There was no longer a clear sense of mission or objective among the Marines. They holed up in camps, not winning nor going home.
While scenic and at times tranquil, Camp Michael Foxtrot was not a favorite duty for the Marines. On top of being boring, it was small. Many compared it to ship duty, because of its confining nature on the hilltop. Only one company occupied the camp at any one time. They would rotate through on a monthly basis. While only twenty kilometers from Camp Charles Foxtrot, one did get the sense of isolation out there. The conscious knowledge of artillery and air support was too abstract, at this point, to be of much comfort. Month-long duty at the camp circulated around watch, exercise, and weapons maintenance. The camp was too small for LSVs, so the heavy weapons attached to Charlie Company manned ground-mounted weapons.
Harris had hit his sweet spot where his coffee was at the perfect temperature to drink while he smoked. He was losing the chess game to Hastings, but the game wasn’t the high priority. Right now he was comfortable and enjoying the time with his friend.
“Company formation ASAP,” Reese announced to the half dozen TOW gunners in the general-purpose tent that housed the TOW section.
“Figures,” Harris spat in disgust at having to sacrifice a perfect cup of joe. “This better be something important.”
“Come on, Harris! Since when have you been in the Corps and had to fall out for a completely worthless formation?” Hastings replied with his usual smart-ass sarcasm.
All the Marines grabbed their weapons and covers and headed for the camp’s parade deck.
As they headed towards the area where Heavy Weapons Platoon formed up they saw Newton and Tanzer, both machine gunners, talking intensely.
“Hey, man, either of you got a cigarette I can bum? I got a pack back at my tent. Promise I’ll pay you back.” Newton, who was always bumming cigarettes, asked. However, Harris had always found Newton good on paying him back, so he offered his pack to him.
“Light?” Newton pressed. Harris extended his lit cigarette to him.
“Thanks, Red.” Newton handed the pack back.
Harris had managed to go most of his Marine Corps career without a nickname. He was called “Hard Charger” by McGregor, and that had stuck for a while. But much of Second Section had died off since then. Hastings was the only one who called him Hard Charger these days. After playing baseball and having a barbecue during “Beach Day” at Camp Charles Foxtrot one afternoon, it was painfully obvious at the end of the day that Harris was badly sunburned. With red hair and red skin, from that day on he’d become known as “Red” Harris by the machine gunners.
“Dudes, listen.” Tanzer leaned in and lowered his voice. “I got word from Henschel minutes ago that the Pricks are on the move. Big offensive.”
“Come on, Tanzer! The war’s won. I read it myself on the Internet. The Pricks just want to drink tea and peacefully oppress their fellow man. You need to read the news more.” Hastings facetiously shook his head and inhaled on his cigarette.
The Marines fell into formation and were called to attention by the company gunny, who then turned them over to Captain Shelby, the commander of Charlie Company.
“At ease, Marines,” Shelby ordered. He was a tall and confident man, with a loud and commanding voice. “Last night the PLA launched a major offensive between Dongying and Jinan. As of now Zhang is claiming it’s led by a renegade general who has aligned himself with partisans. The official word is that we are to presume the peace talks are still a go. As you know, however, the peace talks have not been peaceful for over this last year. Until further notice we will be on fifty percent alert. There is never a time to be complacent in a war zone. We will not start now. Marines, this war is NOT over.”
“Sergeant Liu, you have done fine work. You have served the People well,” Lieutenant Xi Tian rui complimented his platoon sergeant.
“Yes, sir. I live to serve the People and to kill our enemies.” It was the proudest moment of Liu Zhiqiang’s life.
He had not known until this day what his work of the previous three months had been geared towards. When orders had come down to stop killing, Liu had felt heartbroken, almost betrayed. However, Zhiqiang had kept his faith in his government, kind of. He had managed to kill two people over the last three months. This he had done on his own and with great caution not to be caught. In fact, he’d felt the experience had made him a better soldier of the Gansiduì. Having to avoid his own authorities, as well as his enemies, had pushed him to a higher level of creativity and ingenuity that he thought would make him better in the field. Meanwhile he had focused the rest of his energy into recruiting partisans and transporting weapons into the villages and suburbs north of the Yellow River. He had been under the belief that his mission was of a defensive nature. Now that he knew that his platoon had been part of the crucial groundwork to prepare for an assault on two US Marine bases, with the objective of annihilating an entire battalion, he swelled with pride. This would be his greatest killing yet.
