Combat- Parallel Lines

by William Peter Grasso

  “Are you okay, Marine?” he asked the man.

  “I’m just resting before I go back up for another load.”

  Ramsay replied, “You mean there are more wounded still on the mountain?”

  The man nodded. But the gesture seemed otherworldly; Ramsay felt sure there was something not right with this Marine. He climbed down from the tank for a face-to-face talk.

  As he approached, the man saw the stripes stenciled on the sleeves of Ramsay’s tanker’s jacket and rose unsteadily to his feet. Once standing, the gunny could see the dried blood staining the front of his unzipped parka. It didn’t take much of an inspection to realize the man had a serious abdominal wound.

  “What’s your name, Marine?”

  “My name’s Morton, Gunny. PFC. Charlie Company, First of the Seventh Marines.”

  Ramsay called out for a corpsman. A corporal walking nearby replied, “Ain’t no corpsmen down here, Gunny. They’re all too busy up the mountain.”

  As they talked, Ramsay checked Morton’s wound. Pushing the front of the open parka aside, he could see the woolen shirt and long johns had been torn apart just above the belt line. Beneath lay a jagged tear in his lower abdomen several inches long…

  But there was no blood flowing from it. And this private seemed oblivious to the grievous wound.

  When Ramsay touched the area around the wound, he understood why: This blood is frozen! It’s sealed the puncture.

  He resisted the urge to zip up Morton’s parka. The man didn’t show any signs of hypothermia…

  And if this wound gets warmed up, the blood’ll thaw, and he’ll probably bleed to death before I can get him to Hagaru.

  “C’mon, Morton, you’re coming with me. I’m going to get you up on the deck of this tank.”

  “No, Gunny…I’m okay. The other guys up there…they need me. They need all the help they can get.”

  “Maybe so, Morton, but that help won’t be coming from you, at least not until a doc fixes you up. Now climb up on the vehicle. That’s an order, Marine.”

  *****

  A mile from Hagaru, three men jumped into the road in front of Ramsay’s tank-turned-ambulance, waving their arms frantically for her to stop. They were obviously not Asian and wore American uniforms, but he could tell from fifty feet away they weren’t Marines.

  Two of them weren’t carrying weapons. All of them looked like they were running for their lives. As the Pershing rolled to a stop, they tried to climb onto her bow.

  Ramsay yelled down from the turret hatch, “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU ARMY PUKES DOING ON THIS SIDE OF THE RESERVOIR?”

  They started babbling like crazy men, rambling about how the Chinese had attacked by the millions, and how they had no interest in committing suicide by actually trying to fight them.

  “We ain’t the only ones who feel that way, either,” a weaponless GI said, as if offering justification for their flight.

  “SHUT UP FOR A SECOND,” Ramsay said. “JUST HOW THE HELL DID YOU GET ALL THE WAY OVER HERE? WHAT’D YOU DO? RUN RIGHT THROUGH HAGARU WITHOUT STOPPING?”

  “NO, WE RAN ACROSS THE LAKE,” the GI still with a weapon replied.

  “ACROSS THE RESERVOIR? ARE YOU SHITTING ME?”

  “NO! NO SHIT! IT’S FROZEN. WE JUST RAN ACROSS.”

  “WELL, YOU SHOULD’VE FUCKING FELL IN,” Ramsay replied. “ANY OF YOU DESERTERS WOUNDED?”

  Their blank expressions told him none of them were.

  “THEN GET OFF MY TANK, YOU CHICKENSHIT ASSHOLES. IT’S FOR WOUNDED ONLY, NOT BUG-OUT BASTARDS LIKE YOU.”

  Chapter Five

  The only good thing the GIs of 24th Division could say about their sudden nighttime withdrawal to Pyongyang was that it incurred very few wounded and none killed. But two days later, the chaos resulting from that botched motor march in darkness still hadn’t been completely sorted out. Twenty-Sixth Regiment had arrived at its designated sector only to find the battalions of 17th Regiment clogging the area; this was the same unit that had panicked and withdrawn too early, precipitating that unnecessary night battle beneath the Firefly ship’s brilliant flares. The demoralized and apathetic troops of the 17th milled around as if establishing a defensive line was somebody else’s problem. The lack of direction in that outfit wasn’t rectified until General Bishop—the 24th Division commander—relieved the regimental commander on the spot during a rare visit to his frontline units.

