“Yes, sir,” McCoy said. “Sir, I’d like to go see the 19th Infantry. Would you have objection to my taking the major with me?”
“What are you going to do, put him in the back of Miss Priestly’s Jeep with Miss Priestly?”
“Actually, sir, I thought I’d put him in the front seat with Gunner Zimmerman and Miss Priestly, and I would ride in the back.”
What could have been a smile appeared momentarily on the colonel’s lips.
“Just make sure she’s in the Jeep, Captain,” he said.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Here, I’ll show you on the map where I think the 19th CP is,” the colonel said.
[FOUR]
HEADQUARTERS 19TH INFANTRY REGIMENT 24TH INFANTRY DIVISION KONGJU, SOUTH KOREA 1805 15 JULY 1950
“Jesus H. Christ!” the Garand-armed corporal standing to one side of the sandbagged door of the command post exclaimed when he saw the Jeep with a Korean in the front seat and the American woman in the back.
He walked over to the Jeep.
After apparently thinking it over first, he saluted.
“Yes, sir? Can I help you?”
“You can keep an eye on this enemy officer while we go inside,” McCoy said.
“Enemy officer” caught the ear of a major who had been standing talking to a sergeant on the other side of the sandbagged entrance. He walked over to the Jeep.
McCoy saluted.
“Enemy officer?” the major asked, then “Marines?” and finally, “War correspondent?”
“Yes, sir, three times,” McCoy said.
“The only thing I can do for you is advise you to get back to Division,” the major said. “We’ve just been advised to expect an attack anytime from darkness—which means just about now—’til 0300.”
“Yes, sir, we know,” McCoy said.
“This is no place for you, ma’am,” the major said to Jeanette.
“Jeanette Priestly, Chicago Tribune,” she said, with a dazzling smile, and offered the major her hand.
“We have a Korean sergeant who speaks some English,” the major said to McCoy. “I’d like him to talk to your prisoner. ” Then he had a second thought: “Public relations? What are you doing with a prisoner?”
Here we go again.
“Sir, Gunner Zimmerman and I are not public relations,” he said, and handed the major the “Dai-Ichi” orders. “I found it necessary to commandeer her Jeep when Eighth Army didn’t have one for us.”
The major read the orders, his eyebrows rising as he did. “I think we’d better go see the regimental commander, Captain,” he said.
The regimental colonel was a slight man with a mustache. Somehow he had managed to remain dapper despite the heat, the dust and everything else.
“I don’t want to seem inhospitable, Captain,” he said, looking up at McCoy after he’d read the orders. “But we’re a little busy here. Can we cut to the chase? What are two Marine officers doing here with a female war correspondent?”
He, too, had a second thought.
“Fred, ask the lady and the other officer to come in here,” he said to the major. “And bring the prisoner.” He looked at McCoy. “We’re expecting an attack at any time; there will certainly be artillery.”
“Yes, sir,” the major said, and went out of the sandbagged CP.
“That information came from the prisoner, sir,” McCoy said.
The colonel looked at him, waiting for him to go on.
“He’s a major attached to the 83rd Motorcycle Regiment—probably their G-2. He was making a reconnaissance when he was captured by a squad from the 34th Infantry doing the same thing.”
“How do you know this?”
“He told me.”
“You speak Korean?”
“Yes, sir.”
The colonel’s eyebrows rose.
“How’d you get him to talk?”
“I told him that since he was an officer wearing a private’s uniform, he was subject to being shot as a spy.”
“I’m starting to like you, Captain,” the colonel said. “What else did he have to say?”
“He said the attack will start at 0300, with the 83rd Motorcycle Regiment and the 6th Division.”
“And you believe him?”
“I told him if it doesn’t happen at 0300, I’ll have him shot. If it does, I’ll take him to the 24th Division Headquarters and see that he’s treated as an officer prisoner.”
“So you’re not a two-man Marine bodyguard for a female war correspondent?” the colonel asked, smiling.
