table. There was pain, and he winced. He turned his back to Almond and slid the black pajama trousers down, and then, with effort, put his leg into the Army trousers.
“What happened this morning, McCoy? How did you take the hit?”
“Bad luck, sir. We had just gotten aboard the Wind of Good Fortune when all of a sudden there was a floodlight on us, and a North Korean—or maybe a Russian—patrol boat out there. We had .50 Brownings fore and aft, and we shot it up pretty quickly. But not until after they got their machine gun—and the damned mortar that got me—into action.”
McCoy put on Captain Haig’s shirt, then tucked it into the trousers.
“Tell Al thanks, please, sir,” he said. “I really didn’t want to have to go find a uniform somewhere.”
“He will be pleased he could help,” Almond said. “You’re sure you’re all right to get back on the junk?”
“Once I get aboard, I’ll be all right, General. I was thinking maybe they could rig a bosun’s chair and lower me into her.”
“I’m sure they can,” Almond said. “Thank you, McCoy.”
“No thanks necessary, sir,” McCoy said. “I’m just glad they don’t shoot the messenger with the bad news anymore.”
Ten minutes later, McCoy was lowered without incident in a bosun’s chair onto the forecastle of the Wind of Good Fortune. As soon as he was aboard and out of the chair, she turned away from the Mount McKinley and headed westward toward Wonsan.
“Admiral, how much trouble is it going to be to get a message to the commanding officer of the hospital at Sasebo?” General Almond asked of Rear Admiral Feeney.
“No problem at all. What’s the message?”
Almond handed him a sheet of paper fresh from Captain Al Haig’s portable typewriter.
URGENT
UNCLASSIFIED
COMMANDING OFFICER, NAVY HOSPITAL, SASEBO
TO BE DELIVERED TO BRIGADIER GENERAL FLEMING PICKERING, USMC, AS SOON AS POSSIBLE
PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM MAJOR GENERAL ALMOND, X CORPS
PERSONAL MESSAGE BEGINS
DEAR FLEMING,
YOU KNOW WHERE I AM. I HAVE JUST MET WITH MAJOR MCCOY, WHO IS EN ROUTE TO SASEBO PER YOUR ORDERS.
HE GAVE ME SOME DISTRESSING INFORMATION WHICH I AM SURE HE WILL SHARE WITH YOU. IT IS A GREAT PITY THAT HE HAS NOTHING SOLID ENOUGH TO BACK IT UP TO FORCE A CHANGE OF ANALYSIS BY THOSE WHO HAVE TO BE CONVINCED. I AM CONVINCED HE IS RIGHT, BUT THAT DOESN’T MATTER, DOES IT?
MAJOR MCCOY IS TRAVELING AGAINST
MEDICAL ADVICE, HAVING SUFFERED WOUNDS IN AN EARLY MORNING ENGAGEMENT TODAY. HE DID THE NEXT THING TO REFUSING MEDICAL TREATMENT IN ORDER TO COMPLETE HIS MISSION AND COMPLY WITH YOUR ORDER THAT HE GO TO SASEBO.
INASMUCH AS I STRONGLY SUSPECT THAT HE WILL NOT MENTION THIS TO YOU, AND THUS IT WILL NOT BECOME A MATTER OF OFFICIAL RECORD, I TELL YOU SO THAT HE MAY AT LEAST BE AWARDED THE PURPLE HEART.
IT SHOULD GO WITHOUT SAYING THAT I AM DELIGHTED THAT YOUR SON IS BACK FROM HIS UNIMAGINABLE ORDEAL.
WHERE DO THESE FINE YOUNG MEN COME FROM?
I LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING YOU SOON.
BEST PERSONAL REGARDS.
NED
END PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM GEN ALMOND TO GEN PICKERING
XIV
[ONE]
FISHBASE COMMUNICATIONS HOOTCH SOCHO-RI, SOUTH KOREA 0747 19 OCTOBER 1950
“Cancel Bail Out, sir?” Staff Sergeant Al Preston, USMC, asked just as soon as Captain Dunwood had taken off his headset and turned from the radio.
Staff Sergeant Preston was wearing black pajamas and a black headband, and his face was smeared with black and dark brown grease. He had a Thompson .45-ACP-caliber submachine gun slung from his right shoulder. A canvas bag bulging with spare Thompson magazines and hand grenades hung from his left shoulder.
“Bail Out will not be necessary. Major McCoy is aboard ‘a Navy vessel at sea,’ ” Dunwood said. “He couldn’t say which one in the clear, but more than likely one of the ships carrying First MarDiv to Wonsan.”
“What did they do, lose their radio?” Preston asked.
I really can’t tell, Dunwood thought, if Preston is relieved that Bail Out has been canceled, or disappointed.
“That, too, I’m sure. Something went wrong,” Dunwood said. “Major McCoy didn’t say what, but he said there are two KIA and three WIA. We’re to send a replacement crew for the Wind of Good Fortune to Wonsan. On the Beaver.”
“Sir, is there any reason I couldn’t get in on that?”
“You surprise me, Preston,” Dunwood said. “Here you are, a Marine with over six years’ combat experience, and a staff sergeant. You’re supposed to be bright enough to know that volunteering is something smart Marines just don’t do.”
“Sir, this is different,” Preston said a little uncomfortably.