-Graphic press cameras, and then Lieutenant Commander Porter and another man, wearing those overalls pilots wear, walked up to the airplanes as their pilots got out.
I’ll be damned, if I didn’t know better, that pilot looks just like Captain Pickering of Trans-Global Airways.
The pilot of the first Corsair saluted the pilot who looked just like Captain Pickering of Trans-Global Airways and Commander Porter.
Then Pick Pickering’s doppelgänger walked up to the pilot of the second Corsair and saluted him, then wrapped his arms around him, picked him off the ground, and kissed him on the forehead.
The ground crewmen swarmed around the aircraft, refueling them, circling them, examining them.
The pilot of the second Corsair and—damn it, that is him—Pick Pickering were herded reluctantly to the nacelle of one of the Corsairs and the Navy photographer took their picture.
Then the pilot of the second Corsair climbed back into his aircraft, and Pickering climbed into the other one.
What the hell is he doing?
He looked down from the cockpit to make sure there was a fire extinguisher in place, then made a I’m-gonna-wind -it-up motion with his hand, and then the propeller began to turn slowly and a moment later, in a cloud of blue smoke, the engine caught.
My God, he’s going to fly that thing!
A moment after that, with Pickering’s Corsair leading, both aircraft taxied toward the runway.
The Navy photographers trotted toward the runway so they would be in position to photograph the takeoff. Commander Porter and the pilot who was now without an airplane walked toward the officers’ mess.
Jeanette coul
d quite clearly see the takeoff of the two aircraft—including the pilot of the first aircraft, who had earphones cocked jauntily on his head, and was without any possibility of mistake whatever, Captain Pick Pickering of Trans-Global Airways.
Commander Porter and the pilot came into the dining room.
“What you have just seen, Jeanette,” Commander Porter announced somewhat dramatically, “what you will within thirty minutes have the first, and exclusive, photos of, was the takeoff of the first Marine aviation combat sortie to Korea. ”
“Who was flying . . . who was the pilot who took his airplane? ” Jeanette demanded.
“Major Malcolm S. Pickering, ma’am,” the pilot said.
“The other pilot was Lieutenant Colonel William C. Dunn,” Commander Porter said.
“Why did you give him your airplane?”
“Pick’s the skipper, ma’am,” the pilot said. “Of VMF- 243. He didn’t ask me. Skipper’s order, ma’am, they don’t ask.”
“What happened, Jeanette,” Commander Porter said, “was that Major Pickering came to the Far East before his squadron. And flew orientation missions to Korea . . .”
“In MacArthur’s Navion?” she asked, incredulously.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And then Colonel Dunn and . . . excuse me, Jeanette, may I present Captain David Freewall of USMC Reserve Fighter Squadron 243? Freewall, this is Miss Jeanette Priestly of the Chicago Tribune.”
“I know,” Captain Freewall said.
“You do?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Captain Freewall said, smiling at her. “The last thing Ol’ Pick said to me before he climbed in the airplane was that the penalty for treading on his turf was two broken legs.”
Jeanette looked at him wordlessly for a long moment.
“Treading on his turf”? Does that arrogant sonofabitch actually think I’m his turf?
She turned to Commander Porter.
“You were saying, Commander?”
“Well, when the Badoeng Strait—the aircraft carrier, Jeanette, that brought Marine Air Group 33 from San Diego—got close enough to fly Corsairs off her to here, Major Pickering communicated with Colonel Dunn . . .”
“They’re ol’ pals, Miss Priestly,” Captain Freewall said. “They go back to Guadalcanal. And for a regular, Colonel Billy’s a pretty good ol’ boy.”
“Colonel Billy, is that what they call him?” Jeanette asked.
“. . . offering Colonel William C. Dunn,” Commander Porter went on, “the opportunity, if he so desired, of making an orientation flight/cum sortie, of Korea three days before he would have otherwise have had the opportunity to do so. And Colonel Dunn—his first name is William; middle initial C, and that’s Dee You En En—accepted.”
“I see.”
“And very shortly, other aircraft from the Badoeng Strait and Sicily, the other aircraft carrier in the task force, will begin to land here to prepare for Korean service. But you saw, and will have exclusive photos of, the takeoff of the first combat sortie.”
“What kind of ‘combat sortie’?” Jeanette said.
“In this case, it will be what they call targets of opportunity, ” Captain Freewall said. “Which means they’ll take on anything that looks like the enemy.”
“I was under the impression that Major Pickering was an airline pilot—”
“Captain,” Captain Freewall corrected her. “Ol’ Pick’s an airline captain.”
“And is he qualified to go out and ‘take on anything that looks like the enemy’?”
“I think you could say he is, ma’am,” Freewall said. “Ol’ Pick’s capable of just about anything.”
Including, the arrogant bastard, of considering me his turf.
“The other aircraft from the Sicily and the Badoeng Strait will shortly be arriving, Jeanette,” Commander Porter said. “Perhaps you’d like to watch that from the control tower?”
“Yes, I would, thank you very much,” Jeanette said. “When did you say you thought Colonel Dunn and Major Pickering will be getting back?”
“Two, two and a half hours,” Commander Porter said.
