Under Fire

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  “My name is McCoy, Sergeant,” McCoy said.

  The sergeant saluted.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said. “I was told to expect you. But this other officer? I was told to let only you pass.”

  “Major Dunston’s with me,” McCoy said. “He’s with the army transportation corps.”

  That announcement seemed to make the sergeant even more nervous.

  “Yes, sir. Would the captain wait a minute, please?” he said.

  He went to the sliding door and beat three times on it with his fist.

  “Mr. Zimmerman!” he called. “Special visitors!”

  There had been a crack of light at the side of the sliding door. The light went out, after a minute, and then the door slowly slid open just wide enough for Master Gunner Zimmerman’s bulk.

  He saluted McCoy.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said.

  “Can we come in, Mr. Zimmerman?” McCoy asked.

  “I’m not sure bringing that doggie officer in here is a good idea,” Zimmerman said, quickly, softly, and in Korean. Then he raised his voice and switched to English. “May I speak to the captain privately, sir?”

  “This doggie officer,” Dunston said, in Korean, “not only knows what you’re doing in there, Mr. Zimmerman, but hopes that by now he has convinced Captain McCoy that he’s one of the good guys.”

  “He’s Okay, Ernie,” McCoy said.

  “If you say so,” Zimmerman said, dubiously. “Open the door.”

  The sergeant slid the door fully open. It was pitch dark inside the warehouse. McCoy, Dunston, and Sergeant Jennings followed Zimmerman inside. Zimmerman then carefully closed the door.

  “Lights!” he ordered.

  Ceiling mounted lights came on.

  There were a dozen Marines in the room, plus a Dodge three-quarter-ton weapons carrier, two Jeeps, and trailers for all three vehicles. Lieutenant David R. Taylor, USNR, was sitting on a tarpaulin covering a five-foot-high stack of crates.

  All three vehicles bore a fresh coat of Marine green paint.

  Zimmerman looked at McCoy expectantly.

  “Major Dunston, may I present Lieutenant Taylor, of the Navy, and Master Gunner Zimmerman?”

  Taylor and Zimmerman wordlessly shook Dunston’s hand.

  “May I suggest, Mr. Zimmerman,” McCoy said, formally, “that you turn the lights off again, so that Sergeant Jennings can bring his Jeep in here for a little freshening up?”

  “Lights!” Zimmerman ordered again. The lights went out, the door was opened, and a moment later, Jennings drove his Jeep into the warehouse. The door was then closed.

  “Lights!” Zimmerman ordered. The lights came back on, and then there was the sound of an air-compressor starting. Two Marines went to the Jeep and started removing the top, seats, and spare tire. A third Marine appeared with a paint spray gun in his hand and started to expertly over-paint the hood.

  “How soon can we use any of these?” McCoy asked.

  “We got the weapons carrier first,” Zimmerman said. “It’s had a couple of hours to dry. Besides, if it looks a little dirty—”

  “It would probably look a little less suspicious than a fresh paint job,” Dunston said, in Korean. “You seem to be everything I’ve heard about you, Mr. Zimmerman. That you are very good at what you do.”

  McCoy chuckled.

  Zimmerman looked confused.

  “May I see you a moment, gentlemen?” McCoy ordered, gesturing toward a far corner of the warehouse, as he started walking to it.

  Zimmerman and Taylor followed him.

  “Who is that guy?” Zimmerman asked.

  “The Pusan CIA station chief,” McCoy said. “I sort of like him, but I don’t want him to know about the Channel Islands. He thinks we’re here to see if we can get Pick back.”

  Zimmerman nodded.

  “You went to him?” Taylor asked.

  “The general sent him a TWX telling him to give us anything we need. He went looking for me.”

  “How did he find you?” Zimmerman asked.

  “He not only found me, he knew where to find you,” McCoy said, chuckling. “I guess you could say he’s very good at what he does.”

  “Okay.”

  “How much did you tell these guys?”

  “I was waiting for you to do that.”

  “What’s with Sergeant Jennings? Why did you send him to K-1?”

