Combat- Parallel Lines

by William Peter Grasso

He intercepted Grossman’s jeep on the trail to the mortar section. Better we talk out here, away from everyone else, Patchett thought. If this conversation goes sideways, it won’t be fit for tender ears.

  Grossman instinctively knew his visitor hadn’t stopped by just to say hello. He opened with, “I don’t have much time, Top. What’s on your mind?”

  “Maybe you let your driver take my jeep back to your CP so you and me can talk real private, sir. As soon as we’re done talking, you can drop me off.”

  Reluctantly, Grossman agreed. “Sure. However you want it.”

  Patchett wasted no time getting to the heart of the matter: “Where the hell you wandering off to at night, Lee?”

  The reply was equal parts surprise and defensiveness. “Who spilled the beans on me, Patch? It was that weaselly XO of mine, wasn’t it?”

  “Ain’t no matter who, Lee. Let’s just say your whole damn staff is mightily concerned about you. I am, too. But you still ain’t answered my question.”

  “You want an answer, Top? Well, here it is…I’m going to capture myself a chink general. Drag his rice-eating ass right up to General Ridgway’s van. That’ll be a pretty big propaganda coup for Eighth Army, don’t you think? It should put a crimp in all that lying bullshit they’re pumping out to the world about the inevitable defeat of the imperialist aggressors. You ever listen to that shit on the short wave?”

  “Sure I do, but what you’re talking is suicide, Lee. How the hell do you plan on finding yourself a chink general, anyway? For openers, that whole damn army don’t wear no insignia of rank. You could end up mistaking some old mess steward for a general.”

  “Nah, it isn’t as hard as you think, Top. Some of the chinks I’ve run into had documents on them that looked pretty high level. They’re still being translated by my ROK interpreter, but it’s a good possibility that one of the clowns carrying them might’ve been a regimental commander. So I’m getting pretty close…”

  “What happened to those chinks you ran into, Lee? You kill ’em?”

  “Afraid so,” Grossman replied. “The GIs I’ve been taking with me…well, you’d like them. They don’t have any qualms about killing a man face to face. I must be making an impression with the chinks, because I’m hearing rumors from some POWs my battalion captured this morning that there’s a bounty on my head. They say the CCF brass is calling me The Criminal Street Gang.” He smiled at the sound of his nickname.

  “Street Gang, like your battalion call sign?”

  “Yep.”

  “I don’t get it, Lee. You want to be so famous that the chinks hunt you down and kill you real special-like?”

  “They’re already trying to kill me and all the rest of us every minute of every day, Top. What the hell’s the difference?”

  “The difference is that you’re begging for trouble when there ain’t no need, Lee. Listen to yourself a minute. How the hell you gonna find a chink general, anyway? He’s bound to be in a crowd of people, don’t you think?”

  “Even generals have to take a shit sometimes, Top.”

  Patchett fell silent. He felt sure he was trying to talk sense to a crazy man…

  A crazy man with a death wish.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Grossman said after the long and painful pause. “I’m losing my marbles because Rachel walked out on me.”

  “That did cross my mind, Lee. You know as well as I do that you wouldn’t be the first.”

  “And you’re going to have to report all this to Colonel Miles, right, Top?”

  “Of course I have to tell him. We can’t have you getting—”

  “Getting killed? If I was worried about that, I would’ve shot myself in the foot before I ever let Uncle Sam reactivate me.”

  “No, Lee, I ain’t buying that. You never woulda shirked your duty. But yeah, I gotta tell the colonel. And you know what he’s gonna do.”

  “Yeah, I know what he’s going to do…nothing. Not a goddamn thing. Hard as it is to get the dogfaces interested in fighting this fucking war, he’s not going to stop one of his commanders who’s doing it with a vengeance.”

  “You’re missing the point here, Lee. There’s smart tactics…and then there’s just plain ol’ foolishness. And a battalion commander’s job is to—”

  “You’re not really going to tell me what my damn job is, are you, Top?”

  “No, Lee, I reckon that’ll be Colonel Miles’ job.”

  With a sly smile, Grossman said, “You want to bet on what the colonel’s going to tell me?”

