Combat- Parallel Lines

by William Peter Grasso

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Jillian replied. “I spoke with the DA earlier today. He has no choice but to charge her separately from those two mongrels who actually tried to pull off the assault. As a result, he’s not very confident he can get the full weight of the conspiracy charge against her to stick for any real prison time. True, there’s that one piece of damning evidence against her—that bogus passport—but he feels that proving an ironclad connection between that and the actual assault will be a tough one. And, of course, if she somehow beats the rap for the passport…”

  “That’ll never happen,” the general said. “They caught her red-handed with the goods. I wouldn’t be surprised if she just pleads guilty and throws herself on the mercy of the court. What else is she going to do…blame her husband for that fake passport being in her car?”

  Jillian asked, “Speaking of General Whitelaw, what’s going to happen to him once his wife goes to the slammer?”

  “The minute her trial is over, he’ll be forced to retire…with a reduction in grade to colonel,” Molloy replied. “He’s lucky that’s as far as the regs allow the board to reduce him in retirement. They take a very dim view of a general officer’s wife having a felony indictment, let alone a conviction.”

  The grandfather clock struck six. Nancy Molloy said, “Oh, it’s time to turn on the radio. The president’s giving an important speech.”

  “You bet it’s important,” the general said as Jillian switched on the receiver. “Rumor has it he’s firing MacArthur.”

  The two women looked at him, dumbfounded.

  “What the hell did you expect was going to happen, ladies? MacArthur’s been trying to run his own foreign policy for months, contradicting the administration’s position right and left. He wants to attack Red China, for cryin’ out loud, and he keeps announcing it to the whole world. Making foreign policy isn’t a soldier’s job, not even one wearing five stars. Can’t blame Truman for clipping his wings. I’m surprised it’s taken this long, considering how many times Washington’s told him to shut his self-righteous mouth.”

  “But so many people think MacArthur’s a god, Dick,” his wife said.

  “Well, they’d better get used to the fact that he’s not, Nance…and damn quick, too.”

  Once Truman began to speak, there was no doubt Dick Molloy had been right: MacArthur was being relieved.

  As the speech went on, Jillian said softly, “I never thought I’d see the day.” She seemed delighted to be able to say those words.

  Nancy Molloy was worried, though. She asked, “But who’ll take his place?”

  “Matt Ridgway,” her husband replied. “He’s more than earned it.”

  *****

  Ned Almond was annoyed; he’d been ready to depart for Tokyo when the airplane was pulled out from under him for an unspecified higher priority mission. Threatening to end the career of every officer in the Kimpo Airfield operations office, he demanded they call 8th Army Headquarters to get that ruling reversed. “We can call if you’d like, sir,” the operations officer told him, “but the order’s come directly from General Ridgway. Oh, and by the way, I just got a message that says he wants to see you within the hour.”

  When Almond stormed into Ridgway’s office ready to air his grievance, he was told, “At ease, General. You’re not going back to Tokyo because you don’t have a job there anymore.”

  Almond recoiled, as if he’d been slapped in the face. “But, sir, be realistic,” he said. “You’re going to need a chief of staff who knows his way around FECOM. I’ve been doing that job for two years now, and—”

  Ridgway cut him off. “And now that job’s finished, Ned. MacArthur’s gone, and my people are already moving in. You will remain here in Korea as Tenth Corps commander for the next few months, until you’re due for rotation. That’s all, General. You’re dismissed.”

  “But, sir…I choose not to be rotated. I want to stay in command. General MacArthur guaranteed me a—”

  “That’s not his call anymore, Ned, or yours,” Ridgway interrupted as he pointed toward the door.

  Still grasping for some semblance of his crumbling status, Almond asked, “Can I ask one question, sir?”

  “Sure.”

  “What higher priority claimed my aircraft?”

  “The new commander of Far East Command, General. I’m the higher priority, and I’m taking that ship to Tokyo…just as soon as they load her up with litter cases who need a lift.”

