"Ken!" Ernie cautioned again.
"I don't know what the hell is going on here," McCoy said. "But I'm not going to have a goddamn thing to do with it. This is pure, unadulterated bullshit!"
The door was swung open by Captain F. Howard Schermer, MC, USN, who commanded, "Attention on deck!"
General of the Army Douglas MacArthur marched into the room, trailed by Mrs. Jean MacArthur; Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR; Colonel Sidney G. Huff; two other aides-de-camp, a major and a captain; one Army photographer—the master sergeant who was usually at MacArthur's side; one Navy photographer; and half a dozen members of the medical staff of the U.S. Naval Hospital, Sasebo, including Commander J. V. Stenten, NC, USN, who was in Navy blues, and wearing all of her medals—not the ribbon representations thereof—and which occupied a substantial portion of the left side of her tunic.
"As you were," the Supreme Commander ordered as he followed Mrs. MacArthur to Mrs. McCoy in her wheelchair.
"I'm glad to see you looking so well, my dear," Jean MacArthur said, and leaned over and kissed her. Then she handed her a box of Whitman chocolates.
"Thank you," Ernie said softly.
"Good to see you again, Major McCoy," MacArthur said. "How's the leg?"
"Getting better, sir," McCoy said.
"Good," MacArthur said. "Unfortunately, we are really pressed for time. Get on with it, Sid."
"Attention to orders," Colonel Huff barked. "Supreme Headquarters, United Nations Command, Tokyo, 21 October 1950. Subject: Award of the Silver Star Medal. By direction of the President, the Silver Star Medal, Third Award, is presented to Major Kenneth R. McCoy—"
"Excuse me, sir," Major McCoy said.
Huff looked at McCoy, frowned, and went on: "—United States Marine Corps Reserve—"
"Excuse me, sir," Major McCoy said, louder.
"Yes, what is it, Major?" Colonel Huff asked icily.
"With all possible respect, sir, I have read that citation, and it's . . . it's not true, sir."
"—for conspicuous gallantry in action above and beyond the call of duty—"
"Sir, I cannot accept that medal."
"Major, be silent!" Colonel Huff ordered.
"Just a minute, Sid," MacArthur said. He gestured with a regal wave of his hand for everybody to leave the room. Mrs. MacArthur, General Pickering, Colonel Huff, and Captain Schermer remained behind.
"Let me see the citation," Pickering said.
McCoy handed it to him. Pickering read it and extended it to MacArthur.
"I didn't know about the Silver Star, sir," Pickering said. "If I had, this . . . situation could have been avoided."
MacArthur read it, then raised his eyes to McCoy.
"There is something faulty, in your opinion, about the citation? Is that it, Major?"
"Yes, sir. It's completely faulty. I didn't rescue Major Pickering. He found a lost Army convoy. ..."
"So General Pickering has told me," MacArthur said. "But I put it to you, Major McCoy, that in my judgment, and I'm sure in General Pickering's as well, the citation is not entirely faulty. There is the phrase 'for conspicuous gallantry in action above and beyond the call of duty.' I find that completely justified, even if the details in the citation attached may be something less than entirely accurate."
"Sir—"
"Let me finish, Major, please," MacArthur said.
"Sorry, sir."
"What we have here is a situation in which the Commander-in-Chief, having been made aware of your conspicuous gallantry above and beyond the call of duty, decided, and announced before witnesses, including General Pickering and myself, that it was his desire your valor be recognized by the award of the Silver Star."
"Sir, I didn't do anything that citation says I did."
"That I think can be remedied," MacArthur said. "Sid, see that the citation attached is changed to read, 'for services of a covert and classified nature behind the enemy's lines' with no further specificity."
"Yes, sir."
"Does that satisfy you, Major McCoy?" MacArthur asked.
"Sir, I don't deserve the Silver Star."
"I think you do, Ken," Pickering said.
"And so do I. More important, so does the President," MacArthur said. "Now, Major, may I presume that when we get the others back in here, Colonel Huff can proceed without any further interruptions from you?"
After a moment, Major McCoy said, "Yes, sir."
"Get them back in here, Sid," the Supreme Commander ordered.
[SEVEN]
Aboard Naval Air Transport Service Flight 2O3 (Medical Evacuation)
32.42 Degrees North Latitude
12O.296 Degrees West Longitude
The Pacific Ocean
163O 25 October 195O
Lieutenant Commander Dwayne G. Fisher, USNR, a slightly plump, pleasant-appearing thirty-nine-year-old, came out of the door to the flight deck of the four-engined Douglas C-54 and made his way slowly down the aisle to the rear of the passenger compartment.
The aircraft was configured to carry litters. There were two lines of them, stacked three high. Almost all of the litters were occupied, and almost all of the injured were Marines. They were all strapped securely to the litters, which had thin inflatable mattresses, olive drab in color, but not unlike the air mattresses used in swimming pools. About one-third of the injured were connected to rubber tubing feeding them saline solutions, pain-deadening narcotics, or fresh human blood, or various combinations thereof.
Commander Fisher stopped at just about every row of litters. Sometimes he just smiled, and sometimes he said things like "How you doing, pal?" or "We're almost there. About another hour and we'll be in San Diego."
Sometimes the injured men replied, if only with a single word or two or a faint smile. Some stared at him without response. Four of the men in the litters were covered with sheets. They had not survived the flight.
At the rear of the fuselage, where they had been loaded last so they could be off-loaded first, were the NPs. The stress of war had been too much for them, and they were headed for the Neuro-Psychiatric Wards of the San Diego Naval Hospital. They had all been sedated, and strapped to their litters more securely.
Commander Fisher stopped at each row of NPs, but they were out of it, and he didn't speak to them, only gave them a little smile.
At the extreme rear of the passenger compartment was a patient whom Dwayne Fisher wanted to talk to. He was an NP, but the flight physician had told him that was probably just a technical classification to get him to the States. The poor bastard was a Marine fighter pilot who'd just been rescued after three months behind the enemy's lines.
"He's nothing but skin and bones, but he's not over the edge," the flight physician had told him.
"Hi!" Commander Fisher said.
What does this asshole want?
"I understand you're also an airplane driver."
What are you doing, writing a book?
"Guilty."
"Fighters?"
And also Lockheed 1049s. You are conversing, sir, with the current holder of the Trans-Pacific scheduled passenger service speed record.
"Corsairs."
"I flew P-38s in War Two," Fisher said. "Which twin-engine time I parlayed into a job with Eastern. Where I flew these. Which kept me out of fighters when they called me up."
"Reservist?"
Dumb fucking question. If he was called up, he was in the reserve.
"Yeah. You?"
"Me, too. I was flying for Trans-Global."
"Ten-forty-nines?"
"That's all Trans-Global has."
"Nice airplane."
"Very nice."
"You were shot down?"
Back to your fucking book, are we?
"Uh-huh."
"I'm surprised they didn't grab you for NATS," Commander Fisher said. "Most of our guys are called-up airline pilots."