Combat- Parallel Lines

by William Peter Grasso

  They all reported they were. “Okay,” Tommy told his pilots, “break on my count: Three…two…one…Break.”

  As they headed down into this new attack run, Tommy told his crew, “Too bad we’re not carrying napalm this trip. We could’ve set that whole damn mountain on fire.”

  *****

  The French were delighted with the results of Switchblade Flight’s strafing runs. By crippling the continued influx of CCF troops from two different directions, those Chinese who’d managed to get inside their battalion perimeter were now greatly outnumbered. They were quickly dealt with.

  The commander of Twenty-Third Regiment was delighted, too. Although the fight to hold Chip’yong-ni was far from over, the very real possibility that the French battalion would collapse had been alleviated. The remaining American battalions of the regiment could now focus on their own perimeters without having to worry about Chinese crashing through the French sector and enveloping them from the rear.

  Everyone in 8th Army was well aware that the longer the 23rd Regiment could hold off the CCF, the quicker the Chinese attacking Chip’yong-ni would exhaust their ammunition. They wouldn’t be getting much more of it, either, as their supply chain was still being battered from the air. When Switchblade Flight returned the next day—15 February—to attack that supply chain, it was obvious the Chinese were pulling back; the highways to the north were clogged with fleeing enemy troopers.

  And for this mission, the B-26s were armed with napalm, because as any GI could tell you, The chinks and gooks are terrified of being firebombed.

  *****

  Matthew Ridgway was well satisfied with the outcome at Chip’yong-ni. For the first time in this war, an American command had turned back a major Chinese offensive.

  And the Air Force is still punishing those retreating chinks, he told himself.

  But now my ground force has got to get moving north again in pursuit. It’s time to launch Operation Killer.

  *****

  “Mr. Pitney,” his secretary said, “Mr. Peters, the DA, is on line one.”

  “Put him through,” the lawyer replied, a little surprised by the call.

  Peters began with, “Mark, I’ve got something on my desk that I believe will greatly interest you and your client, Mrs. Miles.”

  “Do tell, Fred. I’m all ears.”

  “You remember Mrs. Whitelaw, the general’s wife?”

  “How could I forget?” Pitney replied.

  “Sheriff’s deputies arrested her two nights ago for driving under the influence. She became extremely belligerent, so much so that the arresting officers thought she might be going for a gun in the glove box. She’s lucky they didn’t shoot her right then and there. When they searched that glove box, they didn’t find a gun. But they did find some very interesting things.”

  “Oh, man…this is sounding good. What’d they come up with?”

  “Foreign passports,” Peters replied. “Five of them. And here’s the best part…one of them is a Canadian passport in the name of John Arthur Mills. You remember old John, right?”

  Pitney couldn’t forget him, either, even if he didn’t actually exist. John Arthur Mills was the name used to rent a safe deposit box in a Monterey, California, bank, the very box to which Steven Willis, an AWOL US Army sergeant now busted to private and serving time in a Washington State prison for armed robbery, had produced the key he claimed was given him by Mrs. Whitelaw. From that safe deposit box, he’d taken written instructions how to locate and terrorize Jillian Miles. He’d also taken from the box the keys to a car which he and his accomplice, Paul Riddle, another busted Army sergeant, would use as expendable transportation to and from the Miles home.

  All these pieces of evidence—the safe deposit box key, the instructions, the car and its keys—were in DA Peters’ possession, as was Riddle, currently in the Monterey County jail awaiting trial for the attempted home invasion at the Miles residence. Riddle had been arrested at the scene, unable to flee after the sharpshooting Jillian Miles wounded him in the leg. Willis had managed to escape this assault gone wrong but had readily admitted his role to an Army CID investigator once tracked down in a Seattle jail.

  “This is amazing,” Pitney said. “Now we have evidence linking Mrs. Whitelaw to the attack on my client.”

