Staff Sergeant Preston was wearing black pajamas and a black headband, and his face was smeared with black and dark brown grease. He had a Thompson.45-ACP-caliber submachine gun slung from his right shoulder. A canvas bag bulging with spare Thompson magazines and hand grenades hung from his left shoulder.
"Bail Out will not be necessary. Major McCoy is aboard 'a Navy vessel at sea,' " Dunwood said. "He couldn't say which one in the clear, but more than likely one of the ships carrying First MarDiv to Wonsan."
"What did they do, lose their radio?" Preston asked.
I really can't tell, Dunwood thought, if Preston is relieved that Bail Out has been canceled, or disappointed.
"That, too, I'm sure. Something went wrong," Dunwood said. "Major McCoy didn't say what, but he said there are two KIA and three WIA. We're to send a replacement crew for the Wind of Good Fortune to Wonsan. On the Beaver."
"Sir, is there any reason I couldn't get in on that?"
"You surprise me, Preston,' Dunwood said. "Here you are, a Marine with over six years' combat experience, and a staff sergeant. You're supposed to be bright enough to know that volunteering is something smart Marines just don't do."
"Sir, this is different," Preston said a little uncomfortably.
"How so?" Dunwood asked.
"This isn't like the regular Corps, sir. You know?"
Preston gestured around the communications hootch.
"You mean because of the refrigerator?" Dunwood asked innocently.
The hootch-because of the generator powering the radios, and because there was always an officer or senior noncom on duty-also housed a bright white Kenmore refrigerator that they had flown in on the Beaver from The House in Seoul.
"The refrigerator?" Preston asked, confused.
"You're right," Dunwood said. "I don't think even the commanding general of First MarDiv has a refrigerator full of Asahi beer."
"I wasn't talking about the refrigerator, sir," Preston said. "Jesus!"
"I'm a little confused, Preston. What are you talking about?"
"Sir, this isn't the Pusan Perimeter, is it?"
"No, it's not. I can't ever remember getting a cold beer when we were in the perimeter. Or, for that matter, a warm one."
Preston looked at him in bafflement for a long moment. Finally, he asked, "Sir, is there any particular reason the captain is pulling the sergeant's chain?"
"Oddly enough, Preston, there is."
"What's that, sir?"
"It can't go any further than this hootch," Dunwood said.
"Yes, sir."
"I've been thinking of volunteering myself," Dunwood said.
"For what, sir?"
"What I have been thinking is that sooner or later, they're going to send us back to the 5th Marines, and I don't really want to go back."
"I've been wondering how long this detail will last," Preston said.
"And I really don't want to go back to the 5th Marines," Dunwood went on. "Where one of two things would happen. They'd bring the company back up to strength, run us through some kind of training cycle, and put us back on the line. It would be the perimeter all over again. Or the war will be over, and they'll bring the company back up to strength, run us through a longer train-ing cycle, and it would be Camp Pendleton all over again."
"Yeah," Preston said. "I've been thinking about that, too. So what are you thinking of volunteering for?"
"The CIA7," Dunwood said.
"How would you do that?"
"I don't really know. What I do know is that Major McCoy and Gunner Zimmerman are Marines-good ones, they were both Marine Raiders-and they're in the CIA. And we work for General Pickering, who's a Marine. I don't know how it works, but I'm really thinking seriously about asking Major McCoy what he thinks."
Sergeant Preston looked at him for a long time, expressionless, before he fi-nally asked, "Sir, is there any way I could get in on that?"
"I'm not pulling your chain now, Preston. I'm serious about this."
"I sort of like this operation," Preston said.
"Major McCoy-I just told you-said he took two KIA and three WIA. To which his reaction was, send a replacement crew. You like that?"
"I'm not saying this is fun, sir. Don't get me wrong. But I know what we're doing here is important. I suppose when we were running around the perime-ter saving the Army's ass, that was important, too. But if I'm going to get blown away, I'd rather it was because I fucked up, not because I was trying to un-fuck-up what some stranger's fucked up. You know what I mean?"
"Yes, I do," Dunwood said.
"What I really like about this operation is that the major and Gunner Zim-merman get things done. And they tell you what to do and don't stand over your shoulder making sure you do it. Shit, when the gunner left here after we found that lady's crispy corpse, all he said was, 'Take over, Captain Dunwood.' "
" 'Crispy corpse'? Jesus Christ, Preston! Show a little respect!"
"I wasn't being disrespectful, sir. That's what it was. When we put them bod-ies in the shelter halves, they was crisp. Like a barbecued pig."
