a Marine major named McCoy and desires to approach McKinley. Request guidance.”
"DeHaven, Admiral Feeney. The junk is not, repeat not, to approach the McKinley. Take whatever action is appropriate.”
"Aye, aye, sir.”
[FOUR]
THE BRIDGE, USS MOUNT MCKINLEY (LCC-20) 39 DEGREES 34 MINUTES NORTH LATITUDE 128 DEGREES 43 MINUTES EAST LONGITUDE THE SEA OF JAPAN 0747 19 OCTOBER 1950
“I think I know who that is,” Major General Edward M. Almond, USA, said to Rear Admiral Ignatius Feeney, USN.
“You what?”
“I suggest you give him approval to approach your ship,” Almond went on. “It might prove very interesting.”
Almond nodded. “Remember the islands in the Flying Fish Channel that were cleared before we got there?” he asked. “Unless I’m mistaken, that’s the man who cleared them. OSS.”
“OSS? Really?” Rear Admiral Feeney said. He reached for the ship-to-ship microphone. "DeHaven, permit the junk to approach the McKinley.”
Both Navy reconnaissance aircraft and minesweepers on the scene had reported that there were still enough mines in the approaches to the harbors of both Wonsan and Hamhung to preclude the movement of oceangoing vessels into the harbors.
The invasion fleet, both to conserve fuel and because there was no point in making speed when the anticipated course for the next thirty-six hours was one large circle after another, was moving at ten knots.
Ten knots was still considerably faster than what Admiral Feeney—who, with General Almond, was now on the McKinley’s flying bridge—understood the maximum speed of a junk under sail to be, and he was thus more than a little surprised when the junk approached the McKinley head-on, made a quick 180-degree turn, and then pulled alongside.
“I’ll be damned,” Admiral Feeney said. “That junk is motorized.”
A man wearing black pajamas stood on the forecastle of the junk, holding an electric megaphone in his hand.
“Ahoy, McKinley. Can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear,” Admiral Feeney said into the microphone of his electric megaphone.
“I have three wounded aboard,” the man in the black pajamas called.
“Including Major McCoy, apparently,” General Almond said. “Look at his leg.”
The left leg of the pajamas was torn off above the knee. A bloody compress was on the upper thigh.
“Is that your OSS man?” Admiral Feeney asked.
Almond nodded. “Admiral, you are looking at the legendary Killer McCoy, U.S. Marine Corps,” he said.
“I don’t want that junk crashing into the hull,” Admiral Feeney said almost to himself, then took the few short steps onto the bridge.
“The admiral is on the bridge!” a talker called out.
Admiral Feeney approached Captain Joseph L. Farmer, USN, the captain of the McKinley, and asked, “Have you a minute for me, sir?”
“You have the conn,” Captain Farmer said to his executive officer, then followed Feeney out onto the flying bridge.
Admiral Feeney began, “The master of that vessel—”
“Jesus, he’s been wounded!” Captain Farmer blurted.
“—reports that he has three wounded aboard. I was wondering what you think of lowering a lifeboat to the junk— not into the water—and transferring the wounded to the lifeboat from the junk as a means of getting them aboard.”
“I think we can do that, sir,” Captain Farmer said.
He went back onto the bridge.
A piercing whistle and then Captain Farmer’s voice came over the ship’s loudspeakers a moment later. “Attention all hands. All, repeat all, nonessential personnel will leave the port-side boat deck immediately. Port-side Lifeboat One Crew report to your station immediately. Medical Emergency Team report to port-side Lifeboat One immediately.”
The captain came back on the flying bridge.
A much younger voice—that of the talker—repeated the orders he had just broadcast.
The admiral, the general, and the captain watched silently from the flying bridge as the port-side Number One lifeboat’s davits swung the lifeboat away from the ship, and then—after an ensign and three white hats got aboard—lowered it slowly toward the sea.
When the lifeboat was even with the forecastle of the junk, the man with the bandage on his upper left thigh threw a line to a white hat in the lifeboat, who hauled on it and pulled the junk slowly sidewards to the lifeboat.
Five men in black pajamas, all Orientals, appeared on the deck of the junk, then began to move three wounded men up onto the forecastle. Two of them had to be carried. The third was able, with help, to make it up the ladder on his feet.
Balancing precariously on the forecastle, they managed to manhandle the two more seriously wounded men into the lifeboat. Then the man who could walk and finally the American jumped into the lifeboat.