“Here we are now, the regiment—and the division— strung out along the Kum River.” He pointed.
“Yesterday morning, Item Company of my 3rd Battalion, here, on the south bank of the Kum, was brought under tank fire at about 0600—first light. No real damage was done, but the artillery forward observer couldn’t come up with the coordinates of the tanks, so we couldn’t hurt them either.
“About the same time, an outpost of Love Company— here on the far left flank—reported seeing two barges ferrying North Koreans across the river two miles to their west. Accidentally, or intentionally, they were out of range of any of our artillery.
“By 0930, they had five hundred men across the river. The North Korean artillery was working, and they brought Love Company under fire, at about the same time as did the mortars of the North Koreans who had crossed the river: 0935 to 0940.”
The colonel stopped and looked at McCoy.
“Have you ever been under mortar and artillery fire, Captain? Or have you spent your entire career in intelligence?”
“I’ve been under fire, sir.”
“More than once?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you remember the first time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where was that?”
“In the Philippines, sir. The Japanese used naval gunfire before landing.”
“Were you afraid?”
“Very much, sir.”
“Did you ‘withdraw’?”
“Sir?”
“Did you ‘withdraw’—the new word for that is ‘bug out’?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you remember why not?”
“No, sir,” McCoy said. “We were there to try to repel the landing barges.”
“My first time was in Italy,” the colonel said. “I shat my pants. But I didn’t bug out.”
“Sir?”
“The company commander of Love Company, Captain, within minutes of coming under fire, ‘withdrew.’ Not only personally, but ordered his soldiers to do likewise.”
McCoy did not reply.
“As it turned out,” the colonel went on, “it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. The artillery fire on Love Company was apparently a diversionary attack to conceal their real intention, which was to move to the south in this direction—he pointed—and sever the road here. If they had attacked the deserted positions of Love Company . . .”
“I think I get the picture, sir,” McCoy said.
“I relieved the officer in question, of course, as soon as what he had done came to my attention, but I didn’t come into that information until some time after it happened. By that time—several hours later, whatever time it took them to move three miles against virtually no opposition—approximately three hundred North Korean infantry were here, on this road, near the village of Samyo.
“So was the 63rd Field Artillery Battalion, 105-mm howitzers. They had been providing much of my artillery support. The North Koreans launched an immediate attack against them. Tell me, Captain, how are Marine cannoneers armed?”
“Sir?”
“Are they armed with carbines?”
“I’m not sure. It’s my understanding that the officers, and some senior non coms, can elect to carry carbines . . .”
“But the junior NCOs and privates have M1 Garands, and are trained in their use?”
“Sir, every Marine is a rifleman.”
“There were very few Garands in the 63rd Field Artillery, ” the colonel said, matter of factly, “which is the explanation offered for the failure of the 63rd to adequately defend itself by an officer who managed to escape the debacle there.”
“Sir?”
“Wouldn’t you agree that roughly two hundred men— which was the strength of the 63rd—should be able to hold out longer than two hours against three hundred infantry, not supported by artillery?”
“Yes, sir, I would.”
“The enemy attacked the 63rd at approximately 1330. By 1530, the enemy had killed or captured all but a lucky few officers and men who managed to escape, and captured all of the 63rd Field’s vehicles, cannon, and a considerable supply of ammunition.”
“They got all the guns?” McCoy asked, incredulously.
“All of them. And before the 63rd was able to spike them,” the colonel said, confirmed.
“Jesus!” McCoy said.
“At about this time,” the colonel went on, “Item Company learned for the first time that Love Company had bugged out, and that the enemy was astride its road to the rear. The company commander asked for permission to withdraw, and 3rd battalion commander recommended that it be granted; he said that he didn’t think the re-formed Love Company— he described them as ‘demoralized’—could be trusted to counterattack and reopen the road behind Love Company. I gave permission for the withdrawal.”
The colonel let that sink in and then went on.
“It was necessary for them to ‘withdraw’ over the mountains—the roads were in enemy hands—and they eventually made it here. Without a substantial percentage of their crew-served weapons, which simply could not be carried over the mountains.”
The colonel gave McCoy time to absorb that, and then went on:
“I have no reason, Captain, to believe that the 19th Infantry will fare any better than the 34th has, for the same reasons. One of the reasons I believe that to be true is that the division’s third regiment, the 21st Infantry, in three days of fighting, has lost about half its officers and men.”
“Half?”
“Half,” the colonel confirmed. “What was left of the 21st was gathered near Taejon, and reorganized. Reorganized, rather than reconstituted, which implies bringing a unit up to strength. There is no replacement system in place from which replacements for losses can be drawn. What happened to the 21st is that an attempt has been made to form companies and battalions from its remnants.
“What that means, of course, is that when the 21st goes back into combat, very few, if any, of the men will have served—much less trained—together. Moreover, because many officers are among the dead and missing, many companies—perhaps most—will be commanded by lieutenants who were platoon leaders four days ago, and many platoons will be led by sergeants. In some cases, corporals.
