THEIR OFFICER STATUS, IT WAS ESSENTIALLY A REPEAT OF THE POW INTERROGATION THE UNDERSIGNED MADE YESTERDAY. CHICOM FORCES WILL NOT ATTACK US FORCES UNTIL THEIR LINES ARE OVEREXTENDED BETWEEN HAMHUNG AND BORDER, WHEN QUOTE ANNIHILATION WILL BE ASSURED ENDQUOTE.
5. FOUR TO SIX STAY-BEHIND TEAMS WILL BE INSERTED AT DUSK TODAY, DEPENDING ON WEATHER CONDITIONS, AND A REPORT OF THEIR FINDINGS WILL BE FURNISHED AS EARLY TOMORROW AS POSSIBLE.
6. IN VIEW OF THE FOREGOING, THE UNDERSIGNED BELIEVESa. THERE IS NO LONGER ANY REASON TO QUESTION THE PRESENCE OF SUBSTANTIAL CHICOM FORCES IN NORTH KOREA PREPARED TO ENTER THE WAR WHENEVER THAT DECISION IS MADE.
b. THAT THE CAPTURE OF A SECOND GROUP OF SENIOR CHICOM OFFICERS WHO MAKE ESSENTIALLY THE SAME STATEMENT REGARDING CHICOM INTENTIONS REINFORCES THE POSSIBILITY THAT THEY ARE IN EFFECT MESSENGERS HOPING TO HAVE PLANS TO ADVANCE TO THE YALU RECONSIDERED OR CANCELED.
7. THE UNDERSIGNED HAS CONFERRED WITH STATION CHIEF SEOUL, WHO SAYS HE HAS NOTHING CONCRETE TO CONFIRM OR QUESTION THE CONCLUSIONS DRAWN BY THE UNDERSIGNED.
K.R. MCCOY
MAJOR, USMCR
Addition: despite paragraph 7 above the undersigned wholeheartedly concurs with major mccoy’s analysis of the situation, and expects within a matter of days to have hard intelligence confirming mccoy’s analysis.
J.D. VANDENBURG, LTCOL, INF
STATION CHIEF, SEOUL
TOP SECRET
“Well, you can type,” McCoy said. “But what’s that ‘addition’ that I didn’t dictate or, for that matter, ask for?”
“Well, Major, you don’t have any choice. I outrank you. It stays in.”
McCoy looked at him.
“Killer, you’re a bright guy, figure it out for yourself,” Vandenburg said. “If that got to Washington without my addition, some chair-warming sonofabitch who’s never been closer to the Orient than Big Wang’s One Hung Low Chinese Buffet and Take-Out is going to say, ‘Hey, he sent this from Seoul. What about Vandenburg? We really should know what Vandenburg thinks. If Vandenburg didn’t say anything, he probably thinks McCoy is as full of shit as a Christmas turkey, and we have to judge this accordingly.’ Now they know what I think.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Now we’re going to put you to bed. Does your leg need a fresh bandage? Before I was a CIC agent, I was a Boy Scout. I know all about bandages.”
“I find that hard to believe. You being a Boy Scout, I mean.”
Vandenburg raised his right hand, three fingers extended, as a Boy Scout does when swearing an oath.
“You can trust me, Killer. I’m in the CIA,” he said solemnly.
[FIVE]
ROOM 39A, NEURO-PSYCHIATRIC WARD U.S. NAVAL HOSPITAL SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA 0915 2 NOVEMBER 1950
Major Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, was standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom when Lieutenant Patrick McGrory, MC, USN, pushed open the wide door and entered the room.
Pick had just concluded that he looked like hell. The uniform tunic hung loosely from his shoulders, which he had more or less expected. But he hadn’t thought that he might have problems with the shirt until he’d stood before the mirror, buttoned the collar button, and begun to knot the field scarf. Then he’d seen that the shirt collar was an inch—maybe two inches—too big for the skinny neck rising from his shoulders. He realized why: Without thinking, he’d bought shirts in ‘his’ size, which meant they were far too large for him in his walking skeleton condition.
It was too late to do anything about it.
He turned and looked at McGrory.
“Good morning, Doctor,” he said. “And how is my favorite leprechaun feeling today?”
“I’m impressed,” McGrory said. “That’s an impressive array of fruit salad.”
Pick gave him the finger.
“I mean it,” McGrory said. “I was impressed when I saw the list of your medals General Dawkins sent over—”
“What?”
“I said I was impressed with the list of your medals when General Dawkins sent it over—”
“What the hell was that all about?”
“General Dawkins called the hospital commander and said that he wanted to make sure you had a uniform, as they are about to pin another medal on you—”
“Oh, shit. That was a mistake. With its typical efficiency, the Crotch put my name on somebody else’s citation.”
“—and that he was sending his driver over,” McGrory went on, “with an official list of your medals so that you would have them on your uniform when they took your picture as they pinned the medal on you. The hospital commander summoned me, handed me the list, and told me to take care of it. Which I did, by telling Francis Xavier O’-Malley I was sending him a list of ribbons which he was to make up when getting you your uniform. And as