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

Craig held up his hand to silence him, then pointed to the Pickaway. A ship's ladder had been put over the side, and a dozen Marines were hurrying down it.

"Save it, McCoy," General Craig said. "I'm going to gather the officers in the mess. I was going to brief them on enemy intentions and capabilities. I just decided you're better qualified to do that than I am."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Craig got out of his Jeep, motioned for McCoy and Zim-merman to follow him, and walked down the pier, toward the officers now approaching him.

Salutes were exchanged, then handshakes.

"Has ammunition been issued?" General Craig asked.

"No, sir."

"I sent a message to do so," Craig said. "Apparently it went astray."

The officers looked uncomfortable.

Craig turned to one of the enlisted Marines-a young PFC, obviously a runner.

"Son, have you ammunition for that piece?"

"Yes, sir," the Marine said, and patted his cartridge belt.

"Well, then, here's your first lesson in how things are in Korea. Load and lock, son. And then guard those two Jeeps down the pier. Unguarded Jeeps get stolen here. Isn't that right, Captain McCoy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Assign one lieutenant per company to supervise the is-sue of basic ammunition loads," Craig ordered. "All other officers will assemble now in the mess of the Clymer for a briefing by Captain McCoy on enemy locations, inten-tions, and capabilities. After that, we will begin to unload the ships. We move to the lines in the morning."

The ship's ladder of the Clymer was dropped to the dock. Marines started to climb down it.

Craig went to the foot of the ladder and held up his hand to stop them, then started up the ladder.

"As pissed as he was," Zimmerman said softly to Mc-Coy, "about them not being ready to fight, I expected to see some brass getting a real ass-chewing."

McCoy chuckled.

"Ernie, General Craig can chew ass better with a raised eyebrow and a little disappointment in his voice than you and I can shouting ourselves hoarse."

Zimmerman shrugged. There was immediate confirma-tion of McCoy's theory.

"Anytime you're ready, Captain McCoy," General Craig called politely from near the top of the ship's ladder.

"Coming, sir," McCoy said. "Sorry, sir," and trotted to-ward the ladder.

[THREE]

COMMUNICATIONS CENTER

EIGHTH UNITED STATES ARMY (REAR)

PUSAN, KOREA

0730 2 AUGUST 1950

The secure landline telephone between the communications center of Eighth United States Army (Rear) in Pusan and the communications center of Headquarters, Supreme Commander Allied Powers and United Nations Command was intended solely to provide communications between the technicians in the two commo centers.

So when Master Sergeant Paul T. Keller heard it buzz, he answered it cryptically before it could buzz again, won-dering what the hell else somebody in Tokyo was going to announce was wrong with the crypto machines, the radio or radio-teletype circuits, or all three, what would have to be fixed, how much would have to be retransmitted.

On another telephone line, he would have said "Eighth Army Rear ComCenter, Sergeant Keller, sir." Now he just said, "Keller."

"Who's speaking, please?" the caller asked.

"Master Sergeant Keller. Who's this?"

"Sergeant, my name is Pickering. Brigadier General, Marine Corps."

The addressee of that Oplmmediate that Marine captain sent. How did he get access to this line?

"Yes, sir?"

"A short time ago, there was a message, an Operational Immediate, sent from Pusan by Captain K. R. McCoy. A Marine officer."

"Yes, sir, I'm familiar with it."

"Is he still there, anywhere near, by any chance?"

"No, sir."

"Have you any idea where he went?"

"Sir, I believe he's going to the pier."

"I have to get a message to him. To him and Brigadier General Craig, the commanding general of the 1st Provi-sional Marine Brigade. How can I do that?"

"General Craig'll be no problem, sir. They're setting up a commo center for the Marines right now."

"Right now is when I need to send this message. It may be necessary to send someone to hand-deliver it. Can you do that, or would you rather I spoke with an officer?"

"I can arrange that, sir," Keller said. "What's the mes-sage?"

"Permission denied. Repeat denied. Return immedi-ately. Repeat immediately. Signature Pickering Brigadier General. Got that?"

"Yes, sir."

"And I'll want you to message me, either by tele-phone-they'll patch you through to me at the Imperial Hotel-or by Operational Immediate that the message has been delivered."

"Yes, sir."

"You're very obliging, Sergeant, and I realize this will foul up your schedule. But if it wasn't important, I wouldn't ask you to do it."

"No problem, sir."

"I'll be waiting to hear from you. Thank you again."

"Yes, sir."

Master Sergeant Keller stuck his head in the radio room and caught Captain Peter's eye.

"Captain, I've got an errand to run. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Captain Peters nodded, and Keller pulled his head back out of the door before Peters could ask him, "What kind of an errand?"

He picked up his Thompson and went outside the build-ing and commandeered one of the message center Jeeps and told the driver to take him to the pier.

"You can't get on the piers, Sergeant. The Marines are getting off their boats, and they put up a guard."

"Just take me there," Keller said.

On the way through Pusan's narrow, filthy streets, crowded with military vehicles too large to pass side by side, Keller wondered why he had been so obliging.

Because the caller was a general, and generals-even Marine Corps generals-get what they ask sergeants to do for them?

Because, in addition to being a general, this guy had ob-viously had access to the SCAP/UN commo center and the landline?

Or maybe because Peters had told him the captain was CIA?

And Captain Peters, who's a good guy, is obviously go-ing to be pissed because I didn't tell him what was going on.

There was a guard post at the entrance to the wharf area, and three Marines, a sergeant, and two PFCs, all of them in field gear, one of them with a Browning automatic rifle hanging from his shoulder.

The sergeant stepped into the road and held up his hand in a casual but very firm gesture meaning "stop."

"Off-limits, Sergeant," he said. "Sorry."

"I'm from the Eighth Army ComCenter," Keller said. "I have a message for General Craig."

"Let's have it. I'll see it gets to him."

"It's an oral message, Sergeant." Keller said.

"An oral message?" the Marine sergeant asked, dubi-ously.

"Is there an officer of the guard?" Keller asked.

"Of course there's an officer of the guard," the Marine sergeant said.

"Send for him," Keller said.

"What?"

"Send for him."

"Why should I do that?"

"Because I have six stripes and you have three, and that's what they call an order."

The Marine sergeant looked at Keller for a long mo-ment, then gestured to one of the PFCs, who started off at a trot down the dock.

Two minutes later, a Marine captain walked up, trailed by the PFC.

Keller and the Marine sergeant saluted him.

"What's up?" the captain asked.

"Sir, I've got a message for General Craig," Keller said.

"An oral message," the Marine sergeant said.

"What is it, Sergeant?" the captain said. "I'll get it to him."

"Sir, it is oral, and I was ordered to deliver it personally," Keller said.

"By who?" the captain said.

"Brigadier General Pickering, sir," Keller said, then added: "U.S. Marine Corps."

"Never heard of him," the captain said, matter-of-factly. "But I can't imagine why a master sergeant would... Come with me, Sergeant."

The captain started walking down the wharf, and Keller started to get back in the message center Jeep.