Under Fire

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  Two men had entered the Transient Officers Quarters. One he recognized as the Marine liaison officer. The other was a strange apparition, a white man wearing what looked like black pajamas, and with a Garand rifle slung from his shoulder. He was carrying, as was the Marine liaison officer, a cardboard carton.

  “Haywood, right?” the Marine liaison officer asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Haywood, this is Captain McCoy,” the Marine liaison officer said.

  “Yes, sir?” Haywood asked, wondering if he should try to get dressed.

  “I need a ride out to the Badoeng Strait,” the white man in the black pajamas said. “As soon as possible.”

  “Sir, I’m from the Sicily.”

  “Captain Overton told me,” McCoy said. “I want to get there before the Marines fly their first flight of the morning. ”

  “Sir, I’m not sure I can do that,” Haywood said. “For one thing . . .”

  “You can do it,” McCoy said. He handed Haywood a sheet of paper. “There’s my authority.”

  Lieutenant Haywood’s only previous experience with the Central Intelligence Agency had been watching it portrayed in a movie, but he realized he was holding in his hand an order issued by the Director of the CIA—who was a rear admiral, USN. He knew there were no flag officers aboard Sicily, and he was almost positive there weren’t any aboard Badoeng Strait either.

  “Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Haywood said. “Sir, I’ll have to ask permission to land on Badoeng Strait.”

  “Hypothetically speaking, Mr. Haywood,” McCoy said. “What would happen if you called Badoeng Strait and said you had an emergency and needed to land?”

  “They’d give me permission, of course, sir.”

  “Okay, that’s what we’ll do.”

  “You don’t want me to ask permission, sir?”

  "They’re liable to say ’no,’ ” McCoy said. “Get dressed, Mr. Haywood, please.”

  [EIGHT]

  THE USS BADOENG STRAIT 35 DEGREES 24 MINUTES NORTH LATITUDE, 129 DEGREES 65 MINUTES EAST LONGITUDE THE SEA OF JAPAN 0420 10 AUGUST 1950

  Lieutenant Haywood was wrong about there being no flag officers aboard Badoeng Strait. The Badoeng Strait was flying the red, single-starred flag of a Marine brigadier general.

  Brigadier General Thomas A. Cushman, Assistant Commander, First Marine Air Wing, had flown aboard late the previous afternoon, piloting himself in an Avenger he’d borrowed from USN Base Kobe.

  General Cushman wanted to be with his men. The previous evening, he had dined in the chief petty officer’s mess, which also served the Marine master sergeants aboard. He had taken dessert in the enlisted mess, and finally, he’d had coffee with the Marine officers in the Pilot’s Ready Room and in the wardroom.

  He had spent the night—although he had at first declined the offer—in the cabin of the Badoeng Strait’s captain. The captain, who had known General Cushman over the years, told him he preferred to use his sea cabin—a small cabin right off the bridge—anyway, and Cushman had accepted the offer.

  Cushman had set his traveling alarm clock for 0400. The first Corsairs would be taking off at 0445, and he wanted to attend the briefing, and then see them off.

  All the intelligence General Cushman had seen indicated that the North Koreans were aware that the longer they didn’t succeed in pushing Eighth Army into the sea, the less the chance—American strength in the Pusan perimeter grew daily—that they would ever be able to do so.

  Consequently, while perhaps not in desperation, but something close to it, they were attacking all the time, and on all fronts. The Marine Corsairs would have a busy day.

  Cushman was surprised and pleased when he turned the lights on to see that someone had very quietly entered the cabin and left a silver coffee set on the captain’s desk. He poured half a cup, then had a quick shower and shave, and wearing a freshly laundered and starched khaki uniform— courtesy of the captain’s steward—left the captain’s cabin and made his way to the bridge.

  “Permission to come on the bridge, Captain?”

  “Granted. Get a good night’s sleep, General?”

  “Very nice, and thank you for the coffee and your steward’s attention.”

  “My pleasure, sir. More coffee, sir?”

