W E B Griffin - Corp 10 - Retreat, Hell!

by Retreat, Hell!(Lit)

  When the USAF C-47 from Seoul arrived at the port city, it had to take its place at the end of a long line of aircraft making their approaches to the field. Many of the aircraft ahead of them were four-engine C-54 transports bearing the insignia of the Military Air Transport Command, and there were four es-sentially identical aircraft wearing the insignia of the civilian airlines from which they had been chartered.

  The warplanes were not entirely gone. The stack also held a dozen or more warplanes, USAF P-51 Mustang fighters, A-20 and A-26 attack bombers, and several Corsairs from the Marine Corps and Navy.

  And when, after more than a half hour in the stack, the Gooney Bird from Seoul finally touched down and taxied to the tarmac in front of base operations, there was even a Lockheed Constellation of Trans-Global Airways sitting there taking on enough fuel to get it to Japan, where it would be topped off. The glis-tening, sleek, triple-tailed aircraft looked out of place among the others.

  When the Gooney Bird shut down its engines and the door opened, sixteen people, ranging in rank from PFC to full colonel, got off and most of them walked into base operations to see about getting themselves some ground trans-portation.

  Four of the passengers-a lieutenant colonel, a major, a captain, and a lieu-tenant, the latter three wearing the wings of Army aviators-did not go into base operations but started walking across the field to a hangar before which sat a small fleet of Army aircraft.

  When they got close to the hangar, they saw a small group of officers and men standing around an L-20 DeHavilland Beaver, watching as a corporal put the final touches to the insignia of the Eighth United States Army he had painted on the door. The aircraft looked as if it was not only just about brand new but also freshly polished.

  The senior of the officers was a major, also an Army aviator. He saluted the lieutenant colonel and smiled at his brother aviators.

  "Good morning, sir," he said. "This came off the ship at 2100 last night," he went on, indicating the Beaver. "And as soon as that paint dries, it's going to Eighth Army Forward. How's that for efficiency?"

  "Commendable," the lieutenant colonel said, then spoke to the soldier with the paintbrush: "Son, have you got some paint thinner in your kit?" "Yes, sir," the corporal said, visibly confused.

  "Then how about taking that off the door?" the lieutenant colonel said. "I don't want that insignia on there."

  "Sir?" the major asked incredulously.

  "I said I don't want that insignia on the door," the lieutenant colonel ex-plained, reasonably, "and asked the corporal to start taking it off."

  "Sir, this aircraft is assigned to Eighth Army Forward," the major said.

  "It was assigned to Eighth Army Forward," the lieutenant colonel said. "Now I'm taking it."

  "Sir, you... you can't do that," the major said.

  "Yes I can. And I will also require two L-19s."

  "Sir, I can't just give you this airplane," the major said, "or any aircraft, for that matter, without authority from United Nations Command."

  "You are the officer in charge?" the lieutenant colonel asked.

  "No, sir. I'm the deputy."

  "Well, then, son, if you have problems with this, why don't you ask the of-ficer in charge to come talk to me?"

  "Yes, sir. I'll do that, sir."

  "And in the meantime, Corporal, you start getting that insignia off the doors," the lieutenant colonel said.

  The major walked quickly-almost trotted-to a Quonset hut set up be-side a hangar and returned in less than two minutes, followed by a portly lieu-tenant colonel wearing pilot's wings and the insignia of an aide-de-camp to a three-star general, and another lieutenant colonel, also a pilot, whose collar carried the insignia of the Transportation Corps.

  "Colonel," the portly lieutenant colonel said, "this is some sort of joke, right?"

  "What's a joke?"

  "About you taking this airplane."

  "I wasn't joking about that."

  "This airplane belongs to General Walker," the portly lieutenant colonel said. "Do you understand that?"

  "Colonel, this airplane belongs to the U.S. Army," Vandenburg said. "And I have what I'm sure is the highest priority to put it to use."

  "I'd like to see that authority!"

  "Certainly," Vandenburg said, and handed him an envelope.

  The eyes of both lieutenant colonels grew wide as they read it.

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  JULY 8TH 1950

  TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

  MAJOR GENERAL RALPH HOWE, USAR, IN CONNECTION WITH HIS MISSION FOR ME, WILL TRAVEL TO SUCH PLACES AT SUCH TIMES AS HE FEELS APPROPRIATE, ACCOMPANIED BY SUCH STAFF AS HE DESIRES.

  GENERAL HOWE IS GRANTED HEREWITH A TOP-SECRET/WHITE HOUSE CLEARANCE, AND MAY, AT HIS OPTION, GRANT SUCH CLEARANCE TO HIS STAFF.

  U.S. MILITARY AND GOVERNMENTAL AGENCIES ARE DIRECTED TO PROVIDE GENERAL HOWE AND HIS STAFF WITH WHATEVER SUPPORT THEY MAY REQUIRE.

  Harry, S. Truman

  HARRY S TRUMAN

  PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

  1st Indorsement

  Headquarters, Presidential Mission

  In the Field (Korea) 7 October 1950

  Lieutenant Colonel D. J. Vandenburg, USA, of my staff is designated Deputy Chief of

  Mission.