  That change of command, of course, brought its own disorder as the new commander tried to quickly reforge the unit to his liking. But at least it moved the 17th Regiment troops out of 26th Regiment’s way.

  A few other outfits—both American and ROK—still hadn’t fully regrouped, with platoons and even entire companies not yet accounted for.

  “The sad thing about all this confusion,” Jock Miles said, “is that we created it ourselves by not sticking to plans. We haven’t seen Joe Chink since that night fight at the crossroads south of Sunchon.”

  But every man in the 26th knew the absence of Chinese couldn’t last long. Patchett summed it up this way: “Even if them chinks are on crutches, them bastards’ll be here by tonight.”

  The relief of a regimental commander wasn’t the only administrative change suddenly disrupting the division. General Bishop informed Jock, “Say goodbye to your Australian battalion, Miles. They’re to become part of the newly formed Commonwealth Brigade.”

  “Effective when, sir?” Jock asked.

  “Today, Miles, today. You can manage that, can’t you?”

  “That depends, sir. Who am I getting to replace the Aussies?”

  “You’re getting an outfit from Third Division, fresh from the States.”

  Great, Jock thought. A battalion that’s green from head to toe.

  “Can I at least assume they’re at full strength, General?”

  “Yes, Miles, you can.”

  I’m afraid they won’t be for long. Not until they get their feet wet…or frozen, as the case may be.

  Then Bishop said, “I’m doing you another favor, too, Miles. I’m giving you an additional battery of one-oh-fives.”

  “That’s good news, sir. Who are they?”

  “Baker Battery, Fifty-Third Artillery.”

  *****

  As soon as Bishop drove off, Patchett asked Jock, “You know who Fifty-Third Artillery is, don’t you, sir?”

  “No. You’d better tell me, Top.”

  “They’re them colored boys from Second Division. A lot of people are saying their fire support was so piss-poor that Eighth Army ain’t got no choice but to break that battalion up.” Lowering his voice, he added, “Before they get lynched.”

  “From what I’ve heard, Top, the performance of the entire Second Division wasn’t so hot. Got themselves way over their heads and never came back up.”

  “Be that as it may, sir, but you know as well as I do that shit flows downhill...and them colored boys are always gonna be at the bottom of the hill.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Jock replied. “But right now, I’m more worried about this new infantry battalion we’re inheriting to replace the Aussies.”

  “Me too, sir. They won’t be worth a bucket of warm spit for a while. I reckon you wanna make them regimental reserve as soon as they get here?”

  “Yeah, we’ve got no choice, Top.”

  Jock looked pained as he settled gingerly onto a camp stool, his bad leg stretched stiffly before him.

  “It’s acting up bad, ain’t it, sir?” Patchett asked.

  “Yeah. It’s hurting like a son of a bitch today. But I’ve got to get out there and inspect how the digging in is coming along, so—”

  “Negative, sir. Let me take care of it.”

  Jock started to protest but thought better of it. “Okay, Top. I’d appreciate you doing that.”

  *****

  The digging in was going better than Patchett expected, considering the challenges Mother Nature was throwing at them. This ground’s frozen like a sumbitchin’ rock,
he told himself, and so is that damn Taedong River that’s supposed to be the moat to this castle of ours. It’s just too narrow around these parts. Iced up like it is, it won’t be stopping no chinks all by itself, that’s for damn sure. We already figured out it’s thick enough that a deuce won’t even fall through, since one of our drivers got hisself lost and drove right out onto the damn thing. A horde of chinks in tennis shoes sure as hell ain’t gonna fall through, neither.

  But Sean Moon, with a little help from the engineers, had figured out how to dig into the rock-hard turf.

