I don’t believe that; so why did I say it? MacArthur’s reaction to insults is to ignore them. He knew damned well they called him “Dugout Doug,” and pretended he didn’t. It wasn’t fair, anyway. He took stupid chances by staying in the line of fire—artillery and small arms—when he should have been in a dugout.
“Huh!” Jeanette snorted.
“And what’s wrong with VMI and the Citadel?” Pickering challenged. “George Catlett Marshall went to VMI. And I personally know a number of fine officers who went to VMI and Norwich.”
“Point granted,” Jeanette said. “I. D. White went to Norwich. You don’t see anything petty—not to mention sinister—in Almond’s assignment to MacArthur?”
“Nothing at all.”
Why did I say that? I believe the story that MacArthur, when he was chief of staff, wrote an efficiency report on Marshall, then a colonel, saying he should not be given command of anything larger than a regiment. There was really bad blood between the two. One of Marshall’s acolytes—maybe even Eisenhower himself—could have repaid the Marshall insult by sending him a two-star non-West Pointer whose sole claim to fame was commanding a colored division.
But I’m not going to admit that to this woman, this journalist.
Why not?
Because it would air the dirty linen of the general officers’ corps in public, and I don’t want to do that.
Why?
Because, I suppose, I used to be called General Pickering. I guess that’s like Once A Marine, Always A Marine.
But my fellow generals can be petty. Stupidly petty.
El Supremo refused to give the 4th Marines the Distinguished Unit Citation for Corregidor, even though everybody else on the island got it. When I asked him why, he told me the Marines already had enough medals.
And Charley Willoughby is stupid enough, and petty enough, to ignore McCoy’s report—have it destroyed—because it disagrees with his assessment of the situation. Or admit that he didn’t even have an assessment. Captains are not supposed to disagree with generals, much less point out that generals have done their jobs badly, or not at all.
What the hell am I going to do with that report?
And what the hell can I do to help McCoy?
“From what I’ve seen of General Almond, General,” McCoy said, “he’s as smart as they come.”
Pickering was surprised that McCoy had volunteered anything, much less offered an opinion of a general officer.
Why did he do that?
To tell me something he thought I should know?
To challenge this female’s theory that there was something sinister in Almond’s assignment?
And why, if he likes Almond, didn’t he take his report to him, bypassing Willoughby?
Because that’s known as going out of channels, and in the military that’s like raping a nun in church.
Pickering looked at McCoy.
And had another thought:
Almond must have a hard time with Willoughby, even though the G-2 is under the chief of staff. Not only does Willoughby have MacArthur’s ear, but he’s the senior member of the Bataan Gang, who can do no wrong in El Supremo’s eyes.
“Jeanette,” Pick said. “Now that you’ve talked to Sir, are you going to live up to your end of the bargain?”
“What bargain was that?”
“Dinner. I’m starved. The last thing I had to eat was a stale sandwich on the airplane.”
“A deal’s a deal,” Jeanette said.
“Dad, do you want to go with us?”
“I’ve eaten, thank you. And I’m tired. The restaurant here’s supposed to be pretty good.”
“Ken says he knows a Japanese place,” Pick said.
Jeanette Priestly put out her hand to Pickering.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, General,” she said. “Maybe we’ll see each other again sometime.”
“It was my pleasure,” Pickering said.
[SIX]
THE DEWEY SUITE THE IMPERIAL HOTEL TOKYO, JAPAN 0140 2 JUNE 1950
Both father and son were surprised to see the other when Pick Pickering entered the living room of the Dewey Suite. Pick had assumed that his father would have long before gone to bed, and his father had assumed more or less the same thing about his son: that at this hour, Pick would also be in bed—Jeanette Priestly’s bed.
“Still up, Pop, huh?” Pick asked.
“No, what you see is an illusion,” Pickering said, getting out of an armchair and walking to the bar. He picked up a bottle of Famous Grouse. “Nightcap?”
“Why not? Just a little water, no ice,” Pick said, and walked toward his father.
Pickering handed him a drink.
“Ida M. Tarbell turned you down, huh?” Pickering asked.
“What? Who?”
“Ida M. Tarbell, the first of the lady muckrakers,” his father explained.
“Her name is Jeanette Priestly,” Pick said. “And yes, since you asked, she turned me down.”