am sure, soon be rid of the invader,” MacArthur said.
A battered sedan, a Studebaker, not nearly as nice as the Buicks Jeanette had seen deserted at Kimpo, drove up, and Colonel Sidney Huff walked up to them.
“The car is here, General,” he said.
“Jeanette, if you would like to wait until I have a chance to assess the situation here,” Douglas MacArthur said, “you may, if you like, ride back to Tokyo with me on the Bataan.”
“Thank you,” Jeanette said. “That’s very kind of you.”
I can file from Tokyo just as quick as the Palace Guard can.
“Not at all,” MacArthur said. “For the time being, at least, this is no place for a lady.”
Jeanette had another unladylike thought, but managed to smile as dazzlingly as possible at him. And then she smiled dazzlingly at the Palace Guard, who were reacting to her being on the Bataan as if she were a whore in church.
She waited until MacArthur’s small convoy had driven off, and then sat down on the grass by the side of the runway, took her Royal portable typewriter out, and began to type.
FOR CHITRIB
PRESS IMMEDIATE
NOTE TO EDITOR AP, UP AND INS WILL HAVE PICS
SLUG MACARTHUR COMES TO KOREA
By jeanette priestly, tribune war correspondent suwon, south korea june 27— the remains of an air force c54 destroyed by north korean yak fighters were still smoldering when the bataan, the glistening c54 of supreme commander general douglas macarthur, touched down at this battered airfield 30 miles south of the just captured south korean capital of seoul this afternoon. WEARING HIS FAMILIAR BATTERED CAP AND A FUR-COLLARED LEATHER JACKET, HIS CORN-COB PIPE PERCHED JAUNTILY IN HIS MOUTH, GENERAL OF THE ARMY DOUGLAS MACARTHUR CONFIDENTLY PREDICTED TO THIS REPORTER THAT SEOUL WILL SOON BE RID OF THE INVADER.
She looked up from the portable, saw that the Palace Guard had somehow found a Jeep and were obviously intending to join the MacArthur convoy.
She slammed the cover shut on the Royal, jumped to her feet, and ran to it. She climbed over the rear seat just as it started to move.
“Yes, thank you,” Jeanette said, beaming. “I would like to go along.”
[FIVE]
WASHINGTON, D.C. 0905 26 JUNE 1950
The President of the United States came out the front door of Blair House, almost jauntily descended the stairway, and indicated with a nod of his head that he was going to turn right.
Two of the six Secret Service agents on the detail quickly took up positions so that they could precede him; two waited to bring up the tail; and two positioned themselves so that they would be just a few steps behind him. Across the street, two Chevrolet Suburbans started their engines. One moved ahead of the little parade and the second positioned itself behind the tail.
The Secret Service agent heading the parade turned and looked questioningly at the President.
“The Foster Lafayette,” the President said. “Senator Fowler.”
“Thank you, sir,” the Secret Service agent said.
Senator Richardson K. Fowler maintained a suite in the Foster Lafayette. Not an ordinary suite, though God knew suites in the Lafayette were large and elegant as they came, but an apartment made up of two suites, and furnished, the President had learned, with museum-quality antiques.
Fowler was quite wealthy, and unlike some of his peers in the Senate, made no effort at all to conceal it. He considered public service a privilege, and living in Washington, D.C., even as well as he did, as the terrible price he had to pay for that privilege.
The President walked briskly, three times tipping his white Panama straw hat and smiling and waving to people on both sides of Pennsylvania Avenue who recognized him.
The Foster Lafayette Hotel was directly across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House, the far side—from Blair House—of Lafayette Square. The general manager of the hotel was standing under the marquee beside the doorman, obviously waiting for the President.
The Secret Service agent in the lead again turned and looked questioningly at the President.
“I guess when I invited myself to breakfast, Senator Fowler told him,” the President said.
The President shook hands with both the general manager—and called him by name—and the doorman, entered the hotel, walked across the lobby to a waiting elevator, and followed the lead two Secret Service agents onto it.
When the elevator reached the top floor, the President saw that a large, very black man wearing a gray cotton jacket and a wide smile was standing by the open door of Senator Fowler’s suite.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” he said. “Nice to see you