Under Fire
Page 37
“No problem, sir.”
“I’ll be waiting to hear from you. Thank you again.”
“Yes, sir.”
Master Sergeant Keller stuck his head in the radio room and caught Captain Peter’s eye.
“Captain, I’ve got an errand to run. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Captain Peters nodded, and Keller pulled his head back out of the door before Peters could ask him, “What kind of an errand?”
He picked up his Thompson and went outside the building and commandeered one of the message center Jeeps and told the driver to take him to the pier.
“You can’t get on the piers, Sergeant. The Marines are getting off their boats, and they put up a guard.”
“Just take me there,” Keller said.
On the way through Pusan’s narrow, filthy streets, crowded with military vehicles too large to pass side by side, Keller wondered why he had been so obliging.
Because the caller was a general, and generals—even Marine Corps generals—get what they ask sergeants to do for them?
Because, in addition to being a general, this guy had obviously had access to the SCAP/UN commo center and the landline?
Or maybe because Peters had told him the captain was CIA?
And Captain Peters, who’s a good guy, is obviously going to be pissed because I didn’t tell him what was going on.
There was a guard post at the entrance to the wharf area, and three Marines, a sergeant, and two PFCs, all of them in field gear, one of them with a Browning automatic rifle hanging from his shoulder.
The sergeant stepped into the road and held up his hand in a casual but very firm gesture meaning “stop.”
“Off-limits, Sergeant,” he said. “Sorry.”
“I’m from the Eighth Army ComCenter,” Keller said. “I have a message for General Craig.”
“Let’s have it. I’ll see it gets to him.”
“It’s an oral message, Sergeant.” Keller said.
“An oral message?” the Marine sergeant asked, dubiously.
“Is there an officer of the guard?” Keller asked.
“Of course there’s an officer of the guard,” the Marine sergeant said.
“Send for him,” Keller said.
“What?”
“Send for him.”
“Why should I do that?”
“Because I have six stripes and you have three, and that’s what they call an order.”
The Marine sergeant looked at Keller for a long moment, then gestured to one of the PFCs, who started off at a trot down the dock.
Two minutes later, a Marine captain walked up, trailed by the PFC.
Keller and the Marine sergeant saluted him.
“What’s up?” the captain asked.
“Sir, I’ve got a message for General Craig,” Keller said.
“An oral message,” the Marine sergeant said.
“What is it, Sergeant?” the captain said. “I’ll get it to him.”
“Sir, it is oral, and I was ordered to deliver it personally,” Keller said.
“By who?” the captain said.
“Brigadier General Pickering, sir,” Keller said, then added: "U.S. Marine Corps.”
“Never heard of him,” the captain said, matter-of-factly. “But I can’t imagine why a master sergeant would . . . Come with me, Sergeant.”
The captain started walking down the wharf, and Keller started to get back in the message center Jeep.
“The Jeep stays,” the Marine sergeant said.
“Wait for me,” Keller said to the driver, who nodded.
The reason the captain was walking and the Jeep denied access to the wharf became immediately clear.
The wharf was jammed with men, equipment, and supplies. Lines of Marines—their rifles stacked using the stacking swivels near the muzzles, something Keller hadn’t seen since Germany—waited for cargo nets jammed with supplies being lowered from the two ships to touch the dock, then began to carry the individual cartons and crates to waiting U.S. Army GMC 6 x 6 trucks.
Other booms lowered Marine 6 x 6s, and trailers for them, many of them stacked high with supplies, to the dock. The trucks were joined with their trailers, and then quickly driven off to make room for other trucks, trailers, and other piles of supplies dumped from cargo nets.
The closest ship was the USS Clymer. The captain started up her ladder. There was a Navy officer and a sailor in a steel helmet at the top of the ladder. As the captain was explaining to the Navy officer who Keller was, Keller could see, farther down the wharf, the USS Pickaway, and past her—too far away for him to read her name—some kind of a Navy freighter unloading artillery pieces and M- 26 “Patton” tanks.
