W.E.B. Griffin - Retreat, Hell!

Pickering thought: He wants to give me — and probably Banning, and maybe even Charley Willoughby — this little lecture, of course, but I think he hopes — maybe expects — that I will immediately report it to Truman. Which, of course, I will. Am I thereby being manipulated? Or just doing my job?

"However," MacArthur went on, "the reverse is not true. If the Chinese were to be so misguided as to send a military force—even a substantial one, say a hundred thousand men, even two hundred thousand—across the border, and we annihilated most of it—as we are completely prepared to do—and sent the rest fleeing in chaotic retreat back across the border, while they would lose some face, they wouldn't lose much. The Chinese capacity for self-delusion is limitless. They would immediately say the force they sent was inconsequential, and that they withdrew of their own choosing. And, since face does not govern my military actions, we would not retaliate—for the reasons I have just given—and the incident would end there. To our advantage. We would have reduced a substantial military force to ineffectiveness, and bloodied their nose, imparting the lesson that the United States of America cannot be pushed around with impunity."

Pickering thought: He believes that, and he's just about got me convinced, too. I wonder what Beetle Smith would think, if he were here?

"For those reasons, Fleming," MacArthur went on, "unofficially, out of channels, and between friends—if I may so presume—and absolutely not as a statement, or even an opinion, of the UNC Supreme Commander . .

He paused, waiting for appreciation of his wit, got it in the form of smiles and chuckles, and then went on: "... I really hope that General Willoughby is wrong, and your man McCoy right."

There were more appreciative responses.

"Which brings/us to him," MacArthur went on again. "Your man McCoy."

"Yes, sir?"

"Ned also told me that he had been wounded in action."

"Yes, sir. That's true."

"While behind the enemy's lines on some mission?"

"He was wounded while being exfiltrated from North Korea, where he had gone to eavesdrop on what he called 'low-level Russian radio traffic,' " Picker­ing said.

"Isn't that the job of the Army Security Agency?" General Willoughby asked.

"I can only suppose that Major McCoy didn't get what he wanted to hear from the ASA, General," Pickering said coldly.

"You'd agree, General, wouldn't you, that coordination would have ensured that your man McCoy didn't have to waste his effort—and indeed get shot in the process—if he had let the ASA do their job while he did his?"

"The trouble with that, Charley—" Pickering snapped, and was immedi­ately aware that his mouth was about to run away with him. He stopped.

Charm and courtesy is what is called for here.

Dutch Willoughby is El Supremo's fair-haired boy.

Fuck it.

"—is that you don't mean 'coordination.' You mean control by Charley Willoughby," Pickering went on. "I fired my Tokyo station chief primarily be­cause he 'coordinated' entirely too much with you. That's not our function— one of the things I wanted to make sure you understood clearly when I met with you later on to discuss your relationship with Ed Banning."

Willoughby's face showed anger and surprise. He looked at MacArthur to get his reaction.

"According to Ned Almond," MacArthur said, as if he had not heard a word of the exchange, "while it could easily have been worse, the wound—while quite painful—is not serious."

"He's in the Navy Hospital in Sasebo, sir," Pickering said.

"With your son? That's—I hate to say fortunate—but if they have to be in hospital, it's fortunate that they can be together," MacArthur said.

"My son is on his way to San Diego, sir," Pickering said. "They felt 'Diego could give him more of what he needs than they could." He paused and smiled. "But Major McCoy is not alone. Mrs. McCoy went to Sasebo to see my son, and they—concerned for her advanced pregnancy—ordered her to bed."

"She's all right?"

"She was as of when we left last night, sir. Dr. Schermer says having McCoy there is very good for her."

"Almond also said that he was afraid that McCoy would not mention his wounds to you, and if he did, you would not mention them to me. Ned wants him to have the Purple Heart."

"General Almond sent me a message to that effect, sir. One of the first things that the Deputy to the Deputy here is charged with doing is finding out how I can get a Purple Heart for him."

"That won't be a problem, Colonel," MacArthur said. "Major McCoy will receive his Purple Heart from my hands."

"Sir?" Banning and Pickering asked, surprised, in chorus.

"Whenever I can," MacArthur said, "I like to visit my wounded in hospi­tal, and personally pin the Purple Heart medal on them. I had already planned to fly to Sasebo tomorrow to do so there. And I will take great pleasure in see­ing that your man McCoy is properly decorated."

"That's very kind of you, sir," Pickering said.

"There is, of course, as always, room for you on the Bataan,"

"I appreciate that, sir, but I have a lot to do here."

"It'll be a quick trip. Depart Sasebo at 0600, go to the hospital, and then come right back."

Pickering didn't reply immediately, and MacArthur went on: "A photo of your man McCoy getting his medals from me, with you and his wife looking on—even if not for publication—would be something I daresay they would treasure for the rest of their lives."

Pickering thought: Goddamn it, he's right.

"You're right, sir. I'll be at Haneda at 0600."

"Willoughby," MacArthur asked. "When can you make time in your sched­ule for General Pickering and Colonel Banning?"

"At any time, sir."

"Now, for example?"

“Yes, sir.”

"Well, that's it, then. Welcome back to the Far East, Colonel. Good luck on your new assignment. And I'll see you, Fleming, first thing in the morning."

[SIX]

Room 3O8, Maternity Ward

U.S. Naval Hospital

U.S. Navy Base, Sasebo

Sasebo, Japan

O915 23 October 195O

Captain George F. Hart, USMCR, came through the door trailed by an Army captain—who had a Leica 35-mm camera hanging around his neck, and a bras­sard reading 'PIO' around his right sleeve—and Lieutenant (j.g.) Rosemary Hills, NC, USNR.

"Well, how are things in Honeymoon Heaven today?" he inquired cheer­fully.

"What the hell are you doing here, George?" Major Kenneth R. McCoy— who was sitting propped up in the oversized Sumo Wrestler's Special Bed shar­ing Stars and Stripes with his wife—inquired.

"Captain, the ugly one, with the inhospitable attitude," Hart said, "is Major McCoy. The good-looking one is Mrs. McCoy."

"Good morning," the captain said.

"What the hell is going on, George?" McCoy asked.

"You are about to be decorated with the Purple Heart medal by El Supremo himself," Hart said.

"Oh, bullshit!" McCoy said.

"And the Silver Star," the captain said.

"But not in that bed," Hart said. "When Colonel Huff heard about the two of you cozily together in the wrestler's bed, he made the point that it lacks the proper military flavor for this momentous occasion."

"Screw him!"

"Ken!" Mrs. McCoy said.

"And General Pickering agreed with him. You will get your Purple Heart in a wheelchair, as Mrs. McCoy, in her wheelchair, looks adoringly on."

"And the Silver Star," the captain repeated. "The Purple Heart and the Sil­ver Star."

"What the hell is he talking about, Silver Star?" McCoy asked.

"Sir, you are about to be awarded the Silver Star and the Purple Heart," the captain said.