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

"More likely he was captured. With a little luck, the North Koreans decide to keep him alive-he's a Marine major, and I'm sure they would like to learn as much about the Marines and Marine aviation as they can. Any officer would know that and keep him alive."

McCoy nodded his agreement.

"Phase two of the pissing-in-the-wind scenario," Picker-ing went on. "MacArthur's generally believed-to-be-insane notion of a Corps-strength amphibious landing at Inchon goes off without a hitch. We cut the peninsula in half and- the word is `envelop'-envelop North Korean forces in the south, including their POW enclosures. In one of which we find Pick."

"Is that what you think, sir? Inchon's an `insane no-tion'?"

"No. I just asked myself that question. And I was aware that my emotions would probably cloud my judgment. But no, I don't think it's insane. Whatever else can be said about Douglas MacArthur, he is a military genius. I've seen him in action, Ken. When ordinary mortals look at a projected military operation, it's like-trying to shave in a steam-clouded mirror. For him, there's no steam on the glass. He sees things, things the rest of us can't see, and he sees them clearly. He proved that time and again in War Two. If he thinks Inchon's the answer, I'll go with him."

"Is that what you're going to tell the President?"

"Yes, that's what I'm going to tell the President."

"And what's General Howe going to tell him?"

"In the message he's writing right now, I'm sure he's go-ing to use a phrase like `insane notion.' But he's never had a personal meeting like this with MacArthur. MacArthur can sell iceboxes to Eskimos. I think that will happen this afternoon. I hope it does."

"And if it doesn't?"

"If, as a result of what Howe tells the President, or for any other reason, MacArthur is forbidden to do the Inchon operation, there's a good chance he'll quit."

"Quit?" McCoy asked, more than a little surprised. "What the hell would he do if he wasn't El Supremo?"

"Run for commander-in-chief," Pickering said.

"Jesus! You really think so?"

"This goes no further, Ken," Pickering said. "Not even to Ernie."

McCoy nodded his agreement.

"Senator Fowler tells me either Eisenhower or MacArthur can have the Republican nomination if they want it."

"Not both," McCoy thought aloud.

"No. Whoever acts first. Try this on. Truman kills the In-chon landing. MacArthur resigns, very publicly, saying he cannot in good conscience serve under a president who is soft on communism, and doesn't recognize the threat it poses. He'd probably believe that, too."

"Truman's not soft on communism," McCoy argued. "He sent the Army to Greece, and now this...."

"I agree, but the Republicans keep accusing him of it. Anyway, MacArthur knows that unless he acts to get the nomination, it will go to Eisenhower. El Supremo has de-scribed Eisenhower as the best clerk he ever had. In his mind, it would be his duty to become President, to get Tru-man out of office, and to keep Eisenhower from getting it."

"Jesus!"

"I think he really believes the Inchon landing will end this war. The flip side of that is that if there is no Inchon landing, there will be a long war to take South Korea back. MacArthur believes that, and so do I, as a matter of fact.

"So the election is held, and we're still fighting here, and MacArthur will make it clear that if Truman had had the good sense to let him-the experienced general who won World War Two in the Pacific-invade Inchon, it would be over. And as soon as he's President, he will end the war. Who do you think would win?"

"I don't like the idea of him being President," McCoy thought aloud.

"Neither do I," Pickering said. "But it could happen."

McCoy could think of nothing to say.

"So that's why I can't go to your house, Ken, as much as I would really like to. What I'm going to do this afternoon is what I can to convince Howe that MacArthur is right about Inchon, and everybody else wrong. The trouble with doing that is Howe is likely to decide that I'm just one more MacArthur worshiper, and so inform the President."

"Are you going to let me know what happens?"

"I won't know," Pickering said. "This is hold your breath and cross your fingers time."

He pushed himself off the windowsill, walked to Mc-Coy, and touched his shoulder.

"One bit of advice before you go to tell Ernie," he said.

"Yes, sir?"

"From you, Ken."

"Sir?"

"Do I tell Howe about Pick?"

McCoy thought that over for a full fifteen seconds.

"If you don't, and he finds out, and he will find out, he'll wonder what else you haven't told him."

"That's what I've been thinking. I'll tell him now, and then I'll call my wife. Get out of here, Ken."

[TWO]

NO. 7 SAKU-TUN DENENCHOFU,

TOKYO, JAPAN

1330 3 AUGUST 1950

"Aunt Patricia," Mrs. Ernestine McCoy said, "now, I want you to listen to me...."

She was on the telephone, standing by the couch's end table in the living room. Tears were running down her cheeks.

Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, in his shirtsleeves, was sit-ting on the couch, leaning over the coffee table, idly stirring a large ice cube in his drink with his finger, and looking at his wife.

She loved him, McCoy thought. Christ, I loved him. Goddamn it. Present tense. She loves him. I love him. We don't know he's dead.

"The only thing you would accomplish by coming here would be getting in the way," Ernie went on. "If there's anything that can be done, Uncle Flem and Ken will do it."

The doorbell rang.

"Who the fuck is that?" McCoy exploded.

"Watch your mouth," Ernie said, and then, a moment later, into the telephone: "Ken spilled his drink."

"Shit!" McCoy said, softly.

The truth is, it doesn't matter who rang the goddamn bell. Kon San was told "no visitors, nobody."

He picked up his drink and took a healthy swallow.

The truth is, I don't want this goddamn drink.

He heard the door open and close.

Kon San will now come in here and tell us it was the goddamned butcher or somebody, and she sent him away, and is there anything else we need?

The couch on which he was sitting faced away from the sliding door giving access to the foyer. He turned on it, so that when Kon San slid it open, he could signal her not to say anything and to go away.

Smile when you do that. She's trying to be helpful.

The sliding door-of translucent parchment-slid open.

Kon San was standing there, a look of discomfort on her face. And so were Captain George F. Hart, USMCR, Mas-ter Gunner Ernest Zimmerman, USMC, and Lieutenant David R. Taylor, USNR.

Goddamn it, they didn't take their shoes off! Ernie will blow a gasket!

And what the fuck are they doing here? Hart and Zim-merman want to help. But Taylor?

He got quickly to his feet, nodded at Ernie, put his finger over his lips to signal silence, and went to the door.

He grabbed Zimmerman by the arm and led him down the corridors to the foyer.

"Take off your goddamn shoes," McCoy ordered, not pleasantly. "What the hell's the matter with you? You know better!"

"Ken..." Zimmerman started.

McCoy cut him off with an angry finger in front of his lips.

The three removed their shoes and slipped their feet into slippers.

McCoy gestured for them to follow him, and led them through corridors to the kitchen.

"Ernie's on the phone with Pick's mother," he said.

"I'm sorry about Pick, Ken," Hart said.

"You could have told me that on the phone," McCoy said. "Ernie's pretty upset. They're like brother and sister."

"Yeah, I know," Hart said. "I wouldn't have come, but I thought this was important."

`Taylor, a friend of ours is MIA."

"General Pickering told me," Taylor said. "Sorry."

Then what the fuck are you doing here? What the fuck is wrong with Hart and Zimmerman, bringing you here?