I’d let guilt and anger control me. I had left Sara in our Savannah apartment. I wondered if she stayed there? I hadn’t heard from her. But it was too late to look back. My mistake was behind me. And death was most probably waiting on the other side of the hinged bow ramp.
This is what I signed up for, this is what I had trained for; and suddenly, I didn’t want any part of it, nothing. I wanted to live, not die. I was trapped. Only minutes remained in my life.
I had a growing urge to ditch my heavy backpack and jump overboard. But the water was freezing cold, and if I survived where would I go?
There had to be a way out of this. There were always options; something, anything.
This was fight or die, probably both, and right now I couldn’t do either. My breath sawed in and out; my vision hazy. I was on the verge of breaking, of succumbing to total panic. But what good would that do? There was no place to run; no place to hide, and no one to plead my hysteria to.
I struggled to calm my breathing, to regain some control, to think. Others survived war; my dad did.
But how? Not by crying and begging to stay in this landing craft when it beached. That wouldn’t work.
I glanced around me. Some guys were trying to smoke with shaking hands in the sea spray. Others prayed. A few bit their finger nails. And several just stared straight ahead as if in a trance as they were jostled and bounced. We all had one thing in common; we were quiet. Like me, they all had to be thinking about dying.
A building pressure blocked my reasoning, quickened my breath, heat rose along with bile, my legs were rubber, I had to-a violent pitch slammed me into the Marine next to me and someone into me. We grabbed each other and hung on. Maybe, just maybe, together we had a chance.
I had no choice. I had a job to do; try to stay alive, whatever that took. And maybe help others stay alive as well.
I took a deep breath. I had to think about something else before I fell apart.
Sara. I’d focus my screaming, out-of-control mind on Sara.
Someone near me prayed out loud.
Focus, damn it, focus.
She was waiting for me in that transparent negligee. Our anniversary.
God, I wish I would’ve made her happy every minute we’d spent together. Even with my ruined heart, I had so many good memories. Memories I was going to need now more than ever. I missed her.
The landing craft rolled hard slamming me back to reality.
“One minute!” yelled the boatswain.
“Lock and load,” Gunny called out.
A slug of adrenaline dropped into my gut like a concrete block.
Fuck.
Frankie Winans, a kid I’d went through Basic with, hunkered next to me, and fumbled a magazine into his M-1 rifle. “This is it, huh, Mick?” Frankie had been assigned to me as an ammunition carrier for my Browning Automatic Rifle, my BAR.
Dad had taught me well. I had qualified in Basic as a sharp shooter, probably a mistake. That was why I had been selected to be the BAR man.
“Guess so,” I said, focusing on keeping my voice from shaking or cracking, though my mouth was drier than low tide shoreline on the May River. I slid the heavy BAR off my shoulder and shoved a twenty-round magazine into the breech-block. The gun seemed to weigh fifty pounds versus sixteen.
“Just remember what Gunny always preached, Mick. When things get tough, a rifle squad has to depend on its BAR man to take care of them. So keep your head down. Okay, buddy?”
I didn’t want anyone dependent on me. What the hell, I wasn’t.
Next I chambered a thirty-caliber round and selected full automatic fire. My life had to be worth something. If I was going to die on that beach, I was going to do my best to take several of the enemy with me.
I glanced at Frankie, and his face was white. He needed a diversion. As if I didn’t.
“You told me you’re a good swimmer, right?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Frankie nodded.
“I pray the water’s shallow,” I said. “I’ve got too much weight strapped on me to swim. My BAR belt alone with the twelve magazines of ammo is enough to drown me, not counting the extra ammo I have in my backpack. So I’m counting on you to save me, Frankie. Okay?”
“Uh, sure, Mick, but what am I going to do with my twenty magazines of BAR ammo? I, uh, I—”the bow of the landing craft opened becoming a ramp. The front row of Marines ran into the water and the rest of us followed.
The frigid sea was only mid-calf deep, and we sloshed ashore. There was no one there. Not a shot was fired. We walked into Wonsan, me unbelievably thankful but shaking from the earlier adrenaline surge.
