Combat- Parallel Lines

by William Peter Grasso

  There’d been no need for Barefoot to keep his left foot on the clutch. Once it was engaged, he’d been free to use that foot to break Combs’ fall.

  “There’s a bunch of chinks coming up the north face on foot,” Combs said, his trembling voice an octave higher than usual. “We gotta call in a fire mission on them, right fucking now!”

  Sean pointed to the back of the truck. “There’s the radio. Get to it.”

  When Combs had trouble climbing over the tailgate of the steeply inclined truck, Sean gave him an assist: a boot against his backside. But as he clung to the radio rack, Combs got the fire mission call through to Baker Battery.

  Sean checked his watch: Let’s see how long it takes ’em to get the rounds where we need ’em this time.

  Forty-six seconds later, the first adjustment round crashed into the north face of the mountain.

  Now we’re talking, Sean told himself.

  An RTO on the peak shouted down the correction, capping it with fire for effect. Barefoot relayed it to Combs.

  Sean told them, “Okay, you guys got this. I’m gonna go free that pulley.”

  Now that the tension was off the cable, it took no time at all to fix the jam. The truck winched herself to the peak while the fire mission was still in progress.

  Lieutenant Thackery told Sean, “It looks like the chinks have the same idea we do—use this mountaintop for an OP. We stopped them for now, at least.”

  “It’s a good thing, too, Lieutenant, because they could see plenty of both regiments’ positions from up here. Could you tell if they had radios with ’em?”

  “They were lugging something heavy, that’s for sure. It probably was a radio.”

  “Shit,” Sean replied. “They coulda been putting fire on our guys in a coupla minutes. Their main force—and their artillery—must be a lot closer than we think.”

  He repeated, “Shit.”

  *****

  There had been rumors prior to his accidental death that General Walker was soon to be sacked from his job as 8th Army commander. His sudden passing hastened the selection of a replacement.

  In a suburb of Washington, D.C., the phone rang at the home of Lieutenant General Matthew Ridgway. A celebrated commander of airborne forces in the last war, Ridgway would board a USAF transport in just a few hours. Staffed for a long journey with two complete flight crews, that plane would fly through the night, into the next day and the night after, stopping for fuel three times as it crossed the Pacific and the International Date Line. It arrived in Tokyo late on Christmas Day 1950.

  Matt Ridgway was unaware that somewhere in the darkness over that ocean, his plane had crossed paths with the one carrying home the body of Walton “Johnnie” Walker, the man he was about to replace as 8th Army commander.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Christmas in Korea came and went like any other day. The cooks tried to make it seem festive, somehow; mess officers bartered in Seoul, trading cigarettes for sorghum to supplement the wheat flour ration, hoping to have enough fixings to bake holiday cakes without cutting down on the amount of bread their field kitchens needed to produce. But without enough eggs or cornstarch to properly bind the sorghum, everything they baked with it came out dry and crumbly.

  A slice of fresh-baked cake fell apart in Patchett’s hands as he tried to spread jam on it. Tossing the remains to a scavenging dog lurking near the mess area, he said, “I coulda closed my eyes and pretended it was holiday sweet cake like my mama used to make. But it might as well be dog food now.”

  Jock wasn’t paying attention to him. His face was buried in a letter he’d received from Jillian. The message it contained was a Christmas present, of sorts.

  “The deportation decision has been postponed until after the New Year,” he told Patchett. “She and the kids are still in Monterey.”

  “Well, the minute you saw that US postmark and not some Australian one, you knew it had to be good news,” Patchett said. “Ol’ Dick Molloy must be working overtime straightening that mess out for y’all.”

  “Yeah. But it doesn’t sound like we’re out of the woods yet, Top. Not by a long shot. I wish to hell I knew what was really going on. Maybe I could do something to help.”

  But they both knew the painful truth: whatever was going on half a world away was totally out of his hands.

  Jock stuffed the letter into his pocket, intent on returning his focus back to fighting the Chinese. “It’s disappointing the Air Force hasn’t found that artillery that’s trying to plaster us every night,” he said. “I can’t believe our target acquisition people haven’t nailed down their location yet, either.”