  “I knew him at Parris Island,” Zimmerman said. “Good man.”

  “Can he keep his mouth shut? My brain was out of gear when I landed at K-1 and I told him what we’re really going to do.”

  “Yeah,” Zimmerman said. “He can. I’ll tell him right now.”

  “Dunston’s going to be useful. He’s got a place we can use outside of town, and a junk with a two hundred-horsepower Caterpillar, and a national police major he says can be trusted.”

  “Well, the junk will come in handy,” Taylor said.

  “Maybe he trusts this Korean to report on everything we do?” Zimmerman asked.

  “Probably. So the thing we do is make the we’re-going-to -try-to-rescue-Pickering story credible.”

  Zimmerman nodded.

  “So what do we do now?”

  McCoy pointed across the room, where a canvas tarpaulin shrouded a five-foot-high stack of crates.

  “What’s in those?”

  “Rations, some Japanese Arisaka rifles, ammo for them, beer, and a brand-new SCR-300 transceiver.”

  “Well, start loading that stuff in the weapons carrier and a trailer, and we’ll go look at our new home. We can take Jennings with us, so he knows how to find this place. I want to get out of here before we all wind up in an Army stockade.”

  There was little sign of life in the village of Tongnae except for a Korean national policeman standing in the center of the major intersection. He had a Japanese Arisaka rifle hanging from his shoulder, and was wearing what McCoy recognized as a Japanese army cartridge belt. He was wearing rubber sandals, and he didn’t move as Dunston’s Jeep and then the weapons carrier drove past him.

  “What’s that awful stink?” Jennings asked from the backseat, where he was sitting with Taylor.

  “Korea, the land of the morning calm and many awful stinks,” Taylor said. “What we’re smelling now is drying fish. They put their catches on racks on roofs and dry them. They don’t rot, for some reason. I’ve wondered how they do that.”

  Dunston drove down deserted streets and finally stopped before a double door in a stone wall. He blew the horn, and after a moment the doors were opened by a national police sergeant who didn’t look old enough to be wearing a uniform, or large enough to be able to fire the Garand he held in his hands.

  He took his right hand from the Garand and saluted awkwardly as Dunston drove the Jeep past him.

  Inside the wall was a rambling one-story wooden building with a wide verandah. As McCoy looked at it, a door slid open and a Korean appeared. He was slight, bare-chested, wearing only U.S. Army fatigue trousers and rubber sandals. He held a Thompson submachine gun in his hand. He saluted.

  There was something about him that told McCoy he was looking at Major Kim Pak Su.

  Dunston got out of the Jeep and walked to Major Kim.

  “Who’s here tonight besides you?” he asked, in Korean.

  “No one’s here but me,” Kim said. “Who are these people? ”

  “They’re working with me, or more accurately, I’m working with them,” Dunston said, and switched to English. “Captain McCoy, this is Major Kim.”

  “How do you do?” Kim said, in British-accented English.

  “Very well, thank you,” McCoy said, in Korean. “This is my deputy, Master Gunner Zimmerman, and Lieutenant Taylor, of the Navy.”

  Major Kim was visibly surprised that Taylor and Zimmerman also said the equivalent of “How do you do?” in Korean.

  “Have you got somebody to help unload our gear?” Zimmerman asked, indicating the weapons carrier and its trailer.
r />   “More important, someone reliable to guard it?”

  “I have national policemen over there,” Kim said, pointing to an outbuilding. Then, surprising everybody, he put his fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly.

  A moment later, a young Korean wearing only his underwear and sandals, and carrying a Garand, came trotting up to them.

  “Unload the truck and trailer, put it in the garage, and put a guard on it,” Major Kim said.

  “Yes, sir,” the Korean said.

  “Why don’t we go inside?” Major Kim asked. “I’m afraid there’s not much I can offer you in the way of food or drink. . . .”

  Zimmerman put his fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly.

  The Korean in his underwear returned.

  “There are six cases of beer in the truck,” Zimmerman announced. “Bring five in the hotel. The other is for you and your men. There are ten cases of rations. Take two for you and your men.”