“No, sir.”
“With those orders, you could be anything. What is your ‘mission’? Your orders are a little vague about that.”
“To see what’s going on here, sir.”
“For General Almond himself?”
“Actually for General Pickering, sir.”
The colonel, as the 34th Regiment’s commander had done, searched his memory back for “Pickering” and came up blank.
“In the Dai-Ichi Building?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where does the lady fit in?”
“Eighth Army didn’t have wheels for us, sir. So I commandeered hers.”
“And brought her along?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. I’ll tell you ‘what’s going on,’ ” he said. “Apparently largely based on your intelligence, we expect an attack sometime between right now and 0300. The only signs we’ve had of anything are reports—half a dozen reports—of small groups of North Koreans trying to wade across the Kum River”—he turned to his map and pointed—“in this area.”
He turned back to face McCoy.
“Small groups,” he said. “I think they know we’re short on artillery. You heard about the 63rd Field Artillery getting overrun? . . .”
McCoy nodded.
“. . . and are reluctant to fire what little we have on groups of five or six men. And they’re also aware of the location of our positions. As a ballpark figure, my regiment is holding three times as much line as I was taught was the absolute maximum at Leavenworth,3and there are holes in it. The North Koreans are wading across where, in many cases, it is impossible for us to bring small-arms fire to bear.”
“Can you give us a guide to some of these positions?”
“Why?”
“I’d like to try to get another prisoner or two, sir.”
“I’d like another one, too,” the colonel said. “Particularly since you speak Korean. I can send you up here”— he pointed at the map again—“with Major Allman, my G-3, and one of his sergeants. It’ll be really dark in an hour . . .”
“Thank you, sir.”
“. . . which means that you and the lady will have to remain here for the night. Which means that you had better hope we can hold out until first light, because you won’t be able to get out of here before then.”
"I understand, sir.”
[FIVE]
Five minutes after Major Allman, Captain McCoy, and Master Gunner Zimmerman had started out from the regimental command post for the outpost positions of Baker Company, 1st Battalion, 19th Infantry, a female voice called out, “Hey, guys, wait for me!”
“Miss Priestly,” Major Allman said, dryly, “has apparently chosen to ignore the colonel’s suggestion to remain in the CP.”
“Escaped from the CP is more like it,” Captain McCoy said.
“Fuck her,” Master Gunner Zimmerman said.
“That thought has occurred to me,” Major Allman said. “But this isn’t the time nor place. The question is what do we do about her, here and now?”
“The light’s failing,” McCoy said. “We don’t have time to take her back.”
“Your call, Captain,” Allman said.
“I don’t see where we have a choice,” McCoy said.
He started walking again.
Three minutes later, the war correspondent of the Chicago Tribune caught up with them. She had a Leica III-C 35-mm camera hanging
around her neck, and was carrying a .30-caliber carbine in her hand.
“You’re supposed to be a noncombatant,” McCoy said.
“I should use it on you, you son of a bitch,” Jeanette said, conversationally, “for leaving me back there.”
Five minutes later, they reached the Baker Company CP—which was nothing more than a sandbag reinforced shelter on the military crest4of a small hill overlooking the river.
The company commander was not there; the first sergeant said he was out checking positions. He showed them—on a hand-drawn map—where they were, on the other side of the hill, overlooking the river, and thus visible to the enemy.
“This is as far as you go, Jeanette,” McCoy said. “If necessary, I’ll have you tied up.”
“Where are you going?” she demanded.
“Zimmerman and I are going to go down to the positions, the foxholes. We’re going to try to get a prisoner. Maybe two.”
“And I don’t get to watch?” she asked, angry and disappointed.
“There’s an FO OP right up there,” the first sergeant offered helpfully, pointing. A forward observer’s observationpost. “It’s sandbagged. She could watch from there. They’ve got binoculars.”
“And you’d go with her, right?” Major Allman asked, smiling.