Harris hated going through the night without a cigarette. He always found it tempting to hunker down behind the sandbags and sneak in a quick smoke break. Under the circumstances he settled for a packet of instant coffee chased down by a swig of canteen water.
Scott was taking a turn at the thermal night scope, scanning for any signs of enemy activity, any signs of movement.
“Harris!” Scott’s voice was hushed, but his tone was urgent.
“Yeah?” Harris moved in behind the SAW, concentrating on the dark terrain in front of him for movement.
“Aw, fuck me! It’s just another rat.” Scott leaned back, stretched, and exhaled in relief.
“Be fucking positive before you go taking a nap, you slack bastard.” Part of Harris regretted sounding so harsh with Scott. The kid was running a fever and looked like hell, but hadn’t complained once pulling his duty. The other part of Harris knew the Pricks didn’t give you a pass because you weren’t feeling well. Everyone got sick. Everyone got tired. Everyone got hurt. Everyone had to suck it up in war, or get killed. Even if you did suck it up, you could still get killed.
“I’m sure.” Scott let his irritation be heard. He wasn’t a slack bastard and didn’t like being called one. He admired and respected Harris. He didn’t want to fight with him, but Scott wasn’t going to take a lot of crap from him either. “It’s been five days. You think the offensive really is contained in the east?”
“Who knows. Doubt it. What reason have we got to trust the Pricks?” Harris still had some attitude towards Scott.
“What’s your fucking deal? You pissed about something?” Scott demanded.
“Yeah. I’m pissed that Pricks attacked my country, killed my dad and my friends, and I’m pissed that we have to sit here and wait and see if they fucking attack us.” Harris realized he was just being an ass because he was on edge and stressed from the lack of sleep, and that was as close as he’d come to expressing that to Scott.
“Other than that, what’s your problem?” Scott tried to lighten the mood. Harris appreciated the attempt.
“This war’s my problem. The communists have a history of deceit and dishonor, but they’re clever motherfuckers. Maybe it’s contained in the east. Maybe they want us to think it’s contained in the east. I don’t know. Just be ready for anything.”
“What’s going on?” Edwards said quietly, but from enough distance so as not to startle them. He wasn’t looking to be a casualty of friendly fire if he could avoid it. “You ladies keeping watch or trying to build a rapport with each other?”
“Nothing but rats.” Harris’s mood was instantly improved by Edwards’s joke.
“Just wondering if the offensive is contained in the east.” Scott continued his question.
“For now, you just assume it ain’t. You got me?”
“Roger that, Corporal Edwards.” And with that Scott went back to the scope.
“Both y’all listen up. The president may have quit fighting this war, but we ain’
t. Not until we’re victorious or we’re dead.” Edwards attempted to inspire them.
“I’ll hold off on my two weeks’ notice, then,” Harris shot back. Edwards liked his humor and laughed a bit.
“Fuck that quitting shit,” Scott replied, feeling motivated by Edwards’s attitude.
“What makes you think President Harmon’s quit?” Harris caught that his question sounded more like an accusation. He’d not meant it that way, but he wanted to know Edwards’s thinking. The sentiment was similar to his own.
“Well, what are we doing to win it? Other than deliver food and medicine, we’ve just sat on our asses for over a year now. You know your history. That ain’t how wars are won, that’s how they’re lost.”
“You think we’re losing?” Scott sounded about as surprised as he did concerned.
“In war, if you ain’t winning, you’re losing.” Edwards grinned slightly. “But if you’re still alive, you ain’t lost yet. Never quit.”
