There was another option to checking out, if that's what was going to happen, and that was to lie on one of the boulders and let the sun warm him while he thought of Jeanette.

At first, when he thought of Jeanette, the thoughts were erotic. Now when he thought of her, there was little l.u.s.t in the fantasy. He remembered how she smelled and the soft touch of her fingers on his face.

It would be very nice, he thought, if he wasn't going to make it, if he went to sleep in the sun thinking of Jeanette and then just never woke up.

He thought about asking G.o.d to give him at least that, but decided against it. He asked G.o.d to make it as easy on Jeanette and his mother and father, and Ernie, and even Killer McCoy. It wasn't right, he thought, to ask G.o.d for special treatment, but his parents and Jeanette and the others shouldn't have pain on his account. Maybe G.o.d would see it that way, too.

He had just turned onto his stomach when he heard the sound of tearing metal. That caught his attention, and then he heard the sound of clashing gears and an engine racing.

He got up, and walked as quickly as he could manage around an outcropping of rock to the cliff he decided he would not take a dive from, and looked down at the road.

It was a convoy of U.S. Army vehicles. A very strange one. In the lead was a jeep. Behind it were two M-26 tanks, a tank recovery vehicle, a heavy-duty wrecker, another tank recovery vehicle, and then another heavy-duty wrecker.

Pickering closed his eyes and shook his head to make sure he wasn't delusionary. When he opened his eyes again, the convoy was still there. It wasn't moving, and he saw why. The first heavy-duty wrecker had collided with the trailer of the tank recovery vehicle and knocked its rear wheels off the road.

Pickering went down the hill as fast as he could.

He made it to the road.

He put his hands over his head and started walking down it.

"American!" he shouted. "Don't shoot!"

And then he began to sing and shout, as loud as he could manage: "From the Halls of Montezuma, "American! Don't shoot!

"To the Sh.o.r.es of Tripoli "American! Don't shoot!

"We will fight our nation's battles!

"American! Don't shoot!

"On the Land and on the Sea!

"American! Don't shoot!"

Captain Francis P. MacNamara, commanding officer of the 8023d Transportation Company (Depot, Forward), who had elected to lead the test over-the-road run to the east coast, who was examining the considerable damage the wrecker had done to the retrieval trailer, heard the noise.

He drew his .45, worked the action, shouted "Heads up!" and stepped into the center of the road.

A tall, thin human being, too large for a Korean, was walking down the center of the road with his hands in the air. He was wearing what looked like the remnants of some kind of coveralls. His face was streaked with mud.

And he was making strange sounds.

I'll be a sonofab.i.t.c.h if he isn't singing! And it's "The Marines' Hymn "! I'll be a sonofab.i.t.c.h!

"Who the h.e.l.l are you?" Captain MacNamara demanded.

"Major Malcolm S. Pickering, United States Marine Corps," Pick croaked . . . and then fell first to his knees, and then flat on his face.

MacNamara hurriedly holstered his .45 and ran to him.

He first felt for signs of life, then turned him over and wrapped his arms around him and held him like a baby.

"Get some water up here!" he shouted. "And there's a bottle of bourbon in the glove compartment in my jeep. Bring that. And some blankets."

"And if you happen to have some food," the walking skeleton in his arms said, very faintly.

"You got it, Major," Captain MacNamara said.

Five minutes later, Major Malcolm Pickering, USMCR, was laid out on several blankets on the trailer of the tank recovery vehicle. He had been given a stiff drink of Captain Mac-Namara's Old Forester-which he had promptly thrown up-and half a dozen spoonfuls of ham chunks in pineapple sauce, three of which he had managed to keep down.

The blankets had been provided by Technical Sergeant Alvin H. Donn, U.S. Army, who was the NCO in charge of the M-26 tanks. He had also held Major Pickering up in a sitting position while Captain MacNamara had, with all the tenderness of a mother, spoon-fed him the ham chunks in pineapple sauce, and while he had thrown up.

There were now a dozen men standing at the side of the tank recovery trailer looking down with mingled amazement, curiosity, and pity at the human skeleton on the blankets.

Sergeant Donn pointed to Staff Sergeant James D. Buckley, the commander of the second tank.

"Stay with the major," he ordered. "Try to get some food in him. No more booze."

When Buckley had taken his place, Donn slid off the trailer and nodded his head at Captain MacNamara, a signal he wanted a word with him. MacNamara followed him to the recovery vehicle tractor.

He had made a snap judgment when he had first met Sergeant Donn. A G.o.dd.a.m.n good NCO, as he himself had been. He had then thereafter treated him accordingly.

"That guy's in really bad shape," Sergeant Donn said. "We've got to get him to a hospital."