  “I bet them chink guns are moving around a lot, sir. I’m thinking maybe there are two batteries. One fires while the other moves. That’s why we’re having so much trouble finding ’em.”

  Jock had to concede the point. Like all of his top sergeant’s tactical assessments, it seemed like a good possibility.

  Patchett continued, “It’s a good thing we hold that mountaintop over yonder and not the chinks. They ain’t got no FO up close, that’s for damn sure. They’re throwing out a lot of rounds and counting on luck to hit something, but they ain’t doing much damage to us at all.”

  “Still, we need to find them and finish them, Top. I want to start patrolling farther to the north. Throwing seventy-six millimeter at us like they are, they can’t be more than ten miles away. The squad patrols we’ve been sending only a mile or two out haven’t run into one damn chink, day or night.”

  “So this long-range patrol you’re thinking of…how big do you want it to be?”

  “Platoon-sized.”

  Patchett wasn’t crazy about the idea. “A platoon’s too big to be quiet and too small to fight their way out if they get into serious trouble, sir,” he said.

  “So what do you suggest, Top?”

  “Recon by fire, sir. In daylight. A small FO team walks the fire in front of them into likely areas for a battery to be hiding out. They’ll know for damn sure when that fire scores a hit, something we can’t always tell from way back here.”

  He knew he’d made his point with Jock. He watched as the wheels turned inside the colonel’s head, formulating a plan, weighing the pros and cons.

  “Why in daylight, Top?”

  “Because nobody’s gonna walk that far out at night, sir. When you can’t see nothing, your brain gets spooked and lies to you, making you believe you’ve gone a lot farther than you have. It’s just natural. In daylight, a man can’t kid himself so easy. But you know that as well as I do.”

  “I can’t argue with you there,” Jock said. “But it’s going to take someone with a set of balls to lead it. Who do we trust to run a patrol like that?”

  “I can only think of two sons of bitches I’d trust to do it, sir: me…or Captain Pop.”

  “Then that makes my decision real easy, Top, because it’s not going to be you. I’ll give it to Theo.”

  The quickness of the decision shook Patchett just a little; he hadn’t expected to be passed over for the job so effortlessly. But he knew there was a long list of reasons why he shouldn’t be the one to go, starting with It ain’t my damn job.

  Still, he asked, “Any special reason, sir?”

  “Just that I need you here, Top. Every man in this regiment—starting with me—depends on you to keep the big picture straight. Theo is more than capable of handling the recon mission. And from what Major Harper tells me, he’s made a big hit with his men. They’re ready to follow him to hell and back.”

  Patchett replied, “You didn’t expect no different, did you, sir?”

  *****

  After his arrival late on Christmas night, General Ridgway spent three days in Tokyo with MacArthur and his staff, absorbing their version of the situation facing 8th Army in Korea. He didn’t see eye to eye with them on most issues:

  These people confuse fantasy with strategy.

  One thing on which he did agree with them: the tendency of many 8
th Army units to immediately retreat when threatened even slightly, only to turn around and gain back the ground they’d surrendered, had to be curbed. MacArthur referred to it as accordion war.

  Matt Ridgway kept this reply to himself:

  You built that accordion, General MacArthur.

  But I don’t know how to play it…

  And I’ll do my damnedest not to learn.

  Looking at the positioning of the Seoul-Han River MLR, Ridgway formulated the first strategic imperative for his new command: the MLR was in the wrong place.

  “It needs to be south of the city—let’s say about thirty miles south,” he told MacArthur’s operations chief, the G3. “We shouldn’t be trying to defend Seoul. That’s an urban brawl in which we’ll be unable to bring our superior airpower and artillery to bear. I won’t sacrifice my men in pointless house-to-house fighting.”

  “It won’t come down to that, sir,” the G3 replied. “The Chinese have exhausted themselves and their feeble supply lines. They haven’t been able to mount a serious attack for a week.”

  There they go again…confusing fantasy with strategy, Ridgway told himself.