[THREE]
K-1 USAF AIR FIELD PUSAN, KOREA 1137 29 JULY 1950
Lieutenant Colonel William C. Dunn could see the Korean landmass approaching, was aware that Pick had had them in a gentle descent from 10,000 feet for the last couple of minutes, and knew that something was up.
It was about 375 miles from Kobe to Pusan, which Pick had said was their “first destination in the Picturesque Land of the Morning Calm.”
They had been wheels-up at Kobe at 1040, and they had been indicating a little better than 400 miles per hour. That meant they would reach Pusan in a little under an hour, and just about an hour had passed.
"K-1, Marine Four One One,” Pick’s voice came over the air-to-ground.
“Four One One, K-1.”
"K-1, Marine Four One One, a two-plane F4-U flight, at five thousand, about five minutes east. Request permission for a low-speed, low-level pass of your airfield.”
My God, what’s he want to do that for?
And they’re not going to let him.
He said it was the only decent airfield in Korea. Therefore it will be crowded. Therefore they won’t want two fighters buzzing the place.
“Say again, One One?” the K-1 tower operator asked, incredulously.
“Request a low-speed, low-level pass over your field in about three and a half minutes.”
“One One, be advised there is heavy traffic in the area. State purpose of low-level pass.”
"K-1, One One. Two purposes. Purpose one, visual observation of possible emergency landing field. Purpose two, to confirm the rumors that the Marines are about to get in your little war.”
“One One, permission denied.”
"K-1, your other option is to let us land, following which we will want to taxi all over the field to have a look from the ground. If you grant permission for a low-level pass, we will be out of your hair in less than sixty seconds. Your call, K-1.”
“Stand by, Marine One One.”
“One One standing by. We are now at three thousand feet, and have the field in sight.”
There was a sixty-second delay, during which the two Corsairs dropped below two thousand feet.
“Attention all aircraft in the vicinity of K-1. Be on the lookout for two Marine Corsair aircraft approaching from the east at low level. They will make a low-level, low-speed pass over this field. Marine One One, you are cleared for one low-level, low-speed pass, east to west.”
“Thank you ever so much,” Pick’s voice said. Then, over the air-to-air radio: “Billy, you get that?”
“Affirmative,” Lieutenant Colonel Dunn said into his microphone.
“Low and slow, Billy,” Pick ordered. “Here we go.”
Dunn saw Pick put the nose of his Corsair down, and followed him. Pick dropped to about a thousand feet over the water, and lower than that once they crossed the shoreline.
“Flaps and wheels, Colonel, sir,” Pick’s voice said.
The airport was dead ahead.
Dunn’s Corsair slowed as he lowered the gear and applied flaps. The airspeed indicator, after a moment, showed that he was close to stalling speed. The airfield was dead ahead; Dunn saw a Navy R5D transport turning off the runway.
Well, he apparently meant low and slow. Why did I think we were going to buzz the place at 400 knots?
Why do I always suspect that Pick will do something crazy?
What he’s doing here makes sense. I can see all I really need to know about this airfield making a low and slow. You can’t see much from the cockpit of a Corsair on the ground.
This made sense.
They flew straight down the main runway. They were almost at the end of it and Dunn had reached the gear control when Pick’s Corsair, its wheels and flaps going up, raised the nose and gained speed.
“Thank you, K-1,” Pick’s voice came over the air-to-ground. “You may now tell all yo
ur friends that the Marines are here and almost landed.”
That’s why. He didn’t have to get on the air like that.
There’s something about Pick that makes him show his ass.
“Having seen just about all the Pusan offers,” Pick’s voice came over the air-to-air, “we will take a quick look at picturesque Chinhae, not far from here, which will take Piper Cubs and those helicopters, but where landing a Corsair would be a little hairy.”
Chinhae was maybe thirty miles from Pusan, and Pick— with Dunn copying him—lowered his flaps and gear and flew over it. There was a single runway, with a half dozen Army light aircraft parked on the west side of it.
Dunn saw enough of it to be able to report to General Cushman that it would be usable by the Piper Cubs and helicopters of the brigade’s observation squadron when they arrived.
“And now to Taegu,” Pick’s voice came over the air. “The second-largest city in unoccupied South Korea.”
It was a flight of just a few minutes. Pick had climbed to 3,500 feet, and Dunn could see from the exposed, raw earth where trenches and other positions had been built southeast of the city, as if in anticipation that the enemy would take Taegu.
“And the war, Billy, begins just a little farther north.” He switched to the air-to-ground.
“Marine Four One One. Any air controller in the area.”
There was no reply, and Pick repeated the call. And again there was no reply.
“Aw, come on, fellas, any air controller in the area. We have two Marine F4-U’s up here ready, willing, and able to shoot up anything you think deserves a shot.”
And again, there was no reply.
Pick switched to the air-to-air frequency.
“Can you believe that, Billy? You think they’re asleep? Maybe too proud to call on the Marines?”
“There has to be a reason,” Dunn replied.
When he’d heard Pick calling, Dunn had thought there would be far more calls from the ground than they could possibly respond to.
Under Fire Page 33