  The Korean looked to Major Kim for guidance.

  “You heard the officer,” Kim said.

  The Korean scurried off.

  “Major, is there someone here who can cook?” Zimmerman asked.

  “Yes, there is.”

  “Wash clothes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And is there a bath, with showers?”

  “Yes. This was a Japanese officer’s rest hotel. . . .”

  “You mean whorehouse?” Zimmerman asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then what I suggest we do, Captain McCoy, sir,” Zimmerman said, “is go inside, have a shower, a couple of beers, something to eat, and call it a day. This has been a long day.”

  “Make it so, Mr. Zimmerman,” Captain McCoy ordered.

  XIV

  [ONE]

  THE DEWEY SUITE THE IMPERIAL HOTEL TOKYO, JAPAN 2200 4 AUGUST 1950

  Brigadier General Fleming Pickering fully understood that drinking alone was not wise, but that’s what he was doing—but slowly, he hoped—when the door chime to the Dewey Suite sounded.

  Pickering was alone because General Howe had sensed he wanted to be alone, and had taken Master Sergeant Rogers out for dinner. Then, after Howe and Rogers had left, Hart had hung around, looking both morose and sympathetic, which Pickering had decided was the last thing he needed, so he had sent Hart to the movies.

  He smiled at that memory as he walked to the door to answer it. It had been the only cause to smile all day.

  He thought he had found a tactful way to get rid of George when he read in Stars & Stripes that a John Huston film, The Asphalt Jungle, starring Sterling Hayden and Louis Calhern, was playing at the Ernie Pyle Theater.

  “George, why don’t you go? Get out of here for a couple of hours?”

  “Sir, I think I’ll pass,” George said. “The Asphalt Jungle sounds like a stupid movie.”

  “Captain Hart, when one of our own makes a movie, stupid or not, it behooves us to go see it, and whistle, cheer, and applaud loudly whenever he has a line.”

  “One of our own?” George had asked, baffled.

  “Sterling Hayden is not only a Marine, but like yourself, a former agent of the Office of Strategic Services,” Pickering had said.

  “No shit?” Hart had asked, genuinely surprised.

  “No shit. Go see the stupid movie. It’s your duty.”

  “What about you, General? You were an OSS agent, too. We’ll both go.”

  “No, I was an OSS executive, not a lowly agent, and besides I’m a general, and we get to make our own rules. Go on, George, I really would like to be alone.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” George had said, reluctantly.

  Drink in hand, his tie pulled down, Pickering pulled the door open.

  Colonel Sidney L. Huff, a tall, rather handsome officer, was standing there. The aiguillette of an aide-de-camp hung from the epaulette of his splendidly tailored tropical-worsted uniform, and on its lapels was a small shield with a circle of five stars.

  Huff saluted.

  “The Supreme Commander’s compliments, General Pickering,” Huff said. “The Supreme Commander desires that you attend him at your earliest convenience.”

  Pickering returned the salute a little uncomfortably. For one thing, Marines don’t salute indoors, and for another, he was aware that he was standing there a little smashed with a drink in his hand.

  “Come on in, Sid,” he said. “I’ll have to get my tunic.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t suppose you can tell me what’s going on?” Pickering asked.

  “Sir, the Supreme Commander sent me to present his compliments, that’s all I know.”

  Pickering felt his chin.

  “Fix yourself a drink, Sid,” Pickering said. “I’ll need a quick shave and a clean shirt.”

  “Thank you, sir, but no, thank you, General.”

  “I’ll be right with you,” Pickering said, and went into his bedroom.

  The Supreme Commander’s black 1941 Cadillac limousine was parked in the circular drive of the hotel. The red flag with five stars in a circle that normally flew from the left fender was now shrouded, but the small American flag on the right hung limply from its chrome pole. The chauffeur, a master sergeant in crisp khakis, stood by the rear door.

  It was enough to attract a crowd of the curious—even reverent—who stood under the marquee and along the drive hoping to catch a glimpse of MacArthur.

