Zimmerman and I talked to last night were the 6th NK Division. So far the 6th has done very well. One of them had this in his pocket.”
He handed General Craig a small sheet of flimsy paper, crudely printed.
“What’s it say?”
McCoy translated it in a matter-of-fact voice.
“Comrades, the enemy is demoralized. The task given us is the liberation of Masan and Chinju . . .”
“That sort of spells it out, doesn’t it?” Craig said.
“There’s more, sir. Shall I—”
Craig signaled him to go ahead.
“. . . the liberation of Masan and Chinju and the annihilation of the remnants of the enemy. The liberation of Chinju and Masan means the final battle to cut off the windpipe of the enemy. Comrades, this glorious task has fallen to our division!”
He raised his eyes to Craig to show that he had finished.
Craig looked at McCoy for a moment, and said, “I decided late last night that in the absence of orders from General Walker to the contrary, I’m going to move the brigade by truck and train up toward Masan. I borrowed two companies of six-by-six trucks from the Army Transportation Corps. If I can break up the parties on the attack transports, and get those ships unloaded today and tonight, we’ll move out in the morning.”
“The 6th Division has T-34 tanks, sir.”
“Just before we left Pendleton, we drew new M-26s,” Craig said. " ’Pattons.’ I suppose we are about to learn if they’re as good as Fort Knox thinks they are.”
“Sir, the T-34 looks as if it’s vulnerable to the 3.5-inch bazooka. The 27th Infantry managed to stop a column—”
Craig held up his hand to silence him, then pointed to the Pickaway. A ship’s ladder had been put over the side, and a dozen Marines were hurrying down it.
“Save it, McCoy,” General Craig said. “I’m going to gather the officers in the mess. I was going to brief them on enemy intentions and capabilities. I just decided you’re better qualified to do that than I am.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Craig got out of his Jeep, motioned for McCoy and Zimmerman to follow him, and walked down the pier, toward the officers now approaching him.
Salutes were exchanged, then handshakes.
“Has ammunition been issued?” General Craig asked.
“No, sir.”
“I sent a message to do so,” Craig said. “Apparently it went astray.”
The officers looked uncomfortable.
Craig turned to one of the enlisted Marines—a young PFC, obviously a runner.
“Son, have you ammunition for that piece?”
“Yes, sir,” the Marine said, and patted his cartridge belt.
“Well, then, here’s your first lesson in how things are in Korea. Load and lock, son. And then guard those two Jeeps down the pier. Unguarded Jeeps get stolen here. Isn’t that right, Captain McCoy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Assign one lieutenant per company to supervise the issue of basic ammunition loads,” Craig ordered. “All other officers will assemble now in the mess of the Clymer for a briefing by Captain McCoy on enemy locations, intentions, and capabilities. After that, we will begin to unload the ships. We move to the lines in the morning.”
The ship’s ladder of the Clymer was dropped to the dock. Marines started to climb down it.
Craig went to the foot of the ladder and held up his hand to stop them, then started up the ladder.
“As pissed as he was,” Zimmerman said softly to McCoy, “about them not being ready to fight, I expected to see some brass getting a real ass-chewing.”
McCoy chuckled.
“Ernie, General Craig can chew ass better with a raised eyebrow and a little disappointment in his voice than you and I can shouting ourselves hoarse.”
Zimmerman shrugged. There was immediate confirmation of McCoy’s theory.
“Anytime you’re ready, Captain McCoy,” General Craig called politely from near the top of the ship’s ladder.
“Coming, sir,” McCoy said. “Sorry, sir,” and trotted toward the ladder.
[THREE]
COMMUNICATIONS CENTER EIGHTH UNITED STATES ARMY (REAR) PUSAN, KOREA 0730 2 AUGUST 1950
The secure landline telephone between the communications center of Eighth United States Army (Rear) in Pusan and the communications center of Headquarters, Supreme Commander Allied Powers and United Nations Command was intended solely to provide communications between the technicians in the two commo centers.
So when Master Sergeant Paul T. Keller heard it buzz, he answered it cryptically before it could buzz again, wondering what the hell else somebody in Tokyo was going to announce was wrong with the crypto machines, the radio or radio-teletype circuits, or all three, what would have to be fixed, how much would have to be retransmitted.
On another telephone line, he would have said “Eighth Army Rear ComCenter, Sergeant Keller, sir.”