He just hadn’t had time to think about it then—the loudspeakers had blared “Pilots, man your aircraft” while he was still looking at the aerials—but that didn’t justify his subsequent behavior. Which, on sober analysis, had been both unprofessional and devious.
On that first mission, right after seeing the aerials, he had diverted from the mission plan, dropped down to the ground, and flown over the wreckage of Pick’s Corsair. He knew where that was, but he didn’t know where the muddy rice paddy was. The only thing McGrory had said was that it was “near” where Pickering had gone down, and he hadn’t asked “how near?” or “in which direction?”
He thought that he could possibly find it because it was a muddy—as opposed to water-filled—rice paddy, and there probably wouldn’t be too many of those.
There were. The bombing, and probably artillery as well, had ruptured the dirt walls of more than a dozen paddies near the wreckage of Pick’s Corsair and let the water escape. And during his one pass at 200 knots—he could not fly over the area more than once—it had been impossible to look for “PP” and an arrow in all of them.
He hadn’t found the one he was looking for, but he had seen Korean farmers hard at work restoring the mud walls of several of the paddies.
When he overflew the location the next day, now armed by Chief Young with a more precise location of what he had come to think of as “Pick’s rice paddy,” he found proof of the industry of Korean paddy rice farmers, even in the middle of war: there was water in all the paddy fields. The bastards must have worked all night!
The only proof that someone had stamped out “PP” and an arrow was in the aerial photos.
The Marines have a long-standing tradition of not leaving their dead and wounded on a battlefield. It is almost holy writ.
There were several problems with that near-sacred tradition in this circumstance.
The first was that Dunn didn’t know that Major Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, had done the stamping.
And even if he had, the odds were that he had done so immediately after getting shot down. In the opinion of an expert in the field of operations behind the enemy’s lines—Captain Kenneth R. McCoy—the odds were that Pick was now either a prisoner, or the North Koreans had shot him. It was unlikely that he was hiding out in the area, waiting to be rescued. For one thing, there didn’t seem to be any place for him to hide.
If he took the photographs to General Cushman, he was sure that Cushman—probably after asking some very pointed questions about why Dunn hadn’t brought the photographs to him immediately, and not taken two days to do it, obviously lowering the chances of a successful rescue— would order an immediate rescue attempt.
Dunn doubted that Cushman would risk sending one of the four Sikorsky helicopters to look for Major Malcolm S. Pickering. There were only four of them—not enough— and when they weren’t flying General Craig around the battlefield, they were transporting wounded Marines to medical facilities.
Pick Pickering would not want to be responsible for putting helicopters—and their pilots—at risk looking for him when they could be more gainfully employed carrying some shot-up Marine, who otherwise might die, to a hospital.
That left the Piper Cubs. There were more of those, but not enough, either. Dunn couldn’t fly helicopters, but he could fly a Cub. He was also a lieutenant colonel, and he knew that General Cushman was going to decide that while there were a number of lieutenants and captains who could fly Cubs, there were very few lieutenant colonels around commanding fighter squadrons. Dunn knew he would not be allowed to go looking for Pick in a Cub. General Cushman would look askance at him for even asking if he could.
But the lieutenants and the captains would go flying low behind enemy lines, because the Corps didn’t leave its dead and wounded on the battlefield. And very likely, at least one of them would get shot down.
It had to be considered, too, that Major Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, would not be where he was—if indeed he was there—if he hadn’t been trying to be the First Locomotive-Busting Ace in the history of Marine aviation.
And Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, had to be considered, too. Dunn really admired General Pickering and thought he knew him well enough to know that he had accepted the loss of his son and gone on doing his duty. Pick’s father would be the first to agree that using the helicopters to carry the wounded and the Cubs to direct artillery fire, or otherwise make themselves useful to the First Marine Brigade (Provisional), had a higher priority than being put at risk to maybe be able to rescue one officer.
And if he heard about the stamped-out PP and arrow, he would naturally want to believe it was Pick, and that would tear the scab off his wounded heart.
The flip side of all this, of course, was that Pick may have stamped out his initials and an arrow to show his planned course—or maybe that was disinformation; he knew where the American lines were—and might be hiding out somewhere, maybe literally up to his ears in a feces-fertilized rice paddy, and by now getting pretty hungry and discouraged.
And if one of Pick’s pilots was down, and needed to be looked for with a Cub, Pick would be out there flying it, and worrying about what General Cushman would say about a squadron commander taking a risk like that later, not about the risk to his own skin.
I just can’t leave the sonofabitch out there. Even if he deserves it. He wouldn’t leave me out there, and I can’t leave him.
Dunn had always heard there was no such thing as a hopeless situation. Until now, he had never believed it.
There was only one thing he could think of to do, and that was find Killer McCoy and dump the situation in his lap.
[FOUR]
K-1 USAF AIR FIELD PUSAN, KOREA 1105 8 AUGUST 1950
Captain James Overton, the Marine liaison officer at K-1, was surprised when Lieutenant Colonel William C. Dunn climbed down from the cockpit of the Avenger. But not too surprised to forget to take his shoes off his desk, stand up, and come to attention as Dunn came into his office.