“This way, please, Sergeant,” the captain said, and Keller followed him onto the deck of the Clymer and then down a passageway and a narrow stairway and then another passageway until they reached a door guarded by two Marines. A sign read “Mess & Wardroom II.”
“Wait here, Sergeant,” the captain said, and went through the door.
A moment later, a tall, silver-haired man in Marine fatigues came through the door.
“My name is Craig,” he said. “You have a message for me?”
“Yes, sir,” Keller said. “General Pickering called from Tokyo and first asked if Captain McCoy was available. When I told him I believed Captain McCoy was on the pier, he gave me a message for you and Captain McCoy, and asked if I could deliver it personally.”
He paused. Craig waited for him to go on.
“The message is ‘Permission denied. Repeat denied. Return immediately. Repeat immediately. Signature, Pickering, Brigadier General, USMC.’ ”
“I’ll see that he gets the message, Sergeant. Thank you.”
“Sir, General Pickering asked me to confirm that the message was delivered. To call him, sir.”
Craig looked at him for a moment, then went into the mess.
“Gentlemen,” Keller heard him say, loudly enough to be heard, “Captain McCoy will take one more question. We have to get on with the off-loading. Please join me, Captain McCoy, after the next question.”
Then he came back into the passageway.
“He will be here shortly, Sergeant,” he said. “How is it you—a master sergeant—are doing this personally?”
“I told General Pickering I would, sir.”
A minute later, he heard someone in the mess call “Atten -hut,” and there was the sound of scraping chair legs.
Then McCoy, followed by Zimmerman, came into the corridor.
Craig steered him to the right of the door.
“The sergeant has a message for you, McCoy,” Craig said. “For us. Go ahead, Sergeant.”
“ ‘Permission denied. Repeat denied. Return immediately. Repeat immediately. Signature, Pickering, Brigadier General, USMC.’ ”
McCoy’s face showed surprise, then regret.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said to General Craig.
“Never be sorry when you’ve tried to do a good thing, Captain,” Craig said. “At least we got a splendid briefing out of you before other duty called.”
“Thank you, sir,” McCoy said.
“I presume General Pickering’s order includes Mister Zimmerman?”
“I believe it does, sir.”
“How will you get to Tokyo? You have orders?”
“Yes, sir, we do. We’ll catch a ride out to K-1. . . .”
“You have a Jeep.”
“Sir, I’d just have to leave it at K-1 for somebody to steal, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that Jeep was already wearing some kind of Marine insignia.”
“I’ll get you a ride out to K-1,” Craig said.
“Captain,” Master Sergeant Keller said. “I’ve got a Jeep. I’ll run you out to K-1.”
“By your leave, sir?” McCoy said, coming to attention.
“Carry on, Mister McCoy,” General Craig said.
[FOUR]
“I’ll drive,” Master Sergeant Keller said to the d
river of the message center Jeep.
“Sergeant, I don’t think you’re supposed to do that.”
“What I know you’re supposed to do is what I tell you,” Keller said. “Get in the back.”
Keller got behind the wheel. McCoy got in beside him, and Zimmerman clambered over the back to sit beside the driver.
“Captain, before we go out there,” Keller asked, “what are you going to do with that rifle, and Mr. Zimmerman’s Thompson, when we get to K-1?”
“I don’t understand the question,” McCoy said.
“The Air Force . . . K-1 is now a MATS terminal,” Keller said. “They won’t let you get on a plane with a weapon.”
“Jesus!” Zimmerman said, disgustedly.
With our orders, McCoy thought, I could load a 105-mm howitzer on the plane. But that would mean using the CIA orders, and I don’t really want to do that.
“What do you suggest, Sergeant?” McCoy asked.
“Well, if you’re coming back, sir, I could keep them for you.”
“What’s in it for you?”
“You might not come back . . .” Keller said.
“In which case, you end up owning a first-rate Thompson and a National Match M-1?”5
“Yes, sir. It looks to me like your choice is maybe getting your weapons back from me, or for sure losing them to the Air Force,” Keller said.
