to the 1st Marine Air Wing, and they were Bells, logic dictated that the aircraft making this fluckata-fluckata-fluckata were not American. It was entirely possible, he thought after a minute, that in the nine thousand years since he had been shot down, the Army or the Air Force had finally gotten its act in gear and gotten some of their own helicopters to Korea, and this was what he was hearing.
But then he thought that the only place the Army could get helicopters was from Bell or Hiller . . .
He recalled then that the Navy had some helos to pick aviators from the drink if they missed a carrier landing or takeoff—he’d actually seen them while practicing carrier takeoffs and recovery off San Diego—but when he thought about that, he remembered the fluckata-fluckata-fluckata they’d made, and it wasn’t the fluckata-fluckata-fluckata he was hearing now.
. . . and he knew the fluckata-fluckata-fluckata he was hearing now wasn’t coming from a Bell or a Hiller, so it had to be made by something else. Like a Russian helicopter. The Russians had helicopters. Hell, the Russians had invented helicopters. Both Sikorsky and Piasecki were Russians before they came to the States.
What he needed was a cave to hide in.
There being no convenient caves, he did the next best thing. He put his back against the earthen wall of a rice paddy, then held the A-Frame over him. It would, he believed, break his human figure outline, shade his face from the sun, and make him difficult to see from the air.
The fluckata-fluckata-fluckata grew louder. Pickering pushed the A-Frame away from his head and glanced skyward, trying to get a look at it.
Where the hell is it? Jesus Christ, it sounds like it’s right here!
He leaned his neck back as far as it would go, just in time to see the shiny olive-drab fuselage of an enormous helicopter—the largest he had ever seen—hanging beneath an enormous rotor cone flash—fluckata-fluckata-fluckata-fluckata -fluckata-fluckata—not more than 100 feet over him. It headed down the hill, then turned to the left.
Pickering could see U.S. ARMY painted in large letters on the fuselage.
The helicopter turned right, rose above the crest of the next hill, and then dropped out of sight below it.
He waited for a long time to see—Please, God!—if it would reappear again, and maybe turn around and come back.
It didn’t.
[FOUR]
HEADQUARTERS, FIRST MARINE DIVISION SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA 1225 30 SEPTEMBER 1950
Master Gunnery Sergeant Allan J. Macey, USMC, who looked very much like Master Gunner Ernest W. Zimmerman, backed through the canvas flap that served as the door to the office of Major General Oliver P. Smith, Commanding 1st MarDiv. He held a stainless-steel food tray and a mess kit set of spoon, knife, and fork in each hand.
“Chow, sir,” he announced. “Salisbury steak, for a real treat.”
He laid the trays on a simple wooden picnic-type table.
“I’ll get the coffee, sir,” Gunny Macey said, and looked at General Smith’s luncheon guest. “Canned cow and sugar, General?”
“No, thanks,” Major General Ralph Howe, NGUS, said. “Black’s fine. You’ll take care of Sergeant Rogers, right?”
“We old men have to stick together, General,” Macey said.
“I apologize for the scarcity of the fare, General,” Smith said.
“I’m an old infantryman, General,” Howe said. “If it’s warm and served inside, that’s all I ask, and I’m grateful to get it.”
Smith smiled and grunted. He waved Howe to a seat at the table.
“So what can I do for you today, General?” Smith asked.
“General Almond told me an hour ago about Mac-Arthur’s plan to move the division by sea to Wonsan as soon as Eighth Army cleans up the peninsula as far as Seoul,” Howe said.
Smith grunted again and said nothing.
“That was in the nature of a question, General,” Howe pursued.
Gunny Lacey came back through the flap with a white china mug of coffee in one hand and a canteen cup of coffee in the other. He set the mug before Howe and the canteen cup before Smith and then left.
“Why do I think he gave me your mug?” Howe asked, and reached for the canteen cup.
“That’s his mug,” Smith said. “I broke mine. I guess he likes you.”
“I’ve got a couple of spares in the jeep,” Howe said. “You can have them.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I would be very surprised if Macey didn’t have me one by supper. Probably before.”
“You’re welcome to them,” Howe said, shrugging.
“What you’re asking, General, is what do I think of the idea.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“I’m a Marine. Marines go where they’re