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

"The sonofabitch told me he was going to be the first `locomotive ace' in the history of Marine aviation," Dunn said. "He even wrote a letter to the Air Force asking if they had kept a record of who had blown up how many locomo-tives in the Second War."

"Jesus Christ!" McCoy said.

"He was like a fourteen-year-old with a five-inch fire-cracker on the Fourth of July after he got the first one," Dunn said. "The first time, debris got his ADF, and there were holes all over his wings. That should have taught him something. It didn't."

"That's what he was doing when he got shot down?"

"In direct disobedience of my order not to go locomo-tive hunting. Said direct order issued after he got his sec-ond locomotive, the debris from which took out the hydraulics to his left landing gear, which made it necessary for him to crash-land on the deck. I ordered him (a) not to go locomotive hunting-"

"You don't consider them important targets?" McCoy asked.

"There's plenty to shoot at out there. The idea, McCoy, is to fly over the area, and establish contact with the ground controller. He knows what needs to be hit. If he doesn't have an immediate target you wait-they call it `loiter'- until he has a mission. If the controller didn't have a mis-sion, Pick then went locomotive-hunting."

McCoy didn't reply.

"Sure, locomotives, trains, are legitimate targets. We regularly schedule three-plane flights to see what's on the railway. When three planes attack a train, their antiair-craft fire, ergo sum, is divided between the three air-planes. A single plane gets all the antiaircraft, which multiplies the chances of getting hit by three. Pick knew all this, and..." He stopped. "I (a) ordered him not to go locomotive hunting; (b) if he happened on a train, he was not to attack it without permission, and not try himself. The train's not going to go anywhere in the time it would take to have a couple of Corsairs join up...."

"I get the picture," McCoy said. "It sounds like Pick."

"My God, Ken, he's not twenty-one years old anymore, fresh from Pensacola, thinking he can win the war all by himself. He was a goddamn major, a squadron com-mander, supposed to set an example for the kids. He set an example, all right. When he didn't come back, the pilots in his squadron were ready to take off right then and shoot up every locomotive between Pusan and Seoul. Remember that football movie? Ronald Reagan? `Get one for the Gipper!' Now they want to `Bust one for the skipper'!"

Dunn exhaled audibly.

"I don't know how the hell I'm going to stop that," he went on. "What we are supposed to do here is provide close air support, on demand, for the brigade. Not indulge some childish whim to see a locomotive explode, as if Ko-rea is a shooting gallery set up for our personal pleasure."

"You said `was,' Billy," McCoy said. "You think he's dead?"

Dunn shrugged.

"I don't know," he said. "As he himself frequently an-nounced, `God takes care of fools and drunks, and I qualify on both counts.'" He paused again. "I think he probably survived the crash. When I thought about it, that was the seventh Corsair he's dumped. What happened afterward, I don't know. The North Koreans obviously went looking for him. If they found him..."

"If he survived, and was captured alive, they might want to see what they can find out about Marine aviation from a Marine major," McCoy said. "What worries me is that they might make the connection between Major Pickering and Brigadier General Pickering..."

"I didn't think about that," Dunn said.

"... who is the Assistant Director of the CIA for Asia," McCoy went on. "I don't think there are many North Ko-rean agents reading The Washington Post for their order of battle, but the Russians certainly do. That information was in Moscow within twenty-four hours of the time that story was printed. Did the Russians already pass it on to the North Koreans? I don't know."

"Is there some way you can find out? If he's a prisoner, I mean. An extra effort?"

"When I get back to Pusan, and when I get to Tokchok-kundo, I'll see what I can do."

"Two questions," Dunn said. "If you can't answer them, fine. You're going to... What was it you said?"

"The Tokchok-kundo islands," McCoy furnished. "Yeah, but keep that to yourself."

"How can you find out?"

"I have some sources, maybe," McCoy said. "Money- gold-talks, and I have some gold. All I can do is play it by ear."

"How's the general taking this?"

"Like a Marine," McCoy said.

"What does that mean? This Marine wept like a baby when Hotshot Charlie went down."

"He got the message, and stuck it in his pocket, and we finished the business at hand-setting up this operation- and then he took me into his bedroom and showed me the message."

"Tell him I'm sorry, Ken. Really sorry. It's my fault."

"No, it isn't, Billy. It's nobody's fault except maybe Pick's. And if he got the train, then maybe there was ammo on it that won't be shot at the brigade."

Dunn met his eyes, but didn't say anything for a long moment.

"What happens now? You, I mean?"

"I don't suppose there's some other way except that Avenger to get back to Pusan?"

"You didn't find that fun?"

"It scared hell out of me," McCoy said.

Dunn picked up the telephone on his desk and dialed a one-digit number.

"Colonel Dunn for the captain, please," he said to who-ever answered, then: "Captain, Dunn. I'd like permission to take Captain McCoy back to Pusan to set up the photo delivery procedure." He paused. "Aye, aye, sir," he said, and broke the connection with his finger.

"That was quick," he said. "What the captain said was `Get that sonofabitch off my ship; I don't care how'."

He dialed another number.

"Colonel Dunn. Get a COD Avenger ready for immedi-ate takeoff. I will fly."

He hung up.

He turned to McCoy.

"There's an enlisted crew chief," he said. "He rides in the aft position in the cockpit. I can't order him out of there, but I can suggest if he lets you ride upstairs, he prob-ably won't have to clean puke out of the cargo hold."

[FOUR]

USAF AIRFIELD K-l

PUSAN, KOREA

2155 4 AUGUST 1950

The runway lights went off even before Lieutenant Colonel Dunn turned the Avenger onto a taxiway. There really wasn't much chance of a North Korean attack on K-l, but on the other hand, the possibility existed, and runway lights would be as useful to an attacking aircraft as they would be to one landing.

A Jeep, painted in a checkerboard pattern, and with a follow me sign and a large checkerboard flag mounted on its rear, came out and led the Avenger to Base Operations. Dunn parked the airplane and shut it down, and he and Mc-Coy climbed down from the cockpit.

The crew chief, a slim, nineteen-year-old, blond crew-cutted aviation motor machinist's mate, came through the small door in the fuselage.

"Thanks for letting me ride on top," McCoy said.

"Anytime, Captain," the Navy crew chief said.

"Thank you, sir, for the ride," McCoy said.

"I'll go see the Marine liaison officer with you," Dunn said.

"I've already spoken with him, sir," McCoy said. "But thank you."

"But you're a captain, and I'm a lieutenant colonel," Dunn said. "It has been my experience that Marine cap-tains pay more attention to lieutenant colonels than they do to other captains. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, sir. I suppose that's true. Thank you, sir."

"This won't take long," Dunn said to the crew chief. "Why don't you see if anything important fell off, or is about to."

"Aye, aye, sir," the crew chief said, smiling.

As Dunn and McCoy walked to the Base Operations building, a Marine with a Thompson submachine gun stepped out of the shadows and walked up to them and saluted.

"Good evening, sirs," he said. "Captain McCoy, sir?"