  *****

  In the Dai-ichi Building—which housed FECOM Headquarters in Tokyo—Ridgway’s hand-picked staff were deep into the task of assuming control of that command. MacArthur’s high-level people had been sent packing along with him. Lower-level staff were kept in their jobs to maintain—for the time being, at least—administrative continuity. General Ridgway would be arriving from Korea that evening. They planned to present him with an orderly transition in progress.

  The colonel assuming the job of G1—the admin and personnel officer—asked the hold-over staffers in his shop for a tour of their record-keeping facilities. When it was done, the colonel noticed an unmarked file cabinet that hadn’t been mentioned. He asked the captain who’d been leading the tour, “What are we storing in there?”

  “Oh, that’s just the dead letter office, sir. Paperwork where no further action is required, that sort of thing.” Then, perhaps foolishly, he added, “We call it limbo.”

  “Limbo, eh?” the colonel said. “Sounds biblical. Let’s see what’s inside.”

  “You don’t need to trouble yourself with anything in there, sir, it’s all—”

  “Unlock the fucking cabinet, Captain.”

  As the colonel rifled through the files, he was horrified to find just how much of it was promotion endorsements and decoration requests for enlisted men.

  Scanning the decoration requests, the colonel said, “Hmm…it seems this headquarters is only interested in hanging fruit salad on officers. I can assure you that’s going to change immediately.” He pushed the tall pile of decorations paperwork across the table to the flustered captain.

  Then the colonel began to thumb through the promotion endorsements. One jumped out at him right away, if for no other reason than it was signed by Matt Ridgway himself. Enraged, the colonel asked, “Was it a policy of this headquarters to sideline anything with General Ridgway’s signature?”

  “Absolutely not, sir.”

  “Then how can you explain why this promotion request—of a colonel to a one-star, no less—is rotting in this damn drawer with no action taken one way or the other?”

  The captain had no reply.

  “I want everything in this cabinet with General Ridgway’s signature on my desk in thirty minutes’ time. Is that clear?”

  Thirty minutes later, the colonel had not only Jock’s promotion paperwork to brigadier general but also the confidential letter Ridgway had written to Washington, advocating for the dismissal of the deportation proceedings against Jock’s wife, Jillian Forbes-Miles. He told the captain, “Quite the coincidence, isn’t it? I’ve seen some petty bullshit in my day, but this takes the cake. Now hear me good…you’ll have this sorry situation rectified by 1800 hours today, or you’ll be kissing this cushy, non-combat position of yours goodbye.”

  *****

  Patchett had a feeling of déjà vu. It was making him sick.

  Twenty-Sixth Regiment was twelve miles north of the 38th Parallel, digging in on a ridgeline that overlooked the critical intersection of Highway 3 and Route 124. But they were doing much more than just digging in:

  Division’s ordered a complex of trenches…not just fighting holes, but goddamn trenches, lined up one behind the other like soldiers on a parade field. We got engineers here carving up this ridge with bulldozers, scoop buckets, explosives…

  And that ain’t all. My men are busting their asses stringing barbed wire all over the place. Laying mines, too—all to make a permanent hidey-hole for whatever outfit relieves us next week. I guess we stop
ped fighting a war of movement once we took back that made-up boundary they call the Thirty-Eighth Parallel. This army’s gonna hunker down right here…for Lord knows how long.

  I seen this before, dammit. This is France in 1918 all over again…goddamn trench warfare, plain and simple. You don’t move nowhere. You just die in place.

  Ain’t no general decided this. It’s the work of politicians…and it stinks to high heaven.

  But if they were going to dig trenches, Patchett knew the engineers were doing it all wrong. He pulled their officer-in-charge aside and said, “I’m here to tell you, sir, that these trenches you’re plowing ain’t worth shit.”

  “Why, Sergeant? What’s wrong with them? Not deep enough?”

  “Negative, Lieutenant. They’re plenty deep…but they’re straight as a damn arrow. You’re making parallel lines that are just as useless as the ones them politicians drew on the map.”

  “Useless? Why’s that?”

