They had little interest in holding the far frontier. They were citizens, and each of them had better things to do.
South of Wonju, there was patrol action, and George Company got into more than one skirmish. Once, knocking, some Chinese off a hill, Muñoz saw several of his EM run up to enemy dead, pause, searching, then move on.
Long, now made lieutenant in the field, smiled wryly at him, when Muñoz asked what the hell they were doing. "One old hand teaching two new ones how to loot, Captain."
Fortunately, the old hands were teaching the new ones how to fight, too. The old hardness they had had after the Naktong returned. Again, all thoughts of going home soon had vanished; everybody realized that they were going to have to stay in Korea to fight. And the veterans of the early fights had forged in each company of the division a solid core of strength.
But there were still some problems. Thousands of Korean refugees in January 1951 were pouring southward, streaming through U.N. lines, and with them came disguised NKPA. Muñoz, like all the old hands, had grown wary of infiltrators.
One day he ordered his roadblocks, "Let no more civilians through."
A sergeant, a recallee who had had to leave his new business and was understandably bitter about it, said, "Captain, I'm not about to shoot civilians."
Muñoz put hard black eyes on this man. "Sergeant, I realize you're new. We've had experience with this. Some of these 'civilians' have inflicted casualties on us, and unless you. want to be killed, you'd better watch it."
One night, while on roadblock guard, the sergeant disappeared. Muñoz figured some "civilians" had probably thrown his body into the deep snows along the road. In spring, thousands of skeletons were found all over the roadsides of Korea, but few of them could be identified.
Then, in early January 1951, the 2nd Division was ordered to attack north. At the same time, Muñoz was offered a job up at Battalion, but turned it down.
Wading in snow up to their waists at times, crossing ridges so high that they could clearly see the pilots of supporting aircraft in their cockpits, George Company attacked toward Wonju. They had sharp fights with enemy in the hills, and enemy interdicting the roads from deep railway tunnels. They took Wonju, and news photographers took their pictures in the square of the damaged, burning city.
But now Colonel Messenger, the new C.O. of 9th Infantry, had learned that Frank Muñoz was the senior company commander of the regiment. He felt Muñoz had had enough line time from the Naktong to the Ch'ongch'on to the hills about Wonju. And there was an opening on Division G-4—supply—staff.
Major Birmingham called Muñoz in, offered him the job. "Frank," Pete Birmingham said, "last night I had a dream that you were KIA—"
Young Muñoz, normally not a superstitious man, was convinced. A man had only so much luck. On 17 January he reported to Division G-4, and was made supply liaison officer between that HQ and the regimental supply officers.
The Chinese hordes that had burst the U.N. Korean bubble did not number more than 300,000 at the time of their intervention, and of this number, probably not more than 60,000 actually went into close combat with the advance ROK and American divisions.
While in overall numbers the allied forces nearly matched the Chinese, at the point of impact the disparity was overwhelming. It had been the plan of maneuver of the U.N., plus the Chinese tactics—not the relative size of the two forces—that resulted in U.N. defeat.
At the crucial moment, only two American divisions had been in contact with the Chinese in the west, while in the east a large part of the combat power of six CCF divisions engulfed one Marine division.
Had the U.N. Command been able to employ the main body of the Eighth Army, or to throw the entire X Corps against the CCF IX Army Group, there is good reason to suppose the Chinese might have failed. But the terrain made it a series of Indian rights. While one American division was cut to pieces, others a few miles across the mountains enjoyed relative peace and quiet.
Understandably, American commanders were eager to get out of the horrible mountains and back to where they could fight once more in modern, civilized fashion.
The first withdrawal, to the 38th parallel, would have accomplished this. But the retreat once started was difficult to halt. The U.N. line, with X Corps redeployed in the center of South Korea, finally came to rest along the 37th parallel in January 1951.
Contact, except for scattered patrol actions, was broken. The mechanized U.N. forces had been able to move south faster than the footsore, ill-supplied, and badly coordinated CCF could follow.
