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

if they haven't lost their oil, they run forever."

"That's what Sergeant Worley said, Captain," Jennings said. "He said it was the last thing he expected to fail."

"Are they hard to get out?"

"Unfasten a couple of screws, unsolder a couple of con-nections...."

"Give Sergeant Jennings a soldering iron and a screw-driver, and he can get started while I report in."

"If you'd like, I've got a pretty good sergeant who could take these out and put them in yours," Peters said.

"Mine is a long way away," McCoy said. "But thanks anyway."

"You know what you're looking for, Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir."

"They're out in back, I'll show you."

[SEVEN]

K-l USAF AIRFIELD

PUSAN, KOREA

0325 10 AUGUST 1950

The Transient Officers' Quarters at K-l was a dirt-floored U.S. Army squad tent. The tent was furnished with six folding wooden cots and one lightbulb.

Lieutenant (j.g.) Preston Haywood, USNR, hadn't planned to spend the night in Pusan, but he'd had a couple of red lights on the panel of his Avenger and by the time he'd gotten the Air Force mechanics to clear them, it had been too late to take the COD aircraft back to the USS Sicily.

Night landings on aircraft carriers are understandably more dangerous than daylight landings, and unless there was a good reason to make them, they were discouraged. In Lieutenant Haywood's judgment-discretion being the better part of valor-carrying half a dozen mail bags out to the Sicily was not a good enough reason to make a night landing on her.

After making sure that Aviation Motor Machinist's Mate 3rd Class Jos‚ Garcia, his crew chief, would have a place to sleep and be able to get something to eat, Haywood had taken advantage of the situation and gone to the K-l O Club, thinking, if nothing else, he could probably have a beer there. There was, of course, no beer, or any other kind of alcohol, aboard the Sicily.

He had four bottles of Asahi beer in the K-l O Club. And he had occasion to muse again that the Air Force didn't feed as well as the Navy. Supper had been two tough pork chops, mashed potatoes, and mushy green beans.

There being absolutely nothing else to do at K-l, when he'd finished his fourth beer, he'd gone to bed, which is to say he'd gone to the tent, stripped to his underwear, and lay down on the folding wooden cot, sharing it-there being nothing else he could find to do with his khakis and flight suit.

Haywood sat up abruptly when the bare lightbulb sud-denly turned on.

Two men had entered the Transient Officers Quarters. One he recognized as the Marine liaison officer. The other was a strange apparition, a white man wearing what looked like black pajamas, and with a Garand rifle slung from his shoulder. He was carrying, as was the Marine liaison offi-cer, a cardboard carton.

"Haywood, right?" the Marine liaison officer asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Haywood, this is Captain McCoy," the Marine liaison officer said.

"Yes, sir?" Haywood asked, wondering if he should try to get dressed.

"I need a ride out to the Badoeng Strait," the white man in the black pajamas said. "As soon as possible."

"Sir, I'm from the Sicily."

"Captain Overton told me," McCoy said. "I want to get there before the Marines fly their first flight of the morn-ing."

"Sir, I'm not sure I can do that," Haywood said. "For one thing..."

"You can do it," McCoy said. He handed Haywood a sheet of paper. "There's my authority."

Lieutenant Haywood's only previous experience with the Central Intelligence Agency had been watching it por-trayed in a movie, but he realized he was holding in his hand an order issued by the Director of the CIA-who was a rear admiral, USN. He knew there were no flag officers aboard Sicily, and he was almost positive there weren't any aboard Badoeng Strait either.

"Yes, sir," Lieutenant Haywood said. "Sir, I'll have to ask permission to land on Badoeng Strait."

"Hypothetically speaking, Mr. Haywood," McCoy said. "What would happen if you called Badoeng Strait and said you had an emergency and needed to land?"

"They'd give me permission, of course, sir."

"Okay, that's what we'll do."

"You don't want me to ask permission, sir?"

"They're liable to say `no,'" McCoy said. "Get dressed, Mr. Haywood, please."

[EIGHT]

THE USS BADOENG STRAIT

35 DEGREES 24 MINUTES NORTH IATITUDE,

129 DEGREES 65 MINUTES EAST LONGITUDE

THE SEA OF JAPAN

0420 10 AUGUST 1950

Lieutenant Haywood was wrong about there being no flag officers aboard Badoeng Strait. The Badoeng Strait was flying the red, single-starred flag of a Marine brigadier general.

Brigadier General Thomas A. Cushman, Assistant Com-mander, First Marine Air Wing, had flown aboard late the previous afternoon, piloting himself in an Avenger he'd borrowed from USN Base Kobe.

General Cushman wanted to be with his men. The previ-ous evening, he had dined in the chief petty officer's mess, which also served the Marine master sergeants aboard. He had taken dessert in the enlisted mess, and finally, he'd had coffee with the Marine officers in the Pilot's Ready Room and in the wardroom.

He had spent the night-although he had at first de-clined the offer-in the cabin of the Badoeng Strait's cap-tain. The captain, who had known General Cushman over the years, told him he preferred to use his sea cabin-a small cabin right off the bridge-anyway, and Cushman had accepted the offer.

Cushman had set his traveling alarm clock for 0400. The first Corsairs would be taking off at 0445, and he wanted to attend the briefing, and then see them off.

All the intelligence General Cushman had seen indi-cated that the North Koreans were aware that the longer they didn't succeed in pushing Eighth Army into the sea, the less the chance-American strength in the Pusan perimeter grew daily-that they would ever be able to do so.

Consequently, while perhaps not in desperation, but something close to it, they were attacking all the time, and on all fronts. The Marine Corsairs would have a busy day.

Cushman was surprised and pleased when he turned the lights on to see that someone had very quietly entered the cabin and left a silver coffee set on the captain's desk. He poured half a cup, then had a quick shower and shave, and wearing a freshly laundered and starched khaki uniform- courtesy of the captain's steward-left the captain's cabin and made his way to the bridge.

"Permission to come on the bridge, Captain?"

"Granted. Get a good night's sleep, General?"

"Very nice, and thank you for the coffee and your stew-ard's attention."

"My pleasure, sir. More coffee, sir?"

"Thank you," Cushman said, and one of the white caps on the bridge quickly handed him a china mug.

"Bridge, Air Ops," the loudspeaker blared.

"Go."

"We have a call from an Avenger declaring an emergency, and requesting immediate permission to land."

The captain and General Cushman looked at each other. The general's lower lip came out, expressing interest and surprise.

The captain pressed the lever on the communications device next to his chair.

"Inform the Avenger we are turning into the wind now," the captain said. Then he pushed the lever one stop farther, so that his voice would carry all over the ship.

"This is the captain speaking. Make all preparations to recover an Avenger who has declared an emergency," he said. He let the lever go.

"Turn us into the wind," he ordered.

"Turning into the. wind, aye, aye, sir" the helmsman replied.

The Badoeng Strait began a sharp turn.

The captain steadied himself, then gestured courteously to General Cushman to precede him to an area aft of the bridge, from which they could see the approach and land-ing of the Avenger.

By the time the Badoeng Strait had turned into the wind and was sailing in a straight line, frantic activity on the flight deck had prepared the ship to recover an aircraft un-der emergency conditions.