"You know what I thought when the gunner left me in charge?" Dunwood asked, as much of himself as Preston. "I was happy, proud, like a second lieu-tenant getting his first platoon. And then I thought I must be crazy. I'm not a real Marine. I'm a weekend warrior, a goddamned car salesman-where do you think Major McCoy got Car Salesman as my call sign? Gunner Zimmerman is fat and German, and he's Fat Kraut, and I'm Car Salesman, because that's all I really am, a car salesman that got called up-"
"You're a Marine, sir, a goddamned good one," Preston interrupted. "Don't tell me different. I was in the perimeter with you from day fucking one until they pulled us out."
"What I was about to say," Dunwood went on after a moment, "was that the proof of that was that here I was, a captain, taking orders from a master gun-ner, and it didn't bother me at all. And then I realized I liked being here, doing what we're doing, a hell of a lot more than I ever liked selling cars."
"How the hell do you think I feel?" Preston asked. "Christ, sir, I was on re-cruiting duty. One minute telling some pimply-faced high school kid that once he gets to put on dress blues, he won't be able to handle all the pussy that'll be coming his way, and the next minute telling his mother that Sonny Boy not only will have a chance to further his education in the crotch, but will receive, just about every day, moral counseling from a clergyman of his choice of faith."
Dunwood laughed out loud.
"Are you suggesting, Sergeant Preston, that when I raise the question of CIA service to Major McCoy, I should mention your name?"
Preston considered that for a long moment.
"No, sir," he said finally. "I don't want you to do that."
"Change your mind, all of a sudden?"
"If the rest of the guys heard I did that, they'd all be pissed. I can't think of a one of them that really wants to go back to the 5th Marines. What I'll do, if you tell me what Major McCoy tells you, and it looks at least possible, is go see him myself."
Dunwood didn't reply.
"Or..." Preston had a second thought. "How much time do we have be-fore the major gets back and you talk to him?"
"I have no idea when he'll be back. Or Gunner Zimmerman."
"I can ask the guys, who wants to go back to the crotch, and who wants to stay here... and get in the CIA official. And then everybody who wants the CIA can go see the major together."
"All right," Dunwood said. "I'll let you know what Major McCoy says."
"What about me going as replacement crew on the boat?"
"Take someone with you-another Marine. The rest Koreans. If Major McCoy or Gunner Zimmerman says you can go on the Wind of Good Fortune, it's okay with me. But get that grease off your face and get out of the pajamas before you go. You better take a replacement radio, too."
"Aye, aye, sir," Staff Sergeant Preston said.
[TWO]
Office of the Chief, Awards Branch
Office o
f the Chief of Naval Operations
Washington, D.C.
164O 19 October 195O
The duty day at CNO/CAB ended at 1600, but when Commander John T. Davis, USN/went to the office door of Captain Archie M. Young, USN, the chief, and/found him still hard at work at his desk, he was not at all surprised.
There were gold aviator's wings on Captain Young's breast, and submariner's gold dolphins on Commander Davis's breast. They pinned them on each day- as they had every right to do-even though Commander Davis had left the silent service four years before, and Captain Young had last sat in a cockpit eight years before.
Both had "busted the physical" and been disqualified for further service in the air/beneath the sea. Captain Young had told his career counselor in the Bureau of Personnel that he would really rather find anything else useful to do around the Navy than be a grounded aviator at a Naval air station or aboard a carrier, and Commander Davis had told his career counselor that he would rather do anything but stand on a wharf somewhere and watch a boat head out on patrol.
Neither wanted a berth in the surface Navy, either. That didn't leave much- unless they wanted to go back to school and get a law degree, or something along that line-but supply and personnel. They had each given personnel a shot, and to their surprise learned that it was really not as boring as they thought it would be-actually, sometimes it was a hell of a challenge-and that they were very good at their new specialty.
Today, Commander Davis thought, was one of those times when it ap-peared there was going to be a hell of a challenge.
Captain Young raised his eyes from his desk and took off his glasses.
"What have you got, Jack, that has kept you from rushing home to a cold martini?"
"I thought I would seek your wise guidance on this one, sir," Davis said. "Commander MAG-33 has been heard from."
He walked into the office and laid the message from Lieutenant Colonel William C. Dunn on Captain Young's desk.
"I'll be damned," Young said when he'd read the message, then read from it: " 'The undersigned is unable to comply.' "
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Start out, Commander, by having faith in your fellow man," Young said. "It may mean just what he says. He is unable to comply. That is different, wouldn't you agree, from 'unwilling to comply'?"
"Yes, sir."
"And then, Commander, we must consider the circumstances. Actually, these circumstances should be considered first. The President has spoken. He thinks this officer should be awarded the Navy Cross. He desires that this offi-cer be awarded the Navy Cross. What the President of the United States desires has the force and effect of a lawful order."
"Yes, sir," Commander Davis said, smiling.
"Furthermore, this jarhead obviously deserves a medal. Jesus Christ, he was shot down, and then evaded capture... three months?"