Now geography began to exert its influence in reverse. In South Korea the terrain was still broken, but passable to vehicles. In a narrower part of the peninsula, Americans and ROK's could throw a continuous line from coast to coast, with a refused flank to either side. And while U.N. supply lines were shortened and improved, the CCF inherited a logistic nightmare.
The CCF's guns, ammunition, and supplies had to be brought down from the Yalu under constant air attack, over poor roads, and on a limited amount of transport. The CCF had manpower, including thousands of Korean laborers, and could live on very little, but there is a limit to the operations of an army that has to bear its ammunition hundreds of miles over mountains, principally by muscle power.
Now, rebuilt, reequipped, in maneuverable terrain, the U.N. forces needed more than anything else the will to fight. The means they had.
Matt Ridgway supplied the will.
By the end of January, as a result of firm and unmistakable orders from the new ground commander, the Eighth Army moved north to reestablish contact, and to bring the enemy to battle.
Everywhere Ridgway went, he talked of attack. Soon, nothing more was heard of the whispers that had been bruited about, over a gray-spirited army, that Korea might have to be evacuated.
And soon there was renewed battle.
The first United Nations counteroffensive, beginning 5 February 1951, was short-lived. On the night of 11 February, the CCF struck south again, this time in the center of the line, against Ned Almond's X Corps, which now contained the United States 2nd Division. The CCF attacked with two main columns pointed toward Hoengsong and Wonju. As usual, the Chinese first put pressure against the weaker firepower of the ROK's.
They slashed through two ROK divisions, forcing friendly lines southward from five to twenty miles.
Leading the U.N. offensive, Paul Freeman's 23rd Infantry had been well ahead of the van. On 3 February the regiment had moved into the road junction village of Chipyong-ni, already half destroyed by air and artillery, and in the small valley about the town Colonel Freeman threw up a tight mile-long perimeter. To the northwest of Chipyong-ni the 23rd dug in across a section of frozen rice paddies, and on the other sides of the valley the line lay across a series of low hills. Here the 23rd, including a French battalion, supported by the 37th Field Artillery, a battery of 155's from the 503rd, a Ranger company, and engineers, were still positioned when the CCF released the flood.
The front lines to either side of Chipyong-ni washed back, and Freeman, his patrols reporting Chinese on all sides of him, conferred with General Almond on 13 February. Freeman wanted to pull back fifteen miles to prevent encirclement; the 2nd Division commander approved.
Almond agreed, and submitted the request to the Eighth Army.
Matt Ridgway's comment can be summed up in one printable word: No.
The word went north to Freeman, who immediately strengthened his perimeter and called his various subordinate commanders in. He advised them, "We're going to stay here and fight it out."
That night, the fight began.
Soon after dark, there was skirmishing, and a few violent close-in brushes on the south of the perimeter, where 2nd Battalion, 23rd Infantry, the French, and Battery B of the 503rd defended.
Then, two hours past midnight, Chinese blew bugles and whistles and ran forward toward the lines of the French battalion.
The French nation, already heavily engaged i
n war with the Communists in Vietnam, had supplied only one battalion of infantry to the Korean effort. But throughout the conflict the battalion was a good one. Professionals all, the unit contained many half-wild Algerians, to whom no war was complete unless a little fun could be had out of it, too.
As the first platoon of Chinese rushed them, a Frenchman cranked a hand siren, setting up an ungodly screech. A single squad fixed bayonets, grabbed up hand grenades, and when the enemy was twenty yards away, came out of their holes and charged.
Four times their number of CCF stopped, turned, and into the night. The Frenchmen went back to smoking and telling jokes.
But in another part of the line, Heath's George Company was hit four times. With some difficulty, the company held till dawn.
With light, the Chinese withdrew to the circling hills, and the defenders had a breathing spell. The Air Force came over to search the hills with rockets and napalm, and cargo planes made two-dozen ammunition drops. Other than this, nothing occurred on 14 February.
