Combat- Parallel Lines

by William Peter Grasso

  On Pyongyang East Airfield, Sean briefed his tank commanders—his TCs—on Regiment’s plan to block and defeat the CCF breakthrough. He told them, “It’s a pretty good bet the chinks’ll try to use the railroad embankment for cover, so we gotta be able to hit both sides of it as well as the tracks on top. Rocky, I want your platoon to handle that. Set up at that road junction near that village on the north side of the airfield. You see it on the map?”

  “Yeah. Got it covered, Sean.”

  “Good. Now, Jimmy and Frank, put your vehicles in line across the airfield. Set up as far east as you can so you get the widest fields of fire and give yourselves room to move.”

  Both tankers acknowledged with a nod.

  “Colonel Miles thinks it’s better to keep it dark, and I gotta agree with him on that. Don’t make it any easier for the chinks to see what’s around ’em by shooting illum. It’s open ground, so we should see their movement real easy with all this snow reflecting the moonlight. But if you absolutely need illum rounds, you got the green light to call for it.”

  “No flare ship tonight, Sean?”

  “Afraid not, Rocky,” Sean replied. “Them flyboys musta had a hot date or something. Now let’s get back to the plan. Joe, your platoon comes with me. We’ll go south and meet up with the reserve battalion. Colonel Miles just committed them, and we’re gonna keep ’em straight. They’re greener than hell, so they’ll need a lot of direction.”

  Joe asked, “Do they have any idea how to work with tanks, Sean?”

  “Probably not, but they’d better learn real fast.”

  *****

  Finding Colonel Beemon’s 3rd Battalion proved harder than Sean imagined. There was no trace of its CP at the village of Pin-ni, the location he’d been given. They weren’t answering his radio calls, either.

  That burns my ass, Sean fumed silently. I clutter up my turret with this walkie-talkie just so I can talk direct to the infantry, but they ain’t even listening. I wonder if they even know what the command net frequency is?

  On the west side of Pin-ni, the tanks came across four American three-quarter-ton trucks parked in an alley. Hesitantly, a GI left the alley and walked to Sean’s tank.

  “You with Third Battalion?” Sean asked.

  “Yeah, Sarge. We’re the ambulances for the battalion aid station.”

  “So where’s the rest of the battalion?”

  The GI pointed west. “They went that way.”

  “I’m Moon from Regiment. Who’s in charge here, Corporal?”

  “I guess I am, Sarge.”

  “You guess? You better decide real quick, pal. If it ain’t you, get the real honcho out here on the double.”

  “Well, there’s a Lieutenant Hammond with a rifle platoon on the back side of the village.”

  It didn’t take much driving around Pin-ni to find the lieutenant. He looked relieved to be in the presence of the five tanks and greeted Sean enthusiastically.

  “We’re supposed to be your infantry support,” Lieutenant Hammond explained, “but they must’ve given me the wrong frequency. Then my radio died.”

  “A platoon? That’s all I get? It was supposed to be a fucking battalion.”

  Hammond just shrugged. Those decisions weren’t his to make.

  “You got four full squads, at least?” Sean asked.

  “Affirmative, Sergeant Moon.”

  “That’ll have to do. Let’s get ’em moving.”

  Reluctantly, the GIs of Hammond’s platoon left the small warming fires they’d been huddled around and sidled toward the tanks. Despite their brand new cold-weather gear, they shivered in the biting cold. Their hesitation was evident in every movement. Sean knew what he was looking at:

  These greenhorns are one step away from cutting and running…a bug-out waiting to happen. They need a couple of size-twelve boots up their asses…

  Or maybe they just need to haul some of their dead buddies away all wrapped up in ponchos. Nothing tightens up a slack unit like having to do that.

  Sean asked, “Lieutenant Hammond, do you have any idea where the rest of your battalion is?”

  “I’d be lying if I said I did.”

  “Do your men have any idea what they’re supposed to be doing?”

  “I was hoping you’d tell us, Sergeant.”

  Yeah, no shit. I kinda figured that.