“Early this morning, the 21st was trucked from Taejon to Okchon, here.” He pointed on the map. “That’s about ten miles east of Taejon. They have been ordered to set up positions here, on the Seoul-Pusan highway, about halfway between Okchon and Taegu. If the enemy elects to attack down the highway—or to take the high ground on either side of the highway—resistance to those sort of moves will obviously be hindered by the lack of artillery. In fact, I suspect that when the North Koreans attack, their assigned artillery will be augmented by the 105-mm tubes the 63rd Field lost.”
Again, the colonel paused to give McCoy time to absorb what he had told him.
“And there will, of course, be another attack. If not this afternoon, then during the night, or at the very latest, very early in the morning. The only question is where.” He paused. “That, Captain, is ‘what’s going on.’ I really hope you can find communications somewhere and get through to the Dai Ichi Building. Somehow, I suspect that they don’t know what’s going on.’ ”
“Colonel, your prisoners are from the 83rd Motorcycle Regiment. It’s one of their best—sort of an elite regimental combat team—normally attached to their 6th Division. Maybe if I—”
“If you know that, Captain, I have to presume that’s common knowledge around the Dai Ichi Building. I wonder why they didn’t think we would be interested to know that.”
“I’m not sure how common that information is around SCAP, sir.”
“So you—whatever organization you work for—had that information, but didn’t pass it on?”
There was a perceptible pause before McCoy replied.
“Colonel, I’m only a captain. I gather intelligence, not disseminate it. I can’t answer your question.”
>
“You were saying, about the prisoners?”
“Maybe I can learn something from them, sir, about their intentions. Because it’s highly mobile, I suspect that its officers have to be told more about the overall picture than officers are in standard units.”
“That would be helpful,” the colonel said. “Providing you do it quickly. I want you—especially the woman—out of here as soon as possible. I’m going to have enough on my platter without having to worry about her. Or you.”
“Sir, with respect. I have no authority over Miss Priestly. Even if I returned her Jeep to her, there’s no way I can make her leave, go back to Eighth Army. And I need that Jeep.”
“And if I order you to get in your Jeep and, taking Miss Priestly with you, to get the hell out of here?”
“Sir, with respect, I’m not subject to your orders.”
The colonel looked at him intently for a long moment.
“You intend to stay, then?”
“Yes, sir, for the time being. I really would like to talk to some more prisoners.”
“It’s occurred to you, I presume, that if you stay, you’re likely to become a prisoner yourself?”
“Yes, sir, it has.”
After a moment, the colonel nodded.
“Okay. I gave it my best shot. Will you need me, or any of my men, to deal with the prisoners?”
“No, thank you, sir.”
[THREE]
“The corporal speaks Cantonese,” Zimmerman reported outside the room where the prisoners had been held. “He was willing to talk, but he didn’t know much. But you’re right, they are from the 83rd Motorcycle Regiment, and the little guy is an officer.”
“Who speaks English?”
“And Russian.”
“That’s interesting,” McCoy said. “What’s his rank?”
Zimmerman nodded, in agreement with “interesting,” and then shrugged.
“The corporal didn’t know. He said when he got drafted to do a little reconnaissance—there were originally five of them, two of them got killed when they ran into one of our patrols, where they got caught—the little guy was already wearing the private’s jacket. But one of the others, one who got blown away, called him ‘sir,’ and he was obviously in charge.”
“What else did the corporal have to say?”
“He said that after they took Seoul, the regiment was taken out of action, and sent down the peninsula right behind the units on the line. Now they’re getting ready to go back into action. Soon.”
“No specifics?”
“No, but it can’t be far off, Ken. It looks to me as if this guy, the officer, is an intel officer. Maybe not even from the 83rd. He wanted a closeup of where they were going, and got himself bagged.”
“Did the 6th Division come up?”
“They’re here. The corporal didn’t know if the 83rd was attached to them or not.”
“How’s your Russian these days, Ernie?”
“Not bad. Milla Banning and Mae-Su decided the kids should know how to speak it, and then Banning got in the act. We have Russian suppers, talk only Russian. I’m all right with it.”
“Let’s go talk to the officer,” McCoy said. “Where’s the corporal?”
“I had him put in another room, to get him away from the officer.”
“You go in there, tell the guard to put the sergeant with the corporal, make a show of chambering your Thompson, and in a couple of minutes, I’ll come in. You pop to when I do.”
“Got it,” Zimmerman said.
“Where’s Priestly?”
Zimmerman pointed out the door, to where Jeanette Priestly was talking to several GIs, who were beaming at her.
McCoy nodded and motioned for Zimmerman to enter the room where the prisoners were being held. A minute later, the American sergeant came out, holding his carbine in one hand, and with his other on the North Korean sergeant’s shoulder.
McCoy looked at his watch, then helped himself to a cup of coffee from an electric pot next to one of the radios— and thus a source of 110 volts AC—and exactly five minutes later, put the mess kit coffee cup down and walked into the room where the North Korean officer was being held.
Zimmerman, who had been sitting on a folding chair, popped to rigid attention. McCoy made an impatient gesture with his hand, and Zimmerman relaxed slightly.
