It is dark, the moon obscured by cloud. Night is the time for their attack. Although we have had no planes during the day, our Gunners have inflicted too much damage to permit them to press their advance. Released from concern about our troops, hitherto so closely engaged on the hills forward, the Gunners delivered concentration after concentration on the almost endless series of targets before them before the enemy called a halt and went to ground.
But now it is dark. Already their stealthy infantry will have left the little holes in which they have kept hidden from the sun and our observers.
We sit in a battle Command Post. Walters is there at his wireless: nearby sit Richard, Henry, and Guy. Frank is laying a line from the Mortar Troop Headquarters where Sergeant-Major Askew keeps his solitary vigil; somewhere about is Smythe, the Signal Sergeant; Lucas, the Operations Clerk, is making yet another cup of coffee; the Colonel is sitting with his head against the earthen wall, taking advantage of the quiet to doze. I sit by Walters and, in the glow of red light from the wireless, see that his eyelids are drooping, heavy with an unsatisfied need for sleep. My eyes are heavy, too. How marvellous, what luxury, to find oneself suddenly in a bed with nothing to wake up for until, say, breakfast on a silver tray, in thirty hours’ time. Well, why ask a bed? A blanket on that grass outside.…
Frank is talking to me, and I realize that I have been dropping off into a doze. It is better that I get up and walk about outside for a little. Richard follows me as Frank departs for his Headquarters, a hundred yards away. We hear the stream rushing over the little waterfall; the light wind cools our cheeks, hot from the close atmosphere of the dug-out. The radiance of the moon is widening in the sky above us. Beneath our feet, the old year’s grass rustles as we stroll up and down, talking.
Suddenly, Richard pauses in mid-sentence. We both look up, quickly, to the eastern end of C Company’s ridge. The battle has started.
In the Command Post dug-out, the telephone is ringing.
In the original Battalion defensive layout, Denis’s Company—B Company—were on the far right flank, holding the approaches to the great Kamak-San feature—itself too vast for us to hold—at the same time constituting the right rear base of the Battalion. Unlike C Company, they had never been absolutely in reserve, inasmuch as there had been nothing except the river between them and the enemy; although, of course, to their northwest, A and D Companies had been in closer proximity to an often evanescent foe. Now, with both A and D Companies withdrawn, their prospect of a major engagement became a certainty.
Whilst the battle had raged around Choksong village for the possession of A and D Companies’ hills, B Company had been little more than spectators. A few Chinese patrols had bumped them during the hours of darkness, but they had held their fire, except at one post where a complete patrol of fifteen men was destroyed by an LMG of Geoff’s platoon. Thus the Chinese did not know B Company’s positions on the morning of the 23rd; for all they knew, their contact on the previous night might well have been with one of our patrols, instead of with a position in our main defences. Thus, expecting to renew the attack that night, they had sent a further series of patrols forward towards B Company during the morning; and these patrols were all in strength, designed to produce, at all costs, reaction from us.
Denis was determined not to reveal his positions unless absolutely compelled to; but, faced with a number of strong armed parties along his front, he realized that, sooner or later he would be forced to engage them. In these circumstances, he made up his mind to do so by sortie, by which means the enemy could not be certain either of the main position or—equally important—the strength of the force from which they had sprung.
Sergeant Petherick took out a force in this connection, expecting to engage, at most, twenty men: he returned after meeting two hundred. Backwards and forwards, all among the battle knolls that lay below the peak of Kamak-San, engagements flared up and died, only to be renewed elsewhere.
The daylight waned, the evening shadows deepened, merged and grew into one, to form the darkness of another night.
Below great Kamak-San, Denis’s Company prepared themselves for what they knew the darkness would bring forth.
To the west, that night, the 1st ROK Division was to repulse, with great tenacity, a strong and vigorous attack by two divisions attempting to open up the road that ran from Munsan-Ni to Seoul—a part of the western highway that ran up from the south to the border on the Yalu River. Eastwards, the Fifth Fusiliers would fight desperately against attacks across the river in great strength; and beyond, the Belgians and the Rifles, Puerto Ricans, Turks, Americans would be engaged in increasing intensity.
Here, near Choksong, lay the centre of the attack upon the western sector; here ran the road which was, historically, the main route of invasion from the north.
Already one full day behind their time-plan for the advance, the Chinese now prepared to end the resistance once and for all, and surge along the road to Seoul through Uijong-bu, catching, perhaps, the whole left flank of the UN 3rd Division unawares.
Their problem now was, at what point should they attack? Last night’s experience made it plain that one vast, human wave would never serve to overwhelm the sturdy wall of the defence. Further, the British left flank, on Hill 235, would not be easy to attack. They could not know of Jumbo’s dangerous weakness on the ridge.
Then, too, attack upon the west might leave us time and opportunity to make a second withdrawal, on to Kamak-San, from which we should not easily be dislodged. The choice fell, therefore, upon the approaches to Kamak-San, and thus upon B Company and part of C, whose right flank lay across the western spur leading to the final, jagged crest.
