by Gunther, Cy
Zombie Outbreak
Korea, 1950
by
Cy Gunther
Editor’s Note
With the recent outbreak of the undead in New Hampshire more information has come to light regarding zombies in the history of the United States of America. In spite of the government’s attempts at a media blackout concerning the events in New Hampshire, the sudden and violent restriction of personal rights, as well as the massive attempts to limit – and crush at times – the various social media outlets, the majority of Americans were introduced in December, in a disturbingly shocking manner, to the existence of the living dead.
Since the first colonies were founded in North America by the European powers, a minority of the governing population has always known about the existence of, and the danger presented by, the living dead. The following report, which was written and preserved by some unknown military historian during the Cold War, concerns the plight of members of the First Regiment, First Division, of the United States Marine Corps during the Korean War. While this was certainly not the first incidence of directly military and zombie conflict, it is the first recorded incident of the use of zombies as weapons.
Inchon Landing, Operation CHROMITE
September 15th, 1950
Someone threw up and added more vomit to the coating on the LVT’s deck.
Jones shook his head. They’d been on the LVT for hours, waiting to land at Blue Beach. The fear had eaten at his Marines since the adrenaline had worn off after climbing down into the boats, and if the North Koreans were holding the sea walls in any sort of force, there’d be hell to pay to get a foothold in. Jones adjusted his pack, wiped the sweat off of his hands and onto his utilities, and craned his neck to see the Corsairs with their crooked wings heading towards their targets inland. The planes streaked in, Dauntlesses behind them while the big guns of the Navy continued to pound away at the North Korean defenses.
The LVT shifted a little, and Jones realized that they were cruising in a giant circle anymore, they were headed in.
“Get ready!” he snapped over the diesels, and he glanced around at the men in his platoon, pleased to see them shaking off their fears, faces green with seasickness, but determined nonetheless.
The ride in was quick, quicker than he thought it would be. Quicker than most he remembered from the Pacific and fighting the Japs. More Corsairs raced by overhead, the fighters moving in low while the Navy still dropped shells in.
Then the seawall loomed before them, the coxswain bringing the LVT right up to it.
“Ladders!” Jones shouted, and the men came rushing forward, a pair of lance corporals slamming the ladders into place. “Let’s go!”
And Jones mounted the first ladder, scrambling up it and rolling over the wall. Machinegun fire ripped around him and he scrambled for cover behind a boulder. Addison was up beside him in a minute, radio ready. Orders came squawking through the set, but Jones didn’t hear any calls from the Old Man to him so he focused on getting his men squared away.
Two men were hit coming over the wall, both of them tumbling back into the LVT. Jones couldn’t see who they were, or whether or not they were even alive when they fell, but he still had 35 Marines to think and worry about. “Pass the word,” he said to Addison, “the Old Man says that the warehouse is ours, and that we better make sure that we take the damned thing.”
The young private nodded and passed the word to the two other privates who served as Jones’ runners. The men nodded and split off. Within a few minutes the men had returned, sweating in the September warmth, a hint of fear in their young eyes. Sporadic gun fire continued, the North Koreans in solid fighting positions ahead, but spread out as well.
“All set, Gunny,” Addison said.
Jones nodded. “Okay, let’s go. Covering fire and move!”
His platoon moved out, the squads functioning effectively, the BAR loud and penetrating even in the din of battle. Mason’s shotgun sounded off to the right, and someone was screaming, grenades exploding, shaking them all with the concussions from the blasts. A call went up for a corpsman further down the line, and while the Corpsman answered the call, the rest of the Marines went forward.
A few North Korean troops, nothing more than young men, emphatic and zealous communists got up and ran, seeking better positions to slow down the advance, but they were cut down long before they reached safety. These troops were a far cry from the hardened disciplined North Korean soldiers which had nearly pushed the United States into the sea at Pusan.
