Combat- Parallel Lines

by William Peter Grasso

  “Let’s take bets,” Patchett said. “Our good ol’ division C.O. will be showing up, too, no doubt. Is he gonna be in Ridgway’s chopper or his own?”

  Jock laughed and replied, “Are you still a betting man after Captain Pop cleaned you out of ten bucks?”

  “Hey…how’d I know that pilot was in hock to him? Besides, I can’t really say it wasn’t fair if it got the job done, right?”

  “No, you can’t,” Jock replied. “I’ll put a buck down that General Bishop shows up in his own helicopter. And he’ll get here well before General Ridgway does.”

  Patchett shrugged. “That’d be my bet, too.” He called to the others in the CP, asking, “Last call…anybody else want a piece of this action?”

  There were no takers. Nobody doubted that Bishop would show up first, if for no other reason than to make sure nobody cast him in a poor light with the new 8th Army commander.

  They were all correct. At 1225 hours, Bishop’s helicopter pilot was on the radio, announcing an imminent arrival at Northeast Airfield and 26th Regiment.

  Patchett asked, “Should we mess with him? Tell him don’t land because there’s live fire in the area?”

  He might’ve been kidding. Then again, maybe he wasn’t.

  Jock—who definitely wasn’t kidding—replied, “Tempting, but no.”

  Three minutes later, Bishop’s helicopter touched down. Grimacing with arthritis pain, he ambled to Jock’s CP in the dilapidated structure that was once the field’s operations building.

  The first words out of Bishop’s mouth: “Have you begun disciplinary proceedings against that idiot of yours who radioed an intel report in the clear?”

  “Yes, sir, I have,” Jock replied. Somehow, he managed to keep a straight face as he said it. “It’s taken care of.”

  “Share with me what that action was, Colonel.”

  “He received a verbal reprimand, sir,” Jock replied. He didn’t elaborate that the reprimand consisted solely of the words, Try not to do that again—if you can help it, that is, Theo. Then he told the general, “And while his actions were against SOP, sir, they did make this leisurely withdrawal possible. Otherwise, we’d be fighting tooth and nail to retreat right now.”

  “Negative, Colonel. Negative. What he did was a negligent act that could have put the tactical situation of your regiment, my division, and the entire Eighth Army in jeopardy. When General Ridgway gets here, I’ll expect you to inform both him and me that you’ll be taking more severe action against that man. What’s his name, again?”

  “Captain Theo Papadakis, sir.”

  Bishop tried to repeat the name but couldn’t. His best attempt came out sounding like Papa-doppa.

  Jock offered, “Maybe you should call him what we do, sir: Captain Pop.”

  “His name’s going to be mud when I’m finished with him,” Bishop said. “Now I want you personally to show me your plan for this withdrawal in detail, Colonel.”

  As annoying as that request was, fulfilling it kept Bishop from bothering Jock’s staff. They had more than enough to do without having to put up with his second-guessing. As Patchett put it: Some officers sharpshoot you just to see what you really know. They’ll never ask a question they don’t already know the answer to. But with General Bishop, he don’t know the right answer in the first damn place.

  General Ridgway’s helicopter settled onto the snow-covered ramp at 1257 hours, three minutes ahead of schedule. The moment her wheels touched down, he was out of the aircraft and striding toward the welcoming party.

  First impressions of a commander were important, though, and Jock’s people all thought the same thing: he looked like a soldier, ready to fight. Most generals looked like they were on the parade field, with no intention of getting their uniforms dirty or their shiny boots scuffed. Matthew Ridgway looked just as sharp as any other general, yet still gave the distinct impression he was ready to jump into a fighting hole with his GIs and take on Joe Chink. He wore web gear with suspenders like a common soldier, and taped to those suspenders was a live hand grenade.

  There was a story spreading like wildfire that some fool back in Seoul had asked the general if that grenade was real or just an inert prop.

  He’d replied, “Why don’t you pull the pin and find out, son?”

