They had spent the night uncomfortably—it was hot, and muggy, and there were hordes of mosquitoes, flies, and other insects—in their clothing on mattressless folding canvas cots in a twelve-man squad tent. When they rose at first light, they saw the tent was one of a dozen that had been set up in what looked like the playground of a school building before which had been erected a plywood sign identifying it as Headquarters EUSAK.
McCoy had been surprised that someone had found the time and material to make the sign.
They had shaved with McCoy’s electric razor, plugged into the 110-volt AC outlet of a gasoline generator whose primary outlet cable fed into the school building through an open window.
There was a great deal of activity, soldiers unloading from six-by-six trucks everything from folding field desks and file cabinets to Coca-Cola coolers and barracks bags, and either carrying them into the building or simply dumping them to the side of the door.
McCoy had entered the building, found the G-2 section, and—surprisingly to him, he was not challenged by anyone—took a look at the situation map. The action was around someplace called Taejon. McCoy made a compass with his fingers and determined that Taejon was about sixty miles—as the crow flies, probably considerably more on winding Korea National Highway One—from Taegu. They would need wheels to get there, and to move around once they did.
When he came out of the building, he found Master Gunner Ernest W. Zimmerman, USMC, waiting for him. Zimmerman had a Thompson .45-caliber submachine gun hanging from his shoulder. Two spare magazines for it were in one of the pockets on his utility jacket, and the other bulged with two, or possibly three, hand grenades.
“No wheels, Ernie,” he said. “You have any luck with rations? ”
“I took care of it,” Zimmerman replied. “Let’s get something to eat, and then get the hell out of here.”
“Where’s the rations?”
“I’ll show you when we’ve had something to eat,” Zimmerman said, and pointed to a line of people—officers and enlisted men—moving through a chow line.
Breakfast was powdered eggs, Spam, toast, and coffee served on a multicompartment plastic tray in a canteen mess cup. At the end of the line, there was a stainless-steel tray filled with butter already liquefied by the heat.
When they had finished, Zimmerman led him outside the not-yet-completed ring of concertina barbed wire surrounding the headquarters compound and down a road to a field in which sat half a dozen communications vans, and finally behind the most distant van, where a Jeep sat.
It had a wooden sign reading PRESS WAR CORRESPONDENT in yellow letters mounted below the windshield. There were two cases of C-rations and two five-gallon jerry cans of gasoline in the backseat. A third jerry can was in its mount on the back of the Jeep.
Zimmerman went to the Jeep, put his Thompson on the seat, raised the hood, and then reached into one of the cavernous pockets of his utilities and took out a distributor cap, a distributor rotor, and the ignition wires.
He put them in place.
“Where did you get this?” McCoy asked.
“With respect, sir, the captain does not want to know,” Zimmerman said, lowered the hood, fastened the hood retainers, and got behind the wheel. The engine started immediately.
“Let’s get the hell out of here before the wrong guy wakes up,” Zimmerman said.
McCoy jumped in the Jeep.
“Isn’t that press sign going to make us conspicuous?” McCoy asked, as Zimmerman started to move.
“I thought about that,” Zimmerman said. “Isn’t that what we’re doing? Sending reports from the war?”
Moments after they passed the entrance to the Eighth Army headquarters compound, a slight figure in an Army fatigue uniform leapt to his feet from the side of the road and jumped in front of them, angrily waving his arms.
“Guess who got up early?” McCoy said.
“That’s my Jeep, you sonsofbitches!” the angry creature shouted in a high-pitched voice.
“He’s a fucking fairy,” Zimmerman said, as he slammed on the brakes.
“He’s a she, Ernie,” McCoy said, chuckling.
The creature, now recognizable as a female by the hair tucked under her fatigue camp, and a swelling in her fatigue jacket that was not hand grenades, stormed up to the Jeep.
“MP!” she screamed. “MP!”
McCoy looked over his shoulder back toward the MPs standing at the entrance to the Eighth Army Headquarters compound. She had attracted their attention.
He jumped out of the Jeep, went to the woman, wrapped his arms around her waist, pulled her to the Jeep, sat down—his legs outside the Jeep, and