Combat- Parallel Lines

by William Peter Grasso

  They’d be limited to two directions of attack: from either north or south. Mountains jutted into the sky over two thousand feet on either side of the highways. Those mountains would be invisible in the dark, making low-level strafing attacks a hair-raising adventure. Fortunately, the highways were fairly straight and level for miles at a stretch. The one bringing traffic from the north—the most likely one on which to intercept multiple convoys before they disbursed onto the intersecting roadways—closely paralleled the Pukhan River, running through its valley. The river was partially frozen over; the crystalline surface reflected moonlight and searchlight beams well, providing the pilots with a visible reference for avoiding the adjacent mountains.

  “We’re five miles out,” Roth told Tommy. “Time to drop down and have a look-see.”

  The navigator on the searchlight ship, call sign Limelight One-Seven, concurred. Her pilot initiated a straight-in descent toward the Pukhan River and its parallel highway.

  “Bringing her down to five thousand,” Tommy said. “Just keep an eye peeled for that hardcore cumulus.”

  “Roger on avoiding those rocks in the sky,” Roth replied as he watched the exhaust flare of Limelight’s engines a few miles ahead. “We’re in the light ship’s sound mask now. Maintain this airspeed…that should keep us there.”

  Being in Limelight’s sound mask was a tactical imperative for the attacking ship. When the Chinese and KPA convoys weren’t pressed for time, they’d drive slowly with their headlights off, making them invisible to aircraft without the aid of searchlights or illumination flares. Lookouts in the convoy would search the skies for the blue-orange exhaust glow of American planes; they’d even use ear trumpets—primitive but effective tools—to discern the engine noise of distant aircraft from the rumble and snarl of their own vehicles. By staying behind Limelight, the engine noise of Moon’s Menace VI would be difficult, if not impossible, to pick out.

  If the convoys were pressed for time—which was their usual situation—they drove with headlights on until aircraft were detected overhead.

  Once illuminated in the searchlight ship’s beam, a convoy might—if terrain permitted—leave the road for the cover of trees. If terrain didn’t permit leaving the road, they’d try to drive as fast as they could to escape the probable kill zone.

  But there’d be those few moments after the searchlight ship flew past that the convoy might think it was in the clear. They’d resume their travel, sometimes even switching their headlights back on. By the time they realized there was another aircraft bearing down on them, it was too late. The convoy would be riddled by fire from the attacking ship.

  Limelight’s beam was illuminating a stretch of the road now, as well as the riverbed to its right and the base of the mountain to its left. Tommy’s ship was still too far away to see the targeted area, but they knew the game was on when Limelight’s pilot announced, “We’ve got a live one here. Lots of vehicles, headlights off, and nowhere to go. They’re staying on the road, still moving.”

  “Okay, we’re descending to five hundred feet,” Tommy replied as he flipped the switch to arm the guns. “Report when you’re clear.”

  Usually that announcement would come in just a few seconds. But instead of calling his ship clear, Limelight said, “Well, lookee here…we’ve got another bunch a few hundred yards behind them. Have a field day, Tommy. Got yourself a good visual reference?”

  “Roger. Douse your light and get out of there. We’re rolling in.”

  Then he told Roth, “You look left, I’ll shoot.”

  Look left meant keep an eye on the looming mountain. The slightest hint that they were off course and headed for disaster—like a sudden, impenetrable blackness where there’d been the deep gray tinge of night sky just a moment before—would send Moon’s Menace VI into the steepest climb she could achieve. That climb wouldn’t end until the altimeter read 2,000 feet above the highest peak in the target area. Then Tommy would have to make the decision whether to try again or abort the mission.

  They were swooping lower now, down to 1,000 feet and still descending. Tommy could see the satiny gray ribbon of the river fairly well. The less visible roadway was just a matter of yards to the ribbon’s left. He couldn’t make out any trucks; either they’d kept their headlights off…

  Or I’m in the wrong place altogether.

  Hank Roth’s mantra was reassuring: “Clear left…clear left…clear…”

  Tommy opened fire at 650 feet on the altimeter, aiming by probability tempered with a dose of intuition.

  Within a few seconds, they’d descended to 500 feet, still firing.

  “Not an inch lower,” Tommy said as he released the trigger button, eased the throttles forward, and pulled her nose up into a brisk climb.

  They weren’t sure if they’d hit anything or not until Bob Allen, the only crewman who could see aft, gasped from the gunner’s compartment, “Holy crap! We scored a big hit on something.”

  As he said that, there was a flash like a bolt of lightning beneath the aircraft. A second later, a shock wave rocked her like an earthquake’s tremor.

  Tommy asked, “What are you seeing, Bob?”

  “Looks like we hit an ammo convoy. Nothing else blows up quite like that. Getting secondaries now, too.”

  From an orbit over the target area, Limelight added, “We’ve got major explosions going on down there. Nice shooting, Tommy. But I think there are still more vehicles needing some attention. Want to do another pass?”

  “Affirmative,” Tommy replied, “but I’m going to make my run out of the north this time. You stay high and keep the light trained on the road so I can see what I’m doing, since it isn’t any secret anymore that we’re here. Just don’t light me up when I’m coming in.”

