Mickey's Wars

by Dave McDonald

  Gulping air between coughs, I rolled off Richards onto my hands and knees. Stomach bile surged, and I gagged several times, until I spewed the contents of my stomach. Spitting vile-tasting acid, I crawled to the flashlight trapped under the rifle. I clutched the M-1 and jammed the butt to my wounded shoulder. Oblivious to the pain, I swiveled in the direction of Richards, my finger sliding onto the trigger.

  I grabbed the light, and it slipped from my trembling hand. I retrieved it and swept the darkness until I found Richards. He was on his back; his helmet off, lying in the dirt. His eyes were large and fixed, his mouth open as if desperately needing air, and both his hands grasped the Chinese arm sticking out of his blood-covered throat.

  I dropped the rifle and light, doubled over, and heaved again. I couldn’t believe there was anything left in me. Gagging, I finally sucked in some air.

  I straightened, retrieved the flashlight, and stared at Richards.

  What the fuck had I done?

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  I’d killed an American, a Marine.

  Alone in a dark tunnel ten thousand miles from Bluffton and my innocent youth, reality hammered me. Shaking from head to foot, I sucked in some air and spat.

  No, I’d killed an insane crook who was trying to kill me.

  “Rot in hell, you bastard,” I said to to Richards’ shadowed remains.

  I climbed out of the tunnel up to the dug out trench, shouldered my BAR, and pocketed the Sergeant’s flashlight, birthing a memory. I opened my coat and searched my pants pocket until I found my shell, my lucky shell.

  I had been lucky, very lucky.

  Palming my talisman, the shaking subsided. Then I carefully put my shell back in its secure place.

  I stuck my bloody gloved-hand in my coat pocket and carried my knapsack with my other clean gloved-hand.

  I needed to get my wound bandaged before, like so many others, I had missing chunks of flesh from frostbite. I had seen too much bluish-white to grayish-yellow skin.

  As I climbed out of the trench, I took a deep breath of cold air and blew out a steam cloud. I’d had enough of this place. Bent against the wind, I trudged back to our lines.

  Without saying a word, I returned the flashlight to the Sergeant from the Seventh Marines and walked through our lines like a Marine on orders. Then I searched until I found Gunny.

  “Find anything, Mackenzie?” Gunny asked, looking at my bag.

  “I, uh . . . all I found, Gunny, was Richards.”

  “What?” Gunny looked at me, head cocked.

  I removed my blood smeared gloved-hand from my pocket.

  “What the—”his eyes went from my hand up to the blood-stained slice in the arm of my coat—“you need a medic, kid.” He guided me to a jeep.

  “Is this your jeep, Gunny?” I asked, puzzled.

  “It is now. Get in and tell me what the hell’s going on.”

  Gunny drove me to the infirmary as I recounted my story. Then he left me to get stitched and patched.

  Ten stitches and a bandage later, Gunny returned and to my surprise, was alone. I thought for sure he’d bring an officer back with him and there would at least be an investigation. Instead he returned with a new, warm parka.

  “Put this on and come with me,” Gunny said.

  I did as he said, got in the jeep, and he drove through the remnants of the village.

  “Gunny, I—”

  “Don’t say nothin’, kid,” Gunny interrupted. “It’s taken care of. Richards was a prick and a thief, and if rumors are true, probably a killer; a disgrace to the uniform. He got what he deserved. Now he’s another KIA, though he didn’t earn the right to be in the same category with all those fine young Marines who gave their lives for their country. But he’s bagged and tagged and soon to be shipped out of here. Just a number to the brass; that’s all. Are you okay?”

  I studied the man in the late afternoon light. He had to be in his late thirties; a World War Two veteran, like my dad. Why was he here? Why would anyone choose to fight in another war after surviving a prior one? I didn’t know the answer; I was just glad he was here.

  I braced and saluted him. “Yes sir, Gunnery Sergeant Mattson, sir.”

  Dear Mick,

  We love and miss you so.