“As you were,” Dunn said, smiling, putting him at ease.
“Good morning, sir,” Overton said. “Didn’t expect to see you flying the COD.”
“Well, Overton, life is full of little surprises, I’ve found,” Dunn said.
He took the envelope of photos from inside his flight suit.
“You know what this is,” Dunn said.
“Yes, sir.”
"What time does Captain McCoy usually come by to pick it up?”
“Sir, a sergeant comes by and picks it up,” Overton said, looked at his watch, and added, “usually between 1230 and 1300.”
“I have to see Captain McCoy,” Dunn said. “You think the sergeant would know where he is? Is there a phone where we can reach him?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” Overton said. “I get the feeling, sir, that they’re out of town someplace.”
“You mean out of town, as in away, or out of Pusan?”
“Out of Pusan, sir. But I don’t know where.”
“Damn it, it’s really important that I get to see Captain McCoy. Do you have any idea who would know where he is, or how I can get in touch with him?”
Captain Overton lowered his voice.
“That CIA agent, Major Dunston, would probably know, sir.”
“And how would I get in touch with Major Dunston?”
“I don’t know, sir. Maybe the Army’s G-2 would know. But they might not tell you if they did know.”
“The G-2 would be the Eighth Army G-2, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have a Jeep. How long would it take me to drive there?”
“An hour, sir. Maybe a little longer.”
And that means an hour and a half. Twice an hour and a half. I’d have to come back. And Overton is right. They might know where the CIA guy is—they might even know where McCoy is—but they probably wouldn’t tell me. I don’t have the need to know.
“Then I don’t seem to have much choice,
do I, except to wait here for McCoy’s sergeant to show up.”
“It doesn’t look that way, sir,” Overton said.
Thirty minutes later, the Avenger’s crew chief came in and reported that since there “wasn’t hardly nothing for the Badoeng Strait,” they could take off whenever the colonel was ready.
Dunn decided to wait another thirty minutes for Mc-Coy’s sergeant, and when that passed, decided to wait another thirty minutes.
Twenty-five minutes into the second thirty minutes, he took Captain Overton’s arm and led him outside.
“Overton, I don’t care how you do it, you discreetly— this is an intelligence situation—get word to Major Dunston, asking him to tell Captain McCoy to get in touch with me as soon as he can. It’s very important. And call the sergeant major at the brigade, same message. Or anyone else you can think of to ask. Discreetly.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Then Dunn went out and got into the Avenger and fired it up and flew back to the Badoeng Strait.
[FIVE]
K-1 USAF AIR FIELD PUSAN, KOREA 0905 9 AUGUST 1950
“Good morning, keep your seat,” Major William Dunston, TC, USA, said to Captain James Overton, USMC, as he walked into Overton’s tiny office. “Word is you’ve been looking for me?”
“Yes, sir. I have been. I called every place in Pusan I could think of.”
Dunston made a joking gesture with his hands, signifying, Here I am.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Sir, do you know how I can get in touch with Captain McCoy?”
Dunston shook his head, “no.”
“Do you know where he is, sir?”
Dunston shook his head again.
“What’s your interest in Captain McCoy?”
“Colonel Dunn . . .” Overton paused until Dunston nodded, signifying he knew who he meant. “. . . was in here yesterday, sir, from the Badoeng Strait. He said it’s really important that he talk to Captain McCoy, and told me to find you, and ask you to tell him.”
“Are you going to be in touch with Colonel Dunn?”
“I can get a message to him, sir. The Badoeng Strait’s COD will be here in a couple of hours. I don’t know if the colonel will be flying it again today—”
“Dunn was flying the Avenger?” Dunston asked, surprised.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then he must be as anxious for a word with McCoy as I am,” Dunston said. “Got a piece of paper and an envelope? ”
“Yes, sir,” Overton said, handed it over, and then motioned for Dunston to take his seat so he would have a place to write.
Dunston wrote a short message on a sheet of lined paper, put it in an eight-by-ten-inch envelope—all Overton could offer—wrote Dunn’s name on it, and then handed it to Overton.
“If Colonel Dunn is flying, tell him I don’t know where McCoy is. I would tell him if I knew. And I would really be grateful if he finds McCoy before I do, if he would tell him to get in touch with me.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Oh, you salty Marines,” Dunston said. “That’s what the note says. If Dunn comes here, burn the note. Otherwise, give it to the pilot of the COD and tell him to personally put it in Dunn’s hand.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if you see McCoy . . .”
“Have him get in touch with you. Yes, sir.”
“I sort of like that ‘aye, aye’ business,” Dunston said. “And I just remembered what it means: ‘Order understood and will be carried out.’ Right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“ ‘Yes, sir,’ on the other hand means, ‘I heard what you said, and I will consider doing it.’ ”
Overton laughed.
“How about an ‘aye, aye, sir’?” Dunston asked. “This is really important, Overton.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
[SIX]
COMMUNICATIONS CENTER EIGHTH UNITED STATES ARMY (REAR) PUSAN, KOREA 0120 10 AUGUST 1950
Captain R. C. “Pete” Peters, Signal Corps, USA, was taking a nap, lying on the counter of the outer room, when Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, and Technical Sergeant J. M. Jennings, USMC, entered. It was the first sleep he’d had in twenty-four hours, but he woke immediately nevertheless when he heard the squeak of the door. And was momentarily startled, even a little frightened, when he saw the two Marines.