  “Thank you,” Cushman said, and one of the white caps on the bridge quickly handed him a china mug.

  “Bridge, Air Ops,” the loudspeaker blared.

  “Go.”

  “We have a call from an Avenger declaring an emergency, and requesting immediate permission to land.”

  The captain and General Cushman looked at each other. The general’s lower lip came out, expressing interest and surprise.

  The captain pressed the lever on the communications device next to his chair.

  “Inform the Avenger we are turning into the wind now,” the captain said. Then he pushed the lever one stop farther, so that his voice would carry all over the ship.

  “This is the captain speaking. Make all preparations to recover an Avenger who has declared an emergency,” he said. He let the lever go.

  “Turn us into the wind,” he ordered.

  “Turning into the wind, aye, aye, sir,” the helmsman replied.

  The Badoeng Strait began a sharp turn.

  The captain steadied himself, then gestured courteously to General Cushman to precede him to an area aft of the bridge, from which they could see the approach and landing of the Avenger.

  By the time the Badoeng Strait had turned into the wind and was sailing in a straight line, frantic activity on the flight deck had prepared the ship to recover an aircraft under emergency conditions.

  General Cushman turned to the officer actually in charge of the recovery operation, saw that he wasn’t at that moment busy, and asked, “Did he say what’s wrong with him?”

  “No, sir, and I asked him three times.”

  “There he is,” the captain said.

  General Cushman looked aft and saw an Avenger making what looked like a perfectly normal approach to the carrier.

  A minute later, having made a nice, clean landing—his hook caught the first cable—the Avenger was aboard the Badoeng Strait surrounded by firefighters in aluminum heat-resistant suits, other specialists, and even a tractor prepared to push the aircraft over the side if that became necessary.

  The door in the fuselage opened, and someone dressed in what looked like black pajamas backed out of it.

  “What the hell is that?” General Cushman asked.

  “If it’s who I think it is, it’s someone who’s going to spend the next twenty years in Portsmouth Naval Prison,” the captain said.

  The character in black pajamas reached into the fuselage and took one cardboard carton, and then another, and finally a U.S. Rifle, Caliber .30 M1, to the strap of which were attached two eight-round ammunition clips.

  “Excuse me, General,” the captain said. “I’ll deal with this. I was going to have him brought here, but I don’t want that sonofa—character to foul my bridge.”

  The captain started down a ladder toward the flight deck. General Cushman looked at the character in the black pajamas long enough to confirm his first identification of him, then started down the ladder.

  As he reached the flight deck, General Cushman almost literally bumped into Lieutenant Colonel William C. Dunn, USMCR, who was suited up for the morning’s first sortie.

  “Good morning, sir,” Colonel Dunn said.

  “Billy, is that your friend Captain McCoy?”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “What’s going on?” Cushman asked.

  “I have no idea, sir,” Dunn said.

  “Let’s go find out,” Cushman said. “The captain’s talking about twenty years in Portsmouth for him.”

  Captain Kenneth R. McCoy was standing at attention before the captain of the USS Badoeng Strait—who had his balled fists resting on his hips and was speaking in a rather loud tone of voice—when General Cushman and Lieutenant Colone
l Dunn walked up.

  On seeing General Cushman, the captain broke off whatever he was saying in midsentence.

  “Captain, may I suggest that we get off the flight deck?” General Cushman said, politely.

  The captain looked at him for a long moment, then finally found his voice.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “I agree. If you’ll follow me, please?” The captain, the general, and the lieutenant colonel started to march off the deck. The lieutenant colonel, sensing that the captain was not in the parade, looked over his shoulder.

  McCoy had picked up one of the cardboard cartons.

  “Colonel, I can’t carry both of these myself,” McCoy said, indicating the second carton.

  Lieutenant Colonel Dunn walked quickly back to McCoy, picked up the second carton, and joined the parade.

  The captain led the way up interior ladders to his cabin. The others followed him inside. The captain closed the door. McCoy and Dunn put the cartons on the deck.