Private Chen shivered in the cold. So much was at play: the weather, his nerves, his excitement as he lay in the wet grass, waiting for the order to advance. He was honored to be part of a generation that would fight one of China’s greatest battles in one of China’s greatest wars. He was thrilled to find out the work he had done as a Gansiduì, under Sergeant Liu, had been to make this historical moment possible. Private Chen Gang was from a farming village so small it was not on any map of China. No one in his family history had ever moved beyond the status of a poor farmer. But Chen Gang already had. He had become a member of an elite military unit of the People’s Liberation Army. He defended the People from the barbarian invaders and the traitors that conspired with them. Yet even that would pale in comparison with tonight. Tonight would be the start of one of the greatest moments in all of history, in all of China. The People’s Liberation Army would surround and destroy an entire battalion of United States Marines.
“Stay sharp, Devil Dogs. Take no chances on the new day.” With that Edwards walked off into the darkness to check on the other gun teams.
“I’ll take a turn,” Harris offered to give Scott a break.
“Thanks.” Scott backed off and took a drink of water. “You got any more of those coffee packs?”
“Yeah.” Harris scanned. Some heat signatures had caught his attention, but it was nothing distinguishable. “Over—”
The scream of rockets cut him off. His mind immediately registered several rockets. Yells went up throughout the camp, but to no avail. Within one second Camp Michael Foxtrot had erupted. Harris kept his face buried in the night sight, so he didn’t see the camp light up from the quick series of explosions, but he felt the earth shake. His ears rang. He could hear Scott’s voice; he’d survived the explosions. Harris looked for targets; he saw nothing. He stuffed his fear and prepared his mind for more incoming.
“Scott, you see anything?”
“No. I lost my night vision. My eyes are adjusting.”
Orders were shouted. Marines were manning their posts to prepare for the attack. Harris wondered if Reese and Sheridan were still alive to man their gun. Was Edwards still alive to give orders?
“Drones! Drones! Drones!” somebody called out. Shortly thereafter came more explosions. The center of the camp was getting pummeled hard. The Pricks seemed to have done their homework. They had their coordinates.
Edwards’s Third and Caldwell’s Fourth TOW squads were on the west side of the camp. Harris had liked that that side of the hill was somewhat steep, but the downside was that the bottom of the hill was thickly wooded and then descended farther west. This made it difficult to see much of anything between one to one and a half miles out. Anything about a half mile on the other side of the woods was a target. Harris strained now to see any kind of target between them, the woods, and beyond. Nothing. The incoming stopped.
“Come on, you Prick bastards! Get a move on it! We ain’t sleeping tonight anyway. Right, Scott?”
“I was going to video chat with my girlfriend later. I suppose I can reschedule,” Scott countered. Harris was glad to hear Scott’s humor.
“Hell, man, go ahead. I’ll hold the fort for you.” Both Marines laughed more from nerves than from their joke. Sporadic bursts of machine-gun fire ended the laughing. Both Marines looked downrange, but still could not see anything.
More explosions. The cries for “arty” rang out. Once again the camp turned into hell on earth. Harris wanted to tell Scott this was the most ordnance he had ever experienced in one spot in the four years he’d been in China, but there was too much noise.
On an impulse, Harris lifted himself up from behind the sandbags to look through the night sight again. This time he saw hundreds of Pricks leapfrogging their way up the hill. Harris grabbed Scott by the shoulder.
“Fucking Pricks,” he shouted and pointed straight ahead. Scott couldn’t really hear him, but he understood the message. Part of Harris liked the balls on them to advance on the hill while under artillery fire, but he still wanted to kill the bastards. Scott got behind the SAW and began firing five- to six-round bursts. The advancing Prick infantry was about eight hundred meters out. They had a high-explosive round loaded in the TOW’s snout. Harris saw no tanks or armored cars; he decided to fire into the tree line on the chance some kind of target was hidden in there.
The Marines of Charlie Company began to dish out their dose of hell to the advancing PLA. Fifty-caliber machine guns as well as forty-millimeter Mk 19 grenade launchers and mortars were fed into the advancing People’s Army.