  The master sergeant saluted as Pickering and Huff entered the limousine, then walked around to the front of the car and slipped a red flag with one star—the flag to which Pickering was entitled—over the shrouded flag. Then he got behind the wheel and started down the drive.

  “I think we have some disappointed people standing there, Sid,” Pickering said.

  “The Supreme Commander’s car always attracts that kind of attention, sir,” Huff said. “The Japanese people revere him.”

  “They really do, don’t they?” Pickering agreed, thoughtfully.

  Huff led Pickering into what had been the U.S. Embassy and was now The Residence—and so called—of the Supreme Commander, Allied Powers, and now Supreme Commander, UN Forces, and to the MacArthur apartment.

  He knocked at a double door, but did not wait for a response before pulling it open and announcing, “Brigadier General Pickering, United States Marine Corps.”

  General of the Army Douglas MacArthur carefully laid a long, thin, black cigar into the ashtray and then rose from a red leather armchair. He was wearing his usual washed-soft khakis.

  He started toward Pickering, but before he reached him, Mrs. Jean MacArthur, in a simple black dress with a single strand of pearls, walked to Pickering, took his hand in both of hers, and said, “Oh, Fleming, we’re so sorry.”

  She then stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

  Pickering could smell her perfume.

  I wonder if she can smell the scotch; I should have used Sen-Sen or something.

  MacArthur came up and laid a hand on Pickering’s shoulder.

  “I got the word only now, just before I sent Sid to the hotel, ” he said. “I’m so very sorry, Fleming.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “You should have told us,” Jean MacArthur said.

  “Yes,” her husband agreed.

  What the hell was I supposed to do? Call up and say, “General, I thought you would like to know my son has just been shot down”?

  Pickering didn’t reply.

  MacArthur looked in his eyes, then patted his shoulder and turned and walked to a sideboard.

  “I think a little of this is in order,” he said, picking up a bottle of Famous Grouse by the neck.

  “Thank you, sir,” Pickering said.

  Jesus, what’s wrong with me? The last thing I need is another drink. Not here.

  MacArthur poured an inch of scotch in a glass, walked to Pickering, handed it to him, and then returned to the sideboard, where he poured white wine in a glass, walked to his wife and handed it to her, then retur
ned to the sideboard a final time to pour scotch in a glass and then returned.

  He solemnly touched his glass to Pickering’s. His wife touched her glass to Pickering’s.

  "Major Pickering,” MacArthur said, solemnly.

  They all sipped at their glasses.

  Not that I really give a damn, but how did he find out? He’s not on a next-of-kin list—anything like that—and I can’t believe he reads a report with the names of everybody who’s KIA or MIA on it.

  “General Cushman was at the Dai-Ichi Building . . . ,” MacArthur said.

  My God, is he reading my mind?

  “. . . briefing General Almond and myself on the splendid—absolutely splendid!—job Marine aviation is doing in the Pusan area. He concluded his briefing by saying that ‘sadly, our operations have not been without a price’ and then told us what has happened to Major Pickering.”

  “General Cushman was kind enough to message me with the details,” Pickering said, and took a pull at his drink.

  “General Cushman also told me that Major Pickering flew the Marines’ first combat sortie of this war, during which he destroyed an enemy train . . .”

  “I understand that’s the case, sir.”

  “. . . and is in complete agreement with me that Major Pickering’s flying skill and valor entitle him without question to the Distinguished Flying Cross. The citation at this moment is being prepared.”

  What am I supposed to do, say “thank you”?

  “Thank you.”

  “Thanks are not in order, Fleming. Your son upheld the finest traditions of the Marine Corps.”

  “Pick was a fine Marine officer,” Pickering said.

  “Indeed, he was.”

  “I don’t know why I said that, past tense,” Pickering heard himself say. “Colonel Billy Dunn flew over the site where Pick crashed his Corsair and said the cockpit was empty. It’s entirely possible that he’s alive. That was not the first Corsair he was shot down in.”

  You know better than that: “Never end a sentence with a preposition.”

  You’re pissing in the wind, and you know it.

  If he didn’t get killed in the crash landing, the odds are that he was shot by the North Koreans.