  “Roger,” Limelight replied. “Did you take any fire?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Me either. Give ’em hell, Tommy.”

  With the first convoy element stalled and burning, the second element couldn’t get through. Its trucks were now stationary targets, viewed from the night sky as tiny gray rectangles throwing long, dancing shadows in the searchlight’s glare.

  When they were raked with a few hundred rounds of .50 caliber from the guns of Moon’s Menace VI, they erupted just like the vehicles of the first element.

  Limelight’s pilot was on the air again, saying, “Looks like there are going to be a bunch of chinks who won’t be getting their ammo resupply tonight. If we can keep this up, they won’t be able to do anything but throw rocks before long.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  In the Ansong schoolhouse that served as General Ridgway’s forward headquarters, the corps, division, and regimental commanders of his 8th Army assembled on this last week of January 1951. There was one notable absentee: General Almond, still wearing the two hats of X Corps commander and MacArthur’s chief of staff, was in Tokyo with the Supreme Commander. Ridgway found the situation intolerable: Any man trying to do two jobs does neither of them well. But I can’t fire him from MacArthur’s staff…and if I dump him as Tenth Corps commander, I disrupt the command and control of a quarter of my forces for a while.

  At least I put a stop to Almond and his corps being an independent command that answered to Tokyo and not Eighth Army.

  The roaring flames in the old building’s fireplaces did little to warm the frigid air inside. The officers huddled in the briefing room were still swaddled in the parkas, fur-lined caps, and gloves they’d worn outdoors.

  The only good thing anyone could say about the weather was that no fresh snow had fallen in the past week, leaving the skies clear for American airpower to continue their interdiction of the Chinese and North Korean supply lines. While that effort was greatly appreciated by the officers and men of 8th Army, they shared a collective wish for more:

  If only those flyboys could actually locate and plaster those major CCF units that must be assembled somewhere near here, that would be even better. It’s great that the A
ir Force is messing up their supply chain, but the chinks are still here.

  For the past week, Ridgway’s forces had been engaged in Operation Thunderbolt, a series of reconnaissance-in-force efforts conducted by individual infantry regiments and armored battalions. Probing north from Line D, the goal of these efforts was to locate where the Chinese and KPA forces were massing for their inevitable renewed assault. Ridgway’s instructions to his commanders had made one thing clear: First: no unit is to become so deeply engaged that it requires other commands to have to come to their rescue.

  If a unit had to be bailed out in that manner, it would result in a disruption of 8th Army’s MLR, inviting a Chinese breakthrough and encirclement of American forces. Since its establishment, the MLR at Line D had been largely unchallenged by the CCF. Matt Ridgway wanted to believe that was due to its perceived impregnability; he didn’t need a foolish or overzealous commander setting up an opportunity for the Chinese to prove him wrong.

  “Gentlemen, we’ve learned a lot this past week,” Ridgway said as he opened the briefing before a gigantic wall map. “As we suspected, the enemy forces we’ve faced in the area of Line D are fairly light. Operation Thunderbolt was envisioned as a reconnaissance effort, but because of this light resistance, we’ve been able to move our line north, cutting the distance to Seoul and the Han River in half. That city now lies only fifteen miles away.”

  He walked to the side of the platform, motioning for a towering major general with close-cropped white hair to stand. “Gentlemen, before we get down to brass tacks, I need you all to meet somebody. As you know from dispatches over the last twenty-four hours, General Bishop is no longer in command of Twenty-Fourth Division. His replacement is General Blackshear Bryan,” he said, pointing to that mountain of a man. “As you’re probably thinking, General Bryan would make one hell of a football lineman. Well, rest assured that he was—a tackle at West Point back in the early 1920s. I’ve known him for quite a while, and he’s worked for me before. He’s an outstanding officer. Get to know him.”

  To some small degree, they had already gotten to know him, at least on paper. The minute the change of command order was published, gossip flowed in from all across Korea about Blackshear Bryan. The consensus: The man’s been a pencil-pusher his whole career. Never had a combat command in his life, not in this war or the last one, where everybody and his brother could get combat time if he wanted it. But his basic career was with the artillery, so at least he’s from a combat arm.

  But most importantly, General Ridgway wants him. Based on what we’ve seen of Ridgway so far, that’s good enough…for now, at least.

  Rumors of Bishop’s impending removal hadn’t been surprising; the only question was why hadn’t it happened long before Ridgway fired him. As Jock put it: The man just wasn’t in good enough physical shape for a combat command. He was a deskbound commander, and that just doesn’t work out here on the line. His various ailments kept him from being where he was needed most of the time.

  And the few times he was around, he was a pain in my ass.

  General Ridgway returned to the map, sketching a goose egg in grease pencil some twenty miles east of Seoul, anchored on the Han River’s south bank. “In this area, gentlemen, is where we believe the Chinese Thirty-Eighth Army is massing.”

  Every man in the room noted that the area was directly across from 24th Division’s current position on the 8th Army line. They were all thinking, The Twenty-Fourth is directly in harm’s way. And it’s the one with the brand new, untested commander. If it folds, we all fold.