Jones’ Marines moved up, and Mason, the old Pacific hand, showed them the right way to clear out a machinegun nest. Grenades and suppressing fire were used until he could get up close and use the shot-gun, the weapon devastating in the close confines of the nest. Even after the nest was silenced Mason fired a few more times.
Everyone had heard about the way the North Koreans executed their prisoners.
Jones’ Marines wouldn’t be taking any prisoners themselves.
All of the fighting was over in a matter of moments and Jones was straightening his line, picking out lanes of approach on the warehouse when a jeep came tearing up. The Old Man jumped of the jeep, his driver and bodyguard climbing out with him, the two men ever vigilant as the Old Man stood and looked over the debris of the short fight.
“Good work, Gunny,” the Old Man said, speaking around the stem of his pipe, the embers glowing faintly, just a hint of smoke drifting into the air. “Going to take that warehouse for me, old man?”
“Yes sir,” Jones said. He took his own pipe out of his pocket, unrolled his bag of tobacco and began to pack it, asking, “How far do you want us to push after the warehouse?”
The Old Man grinned. “I’ll call you and let you know. Word is MacArthur wants to come and see how men fight.”
Jones, his runners, and Addison laughed. Jones reached into his breast pocket and took out his lighter, and carefully lit his pipe. Motioning to the Old Man’s pipe, he passed it on.
“Thanks,” the Old Man said simply, and relit his pipe. Handing the lighter back the Old Man said, “Now you keep killing those gooks, and you hold that damned warehouse. We’re supposed to be getting tanks soon, so you make sure that we keep this road open. I don’t want any trouble from those tankers worrying about a little bit of mud in their tracks, okay?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good man. Call me when it’s secured.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The Old Man nodded, grinned around his pipe stem at Jones’ platoon, and stepped back to the jeep, which was serving as a bullet magnet for some sniper. As the Old Man left Jones called out, “Mason!”
Sergeant Mason looked up, “Yeah Gunny?”
“Get rid of that fucking sniper.”
Sergeant Jack C. Mason
“Quinn, Gordon!”
The two young Marines came sprinting forward, keeping their profiles low as the sniper let off another set of shots.
“You two are with me,” Mason said. “We’re going to go kill that fucking gook sniper.”
“Aye aye, Sergeant,” Gordon grinned.
Quinn shook his head. “You’re enjoying this entirely too much, Gordon.”
Gordon nodded. “That’s because I’m already scared out of my fucking mind, Quinn. Can’t get any more scared, far as I’m concerned.”
“You can always get more scared,” Mason said, looking at the two of them. “There is always something scarier out here, you just need to deal with it, and move the fuck on. Now, that sniper’s only about a hundred yards from here. Two of us will fire, one will move forward. Make sure that you keep that prick pinned down. Nobody needs to take a round. Ready?”
They nodded.
“Good. See that heavy copse of trees there?”
Again they nodded.
“That’s where the little fuck is hiding. Each of you put in a clip while I move forward. Watch for my signal, and then Quinn will move up to me. Me and Gordon will lay down fire. When Quinn reaches me, me and Quinn will lay down fire for Gordon to move. Got it?”
“Got it,” they said.
“Okay, let’s get this shit done with. Open up.”
The two young Marines swung up and started laying down fire, the branches on the tree snapping with the impact of the bullets. Mason raced forward, keeping himself low before throwing himself down at a mound of upturned earth. Looking back he signaled to Quinn, and turned back to the sniper, who squeezed off a shot that slammed into the top of the mound. Leaving his shot-gun on his back Mason brought up his carbine and started a rapid fire towards the muzzle flash that he had seen.
Within seconds Quinn was beside him. “Third tree from the left, Sergeant.”
“You saw that flash on the run?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Quinn said.
“Good job, kid,” Mason chuckled. “Good job.”
They laid down their covering fire and Gordon was soon beside them. Mason nodded and made his next dash to mass of shattered trees, and the process was repeated, twenty yards at a time. The sniper came close a few times, but his shots were hurried, desperate as they narrowed the gap.
