I aimed and shot the enemy soldier twice in the chest causing him to lose his rifle. The soldier dropped to his knees. Then he fumbled in the snow and found his rifle.
I aimed and squeezed the trigger again, but my fucking BAR was empty.
I bolted out of the hole and in four or five steps slammed into the Chink knocking him backwards. Then I slammed the butt of the BAR into his face.
No more Frankies, not if I could help it.
The snow above me kicked skyward as Marines below me provided covering fire.
I grabbed Tony and slid with him back into the crater.
“Ammo! I need ammo,” I said close to Tony.
He pulled off his ammo belt and gave it to me with trembling hands. “Thanks, Mick.”
“Go! Get your ass down the hill. I’ll cover you.”
I reloaded and emptied the magazine at whatever targets I could find as Tony did a belly slid down the hill.
Marines scampered down the hill. Then I reloaded and rolled out of the bottom of the crater. Laying on my back I slid down the hill; snow puffing into the air around me.
I maneuvered from hole to hole down the hill, stopping to give cover fire to other retreating Marines.
When I could no longer see any targets through the blinding snow, I pushed to my feet and ran down the fucking hill past several dead Marines.
In the ditch, panting, I stood arms spread, and yelled, “What the fuck did that accomplish? Can someone please tell me?”
Chapter Thirty
In the ditch at the bottom of East Hill, one by one, Marines piled in next me. Puffing, swearing, and bleeding, they took up defensive positions on both sides of me.
Gunny came running from a meeting with the Lieutenants at the bottom of the hill and waved for us to follow him.
He took us to an idling supply truck. “Load up with all the ammo and grenades you can carry. The flyboys say the Chinese are massing for another assault on our western perimeter. G Company’s assigned to the high ground just south and west of East Hill. They’re gonna need all the help they can git. Let’s go men, on the double. The Chinese won’t wait for you.”
I hunkered in the penetrating sub-zero temperature in another hole on a knob in the dark with a bunch of Marines I didn’t know and didn’t care to know. I struggled to keep my eyes open, my body ached and shuddered with the cold and fatigue. But the worse part was the crater in my heart, filled with sadness. Tony wasn’t accounted for; missing, which normally meant KIA.
First Frankie and now maybe Tony. I never wanted to know the name of another Marine; never.
The snow had stopped falling, replaced by stillness; weird fist-clenching silence entombed with blackness. I’d never get used to it.
I finished stacking ammo on the rim of the hole. My growling stomach caused me to realize I was famished. I opened a C-ration of pork and beans and devoured them with trembling hands. And I didn’t care if anyone saw my hands. I didn’t care about anyone, or what they thought.
Fuck’em.
If the Chinese wanted me, let them come and get me.
Fuck them too!
The silence was broken by our tanks pulling into position at the bottom of East Hill. I didn’t know why and didn’t care. I was too tired to think or worry.
I didn’t realize I’d dozed off until a mortar exploded close by. I jerked upright, shook the sleep out of my head, and checked my BAR. Then as more shells exploded I dove for the bottom of the hole.
Chapter Thirty-One
When I thought the enemy couldn’t have any more mortars, they kept dropping. My molars had to be cracked from all the teeth-clenching. Maybe Tony had been right. Maybe we should’ve talked about God earlier tonight, particularly for Tony’s sake. Although God may have not saved him, there had to be some reason none of these what-seemed-like-hundreds of shells hadn’t found my hole.
Then a thought struck me, cowering in the frozen dirt. My mind had been drifting all around this thought for days. God didn’t matter; nothing mattered. No one was going to save me. I was already dead. My number just hadn’t come up yet. So why give a shit? How many more battles could I survive? It was just a matter of time; first Frankie, then Tony, so many nameless others, and soon me. All I needed to concentrate on was taking out as many of the fucking enemy as I could before I died. Simple.
Finally, the mortars stopped. Seconds passed, and though I knew what was coming, I took advantage of the lull. I released a long sigh, stood up, and stretched, relieving my tightly coiled body.
A bugle blared as if amplified by a megaphone.
Not another fucking bugle.
A shudder rippled through me. I took a deep breath.
Com’on you fuckers.
I jammed the bipod on my BAR into the stacked dirt, and slid the selector to automatic.
My hands weren’t shaking!
Then I heard the building roar of thousands of men.
“Flares!” yelled someone from a hole or two over.
De-ja fucking-vu!
I embraced the life-saving BAR; pulling her butt against my shoulder with my stock-holding hand, caressing her grip with my cheek, and lightly touching her trigger with my finger. We were as one. The BAR was my only reliable companion, my protector, my savior.
The blurred hell came and stayed way too long.
I was in my own little world. I saw none of my mates. All I could see was a small section directly in front of me jammed with running, screaming men. Fewer men who weren’t as close as before. Men who were retreating. But men I kept killing.
“Fall back, fall back,” someone yelled, refocusing my mind.
A few Marines rolled out of their holes near me and sprinted down the back side of the knob; some moved slower carrying others.