“Ernie, we’re going to leave the Thompson and the Garand with this doggie,” McCoy said. There was a tone of approval in McCoy’s voice. “How come a smart guy like you didn’t join the Marines?” he asked.
“I couldn’t, sir. I didn’t qualify. My parents were married, sir,” Keller said.
McCoy’s eyebrows went up. Zimmerman guffawed, then laughed out loud.
“You’re okay, Keller,” Zimmerman said. “For a goddamn doggie.”
“Thank you very much, sir,” Keller said, straightfaced.
This time McCoy laughed.
“Keep your pistol, Ernie,” McCoy ordered.
The pistols Master Gunner Zimmerman had drawn for them from a fellow master gunner at Camp Pendleton were also National Match, far more accurate and reliable than a standard-issue Pistol, 1911A1, Caliber .45 ACP. They were worth trying to sneak past the Air Force.
As they approached the base operations building at K-1, there was a new sign, neatly painted on a four-by-eight sheet of plywood.
UNITED STATES AIR FORCE MILITARY AIR TRANSPORT SERVICE U.S. AIR FORCE STATION K-1 PUSAN, KOREA
There was an Air Force C-54, a four-engine Douglas transport, sitting in front of the building, with a ladder leading up into it.
“Looks like you got here just in time,” Keller said.
“When we come back, Keller,” Zimmerman said, “and there’s rust on my Thompson, I will turn you into a soprano. ”
They shrugged out of their field gear and put their National Match .45’s in the small of their backs, under their utilities jackets, which they wore outside their trousers.
“In case you do wind up owning that Garand, Keller,” McCoy said. “Take care of it. And thank you for everything. ”
“Forget it, Captain.”
“Forget what? The thanks or the M-1?”
“Maybe both, sir,” Keller said. “I’ll wait until you’re airborne, then call General Pickering and tell him you’re on the way.”
“Thank you, Number Two,” McCoy said.
Keller saluted. McCoy and Zimmerman returned it, and went into the terminal building, where there was an Air Force staff sergeant behind a counter.
“Can I help you, Captain?”
“If that C-54’s headed for Tokyo, we need to be on it.”
“Not a chance, sir. It’s full. There may be another flight late this afternoon, but I think you’d better find a bed in the BOQ. I know I can get you on the flight first thing tomorrow. ”
“We need to be on that one,” McCoy said, and took the Dai-Ichi orders from his pocket and handed them to the sergeant.
“Sorry, Captain,” the sergeant said. “Just about everybody on that airplane has SCAP orders, and a priority, like yours. And the junior one is a major—”
“How about these orders?” McCoy said, and handed him the CIA orders.
The sergeant’s eyes went up.
“I’ll have to show these to the duty officer,” he said, and turned from the counter.
“I don’t let those orders out of my sight, Sergeant. Why don’t you go fetch the duty officer?”
The sergeant shrugged, handed McCoy the CIA orders, and went to an office at the end of the room. An Air Force major came out and went to the counter.
“Sir, we need to be on that airplane,” McCoy said. “Here’s the authority.”
The major read the orders. His eyebrows went up. “You have the manifest, Sergeant?” he asked.
The sergeant handed him a clipboard, on which had been typed the names of the passengers.
He went down the list with a finger.
“There’s a bird colonel on here with a Triple A,” he said, “Minor, George P. And the junior officer with a Quadruple A is apparently Major Finney, Howard T. Go out there,
Sergeant, and tell them they’ve been bumped. They are not going to like it.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said.
“As soon as they get off,” the major went on, “you two get on. While they’re in here, raising hell with me, I’ll have the pilot close the door and taxi away from here until he gets his takeoff clearance.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I never saw orders like that before,” the major said.
Three minutes later, Colonel Minor and Major Finney, in khaki uniforms, came down the ladder from the C-54, saw the two Marine officers in sweat- and dirt-stained utilities waiting at the foot of the ladder, returned the Marines’ salutes, and walked toward the passenger terminal.