Allied troops had taken the city earlier. And a small town South Carolinian was praising each and all of them.
Our battalion was sent south to the coastal town of Kojo to protect our southern flank. It started snowing as we dug in on the outskirts of town. A squad of grunts planted booby-traps and land mines around our perimeter.
Gossip through the ranks was the North Korean capabilities had been overestimated, and they were on the run, totally disorganized. Maybe I’d survive a few more days.
My hopefulness took a hit though, when the next day around sunset, a fire-team, composed of two other Marines and Frankie and I, were placed in one of many periphery outpost fox holes. It was our turn ‘in the barrel’ as Gunny had said; our turn to stand guard overnight.
“So in the barrel?” I asked “Does that mean we’re like the fish?”
We all laughed nervously.
“This seems like a waste of time to me,” Frankie said, as the sun disappeared over the flat fields in front of us. “Word is the North Koreans are on the run. They aren’t interested in fighting. Schuttlebutt is we’ll be home by Christmas. We should take turns sleeping instead of staring into the blackness all night. What’dya think, Mick?”
Frankie reminded me of Carl Henry, the way he always asked me questions, and always talked about his family. And, like Carl Henry, facing reality wasn’t his long suit. Poor Carl Henry, I couldn’t—I couldn’t dwell on him, I had to focus on where I was and what I had to be ready for and get Frankie ready as well.
“Have you ever spent any time outdoors in fields or woods at night, Frankie?”
“Hell, no. You know I’m a city boy from Detroit. Why, have you?”
“My dad and I used to get up before light and go into the woods and get into our blinds before sun-up to hunt deer and wild boar. Even with a full moon, you can’t see crap in the woods. Without a flashlight, you’d probably run into a tree. And you think it’s quiet until you sit in that tree stand for a while. Then you start hearing the sounds of the woods in the darkness. It’s kinda spooky.”
“You tryin’ to scare me, Mick?”
“No. I’m trying to prepare you.”
Chapter Twenty
It was hard to judge the time when you were totally engulfed in blackness, sitting in a dug hole in the frozen ground on the Kojo perimeter doing nothing, but listening. My personal wrist watch didn’t glow in the dark. Orders were no lights or even cigarettes. I guessed it to be after midnight.
The only action I’d had was waking Frankie up twice due to his damn snoring which was loud enough to wake the population of Kojo. So much for making sure the gooks didn’t know we were out here. It didn’t matter how dark it was or how dark we kept it, a blind person could have found us.
Other than Frankie’s snoring, it was quiet, too quiet, goose-bump-producing quiet. There should have been animal sounds, but there were none. When Dad and I hunted in South Carolina, even in the winter, night animals were out and about. Dad never told me much about the war, but he did tell me one thing, if you can’t hear the wildlife, there were two-legged creatures near-by. He said the woods and the war had taught him that many times over. But Dad had fought in the tropics and this was frozen North Korea. Maybe the animals, unlike men, were too smart to venture out in this cold.
“What’re you looking at, Mick?” Frankie whispered, a
nd then fisted a yawn. “I can’t see shit.”
“I can’t see anything either, but I’m listening intently,” I said trying to keep my voice from shaking as badly as my hands.
“For what? I don’t hear nothing either.”
Dad’s teachings and my guts couldn’t both be wrong; though I so wanted them to be. Fear had never left me since arriving in Korea, but now it was churning my insides, rapidly approaching total panic.
“Be alert, boys, I think we’ve got company.” I flipped the BAR’s switch to automatic. And thank God it was dark so no one could see my trembling hands. I set several magazines of ammo on the mounded dirt in which I had my rifle’s barrel-end bipod anchored.
“Bullshit,” one of the other guys said.
And within a few long seconds, a hand grenade booby-trap exploded roughly a hundred yards in front of us.
Sporadic rifle fire popped along our line.
Like living a nightmare, a dreaded, tingling sensation spread on the back of my neck, flooding my stomach with adrenaline. Since there were no animal sounds, two-legged death had to be approaching. The gates of Hell were about to open, and I wasn’t sure what I’d do.