  “Captain,” General Cushman said. “May I suggest that since we all are anxious to ask Captain McCoy about a number of things, we probably would be better off to hold our questions until Captain McCoy explains his presence aboard Badoeng Strait?”

  “Yes, sir. That would probably be best.”

  “All right, McCoy,” General Cushman said.

  “Sir, I felt it necessary to get here before Colonel Dunn took off on the morning’s missions,” McCoy said. “The only way I could see to do that was to commandeer that Avenger.”

  “ ‘Commandeer that Avenger’?” the captain parroted. “Who the hell are you to commander anything? Who gave you that authority?”

  “I thought we’d agreed to hold our questions,” General Cushman said, courteously. “But I think we all would like to hear that one answered.”

  McCoy handed General Cushman what he thought of as the White House orders.

  Cushman read them, raised his eyebrow, and handed them to the captain.

  “I’ve seen them, sir,” the captain said.

  “Well, that would seem to give you the authority, McCoy, ” General Cushman said. “But it doesn’t answer why you felt you had to come aboard the Badoeng Strait, and why you felt declaring an emergency when there was none was justified.”

  “Sir, I was afraid we would be denied permission to land.”

  “And your purpose? What’s so important?”

  “Those cartons, sir, contain parts for an SCR-300 radio. I have to get them to . . . where the radio is as soon as possible. I was going to have Colonel Dunn deliver them, sir.”

  “Deliver them where?”

  “Sir,” McCoy said, uncomfortably, “with all possible respect, I must inform you and the captain that what I am about to tell you is classified Top Secret/White House and cannot be divulged to anyone else without General Pickering’s specific permission.”

  “Not even to General Craig?” Cushman asked.

  “General Craig is in on this, sir,” McCoy said. “But he’s one of the very few.”

  “But the very few include Colonel Dunn?”

  “The colonel knows some of this, sir.”

  “But not, presumably, General of the Army Douglas MacArthur?” the captain asked, coldly sarcastic. “The Supreme Commander?”

  “As far as I know, no, sir,” McCoy said.

  The captain opened his mouth, but Cushman spoke before he could.

  “I acknowledge the classification,” Cushman said. “Go on.”

  “Sir, there are islands in the Flying Fish Channel leading to Inchon . . . ,” McCoy began.

  “Let me get this straight,” Cushman said. “You have installed a handful of Marines on this island— What’s the name?”

  “Tokchok-kundo, sir.”

  “And from which you intend to launch an operation to take . . .”

  “Taemuui-do and Yonghung-do, sir.”

  “And General MacArthur is unaware of this operation?” the captain asked, incredulously.

  “I don’t believe he is aware, sir.”

  “Who besides the people you’ve mentioned knows about this?” Cushman said.

  “Just General Howe, sir.”

  “Who is he?” the captain demanded.

  “An Army two-star, sir. He’s on the same sort of mission for the President as General Pickering.”

  “To your knowledge, is the President aware of this operation? ” Cushman asked.

  “To my knowledge, no, sir. But I’d bet he is.”

  “Why do you say that?” Cushman asked.

  “Because both General Pickering and General Howe are on orders to tell the President anything they think he might like to know, sir.”

  “We’ve gone off at a tangent,” Cushman said. “Picking up my original question where I think I left it: You have installed your Marines on Tokchok-kundo—”

  “And the South Korean national policemen, sir.”

  “And the South Korean national policemen, and after you got there, your radio was inoperable?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you want Colonel Dunn to airdrop whatever those things are in the cartons to your people?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you do it, Billy?” Cushman asked.

  “If I can find the island, yes, sir.”

  “I can show you the island on the aerials, Colonel,” McCoy said. “The word I left for Zimmerman is that when a Corsair flies over, he will spread a yellow panel between two houses on a hillside.”

  “I’d have to make three passes, then? One, fly over; two, spot the panel; three, drop your stuff. Won’t that attract attention to the island?”

  “I thought, sir, if you flew out of sight each time, for, say, five minutes . . .”