  As you can imagine, it took us a while to absorb your news. The thought of being called a grandmother is both bothersome and wonderful.

  The more I think about it, the more I long to hold another baby, your baby, our grandchild.

  Your dad and I went to visit Sara. You were right; I was judgmental and wrong. She’s lovely and sweet.

  Your dad and I talked when we got home and . . . well, to heck with the neighbors.

  We called Sara. After a lot of talking, prodding, and your dad’s voiced concern over the paper mill’s smell in Savannah having an adverse effect on the baby, Sara has decided to move in with us.

  I’m excited about turning the spare bedroom into a baby’s room.

  Please be careful, and may God hear our prayers and watch over you,

  Love,

  Mom

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The surrounding snow-covered mountain peaks sparkled like they were made of diamonds in the early morning sun. The azure cloudless sky contrasted with the deep virgin snow covering my world.

  I would’ve marveled at the beauty of the scene, but the sub-zero temperature, along with the cutting wind, added to my on-going shakes. Freezing-to-death was the least of my concerns, I was surrounded by several Chinese armies that wanted to kill me and the remnants of the twenty-eight thousand Marines I had come here with.

  Wearing most of what I owned and lugging everything else of importance in my backpack, I was in a long line of marching leathernecks. Since being in Korea, death had stalked me, but never as close as now. I should have been beside myself with fear, but instead I had this little internal flame of joy growing with every step I took. We were marching south, away from the frozen Chosin Reservoir, toward a sea port where we would be evacuated from North Korea. For the first time since our landing in this death-filled country, I had hope; hope of possibly surviving this ‘Police Action’.

  Now, all we had to do was break through the surrounding Chinese armies and go seventy-five miles through the coldest winter a South Carolina boy could never imagine.

  I’d traveled this road before, when I came north. We’d lost a lot of good Marines climbing into these mountains on that ill-fated advance.

  With the Seventh Marine Battalion on point and tanks leading the column, we, the First Marines, were humping on the right flank and the provisional Army battalion was on the left. The Third Marines were our rear guard with the Fifth defending Hagaru-ri’s perimeter until the miles-long evacuation convoy departed. This single-file convoy consisted of tanks fore and aft of hundreds of trucks loaded with our wounded and dead, plus supplies. Overhead, several deep-throated F4U Corsairs zoomed, crisscrossing, providing close air support.

  I couldn’t decide if plodding through calf-deep snow felt good in the artic-like temperatures because of the exercise, or because we were leaving. Both were great.

  Within twenty minutes after the convoy began to roll, gunfire erupted both in our front and rear. My stomach braced for another secretion of adrenaline, this one worse than all my prior jolts. This dose of fear tested my hope, for it was audible proof we were surrounded. And these Chinese bastards didn’t want to chase us out of North Korea. They wanted to bury every one of us right here.

  Once the combat started, it seemed like it took us half the morning to cover a mile. We, flanking the middle of the column, had not engaged the enemy. The hills on both sides of the hundreds of our vehicles on the snow-covered road were occupied by Marines.

  However, when the Marines from the Seventh finally moved forward off the hills to sustain the breakout, they were immediately replaced by Chinese and the shit began.

  The convoy stopped as enemy mortars from both ridgelines bracketing the roa
d exploded in the valley, spewing snow and rocks followed by adjusted rounds getting closer and closer to the exposed long line of vehicles. Then small arms fire could be heard pinging off the trucks’ cabs and tanks’ armor as they whizzed in the air over our heads.

  The Corsairs came together and dove, strafing and bombing the enemy on the hilltops.

  Gunny, screaming over the diving planes and between explosions and motioning with his carbine, divided us into fire-teams. I was in his squad.

  I loved Gunny. His advice and guidance had saved me more than once. But I also loved this flickering seed of hope growing inside of me. And I didn’t want it extinguished, not now.

  He ordered five of us to advance up the mountain with him, and the rest of the squads to provide cover fire from behind whatever natural protection they could find.