"We'll have to get this out of the way," MacNamara agreed, slamming the tank retriever trailer with his fist. "f.u.c.k it, we'll just push it the rest of the way off the road. Maybe we could lay him on the hood of the jeep. But where the h.e.l.l do we take him?"

"I've got a radio in the tank that sometimes lets me talk to light aircraft," Donn said. "We could give that a shot."

MacNamara nodded his head.

They walked past the second tank to the first, and crawled onto it. Donn lowered himself into the turret and came up a minute later with a microphone and a headset.

"What do they call this circus?"

"Task Force Road Service," MacNamara said. That had been Colonel Kennedy's whimsical suggestion/order.

Donn pushed the round black TRANSMIT b.u.t.ton on the microphone.

"Road Service to any U.S. aircraft hearing my call," he said. "Road Service to any U.S. aircraft hearing my call."

There was no reply.

He made the call twice again. This time there was a reply.

"Go ahead, Road Service."

"Who are you?" Donn asked.

"I'm an Air Force F-51, call sign Air Force three oh seven."

"Air Force three oh seven, we just picked up a shot-down pilot. We have to get him to a hospital, and right now."

"Who and where are you, Road Service?"

"We're a small convoy, two M-26s and wreckers and tank recovery vehicles. We are approximately six miles northeast of Jaeun-Ri."

"Say again location?"

"We are approximately six miles northeast of Jaeun-Ri."

"Hold one, I'll see if I can find it on the chart."

There was a long silence before Air Force three oh seven came back on the air.

"Road Service, I think I have you. I think I'm about twenty miles south. Let me get a positive location, and then I'll try to get a helicopter from the Navy. I should be there in a couple of minutes."

Another voice came over the air.

"Road Service, say again your location."

"Approximately six miles northeast of Jaeun-Ri. Who are you?"

There was a long silence.

"I'm about five miles from your position. Have you got any flares?"

"Affirmative. Who are you?"

"Wait sixty seconds, and then start shooting flares at sixty-second intervals."

"Okay. Who are you?"

There was no reply.

It took Sergeant Donn about sixty seconds to get flares from inside the tank. As soon as he had one loaded, he shot it off.

He had just fired the third flare when there was a strange noise.

Fluckata-fluckata-fluckata fluckata-fluckata-fluckata.

"What the h.e.l.l is that?" Sergeant Donn asked.

"It's a helicopter," Captain MacNamara said. He had heard the sound before.

"Jesus, the Navy sent one that quick?"

"I don't think that's a Navy helicopter," MacNamara said.

"Okay," the radio said. "Enough flares. I have you in sight. Are there any telephone wires, cables, anything like that down there?"

Donn and MacNamara looked.

"Negative. No wires or cables."

"Okay. Here we come."

A Sikorsky H-19A helicopter, painted black, came down the valley, flew over the convoy, slowed, stopped forward movement, turned around, and fluttered to the ground.

A half-dozen heavily armed men, dressed in what looked like black pajamas, erupted from the pa.s.senger compartment. Another one started climbing down from the c.o.c.kpit.

"What the h.e.l.l is this?" Sergeant Donn asked.

The man who had climbed down from the c.o.c.kpit trotted up to them. When he saw Captain MacNamara, he said, "Oh, Jesus, look who it is!" And then, "Where's the pilot?"

MacNamara pointed to the tank recovery vehicle trailer.

The man made a follow me follow me signal with his hand to the other men in black pajamas as he started to trot to the trailer. They began to trot after him. signal with his hand to the other men in black pajamas as he started to trot to the trailer. They began to trot after him.

So did Sergeant Donn, who was more than a little curious about the guys in the black pajamas, and the black helicopter with no markings in which they had arrived.

He got there about the time the first guy in the black pajamas did.

The first guy looked down at the human skeleton.

"h.e.l.lo, you ugly b.a.s.t.a.r.d," he said. "Where the h.e.l.l have you been hiding?"

The human skeleton raised one hand and grasped the hand of the guy in the black pajamas. Sergeant Donn saw tears form and roll down the human skeleton's cheeks, and when he glanced at the guy from the chopper, he saw tears on his cheeks, too.

After a moment, the guy from the chopper turned his head.

"Okay, let's get him on the bird," he ordered. He turned again to the human skeleton. "You hurt, Pick?"

"I'm fine," the human skeleton said.

"Three guys on each side of the blankets," the guy in the pajamas ordered. "And be careful with him."

"Aye, aye, sir," one of the men in pajamas said.

An Army major wearing pilot's wings walked quickly-almost trotted-up to them.

"Can you raise the Badoeng Strait Badoeng Strait?" the man in pajamas, Major Ken McCoy, said.

"Jesus, I don't think so, Ken," the pilot, Major Alex Donald, said.

"h.e.l.l!"

"Maybe the F-51 can," Donald said.