  Bishop raced forward to greet his commander, but Ridgway looked surprised—and a little displeased—to see him. He asked, “Haven’t I already spoken to you twice this morning, General Bishop? Surely, you must have something better to do than bird-dog me.” He’d spoken the words quietly so nobody else would hear them over the rumble of the helicopter’s engine and the pulsing swish of her whirling blades.

  Then Ridgway brushed past Bishop and walked up to Jock. “You must be Miles,” he said. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about you and your regiment, Colonel.”

  Out of the general’s earshot, Patchett muttered, “All true, too.”

  “Damn straight,” Sean added.

  But Jock was thinking, Can’t imagine from who. MacArthur’s no fan, Bishop thinks I’m a West Point troublemaker, and I doubt General Ridgway ever got to talk to General Walker.

  “Show me your situation map, Colonel,” Ridgway said.

  *****

  They spent almost thirty minutes at that map, going over everything 26th Regiment had learned about the Chinese forces facing them. General Ridgway followed along in rapt attention as Jock described the recon by fire patrol led by Theo Papadakis. When he was done, the general said, “It does my heart good to see that at least one regiment in Eighth Army is patrolling effectively…and not just pretending to be doing so.”

  General Bishop jumped up and said, “Sir, every regiment in my division has been actively patrolling.”

  Ridgway scowled as he replied, “But no other regiment has done it with any measure of success, General. Not like the Twenty-Sixth. Thanks to the patrol Colonel Miles just described, we’ve finally figured out where the Chinese Fortieth Army is. We knew they’d crossed the Yalu into Korea. But until now, we didn’t know where they were headed.” Then he asked Jock, “You are going to decorate the men of this patrol, aren’t you?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  Dismay was written all over Bishop’s face as he said, “I don’t think that’s such a wise move, sir. The leader of that patrol violated communications SOP by broadcasting crucial intel in the clear.”

  “I don’t see the problem there, General Bishop,” Ridgway replied. “With the Chinese troop dispositions we’re looking at, do you really think it would’ve made a rat’s ass worth of difference if that intel had been coded? The CCF is not exactly known for its ability to rapidly adjust to a changing situation.”

  “But sir,” Bishop bleated, “if we don’t adhere to procedures, we—”

  Ridgway interrupted him, saying, “I’ll take a man who can think on his feet over one who’s just a slave to procedure any day, General.”

  Turning back to Jock, Ridgway asked, “By the way, where do you stand on the promotion list, Colonel?”

  Although it had been a straightforward question with no hidden agenda, General Bishop took it to have one:

  He wants to give Miles a star and replace me with him. He’ll slide him into the vacant assistant division commander’s slot, and then before you know it, he’ll quietly push me out. That’s how those West Point bastards work. They take care of their own.

  Feeling humiliated, Bishop skulked into a corner of the CP.

  Jock was surprised by General Ridgway’s question. He hadn’t given promotion to brigadier general a moment’s thought since he’d arrived in Korea. He’d been far too busy trying to keep his regiment fighting and his men alive. Any time for thought he had left over went to pondering Jillian’s deportation predicament and what it meant to their lives, their marriage, and their children.

  And in all honesty, I have no idea exactly where I stand on the promotion list. Definitely not near the top, that’s for damn sure.

  Bu
t Jock needed to say something, and honesty would be the best policy: “I haven’t had a chance to look lately, sir.”

  Ridgway smiled. “I understand, Colonel. Tell you what…I’ll take a look for you and let you know.”

  Nobody was watching General Bishop. If they had been, they’d have seen the daggers he was shooting Jock’s way.

  *****

  When planning the withdrawal to the new MLR south of Seoul, Sean Moon had advised Jock to hold back most of the regiment’s armor, keeping it in position on the old MLR until the very last minute. “We’re not gonna run into any chinks on the road south,” he’d said, “and the main column won’t have ’em on their ass, neither, if we got the tanks playing rear guard.”

  Jock had accepted the idea immediately, with one proviso: “Let’s make sure the Chinese can’t flood through any gaps that might develop between us and Seventeenth Regiment. I’d like two tank platoons to serve as a fast-moving patrol along that boundary between the regiments, with a platoon of infantry in half-tracks to keep the chinks off their decks.”