  “No, thanks. I already lost a coupla bets lately. Can’t afford to lose no more.” He paused and then added, “But you know I gotta tell him…and then he can say whatever he damn pleases.”

  They’d reached the Battalion CP. As Patchett climbed from the jeep, he said, “Watch your ass, sir. I mean it. You’re fixing to fall into a world of shit one way or another if you ain’t careful.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Tommy Moon sat in pensive silence as the shuttle truck brought him and his crew out to their aircraft, Moon’s Menace VI. The gist of the pre-mission briefing was still reverberating in his head: The fight around Chip’yong-ni is a make or break effort for Eighth Army. Even with some rejuvenated KPA units helping them out, the Chinese can’t maintain an offensive for very long, not with their meager supply lines stretched the way they are.

  As long as we can stop them from a sustained breakthrough anywhere along the line, General Ridgway is confident this new offensive of theirs will fail…

  And when it does, Eighth Army should be able to push them back all the way to the Thirty-Eighth Parallel. It’s only forty miles to the north now.

  What happens once Eighth Army gets to the Thirty-Eighth, though…that’s another question entirely. Will they hold there? Or does Washington want them to push farther into North Korea…and risk another debacle like the one we had a few months back?

  I kind of doubt Truman will risk it, despite MacArthur’s saber-rattling.

  There was no point discussing his last thought out loud, though. Squadron briefings, such as the one they’d just left, were always chock-full of rampant speculation, usually squelched by the commander finally having to say, “Gentlemen, gentlemen…as I’ve said so many times before, Opinions are like assholes—everybody’s got one. Now let’s knock off the bullshit and get back to the actual facts of the mission at hand.”

  There was no point, either, in interrupting his two crewmen—Lieutenant Hank Roth and Captain Bill Wild—as they huddled together on the truck’s bench seat, comparing navigation and target data, struggling against the truck’s turbulent wake to keep the charts on their lapboards in place. Roth, the navigator, asked Wild, “So, Captain, with those two ground stations moved to higher ground and closer to Eighth Army’s line, you think SHORAN will work for us below fourteen thousand feet?”

  “Yeah, Hank, but not by much,” Wild replied. “This system’s still a work in progress, you know? And there are still a whole lot of mountains in the way of those radio beams.”

  Captain Bill Wild—an amiable officer who told everyone to call him Wild Bill—was Moon Menace VI’s new SHORAN operator. He came as a breath of fresh air to Tommy and Roth after they’d endured the disagreeable technocrat Frank Martin for all of one mission before he was booted off the crew and grounded. Wild seems to be an entirely different sort of technical officer, Tommy thought. Unlike Martin, he understands the priority of the mission over his precious box of electrons. Probably comes from him being a mustang—Wild did the last war as an NCO and only took a commission after it was all over.

  The C.O. was right: I think I’m going to like working with this guy.

  As the truck came to a stop at their ship, Wild asked Tommy, “Your brother…he’s in Twenty-Fourth Division, you say?”

  “Yep. He’s a top kick in Twenty-Sixth Regiment.”

  “That’s hot stuff that you got to work with him on that Twin Tunnel mission. And who knows? You might be wo
rking with him again today.”

  That prospect made Tommy feel very good. He needed those periodic reassurances that Sean was alive and well.

  *****

  The four B-26s in Tommy’s Switchblade Flight were leading a squadron of bombers heading north from K-2 to Chip’yong-ni. Each of the squadron’s other flights was led by a SHORAN-equipped ship just like Moon’s Menace VI. The mid-morning sky of 14 February was crystalline blue, with cirrus clouds scattered high above. Against the backdrop of those wispy clouds, Hank Roth saw them first: silvery dots at a much higher altitude than the bombers, shimmering as they reflected the bright sunlight, moving rapidly from west to east as each dot painted a thin white contrail in its wake.

  His voice tense, Roth asked, “Do you think they’re MIGs?”

  “This far south and east? Not real likely,” Tommy replied, trying to sound convinced. “Are you sure they’ve got swept wings?”

  “Can’t really tell, sir. Maybe when they get a little more overhead…”

  From the aft compartment, Bill Wild asked, “What am I missing?”