  “You infantry-types don’t stand a prayer trying to dig into this frozen shit,” Sean said, “so on this flat stretch along the river, we took a dozer tank and dug out some nice big trenches for you. Then the engineers got a coupla deuce-loads full of wood and framed up some forms down in those trenches for the heavy weapons, like they was gonna pour cement. Then we filled the dirt back in around the forms…and you have yourself a dug-in firing position. As a bonus, your riflemen are using the leftover dirt and wood to make bunkers for themselves with overhead cover. No digging required, just some toting.”

  “Well, don’t the sun rise outta your asshole, Bubba,” Patchett replied.

  “Only on certain days, Top, this being one of ’em. The only trouble is, we can’t do this trick everywhere, like in the thickly wooded areas or on the steeper hills.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it much. That’s where your tanks and the reserve battalion’s gonna be, anyway.”

  Sean asked, “Speaking of reserves, did that new battalion show up yet? They got big shoes to fill. I got a bad feeling we’re gonna miss them Aussies like crazy.”

  “Amen to that, Bubba.”

  *****

  Just after 1500 hours, the new battalion commander reported to Jock’s CP, a lieutenant colonel named Mike Beemon. He breezed in as if making a social call. His field uniform and boots looked immaculate, like he’d just stepped off the parade ground. He wore a big class ring on his finger, but it wasn’t from West Point.

  After the usual round of introductions, Jock began to take Beemon’s measure. “What’s your combat experience, Mike?” he asked.

  His long and rambling reply couldn’t mask one simple fact: Lieutenant Colonel Beemon’s combat experience amounted to zero. He’d spent his overseas time in the last war as a paper-pusher in Omar Bradley’s European headquarters, living in hotels and mansions across England, France, Belgium, and Germany.

  I figure this guy’s biggest hardship was when his laundry didn’t show up on time, Jock told himself.

  “Have you ever commanded a rifle company, Mike?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Where?”

  “Fort Benning.”

  “In Georgia,” Jock said. “Not exactly a war zone. When was that?”

  The answer was just what Jock expected: prior to December 1941.

  This man never heard a shot fired in anger in his entire career, let alone led men who were in harm’s way. Somebody told him if he wants that star on his shoulder, he’d better get some combat command time, so here he is.

  Lucky me.

  Jock asked, “Where’d you go to school, Mike?”

  “VMI, sir.”

  Virginia Military Institute, the alma mater of General George Marshall...I would’ve put money on that. No wonder he’s had nothing but cushy staff jobs—he’s a Marshall minion.

  He noticed Beemon examining his own ringless finger.

  Anticipating the question, Jock said, “I went to the Point. Lost the ring somewhere in the jungle during the Papua campaign.”

  “Ah, that’s too bad, sir. Papua…that must’ve been tough duty.”

  “It was.” The throbbing of pain in his leg seemed to intensify as he said it, as if the old wound didn’t need to be reminded of that ordeal, either.

  “So you’ve worked for MacArthur before, sir?”

  Jock didn’t think he could sound any less enthused as he replied, “Yeah, I’ve had the pleasure.”

  Then Beemon said, “I’ve been told the other battalions in this regiment are all commanded by majors. Is that the case, Colonel?”

  “Yes, it is, Mike. So what?”

  “Well, sir, it means I’m your senior commander.” He said it like that entitled him to some sort of privilege.

  “We’ve had light colonels commanding battalions in the past, Mike…and all of them either died or got relieved. I hate to break this to you, but your seniority doesn’t mean shit around here. You may be my highest ranking commander, but you’re also my least experienced commander. You and your men have a lot of learning to do, and school’s going to start right now.”

  Jock explained how Beemon’s 3rd Battalion was to be the regimental reserve, where their assembly area would be, and how the other units of the regiment were emplaced. He finished with, “My staff will fill you in on all the other details. Meet with them here at the CP in thirty minutes.”

  Beemon checked his watch, as if that schedule was somehow inconvenient. He said, “My men haven’t had hot fresh chow since this morning, sir.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Mike, but the rest of this regiment hasn’t had a hot fresh meal since Thanksgiving. And we’re not likely to have one in the next few days, either. Right now, the priorities for our supply trains are ammo and fuel, not perishable food. My supply people will set you up with all the C rations your people need. Heat up the cans with the main courses any way that works.”

