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

Dunn knew no disrespect was intended. In civilian life, McGrory was a member of the ASC and a bachelor. The American Society of Cinematographers are those people en-gaged in the filming of motion pictures who have proved worthy of membership by their experience and skill. McGrory's skill was in making beautiful women seem even more so on the silver screen. He was well paid for the prac-tice of his profession, and maintained a beachfront home in Malibu, in which there often could be found an array of as-tonishingly beautiful women. And Captain Malcolm S. Pickering of Trans-Global Airways, who shared McGrory's interest in really good-looking women.

McGrory handed Dunn the aerial photographs.

"Young saw this when he was processing the film, and made extra copies," McGrory said.

"What am I looking at, Mac?" he asked.

McGrory pointed.

Dunn looked again, and shook his head.

"In the rice field, Colonel," Chief Young said. "It looks like it was drained. They bombed the hell out of that bridge, and it looks like they broke the dam, or whatever keeps the water in."

Dunn looked again.

"Have we got a magnifying glass, or whatever?"

Chief Young picked the picture up, took it to a desk, laid it down, and set up over it a device on thin metal legs.

"That's stereo," he said. "But it helps even when it's an ordinary picture."

Dunn bent over it. With some difficulty, he managed to get the picture in focus.

"I'll be damned," he said.

"Yeah," McGrory said. "That's no accident. Somebody stamped that out in the mud with his feet."

Dunn bent over the viewing device again.

And then he put his hand out to steady himself. The Badoeng Strait was turning sharply. She was turning into the wind.

"All hands, prepare to commence launching operations," the loudspeaker blared. "Pilots, man your aircraft. All hands, prepare to commence launching operations. Pilots, man your aircraft."

"Has anyone seen this?" Dunn asked.

"No, sir."

"Let's sit on it until I get back," Dunn said, and then asked a sudden question. "Which way is south on this?"

McGrory pointed.

"He's going the wrong way," Dunn said.

"It looks that way," McGrory agreed.

"You haven't told anybody about this?"

"No, sir. I figure if the word got out, everybody in VMF-243 would be out there looking for him."

"Keep it that way, please, Mac. Until I get back."

McGrory nodded, then appeared to be waiting for addi-tional orders.

And if you don't come back, Colonel?

"I should be back about 1500. If I'm delayed, give this to Captain Freewall."

"Aye, aye, sir," McGrory said. "I'll see you about 1500, then, sir."

"Right."

"How's things over there?"

"Would you believe a doggie regiment took the wrong fork on a road and wound up holding the wrong hill?"

"Jesus H. Christ!"

Dunn left the photo lab and rapidly climbed what seemed like endless steep ladders, ultimately reaching the level of the flight deck. He went, already starting to sweat a little, onto the flight deck itself, and saw that his Corsair, the engine running, was first in line to take off.

He stood at the wing root as his airplane captain told him about the airplane, and simultaneously helped him properly fasten the personal gear-the Mae West inflatable life preserver, the survival gear pack, and a.45 ACP pis-tol-he had unfastened when he landed.

He climbed up onto the wing, then into the cockpit. The airplane commander strapped him into his parachute, gave him a thumbs-up, handed him a small brown paper bag, and then got off the airplane.

Then Dunn waited to take off.

But he wasn't thinking about flying the aircraft.

It has to be Pick, he thought. Who the hell else would stamp out "PP" and an arrow in the mud of a ruptured Ko-rean rice field?

And who else but that dumb sonofabitch would be headed away from our lines?

Not quite forty-five seconds later, he was airborne.

Chapter Sixteen

[ONE]

ABOARD WIND OF GOOD FORTUNE

37 DEGREES 44 MINUTES NORTH LATITUDE,

126 DEGREES 59 MINUTES EAST LONGITUDE

THE YELLOW SEA

1155 7 AUGUST 1950

"That looks like a lighthouse," Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, said to Lieutenant David R. Taylor, USNR.

"God, you're a clever chap, Mr. McCoy," Taylor replied, in his best Charles Laughton Mutiny on the Bounty accent.

"That indeed is a lighthouse, marking the entrance to the Flying Fish Channel."

Jeanette Priestly laughed.

"That makes it three for Captain Bligh and two for Jean Lafitte," she said.

"A question, Captain, sir," McCoy said. "May I dare to hope that we will soon be at our destination?"

"I would estimate, Mr. McCoy, that we should be there within the hour, perhaps a little less."

The preceding twenty-four hours had passed slowly and uneventfully. The landmass of South Korea had always been in sight to starboard, but Taylor's course was far enough out to see so the Wind of Good Fortune would be practically invisible to anyone on the shore.

The flip side was that the people on the Wind of Good Fortune couldn't see anything on the shore. It was quiet and peaceful, and Jeanette Priestly had observed that it was hard to believe a war was going on.

They had seen a dozen small ships-probably fishing boats-but they had been far away, just visible on the hori-zon, and none had come close. They had seen no larger vessels, and if the naval forces of the United Nations Com-mand were patrolling the Yellow Sea, there had been no sight of them, except possibly for four aircraft-flying, McCoy had guessed, at about 10,000 feet, too high to iden-tify their types-none of which seemed to have noticed the Wind of Good Fortune.

During the day, Taylor had wakened every hour to take a quick look around. Once satisfied with what he had seen, he'd gone back to sleep. McCoy had been so intrigued with Taylor's ability to so easily and regularly stir himself that he asked him how he did it. Taylor had somewhat smugly held up his wristwatch and said, "Ding-a-ling." His wrist-watch was also a miniature alarm clock.

Using food from the cases of 10-in-l rations Sergeant Jennings had stolen from the Army warehouses on the pier in Pusan, and chickens, fish, eggs, pork loins, and vegeta-bles Major Kim's national policemen had bought in Tong-nae, two of the Marines and two national policemen had prepared a surprisingly tasty lunch, an even better dinner, and an evening snack on the charcoal-fired brick stove in the forecastle. It had to be eaten from mess kits, of course, and after Zimmerman reminded the Marines how the veg-etables had been fertilized, they lost their appeal, but aside from that, there was nothing whatsoever to complain about.

Jeanette had spent most of her time with the Marines, shooting several rolls of film in the process. The Marines thought she was a willing passenger, along to chronicle their mission for her newspaper, and they were flattered by the attention of the press.

Once darkness had fallen, there hadn't been much to do except post lookouts fore and aft and sleep, and by 1900 there were sleeping Marines and national policemen stretched out wherever they could find room on the deck.

Taylor took over the helm at nightfall, and shortly after 2000, McCoy had gone below to sleep.

When McCoy woke, his watch told him it was 0600 and the rolling of the Wind of Good Fortune told him they were still at sea. He went on deck, expecting to find they were approaching whatever kind of a port Tokchok-kundo had to offer.

He found instead that the South Korean landmass was now to port, and that the Wind of Good Fortune's sails had been raised.

"I thought Tokchok-kundo was that way?" McCoy said, pointing over the Wind of Good Fortune's stern.

"It is," Taylor replied. "What I'm doing now is trying to figure out the tides. They're not doing what the book says they should be doing. And running aground on the mud-flats would be awkward."