I glanced around. There were bodies everywhere. Fifteen or twenty empty magazines were at my feet. The smell of burnt gunpowder and singed human flesh hung in the air.
The contagion spread along the entire line in seconds. Our guys were running away, and I was one of them. Just when I was sure, I’d be shot in the back by the surging enemy, the top of the hill erupted in explosions as our artillery supported our retreat.
Once I started running, I couldn’t stop. All the gore and hell I’d been surrounded by in that knob-top hole, all the fear accrued since I’d landed in this place of death was chasing me. I wanted to flee to the coast and swim away.
Then it stopped; the shooting, the shelling, the screaming all stopped; including me.
The enemy either had run out of men or quit sending them. There were no more to be seen or heard. It was over.
I wasn’t sure, but I think I had been holding my breath through the whole nightmare.
I looked around, and I was alone near the runway.
I uncurled my death-grip on the BAR, dropped to my knees, and threw up, gagging and starving for air, until there was nothing left but hollow, shaking, insanity.
Later in my tent I sat down to write Sara but couldn’t concentrate. My answer to her was too important for me to write in my state of mine.
I thought I might be able to right the ship if I unloaded all my baggage in a letter to Dad.
Hagaru-ri, North Korea
Dear Dad,
Last night I visited Hell, and I think I stayed too long.
I read and reread my opening in the letter and then ripped it up; and rewrote it.
Hagaru-ri, North Korea
Dear Dad,
Hope you and Mom are great. Please give her a kiss and hug from me.
And don’t let Jeffie grow up too soon. I . . .
Chapter Thirty-Two
I lay wrapped in two blankets, zipped up in my sleeping bag, and stared, shivering at the tent roof. The burning kerosene stove did little to offset the cold. All it really added was an offensive smell and a heated surface to cook and make coffee.
I’d tried to eat when we were relieved from the hill but couldn’t. I think picking through the enemy carnage on that hill destro
yed any appetite I had. But we were ordered to check for survivors for questioning. As far as I could see, most of the Marines were in such a state of fear mixed with hatred that they killed any enemy found alive; at least that was what I used for my excuse.
I needed sleep; an escape from the realities of my world, a world that couldn’t last much longer. Either I was going to die or lose my mind.
Near dawn sleep came, but not for long. A shell exploded nearby, shaking the ground. My three tent-mates and I, from the six of us who had gone up that friggin’ hill last night, bolted, slipping and sliding for the bunkers. Thanks to our fly boys’ control of the skies, the shelling of our bivouac normally didn’t last too long; the enemy gunners couldn’t risk much exposure.
Nine or ten ground-erupting concussions later, we were back in our bags. But there was no way I could sleep now. Those artillery-lobbing gooks had accomplished their goal. My demons, and I had many since landing in Korea, had taken charge of my mind.
I got up and put a tin of water over some heat. A cup or two of thick Army-coffee later, I cleaned my blood-splattered BAR, inside and out.
Just as I finished re-assembling my weapon, the tent flap jerked open, and Richards walked in, emitting a steam cloud.
“Damn, it’s cold.” He blew on his hands. “It took me a while, but I found you, Mackenzie. Lucky you. And looky here, ya got three friends; more contributors to my charity. Speakin’ of contributions, the paymaster just paid us today. My timing is perfect, wouldn’t ya say? Since this is the first time for you rookies, I’d say fifty percent would be fair.”
My tent-mates looked at Richards and then at me in disbelief.
Korea had destroyed everything my parents had drilled into me about right and wrong. There were no rules, no morals, and no laws, there was just survival.
Without taking my eyes off Richards, I slapped a magazine into the BAR and chambered a round. I could’ve done that in my sleep. I pointed the rifle at his gut as my finger found the trigger.
“I’d say your timing is pretty shitty, asshole. You picked the wrong guy on the wrong day. You know,” I tilted my head, “you’re starting to look more and more Chinese. I’d advise you to get out and stay out.”
Although my eyes were locked on Richards, by the noises and movements around me, I knew that there were now four loaded weapons pointing at this intruder. And for the second time, thanks to Richards, I didn’t feel alone and not nearly as cold in this land of death.
Richards’ eyes scanned everyone in the tent. He took a step back. “Are you and your pussy-friends threatening me, Mackenzie?” his voice a shade deeper.
“No, I’m offering survival tips, no charge.”
Richards went to the entrance and turned back to face me. His black eyes glared. “You just made a big mistake, punk.”
Hagaru-ri, North Korea
Dear Sara,
I pray you haven’t left the apartment yet and receive this letter.
I now understand why you never told me you were married. We went from strangers to lovers in a wink. So I forgive you. I pray you forgive me for leaving.
Your news of being with my child should probably scare a young eighteen-year-old soon-to-be-father. But I’m no longer young.
I want to be part of our child’s life. Even though you and I have some rather major issues facing us, none of our problems are our child’s issues.
If I get out of this hell hole alive, I want you to get a divorce and marry me. Hopefully I can get my old job back at the mill, and go to night school. And don’t worry about your past, we’ll find a way to make it.
