Jeanette had learned that her best sources of information came from men who both lusted after her and were pissed off about something, who wanted to tell her something that she would write about, and put somebody else's ass in a crack.
When she saw Major Lem T. Scott, Signal Corps, U.S. Army, smile at her as she walked into the press club bar, she knew that in addition to whatever lustful fantasies might be running through his head, he was really there to tell her something.
Major Scott was a tall, rather good-looking man in his early thirties. He was an Army aviator, which gained him sort of unofficial membership in the press club. No journal-ist was going to kick an Army aviator out of the press club. Sooner or later, every journalist had to beg a ride in one of the Army's fleet of light aircraft. In the sure and certain knowledge that some journalist would stand drinks for them on the expense account, Army aviators often went to the press club bar.
It took Jeanette about thirty minutes to get from Major Scott what he had obviously come to the press club bar to tell her, "accidentally, in conversation."
Major Scott was attached to the Flight Section, Head-quarters, SCAP. Most of the light Army aircraft, and then-pilots, had been sent to Korea by General Almond. General MacArthur's personal light aircraft, a North American L-17 Navion, had not, and consequently neither had Major Scott, who was MacArthur's Navion pilot.
Possibly, Jeanette thought somewhat unkindly, because he had not been there, Major Scott wanted to be in action in Korea. It wouldn't be so bad, he said, if he was actually flying the Supreme Commander around, but he wasn't even doing that. The Supreme Commander had loaned his Navion to the CIA, and he had absolutely nothing to do, except once in a while fly one of the two L-19s that were left at the SCAP flight section.
Jeanette had long ago learned that letting a source think you know more than you actually do was a way to put them at ease. All she knew about the CIA in Japan was that it was rumored that MacArthur's economic advisor, Jonathan Loomis, was the CIA Tokyo station chief.
"What do you suppose Jonathan Loomis is doing with the general's Navion?"
"It's not Loomis," Scott said. "It's his boss, a Marine general named Pickering. He lives in the Imperial Hotel."
This was the first Miss Priestly had heard that General Fleming Pickering had any connection with the CIA at all. He'd even denied being a general.
The sonofabitch!
"Well, what do you suppose that General Pickering's doing with the Supreme Commander's Navion?"
"I don't know. He's got some Marine major flying it. He brings it back to Haneda for service. I know he's been in Korea. And all over Japan. I don't know who, if anybody, he's had with him.... The CIA doesn't say much."
"Huh," Jeanette said, thoughtfully.
"Just before I came here this afternoon," Scott added. "I found out this major is flying the Navion to Kobe first thing in the morning."
That was interesting. Another source had told her that the aviation elements of the First Provisional Marine Brigade would arrive at Kobe two days from now. She had already made reservations to take the train to Kobe to meet them.
"Anyone going with him?"
"I don't know, but if you're thinking of trying to catch a ride with him, forget it. Whatever they're doing, they don't want anyone to know about it."
In another five minutes, Jeanette was sure that she had extracted from Major Scott all that interested her, and, try-ing to sound as sincere as possible, told him she was really sorry she couldn't have dinner with him. Another time.
It wasn't a long walk from the press club to the Imperial Hotel, but it was hotter than she thought it was, and she ar-rived at the Imperial sweaty.
When she tried to call General Pickering on the house phone, the operator politely denied having a guest by that name. Jeanette took the elevator to the floor on which the Dewey Suite was located and started down the corridor.
She was stopped by a young American in civilian cloth-ing who politely asked what she wanted. She took her press credentials from her purse, and while the young man-obviously a guard-was examining them, said that she was there to interview General Pickering.
"Ma'am, this is a restricted area. I'll have to ask you to leave."
"I want to see General Pickering."
"Ma'am, this is a restricted area. I'll have to ask you to leave."
With ten minutes to spare, Jeanette managed to make the train to Kobe. She arrived there after midnight, and took a cab to the U.S. Naval Base, Kobe.
Lieutenant Commander Gregory F. Porter, USN, the public affairs officer, was disturbed and annoyed that she had heard that Marine aviation would be arriving in the very near future, and was afraid she would break the story-"Marine Aviation to Debark at Kobe"-before it happened. There was no censorship, he told her, but he re-ally hoped she could see her way clear to embargo the story until the Marines actually got there. The other way might really give aid and comfort to the enemy. If she would embargo the story, the Navy information officer would do everything he could to help her get the story once the Marines were actually there.
Jeanette told him she understood completely, and would happily hold the story until told its publication would in no way give aid and comfort to the enemy. Lieutenant Com-mander Porter was grateful, and said that he would be hon-ored to buy her breakfast in the morning, at which time he might have some other news for her that she might find of interest.
The dining room of the Kobe U.S. Naval Base Officer's Mess provided a good view of the airfield, and at 0815 the next morning, while she was eating a surprisingly good grapefruit, Miss Priestly saw a North American Navion touch down smoothly on the runway.
"Oh, I didn't know the Army used this field," she said to Lieutenant Commander Porter. "General MacArthur has an airplane just like that."
"Actually, Jeanette," the commander said. "That's his. But he's not in it."
"Who is?" she asked, sweetly.
"Right now, that's classified," Commander Porter said. "But if you'll give me another couple of hours, I'll tell you all about it. And I'll even get you some exclusive pictures of something I think you'll agree is one hell of a story."
Jeanette had already decided that Commander Porter was no dope, and that he had told her all she was going to hear until he decided to tell her more, so she smiled sweetly at him, laid her hand on his and said, "Thank you."
She looked to see if she could see who was in the Navion, but it taxied out of sight.
At 1015, Commander Porter found Jeanette in the lounge of the Officers' Club and led her back to the table at which they had breakfast.
"In a very few minutes, you're going to see something very interesting-perhaps even historic-out there. I'm not at liberty to tell you what now, but you have my word I will at the proper time, and I'll have those exclusive pic-tures I promised you."
He's talking, probably, about the first Marine planes that will land here. But if I get the pictures first, and exclu-sively...
"You're very kind, Greg," she said, softly, and touched his hand with hers.
"I'll see you shortly," he said.
At 1025, two Chance-Vought F4U Corsairs dropped out of the sky and landed. The word Marines was lettered large on their fuselages.
"The Marines have landed," Jeanette said, out loud, and just slightly sarcastically, although there was no one in the dining room to hear her.
The Corsairs parked on the tarmac and shut down. Ground crewmen approached them as a fuel truck drove up. First two Navy photographers, carrying Speed-Graphic press cameras, and then Lieutenant Commander Porter and another man, wearing those overalls pilots wear, walked up to the air-planes as their pilots got out.