  “I can do it, sir,” Dunn said.

  Cushman looked very thoughtful for a long moment.

  “It looks to me that what we have here is a presidentially sanctioned covert mission that we are obliged to support,” he said, finally. “Wouldn’t you agree, Captain?”

  It took the captain even longer to consider his reply.

  “Yes, sir, I would agree,” he said, finally.

  “Okay, Billy, that’s it. Good luck,” Cushman said.

  “Aye, aye, sir. Thank you, sir,” Dunn said.

  “One other question, McCoy,” Cushman said. “No, two. Where do you go from here? And what’s with the black pajamas? Where’s your uniform?”

  “The last time I saw it, it was sinking into the Yellow Sea, sir,” McCoy said. “It was washed overboard on the way back from Tokchok-kundo.”

  “I’m sure the captain can find some khakis for you,” Cushman said. “And then?”

  “Back to Pusan, sir.”

  “And?”

  “Catch a ride to Tokyo. I’ve got to report to General Pickering.”

  “I’ll take you to Tokyo,” Cushman said. “I’d like to see General Pickering myself.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “You can use my cabin to take a shower and shave,” Dunn said. “I’ll show you the way.”

  When they reached Lieutenant Colonel Dunn’s cabin, McCoy saw that the name of Major Malcolm S. Pickering had been removed from the sign outside.

  Dunn went immediately to the cabin safe and took an envelope from it.

  “Nobody but the two photo lab guys have seen this,” Dunn said. “And they won’t say anything to anybody.”

  McCoy opened the envelope and saw the picture of the muddy rice paddy in which someone had stamped out “PP” and an arrow.

  “That was taken the day after Pick went down,” he said. “The time and map coordinates are on the back.”

  McCoy looked at him in genuine surprise.

  “You think he’s still alive and running around loose up there?”

  “You tell me, Killer. You’re the expert.”

  “Jesus Christ!” McCoy said.

  "Yeah,” Dunn said, then patted McCoy on the arm and left his cabin.

  XVII

 
[ONE]

  HANEDA AIRFIELD TOKYO, JAPAN 0805 10 AUGUST 1950

  The Marine liaison officer at Haneda, having been advised by approach control that an Avenger with a Code Seven aboard who did not wish honors but did require ground transportation was fifteen minutes out, had time to procure a staff car with a one-star plate from the Army, and see to it that the Marines who would meet the aircraft were shipshape and were standing at almost parade rest when the Avenger taxied up to the Navy hangar and stopped.

  If the Marine liaison officer thought there was something slightly odd about the man in the backseat of the Avenger who climbed down to the ground—that he was carrying an M-1 rifle, for instance, and that when he took off his flight suit, he was wearing what looked like Navy khakis fresh from the clothing sales store, with no insignia of any kind—he asked no questions.

  The Code Seven was Brigadier General Thomas A. Cushman, assistant commander of First Marine Air Wing. The Marine liaison officer recognized him.

  Marine first lieutenants presume that Marine general officers know what they are doing at all times, and that the latter will offer an explanation if they feel an explanation is required.

  Cushman said he needed the aircraft topped off, that he would return in an hour or two, and that something would be needed to “cover the Garand.” A U.S. Army rubberized raincoat was quickly found, and General Cushman and the man with the Garand got in it and drove off.

  [TWO]

  THE IMPERIAL HOTEL TOKYO, JAPAN 0905 10 AUGUST 1950

  The CIC agent in the corridor of the Imperial Hotel had seen General Cushman in the Dai-Ichi Building and recognized him. And he recognized McCoy. He didn’t even challenge them as they walked past him and McCoy raised the knocker on the door to the Dewey Suite.

  But—he was a very thorough special agent of the Counter Intelligence Corps—he did make note in his report that Captain McCoy was wearing an insignia-less uniform and carrying a rifle, probably an M-1 Garand, not very well concealed in a raincoat.

  “Jesus Christ!” Captain George Hart exclaimed when he opened the door, and then he saw General Cushman. “Good morning, sir.”