  “Yeah, it looks that way,” the DA replied, “provided your boy Willis hasn’t recanted. Don’t forget…Riddle still hasn’t revealed one bit of information about what he was doing at the Miles home, who he was doing it for, or who he was doing it with.”

  “Either way, the Army’s going to love this,” Pitney said. “I’m going to get General Molloy on the phone as soon as I hang up with you. Just one thing…where’s Mrs. Whitelaw now?”

  “Under Federal house arrest,” Peters replied. “As soon as we released her on bail for drunk driving and resisting arrest, the FBI swooped in and arrested her for passport fraud. Considering her husband’s position at Fort Ord, she was released on her own recognizance. But the case against her looks pretty strong. All the passports in her possession are apparently bogus. You know as well as I do that it’s not uncommon for people running shady business deals to use false passports as ID. The lady’s in a lot of trouble.”

  As good as this news was, Mark Pitney knew that he and his client couldn’t allow themselves to become euphoric. There was an excellent chance that none of this would make the judge in Jillian’s immigration hearing see her case in a more sympathetic light.

  “Just one thing,” Pitney said. “Let me be the one to break the news to Mrs. Miles.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  When he’d arrived for the command and staff briefing at Regiment, Lee Grossman was surprised Colonel Miles hadn’t given him more than a cursory nod hello. He’d expected a much more enthusiastic greeting.

  That’s okay, he told himself. The colonel’s just waiting for the right moment to congratulate me on my little project…maybe even make a big deal out of it in front of the whole regiment. Hold me up as an example of that aggressive spirit the generals are always harping about.

  Never mind that what I’m really doing is making a suicide pact with the devil.

  The right moment came as the briefing was breaking up. Jock pulled him aside and said, “Don’t you ever fucking do any of that kamikaze commando bullshit again, Major. Do I make myself clear?”

  Grossman was stunned to silence. A number of things to say in his defense raced through his mind, each rapidly considered and rejected. Up to a moment ago, he would’ve considered any one of those responses brilliant and unassailable.

  But suddenly, in the face of the colonel’s harsh disapproval, they became the ravings of a man out of his depth. His certainty that Jock would applaud his suicidal quest, even use it to inspire his other commanders, collapsed like the house of cards it had always been.

  He began to tremble as the plan to escape his shattered world was itself shattered.

  “Sit down, Lee,” Jock said, his tone shifting once again, this time becoming paternal. Placing a hand on Grossman’s shoulder, he continued, “What you had in mind…you and I have been through too much together for me to let you throw your life away like that. By rights, I could’ve had you drummed out on a Section 8 already. Maybe I should’ve done that. But then I’d be helping you commit suicide in a different way. It would take away all your veteran’s benefits, get you disbarred…all the penalties that go with a less than honorable discharge. You’ve proved yourself too fine a soldier to deserve any of that. Now I can appreciate the pain you’re going through right now, and—”

  Grossman cut him off. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t see how you can appreciate it. You’ve never had a woman destroy your life.”

  “I’m not so sure about that, Lee. I may be losing my wife—and my kids—as we speak. You, at least, know where you stand. I haven’t the faintest idea where I am.”

  Jock paused, letting those words sink in for a moment. But saying them out loud reopen
ed the wound of uncertainty caused by Jillian’s pending deportation and its potential to devastate their marriage. He’d managed to keep that wound from festering for months. But now its dormant toxins were active again, awakening the terror of that impending loss:

  She had a life in Australia, a very good one. I convinced her to leave that life behind and build a new life with me in the States.

  But if Uncle Sam rips that new life from us and she’s sent back, will she still want me—when and if I can join her in Australia?

  Or will I just become another bloody stupid American, better forgotten?

  Then Jock remembered the last time he’d been stricken with this same terror:

  It feels just like that entire year back in the last war when I thought she was dead.

  But it was Grossman’s problem, not his own, that he needed to deal with right now. So he asked, “What’s it going to be, Lee? Are you going to help me keep this regiment fighting smart or not?”