  Sean gathered the platoon around him and explained the mission: “We’re going to stop a bunch of chinks from surrounding the regiment. My tanks’ll do the hard work. All you ladies gotta do is keep ’em off our decks. Now don’t be afraid to shoot at the tanks…those peashooters in your hands won’t hurt us inside one little bit. But a sapper stuffing explosives down our vents is another story entirely. It’s your job to make sure that don’t happen. So stay right behind us, cover our asses, and cover your own while you’re at it. Use the handsets on the back of the tanks to talk with us if you get in Dutch or see something we need to take out. Any questions?”

  Lieutenant Hammond asked, “Aren’t we supposed to ride on the tanks?”

  “Absolutely fucking not, Lieutenant. When we’re in the fight, you’re in the worst place you could possibly be riding a tank’s deck. If the bad guys don’t pick you off or my muzzle blast don’t blow you away, I’ll probably knock you off and run you over when I spin the turret. The only exception we’ll make is if we gotta extract wounded who can’t walk. Am I making myself clear?”

  *****

  Sean led his platoon of tanks west, searching for Colonel Beemon and the rest of 3rd Battalion. They rumbled slowly through the darkness, intent on not outrunning Lieutenant Hammond’s platoon trailing them.

  But precious time was being wasted; his platoon’s firepower would be far more effective if massed with the guns of the other tanks.

  After they’d driven about half a mile, Sean brought the tanks to a halt. He told his loader, who was manning the tank’s radio, “Try to raise Third Battalion one more time.”

  When that attempt still brought no response, Sean said, “Call Regiment. See if they got any idea what’s going on with Third Battalion.”

  Regiment’s reply: “Negative contact with Omaha Green Six.”

  Sean knew he was getting off track trying to chase down 3rd Battalion. Properly employed, Beemon’s unit—with a platoon of armor support—should’ve been able to crush the CCF breakthrough.

  Even if it’s as much as a CCF battalion that’s come through our lines, we would still have a big advantage in firepower…and we’ve had a couple of days to get familiar with the terrain around here. The chinks are strangers to this turf.

  But I can’t play the lone cowboy out here much longer. I gotta do whatever Colonel Miles wants me to do.

  On the radio, it was Jock Miles’ voice that provided the answer: “Do not pursue Green Six. Repeat—do not pursue. Return to your blocking position at the airfield. Give me maximum firepower there.”

  With a wave of his arm, he called Lieutenant Hammond to his tank. “I’m gonna break one of my own rules here, Lieutenant. Get your guys up on the tanks. We’re gonna cover some ground real fast.”

  *****

  Racing down a road that led back to the airfield, Sean considered how best to use this mere platoon of infantry to provide security for a company of fifteen tanks. They’d be stretched thin. As far as he could tell, Hammond’s platoon had little, if any, radio communication between the squads; he hadn’t seen more than one walkie-talkie between them.

  Maybe we should just put a squad with each tank platoon. Keep it simple and hope for the best, right?

  *****

  Sean’s platoon of tanks was still several hundred yards from the airfield perimeter when the fight erupted. He could see tracers streaking through the darkness and then muzzle flashes from the Pershings’ main guns. The radio channel—which had been dead silent—came alive with the agitated voices of tankers under fire.

  A TC on the airfield—Rocky Micelli—was one of those voices. “The chinks
are getting behind us, Sean,” he said. “We’re slicing them up on the railroad tracks pretty good, but they gotta be coming some other way, too. There’s just too many of them around here. We need help. Where’s our fucking infantry?”

  “Anybody on your decks yet, Rocky?”

  “Don’t think so. But if we stay put and don’t get help, it’s just a matter of time.”

  Sean knew Lieutenant Hammond was on his deck with some GIs. But when he turned in the turret hatch to yell instructions to him, he was talking only to the night. The infantrymen were gone.

  Son of a bitch, he told himself. They probably bugged out the second they saw all the shooting up ahead.

  His tank on the airfield now, he could see the silhouettes of men running from the south, toward the Pershings and 26th Regiment beyond…

  And they sure as hell ain’t GIs. Like Rocky said, the chinks gotta be coming from some other way…and there they are. But they’re coming from the same direction I did. How come I didn’t see ’em sooner?

  Then it came to him: That streambed! I didn’t see ’em because they’re duck-walking down that fucking streambed.

