Retreat, Hell!

by Griffin, W.E.B.

• ISBN13: 9780399150814
• ISBN10: 0399150811
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2004-01-05
• Publisher: Putnam Adult

Summary

Extraordinary challenges face the Marines in Korea, in W. E. B. Griffin's most electrifying Corps novel yet. It is the fall of 1950. The Marines have made a pivotal breakthrough at Inchon, but a roller coaster awaits them. The bit in his teeth, MacArthur surges across the 38th parallel toward the Yalu River, only to encounter the Chinese in full force, who drive him back in turn. Back and forth, the bloody tides of war shift, and swept along with them are Captain Ken McCoy and Master Gunner Ernie Zimmerman, caught in the fight of their lives; Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, working desperately to mediate the escalating battle between MacArthur and Truman; and Pickering's daredevil pilot son, Malcolm, lost somewhere behind enemy lines-and maybe lost forever.

Author Biography

W. E. B. Griffin, himself a veteran of the Korean War, is also the author of the bestselling Brotherhood of War, Men at War, Badge of Honor, and Honor Bound series.

Excerpts

[ONE]Near Chongju, South Korea 0815 28 September 1950Major Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, whose appearance and physical condition reflected that he had not had a change of clothing-much less the opportunity to bathe with soap or shave-since he had been shot down fifty-eight days before sat between two enormous boulders near the crest of a hill. He thought-but was by no means sure-that he was about twenty miles north of Taejon and about thirty miles south of Suwon. Where he hoped he was, was in a remote area of South Korea where there were few North Korean soldiers, lessening the chance that he would be spotted until he could attract the attention of an American airplane, and have someone come and pick him up. Those hopes were of course, after fifty-eight days, fading. Immediately after he had been shot down, there had been a flurry of search activity, but when they hadn't found him the activity had slowed down, and-logic forced him to acknowledge-finally ceased. He wasn't at all sure that anyone had seen any of the signs he left after the first one, the day after he'd been shot down. What he had done was stamp into the mud of a drained rice paddy with his boots the letters PP and an arrow. No one called him "Malcolm." He was called "Pick" and he knew that all the members of his squadron-and other Marine pilots-would make the connection. The arrow's direction was basically meaningless. If the arrow pointed northward, sometimes he went that way. More often than not, he went east, west, or south. He knew that he couldn't move far enough so that he wouldn't be able to see an airplane searching low and slow for him in the area of the sign left in the mud. He had left other markers every other-or every third-day since he'd been on the run. The fact that there had been Corsairs flying low over some of the markers-logic forced him to acknowledge-was not proof that they had seen the markers. The Corsairs, when they were not in direct support of the Marines on the ground, went on combined reconnaissance and interdiction flights, which meant that they were flying close to the deck, not that they had seen his markers. It was too risky to stay in one place, so he had kept moving. He'd gotten his food-and an A-Frame to carry it in-from South Korean peasant farmers, who were anxious to help him, but made it clear they didn't want anyone to know-either the North Korean military or a local Communist-that they had done so. In either case, they would have been shot. He was, of course, discouraged. Logic forced him to acknowledge that sooner or later, he was going to be spotted by North Koreans, or by someone who would report him to the North Koreans. And if they found him, he would be forced to make a decision that was not at all pleasant to think about. It wasn't simply a question of becoming a prisoner, although that was an unpleasant prospect in itself. Three times since he had been on the run he had come across bodies-once, more than thirty-of U.S. Army soldiers who, having been captured and after having their hands tied behind them with commo wire, had been summarily executed and left to rot where they had fallen. If the North Koreans spotted him, and he could not get away, he was going to die. Not with his hands tied behind his back, but very probably by his own hand, unless he was lucky enough to go down with .45 blazing, a la John Wayne. Logic forced him to acknowledge that was wishful thinking, that he couldn't take the risk of going out in a blaze of glory, that he would have to do it himself. Major Pickering's father was Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, who was the Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency for Asia. For obvious reasons, young Pickering could not allow himself to fall into North Korean hands. It was sort of a moot question anyway. With only five rounds left for the .45, he couldn't put u