  “Jets, pretty high,” Tommy replied. “No positive ID yet.”

  “They’re not coming downstairs, are they?”

  “Not yet, Bill,” Tommy said. “Don’t worry, we’ll let you know. In the meantime, we’ve got big business to attend to.”

  Actually, Wild wasn’t worried at all: The MIGs won’t be much interested in B-26s. We’re down too low. They’ll waste too much gas yo-yoing up and down between angels thirty and us down here at angels fourteen. The B-29s flying up high are much easier targets for them. Thank God I’m not crew on one of them anymore.

  He’d been on a few B-29 missions over North Korea as part of SHORAN’s debut. They’d been hair-raising; MIGs seemed to be everywhere, attacking the big bombers with impunity day and night. It was no wonder the Superfortresses’ losses were climbing steadily.

  After talking with ASOs on the ground, Roth told the crew, “No changes in target coordinates or IP. Hold airspeed at two-one-zero.”

  “That makes it pretty easy,” Wild replied. “I’ve got the wind data computed. Turn to heading zero-one-zero at the IP.”

  The IP—initial point for the bomb run—was directly over the fork in the road: where Highway 24 split into 24A and 24B at the Han River a few miles northwest of the city of Yoju. They were close enough now to identify the fork visually. The bomb run’s release point was still seven miles ahead. Once they reached it, the other three ships in Switchblade Flight’s formation would release their bombs when their SHORAN-equipped leader did. They’d be at the release point in a little over two minutes.

  Flying the plane to an accurate drop would consume all of Tommy’s energy now. He told Roth, “Keep an eye on our friends upstairs. What are they doing now?”

  “Turning north. Holding altitude.”

  “Good. If they’re bad guys, they’ve got no plans to engage. Not yet, anyway.”

  Roth had an idea. “Maybe they’re F-86s. Should I give them a shout on the intercept frequency?”

  “Not now,” Tommy replied. “We’re way too busy. Stay on freq with the ASO.”

  The target was a narrow valley along Highway 24, two miles north of Chip’yong-ni. The major CCF logistical route to that city, the highway was reported to be clogged with vehicles and porters toting supplies on their backs, none of whom the aircrew could see through the smoke of battle collecting in the valley. Without SHORAN’s blind-bombing capability, this obscured target couldn’t be engaged from the safety of altitude at all.

  At the IP, Tommy turned the ship precisely to the heading Wild had supplied. From here to the release point, the ship would be under the guidance of the SHORAN operator.

  His eyes glued to the flight instruments, Tommy asked Roth, “Anything interesting going on with our friends upstairs?”

  “Nope. They’re in a wide orbit now, same height.”

  With Wild’s command—Pickle them!—the aircraft lurched upward from the release of her ten 500-pound HE bombs. Within seconds, the other three ships in the flight reported Bombs away, as well.

  It would be hours before the flight crews would see the bomb damage assessment photos back at K-2. Right now, though, ASOs on the ground indicated the bombs were on target.

  “Score a tentative victory for SHORAN,” Wild said with a laugh. “Now, where the hell are those jets?”

  Tommy and Roth scanned the sky, but the only reminder of the jets was the nearly dissipated contrails they’d left behind. “Looks like they went east,” Tommy said. “Probably F-86s on their way back to Japan, with one eye on their fuel gauges. Nice to know they were here…even if it was just for a couple of minutes.”

  Then he asked Roth, “How are we doing on gas?”

  “We’ve got twenty-two minutes of playtime fuel, sir.”

  “Good,” Tommy replied. “Let’s see what other trouble we can get into.”

  He ordered Switchblade Flight into a high orbit over Chip’yong-ni.

  *****

  Tommy could hear the frustration in the ASO’s voice as he asked, “Switchblade Leader, this is Artemis. Any chance of you doing some low-level work?”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  The ASO needed eyes in the sky over the west side of Chip’yong-ni. “The Frenchies got that sector,” he explained. “I’ve got no translator, no spotter ship, and their English isn’t so hot. They’re getting their brains beat in, but I’m not real sure where they want air support. Can you come on down and have a look-see at what’s going on?”

