"Tell Al thanks, please, sir," he said. "I really didn't want to have to go find a uniform somewhere."
"He will be pleased he could help," Almond said. "You're sure you're all right to get back on the junk?"
"Once I get aboard, I'll be all right, General. I was thinking maybe they could rig a bosun's chair and lower me into her."
"I'm sure they can," Almond said. "Thank you, McCoy."
"No thanks necessary, sir," McCoy said. "I'm just glad they don't shoot the messenger with the bad news anymore."
Ten minutes later, McCoy was lowered without incident in a bosun's chair onto the forecastle of the Wind of Good Fortune. As soon as he was aboard and out of the chair, she turned away from the Mount McKinley and headed westward toward Wonsan.
"Admiral, how much trouble is it going to be to get a message to the commanding officer of the hospital at Sasebo?" General Almond asked of Rear Admiral Feeney.
"No problem at all. What's the message?"
Almond handed him a sheet of paper fresh from Captain Al Haig's portable typewriter.
URGENT UNCLASSIFIED
COMMANDING OFFICER, NAVY HOSPITAL, SASEBO
TO BE DELIVERED TO BRIGADIER GENERAL FLEMING PICKERING, USMC, AS SOON AS POSSIBLE
PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM MAJOR GENERAL ALMOND, X CORPS PERSONAL MESSAGE BEGINS
DEAR FLEMING,
YOU KNOW WHERE I AM. I HAVE JUST MET WITH MAJOR MCCOY, WHO IS EN ROUTE TO SASEBO PER YOUR ORDERS.
HE GAVE ME SOME DISTRESSING INFORMATION WHICH I AM SURE HE WILL SHARE WITH YOU. IT IS A GREAT PITY THAT HE HAS NOTHING SOLID ENOUGH TO BACK IT UP TO FORCE A CHANGE OF ANALYSIS BY THOSE WHO HAVE TO BE CONVINCED. I AM CONVINCED HE IS RIGHT, BUT THAT DOESN'T MATTER, DOES IT?
MAJOR MCCOY IS TRAVELING AGAINST MEDICAL ADVICE, HAVING SUFFERED WOUNDS IN AN EARLY MORNING ENGAGEMENT TODAY. HE DID THE NEXT THING TO REFUSING MEDICAL TREATMENT IN ORDER TO COMPLETE HIS MISSION AND COMPLY WITH YOUR ORDER THAT HE GO TO SASEBO.
INASMUCH AS I STRONGLY SUSPECT THAT HE WILL NOT MENTION THIS TO YOU, AND THUS IT WILL NOT BECOME A MATTER OF OFFICIAL RECORD, I TELL YOU SO THAT HE MAY AT LEAST BE AWARDED THE PURPLE HEART.
IT SHOULD GO WITHOUT SAYING THAT I AM DELIGHTED THAT YOUR SON IS BACK FROM HIS UNIMAGINABLE ORDEAL.
WHERE DO THESE FINE YOUNG MEN COME FROM? I LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING YOU SOON.
BEST PERSONAL REGARDS.
NED
END PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM GEN ALMOND TO GEN PICKERING
Chapter Fourteen
[ONE]
Fishbase Communications Hootch
Socho-Ri, South Korea
O747 19 October 19SO
"Cancel Bail Out, sir?" Staff Sergeant Al Preston, USMC, asked just as soon as Captain Dunwood had taken off his headset and turned from the radio.
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 training 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 finally 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 perimeter 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 Zimmerman 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!"