“My friend,” McCoy said, conversationally, in Russian, “I’m a little pressed for time, so I suggest it would be to your advantage to make the most of what time I can give you.”
There was a flicker of surprise on the North Korean officer’s face, immediately replaced by one intended to show that he didn’t understand a word.
“All right, we’ll do it in Korean,” McCoy said, switching to that language, “although my Korean is not as good as my Russian.” He switched to English: “Or perhaps you would prefer English?”
The officer looked at him in what was supposed to convey a complete lack of comprehension.
McCoy went back to Russian:
“The fortunes of war have gone against you, Major,” he said.
There was another flicker of surprise in the North Korean’s eyes, and McCoy thought it was reasonable to presume that his guess that the man was a major was right on the money.
“With a little luck, Major, at this very minute, you could be sitting in a POW enclosure, as a simple private, biding your time until the forces of international socialism overwhelmed the capitalist imperialists and you were liberated. But that didn’t happen. What happened is that I happened to come by here. We are not soldiers. We are Marines. Moreover, we are more or less—probably more than less—in the same line of work.”
“He understood that, Captain,” Zimmerman said, in English. “I could tell by his eyes. But I also saw in his eyes that he won’t be useful, so may I suggest, considering the time, that—”
“I would rather not dispose of him,” McCoy said, and chuckled. “Professional courtesy, Ernest. You and I could easily find ourselves in his position.”
“Sir, with respect, I suggest we have him shot, and be on our way.”
“Kim Si Yong,” the North Korean said, in English. “Seven-five-eight-eight-nine.”
“Ah,” McCoy said, now in English, “the major is partially familiar with the Geneva Convention.”
“Partially?” Zimmerman asked.
“The Convention requires that prisoners of war furnish their captors with their name, rank, and service number. I did not hear a rank, did you?”
“No, sir,” Zimmerman said.
“He has therefore not complied with the Geneva Convention, ” McCoy explained. “Not that it matters anyway, for under Paragraph Seventeen, Subsection B, since he is an officer, wearing a private soldier’s uniform, it may be presumed that he is not a combatant, entitled to the protection of the convention, but instead a spy, who may be legally executed.”
“Under those circumstances, may I respectfully suggest we have him shot, and be on our way?”
McCoy looked at the North Korean officer, then shrugged, and appeared to be on the verge of leaving the room.
“Kim Si Yong,” the North Korean said, in English. “Major, seven-five-eight-eight-nine. I claim the protection of the Geneva Convention.”
McCoy switched to Russian.
“Major Kim,” he said. “There’s one small problem with that. Your government is not a signatory to the Geneva Convention. That means that it is at the option of your captors—and that means me—whether or not to apply it to prisoners. The other problem you have is your confession that you are an officer masquerading as a private soldier, which changes your position from prisoner of war to spy.”
“Sir, with all respect,” Zimmerman said, in Russian. “He probably doesn’t know anything we don’t already know. Sir, we’re already going to be very late—”
McCoy held up his hand to silence him.
“Major, as a professional courtesy between fellow intelligence officers, let me explain your op
tions,” McCoy said. “They do not include being returned to your side anytime soon, so put that out of your mind. They do include being shot in the next few minutes as a spy. Keep that in your mind. Now we know that the 83rd Motorcycle Regiment, which has been kept out of the fighting since Seoul, will lead the attack of the 6th Division. We don’t know when that attack will take place. If you tell us when that attack will take place, you will not be shot immediately. You will be kept here until the time you tell us the attack will take place. If it occurs when you say it will, I will personally deliver you to Eighth Army Headquarters, and guarantee that you are treated as an officer prisoner under the Geneva Convention. If it does not take place when you tell us it will, you will be shot at that time. I will give you as long as it takes me to go to the latrine to make up your mind.”
McCoy walked out of the room, looked at his watch, picked up the mess kit coffee cup where he had laid it down, finished drinking it, and precisely five minutes after he had left the room, walked back into it.
Five minutes after that, he walked back out of the room, found the colonel, and told him what he had learned.
“You believe this officer, Captain?”
“Sir, I believe he thought I was prepared to have him shot. What he may have done is tell me that attack will be at 0300, because he knows it will be earlier; if it’s earlier, and we’re overrun, then he might be freed. I don’t think it will be after 0300, because he thinks he’ll be shot if it doesn’t happen then.”
“They don’t usually start anything in the middle of the night,” the colonel said, thoughtfully. “But they’re on a roll, and it would give them the advantage of surprise.”
McCoy didn’t reply. The colonel paused again, obviously in thought, and then said, “I’ll pass this on to division. And order a fifty-percent alert from nightfall. You’re still determined to stay here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Miss Priestly?”
“If Zimmerman and I stay, sir, I don’t think there’s much chance of getting her to leave.”
“Then I suggest you find someplace where you’ll have protection from incoming,” the colonel said. “They’re certainly going to fire their tubes—and probably the 105s they took from the 63rd Field Artillery—as a prelude to the attack, whenever they decide to make it.”
Under Fire Page 26
