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

"Vehicles coming down the hill, Captain!" the sergeant in the turret of one of the Shermans called.

Allen and Masters looked.

"What the hell is that?" Masters asked.

"Jesus, I don't know," Captain Allen said.

The vehicle leading the weapons carrier toward them was jeeplike but not a jeep. After a moment Allen remembered seeing pictures of a Russian vehicle like it in a magazine. Or was it during one of those endless goddamn Know Your Enemy! briefings?

"It looks like a Russian jeep," Allen said.

Major Masters snorted or grunted again; Captain Allen wasn't sure.

The Russian, if that's what it was, jeep stopped behind the jeep the sergeant had left out there, and a man . . .

How do I know that guy is an old-time noncom? Allen thought.

... climbed out of it, got in the jeep, and led the Russian jeep and a weapons carrier into the roadblock.

When the jeep got close and he could see its stocky, barrel-chested driver, Captain Allen was even more sure he was a longtime noncom. He said so, call­ing out, "Sergeant, park your jeep behind the Sherman on the left."

The driver nodded his understanding.

The Russian vehicle— That's what it is, I'm sure —immediately followed.

With its headlights on, for Christ's sake! Doesn't this guy know that turns him into a bull's-eye?

"Turn those headlights off!" Captain Allen ordered firmly, even a little an­grily, then impatiently signaled the Russian vehicle to move past him and get behind the closest of the three tanks.

As the weapons carrier rolled up to him, Allen ordered, "Put that behind that tank," and pointed to the third Sherman.

As the truck passed him, Allen saw that the truck bed was just about full of people. It was now dark, so he couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw at least two, maybe three, Orientals.

Major Masters marched purposefully toward the Russian vehicle, with Allen following.

The driver . . .

Who's not wearing a helmet. . .

Goddamn it, none of these people are!!!

. . . who looked a little old to be a private—there was no rank insignia in sight—was already out of the Russian vehicle, leaning against it, lighting a cigar with a wooden match.

"Are you in charge of this . . . operation?" Major Masters demanded.

"Yes, I am," the driver said, taking a deep, satisfied puff on his cigar, then examining the coal.

"And don't you salute officers, soldier?" Major Masters demanded icily.

"Sorry," the driver said, straightened, and saluted. Masters returned it im­patiently. After a moment, Allen did so too.

"What's your name, soldier? Your outfit?" Major Masters demanded.

"My name is McCoy, Major," the driver said. "And I'm a Marine. Actually, I'm a Marine major."

Captain Allen accepted this immediately. There was something about this guy's voice, the smile on his face, that made the announcement credible. Major Masters had trouble with it.

"Is there some reason you're not wearing the insignia of your rank, Major!"

"Who are you?" McCoy asked.

"My name is Masters. I'm the assistant G-2 of the 7th Division."

"You work for Colonel Lemuleson?" McCoy asked.

"As a matter of fact, I do," Masters admitted. The question had sur­prised him.

Zimmerman walked up to them. He saluted.

"Thanks for not shooting first and then asking questions," Zimmer­man said.

"This is Master Gunner Zimmerman," McCoy said.

"Master Gunner?" Captain Allen asked as he offered his hand. "The Ma­rine equivalent of our master sergeant?"

"Mr. Zimmerman is what the Army would call a chief warrant officer," McCoy corrected him.

"Neither of you is wearing any insignia—" Major Masters began.

"I know," McCoy interrupted, smiling.

Masters glowered at him.

"If you work for Colonel Lemuleson, you're just the man I want to see," McCoy went on.

"Is that so?"

"I need two things, Major," McCoy said. "I need to get a message to Colonel Lemuleson, and—"

"Before we go any further, Major," Masters interrupted, "I'd like to see some identification and your orders. Who the hell are you?"

"If you work for Colonel Lemuleson, and he didn't tell you, then I guess he decided you don't have the need to know," McCoy said.

He turned to Allen.

"Have you got a landline I can use to call 7th Division, Captain?" McCoy asked.

"It was working fifteen minutes ago, sir," Allen said. He pointed toward his command post.

"I demand to see your identification, Major!" Masters said loudly.

His face was red. McCoy seemed amused rather than cowed.

"Colonel Lemuleson's holding all that for us, sorry. Why don't we see if we can get him on the horn?"

He started to walk toward the CP. Masters, red-faced, stood with his hands on his hips, watching McCoy walk away.

Allen started to follow him, saw Foster Four with a May I go too? Look on his face, and nodded permission.

Allen caught up with McCoy.

"Somehow, sir, I get the feeling Major Masters is annoyed with you," he said.

McCoy chuckled.

"I ... uh ... didn't know what to think when I saw your jeep," Captain Allen said. "The first one, I mean. Or this thing . . ."

He stopped when he became aware that Major Masters was trotting after them.

"We've been doing a reconnaissance," McCoy said. "No big deal, but it's none of that guy's business."

"I thought the Marines were operating in Seoul, north of it," Allen said.

"They are," McCoy said.

"Where'd you get the Russian jeep?"

Major Masters was now walking beside them. He announced: "We'll see what Colonel Lemuleson has to say about all this."

McCoy acted as if he hadn't heard him. He turned to Allen. "We bagged some Inmun Gun. They were driving this thing. I figured, what the hell, why not take it with us?"

Major Masters picked up on that.

"Can I take that to mean you have engaged the enemy?"

"It wasn't much of an 'engagement.' They were coming up the road, Mr. Zimmerman shot the tires out on the first vehicle, and we bagged them."

"You have prisoners?" Masters demanded.

"Uh-huh," McCoy said. "That's the second thing I need from you, Major. Somebody to take four of the five off our hands. One of them is a lieutenant colonel. He's a keeper."

"By which you mean?"

"That I'm going to take him to Seoul with me."

"I'll want to interrogate him, of course."

"You speak Korean?" McCoy asked.

"No, of course I don't speak Korean. There's Korean-speaking interrogators at Division. We'll take him—all of the prisoners—there."

They were down at the doorway to the CP.

McCoy stopped and looked at Major Masters.

"Sorry, the colonel goes with me," he said. "And if I can get Colonel Lemule­son on the phone, I'm not going anywhere near your headquarters."

"Let's clear the air here, Major," Major Masters said. "I'm the assistant G-2—"

"So you said," McCoy interrupted.

Major Masters glowered at him, then picked up:

"—of the 7th Division. Interrogation of prisoners is my responsibility. You do understand that?"

"None of these people will tell any of your interrogators anything," McCoy said. "I think maybe, once he sees we're back in Seoul, the colonel may be more cooperative."

"We won't know what any of the prisoners will say, will we, Major, until we sit them down before an interrogator who speaks Korean?"

"Mr. Zimmerman and I both speak Korean, Major, and we've already talked to these people. And to clear the air, these are our prisoners, not yours."

"That brings us back to Question One, doesn't it?" Major Masters asked icily. "Just who the hell are you, Major? And what are you doing in the 7th Di­vision's area?"