With the last twenty yards before them, Mason slung his carbine, pulled out his shot-gun, and reloaded the weapon as Quinn and Gordon kept the sniper pinned where he was. The leaf cover was so shattered at this point that they could just make out the sniper trying to bring his weapon into a better position. Mason could see that the man was wounded, both pants legs dark with blood, and it helped explain why he was still in a place that he knew was going to result in his death.
Mason nodded to both of the Marines, jumped up, and sprinted directly at the sniper, firing on the run.
A scream rang out as the shot-gun rounds struck the sniper in the thighs and buttocks. Mason watched as the man, still screaming, rolled over and into a sitting position, drawing a pistol.
Within a heartbeat it was over, the sniper having blown his own brains out, and most of his face away as well.
Mason came to a skidding halt, Quinn and Gordon racing up to him. Gordon spoke first.
“Holy shit, Sergeant, is he white?”
“Yup,” Mason said, resting his shot-gun on his shoulder, the barrel’s heat passing through his shirt. “And that’s no Gook uniform either.”
“What is it?” Quinn asked.
“Soviet,” Mason snapped. “The god damned Russians are here.” Walking forward he bent down over the remains of the corpse and took the bloody field cap off of the skull’s remains. Slapping the cap against a tree a few times Mason led the way back to the platoon’s position and carried the cap to the Gunny.
Gunny looked up at the cap and swore. “Addie.”
“Yeah, Gunny?”
“Radio,” the Gunny said.
Addison handed him the radio and the Gunny called command. “This is Gunnery Sergeant Jones, got a message for the Old Man. Tell him we just took care of Soviet sniper.”
“What?” came the reply.
“A Soviet sniper.”
“Are you sure?”
“Do you want me to bring the fucking body all the way back to command?”
“Ah…that’s a negative, Gunny.”
“Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought. I have the fucker’s field cap here, and we’ll hold on to it until we meet up with the Old Man again.”
“We copy, Gunny,” said a different, older voice. “Good hunting.”
“Thank you, sir,” Gunny said, and handed the radio back to Addison.
“Who was that?” Addison asked.
“Who the fuck knows,” Gunny said, “sounded like an officer though.”
“And when in doubt,” Mason said, nodding to Gunny, “rank up. It’ll save you a world of shit.”
The Warehouse
The platoon had moved stealthily up through the tree line, killing the occasional North Korean who had wandered away from a unit, waving civilians on. The Marines had moved with discipline and determination for nearly two hours before finally coming upon their target, the warehouse.
The warehouse was huge, monstrous actually by Korean standards, and the early reports on-ship had stated that it was a pre-war Japanese construction, part of the whole reforestation project that had been going on in the area. Whatever it was for, Jones thought, the fucking thing was just huge.
From his position Jones could see a dozen North Korean soldiers herding close to a hundred South Korean civilians into the warehouse. How many were packed in there he couldn’t tell, but it had to be more than the new batch they were bringing in.
“Human shields,” Mason said. “Japs pulled that shit on Okinawa, too.”
“Well,” Jones said, putting his binoculars down, “the Old Man is always saying don’t underestimate the enemy, and I think that’s the worst thing that we could do with the gooks. They may be commies, but it doesn’t mean that they’re stupid.”
“Definitely not, Gunny.” Mason looked at the warehouse. “How do you want to hit it?”
“Well, I need eyes on the reverse side first. Where’s Arrakis?”
The call went out for Nikos Arrakis, and the corporal showed up a short while later. “What do you need, Gunny?”
“I need eyes on the other side of that warehouse, Nicky, tell me what’s going on over there.”
“Aye aye, Gunny,” Arrakis said, and the corporal slipped away. Time crawled by as Arrakis scouted out the warehouse. Corpsmen double checked the few wounded, making sure that they were going to be able to continue on. More water was passed around, the men hydrating as they waited, and Mason made them double check their weapons and ammunition.