  Then he asked, “Has it occurred to anyone here in Tokyo that the CCF may be simply regrouping? Sure, they may be exhausted. But they’ll rest…and then come at my boys again.”

  They offered no reply. He watched their doubting faces, thinking, It’s not that they don’t believe it. It’s that they don’t want to believe it.

  The G3 protested, “But holding Seoul has enormous symbolic meaning in this conflict.”

  “To hell with symbolic meaning,” Ridgway replied. “I prefer a sound plan of battle instead.”

  MacArthur ended the discussion by saying, “The Eighth Army is yours now, Matt. Do with it as you wish.”

  Then MacArthur left the room. Ridgway would never see him again.

  *****

  General Dick Molloy would’ve preferred his meeting with General Jarvis Whitelaw, the Fort Ord post commander, to be at one of their offices, preferably his own. But Whitelaw had asked it be held at his quarters on Fort Ord. Preparations were underway for a big New Year’s Eve bash at that house. “Somebody has to be here to accept all the deliveries, Dick,” Whitelaw had said over the phone. “You understand, of course.”

  What Molloy understood was that Mrs. Whitelaw wouldn’t be at home for his visit. It was unusual for her to be absent on this particular day, considering that preparations for social functions invariably fell to an officer’s wife.

  Unusual…unless she’s making a point of avoiding me, Molloy told himself as he pulled into the circular drive of the Whitelaw house, weaving the car through vans unloading party supplies. Technically, it doesn’t matter whether she’s there or not. I can’t question her, anyway, since my authority as inspector general pertains only to military matters and personnel. The general, on the other hand…I can pump him for all he knows. Or at least try.

  “Ah, come in, Dick,” General Whitelaw said. “It’s cold out there, isn’t it?”

  “This is Northern California, General. It’s always cold.”

  Whitelaw cocked his head inquisitively and asked, “Aren’t we on a first-name basis, Dick? We’ve certainly known each other long enough. And we both wear the same two stars.”

  “This isn’t a social call, General.”

  “Well, then…if this is business, perhaps we should retire to my study.” He sounded snippy as he added, “But I can’t imagine what this is all about.”

  They settled into plush chairs in the small but well-appointed room. Whitelaw poured two fingers of Scotch into a glass and handed it to Molloy.

  “No, thanks, General. I’m on the clock.”

  “Suit yourself, Richard,” Whitelaw replied, keeping the Scotch for himself.

  “Let’s get right to it,” Molloy said. “Are you aware the civil authorities in Seattle are holding the alleged other man in the attempted assault on Jillian Miles, Jock Miles’ wife?”

  “Yes, I heard. Willis, I believe his name is?”

  “That’s correct, General. Willis, Steven M, Sergeant, US Army. AWOL from this post since 20 October of this year.”

  “I’m well aware of that, Richard.” Whitelaw’s annoyance was plain to see now.

  “And are you aware that he’s implicated your wife as the instigator of the assault?”

  Whitelaw forced a laugh. “That’s absolute nonsense. You’re not telling me that Sixth Army IG is going to consider as gospel the word of some AWOL shitbird who’s just trying to cover his own ass…and besmirch the good name of my wife in the process?”

  “It’s not just your wife’s name, General. It’s yours, too. Willis’ accusation suggests a possible pattern of corruption on this post that could fall squarely into your bucket. No matter who’s actually doing the dirty work, the responsibility would ultimately be yours.”

  “I don’t need you to lecture me about responsibility, Richard.” Then, with a smirk on his face, Whitelaw added, “So, should I expect the MPs to arrest me at any moment?”

  “Negative, General. Consider my visit a courtesy. I’m simply here to advise you that the Monterey County District Attorney is going to be taking a long, hard look at your wife’s business dealings, and you’ll probably find yourself dragged through the mud in the process.”

  Whitelaw fell silent. Molloy knew what was on his mind: He’s got retirement coming up in a little over a year. Even if he doesn’t get formally charged with anything, the taint of a criminal investigation could lead Washington to retire him at a lower grade than major general. Maybe all the way down to bird colonel.

