Combat- Parallel Lines

by William Peter Grasso

  Although it was technically a formation—a loose follow the leader—each ship was on her own. The route was mostly over water, skirting the east coast of the Korean peninsula on a northerly heading until going feet dry near Hungnam, North Korea. From there, the Chosin Reservoir—and the rendezvous point with Firefly, the C-47 flare ship—was a twenty-minute flight inland.

  Navigator Hank Roth nudged the dial of his whiz wheel—the circular slide rule that was the backbone of aerial navigation—and told Tommy, “Winds aloft are giving us a little drift, sir. Bring the nose two degrees left.”

  “Two degrees, huh? That’s really getting it down to a gnat’s ass.”

  “Well, sir, if you’d rather run out of gas on the way home and go swimming in the Sea of Japan…”

  “No, that’s fine,” Tommy replied, squinting at the tiny, one-degree increment marks on the directional gyro’s scale. “Anything you say, Sinbad. Two degrees, coming right up.”

  There wasn’t much to see outside the cockpit windows. Cruising at 5,000 feet, they’d passed the lights of Pusan and a few other coastal cities on their way north. But mostly, there was the blackness of the ocean, the slow transit of the moon and stars, and the twinkling white taillight of Switchblade Green Three almost a mile in front of them.

  A little over an hour into the flight, they crossed the 38th Parallel. Tommy asked, “How are we doing on fuel?”

  “A little better than the flight plan, sir,” Roth replied.

  Then he called to Bob Allen in the gunner’s compartment, asking, “Everything okay back there, Sarge?”

  “Peachy keen, sir, except my electric socks quit working. I’m losing feeling in my feet from this damn cold. You mind if I stamp them a little to get some circulation going?”

  “Sure, go ahead.” He wondered why Allen had bothered to ask.

  A moment later, he realized why: the stamping of feet could be felt in the rudder pedals, vibrations strong enough to get the pilot’s attention. If he didn’t know what was causing those vibrations, he’d think there was something breaking loose in the tail.

  Okay…mark that off as another lesson learned about this ship.

  Almost thirty minutes later, lights began to appear dead ahead over the ship’s nose. “That must be Hungnam,” Tommy said.

  “It is absolutely Hungnam, sir,” Roth replied. “In three minutes, on my mark, begin the climb to seven thousand feet.”

  Tommy was beginning to realize how much he liked working with a navigator, and Roth in particular:

  This kid’s precise as a fine machine. I’m glad to have him, even if he is a little green.

  The climb to 7,000 feet—the minimum safe altitude, or MSA—would ensure they were higher than any of the invisible mountain peaks lurking in the darkness. Doing it now, after the fuel burned so far had made the ship lighter, used less gas in the climb than if they’d done it earlier in the flight.

  They were just short of landfall when Roth completed a star shot with the sextant. After a few moments of calculation, he plotted the computed position on the flight map. Then he said, “You’ll be happy to know, sir, that we were exactly where we were supposed to be a couple of minutes ago.”

  “Outstanding. Let Bob know we’re officially in bad guy territory now. Not likely we’ll run into any of those night MIGs this far east, but if the North Koreans have any Yaks or Lavs left…”

  Tommy looked into the darkness all around, marveling that once past the lights of Hungnam and those of Hamhung a few miles inland, he could make out absolutely nothing of the Earth below. It’s strange, considering that on a clear day at this altitude, you can see all the way across Korea to the other coast. It’s only a little over a hundred miles away…

  And in between are all those mountains sticking up into the sky, invisible now in the darkness. If it was daytime and the peaks were hidden in clouds, we’d call them Hardcore Cumulus.

  At night, we call them Black Death.

  Tommy asked, “Any word from Firefly yet?”

  “Negative,” Roth replied. “That’s a little concerning.”

  Yeah, Tommy thought. This mission is a real closely timed thing. If we’ve got to hold for the flare ship more than a couple of minutes, we won’t have the gas to make it back to Itazuke. That’ll mean a diversion to Pusan or Taegu. Or if we’re really low on gas, Kimpo.

