Griffin W.E.B. - The Corps 09 - Under Fire

Zimmerman nodded.

"So what do we do now?"

McCoy pointed across the room, where a canvas tarpau-lin shrouded a five-foot-high stack of crates.

"What's in those?"

"Rations, some Japanese Arisaka rifles, ammo for them, beer, and a brand-new SCR-300 transceiver."

"Well, start loading that stuff in the weapons carrier and a trailer, and we'll go look at our new home. We can take Jennings with us, so he knows how to find this place. I want to get out of here before we all wind up in an Army stockade."

There was little sign of life in the village of Tongnae ex-cept for a Korean national policeman standing in the center of the major intersection. He had a Japanese Arisaka rifle hanging from his shoulder, and was wearing what McCoy recognized as a Japanese army cartridge belt. He was wearing rubber sandals, and he didn't move as Dunston's Jeep and then the weapons carrier drove past him.

"What's that awful stink?" Jennings asked from the backseat, where he was sitting with Taylor.

"Korea, the land of the morning calm and many awful stinks," Taylor said. "What we're smelling now is drying fish. They put their catches on racks on roofs and dry them. They don't rot, for some reason. I've wondered how they do that."

Dunston drove down deserted streets and finally stopped before a double door in a stone wall. He blew the horn, and after a moment the doors were opened by a national police sergeant who didn't look old enough to be wearing a uni-form, or large enough to be able to fire the Garand he held in his hands.

He took his right hand from the Garand and saluted awkwardly as Dunston drove the Jeep past him.

Inside the wall was a rambling one-story wooden build-ing with a wide verandah. As McCoy looked at it, a door slid open and a Korean appeared. He was slight, bare-chested, wearing only U.S. Army fatigue trousers and rub-ber sandals. He held a Thompson submachine gun in his hand. He saluted.

There was something about him that told McCoy he was looking at Major Kim Pak Su.

Dunston got out of the Jeep and walked to Major Kim.

"Who's here tonight besides you?" he asked, in Korean.

"No one's here but me," Kim said. "Who are these peo-ple?"

"They're working with me, or more accurately, I'm working with them," Dunston said, and switched to En-glish. "Captain McCoy, this is Major Kim."

"How do you do?" Kim said, in British-accented English.

"Very well, thank you," McCoy said, in Korean. "This is my deputy, Master Gunner Zimmerman, and Lieutenant Taylor, of the Navy."

Major Kim was visibly surprised that Taylor and Zim-merman also said the equivalent of "How do you do?" in Korean.

"Have you got somebody to help unload our gear?" Zimmerman asked, indicating the weapons carrier and its trailer.

"More important, someone reliable to guard it?"

"I have national policemen over there," Kim said, point-ing to an outbuilding. Then, surprising everybody, he put his fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly.

A moment later, a young Korean wearing only his un-derwear and sandals, and carrying a Garand, came trotting up to them.

"Unload the truck and trailer, put it in the garage, and put a guard on it," Major Kim said.

"Yes, sir," the Korean said.

"Why don't we go inside?" Major Kim asked. "I'm afraid there's not much I can offer you in the way of food or drink...."

Zimmerman put his fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly.

The Korean in his underwear returned.

"There are six cases of beer in the truck," Zimmerman announced. "Bring five in the hotel. The other is for you and your men. There are ten cases of rations. Take two for you and your men."

The Korean looked to Major Kim for guidance.

"You heard the officer," Kim said.

The Korean scurried off.

"Major, is there someone here who can cook?" Zimmer-man asked.

"Yes, there is."

"Wash clothes?"

"Yes."

"And is there a bath, with showers?"

"Yes. This was a Japanese officer's rest hotel...."

"You mean whorehouse?" Zimmerman asked.

"Yes."

"Then what I suggest we do, Captain McCoy, sir," Zimmerman said, "is go inside, have a shower, a couple of beers, something to eat, and call it a day. This has been a long day."

"Make it so, Mr. Zimmerman," Captain McCoy ordered.

Chapter Fourteen

[ONE]

THE DEWEY SUITE

THE IMPERIAL HOTEL

TOKYO, JAPAN

2200 4 AUGUST 1950

Brigadier General Fleming Pickering fully understood that drinking alone was not wise, but that's what he was do-ing-but slowly, he hoped-when the door chime to the Dewey Suite sounded.

Pickering was alone because General Howe had sensed he wanted to be alone, and had taken Master Sergeant Rogers out for dinner. Then, after Howe and Rogers had left, Hart had hung around, looking both morose and sym-pathetic, which Pickering had decided was the last thing he needed, so he had sent Hart to the movies.

He smiled at that memory as he walked to the door to answer it. It had been the only cause to smile all day.

He thought he had found a tactful way to get rid of George when he read in Stars and Stripes that a John Huston film, The Asphalt Jungle, starring Sterling Hayden and Louis Calhern, was playing at the Ernie Pyle Theater.

"George, why don't you go? Get out of here for a couple of hours?"

"Sir, I think I'll pass," George said. "The Asphalt Jungle sounds like a stupid movie."

"Captain Hart, when one of our own makes a movie, stupid or not, it behooves us to go see it, and whistle, cheer, and applaud loudly whenever he has a line."

"One of our own?" George had asked, baffled.

"Sterling Hayden is not only a Marine, but like yourself, a former agent of the Office of Strategic Services," Picker-ing had said.

"No shit?" Hart had asked, genuinely surprised.

"No shit. Go see the stupid movie. It's your duty."

"What about you, General? You were an OSS agent, too. We'll both go."

"No, I was an OSS executive, not a lowly agent, and be-sides I'm a general, and we get to make our own rules. Go on, George, I really would like to be alone."

"Aye, aye, sir," George had said, reluctantly.

Drink in hand, his tie pulled down, Pickering pulled the door open.

Colonel Sidney L. Huff, a tall, rather handsome officer, was standing there. The aiguillette of an aide-de-camp hung from the epaulette of his splendidly tailored tropical-worsted uniform, and on its lapels was a small shield with a circle of five stars.

Huff saluted.

"The Supreme Commander's compliments, General Pickering," Huff said. "The Supreme Commander desires that you attend him at your earliest convenience."

Pickering returned the salute a little uncomfortably. For one thing, Marines don't salute indoors, and for another, he was aware that he was standing there a little smashed with a drink in his hand.

"Come on in, Sid," he said. "I'll have to get my tunic."

"Yes, sir."

"I don't suppose you can tell me what's going on?" Pickering asked.

"Sir, the Supreme Commander sent me to present his compliments, that's all I know."

Pickering felt his chin.

"Fix yourself a drink, Sid," Pickering said. "I'll need a quick shave and a clean shirt."

"Thank you, sir, but no, thank you, General."

"I'll be right with you," Pickering said, and went into his bedroom.

The Supreme Commander's black 1941 Cadillac limousine was parked in the circular drive of the hotel. The red flag with five stars in a circle that normally flew from the left fender was now shrouded, but the small American flag on the right hung limply from its chrome pole. The chauffeur, a master sergeant in crisp khakis, stood by the rear door.

It was enough to attract a crowd of the curious-even reverent-who stood under the marquee and along the drive hoping to catch a glimpse of Mac Arthur.