more you take of it, the more you’ll become a zombie.”
“Fair enough,” McCoy said evenly, then: “Jesus, that hurt!”
“If I don’t put these in right, they won’t stay in. Understand? ”
“May I come in?” Major General Almond asked from the doorway.
Dr. Warbasse looked up from McCoy’s thigh.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“How is he?”
“He was very lucky,” Dr. Warbasse said. “And what he should do is spend at least a day on his back.”
“Unfortunately, Major McCoy is not subject to my orders, ” Almond said.
Almond held an olive-drab shirt, and trousers and a field jacket, in his hands.
“A present from Al Haig, McCoy,” he said. “You’re pretty much the same size.”
“Thank you, sir. Tell him thank you, please.”
As Almond watched, Dr. Warbasse finished the installation of the last of half a dozen sutures, painted the area with a purple antiseptic, covered the sutured area with an adhesive bandage, and then wrapped the leg with gauze.
“If you get off that table, Major,” Dr. Warbasse said, “you are doing so against medical advice.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” McCoy said, and sat up.
Dr. Warbasse prepared a hypodermic and stabbed McCoy three times, twice in the thigh and once in the arm.
“With that much of this stuff in you, if you were so inclined, Major, you could carouse all night with little chance of acquiring a social disease,” Dr. Warbasse said. “I will now go get you a bottle of zombie pills.”
“Thanks,” McCoy said.
When he left the treatment room, Dr. Warbasse left the door open. Almond went to it and closed it.
“You want to tell me what’s happened, McCoy?” Almond said. “Officially, or otherwise?”
McCoy did not immediately respond.
“Where were you when this happened?” Almond asked.
“A couple of miles offshore of Chongjin,” McCoy said.
“You had been ashore?” Almond asked.
McCoy nodded.
“Doing?”
“Listening to Red Army low-echelon radio chatter,” McCoy said.
“And?”
“I don’t think the Russians are going to come in, at least now,” McCoy said.
“And the Chinese?”
McCoy didn’t answer.
“Why do I suspect your analysis of the situation is again not in agreement with that of General Willoughby?”
“The Chinese are going to come in, General,” McCoy said. “I think there’s probably as many as fifty thousand of them already in North Korea, and I now know there’s five, maybe six times that many just across the border waiting to come in.”
“Waiting for what?”
“Waiting for the Americans to get close to the Yalu,” McCoy said.
“You have anything to substantiate that belief? Something hard?”
“No, sir.”
“Nothing that would get General Willoughby to reconsider his analysis?”
“No, sir.”
“Inasmuch as General Walker is about to, or already has, taken Pyongyang, the initial purpose of X Corps landing at Wonsan and striking across the peninsula is no longer valid. Under those circumstances, I suspect that I will get orders to strike with all possible speed toward the border. You think there will be Chinese intervention when we get close?”
“Yes, sir. That’s what I think they’ll do.”
“Who have you told of your analysis?”
“I will tell General Pickering when I see him at Sasebo, sir.”
“What’s he doing at Sasebo?”
“I don’t know, sir. Captain Dunwood just told me he’s on his way there. It probably has to do with Major Pickering, sir. I think they moved him to the Navy hospital there.”
“Who’s Captain Dunwood?”
“He commands the Marines we borrowed from First MarDiv, sir. He’s at a little base we have at Socho-Ri, on the coast.”
“What was that business about a lady?”
“I didn’t pick up much more than Major Pickering’s girlfriend, the war correspondent, Jeanette Priestly? . . .”
“I know her.”
“. . . was killed in a plane crash on her way to Wonsan. One of my officers—Master Gunner Zimmerman, ‘Fat Kraut’—was somehow involved in finding that out, and went to Sasebo to tell Major Pickering.”
“That’s tragic,” Almond said. “The poor fellow. All that time . . . and when he’s finally out of it, they have to tell him . . .”
“Yes, sir. It’s a bitch.” He paused, then added: “I suspect—I don’t know—that’s why General Pickering is headed for Sasebo.”
“And why does he want you there?”
“I don’t know, sir. But he wouldn’t have sent for me unless he thought it was important.” He reached for Al Haig’s trousers and shirt. “Which means, sir, I have to get back aboard the Wind of Good Fortune.”
“That’s that powered junk?”
“Yes, sir. And head for Wonsan. We have a Beaver that will pick me up at the Capital ROK Division airstrip and take me to Seoul. I’ll catch a plane there. Maybe a direct flight to Sasebo, if not through Tokyo.”