  To a man used to wearing stars, that’s as good as a dishonorable discharge.

  Pouring himself another drink, Whitelaw said, “You do realize, Molloy, that the IG cannot investigate my wife?”

  “I know that, General. But the civil authorities certainly can.”

  “Not likely. My wife’s family—the Kerns clan—they’re old California money. They trace their lineage all the way back to John C. Fremont. You know who he is, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. I studied the same history you did.”

  “Good. Just know this: the Kernses and their ilk think—no, they know—that they own this state. No pissant jailbird, no matter how enticing his song, is ever going to change that.”

  He downed the rest of the glass.

  “Now, unless you’ve got some actual Army business to discuss, you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got a celebration to organize.”

  As Molloy walked to his car, Whitelaw called after him: “Save yourself some trouble and get on the right side of this, Richard.”

  “I believe I already am, General.”

  “Bullshit. You’re wasting your time. You’ll never lay a glove on her.”

  Driving away, Molloy told himself, I’ve got a nasty feeling he may be right.

  *****

  Later that day, Dick Molloy met with Jillian Miles, her lawyer Mark Pitney, Master Sergeant Orr from CID, and Fred Peters, the district attorney for Monterey County, at Peters’ office. The DA made it clear from the outset it would be a tough slog implicating Priscilla Kerns Whitelaw in the attempted assault at the Miles home.

  “I want to thank Sergeant Orr for working through the Christmas holiday to gather evidence,” Peters began. “I wish I could say we’ve processed that evidence into something useful in the very limited time allowed. Mrs. Miles’ deportation judgment is supposed to come down on the third of January, I’m told?”

  “That’s correct,” Jillian’s lawyer said. “But we’re not asking you for an indictment in the assault case by then. Just help us raise the possibility of a related concern—a criminal conspiracy to harm Mrs. Miles—so we can hopefully delay the judgment and buy more time for her defense before the immigration court. It’s important to recognize the avarice toward Mrs. Miles by Mrs. Whitelaw and the company on whose board she sits, Guidon-Pacific. As you know, Mr. Peters, this avarice was the result of
a real estate transaction in which an Australian firm—Forbes-Weipa Company, in which Mrs. Miles is a major shareholder—prevented Guidon-Pacific from continuing its predatory pricing of housing for military dependents around Fort Ord by buying property out from under it.”

  “You’ve made me well aware of the matter,” DA Peters replied, “but since no laws of the State of California were broken in any aspect of that transaction, my office has no interest in it. My sole concern is successfully prosecuting the attempted assault on Mrs. Miles.”

  Pitney asked, “And seeing that Mrs. Miles is the prime witness in your case, you’d have no problem petitioning the Immigration Court to put the deportation proceedings on hold so she can testify?”

  “No, of course not,” Peters replied. “But I can make no guarantees what the Immigration Court will decide. And bear in mind this trial will last only a few days, at most.”

  Sergeant Orr asked the DA, “May we ask, sir, exactly what your office has done with the evidence I secured from Willis’ sister in Portland?”

  “Sure,” Peters replied. “First, the words on the piece of paper containing the map to the Miles house, and the vague instructions what to do once on that property, are all typewritten, with no names listed. There’s not a trace of handwriting or identifying quirks, like a damaged character on the machine. It could’ve come from anywhere or anybody. The document would never stand up as evidence in court. Any first-year law school student could easily demolish its credibility.

  “Second, the car used in the assault. As you know, we determined the morning after the incident it was registered to a man in Salinas, who’d just sold it two days before to a used car dealer in Monterey. The car dealer hadn’t yet transferred the registration or displayed the car for sale at the time of the assault. In fact, he claims he didn’t even know the car had been stolen from his lot until the sheriff informed him. At the moment, we have no reason not to believe him. The only link between the car and the Whitelaws we’ve been able to uncover so far is this: the sister of the original owner was a secretary in General Whitelaw’s office for a few months last year, not even close to the timeline for the crime we’re investigating. She lives in Texas now. I’m not sending an investigator to Dallas—at great expense—to do a pointless interview.”