this a secret—by a suitable person just as soon as that can be arranged. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you,” the President said.
“May I keep this message, sir?”
“Why not?” Truman said, then gestured for Bradley to precede him into the conference building.
Truman slipped into an ordinary wooden office chair at the head of a table around which the participants had arranged themselves, those who had come with the President on one side, and MacArthur and those who had come from Tokyo with him on the other.
Everyone was standing, in deference to the President.
“Take your seats, please,” Truman said. “General Bradley will take notes, and each of you will later get a copy, but it is for your personal use only, and not to be shared with anyone else. Clear?”
There was a chorus of “Yessir.”
“But before we get started, I want to tell you that General Pickering has just been informed that his son, a Marine pilot, who was shot down early in the war . . . How long ago, General?”
“Seventy-seven days ago, Mr. President,” Pickering said softly.
“. . . who was shot down seventy-seven days ago,” the President went on, “and has gone through God only knows what evading capture, was rescued behind the lines yesterday and is as we speak aboard the carrier USS Badoeng Strait.”
There was a round of applause.
“Mr. President,” MacArthur said. “If I may?”
Truman gestured for him to go on.
“Perhaps only I know nearly as much as General Pickering does about what Major Pickering was facing and has come through. One of the unpleasant things I have had to do recently is compose the phrasing of the citation for the decoration it was my intention to award—posthumously, I was forced to think—to this heroic young officer. I would like your permission, Mr. President, to—”
“Give him the medal anyway?” Truman interrupted. “What did you have in mind?”
“Mr. President, it is self-evident that Major Pickering’s valor on the battlefield was distinguished.”
“The Distinguished Service Cross?” Truman asked.
“The major is a Marine, Mr. President,” General Bradley said. “It would be the Navy Cross.”
“Yes, of course,” the President said. “I agree. I don’t know how that’s done, but I’m sure that General Bradley and General MacArthur can handle that between them.”
“Yes, sir,” Bradley said.
The President wasn’t finished: “I also think whoever rescued him from behind enemy lines needs recognition,” he went on. “That would be Major McCoy, wouldn’t it, General Pickering?”
“Either McCoy or one of his men, sir,” Pickering said.
“I would suggest, Mr. President,” MacArthur said, “the Silver Star for the officer who risked his life to snatch Major Pickering from the midst of the enemy, and Bronze Stars for the others.”
Truman looked at Omar Bradley.
“I agree, Mr. President,” Bradley said.
“You’ll take care of all this?”
“Yes, sir.”
"Okay,” the President said. “Let’s get started with this. The first thing . . .”
[TWO]
ABOARD THE BATAAN 30.59 DEGREES NORTH LATITUDE 172.44 DEGREES EAST LONGITUDE THE PACIFIC OCEAN 1615 15 OCTOBER 1950
Captain George F. Hart, USMCR, gently nudged Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, with his elbow, and, when he had his attention, directed it with a just-perceptible nod of his head down the aisle of the Bataan.
There were few passengers on the Douglas C-54 four-engine transport. Pickering and Hart were seated toward the rear, in what Hart called “the cheap seats.” In them were seated the junior officers—including the aides-de-camp of the senior officers—and the warrant officers and noncoms brought from Tokyo to do whatever was necessary for the senior officers.
Pickering saw Brigadier General Courtney Whitney coming down the aisle to the rear of the airplane. In doing so he passed a number of rows of empty seats. There was little question in Pickering’s mind that Whitney was headed for him. He was the only senior officer sitting in the cheap seats.
Whitney stopped at Pickering’s seat.
“General Pickering,” he said, “the Supreme Commander would like to see you at your convenience.”
“Thank you, General Whitney,” Pickering said.
Whitney turned and started back toward the front of the aircraft.
Pickering looked at Hart with a raised eyebrow. Hart smiled, hunched his shoulders, and feigned a shiver. Pickering smiled back. It had indeed been an icy encounter. Another one.
Brigadier General Whitney and Brigadier General Pickering had not exchanged a word on Wake Island, and Pickering hadn’t thought—until Whitney came down the aisle—that they would exchange one on the way to Japan.
Pickering waited until Whitney had taken his seat before unfastening his seat belt and standing up. Whitney took the seat nearest to the door of MacArthur’s compartment. It was the seat traditionally