Don’t run away.
I was never really alive until I met you.
Please stay.
If you need to leave Savannah, I’ll write my parents. I’m sure they’ll let you move in with them. You’ll like them. And I’m sure they’ll quickly fall in love with you, just as I did.
Please remember, this is our child, not your child.
Though we only had a few months together, we were happy.
I love you.
Pray for me, for us,
Mick
Dear Mick,
We love your letters and miss you beyond words. Thanksgiving won’t be the same without you.
I never wanted you to experience war. Men assume they fight to make this world a better place and to preclude their children from fighting. And yet, three generations of us Mackenzies have fought. What is wrong with this world?
I’ll sum up everything I learned in war for you: keep your buddies alive, and they’ll reciprocate.
Your mom, Jeffie, and I are fine.
May God watch over you,
Love,
Dad
Hagaru-ri, North Korea
Dear Dad,
Great buddy advice, I’m there.
Feel like I’ve aged ten maybe twenty years. War’s an extremely tiring process.
This place is so cold I . . .
Chapter Thirty-Three
Gunny came into our tent just before sundown.
Grumbling, I reached for my gear as did the others.
“Hold up,” Gunny said with a hand out. “What was left of the enemy has pulled back except for the East Hill. The fly boys can’t find any massed threat nearby. The airfield is repaired and reinforcements came in today. You boys get a rest.”
Despite being too tired to think, a group cheer erupted.
“Get some chow and sleep. The wounded and,” he hesitated as if haunted by bad memories, “and our dead have been evacuated. Remember where you are. Don’t get too far away from your gear. Okay?”
“Hey, Gunny, did Betty Grable happen to be on one of those inbound flights?” the stout Ohio kid asked. “I heard she was missing me.”
“In your dreams, Smitty.” Gunny gazed at the dirt floor for a long moment. “You boys have made me proud,” he said without looking up.
The silence inside the tent screamed that each and all of us would do whatever this man asked us to do.
He pulled on the strap of his shouldered carbine and looked at us. “There’s hot chow in the mess tent. Go get it before it frigin’ freezes like everything else in this shithole.”
He turned and bolted out of our tent as if admitting his pride had been like saying the wrong thing to an in-law.
I bundled up in all the clothes I owned, plus my ammo belt and BAR because fear didn’t go away here, ever.
I had never been colder than on my walk to the mess tent. I attributed my awareness of the constant cold to my lack of adrenaline. I most probably wasn’t going to fight today.
Chow was a hot, late but great Thanksgiving meal that damned near foundered me. It was the best meal I could remember eating, and it ended with me more stuffed than the turkey.
I couldn’t help but notice for the first time since the landing craft ride, my hands didn’t shake when I ate. And even though I was always scared, I think I was too tired to worry about dying anymore.
Nothing bothered me, not today.
I wrote a couple of letters, one to Sara and one to Dad. Then I bundled up in my bag and either went to sleep or passed out. Whichever, I didn’t wake up until the next day. And when I did, the reality of my situation crushed me. I had trouble catching my breath. I knew death was waiting just outside my tent.
Hagaru-ri Dec. 2, 1950
North Korea
Dear Sara,
Love you.
My older buddies tell me pregnant women get morning sickness. Are you sick?
Please, please stay in Bluffton.
I so want to tell my parents I’m going to be a dad.
Can you imagine you and I as parents?
I pray the child looks like you.
I will come home to you. Wait for me.
Together we can overcome the mess you’ve gotten yourself into.
I’m in the mountains and there are these little villages, and for the life of me I don’t know how anyone could live here. The weather . . .
&
nbsp; Dear Dad,
God bless the corps of engineers. The airfield is operable and reinforcements arrived along with mail. And we got a break.
Though a few days late, we had a fantastic, hot Thanksgiving meal today. But not as good as Mom’s.
Tell Jeffie I said for him to eat his peas, and that two Marines in one family is more than enough.
The wounded were evacuated. Good for them.
Rumors are some guys shot themselves just to get out of here. And though I hate to admit it, the thought crossed my mind.
The insanity of war is overwhelming. It challenges my faith. Now all your words on the porch swing that day so long ago have so much more meaning.
There must be a better way to resolve things.
If my words don’t make sense, it’s because I’m tired, really tired. I probably shouldn’t be writing.
Oh, I don’t think I told you I’m a BAR man.
I love my BAR. I sleep with it, or at least parts of it; the firing mechanism, to keep it warm and operable.
Chapter Thirty-Four
A few days later, a parade of thousands of haggard, dirty US Marines, US Army, ROK, and UN troops, from the village of Yudam-ni in the Chosin Reservoir, rolled into Hagaru-ri in trucks. The convoy, interspersed with tanks, artillery, and make-shift ambulances stretched for miles. They hadn’t left much behind.
I couldn’t imagine how we must have looked to them, equally dirty and shell-shocked, but our combined numbers were a security blanket we all needed. And until this moment, all of us had been desperately in short supply of something, anything, positive to cling to and savor.
Mickey's Wars Page 11