  Patchett expelled one of those weary sighs the deeply experienced reserve for novices showing their ignorance. “If a trench ain’t got sharp angles in it, sir, the blast of one shell or one grenade dropping in there can get channeled a long way down that trench and kill a whole lotta people. But if the trench got angles in it, that blast don’t go too far.”

  “That’s going to take a lot of extra work, Sergeant.”

  “Your machines are doing most of the work, anyway, sir. And unlike your troopers, they don’t give a rat’s ass about doing extra as long as you keep feeding ’em gasoline. So how about it? You gonna save some GI lives today, or are you gonna help get them killed?”

  *****

  April 1951 was a time of change not only for Far East Command, but 8th Army, 24th Division, and 26th Regiment, as well. Ridgway replaced MacArthur, General James Van Fleet replaced Ridgway as 8th Army commander, and 24th Division was about to be pulled off the line for a much-needed rest and rebuilding.

  Many of the 8th Army’s front-line commanders and troops had earned enough points to rotate home, if they so chose. Among them were Jock Miles, Melvin Patchett, and Sean Moon.

  As they prepared the regimental CP to be turned over to their relieving unit, Patchett asked, “Anybody know this Van Fleet fella?”

  “I do,” Sean replied. “He was a corps commander in Patton’s Third Army. Good general, real straight-up guy.”

  “Is he as good as Matt Ridgway?” Patchett asked.

  “Maybe so. And he ain’t Airborne like General Matt, so at least he’s got the good sense not to jump outta perfectly good airplanes.”

  Jock smiled as he listened to his two sergeants but said nothing. He’d been waiting for the right moment to ask them both a very important question. But he had to lay some groundwork first. He asked, “You both know that my wife’s deportation problem has vanished into thin air, right?”

  “Of course we do,” Patchett said. “Ain’t no other reason for you to be as damn happy as you been the last coupla days. But I gotta ask you, sir…how’s that gonna figure in to you getting that star?”

  “Let’s just say that it shrinks my biggest obstacle a whole lot, Top.”

  “So you gonna take it?”

  “I’m meeting Jillian and the kids in Tokyo next week. If she’s on board, then yes, I’m going to accept the promotion.”

  Both sergeants rushed forward to shake his hand. But Patchett had one more question: “You and me known each other a long, long time, sir. And I know why you stayed in after the last war…although it didn’t make a damn bit of sense for you to do it after marrying the richest lady in Australia.”

  “Come on, Top. She’s not the richest lady down under.”

  “If not, she’s damn close, I reckon. I know I asked you this before, sir, but I gotta ask you again: Ain’t there a point where you gotta know that your account’s been paid in full?”

  “Maybe I just don’t know where that point is, Top. An awful lot of fine men fought and died under my command. That’s just too big a debt to simply walk away from. I don’t know any other way to honor their sacrifice except to keep being a soldier.”

  After a long pause, Patchett said, “Well…amen to that, sir.”

  “Now, there’s something I need to talk to both of you about,” Jock said. “After a couple of weeks’ leave with the family—and with Jillian’s concurrence—I’m coming back to Korea. Before he left, General Ridgway discussed forming a mobile combat team—not as big as a division but more than a regiment—to act as a fire brigade anywhere Eighth Army needs it. Since it looks like most units will be pretty much fixed in place from now on while diplomats try to crank up negotiations to end this damn thing, he wants a large mobile reserve to put a cork in any breeches that might occur before they can develop into catastrophes.”

  Sounding enthusiastic, Sean asked, “And this brigade’s gonna have lots of armor, right, sir?”

  “Affirmative, Sergeant. Now, unless something changes drastically in the very near future, Ridgway’s going to offer me command of that outfit.”

  “Hot damn, sir,” Patchett said. “It’ll be another Task Force Miles.”

  “Something like that, Top, but a hell of a lot bigger and much more potent than the last one.”

  Sean asked, “Begging your pardon, but what the hell’s Task Force Miles?”

  “A little before your time, Bubba,” Patchett replied. “It’s when we were in Australia…and you were doing the bidding of Ol’ Blood and Guts in Europe.”