No one spoke. Someone had to take charge. “Hold your fire,” I yelled to the three guys in my hole. “Wait until you see their gunfire and shoot at the muzzle flashes.”
“Launch the flares,” someone yelled from another trench; followed by the ‘poofs’ of several flares being fired into the air along our perimeter.
Within a second or two the snow-covered field in front us was lit up, and my heart almost stopped.
“Fuck,” Frankie screamed, echoing my thoughts.
Hundreds of dark figures were charging us. What had to be way too many guns began firing from both sides; an eruption of muzzle flashes. My stomach rebelled, but I didn’t have time to puke.
There were only four of us per hole and the holes were spread far apart. We were thin, too thin. Were we supposed to raise some hell, wake the camp, and retreat to the camp’s periphery? I had no clue. I knew retreating was what I wanted to do, now, right now. But with all the light it would be suicide to try to run back to our lines. Hell, I’d probably get shot by another Marine, as scared as me, manning our line.
I released a burst of bullets in the general direction of the bodies rushing us.
I couldn’t spit if I wanted to; fear owned me. I didn’t know what I was doing. Had I just shot some men? I tugged on the trigger again and the gun was empty. I jammed another magazine into the BAR. Out of the frenzy, the words of the firing range instructor boomed in my head, “Sight and squeeze, Marine!”
I sucked in some air and found a target and squeezed, the figure dropped. Then I found another, and another. And yes I was probably killing men, but I couldn’t think about that. I had to think about staying alive. These things out there, whatever they were, killers, animals, were trying to kill me! I emptied the magazine, one sighted shot after another.
I snatched another magazine off the dirt pile and dropped it. It was too dark to search for it, and there was no time. I grabbed another, but my hands were shaking so much I had trouble inserting it. A bullet whizzed past my head, and I jammed the magazine home.
The dark figures just kept coming, getting closer, easier to hit. I shot. One dropped, replaced by what had to be two more.
Seconds, minutes, who knew, the figures had turned into men as the endless wave of death advanced. I was loading my third or fifth magazine when the enemy started walking mortars in on our positions.
“Jesus,” Frankie hollered, crouching as he reloaded.
Whizzing bullets streaked the night along with hurling shrapnel and clods of dirt, but I kept targeting soldiers and dropping them, and the men kept getting larger, closer with each new magazine. More came then dropped. There seemed to be no end to this charge. Would my ammo last? God, I prayed so.
I became a machine. As fast as I could, I aimed, shot, and reloaded oblivious to the mayhem around me. My focus was targets, bigger and bigger targets.
“Johnson’s down,” Frankie yelled.
I couldn’t even glance at Johnson. The enemy was gaining ground and only twenty to thirty yards in front of our hole.
“Let him be. Throw grenades before we’re overrun. Now!”
A burn seared my left shoulder, but I kept aiming and firing, making each round count.
Frankie heaved grenades.
We were getting some unexpected help. The enemy continued dropping mortars right on top of their own men. Shit was flying everywhere.
All the firing and explosions blended into a constant chest-pounding noise. Fear drove me to scream every expletive I knew, but I couldn’t hear them.
I was down to two magazines. Forty rounds, and my worst nightmare would become reality. I’d be fighting hand-to-hand with these bastards. I didn’t think I could do that and live. What choice would I have, run?
Knowing we were about to be overran, I fumbled another magazine into the BAR. Then a loud roar came out of the blackness and two side-by-side F4U Corsairs came in low paralleling our line of defense. They were almost on top of us, their engines’ noise blocking the sound of battle. A second or two later and my world exploded into a napalm hell.
Eyes shut, I dropped to the bottom of the hole as blast furnace heat scorched my face and hands, sucking the air out from the foxhole. I resisted breathing for fear of searing my lungs. I had to be on fire. I was sure I would either vaporize or suffocate.