  “Sure, we can do that, sir,” Sean replied, “and we better, too. From what I’ve heard, the Seventeenth sent most of their tanks south already. Dumb move, if you ask me.”

  “I agree,” Jock replied. “Set it up, will you? How soon can the tankers be ready?”

  “Give me two hours, sir. Is it okay with you if I go with them?”

  “By all means, Sergeant. I was just about to suggest it, anyway.”

  Then Jock added, “I want the entire regiment across the Han by nightfall, your tanks included.”

  *****

  Sean had tactfully suggested to the armor battalion commander that the two tank platoons he’d take on the patrol be commanded by sergeants rather than lieutenants. That way, Sean would be the ranking man and there’d be no question who was in charge of the detachment. It wasn’t a hard request to fill; of the battalion’s twelve platoons, eight were led by sergeants but only four by lieutenants. Combat attrition had—as usual—been brutal on junior officers. As Sean put it, By the time those louies learn enough to stay alive, they’re already dead.

  He had the four Pershings of one platoon patrolling the boundary with 17th Regiment within an hour. The second platoon, consisting of four Shermans, was having trouble getting on the road. They were stuck—literally—in their holding area, locked in the grip of treads frozen to the ground.

  Sean fumed as he told the platoon sergeant, “Didn’t I tell you whipdicks not to laager in no gulleys? They don’t freeze hard on top, so you sink in and get trapped. Now we gotta spend precious time bumping you all free, one by one.”

  “Ain’t my fault, Sean,” the platoon sergeant whined. “It was dark when we got here. Who the hell could tell it was a gulley?”

  “You’re supposed to be the one who could tell, numbnuts. If you got your ass outta the turret and your head outta your ass every now and then, you might actually be able to do it.”

  Sean climbed back into the unstuck Sherman he’d commandeered as his command vehicle, telling her driver, “We’re gonna go play bumper cars, Sully. You know the best way to tap ’em, right?”

  “Yeah, Sarge. Nose to nose.”

  With the roar of engines and clouds of exhaust smoke, the brutal ballet to jar the frozen tanks loose began. Two of the vehicles required multiple blows to crack the ice holding them fast. But within thirty minutes, the four Shermans were free and joining the patrol.

  “All that slamming gave me a headache, Sarge,” Sully said.

  “Do I look like someone who gives a shit? Stop bitching, take a coupla aspirin, and drive the damn vehicle.”

  *****

  Sean’s patrol hadn’t traveled more than a mile when they came across a discouraging sight: the remains of the searchlight battery the 26th had been ordered to turn over to 17th Regiment. The lights were devastated, blown apart by direct-fire weapons of large caliber, in all likelihood. The trailers on which the lights were mounted were overturned; the cylindrical lamp assemblies, each four feet in diameter, were nothing but empty rings now, resembling multi-pointed crowns lying on their sides.

  I’ll bet the GIs manning these things got chewed up pretty good, too, Sean told himself. Colonel Miles told that dumbass general who wanted to use these things for direct illumination that this would happen right quick if he did.

  And Colonel Miles was right. Dead right.

  But Sean sensed another problem far worse than the loss of the searchlights: Only one type of gun can survive all the artillery we’ve been dumping on them and still do something like this: the main gun of a Russian T-34.

  Them bastards got tanks again.

  Shit.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The patrol along the regimental boundary took Sean and his tankers through the eastern outskirts of Seoul. “Keep your eyes wide open,” he’d briefed them before setting out. “We’re used to the chinks hiding from the Air Force during the day, but inside the city, they won’t have to worry about planes much. Plenty of places for them to operate in broad daylight but still be invisible from the air.”

  It didn’t take long to encounter one of those places. Driving along a road that passed a row of what appeared to be warehouses, one of the half-tracks carrying GI infantry came under machine gun fire. Sean’s tank was only fifty yards behind the half-track; he had a clear view of what was happening.