  Major Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, of my staff is designated Vice Chief of Mission.

  Ralph Howe

  RALPH HOWE

  MAJOR GENERAL

  CHIEF OF MISSION

  "Are there any questions, gentlemen?"

  "General Walker's not going to like this!" the lieutenant colonel with the aide-de-camp insignia said as he handed the orders back.

  "Colonel," Vandenburg said, man-to-man, "I understand how you feel. In your place, I'd feel the same way. Hell hath no fury like a general who doesn't get what he wants, right? But what can I do? We all live under the Chain of Command. General Howe, who reports directly to the President, doesn't need any more authority than what I've shown you he has. And he sent me here to get a Beaver and two L-19s. I don't have any more choice in this matter than you do."

  Neither lieutenant colonel replied.

  "Now, while the corporal is taking that paint off the door, can we look at what L-19s are available?" Vandenburg asked reasonably.

  "There's only one here at the moment," the Transportation Corps lieu-tenant colonel said. "There should be some more coming in in the next three or four days."

  "I can only hope General Howe will understand," Vandenburg said, his voice suggesting he didn't believe that at all. "He sent me to get two."

  [FIVE]

  Hangar 13

  Kimpo Airfield (K-16)

  Seoul, South Korea

  1245 8 October 19SO

  Major Kenneth R. McCoy was driving the Russian jeep and Major William Dunston was sitting behind him. The Marines on perimeter guard around the hangar recognized them and passed them without question, but the moment they reached the hangar, Staff Sergeant Sam Klegger, who had been left in charge when the others went to Socho-Ri, came through the door.

  He saluted, and McCoy and Dunston returned it.

  "From the look on your face, Sergeant," McCoy said, "you have a question on your mind."

  "Good afternoon, sir," Staff Sergeant Klegger said. "Yes, sir. Actually, some of the men have been a little curious why we're guarding a hangar with noth-ing in it."

  "There is about to be something in it," McCoy said. "About an hour ago, we got a message from Taejon saying that two airplanes will arrive here right about now. A Beaver and an L-19. When they get close to the hangar, I want the doors opened, quickly, and as quickly closed once we get the air-planes inside."

  "Aye, aye, sir. Is that what they call those helos, 'Beavers'?"

  "No. A Beaver is a regular airplane," McCoy said.

  Sir, can I ask what's going on? What are we going to do with these air-planes?"

  "We 'borrowed' them from the Army," McCoy said. "We're going t
o use them to look for a Marine aviator who's down somewhere between Suwon and the east coast."

  "You 'borrowed' them from the Army?"

  "You could put it that way, Sergeant, yes," McCoy said.

  Staff Sergeant Klegger smiled approvingly.

  Dunston touched McCoy's arm, and, when he had his attention, pointed skyward.

  A Beaver was making its final approach.

  "Right on time," McCoy said.

  "If that's ours," Dunston said.

  "Odds are it is," McCoy said. "There aren't that many of them."

  They lost sight of the Beaver as it landed, but it quickly appeared on a taxi-way headed for them.

  "Open the doors, Sergeant," McCoy ordered.

  Five Marines grunted as they slid open the hangar doors.

  The Beaver stopped before the open doors and shut down the engine. Lieu-tenant Colonel D. J. Vandenburg and Major Alex Donald climbed down from the cockpit. The Marines and all the officers pushed it into the hangar. Before they were finished, an L-19 taxied up, shut down its engine, and was pushed into the hangar by the two officers in it. The doors were closed with a loud screeching noise.

  "The good news," Lieutenant Colonel Vandenburg said to Majors McCoy and Dunston, "is that-obviously-I was able to make good on my promise to try to get us a Beaver and an L-19. The bad news is that that particular Beaver was supposed to go to the Eighth Army commander, and I think we have to count on General Walker making a serious-one might even say furious- effort to get it back."

  "Ouch," McCoy said.

  "If we can keep General Walker, or his people, from getting their hands on it-or us-for three, four days, a week, I think they'll probably be able to get him another one, and the furor will die down. But until then..."

  "You have any ideas how we can do that?" McCoy asked.

  "As a matter of fact, Major Donald and I did discuss the problem on the way up here," Vandenburg said, smiling.

  "All suggestions gratefully received, Colonel," Dunston said, smiling.

  "Since we can't hide the Beaver, I suggest we camouflage it," Vandenburg said, a little smugly.

  "I don't follow you, sir."

  "We change the tail number," Vandenburg said. "They will be looking for..." He looked up at the Beaver. "... 507179. We change that to, say, 507167. General Walker's Beaver is now invisible."

  "Very clever," McCoy said.

  "We landed here as Army five zero mumble mumble mumble," Donald said. "When they asked me to 'say again,' I blew into the microphone. I figured that might buy us a little time."

  "Only a little," Vandenburg said. "I think General Walker's pilot was on the horn to him before we took off from Pusan. It won't take them long to figure out we're the airplane Walker is looking for."