  While the other tanks of his platoon started cutting down the runners, Sean’s Pershing doubled back to the streambed. Reaching it less than a minute later, the tank was immediately swarmed by Chinese.

  “BACK UP,” Sean told his driver. Then he ordered, “PUT UP A CANNISTER ROUND, RIGHT FUCKING NOW.”

  “WHAT AM I SHOOTING AT?” the gunner asked.

  “PUT THAT SHIT RIGHT DOWN THE STREAMBED.”

  “I CAN’T SEE IT, SARGE.”

  “JUST TRAVERSE RIGHT. I’LL TELL YOU WHEN YOU’RE ON IT.”

  The loader yelled, “UP.”

  The canister round transformed the 90-millimeter tube into a giant shotgun. Its steel pellets swept away those Chinese still creeping down the streambed.

  But it didn’t do anything to those who’d already made it to Sean’s tank. He could hear them on the deck and turret, trying—and failing—to pry the hatches open.

  And then another wave of Chinese emerged from the streambed.

  “MORE CANNISTER,” Sean ordered. “KEEP THEM ROUNDS COMING.”

  The loader replied, “WE ONLY GOT FIVE, SARGE.”

  “TELL ME SOMETHING I DON’T KNOW, PAL. JUST DO WHAT I SAY. THIS AIN’T NO FUCKING DEBATE.”

  Then he told his driver, “GIVE ME SOME QUICK SHIFTING BACK AND FORTH. THROW THE BASTARDS OFF, THEN RUN ’EM OVER.”

  It went on like that for what seemed a small eternity, the tank bucking to and fro, blasting its canister rounds into the night until there were no more. Chinese still swarmed her deck, but they hadn’t breached her. Many died trying.

  And then, with the cruel snarl of machinery in revolt, the tank lurched to a stop as the driver attempted one more violent change of direction. Although her engine was still running, the Pershing wouldn’t move an inch. Her transmission had failed catastrophically; any attempt to engage that transmission only resulted in a sickening grinding of gears that could no longer mesh.

  She’d become just another immobile bunker in the midst of battle, a stationary target awaiting the one blow that would destroy her and kill the men within. They could hear the laughing voices of Chinese soldiers on her deck and the clanking of pry bars being levered against the hatches.

  When Sean tried to call for help, the radio was dead.

  *****

  The battle on the Taedong River kept raging, even at sunrise. The Chinese didn’t melt away at dawn’s first light as they usually did. This morning, they were still trying to force 26th Regiment’s lines when American fighter-bombers swept in, the low-flying F-51s dropping their loads of napalm with impressive accuracy. Air power proved the tipping point; the CCF finally broke off the attack.

  But where they went, nobody was sure.

  Throughout the morning, the regiment regrouped. No unit had been overrun, but casualties were fifteen percent or better among 1st and 2nd Battalion.

  Too damn many, Jock told himself.

  Colonel Beemon’s 3rd Battalion, which nobody had heard from since just before midnight, suddenly popped back on the radio at sunrise, as the fighter-bombers were beginning their work. An hour later, Beemon proudly marched into the regimental CP with three CCF prisoners in tow. He announced, “I’d say my men did one hell of a job cutting the chinks off, and here’s the proof.”

  Jock led Beemon outside, behind the CP’s motor park, where he could berate the man in private. “As fuckups go, Colonel Beemon, your performance last night pretty much takes the cake. Not only couldn’t you navigate your way out of a paper bag, your radios went silent because you neglected to change frequencies at midnight, as the ops plan dictated.”

  Beemon seemed shocked he was being reprimanded. He started to say something, but Jock cut him off. “At ease, Colonel. I’m not interested in your excuses or your delusions of success. Getting back to the list of things you fucked up, you were supposed to work in conjunction with a company of armor to cap the CCF breakthrough, providing them with security while they provided you with firepower. Instead, you left those tankers high and dry…and while they did an unbelievable job holding off the chinks on their own, we lost four tanks out of fifteen, and this is to a force that’s shown us little in the way of anti-tank weapons so far. You’re damn lucky none of my tankers were killed.”