  And so the hell returned and stayed mile after blood-splattered mile all the way to Koto-ri. On the way north, this quiet little village high up on the eastern slope of the Taebaek Mountains had been my only respite from fighting since landing in North Korea. I doubted there be any peace there today if we lingered very long.

  We had left a blood trail from Hagaru-ri to Koto-ri; many dead, mostly theirs but too many of ours.

  I’d promised myself not to get attached to anyone after losing both Frankie and then Tony. Gunny had warned me. But wouldn’t you know it, it was the body of Gunny I had cradled in my arms on that trail. My confessor, mentor and friend was gone forever, a painful memory.

  After waiting for the engineers to repair two blown bridges along the way, and only a few light skirmishes, the convoy rolled into Koto-ri, with me walking along side. The Marines occupying the town were as glad to see us as we were to see them. Together, we were going to get out of this country.

  Planes flew in and out all day and all night, removing the dead and wounded and bringing in supplies. The smell of jet fuel mingled with the village smells of garlic-based kimchi and fish-head soup.

  Gunnery Sergeant Brandon Earl Mattson was finally on his way home; never to leave again; no more wars for Gunny. Bagged and tagged.

  Was that how I would leave this country too?

  No.

  I told Sara I’d come home to her. And I would and not in a wooden box.

  We pitched tents and settled in for the night.

  We were told we’d be pulling out in the morning. The remnants of all the regiments of the division along with over 1400 vehicles would roll toward Hungnam, a seaport where ships waited for us.

  I wasn’t sure where I’d be tomorrow, leading, flanking, or protecting our rear. I really didn’t care, just as long as we were moving south.

  I was bone-tired, too tired to sleep. I needed to write a letter tonight for tomorrow . . . well tomorrow couldn’t be counted on, regardless of my luck.

  Koto-ri, North Korea

  Dear Sara,

  I’d like to forget all about this war except for Gunny Sergeant Brandon Earl Mattson. I will always remember Gunny. You would’ve liked him, everyone did. He had a big heart, a contagious smile, and limitless courage. Gunny was in the big war with my dad. And he stayed in the corps probably because soldiering was all he knew. Thank God he stayed. He had a purpose, whether it was his or God’s, who knew. He saved countless lives here, mine included.

  My guardian angel was taken from me today. Gunny’s going home. His wars are over.

  But the man will live on inside me; his words advising, warning, pushing me. God willing, Gunny will never leave me.

  With that in mind, what do you think of Brandon as a boy’s name, and Mattie if it’s a girl?

  By the time you get this, I’ll be out of this country. I’m starting to believe Dad’s lucky piece does have magical powers. Thanks for inscribing it and sending it.

  When I get back home, I don’t think I’ll ever eat pork and beans again.

  How are you and Mom and Dad getting along? Are you sleeping in my room?

  I know we have a lot to talk about. But right now all that matters is you stayed.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The next morning, it was snowing, hard. The flakes clung to my stubble and eyelashes when the 7th Marines lead us south out of Koto-ri. And to think I used to complain about winters in South Carolina.

  We were going to Chinhung-ni, another Marine held village, hopefully another bastion of safety.

  I was back on the convoy’s right flank, clomping along on the side of a hill in mid-calf–deep snow. Stepping on a snow-buried rock was almost as much fun as stepping in a hole. My glove-covered fingers ached with the cold.

  We were close to the column because the visibility was shit. I couldn’t believe I used to love Bing Crosby’s ‘White Christmas’ and envy the northerners with their snow.

  We hadn’t gone very far, maybe a mile or two when the incessant drone of the nearby engines was interrupted by gun fire, in front of the column. The convoy stopped.

  Crouched behind a clump of rocks on a hillside in the white gloom with hundreds of other 1st Marines, I listened to the sounds of battle at the front of the column. My mouth was dry, and when I fumbled for my canteen, I noticed my hands were shaking again.