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t think so, Jeanette,” McCoy said. “How do I know you’d stay in the OP?”
“I’ll stay there,” she said.
“I’ll make sure she doesn’t leave the OP,” Major Allman said, and added: “Unless you’d rather have me go to the outposts with you.”
“I don’t think that would be necessary, sir,” McCoy said. “Thank you.”
It took McCoy and Zimmerman another five minutes to climb past the military crest of the hill, and then to run, zigzagging, down the other side until they reached an obviously freshly dug, sandbag-reinforced two-man foxhole.
It held two men, manning an air-cooled Browning .30-caliber machine gun on a tripod. There were half a dozen cans of ammunition in the hole, and half a dozen hand grenades—with their pins in, and the tape still holding the safety lever in place—were laid out neatly on the sandbags.
The sergeant and the PFC manning the gun were surprised when two officers suddenly joined them, and even more surprised when they saw the Marine Corps emblem painted on Zimmerman’s utilities jacket.
McCoy looked back up the hill for the forward observer’s position, and easily found it—its brown sandbag reinforcement stood out from the vegetation—which meant the enemy could also see it.
He turned to the sergeant, who so far had neither said a word nor saluted.
“Sergeant, they tell me there’s North Koreans trying to wade across the river,” he said.
The sergeant pointed over Zimmerman’s shoulder. McCoy and Zimmerman looked where he pointed. Zimmerman reached into one of the cavernous pockets of his utilities and came out with a pair of binoculars.
At what McCoy estimated to be from 450 to 500 yards, half a dozen men were wading across the Kum River. When Zimmerman had his look through his binoculars and handed them to him, McCoy saw that the North Koreans were holding their weapons and packs over their heads.
He handed the binoculars back to Zimmerman.
“Sergeant, have you been ordered not to fire?” McCoy asked.
“We’re not that heavy on ammo,” the sergeant said, pointing at the ammunition cans. “I decided we better save that for later.”
“And your rifle?” McCoy asked, pointing to an M-1 Garand resting against the sandbags beside a .30-caliber carbine.
“You can’t hit them with a rifle at that range, sir,” the sergeant said.
Zimmerman looked at the sergeant incredulously, and opened his mouth. McCoy held up a hand to silence him.
“Sergeant,” McCoy said, not unkindly, “when I had an air-cooled thirty-caliber Browning machine-gun section, we were taught that if you could hit something with a machine gun, you could hit it with a rifle. It’s the same cartridge.”
The sergeant shrugged.
Zimmerman made a give it to me gesture toward Mc-Coy’s Garand, and McCoy handed it to him.
The sergeant and the PFC were now fascinated.
“Where’s the zero?” Zimmerman asked.
“Two hundred,” McCoy said.
“You’re sure? I really hate to fuck with the sights.”
“Give it back, Ernie,” McCoy ordered. “You spot for me.”
Zimmerman shrugged, and handed the Garand back.
McCoy moved up to the sandbags, tried the sitting position, found that it placed him too low to fire, and assumed the kneeling position.
Then he reached up and moved two of the grenades out of the way.
“Sergeant,” he said. “If you think you might need those grenades in a hurry, it might be a good idea to take the tape off now.”
The sergeant looked at him a moment, and then offered a noncommittal, “Yes, sir.”
McCoy pounded the sandbag with the fore end of the Garand until the groove in the sandbag provided what he thought was adequate support. Then, with quick sure movements born of long practice, he unlooped the leather sling of the Garand from the stock, adjusted the brass hooks, and arranged it around his arm.
The sergeant and the PFC looked at him in fascination.
McCoy took a sight, then looked up at Zimmerman, who nodded and put the binoculars to his eyes.
McCoy took another sight and squeezed one off, then— very much as if they were on a known-distance rifle range firing at bull’s-eye targets—looked up at Zimmerman—the coach—to see how he was doing.
“You got the one closest to this bank,” Zimmerman reported.