But after nightfall, flares soared high all around the southern rim of Chipyong-ni, and the brassy noise of bugles beat on the defender's ears. Chinese began to infiltrate over the low hills, carrying pole and satchel charges. They poured into George Company, killing many men by dropping explosives in the foxholes. McGee's 3rd Platoon was riddled, and in bad shape by midnight. He asked the company commander, Heath, for help. B Battery offered men to plug the infantry line.
Heath assembled fifteen men from the supporting artillery, and sent them forward. These men were not trained as infantrymen, and when they drew mortar fire they ran back down the hill, without making contact with the hard-hit 3rd Platoon.
As they ran, the enemy poured across the 3rd Platoon area, and the hill was alight with grenade blasts and pinpricks of rifle fire.
Lieutenant Heath himself stopped the artillerymen at the base of the hill, screaming and raging at them. He re-formed them, and led them toward the blazing fire fight up above. Again the group came apart when fired on, and the men ran away.
Still on the hill, furious, Heath grabbed men by the collar and tried to make them go forward. When they refused, he came back off the hill with them. By now Chinese flares were throwing weird light over the hill and its rear slope, and the air was filled with reddish tracer. The artillerymen tried to hide themselves in the ground, and Heath ran back and forth, urging them to get up and fight.
An artillery liaison, Captain Elledge, heard Heath's yelling. Elledge was the rare breed who loved a fight. He went back to the firing positions, grabbed about a dozen men, and forced these up to the platoons' defense line. Elledge himself carried up a .30-caliber machine gun. He heard the Chinese whistling and hooting to one another in the dark, and he went forward over the hard snow to investigate. He met Chinese face to face. He killed two with his carbine in a hand-to-hand fight, before a grenade blast numbed his left arm and he retired.
Now, while the entire perimeter of Chipyong-ni was under pressure, the main CCF blow fell against weakened George Company. George was piling up the dead by the hundreds, but too many of the enemy were getting in close with explosives and hand grenades. The artillery fired star shells and HE alternately, riddling the Chinese, but still they came on.
The CCF washed up on the low ridge again and again, fighting a determined battle for each foxhole. Little by little, against violent resistance, they were chipping the ground away from the American defenders.
Heath, behind the hill, went to the 503rd's battery commander for more men. He was determined to counterattack and thrust the Chinese out of his position. He yelled over and over, "We're going up that goddamned hill or bust!"
Again the artillery C.O. gave him all men not needed on the guns. But neither officer could force these men onto the hill.
The 2nd Battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Edwards, sent a squad from Fox Company to help fill the gaping holes in George's line. Heath sent these men into the hottest part of the fight, the saddle between 1st and 2nd platoons. Within minutes, every man of this squad was killed or hurt. Still, G Company held its precarious perch on the ridge.
The 2nd Platoon's platoon sergeant, Bill Kluttz, yelled at Lieutenant McGee, "Lieutenant, we've got to stop them!"
The Chinese kept pressing in. They did not try to overwhelm G with one vast rush, but continued to creep through the night, knocking out hole after hole. The 1st Platoon, near three o'clock in the morning, was pushed back out of position. Now without the support on his flank, McGee was down to a few able-bodied men.
And the fires of his spirit ran low, too. He said to Kluttz, over the field phone, "Looks like they've got us—"
On another portion of the hill, Kluttz snapped back grimly, his voice carried by its own power over the wires, "Let's kill as many of these sons of bitches as we can before they get us!"
Meanwhile, to the rear, George's 4th Platoon leader commanding the company mortars, discovered a group of artillerymen huddling together inside one of the battery's canvas tents. Fire from the hills was beginning to spray over into the valley now, and mortarmen and gunners were being hurt.
"Hell!" this officer barked at them. "A squad tent won't stop bullets!"
Despite this officer's urging, none of these men would go up on the hill to give the riflemen a hand. Faced with being overrun, they seemed to feel that because their primary military occupational specialty did not include handling a rifle, no one had the right to make them use one.
A few minutes later, McGee's last machine gun jammed. The 1st Platoon, under its surviving sergeant, was coming off the hill; McGee and Kluttz realized they could gain nothing now by dying in place, for even their ammunition was low.