  “Maybe I can do you one better, Artemis,” Tommy replied. “Can the Frenchies come up on this freq?”

  “Affirmative, Switchblade.”

  “Have them switch over. I speak frog. I’ll talk with them directly.”

  Wild’s surprised voice came over the interphone: “You’re going to parlez vous with them?”

  “Why not, Bill? They need help, maybe we can provide it.”

  With that, Tommy rolled the ship over into a steep descent.

  *****

  “Allo, Allo, Switchblade. Nous avons besoin de soutien…”

  Moon’s Menace VI was at 6,000 feet and still in a rapid descent as Tommy made contact with the French battalion at Chip’yong-ni, their plea for assistance coming in loud and clear in their native language. The rest of Switchblade Flight was descending more cautiously, awaiting specific instructions—in English—from their flight leader.

  Tommy leveled the ship at 5,000 feet as his spirited conversation with the embattled French battalion continued. The ASO’s reluctance to call for fire support made sense now: the Chinese had breached the battalion’s perimeter along railroad tracks that entered the town, using the rail embankment for cover. The opposing forces had become mixed, with no clear battle lines, making the targeting of artillery or air support a danger to friend and foe alike. Although the Chinese hadn’t yet managed to pump any great number of troops through the French perimeter, there was no stopping those still flowing down the embankment. If that flow was not stemmed, it seemed certain the French would be overrun.

  From his airborne perch, Tommy could see something those on the ground couldn’t: the assembly area for the Chinese coming down the tracks. It was nestled behind a long, narrow ridgeline that lay less than a mile from the French perimeter. There was even a cut in the ridgeline near the tracks through which CCF troops could reach the embankment with little exposure to direct fire.

  “We’ve got to come out of the south,” Tommy told his flight. “Too many mountains any other way. Two, Three, and Four, you take the assembly area first. Once you’re clear, I’ll take a run at the rail embankment. Is everybody able to identify the target area?”

  When all three ships replied Affirmative, Tommy said, “Okay, let’s do it.”

  As they rolled into their attack, Switchblade Flight had enough fuel remaining for sixteen minutes on station.

  *****

  As the strafing attack com
menced, Bill Wild was little more than a spectator in a very high-stakes game. It was something entirely new to him; all the airborne work he’d done previously was in high-flying aircraft. But now, with his SHORAN system just along for the ride, there was nothing he could do but experience the rapid maneuvers and violent accelerations of a ground attack run for the first time.

  He found it exhilarating…and terrifying. He could see nothing of the target area out the two windows of the aft fuselage compartment—one above him, one below. He’d get a fleeting glimpse of it once the run was complete and the ship was climbing away, but he’d been warned in advance that the only thing he’d likely be able to distinguish were enemy tracers chasing the ship.

  He’d been warned about something else, too: he was, for all practical purposes, trapped in that aft compartment. The only way out involved jettisoning his compartment hatch and then getting his seat out of the way by unpinning it from the floor and throwing it overboard out the opening. Only then would he have enough clearance to make his own exit while wearing a parachute, crawling headfirst into the sky on hands and knees. The odds were excellent that the ship would crash or blow up long before he got to bail out.

  As Tommy began the strafing run, the ship shuddered from the hammering of her eight .50-caliber machine guns. Wild looked between his legs through the lower window and thought, My God…we’re only a couple inches off the damn ground!

  His panicky estimate wasn’t off by much.

  Then the infernal racket of the machine guns stopped and the ship was climbing rapidly, seemingly standing on her tail as she clawed for the safety of altitude. Wild couldn’t see any tracers rising up to kill them.

  “Everybody okay?” Tommy asked the other ships in Switchblade Flight.

  When they all reported no problems, Wild felt sure that was the end of it: We’ll be going home now.

  But it was not to be. There was more chatter in French on the radio now. When it was done, Tommy told the flight, “Okay, let’s deal with their other problem now. We’ll hose down the south slope of that mountain that’s about a mile north of our last target. Attack in echelon left—on me—and concentrate on the lower part of the slope, which is crawling with chinks. Everybody ready?”