They were wearing black cotton shirts and trousers. The shirts were too small for them, and therefore unbuttoned, leaving their chests exposed. McCoy had a Garand hanging from his shoulder and Jennings was armed with a carbine. There were two eight-round clips on the strap of McCoy’s rifle, and Jennings’s carbine had two fifteen-round magazines in the action, taped together, upside down, so that when one was emptied, the other could quickly be inserted.
“Jesus Christ, McCoy! What are you dressed up for?”
“Don’t you ever go to spy movies? All we secret agents go around in disguise.”
“Do you know that everybody and his brother is looking for you?” Peters asked, as he got off the counter.
“Does everybody and his brother have names?”
“Starting with your general,” Peters said. “He calls—or his aide does—every four hours or so to remind me that I am to tell you, the minute I lay eyes on you, to call him.”
“Anybody else?”
“Major Dunston of the Transportation Corps,” Peters said, his tone of voice putting that name and identification in quotes. “And Captain Overton, of the Marines.”
“Who’s he?”
“The liaison officer at K-1,” Peters said.
“Oh, yeah,” McCoy said, remembering. “Did he say what he wanted?”
“You’re supposed to get in touch with a Colonel Dunn at your earliest convenience.”
“Okay, I’m going out there from here,” McCoy said.
“What happened to your uniform? Am I allowed to ask?”
“Would you believe they got swept over the side while they were being washed? Or, actually, being dried? One moment, they were on the deck of our luxury liner, drying in the sun, and the next minute a wave came out of nowhere, and so long utilities.”
“I don’t think you’re kidding,” Peters said. “What were you doing on a boat?”
“That you’re not allowed to ask,” McCoy said.
“I am under the personal orders of a Marine brigadier general to get you on the horn to him thirty seconds after I lay eyes on you. That time is up.”
“Before I call him, maybe you can help.”
“What?”
“I need a part for an SCR-300,” McCoy said.
“What part?”
“The oil-filled transformer,” McCoy said.
“There are three oil-filled transformers in an SCR-300,” Peters said. “Which one?”
“The one that looks like a square tin can.”
“They all look like square tin cans,” Peters said.
“Marvelous!” Jennings said.
“Then we’ll have to have three of each.”
“You don’t happen to have the one that’s broke?” Peters asked.
“No.”
“When do you need them?”
“Now.”
“I’ve got two SCR-300s here, about to go back to Japan for depot-level maintenance. I can take the transformers out of them, if that would help?”
“How would we know if they’re any good?”
“We don’t,” Peters said. “But as a general rule of thumb, if they haven’t lost their oil, they run forever.”
“That’s what Sergeant Worley said, Captain,” Jennings said. “He said it was the last thing he expected to fail.”
“Are they hard to get out?”
“Unfasten a couple of screws, unsolder a couple of connections. . . .”
“Give Sergeant Jennings a soldering iron and a screwdriver, and he can get started while I report in.”
“If you’d like, I’ve got a pretty good sergeant who could take these out and put them in yours,
” Peters said.
“Mine is a long way away,” McCoy said. “But thanks anyway.”
“You know what you’re looking for, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“They’re out in back, I’ll show you.”
[SEVEN]
K-1 USAF AIR FIELD PUSAN, KOREA 0325 10 AUGUST 1950
The Transient Officers’ Quarters at K-1 was a dirt-floored U.S. Army squad tent. The tent was furnished with six folding wooden cots and one lightbulb.
Lieutenant (j.g.) Preston Haywood, USNR, hadn’t planned to spend the night in Pusan, but he’d had a couple of red lights on the panel of his Avenger and by the time he’d gotten the Air Force mechanics to clear them, it had been too late to take the COD aircraft back to the USS Sicily.
Night landings on aircraft carriers are understandably more dangerous than daylight landings, and unless there was a good reason to make them, they were discouraged. In Lieutenant Haywood’s judgment—discretion being the better part of valor—carrying half a dozen mail bags out to the Sicily was not a good enough reason to make a night landing on her.
After making sure that Aviation Motor Machinist’s Mate 3rd Class José Garcia, his crew chief, would have a place to sleep and be able to get something to eat, Haywood had taken advantage of the situation and gone to the K-1 O Club, thinking, if nothing else, he could probably have a beer there. There was, of course, no beer, or any other kind of alcohol, aboard the Sicily.
He had four bottles of Asahi beer in the K-1 O Club. And he had occasion to muse again that the Air Force didn’t feed as well as the Navy. Supper had been two tough pork chops, mashed potatoes, and mushy green beans.
There being absolutely nothing else to do at K-1, when he’d finished his fourth beer, he’d gone to bed, which is to say he’d gone to the tent, stripped to his underwear, and lay down on the folding wooden cot, sharing it—there being nothing else he could find to do with his khakis and flight suit.
Haywood sat up abruptly when the bare lightbulb suddenly turned on.
Under Fire Page 55