  “Now I want everyone to know that I have no intention of plowing headlong into this mass of Chinese,” Ridgway continued. “And, of course, given the river, the mountains, and the presence of at least two other Chinese armies to the east and the potential bloodbath with the KPA in Seoul to the west, the Chinese Thirty-Eighth Army will be difficult, if not impossible, to envelop.”

  Then, in red grease pencil, he drew a large U whose lower curve plunged through the heart of 24th Division’s position. His officers interpreted that U to depict a salient, a penetration of an enemy deep into your lines. That seemed to confirm their worst fears…

  Until Ridgway said, “We’re going to create a ruse, gentlemen. Twenty-Fourth Division is going to sucker the Chinese into an artillery trap here”—he placed the tip of his pointer at the base of the U—“roughly five miles north of the city of Kumnyangjang-ni along Highway Seventeen. Colonel Miles, I understand your regiment is well acquainted with that city from the drive north in October. That name is a mouthful, but I understand your men called it something else. Would you share with us what it was?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jock replied. “We called it Come Yank My Chain. Much easier to remember and say.”

  Smiling, Ridgway said, “Indeed it is. I suspect we’ll use that name extensively in the planning and execution of this operation. If the Chinese take the bait, I’d like to see the trap sprung no later than 2359 hours on thirty-one January. That’s tomorrow night, gentlemen. If our artillery succeeds in shattering CCF forces in that sector—and I have every confidence that they will—First Cavalry Division will immediately exploit through the gap we create in the Chinese line, split their forces, and send them reeling as the rest of Eighth Army presses north behind First Cav. General Bryan, I’ll expect to see your division’s operations plan for this action by 2000 hours today.”

  *****

  As Jock and the other two regimental commanders from 24th Division were huddled with their new commander, General Ridgway approached and asked, “General Bryan, may I borrow Colonel Miles for a moment?”

  In the privacy of what must’ve once been a classroom, Ridgway said, “I still haven’t named an assistant division commander for the Twenty-Fourth, Jock. I’d like it to be you, but as I know you’re aware, I’ll have to fight to jump you up the promotion list and get you the star that comes with the job. I don’t want to waste any time doing that if you’re not interested. I sense you have reservations, so what’s it going to be?”

  Reluctantly, Jock explained the problem with Jillian and her possible deportation back to Australia. The fact that he knew so little of the details of the case against her was incredibly frustrating, and it showed as he spoke.

  During his long career commanding units at every level from platoon to corps and now an entire army, Matt Ridgway had heard all kinds of stories from subordinates about problems back home. He knew the effects those out-of-reach issues could have on men overseas, who were powerless to provide any assistance to their loved ones.

  “I’m really sorry to hear this, Jock,” Ridgway said. “I can understand how betrayed you must feel that such an action by our nation’s government—a nation you defend with your life on a daily basis—is even possible. But why didn’t you come to me sooner?”

  “You’ve got more than enough on your mind, sir. I don’t think I should be troubling you with my family’s problems. I’ll manage on my own, and I’ve done my best to keep it from affecting my performance.”

  “By all accounts, you certainly have, Jock. But you need friends in matters like this. You say your wife’s case will be decided in April?”

  “Yes, sir. The twenty-sixth of the month.”

  “And if she’s allowed to stay in the States, you’d take a promotion as well as perform the extra tour it would entail here in Korea? That’s awfully close to your rotation date, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir, it is close. But knowing my family wasn’t about to be uprooted from the life and home we’ve chosen would make a world of difference in considering the promotion.”

  Ridgway was about to press him about his use of the word considering; it sounded as if he was still leaving himself room to refuse the star. He decided not to push the issue now, though, because regimental commanders who were considered fighters were in far shorter supply than one-star generals looking to punch their ticket for that second star…

  And Matt Ridgway knew he needed fighters to pu
sh the Chinese back beyond the 38th Parallel and keep them there. But he also knew that domestic tranquility could keep a career soldier’s morale high. Lack of that tranquility could destroy him.

  “Let me see what I can do to help, Jock,” Ridgway said. “Maybe a little more pressure to persuade Uncle Sam to do the right thing by your wife will make all the difference.”

  *****

  The premise of the artillery trap was simple: lure a large enemy force into a relatively compact kill zone and then rain holy hell on them with every cannon you could muster. It was the luring that was the difficult part. They had to convince the Chinese that a portion of the 8th Army line had suddenly become exploitable.

  The first ops plan devised by the G3 of 24th Division was anything but inspired. It depended on a small number of vehicles—mostly tanks—making a great deal of noise by driving back and forth along the division front, attempting to give the impression a much larger force was on the move. Then the decoy vehicles would retreat to the south, signaling this larger force was withdrawing.

  Sean Moon was the only man in the CP who’d had experience in this type of operation. He told the G3, “Begging your pardon, sir…and with all due respect…but that ain’t gonna work. What you’re proposing, we did plenty of times back in Third Army, but it wasn’t to trick them into thinking we were pulling out. What it does do is it gives the impression that they’re facing a much larger force than they really are. I can make a platoon of tanks sound like an armored battalion, no problem. But to make it sound like that battalion’s pulling back? That takes a little something extra.”