  It took him a few moments to reply, an awkward silence that had Jock worried he hadn’t gotten through to the man. But, finally, Grossman said, “I work for you, sir. However you want it, that’s the way it’s going to be.”

  He sounded like he meant it, too.

  Patchett approached with a critical and immediate concern: “We just got the word, sir. Kickoff for Operation Killer is in forty-eight hours. We gotta get our ducks in a row fast.”

  *****

  The mission of Operation Killer was exactly as its name suggested: kill as many as possible of the enemy troops retreating north after the failure of their great offensive at Chip’yong-ni and Wonju. Doing so would clear 8th Army’s path to the 38th Parallel and return Seoul to South Korean control for the second time since last summer.

  Jock told his commanders, “Twenty-Fourth Division’s job is to anchor the western flank of Eighth Army’s advance and prevent any CCF or KPA troops from fleeing to and reinforcing Seoul.” He circled an area on the map some five miles northeast of their current position at Hajin. “Central to our regiment’s area of operations will be the airfield at Sumi-ri. That’s where I’ll put the regimental CP, along with our direct support artillery. First Battalion, reinforced with a company of armor, will cover Highway Twenty-Four south through the mountain pass to Chip’yong-ni. Second Battalion will cover Highway Two north to Toryong-ni with a company of armor attached. The third company of armor will be a mobile reserve based at Sumi-ri.” Turning to Lee Grossman, he said, “Third Battalion will defend the hills east of Sumi-ri and establish an OP on Hill Five-Two-Seven. From that height, we should have a good view of enemy troops approaching from the east.”

  Jock made it a point to lock eyes with Grossman as he gave him what everyone knew was the most difficult assignment. In the cruel winter weather, establishing effective fighting positions high in the mountains would be a punishing task requiring extraordinary leadership. He’d given the job to Grossman for two reasons:

  I need him to know I haven’t lost faith in him, and I need to make sure I’m not misplacing that faith.

  Inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief when Grossman’s face—its expression brimming with confidence—didn’t look away from his gaze for even a second. He showed no trace of the malaise common to leaders who’d lost their sense of purpose. Jock considered it a sign: Lee Grossman is back. Emotionally bruised, for sure, but hitting on all cylinders again.

  *****

  As if the bitter cold and continuous snow weren’t punishment enough for the GIs, nature decided to offer up an improbable blow: an unseasonal warming settled over central Korea on this final week of February. Temperatures rose ten degrees above freezing; falling snow turned to rain. The snow already descended became deep slush; the rock-hard ground beneath softened to a pasty quagmire. Everything that tried to move across that quagmire, from GI galoshes, to truck tires, to tank tracks, was doomed to bog down in the thick mud, often to a dead stop. When tasked to intercept a column of enemy armor, the tank company assigned to 2nd Battalion—Charlie Company—would be the first to realize just how badly the soggy terrain would impair their mobility.

  Lee Grossman’s OP on Hill 527 had reported five T-34 tanks moving west on a secondary road through a valley, headed toward 2nd Battalion’s sector along Highway 2.

  “Any infantry with those tanks?” the battalion C.O. asked the OP.

  “Can’t tell,” came the reply. “The visibility’s not so hot right now…lots of mist and fog down in the valleys. But we can make out the tanks. Hell, even if we couldn’t see them, we could sure hear them from up here.”

  Battalion wasted no time dispatching Charlie Company—its attached armor—to engage and destroy the T-34s before they could reach Highway 2. The drive along the highway itself was perilously slick; two tanks of First Platoon—which were leading the Charlie Company column—slid off the paved roadway to become mired on the shoulder while still a mile from their objective. The first had slid sideways with such momentum that it peeled a track. Abandoning that vehicle for the time being, the platoon leader employed his other two Pershings in an attempt to pull out the second stuck but still serviceable tank.

  This took precious time, however; the company’s other three platoons passed them by, pressing on without them.