  Jock continued, “So what I’m asking you two is this: Will you join me in my new command? I’ll understand completely if you want to pack up and go home, but—”

  “To hell with that going home stuff, sir,” Patchett said, rolling out his strident Southern preacher’s voice. “You keep me outta those goddamn trenches they’re building and I’ll follow you to hell and back. I done my time in them linear graveyards.”

  “But I thought you’d want to take a break, Top. You’ve been at it a long, long time, and—”

  “And what, sir? So I can go back to Bumfuck, Alabama, and maybe find me a job carrying the mail if I’m lucky? Or maybe try to grow crops like my dirt-poor daddy did?”

  Sean added, “You can count me in, too, sir. I’m only halfway to my twenty years, so I might as well hang around here. You know what they say: I’ve had better assignments, but I’ve never been with better people.”

  Patchett reached into one of his field cases and extracted a bottle of whiskey. “Been saving this for just such an occasion,” he said. “Let’s have us a toast to the new Task Force Miles.”

  As they savored the spirits in their canteen cups, it was clear there was something else on Patchett’s mind. With a little gentle prodding from Jock, he opened up: “Seeing them trenches, sir…it just seems like such a giant step backward. I can’t help but worry that the longer we keep the heat off the gooks and chinks, the more big guns and tanks the Russians are gonna send their way. Our Air Force may be damn good, but we all know they ain’t gonna blow up all them heavy weapons before they start hurting us ground-pounders. Ever since the Pusan, we’ve had better firepower than them…way better. We need something that’s gonna make sure it stays that way.”

  Jock replied, “You’re not talking atomic weapons, are you, Top? Washington’s made it pretty clear that we’re not going that route. The only person in the whole world who said out loud that we should drop the A-bomb on Red China was MacArthur…and he got himself fired for it.”

  Patchett shook his head sadly. “Maybe so, sir…but we still need something. And it better be a big something.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Watching his two young children run to him from the airliner that had brought them to Tokyo, Jock couldn’t believe how much they’d grown in the past ten months. He scooped up one in each arm and held them close as Jillian—smiling, unflappable, a beautiful force of nature—strolled across the ramp and joined the collective embrace. As the family clung to each other, she said, “Nice to see you
again, General Miles.”

  Jock couldn’t have been more stunned. “Wait a minute,” he said. “My surprise…it’s been ruined. Who told you?”

  “General Molloy got word to me right before we took off from San Francisco.”

  Wearily, she added, “And then, we began thirty-something hours of stomach-wrenching hell. I feel like we’ve been on an airplane for a bloody year.”

  “We landed five times, Daddy,” his six-year-old son Jif added, the words brimming with a child’s enthusiasm. “One of them, we bounced bloody hard.”

  “Uh oh,” Jock said, gently touching his forehead to his son’s. “Somebody’s just put another penny into the barracks mouth jar.”

  Jillian said, “That jar’s been overflowing for quite a while, Jock. I think it paid for the plane tickets.”

  “Well, we’ll talk about that later,” Jock replied. “Let’s get you tired travelers to the hotel on the double.”

  *****

  As the staff car took the Miles family into Tokyo, Jock said, “You know, Jill, I haven’t officially accepted the promotion yet. I was waiting to talk to you before—”

  She silenced him with a finger to his lips. Then she said, “Did you really think I’d say no, silly boy?”

  Then he told her about returning to Korea to assume a new command. With a curious smile, she asked, “Do you need my approval for that, too?”

  “Of course I do, Jill.”

  She was silent for a few moments, long enough to convince Jock she just might withhold that approval.

  But then she said, “I married a soldier, so I’ve learned to take these things in stride. Of course you have my blessing.”

  Later that night, as the children slept, they talked quietly in the hotel suite over after-dinner drinks. He sat and listened, sometimes amazed, sometimes horrified, as she filled him in on every detail of what she’d done and what others had tried—and failed—to do to her. When she was finished, he was speechless.