  “If this is a chink ambush, it’s the dumbest one in history,” he said to his crew. Then he told his gunner, “Put an HE round right through that building where the MG’s firing. Knock the son of a bitch down.”

  Sean had meant that last sentence only as a figure of speech. The tank round, however, did knock the building down. Its impact collapsed the near wall; seconds later, the rest of the building fell like a house of cards. The hostile fire from within was silenced. But there were six more warehouses in the row, and each looked like a good place for more Chinese soldiers to be lying in wait.

  “Drive around back,” he radioed the Pershing platoon sergeant. “Cover the infantry while they check that there’s no chinks inside. The Shermans will do the same from the front side.”

  The first five buildings proved to be large empty spaces offering no hiding places inside. They were searched and found vacant within a matter of minutes. But when a squad of GI infantry entered the sixth and final warehouse, they never came out. There had been no gunfire, no sound of anything gone wrong.

  The lieutenant leading the infantry platoon was hesitant to investigate. “I don’t want to lose any more men,” he told Sean, who’d climbed down from his tank to speak face to face.

  “How do you know you lost anybody, Lieutenant? Maybe they just found a broad or two in there.”

  But the lieutenant still wouldn’t—or couldn’t—make a decision. Grasping for an excuse to justify his inaction, he said, “Look, Sergeant, we had a real rough time on the line the past few nights. I’m not going to risk any—”

  Sean cut him off. “With all due respect, Lieutenant, knock off the crap. I’ve been having a real rough time since North Africa in Forty-Two. Are you gonna check on your men, or what?”

  When it was obvious that his choice would be or what, Sean mumbled, “Ah, for fuck’s sake,” and then called to his bow gunner: “Swenson, grab your weapon and come with me.”

  As they walked to the warehouse entrance, Swenson asked, “Is that lieutenant making us do this, Sarge?”

  “No. I’m making us do this. Something screwy’s going on in there, and the lieutenant can’t find his ass with both hands right now.”

  At the doorway, Sean peeked inside from a low crouch. This warehouse wasn’t empty like the others; it was full of boxes, stacked high. He recognized the markings on those boxes right away.

  “This place is full of GI field rations,” he told Swenson, “and it ain’t like the G4 to be stashing stuff like this and then forgetting about it.”

  “How do you think it got here, Sarge?”

&n
bsp; “My guess? The ROKs are hoarding it.”

  “Hoarding? I’ll bet it’s more like they’re stealing it.”

  “You might have something there, pal,” Sean said.

  Then, with weapons cradled at their sides, ready to fire, they stepped inside.

  At first, it seemed there was nobody there. Then they heard someone speaking; the words echoed around the warehouse, making their origin difficult to detect. But as they rounded a wall of stacked boxes, they found the source right on the other side: the GIs who’d first gone into the building—all five of them—were being held at gunpoint by an equal number of ROK soldiers. The petrified GIs had been disarmed, their hands up, their weapons stacked out of reach against another wall of boxes.

  One of them was mumbling the Hail Mary. Sean told him, “The Blessed Virgin ain’t gonna help us, pal…not unless she’s got some heavy hardware trained on these clowns.”

  “You’d be wise to drop your weapons,” one of the ROKs—a lieutenant—said in perfect English. He started to say something else, but his voice faltered. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

  “Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Sean said. “I know you. I bailed your ass outta some big trouble about a month ago up at Sunchon, didn’t I? So what’ve you been up to, Lieutenant Moon, besides guarding all this food you ROKs swiped? Oh, and by the way, we ain’t dropping our weapons until you drop yours.”

  There was talk in Korean among the ROKs, angry words none of the Americans understood. Lieutenant Moon said something that silenced his men.

  But no weapons were lowered.

  “The last time we met,” Sean said, “you were about to get bumped off by your own guys, weren’t you?”

  The Korean lieutenant said nothing in reply, but his expression gave him away: the memory was an uncomfortable one.

  Sean continued, “All my guys thought it was so fucking funny that you and me were both named Moon, remember?”

  The lieutenant nodded.