“I held a foot over his head,” McCoy said, and then reached into his utilities jacket pocket for an eight-round Garand clip. He laid it on the sandbags beside the hand grenades and resumed his shooting position.
In the next sixty seconds, he fired the remaining seven cartridges in the Garand. The empty clip flew out of the open breech in an arc. Before it hit the ground, he reached for the spare clip and a moment later thumbed it into the Garand, and slammed the operating rod with the heel of his hand, ensuring that the fresh cartridge would be fully chambered. Then he quickly got in firing position again.
“They’re gone, Ken,” Zimmerman said. “Their side of the river. You got three of them, maybe four.”
“Jesus Christ!” the sergeant said.
“And in the Marine Corps, the captain’s considered only a so-so shot,” Zimmerman said, oozing sincerity.
“And in the Marine Corps, Master Gunner Zimmerman has a reputation for being as good a man as they come with the Garand,” McCoy said, “and that’s not bullshit.”
He pointed at the PFC’s Garand.
“Is that zeroed?”
“We got a chance to fire a couple of clips before we left Japan, sir.”
“What Mr. Zimmerman’s going to do now, Sergeant, is have a look at that Garand, and then—if the light doesn’t go—help you zero it at two hundred yards.”
“Jesus,” the PFC said. “Thank you.”
“And then, when it’s dark, you and I, Ernie, are going to go down to the bank and see if we can’t grab a prisoner.”
Zimmerman nodded.
[SIX]
HEADQUARTERS 19TH INFANTRY REGIMENT 24TH INFANTRY DIVISION KONGJU, SOUTH KOREA 0300 16 JULY 1950
“Incoming!” one of the sergeants in the G-3 section called out excitedly.
Quite unnecessarily, for everyone present had heard the sound an artillery shell makes in flight.
The impact came a moment later, a hundred yards away.
“It looks like you’re going to live, Major,” Zimmerman said to their North Korean prisoner. “I was beginning to wonder.”
“There will be more, much more,” the major said.
McCoy wondered: Was that a gratis offer of more information, or is he hoping that when they fire for effect, it will be r
ight on our heads?
And then he wondered: Would I have caved in the way he did? Or Zimmerman? There’s two sides to that tell-the-enemy -nothing business. What’s the point of dying if it’s not going to change things?
His reverie was interrupted by more incoming.
Lots of incoming: Between the sound of the exploding incoming rounds, there could be heard the rumble of artillery—a lot of artillery—firing.
Very little seems to be directed at us, here at regimental headquarters, which probably means that it’s being directed at positions on the line.
They know where the positions are. They’ve been infiltrating men across the river all night. And some certainly infiltrated back, carrying maps on which are marked the position of every last goddamn foxhole and machine gun.
And some stayed, and hidden by the darkness are calling in the shots: Right 200, up 50, fire for effect.
And if there is counterfire, I don’t hear it.
The 19th is not going to be able to do much about turning this attack, if that sergeant and PFC are typical of the kind of people they’ve got. They don’t know what the hell they’re supposed to do, and if you don’t know what to do, or what’s going to happen, you’re liable to panic.
The real question for us is how soon is it going to happen? It would be suicide to try to drive away from here now. Maybe at first light, it will be different. Maybe at first light, they’ll make the major assault, and that means they’re likely to lift the artillery barrage. That would give us a chance.
He looked at Miss Jeanette Priestly of the Chicago Tribune, who was sitting beside Major Allman on the floor, against the wall.
So if we can’t get out of here, what do I do with you?
Tough broad. If she’s about to become hysterical— which is always what I feel like doing when they’re firing artillery at me—it sure doesn’t show on her face.
If we’re overrun, do I place my faith in the humanity of the Army of the People’s Democratic Republic of North Korea, and let her get captured?
It’s possible that an officer might recognize the propaganda value of capturing a female—the only female— American war correspondent, and she would be treated well, so they could put her on display.
Under Fire Page 27