"About that, sir."
"Furthermore, when the Commander-in-Chief desires something, he desires it right then. He is not interested-and indeed, should not be-with admin-istrative problems that get in the way of his desires. Agreed?"
"Yes, sir."
"Given (a) and (b) above, we cannot let a little thing like a misplaced cita-tion get in the way of our carrying out what is clearly our duty, can we?" Cap-tain Young asked reasonably.
"No, sir, we cannot."
"Why don't we ask Harrison to step in here for a minute, Commander?"
"Excellent idea, sir," Commander Davis said, and walked out of the office.
He returned a moment later with Chief Personnelman Robert C. Harrison, a slight thirty-five-year-old with eighteen years' naval service and a perfectly manicured pencil-line mustache.
"Yes, sir?" Harrison asked.
"Chief, we have a small problem that requires your literary skills," Captain Young said.
"Commander Davis showed me the TWX, Captain," Harrison said.
"Since the citation has been misplaced, Chief," Captain Young said, "we're going to have to duplicate what it must have said here so we don't keep the CNO-and indeed, the President-waiting. You take my meaning?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have you got your pad?"
"Yes, sir."
"Let's go over this together," Captain Young said. "What do we know, Com-mander Davis?"
"We know the major was shot down, sir."
"Okay. Let's go with that. To get shot down, he had to go up, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Despite severe weather conditions that in other circumstances would not have permitted flight operations, Major... What's his name?"
"Pickering, sir, Major Malcolm S., USMCR," Harrison furnished.
"Hereafter Pickering," Captain Young went on, "... took off from the USS Badoeng Strait to render air support'-make that 'desperately needed air sup-port'-'to/U.S. Marine forces then engaged in combat'-make that 'outnum-bered U.S. Marine forces' and 'fierce combat'..."
"Sir, I get the idea," Chief Harrison said. "Why don't you give me the ba-sics and let me fill in the blanks?"
"Okay. He was shot down while doing this."
"Wounded?"
"I don't think so, but he almost certainly suffered painful injuries making the crash landing...."
"Because he crash-landed the airplane away from civilian houses?" Chief Harrison asked.
"Good thought, Harrison!" Captain Young agreed. "And if he got shot down, the plane had to be on fire, right?"
"Got it," Harrison said. "Then what?"
"While he was supporting the troops on the ground, he encountered fierce antiaircraft fire...."
"Which, at great risk, he ignored?"
"Right."
"Then what?"
"He spent the next... what?"
"Find out when he was shot down and when he was rescued. That many days. 'Avoiding the determined efforts of the enemy to capture him,' et cetera...."
"Got it, sir."
"We need that now, Harrison."
"Aye, aye, sir."
"Length is a criterion here, too. Make sure that the citation fills a sheet of paper, and that the signature block goes on the next page," Captain Young said.
"Signature blocks sometimes get lost, sir, right?"
"I guess they do," Captain Young said.
"Take me thirty or forty minutes, sir."
"Good man, Harrison!"
[THREE]
U.S. Naval Hospital
U.S. Navy Base, Sasebo
Sasebo, Japan
22O5 19 October 195O
Security for U.S. Naval Hospital, Sasebo-the guards at the gate and around the perimeter-was provided by a five-man detachment of U.S. Marines who set up and supervised the system, using sailors from the hospital staff-Corps-men, others-assigned to "Shore Patrol" duty on a roster basis to man the var-ious posts.
Sergeant Victor C. Wandowski, USMC, very rarely spent any time at all at Post Number One, which was the guard shack at the main gate, but tonight was an exception. He had been given a heads-up that a Marine major, named McCoy, was going to arrive at the hospital either sometime tonight or-probably- early tomorrow morning. The major was to be sent immediately to see the med-ical officer of the day, and the hospital commander, Captain Schermer himself, was to be notified of Major McCoy's arrival, no matter what the hour.
Under these circumstances, Sergeant Wandowski had decided, it behooved him to be at the main gate around 2200. He knew there was a courier flight arriving at the airfield around 2130, and it seemed likely this Major McCoy would be on it.
When he saw an Air Force jeep approaching just after 2200, Sergeant Wandowski congratulated himself on his foresight. If one of the swabbie pecker-checkers fucked up meeting this major-which was very likely-it would have been his ass in the crack, not theirs.
"I'll handle this one," he said to the swabbie on duty, and stepped out of the guard shack, crisply raising his hand to stop the jeep.
An Air Force buck sergeant was driving the jeep. If his passenger was a Ma-rine major, he goddamn
ed sure didn't look like it.
He was coverless, insignia-less, and wearing an Army field jacket.
Whatever it was, it did not rate a salute, and Sergeant Wandowski did not offer one.
W E B Griffin - Corp 10 - Retreat, Hell! Page 46