  *****

  Baker Battery—the colored artillery unit—arrived at 26th Regiment’s position just as that night’s Chinese assault began with the usual blare of bugles. There was a fire mission waiting for them before the wheels of their trucks had stopped turning.

  But after a few minutes went by, Baker still hadn’t fired a shot. Jock’s artillery battalion commander had no choice but to shift the mission to another, already engaged, battery, which quickly split itself into two 3-gun platoons to fire the different missions simultaneously. He prayed that the delayed and reduced fire support wouldn’t be a case of too little, too late for those who needed it.

  A 105-millimeter howitzer battery like Baker should’ve been able to pull off the road and start firing within two minutes, even in the darkness of night. Their first round might not have been accurate, but once the forward observer had it as a reference point, the next round would be.

  When Baker finally got off its first round some ten minutes later, its impact was hundreds of yards from the mission’s coordinates.

  Seething, the artillery battalion commander drove to Baker Battery, but they weren’t in the goose egg they’d been assigned. Guided through the darkness by the sound and flash of the guns, he found them almost half a mile away.

  When he finally located Baker’s battery commander, he told him, “You’re off to a pretty shitty start, Captain. You’ll be damn lucky if the infantry doesn’t come back here and murder all of you when this fight is over. Now let’s see if we can get this godawful mess of yours sorted out.”

  The captain said nothing, but the sullen look on his face meant he’d heard menacing words like those many times before and assumed their subtext remained the same:

  You useless niggers can’t do anything right. And you never will.

  *****

  To the men of 26th Regiment holding the Taedong River line that night, there seemed no end to the Chinese soldiers trying to race across that frozen river beneath the glare of illumination rounds. No matter how many the Americans killed, more took their place. Even with the temperature hovering around zero degrees Fahrenheit, their machine gun barrels were overheating and wearing out from the continuous firing. All along the line, it wasn’t uncommon to see tracers lazily corkscrewing through the air, the sign of a ruined barrel. It would need immediate replacement if the gunner expected to hit what he was aiming at.

  Sometimes, the several minutes it took a machine gun crew to change that barrel resulted in a unit being overrun.

 
The GIs even tried to shatter the thick river ice with artillery rounds, but it held together well enough for the CCF to keep coming. Worse, the surface impacts of the HE rounds were affecting surprising few of the onrushing enemy, since they passed mostly through the ice cap before detonating. Once they’d fired two dozen ineffective rounds, Jock ordered, “Call off the ice-breaking. We need those rounds to be airbursts so they’ll actually knock down some chinks.”

  From Jock Miles on down, every man in the 26th expected the 17th Regiment on their right flank to collapse beneath the weight of the Chinese assault. As Patchett put it, “They’re still fucked up from that bug-out of theirs up at Sunchon, and that change of command needs a little more time to straighten things out, if they’re gonna get straightened out at all.”

  But to everyone’s surprise, it was elements of 33rd Regiment on their left flank that collapsed under repeated pressure from the Chinese. By 2330 hours, swarms of CCF had broken through the 33rd and were moving to get behind the 26th.

  “Coming from that direction, the chinks will be in the dark and blind, so keep them that way,” Jock said as he and his staff pieced together fragmentary bits of intel on the breakthrough. “They’ll have the best reference points if they follow the railroad tracks and cross the airfield. We’ve still got armor on the airfield, don’t we?”

  “Affirmative, sir,” Patchett replied. “Bubba Moon’s got a company in place over there.”

  “That’s good,” Jock replied. “Now it’s time to commit Colonel Beemon’s reserve. They’ll work with the tanks to stop the breakthrough while everyone else holds the river. Do not—repeat, do not—shoot any illum rounds west of the airfield unless requested by Beemon’s people or the tankers. Keep the chinks in the dark. They don’t know exactly where they’re going, and without radios, they don’t improvise well. Let’s not make it easier for them.”

  Chapter Six