Retreat, Hell! (Corps, No 10)
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It is the fall of 1950. The Marines have made a pivotal breakthrough at Inchon, but a roller coaster awaits them. While Douglas MacArthur chomps at the bit, intent on surging across the 38th parallel, Brigadier General Fleming Pickering works desperately to mediate the escalating battle between MacArthur and President Harry Truman. And somewhere out there, his own daredevil pilot son, Pick, is lost behind enemy lines--and may be lost forever.
fresh khakis, and made his way to the bridge. The captain waved him onto the bridge. “I understand the bad guys have been shooting back at you, Colonel,” he said. “Worse than that, sir,” Dunn said. “Somebody has apparently been teaching them how to shoot.” “Ready for a little lunch?” “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” The captain pushed himself out of his chair and led Dunn off the bridge to his cabin, where a white-jacketed steward and a table set for two were waiting for them. “We can serve
say something near the Chosin Reservoir about which there is no question: “Don’t you forget that you’re 1st Marines! Not all the Communists in hell can overrun you!” The Marines came out, bringing with them their weapons, their vehicles, their wounded, most of their dead, and a substantial number of Army soldiers they had rescued from certain capture or death. The 1st Marine Division had suffered 718 Killed in Action, 3,508 Wounded in Action, and 7,313 “noncombat” casualties due to frostbite.
1911A1 Colt .45 ACP pistol from the small of his back, and put it on the chair beside the bed. Then he stripped off the rest of his clothes, leaving everything in a pile on the floor. He took the freshly pressed and starched uniform from the bed and laid it over the pistol on the chair. Then he picked up the clean linen and the towels from the bed and walked to the bathroom door, returning in a moment for the Coleman lantern. It took a long time for the hot water to work its way up from the
aircraft engines. Dunwood looked into the sky toward Inchon. There were three Corsairs slowly approaching the airfield. They were flying one above the other, separated by two hundred feet or so. The lowest was maybe 1,500 feet above the ground. “There they are,” Major Donald cried, excitement in his voice. “Major,” Dunwood said, “those are Corsairs. Marine Corsairs.” “Not there, Captain,” Major Donald said, as if speaking to a retarded child. “There!” Dunwood looked at him. The major had his
calling me ‘Killer,’ ” McCoy said. Vandenburg laughed. “I wondered when you were going to get around to that. Fertig told me you hate it. That’s all?” “You know what a Beaver is?” “The airplane?” McCoy nodded. “I need one. I would also like to have an L-19.” “There’s a couple in Pusan. You have somebody who knows how to fly one?” “I think so. Half a dozen pilots came with the helicopters. One of them should be able to fly a Beaver.” “I’ll see what I can do,” Vandenburg said. “I only