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

He made the call twice again. This time there was a reply. "Go ahead, Road Service." "Who are you?" Donn asked.

"I'm an Air Force P-51, call sign Air Force three oh seven."

"Air Force three oh seven, we just picked up a shot-down pilot. We have to get him to a hospital, and right now."

"Who and where are you, Road Service?"

"We're a small convoy, two M-26s and wreckers and tank recovery vehicles. We are approximately six miles northeast of Jaeun-Ri."

"Say again location?"

"We are approximately six miles northeast of Jaeun-Ri."

"Hold one, I'll see if I can find it on the chart." There was a long silence before Air Force three oh seven came back on the air.

"Road Service, I think I have you. I think I'm about twenty miles south. Let me get a positive location, and then I'll try to get a helicopter from the Navy. I should be there in a couple of minutes."

Another voice came over the air.

"Road Service, say again your location.'

"Approximately six miles northeast of Jaeun-Ri. Who are you?"

There was a long silence.

"I'm about five miles from your position. Have you got any flares?"

"Affirmative. Who are you?"

"Wait sixty seconds, and then start shooting flares at sixty-second intervals."

"Okay. Who are you?"

There was no reply.

It took Sergeant Donn about sixty seconds to get flares from inside the tank. As soon as he had one loaded, he shot it off.

He had just fired the third flare when there was a strange noise.

Fluckata-fluckata-fluckatafluckata-fluckata-fluckata.

"What the hell is that?" Sergeant Donn asked.

"It's a helicopter," Captain MacNamara said. He had heard the sound before.

"Jesus, the Navy sent one that quick?"

"I don't think that's a Navy helicopter," MacNamara said.

"Okay," the radio said. "Enough flares. I have you in sight. Are there any telephone wires, cables, anything like that down there?"

Donn and MacNamara looked.

"Negative. No wires or cables."

"Okay. Here we come."

A Sikorsky H-19A helicopter, painted black, came down the valley, flew over the convoy, slowed, stopped forward movement, turned around, and fluttered to the ground.

A half-dozen heavily armed men, dressed in what looked like black pajamas, erupted from the passenger compartment. Another one started climbing down from the cockpit.

"What the hell is this?" Sergeant Donn asked.

The man who had climbed down from the cockpit trotted up to them. When he saw Captain MacNamara, he said, "Oh, Jesus, look who it is!" And then, "Where's the pilot?"

MacNamara pointed to the tank recovery vehicle trailer.

The man made a follow me signal with his hand to the other men in black pajamas as he started to trot to the trailer. They began to trot after him.

So did Sergeant Donn, who was more than a little curious about the guys in the black pajamas, and the black helicopter with no markings in which they had arrived.

He got there about the time the first guy in the black pajamas did.

The first guy looked down at the human skeleton.

"Hello, you ugly bastard," he said. "Where the hell have you been hiding?"

The human skeleton raised one hand and grasped the hand of the guy in the black pajamas. Sergeant Donn saw tears form and roll down the human skeleton's cheeks, and when he glanced at the guy from the chopper, he saw tears on his cheeks, too.

After a moment, the guy from the chopper turned his head.

"Okay, let's get him on the bird," he ordered. He turned again to the human skeleton. "You hurt, Pick?"

"I'm fine," the human skeleton said.

"Three guys on each side of the blankets," the guy in the pajamas ordered. "And be careful with him."

"Aye, aye, sir," one of the men in pajamas said.

An Army major wearing pilot's wings walked quickly—almost trotted—up to them.

"Can you raise the Badoeng Strait? the man in pajamas, Major Ken Mc­Coy, said.

"Jesus, I don't think so, Ken," the pilot, Major Alex Donald, said.

"Hell!"

"Maybe the P-51 can," Donald said.

"And you can talk to him?" McCoy asked.

"No problem."

"How are we fixed for fuel?"

"Not well. No matter where we go, we'll have to refuel first."

"Okay. Let's go."

Donald started for the helicopter.

McCoy turned to MacNamara. "MacNamara, right?"

Yes, sir.

"What the hell are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?"

"Trying to get to Wonsan.'

"You're not going to get there on this road," McCoy said. "It ends at a lake—no ferry—about three miles from here. I'll leave one of my men with you, and he'll get you onto a road around the lake."

"Thank you," MacNamara said. "I appreciate that."

"I owe you," McCoy said. He put out his hand and then trotted to the helicopter.

Before he got there, an Air Force P-51 flew over them, very slowly. When McCoy climbed into the cockpit, the voice of the P-51 pilot was al­ready coming over the headset.

"Road Service, Air Force three oh seven. I have you in sight. How do you read?"

McCoy grabbed the microphone.

"Air Force three oh seven, this is Army four zero zero three."

"Zero zero three, are you the black helicopter on the ground?"

"Air Force three oh seven, can you contact the aircraft carrier Badoeng Strait! They're operating in the Sea of Japan."

"I don't know. Who is this?"

"Please call the Badoeng Strait. Let me know if you get through."

"Who is this?"

"A friendly word of advice, Air Force three oh seven—do what I ask, and do it now."

"Stand by."

There was a sixty-second wait, and then: "Negative on contact with the Ba­doeng Strait."

Major Donald was now sitting beside McCoy. He put his hand out for the microphone, and McCoy gave it up.

"Three oh seven," Donald ordered, "climb to ten thousand and try it again on the emergency frequency."

"Stand by."

This time the delay was on the order of four minutes, which gave Donald time to fire up the H-19A.

"Army four zero zero three, Air Force three oh seven is in contact with the Badoeng Strait."

Donald handed McCoy the microphone.

"Air Force three oh seven, stand by to relay message to Badoeng Strait. Mes­sage follows: 'For Colonel William Dunn. Bingo. Killer. Heads up. En route.' Got that?"

"Got it. Stand by."

This time the wait was less than sixty seconds.

"Army four zero zero three, Badoeng Strait acknowledges."

"How are you fixed for fuel?"

"What do you have in mind?"

"Could you fly cover for us for a while?"

"Affirmative. I have one hour fuel aboard. Who are you?"

"Thank you, Air Force three oh seven. We're taking off now."

McCoy turned to Donald and made a lifting motion—take it up—with his hands.

Then he said, "Oh, shit!"

Donald took his hands off the controls and looked at McCoy. "I told MacNamara I'd leave him somebody to get him on the right road," McCoy said.

He leaned between the seats of the cockpit so that he could shout into the passenger compartment.

"The Army's lost," he called. "Leave two men and a map behind to get them on the road around the lake."

Sixty seconds after that, two men in black pajamas got out of the H-19A and ran just far enough away so that Donald could see them. When he did, the H-19A lifted off.

[THREE]

USS Badoeng Strait (CVE 116)

37.9 Degrees North Latitude

129.59 Degrees East Longitude

The Sea of Japan

13O5 14 October 195O

Lieutenant Colonel William Dunn, USMC, still in his flight suit, had been on the bridge ever since the captain had sent for him after getting the cryptic mes­sage from Air Force three oh seven on the emergency frequency.