Colonel Minor looked over his shoulder as he entered the building and saw McCoy and Zimmerman climbing the stairs. Then he hurried into the building.
[FIVE]
HANEDA AIRFIELD TOKYO, JAPAN 1305 2 AUGUST 1950
As the MATS C-54 taxied toward the terminal, McCoy and Zimmerman saw a long line of staff cars and several small buses obviously waiting to transport the passengers from the airfield into Tokyo.
“The question now is how we get into Tokyo,” McCoy said.
“My question is what the hell is going on?” Zimmerman said. “ ‘Immediately. Repeat immediately.’ What the hell is that all about?”
McCoy shrugged.
“I have no idea,” he confessed.
When they finally reached the door of the aircraft and stepped out onto the platform at the head of the stairway, Zimmerman said, “Hey, there’s a Marine officer.”
McCoy looked where Zimmerman was pointing, and saw the Marine officer just as Zimmerman added, “Jesus, that’s George Hart, or his twin goddamn brother!”
“I’ll be damned,” McCoy said, and waited impatiently for the SCAP brass to get off the stairway.
Captain George F. Hart, USMCR, or his doppelgänger, in a crisp uniform, pushed himself off the front fender of a 1950 Chevrolet U.S. Army staff car and walked to the stairway.
He saluted.
“Hello, Ken,” he said. “Ernie.”
“Jesus, George, I thought you’d be running around the hills of Pendleton,” McCoy said, reaching for Hart’s hand.
“So did I,” Hart said. “Delicate subject. I’ll tell you later.”
“You’re here to meet us?” McCoy asked.
Hart nodded. “Old times, huh?” he said. He gestured toward the staff car, and they started walking to it.
“What’s going on, George?” Zimmerman asked. “What’s this ‘return immediately, repeat immediately’ all about?”
“I don’t know much,” Hart said, interrupting himself to ask, “You have luggage, gear?”
McCoy and Zimmerman shook their heads, “no.”
“I don’t know much about what’s goi
ng on,” Hart repeated. “It’s got something to do with an Army two-star, a guy named Howe.”
“General Howe is here?” McCoy asked.
Hart nodded. “We got in yesterday afternoon—”
“ ‘We’?” McCoy interrupted.
“Same plane,” Hart said. “I think it was a coincidence, but with Colonel Banning involved, you’re never sure.”
They reached the car. The driver, an Army sergeant, got from behind the wheel and opened the rear door on the driver’s side.
“I’ll get in front,” Hart said, and got in beside the driver. McCoy and Zimmerman got in the back.
The driver got behind the wheel.
"Take us to Captain McCoy’s quarters, please,” Hart said.
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said.
“My quarters?” McCoy asked, confused.
Hart turned on the seat, held his right hand in front of his face, nodded toward the driver, and put his left index finger on his lips.
“Your orders, gentlemen,” Hart said, “are to shower, shave, put on uniforms, and join General Pickering as soon as possible. You, Captain, under the circumstances, may have thirty minutes of personal time—no more; the general was quite specific about that—with Mrs. McCoy.”
McCoy didn’t speak, but asked with his eyes and eyebrows if he had heard correctly. Hart nodded.
“My uniforms are in the Imperial Hotel,” Zimmerman said.
“Not any longer, Mr. Zimmerman,” Hart said.
Zimmerman opened his mouth to speak, and McCoy laid a hand on his leg to silence him.
They rode the rest of the way to Denenchofu in silence.
[SIX]
NO. 7 SAKU-TUN DENENCHOFU, TOKYO, JAPAN 1420 2 AUGUST 1950
The wooden sign reading “Capt. K. R. McCoy, USMCR” that had hung on the stone wall was gone, but what he could see of the house through the gate—Why is the gate open?—looked very much the same as it had when it had been home to Ken and Ernie. That surprised McCoy, until he realized that it had been only two months—exactly two months—since he had left here more or less in disgrace, about to be booted out of the Marine Corps.
It seems like a hell of a lot longer.
“Wait for us,” Hart ordered the driver. “We won’t be very long.”