  And if Firefly doesn’t show, this has all been for nothing.

  They were ten minutes from the Chosin Reservoir when Tommy said, “I don’t see the guy in front of us anymore. Where the hell did he go?”

  Looking up from his charts, Roth said, “Check to the right, about two o’clock.”

  Tommy took a look in that direction. “I still don’t see him. What makes you think he’s over there?”

  “I’ve got a hunch the other three ships from Green Flight all went that way,” Roth replied. He was now scanning that quadrant with binoculars.

  “There they are, sir,” he said, pointing through the right side of the windshield. “You can’t see the taillights anymore, but I can make out their red nav lights.”

  “Okay…so we’re looking at their left wingtips. Which one of us is in the wrong place?”

  “I believe they are, sir. I’ll bet the navigator in the lead ship is still using two Japanese radio beacons to establish position. That was great for when we were over water, but once you get back over land, those beams crossing the water will bend, and your position will be off a little bit. Green Two and Three must be playing follow the leader.”

  “And we’re not using those same stations, Hank?”

  “Negative, sir. Once we made landfall, I switched one of my vector plots over to the Kimpo beacon. Since that signal doesn’t cross water, it doesn’t bend.”

  “So we’re on course…and they’re not?”

  “Affirmative,” Roth replied. “And every second they fly that heading, they’re getting even farther off course and wasting more precious gas. You want to tell them?”

  “Nah. You know the rule…no chatter unless it’s an emergency so the gooks’ direction finders can’t track us.”

  “Roger, sir.”

  By the time Moon’s Menace VI was at the Chosin Reservoir waypoint, the lights of Green Flight had vanished into the blackness. “We’ll orbit here,” Tommy said, “and wait for Firefly. How long can we hold?”

  Roth tweaked the whiz wheel and said, “Ten minutes, and I’m rounding down a little.”

  *****

  Two minutes later, Firefly was on frequency.

  “Look south,” Roth said. “The lights should be on in about ten seconds.”

  They couldn’t see the flare ship; it was several thousand feet higher and a few miles distant, flying away from their orbiting B-26.

  And then, as if someone was walking down a long, dark corridor, switching on light after light every few seconds along the way, the valley nestling the MSR was illuminated as if bathed in incredibly bright moonlight. The harsh radiance of the flares lit everything in a monochromatic silver, from the mountain peaks, to the treed slopes, to the long column of vehicles that didn’t seem to be moving. Some of those vehicles were burning, their billowing smoke climbing the valley walls like glittering vines.

  They were too high to see human forms.

  An ASO—air support officer—on the ground began to identify the most urgent target. From his call sign, Tripoli Three-Five, Tommy was fairly sure he was a Marine.

  “Southernmost burning vehicle is at head of column,” Tripoli said. “Enemy troops with heavy weapons are just south of that vehicle. Put your stuff as close as you can beyond it.”

  Switchblade Green Leader replied, “Unable to identify target at this time. Too far out. Expect on station in four minutes.”

  “They’ve got to be at least twelve miles away,” Roth said. “He sees the glow from the flares but that’s about it.”

  “A lot of guys down there can die in four minutes, Hank,” Tommy said. “So we’re going to cut the
line, since we’re the only game in town right now. There are no other ships close enough to worry about mid-airs, so here we go.”

  He flipped the switch that opened the bomb bay doors and pushed her into a steep descent. In just over a minute, they were deep in the valley, below the peaks of the hills rising on either side of them. Hank Roth’s entire body tensed; he could see the skeletal outlines of trees on those slopes that were higher than Moon’s Menace VI.

  The altimeter read 1,000 feet and was still spinning down.

  Roth couldn’t help it; he was so unnerved he blurted, “Oh my God!”

  “Something wrong, Hank?”

  “We’re so low…”

  “Yeah, because we only get one shot at this. I want that flaming goo on target.”

  “But we’re way below MSA…”

  “Hank, I can see the ground, for cryin’ out loud. Not likely I’m going to fly into it. Okay, on my count: three, two, one, DROP.”