Hugging the ground, I heard the deep throated aircrafts fade away seemingly taking the unbearable heat with them. I lay still for a moment still holding my breath. Slowly I opened my eyes and could see. I gulped some air. I moved my arms. Then I remembered how close the enemy had been. My hand found the BAR, and I bolted to my feet and sighted over the piled dirt. The enemy was gone. Then the quiet slammed me with the reality that it was over, the battle was over.
I began shaking and couldn’t stop. Another line of flares ignited overhead. My legs felt cold and dread billowed through me. I didn’t want to look down and see what I was sure awaited me. A future in a wheelchair. I took a deep breath and peered downward. And then I chuckled. Before long I was wheezing with laughter and shock. Tears running down my face. I’d fucking wet my pants.
Kojo, North Korea
Dear Dad,
We’ve only been here two days, and we were attacked last night.
You didn’t tell me about everything that you experienced, did you?
Now I know why.
Chapter Twenty-One
A bandaged flesh wound on my left shoulder and a day later, our Kojo perimeter had been reinforced. And once again, Frankie and I shared a trench, but this time with twenty others and with both a thirty and fifty caliber machine guns. Unlike my BAR, the machine guns didn’t have flash hiders. The extra firepower was nice, but based on yesterday’s battle the automatic weapons rapidly became a target for the enemy.
I prayed we wouldn’t be attacked again tonight.
I wondered how much action my Bluffton buddies had seen, while I was at home safely with Sara. They had to have been as envious of me as I was now regretful about enlisting.
My friends had been here months longer than I. How many of these attacks had they experienced? And were they still sane? I doubted it.
As the sun slipped behind the mountains, I could sense the tension in our neck-deep hole.
“Man it’s colder than a well digger’s ass,” I said blowing into my hands and stomping my numb feet.
“Yeah, I know, and I’m wearing everything I own.” Frankie’s words each making a steam cloud. “How’s the arm?”
“It’s just a nick, a scratch.”
“Did ya go see a doc like Gunny told you to?”
“Yeah.” I nodded my head. “I felt so stupid going to the make-shift hospital. There were people there with unbelievable wounds, either life ending, or crippling, or permanently disfiguring. And there I sit with a scratch. But the nurses a
nd doctor were kind and treated me professionally. I don’t have to worry about an infection.”
“Great. You gonna get a Purple Heart?”
“I hope not.”
“That’d be cool, man. Somethin’ to show your kids.”
“It was a scratch.”
Frankie fidgeted with his gun. “Ah, Mick, after that slaughter last night, you don’t think they’ll come back tonight, do you? We must’ve killed a couple thousand of ’em.” His eyes widened, awaiting my response.
“Frankie, do I look like one of those gypsy fortune tellers? All I can tell you is that I wouldn’t doze off tonight if I were you.”
I picked a spot away from the machine guns and jammed the BAR’s bipod legs into the piled dirt. I took all of the magazines out of my ammo belt and stacked them next to the gun, plus ten more I had put in my pack.
“You’re makin’ me very nervous, Mick,” Frankie said.
“Why, because I’m stacking all this ammo?” I said.
“That too, but, uh, your hands are shaking.”
I looked down, wondering how many others had noticed my exposed fear. “I don’t want to ever have another night like last night, ever,” I whispered so none of the others could hear me. “Plus, I’m almost too tired to stand up. I couldn’t go to sleep this morning; I was too wired. If it hadn’t been for those Corsairs, we’d . . .” I blew out my remaining air, shaking my head.
“Yeah, maybe, but you and that gun made a difference, a big difference. You saved my ass.”
The vivid picture of the kid named Johnson, crumpled in the dirt with half of his head missing made my guts churn. “I didn’t save Johnson.”
A thought jolted me, making me grab Frankie hard by his arm. “Listen to me,” My harsh voice spitting my words. “If they come again tonight, don’t you depend on me to save you. Do you hear me? You’ve got to save yourself. Do you understand?”
Frankie peeled my fingers off his thin arm. “Sure, Mick . . . sure.” He moved away a couple of steps.
Mickey's Wars Page 7