  Within minutes, Second Platoon lost three of its four tanks. One slid off the highway, her hull bottoming out in a roadside paddy during a frantic attempt to drive back to the pavement. Her tracks, no longer in contact with the mushy ground, spun like useless conveyor belts, moving nothing. She’d require the services of a bulldozer to plow an escape path and the armored wrecker to pull her free. Of the platoon’s other two out-of-action tanks, one had suffered a transmission failure, the other an electrical malfunction in a junction box that filled the hull with acrid smoke, forcing her choking crew to flee her confines after expending their fire extinguishers only made it more difficult to breathe.

  When the Charlie Company commander—a captain named Marsh—tried to call Battalion to report his growing list of problems and ask for help, his radio—the only one in his company capable of communications on infantry frequencies—went dead. He improvised a new plan on the spot: I’ll use the one serviceable tank from Second Platoon as a runner to take my report back to Battalion. She can bring me back a new radio, too…the extra one I should’ve brought along in the first place.

  I’ll send Third Platoon to the far side of the highway bridge—beyond the spot where the T-34s should show themselves—and leave Fourth Platoon on the near side. As soon as the enemy tanks come into view, we should be able to hit them from both flanks.

  What Captain Marsh didn’t know was that the OP on Hill 527 had a fairly good view of his misfortunes and had already alerted Regiment. As soon as their report came in, Jock told Sean Moon, “I’m going to commit the reserve tank company right now. What’re your thoughts on that, Sergeant?”

  “I agree, sir,” Sean replied. “They’ve got the dozer tanks, which we’re gonna need. I’ll round up the wrecker to go with ’em, too.” Then he picked up a field telephone, called the tank park, and read the commander of Able Company the order to commit his reserve force. “I’ll be there in a minute to give you guys a hand, Lieutenant,” Sean said as he rang off the call.

  The reserve company was mounted up and ready to roll when Sean’s jeep pulled into the tank park. “How do you think I should handle this?” the company commander asked him.

  “Cautiously,” Sean replied. “Let the dozer tanks take the lead and plow the highway. It’s slicker than we thought. Otherwise, half your vehicles will probably slip off the road and get stuck, too.”

  The lieutenant replied, “Yeah, good plan, but I’ve got to tell the dozers they’re going to lead. I’ll be right baaaa—”

  He never got to finish the sentence. In his haste to climb down from his tank’s slick deck, he’d slipped, striking his helmetless head against the fender on the way to the ground. When Sean got to him, he was stunned and disoriented; b
lood was beginning to flow from a nasty gash above his ear.

  The lieutenant quickly came around, saying, “I’m okay, Sergeant. I’m okay. I’ll just…”

  Still disoriented, he tried to climb back up onto the deck. But before Sean could stop him, his foot slipped off the sprocket wheel he’d unwisely used as a step, sending him sprawling to the ground again. This time, he didn’t try to get up.

  “Get him to the aid station,” Sean barked at some mechanics nearby.

  A tank platoon sergeant, a five-striper named Pearson who’d been watching from the turret of the adjacent Pershing, climbed down and ran over to Sean, asking, “I guess that means you’ll be leading us, right, Sarge?”

  “Me?” Sean asked. “Where the hell’s your XO?”

  “He got evacuated last night,” Pearson replied. “The official story is dysentery, but my money says he’s got the clap real bad. I think he picked up a little more than supplies down at Yoju, if you get my drift.”

  “Shit,” Sean muttered. He knew there were no other officers in the company; each platoon sergeant, like Pearson, was an acting platoon leader in the absence of a lieutenant. None of them had been told any specifics of the mission yet, and there was no time for a formal briefing. The T-34s would reach the junction with Highway 2 in fifteen to twenty minutes, and the unlucky Charlie Company might not be ready for them.

  “Mount up,” Sean said. “I’ll have to brief you guys on the fly.”

  Before he climbed into Pearson’s tank, Sean called the regimental CP on the tank park’s landline. Patchett took the call, telling him, “The colonel’s tied up with Division. What do you need, Bubba?”