  The ship lurched upward, having shed the weight of the napalm canisters. Tommy pushed the throttles forward and put her into a steep climb, seeking that minimum safe altitude Roth was so nervous about. It would take a climb of almost five minutes to reach it.

  He asked Roth, “How much time before we’ve got to head for home?”

  The navigator already had the answer. He’d been working that calculation ever since entering the target area.

  “Two minutes, sir.”

  Tommy began some mental calculations of his own. That flare drop’s going to burn out before the rest of the squadron gets to make their pass. It’s going to take Firefly a good couple of minutes to get into position for a second round of flares.

  How much you want to bet that Switchblade Leader is going to abort before the new flare drop, claiming low fuel? He’ll bring the rest of the squadron back to Itazuke, dumping their junk into the Sea of Japan instead of helping out those Marines.

  That’s a crying shame. But it’s SOP for bomber jockeys. If they can’t see the target, they abort and go home. Add in a critical fuel situation, and I’m betting there’s no way they stay around.

  As they passed through 5,000 feet, Tommy told his crew, “We’re going back to the target area, just in case the rest of the squadron doesn’t make it. We’ve got enough fifty cal on board for several gun runs. Hank, start working up time limits for diverting to Kimpo, Taegu, and Pusan. Bob, put your lower turret guns straight down. You’re going to get to play, too.”

  Roth had the answers in a matter of seconds. Then he asked, “Why are we doing this, sir?”

  “Because those poor bastards down on the ground have no one else, that’s why.”

  He didn’t expect his young navigator to understand; he’d never been under fire with the ground troops…

  But I have.

  As Tommy suspected, Switchblade Leader was on the frequency now, announcing the squadron would abort the mission and return to Itazuke. Tommy radioed he was staying and would divert to a South Korean field as fuel allowed.

  “That’d be your call, Green Four,” came the reply. “You’re on your own. Best of luck.”

  The second flare drop began, once again bathing the valley in brilliant light.

  Tripoli asked, “Green Four, was that you who unloaded the napalm?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Excellent work. Dead on the money.”

  “Glad to hear it, Tripoli. I can give you a strafing run before the flares die again. Just tell me where you want it.”

  Where he wanted it was on the slopes of the hills just west of the MSR. They were thick with Chinese.

  “We’re going in even lower this time, Hank. Hold on to your hat and keep your eyes peeled. If you see any kind of movement at all on these hills, call it out, because that’ll be chinks.”

  Then he advised Allen, “Bob, when I open up with the nose guns, you open up with the lower turret, too.”

  “Roger, boss.”

  Then they seemed to be brushing the treetops, streaking along the hillside at over 200 miles per hour.

  “I SEE MOVEMENT,” Roth shrieked. “COUPLE OF DEGREES RIGHT.”

  Tommy nudged her nose right and fired a long burst from the nose guns. Bob Allen opened up with the lower turret. Tracers bounced crazily off the ground well ahead of the ship.

  The stench of spent gunpowder in the cockpit was almost overpowering.

  It was all over in a split second. Tommy nosed her up sharply again, clawing for altitude.

  Trying to catch his breath, Roth asked, “Did you see them?”

  “Nope. Good thing you were here.”

  “Do you think we hit them?” Roth asked.

  “I hope so.”

  “Do you think anybody’s shooting at us?”

  “Probably,” Tommy replied.

  Bob Allen’s voice crackled over the interphone. “Make that definitely, sir. I saw some tracers whipping along behind us. I don’t think the chinks have had much practice shooting at airplanes, though. They ain’t figured out how to lead a target yet.”

  Firefly was on the radio now. They were game for one more pass, but they only had a few flares left.

  Tripoli said, “Lay them out from the head of my column to as far south down the road as possible. Can you locate the head of the column?”

  “Roger,” Firefly replied. “Can’t miss that napalm barbecue going on.”

  With fewer flares falling, the illumination wasn’t as bright this time. In their scant light, Tommy couldn’t get a good view of the surrounding hills.

  “For all we know,” he told his crew, “there could be one right in front of us that we won’t ever see. We’ll have to make this pass a little higher.”