McGee, Kluttz, and four other men backed off the hill. They were all who were left.
The 23rd's perimeter was broken. The Chinese had a pathway into the vitals of the regiment. All they had to do was to exploit it.
And now, at Chipyong-ni on the night of 14 February 1951, the battle took in miniature the form it would have for the next few months: The Chinese by prodigally throwing men against fire and steel had wiped out a defending unit. Any ground commander, given men and willing to spend them, can break any ground defense, in time, at any chosen place.
The CCF had punched through George Company, on the south, but that in itself availed them nothing. Everywhere else they were still battling a solid line that could not be flanked.
And the heartbreaking effort to spring George Company had left the Chinese spent, too. Their ammunitions was low, and their supply center far behind. Their communications—horns and bugles—could not pass the word fast enough, coherently enough, that the bung had been started and that the Chinese wave might now flow through into the hollow of Chipyong-ni.
The Chinese now demonstrated what would be proved again and again upon the Korean Field of battle: they could crack a line, but a force lacking mechanization, air power, and rapid communications could not exploit against a force possessing all three.
Lieutenant Heath was on the phone to Colonel Edwards, telling him George was through. Edwards, alarmed, promised help. But all Edwards had available as reserve was one platoon of Fox Company, already minus the squad previously committed.
Edwards called Freeman—but Freeman was also scraping bottom. The 3rd Battalion was under heavy pressure, and Freeman was afraid to commit his entire reserve—one Ranger company. He granted Edwards one platoon of the Rangers and one tank.
Edwards ordered the Fox platoon and the Ranger to the G Company zone. He placed a staff officer, Lieutenant Curtis, over the two-platoon force. But at first the Ranger C.O. made trouble; he refused to take orders from anyone but Freeman. Hearing this, Edwards sent down a captain from his staff, Rams- burg, to take control and get the Rangers straightened out.
As the new force arrived in George's sector, Heath's line was only a group of men stretched thinly along a furrow of earth in front of the artillery-fire direction center. Fire was pouring down upon these me
n from the shadowy line of hills they had lost.
But to either side the flanks were holding firm, and the artillery was firing a continuous crescendo of flame and noise into the gap.
Ramsburg organized his small force quickly and sent them forward in counterattack. The Rangers, screaming and yelling, led the way back onto George's old hill.
In the near-dawn chill, the blazing fire fight raged across the hill. Both Americans and Chinese massed on the crest, desperately trying to throw the other off. The Ranger platoon leader was killed. Ramsburg was injured by a grenade. Heath, coming up the hill to take Ramsburg's place, was shot through the chest. One of his men, his own arm almost severed from his body, dragged Heath back to safety.
In a brief, savage action, the Americans were knocked off the hill. Fox's platoon lost 22 men of 28; the Rangers suffered equally. Curtis, who had remained to the rear, now tried to take charge of the survivors, and to throw up some kind of line in back of the hill to protect Chipyong-ni.
The CCF, stung by the counterattack, could not reorganize quickly enough to advance against the dozen wounded men barring their way. Ramsburg reported to Edwards by phone, who shouted to hold on, more help was on the way.
Freeman, realizing that whatever happened elsewhere, this hole must be plugged, gave Edwards the remainder of the Ranger force.
In a few minutes Curtis and Ramsburg, having now no able-bodied riflemen, began falling back slowly.
Captain Elledge, the artillery liaison officer, took up the slack. Realizing he was not badly hurt, and having no command, Elledge returned to battle on his own. In the ditch beside the road into Chipyong-ni he found an abandoned Quad .50 ack-ack gun mounted on a half-track, and this he got a tank crew to help him swing around until its muzzle faced the enemy.
Elledge was able to get the track's motor started and the power turned on the gun mount. He leveled the gun and sprayed the hill in front of the retreating Americans. Four .50-caliber machine guns, firing in unison, went over the hill like a vacuum cleaner, sucking it dry of Chinese life.
This Kind of War: The Classic Korean War History Page 39