  “But we took prisoners, sir, and—”

  “Save it, Colonel. Your prisoners are useless. They’re North Korean peasants impressed into the CCF. They don’t know shit about anything…and they were probably as lost as you were out there and more than glad to be captured. Their intel value is zero. And since your battalion never fired a shot, I strongly doubt you cut off any Chinese forces at all.”

  Jock waited a moment to see if Beemon was going to smart off again, but he didn’t.

  “Now, I’ll cut you just a little bit of slack, Beemon, because you’re brand new to the outfit, brand new to the country, and a combat virgin. But that slack is going to tighten really quickly. I’ll expect a complete debrief of your botched operation, with accurate map overlays of where and how your companies were deployed, in one hour.”

  “Sir, that’s hardly enough time to—”

  “Nobody ever has enough time, Colonel Beemon. One hour. Not a minute more.”

  *****

  When Colonel Beemon had first arrived at the CP, Patchett thought for sure Sean Moon was going to assault the man. When Sean dropped what he was doing and stormed in Beemon’s direction, Patchett blocked his path.

  “Take it slow, Bubba,” he said. “He ain’t worth no court-martial over.”

  “I’m gonna knock that useless son of a bitch on his ass, Patch.”

  “No, you won’t, Bubba. We ain’t losing you that way. We came too close today as it is.”

  Sean’s fight drained out of him as his anger turned inward. “I fucked up, Patch. Real bad.”

  “Are you outta your ever-loving mind? You did what you was supposed to do. More, in fact…and that ain’t no damn lie.”

  “No, Patch, you don’t understand. I shoulda never gone off on my own like that. I lost the vehicle, coulda got my whole crew killed. Couldn’t even communicate…all my antennas got snapped off somehow. And that walkie-talkie I lugged around so I could talk to the infantry don’t work worth a shit if you’re in a buttoned-up tank. We just got lucky no sappers set us on fire.”

  “Maybe so, Bubba, but in the process, you musta stopped a regiment of chinks all on your own. Them canister rounds you fired…shit, did you see what that ground around your tank looked like? A goddamn butcher shop, that’s what. Nothing but little chunks of raw meat all over the place, and every inch of ground painted red. Couldn’t hardly find a whole body nowhere.”

  “Yeah, Top…and those are from the fucking canister rounds nobody upstairs thinks we need. I was lucky to find the ones we had.”

  “We got any more of ’em in stock?”

  “A handfu
l scattered around in a couple of vehicles, maybe.”

  “So why can’t we get more, Bubba?”

  “The brass seem to think it ain’t a tank’s job to get into short-range shotgun fights, so they don’t give us no canister. You know the old story—the pencil-pushers think it’s uneconomical. Burying GIs is cheaper, I guess.”

  *****

  Mid-afternoon, a grim-faced Jock returned from the commanders’ meeting at Division. The news he had to give his exhausted regiment was disheartening.

  “General Walker is certain that significant numbers of Chinese penetrated Eighth Army’s lines in a number of places during last night’s attack,” he began. “He considers our positions around Pyongyang—and all across North Korea—to be untenable. We’re stretched too thin, our supply lines are too long, and the weather isn’t likely to cut us a break anytime soon. The latest estimate is that the Chinese outnumber us two to one, and a significant number of them may already be behind us. To make matters worse, in the last two days, Eighth Army’s lost twenty percent of its manpower due to cold-related injuries alone. This damn winter is causing us more casualties than the chinks.”

  He paused, knowing his next words would raise a collective groan: “So Eighth Army’s pulling back to positions along the Thirty-Eighth Parallel immediately.”

  The sound that rose from his assembled cadre was more a howl of pain than a groan. They knew that pulling back wouldn’t be just another motor march; if the Chinese really were behind them already, it would be running a gauntlet.

  His S2—the intelligence officer—had a question steeped in skepticism: “Is MacArthur going along with General Walker’s decision to withdraw back to the Thirty-Eighth, sir?”

  “I suspect he’s not,” Jock replied, “but it’ll be interesting to see what Tenth Corps does in the next few days. If they start withdrawing as well, then we’ll know that MacArthur is on board.”

  “And if he’s not,” the S2 said, “I suppose that means we can say goodbye to General Walker?”