  But there was enough light on the MSR itself to see groups of people scuttling about. After quick confirmation from the ASO that no friendlies were forward of the napalm blaze, Moon’s Menace VI riddled those groups with her .50-caliber machine guns.

  As she began her final gas-guzzling climb to the MSA, there was a moment of sheer terror as Tommy saw the silhouette of a peak looming suddenly out the right side of the windshield.

  “SHIT,” he yelled, banking the ship violently left, waiting for the impact that would snuff out their lives.

  But nothing happened. Moon’s Menace VI kept right on flying.

  Roth was looking at him strangely. Tommy asked the navigator, “Did you see that?”

  “See what, sir?”

  “That peak. We were headed right for it.”

  “No, sir. Didn’t see a damn thing.”

  He asked Allen if he could see a peak off the tail, much too close for comfort.

  “Nope,” was the gunner’s response. “Looks like empty sky to me.”

  I could’ve sworn, Tommy told himself. Am I seeing ghosts?

  If that was really a mountain, I would’ve hit it for sure.

  They were leveled off now, headed south. Tommy asked Roth, “Call it, Hank. What’s the closest we can get to home without swimming?”

  “Taegu, sir.”

  “Okay, pit stop at K-2, it is.”

  “You’ve been there before, sir?”

  “Yep. Plenty of times. A charming little place.”

  During the hour of cruise flight it would take to reach Taegu, Tommy kept thinking about the phantom mountain peak. He remembered all the guys he’d known who’d had close encounters with terrain and thought they’d gotten away scot-free. Some of them ended up bringing home a tree branch or a piece of roof jammed somewhere in the lower surfaces of the ship.

  I wonder…would I rather that peak was just a hallucination? Or find that tree branch stuck in her after we land?

  As they prepared for landing at K-2—with mountain peaks nowhere near—Tommy saw his apparition in the windshield once again. But this time, he realized it wasn’t his imagination at all. It was a reflection of the dim cockpit lighting off Roth’s shiny metal clipboard.

  “Do that again, Hank.”

  “Do what, sir?”

&n
bsp; “Move the clipboard up to your lap.”

  He did as asked. For a brief moment, its silvery reflection shimmered on the windshield once more. The sharp corner of the clipboard made it look just like a mountain peak.

  *****

  Gunny Jim Ramsay couldn’t tell what type of aircraft had come to their aid in Hellfire Valley. Or who was flying it. But he knew one thing: That guy had balls, God bless him.

  Or maybe it should be God bless them. Who could tell how many planes and pilots were flying around in the dark?

  But the unexpected help from the night sky had been fleeting. It did break one roadblock and allowed the battered column to start creeping toward Koto-ri again. For the next few miles, the Chinese threat was reduced to little more than sniping, usually silenced by a healthy dose of tank fire.

  The casualties, however, kept mounting.

  An hour before sunrise, they hit the next roadblock.

  The chinks ain’t dumb, Ramsay thought. They gotta get their licks in before the day fighters show up again.

  That night strike was the cat’s ass…but where the hell are they now?

  It was a great little show, but it ended way too soon.

  And nobody seems to know if we’re ever going to see another act, either.

  Chapter Ten

  Twenty-Sixth Regiment’s assigned sector along the 38th Parallel seemed like a gift; its terrain greatly favored the defense. An east-west ridge several miles long paralleled and dominated the valley of the iced-over Imjin River. Through that valley ran several major roads that led to Seoul, just thirty-five miles to the south. Units emplaced on that ridge could easily command those roads, the river, and the frozen marshland that defined the valley.

  As an added bonus, Kamak-San, a mountain 3,000 feet high, stood behind the ridge, providing a vantage point to detect any Chinese advance from the north. Even if its peak was shrouded in clouds, an OP only halfway up its front face would provide excellent fields of vision to a distance of almost fifty miles.

  “Too bad you can’t spot chinks walking at fifty miles,” Patchett told the team of observers about to scale Kamak-San. “But as long as the sun shines, you’ll be able to give us plenty of warning of anybody headed our way.”