"I don't think all three of us should go at the same time," McCoy said. "If this flying egg beater should crash and burn with all of us on it, the entire war could well be lost."
"Indeed it could," Dunston said.
"Where are we going?" Major Donald asked.
"Not far from Suwon," McCoy said. "How well do you know the area?"
"I've flown over it. Not a hell of a lot."
"One of the things we hope to do with your aircraft, Major, is locate and pick up a shot-down Marine pilot who's down there somewhere."
"I thought the Marines did that sort of thing themselves," Donald said. "Yes, they do," McCoy said. "But this is sort of a special case. I'll tell you about it at The House."
"The House?"
"Where we stay in Seoul," McCoy explained.
"Do you have any idea where this pilot is?" Donald asked.
"We know where he was thirty-six hours ago."
He took a map from his pocket, opened it, and pointed out the rice paddy where Pickering had last stamped out his arrow and his initials.
"Can you find that?"
Donald glanced at the map and nodded. "No problem." Then he looked at McCoy. "You think he's there?"
"He was there. He's not now."
"How do you know?"
"Because we were there," McCoy said.
"That area's not secure," Donald blurted. "The whole NK army is trying to escape through there."
"So Zimmerman told me," McCoy said.
Donald digested that a moment, then asked, "Where do you think this pilot is now?"
"I have no idea. Maybe he's heading east. Maybe we'll get lucky."
"Whatever you say," Donald said.
"Send the other helo back to Kimpo and have it put in the hangar," McCoy ordered.
"Right."
"We'll see you at the hangar, Bill," McCoy said. "And I think I should tell you this: I don't know how it is in the Army, but in the Marine Corps, officers who fail to adequately protect their Class VI supplies are castrated."
"I'll keep that in mind," Dunston said.
[TWO]
Two Miles NNE of Hoengsong, South Korea
1115 3O September 195O
Major Malcolm S. Pickering's efforts to drain the rice paddy near Yoju the previous evening so that he could stamp out his initials and the arrow had failed.
It would have been a waste of effort to try to stamp the Here I am, for Christ's sake, come and get me message in the dark, so he had waited until morning, hoping that the ground would still be wet and soft enough for the stamping.
The reverse proved to be true. When it grew light enough for him for see, he saw that the rice paddy was covered with water, only an inch or two deep, but covered with water.
He thought at first that he hadn't kicked away enough of the earthen dam to completely drain the water. But a quick investigation of the site showed that the paddy was a natural depression in the hillside, and the only way it could possibly be drained would be to dig a trench and empty it across the dirt path into the next-lower rice paddy.
To dig a trench like that, he quickly saw, would require a pick and shovel, and he had neither tool.
This was not the first time he'd had trouble draining a paddy. Very much the same thing had happened to him three times before. This knowledge of itself was not very comforting.
He had put the A-Frame over his shoulders and climbed up and over the crest of that hill, then worked his way eastward.
He had risen at first light, and left the undrained paddy forty minutes later. By eleven-fifteen, he had moved, in his best guess, about ten or eleven miles. As the crow flies, about four.
He was at the crest of another hill—he hadn't counted, but he thought it was probably the fourth crest—when he heard the fluckata-fluckata-fluckata of a helicopter.
His first reaction was fear. It was not the fluckata-fluckata-fluckata of any of the three helicopters he knew—the Bell, Hiller, and Sikorsky aircraft—all small two-man machines. This fluckata-fluckata-fluckata was louder, heavier, and different.
Since so far as he knew the only U.S. helicopters in Korea were those assigned to the 1st Marine Air Wing, and they were Bells, logic dictated that the aircraft making this fluckata-fluckata-fluckata were not American. It was entirely possible, he thought after a minute, that in the nine thousand years since he had been shot down, the Army or the Air Force had finally gotten its act in gear and gotten some of their own helicopters to Korea, and this was what he was hearing.
But then he thought that the only place the Army could get helicopters was from Bell or Hiller . . .
He recalled then that the Navy had some helos to pick aviators from the drink if they missed a carrier landing or takeoff—he'd actually seen them while practicing carrier takeoffs and recovery off San Diego—but when he thought about that, he remembered the fluckata-fluckata-fluckata they'd made, and it wasn't the fluckata-fluckata-fluckata he was hearing now.
. . . and he knew the fluckata-fluckata-fluckata he was hearing now wasn't coming from a Bell or a Hiller, so it had to be made by something else. Like a Russian helicopter. The Russians had helicopters. Hell, the Russians had invented helicopters. Both Sikorsky and Piasecki were Russians before they came to the States.
What he needed was a cave to hide in.
There being no convenient caves, he did the next best thing. He put his back against the earthen wall of a rice paddy, then held the A-Frame over him. It would, he believed, break his human figure outline, shade his face from the sun, and make him difficult to see from the air.
The fluckata-fluckata-fluckata grew louder. Pickering pushed the A-Frame away from his head and glanced skyward, trying to get a look at it. Where the hell is it? Jesus Christ, it sounds like it's right here! He leaned his neck back as far as it would go, just in time to see the shiny olive-drab fuselage of an enormous helicopter—the largest he had ever seen— hanging beneath an enormous rotor cone flash—fluckata-fluckata-fluckata-fluckata-fluckata-fluckata—not more than 100 feet over him. It headed down the hill, then turned to the left.
Pickering could see U.S. ARMY painted in large letters on the fuselage. The helicopter turned right, rose above the crest of the next hill, and then dropped out of sight below it.
He waited for a long time to see—Please, God!-—if it would reappear again, and maybe turn around and come back. It didn't.
[THREE]
Headquarters, First Marine Division
Seoul, South Korea
1225 3O September 195O
Master Gunnery Sergeant Allan J. Macey, USMC, who looked very much like Master Gunner Ernest W. Zimmerman, backed through the canvas flap that served as the door to the office of Major General Oliver P. Smith, Commanding 1st MarDiv. He held a stainless-steel food tray and a mess kit set of spoon, knife, and fork in each hand.
"Chow, sir," he announced. "Salisbury steak, for a real treat." He laid the trays on a simple wooden picnic-type table. "I'll get the coffee, sir," Gunny Macey said, and looked at General Smith's luncheon guest. "Canned cow and sugar, General?"
"No, thanks," Major General Ralph Howe, NGUS, said. "Black's fine. You'll take care of Sergeant Rogers, right?"
"We old men have to stick together, General," Macey said.
"I apologize for the scarcity of the fare, General," Smith said.
"I'm an old infantryman General," Howe said. "If it's warm and served inside, that's all I ask, and I'm grateful to get it."
Smith smiled and grunted. He waved Howe to a seat at the table.