Reports filed in from either end, and everything was looking squared away. The raw, green reservists which had been used to flush out Jones’ platoon were starting to become salty, getting used to – and seeming to get a taste for – the sporadic firing that filled the air. None of the wounded needed to be evacuated, although Bennett and Cox could both be classified as stretcher cases if they laid down for it.
Neither one of them did, though, waving off the Corpsmen who seemed ready to tag them and send them back.
Jones grinned, proud of his platoon.
Even for green reservists, they’d been doing alright.
Ahead of them, at the massive warehouse, trucks pulled up and more and more civilians were herded into the concrete and corrugated steel structure. Other civilians were marched from the far side of the tree line where he’d sent Arrakis, the civilians presumably forced out of their homes.
What the hell is going on down there? Jones asked himself.
With the binoculars he scanned the area, trying to spot Arrakis, but he knew it was useless. For a boy from Lowell, Massachusetts, that Greek boy could move through the field like he was a ghost. The Old Man had seen Arrakis in Pendleton once and chuckled, asking in that deep Southern drawl of his if Arrakis was a country boy. Nicky had responded no, but he’d spent most of his childhood hunting with his uncles in New Hampshire on the weekends.
And now we’ve got bigger prey, Jones thought. Better things for that boy to hunt.
Jones put the binoculars down again as the empty North Korean trucks sped off down the road for another load of civilians from who knew where. With his ears open Jones settled down to reload his clips. Nearly half an hour more passed before Arrakis slipped back into the platoon’s perimeter.
“Gunny,” Nicky said, dropping down beside him.
“What’s going on, kid?”
“We’ve got twenty guards, and maybe three, four hundred civilians. They’re packin’ ‘em tight. Real fuckin’ tight, Gunny. Plus I swear I heard someone in their speaking Russkie.”
Jones frowned. He hadn’t said anything
to the rest of the platoon about the incident with the sniper, and he had made sure that none of the other four would say anything either. “Russian?”
Arrakis nodded. “I know gook when I hear it, Gunny, and that wasn’t gook. Plus, from where I was, I could see some sort of truck in the center of everybody inside of the warehouse. Three guards are on that, plus the thing’s loaded with fuel, I think. Fifty gallon drums and hand cranks hooked up to them.”
Jones reached up under his helmet and scratched his head. “How many entrances?”
“Four.”
“Easy enough,” Jones said, “Mason, I want a squad on each entrance. We’re going to have to be careful of the civilians and that damned truck. If it is fuel I don’t want it going up. Remember, too, we’ve got trucks out there bringing more civilians back.”
Mason nodded. “When do you want to go in, Gunny?”
“Fifteen. We’ll be set by then and you’ll hear me lead off with Arrakis on the BAR. Did we ever figure out who we lost coming ashore?”
“Hanks and Tessier,” Mason answered.
“Okay, take Williams from my team and give him to Willette, figures he’d lose two right off the bat.”
“Yeah,” Mason grinned, “and he’s gonna be real happy that you gave him Williams, too.”
“Hell with Willette and his bitching,” Jones said. “Let’s just get this done. We need that fucking road for the armor, and the sooner we get to the city the sooner we can get out of this damned country. You heard MacArthur, home by Christmas and all that good shit.”
Mason nodded and hurried off. Jones put his clips away and motioned to Arrakis.
Arrakis came over. “Yeah, Gunny?”
“Ready to show me that other entrance?”
“Aye aye.”
“Good. Get Addison for me, will ya?”
“What about Williams?”
Jones shook his head. “Temporarily assigned to Willette.”
Nicky smiled. “That’ll set the corporal to bitchin’.”
“Oh well,” Jones shrugged, and winked at Arrakis. “Anyway, wake that radioman up and let’s get the hell out of here.”