  "And there are problems with painting new tail numbers," Donald said. "It can't be done in fifteen minutes, even if we had somebody to do it, and the paint to do it with. There's paint in the mechanics' tool kits, but they're at Socho-Ri."

  "Then we'll have to change them at Socho-Ri," McCoy said. "Why can't we just take off now and tell the tower we're headed for the Race Track?"

  "And never land there, you mean?" Donald asked.

  McCoy nodded.

  "If the Race Track tower asks questions, I'll think of something to mum-ble," Donald said. "But we don't have enough fuel to make it to Socho-Ri. We're going to have to refuel the airplanes."

  "Sergeant," McCoy said to Staff Sergeant Klegger, "isn't there a trailer of AvGas here?"

  "Yes, sir. Two, each with five hundred gallons."

  "Drag one of them in here, and get started refueling these airplanes," McCoy ordered.

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  "And then get ready to move out," McCoy went on. "Mr. Zimmerman left you maps so that you can drive to Socho-Ri, right?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "As soon after the airplanes take off as you can, you get going."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  "Bill, can you stay with them until they're out of Seoul?" McCoy asked Dun-ston. "Get them through roadblocks?"

  "Sure. You're going with them?"

  "Yeah. I want to show Colonel Vandenburg what we have at Socho-Ri, and the sooner we can put the L-19 to work conducting our own search for Pick-ering, the better."

  The hangar door screeched open wide enough to admit a tanker trailer.

  [SIX]

  8O23d Transportation Company (Depot, Forward)

  Inchon, South Korea

  142S 8 October 195O

  Captain Francis P. MacNamara, Transportation Corps, was not at all sur-prised when he got a "heads-up" call that the X Corps Transportation Officer, Colonel T. Howard Kennedy, would be in the Inchon area and would pay the Eighty-Twenty-Three a visit.

  MacNamara had been expecting such a "visit." He would not have been sur-prised if he had gotten an official call announcing a formal inspection of the unit. Certainly, the status of readiness of the Eighty-Twenty-Three would be of interest to the staff officers of X Corps, and so far there had been no contact of any sort.

  He was, of course, a little nervous. He knew that the purpose of an in-spection-by whatever name-was to find fault with whatever was being inspected.

  But he was ready. There had been very little "business" for the Eighty-Twenty-Three since he'd started to set up shop. There had been that interest-ing business of issuing vehicles to the CIA a week before, and he had exchanged twenty-seven of his vehicles for damaged vehicles. But that had not at all taxed the capabilities of the Eighty-Twenty-Three. He felt sure he could conduct one hundred vehicle exchanges a day easily, and more if pressed.

  But the lack of business had permitted getting the Eighty-Twenty-Three into very good shape. Not only had his shops repaired all but seven of the ex-changed vehicles and returned them to the Ready for Exchange lines, but there had been time to establish creature comforts for his men.

  The squad tents in which they were housed now had wooden floors, doors, and electric lights. A section of the garage building had been converted to a mess hall, with picnic-table-type seating for the lower ranks, and chairs and tables for First Three Graders and officers.

  He was serving three hot meals a day, and had set up two shower points, one for the men and a second for the noncoms and officers, which they shared on a simple schedule. Similarly, he had set up three latrines, one outside under canvas, and two-by repairing existing facilities-in the main building, one for the officers and another for the noncoms.

  He had even established a unit laundry. He'd had to bend regulations a lit-tle to do this. Koreans were performing this service, in exchange for the garbage from the mess and five jerry cans of gasoline daily. Inasmuch as this service was provided outside the depot area, he didn't think it would come to the atten-tion of anyone visiting the Eighty-Twenty-Three. If it did, he was prepared to argue that it was a question of troop morale. Men whose uniforms quickly be-came grease- and oil-stained, and who took a great deal of comfort in know-ing that after their shower they could put on fresh clothing, were obviously going to be happier than those who had to either wash their clothing them-selves or go to one of the X Corps shower points outside the depot and ex-change them.

  Not to mention, of course, that his laundry service returned uniforms that were even pressed. In the case of the officers, starched and pressed. The uniforms available for exchange were those that had simply been washed and dried in the enormous machines of the shower point.

  Immediately after the "heads-up" call, Captain MacNamara had sent his runner to announce an officer's call, and when his four lieutenants came to the CP, he told them what was going to happen.

  He said that when he walked through the shop and around the depot perimeter, as he planned to do in thirty minutes, he didn't want to see anyone unshaved or in a dirty uniform. He said, as they knew, he didn't insist that steel helmets and web gear be worn while the men were working, but he expected to see both near those working. Those on perimeter guard he expected to see looking
alert and with their weapons as clean as possible, and they better be wearing their helmets and web gear.

  And thirty minutes later he took a quick tour of the Eighty-Twenty-Three, and found only a few things-he insisted that a large poster of a nearly naked redhead be removed from the wall of one of the work bays, for example-that needed correction. Then he started a second tour of the Eighty-Twenty-Three, this time a slow one.