the Navy.”
Major Kim was visibly surprised that Taylor and Zimmerman also said the equivalent of “How do you do?” in Korean.
“Have you got somebody to help unload our gear?” Zimmerman asked, indicating the weapons carrier and its trailer.
“More important, someone reliable to guard it?”
“I have national policemen over there,” Kim said, pointing to an outbuilding. Then, surprising everybody, he put his fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly.
A moment later, a young Korean wearing only his underwear and sandals, and carrying a Garand, came trotting up to them.
“Unload the truck and trailer, put it in the garage, and put a guard on it,” Major Kim said.
“Yes, sir,” the Korean said.
“Why don’t we go inside?” Major Kim asked. “I’m afraid there’s not much I can offer you in the way of food or drink. . . .”
Zimmerman put his fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly.
The Korean in his underwear returned.
“There are six cases of beer in the truck,” Zimmerman announced. “Bring five in the hotel. The other is for you and your men. There are ten cases of rations. Take two for you and your men.”
The Korean looked to Major Kim for guidance.
“You heard the officer,” Kim said.
The Korean scurried off.
“Major, is there someone here who can cook?” Zimmerman asked.
“Yes, there is.”
“Wash clothes?”
“Yes.”
“And is there a bath, with showers?”
“Yes. This was a Japanese officer’s rest hotel. . . .”
“You mean whorehouse?” Zimmerman asked.
“Yes.”
“Then what I suggest we do, Captain McCoy, sir,” Zimmerman said, “is go inside, have a shower, a couple of beers, something to eat, and call it a day. This has been a long day.”
“Make it so, Mr. Zimmerman,” Captain McCoy ordered.
XIV
[ONE]
THE DEWEY SUITE THE IMPERIAL HOTEL TOKYO, JAPAN 2200 4 AUGUST 1950
Brigadier General Fleming Pickering fully understood that drinking alone was not wise, but that’s what he was doing—but slowly, he hoped—when the door chime to the Dewey Suite sounded.
Pickering was alone because General Howe had sensed he wanted to be alone, and had taken Master Sergeant Rogers out for dinner. Then, after Howe and Rogers had left, Hart had hung around, looking both morose and sympathetic, which Pickering had decided was the last thing he needed, so he had sent Hart to the movies.
He smiled at that memory as he walked to the door to answer it. It had been the only cause to smile all day.
He thought he had found a tactful way to get rid of George when he read in Stars & Stripes that a John Huston film, The Asphalt Jungle, starring Sterling Hayden and Louis Calhern, was playing at the Ernie Pyle Theater.
“George, why don’t you go? Get out of here for a couple of hours?”
“Sir, I think I’ll pass,” George said. “The Asphalt Jungle sounds like a stupid movie.”
“Captain Hart, when one of our own makes a movie, stupid or not, it behooves us to go see it, and whistle, cheer, and applaud loudly whenever he has a line.”
“One of our own?” George had asked, baffled.
“Sterling Hayden is not only a Marine, but like yourself, a former agent of the Office of Strategic Services,” Pickering had said.
“No shit?” Hart had asked, genuinely surprised.
“No shit. Go see the stupid movie. It’s your duty.”
“What about you, General? You were an OSS agent, too. We’ll both go.”
“No, I was an OSS executive, not a lowly agent, and besides I’m a general, and we get to make our own rules. Go on, George, I really would like to be alone.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” George had said, reluctantly.
Drink in hand, his tie pulled down, Pickering pulled the door open.
Colonel Sidney L. Huff, a tall, rather handsome officer, was standing there. The aiguillette of an aide-de-camp hung from the epaulette of his splendidly tailored tropical-worsted uniform, and on its lapels was a small shield with a circle of five stars.
Huff saluted.
“The Supreme Commander’s compliments, General Pickering,” Huff said. “The Supreme Commander desires that you attend him at your earliest convenience.”
Pickering returned the salute a little uncomfortably. For one thing, Marines don’t salute indoors, and for another, he was aware that he was standing there a little smashed with a drink in his hand.
“Come on in, Sid,” he said. “I’ll have to get my tunic.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t suppose you can tell me what’s going on?” Pickering asked.
“Sir, the Supreme Commander sent me to present his compliments, that’s all I know.”
Pickering felt his chin.
“Fix yourself a drink, Sid,” Pickering said. “I’ll need a quick shave and a clean shirt.”
“Thank you, sir, but no, thank you, General.”
“I’ll be right with you,”