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

"Charley, get us three Jack Daniel's—better make that a bottle—and ice, et cetera," he ordered, then came back in time to carry the envelope Smith had finally gotten out of his briefcase to the President.

Truman opened the envelope, took out the contents, and then pushed him­self far back in his red leather judge's chair to read it. He did so carefully, put the papers back in the manila folder, and then, just as Charley Rogers, also in civilian clothing, came into the office trailed by a white-jacketed steward, threw the folder on his desk and said angrily, "Sonofabitch!"

"Mr. President?" Charley Rogers asked.

"Not you, Charley," Truman said. He pointed to the manila folder. "Hand that to your boss, and then sit down and have a drink with us."

Rogers moved to comply as the steward poured the drinks.

"That'll be all, when you finish, thank you," Truman said to the steward. "Leave the bottle."

The steward quickly finished what he was doing and left the room.

"Charley, do you know Director Smith?" Truman asked.

"No, sir."

"This is Charley Rogers," the President said. "Master Sergeant Charley Rogers. He and I go as far back as General Howe and myself." He paused, then added, "One vote the other way, and it would more than likely be General Rogers and Master Sergeant Howe."

"Sir?" Smith asked, confused.

"When we mobilized for the First War," Truman said, "we elected our of­ficers. Did you know that?"

"I think I heard something about that, sir," Smith said.

"I got my commission, captain, and command of Battery B that way. I was elected to it," Truman said. "Ralph got his the same way. He beat Charley by one vote ..."

"True," Howe said.

"... and Charley didn't want to be a second lieutenant..."

"Also true," Rogers said, chuckling. "I still don't."

". . . so he became First Sergeant," Truman finished. "I've often thought electing officers is a pretty good way to get them."

Rogers and Smith shook hands.

"Well, Ralph?" the President asked. "What do you think of that message?"

"Mr. President," Howe said, "from what Pickering says, and knowing McCoy as well as I do, I'd say you can take this to the bank."

"Unfortunately, it's not as simple as taking it to the bank," Truman said. "It has to go to the Pentagon. And that opens a whole new can of worms. There's a lot of pressure on me to relieve Douglas MacArthur. If they see this, that'll give them one more argument that he's—how do I say this?— past his prime. And should go. Ralph tells me that he's a military genius, and Pickering agrees with him."

"General Howe . . ." Smith began, then stopped to look at the President for permission to go on. Truman nodded. "You said you place credence in this major's intelligence?"

"That's right, I do."

"It doesn't surprise you at all that he seems to have intelligence that refutes what we're hearing from General MacArthur?"

"The only thing that surprised me . . . What do I call you? 'General'?"

"Not 'General,' please," Smith said. "I really don't mind 'Beetle.' "

"Okay, Beetle. The only thing that surprised me—and now that I think about, it didn't really surprise me—was that the Killer was back in Korea. Charley and I saw him just before we left Seoul to come home. General Almond told me he took a pretty good hit."

"What did you say, Ralph?" the President asked. " 'Took a pretty good hit'? What do you mean?"

"The Killer? Is that what they call him?" Smith asked, chuckling.

"His friends can," Howe said. "Charley and I are in that category."

" 'Took a hit,' Ralph?" the President pursued. "Back in Korea from where?"

"The Navy Hospital in Sasebo," Howe said. "He was in North Korea, way up where the Russian, Manchurian, and North Korean borders come together, listening to Soviet Army radio traffic. On his way out, he got hit."

"You didn't tell me that, Ralph," the President said.

"I didn't think it was important. All he heard was routine stuff. Not enough to be able to say the Russians won't come in, but enough to make him think they probably won't."

"Goddamn it, Ralph," the President said. "I meant about him getting hit. How badly?"

"Apparently not badly enough to keep him from going back to Korea," Howe said.

"Presumably he had General Pickering's okay?"

"Mr. President," Charley Rogers said, "if the Killer thought he should be in Korea, he'd go if he had to crawl, and I don't think General Pickering would try to stop him." He paused, then added: "He wasn't crawling, sir. He was limping, and you could tell he was in some pain, but—"

"Sonofabitch," the President said.

"You sound as if you're angry with him, Har .. . Mr. President," Howe said. "Don't shoot the messenger."

"My displeasure, General, is with Emperor Douglas the First, and this deaf, dumb, and blind intelligence officer of his, not Major McCoy," the President said. "And my displeasure is such that, knowing myself, I know that whatever decision I make right now I'll regret later."

"You have time, sir," Smith said. "McCoy's message said he was going to in­sert observation teams to verify what the prisoners told him. It'll be twenty-odd hours before we get that report, probably."

"Yeah," the President said, then grunted. "When I heard what he did to res­cue Pickering's son, I told General Bradley I wanted him decorated. With the Silver Star. Did that happen?"

"I understand General MacArthur ... at least intended ... to make the pre­sentation himself," Rogers said. "McCoy didn't say anything about it. He wouldn't."

"Goddamn it, I was decorating him, not the goddamn Emperor!" Truman exploded. "Give him another medal. Give him a ... Legion of Merit. That's for senior officers, isn't it? He's been functioning like a senior officer—give him a senior officer's medal!"

The President saw the look on Rogers's face.

"You find that amusing, Charley?" Truman challenged. "Why is that amusing?"

"I'm afraid to tell you, sir," Rogers said.

"What's so goddamn funny, Charley?" the President said, and there was menace in his tone.

"The thing is, sir," Rogers said carefully, "that enlisted men, like me, and junior officers, like Major McCoy, who are close to the men, consider the Le­gion of Merit to be the brass's good-conduct medal. If they don't get social dis­ease for six consecutive months, they get the Legion of Merit."

Howe laughed. Truman glowered at him.

Then Truman laughed.

"I never heard that before," he said, shaking his head. "Did you, Smith?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. President," Smith said. "My wife told me, when I was given the Legion of Merit."

That produced a hearty laugh from the President.

"Well, then, to hell with the Legion of Merit for McCoy," the President said. "Give him something else. Give him another Silver Star." He paused. "Will you relay my wishes to the Pentagon for me, Smith? Right now, I don't want to talk to anybody over there."

"Yes, sir, of course."

"And while you're at it," the President ordered, "find out if Pickering's boy got the Navy Cross I ordered for him. If he doesn't have it already, find out why."

"Yes, Mr. President."

"You can tell me tomorrow when you come back here to tell me what McCoy's men have learned about Red Chinese troop dispositions."

"Yes, sir."

The President extended his empty glass to Charley Rogers and said, as much to himself as to the men in the room, "If I relieve MacArthur now because he's indulging this intelligence officer of his and is not taking the proper action, and McCoy is wrong, and the Chinese don't come in, every Republican in the coun­try is going to say I cheated him out of his victory at the last moment for po­litical reasons. And that's exactly what it will look like."