  The noise of battle and the thought of being involved in another fight caused my stomach to knot with fear. My first thought was to tell my new Sergeant, whatever his name was, that I was sick, real sick, too sick to fight. As if this were school and I could call in. What a joke.

  Throughout my teens, I had often heard my dad say, “There is only so much a person can handle.” I had clearly reached my limit. But there was a war going on, and it was between me and getting home.

  A Marine near me inserted his bayonet on the tip of his rifle, causing me to scan my comrades. None of them were clean shaven, and all of them had bags under their eyes like they hadn’t slept in weeks. And their eyes, they were void of emotion, like they . . . like they had lost part of their souls.

  Sara, God I loved her, was wise beyond her years.

  I rubbed the stubble on my chin, making me wonder if I looked like them. Did I look that bad, that inhuman? If not, why not? We’d all been subjected to the same insanity?

  Going from one to another, I watched each of them, in their own way, prepare to fight. I was surrounded by men who had all reached or exceeded their limits. None of them wanted to fight anymore, but they would.

  I released a big sigh and checked my magazine to make sure it was full, wondering if we’d ever make it out of here.

  A sergeant appeared and ordered us to follow him. I sighed heavily and joined the other men gathered around a colonel.

  “Men,” the tall red cheeked colonel said, “the convoy’s stopped because the enemy has blown the Funchilin Pass Bridge.” He paused as if to let the impact of his information sink in. “Our vanguard, the Seventh, assaulted the hills on our side of the bridge. All they encountered were hundreds of frozen Chinese. But south of the bridge, the Chinese occupy Hill”, he glanced at a map with a pen light, “1081, and they’re preventing us from repairing the bridge.”

  His words made the snow, my helmet, my pack, everything heavier.

  He folded the map. “The battle you’re hearing is the First Marines from Chinhung-ni. They’ve come north to open the road for us. And they’re assaulting Hill 1081.” A smile creased his face.

  A cheer erupted though dampened by the snowfall. Hope was alive and well.

  “While we wait, spread the flanks to the hill tops. I want command of the high ground on both sides of the column. We’ll send someone to pull you in when we can move again. Oh, and pray for this friggin’ snow to stop. Dismissed.”

  What I prayed for was that we wouldn’t find any Chinese alive on top of this mountain I was about to climb.

  Chapter Forty

  The line of leathernecks to either side of me trudging up the mountain disappeared in the snowfall. Lugging a pack containing my important stuff plus all the ammo and grenades I could carry up a mountain in snow was a bitch. I missed my am
mo carrying buddies in many ways. Hell, life was a bitch, but we all clung to it.

  A pair of eyes bundled under a helmet in front of me stopped. He held out his hands and looked up. “As my ol’ grandpap always said, ‘I think it’s startin’ to stop.’” Then he trudged on, up the mountain.

  His words ‘startin’ to stop’ for some reason stuck to me, as if they had found a home.

  When we reached the summit, there wasn’t a trace of the enemy. And as if in response to all our prayers and the unknown Marine’s ol’ grandpap, the snow stopped, revealing golden sunshine. In a matter of minutes, the Marine Corsairs arrived and began pulverizing a mountain south of us, which had to be Hill 1081. As each of the planes made their runs and pulled away, an explosion of rock and dirt or a plume of napalm-fire erupted on the hillside.

  I wondered if the damned Chinese had time to dig tunnels this time?

  Four sorties and a can of C-rations’ friggin’ pork and beans later, the battle was over.

  Sitting on a rock, soaking up the sun’s rays, I heard the drone of more aircraft. I searched the skies and saw eight black blobs approaching. When the slow moving aircraft got closer, I could tell they were C-119 Flying Boxcars. And as they circled low over our lead area, they took turns discharging something large. When giant chutes deployed, I could discern bridge segments floating to earth.

  I prayed the wind didn’t blow the laden chutes off target.

  Miraculously, that afternoon, we were across the three-hour reconstructed bridge over the Funchilin Pass.

  Three hours. Unbelievable. God bless the engineers.

  The next morning, we marched into Hamhung, the seaport.