Harris felt the warm buzz from his adrenaline as the firing progressed. He fired another missile, reloaded, and went to his rifle. He had four missiles left and wanted to have something to shoot if a bigger target showed up. The closest Pricks were still about six hundred meters out and just beyond his rifle’s range of point accuracy.
“Wounded?” Edwards, seemingly out of nowhere, shouted at him. Harris and Scott answered no. “Fire discipline. Let them get in range before you shoot. Keep an eye out for tanks, armored cars, or trucks beyond the tree line. If they’re coming at us with grunts, they may be trucking them up.” Edwards took a quick inventory of their ammo and was off again.
“I’ll be glad to hear a gunship any fucking time now,” Scott quipped.
“Won’t be too much longer. Our arty will start in on them,” Harris reassured him.
“Goddamn, it figures!” Lieutenant Colonel William “Bulldog” McGregor quietly cursed. He didn’t want to seem rattled in front of his command and cause panic. He had just gotten word that Camp Michael Foxtrot was being attacked and appeared to be surrounded. They were requesting air and artillery support. He was in the process of requesting the same for Camp Charlie Foxtrot. The intel he was getting from Regimental was all of First Marines was under attack, perhaps the whole First Division. Every camp between Zhengzhou to Luoyang, maybe even Xianyang, was under attack. Any air or artillery support was going to be far and few between at this point.
Camp Michael Foxtrot was about twelve miles northwest of Camp Charlie Foxtrot. Both camps were under assault from all directions, with who knew how many Pricks between them. He hated this.
“Captain Hudson, radio back to Captain Shelby that the entire battalion is under assault and may even be surrounded.” McGregor, having been in a similar situation years before as a young officer, hated to say what he was about to. “Do not expect help tonight. We will relieve as soon as possible, but for the time being Camp MF might as well be the Alamo.”
As the sun was coming up, the PLA had failed to take the hill. Some began to retreat to the woods for cover. Chen had felt the temptation, but had stayed. He felt pride for having done so, though it might cost him his life. Sergeant Liu wasn’t falling back. He was ordering his men to dig in. As some of the regulars ahead of them began to retreat, Sergeant Liu shot one in the face. When he ordered the others to dig in, they obeyed. Chen summoned the courage to look out of the foxhole; the American line was six hundred meters away. It
might as well have been on the moon. Sergeant Liu told them to hang in there, not to give up. Help was on its way. In fact, a 12.7 mm machine gun had been set up. He’d seen soldiers crawling up with shoulder-held air-defense missiles and 80 mm rocket launchers.
As the sun rose, his pride felt a bit diminished and the happiness was gone. Assaulting a Marine base was different than ambushing civilian traitors or killing an unsuspecting soldier. In the light of the new day, Chen wanted to be somewhere, anywhere, else. Sergeant Liu preached that he was the master of death and that he controlled life. If they ran, he’d kill them himself. If they stayed together, they would win. As individuals they would lose; as the People they would win. As several rounds from Marine grenade launchers exploded forty meters in front of him, Chen gritted his teeth and screamed. At that moment in his mind he gave himself to the People’s Republic of China. He was all in. He would not retreat. He would not quit. He would win with the People or die for the People.
“Remember the Alamo,” Captain Shelby stated out of the blue, and laughed at his own dark humor.
“Sir?” Gunnery Sergeant Fletcher asked, not in on Shelby’s private joke.
“Camp Michael Foxtrot just became the Alamo,” Captain Shelby said somewhat absentmindedly. His thought process was moving rapidly. “For the foreseeable future we’re cut off with no support.” The commander pointed at the perimeter of the model of Camp Michael Foxtrot in the company headquarters. “We want to establish secondary defenses for each part of the camp, here, here, here, and here. Ultimately, if we are not reinforced, anyone who’s alive falls back to here.” Shelby pointed at his command bunker. “When I call…” Shelby thought for a moment. “When I call ‘Alamo,’ call in arty and airstrikes on this goddamn hill. Damn well pray we got some kind of goddamn air support by then. You read me, Gunny?”
The Last Marine Page 25