I run into the dugout: Walters has answered the telephone, which he hands to me. Denis says:
“Well, we’ve started. They’re attacking Beverly’s platoon now—about a hundred and fifty, I should think.”
My torch is on the map; and I examine the exact location of the attack as the Colonel begins to talk to Denis. Nearby, I hear the heavier sound of shells exploding above the noisy small-arms fire and mortars. Recce is shooting along B Company’s front.
Paul is on the other telephone; his news from C Company is the same: parties of enemy attempting to infiltrate, while others assault our positions in great strength, trying again to engulf us. Jack’s platoon and David’s are engaged; Guido’s platoon is under machine-gun fire from D Company’s former position.
It is ten minutes to twelve: the battle is warming.
Here they come again: a screaming mob of cotton-suited soldiers, their yellow faces gleaming in the light of the trip flares they have sprung and the mortar flares drifting slowly down beneath their parachutes.
An hour after midnight, the whole of B and C Companies are engaged; the guns, the mortars, the machine-guns once again deliver their supporting fire with all their might.
In character, the battle much resembles that of the previous night: wave after wave of men armed with grenades and burp-guns storm the positions under cover of mortar and machine-gun fire, are halted, engaged in a short desperate struggle, and driven back. A lull follows. Both sides reorganize. The attack recommences. The character of the battle is the same, too, in that these ceaseless blows, delivered in such strength, inevitably reduce our numbers speedily. Their casualties are high—much higher than ours; but in this battle of attrition they can afford them; we cannot.
It is in the nature of the ground that the battle differs; and the Chinese have made the mistake of attacking obliquely across our front—perhaps because they did not really know where B Company lay. Thus for the first two hours, much of the weight of their attack was spent fruitlessly. Only after great loss have they redirected their line of assault. Old Kamak-San looks down upon a ring of intermittent flame across his northern base. Last night the flames were further off. Now they are nearer; growing nearer, hour by hour.
It is three o’clock. In the Command Post we are drinking coffee and talking. The te
lephone is quiet for the moment but the noise of the battle reaches us clearly. As I sit talking to Richard, I wonder if he realizes how gravely we are situated: a vast body of the enemy pushing south; our flanks open; the road cut behind us. It is a great comfort to reflect that, though they can take Kamak-San without firing a shot—they have only to travel round our unguarded flanks, after all—it will do them no good. We hold the road; and we shall continue to hold it.
The telephone is ringing again: Paul is speaking:
“I’m afraid they’ve overrun my top position,” he says, “and they’re reinforcing hard. They’re simply pouring chaps in up above us. Let me know what the Colonel wants me to do, will you?”
This is, immediately, disaster. The enemy has forced his way up on to Paul’s highest defensive post by overwhelming his men with their numbers. The result of this is that the Chinese now command most of C Company’s ground, have forced a wedge between C and B Company, and dominate the valley in which the mortars lie—heavy and medium—and the entire Headquarters. If we are not quick, we may be caught by the enemy who has only to fire over open sights straight down into us.
Already, however, the Colonel, who is listening, has made up his mind.
“Pack the Headquarters up,” he says, “and get every one out of the valley up between D Company and the Anti-Tank Platoon position. I’m going to withdraw C Company in ten minutes; and I shall move B over to join us after first light.”
He picks up the telephone and starts to speak to Paul as I give Richard and Henry their instructions. They need but a few words: speed is the requirement here. Foolishly, I forget Frank has laid a line to the Command Post, and waste precious time going to his Headquarters. He is not there. I give a message to Sergeant-Major Askew and go on: Graham’s mortars are warned—Sam’s Headquarters—the Regimental Aid Post—the Regimental Sergeant-Major. Before I return to the Command Post, the first party of signallers is moving up the gorge towards D Company’s hill.
Back at the Command Post I burn those papers that must not be taken. Lucas and I pick up Jennings, the Rear Link Wireless commander: together we smash the fixed radio-equipment. Again, I go around the area. Overhead, along the ridge C Company is holding, there is a sudden ominous quiet. I wonder if they are already mounting a machine-gun at the head of the valley; if they are already descending to the stream, crossing by the mortar pits which I am now approaching. It is no good wondering: I shall know soon enough what they are doing. The mortar pits stand silent, strangely deserted after the bustle of the earlier part of the night. Turning back along the road, I see a mug of steaming tea standing on a box at the entrance to Sam’s HQ. The RAP has gone, too; Bob’s jeep is in wild disorder; packages, web equipment, an old coffee tin are scattered across the seats, flung there in haste after he had removed the other contents. Everyone has gone.
Not quite everyone. There is a murmur of voices from the signals office; a metallic rasping catches my ear. As I step down from the bank on the edge of the road, two signallers appear. They have come back for spare batteries, quite unaware that the sands in the hour-glass are fast running out. Indeed, I cannot be sure if there is even one grain left to fall: the Chinese have held the head of the valley for nearly forty minutes.
Together, we cross the road, traverse the low, flat ground, and enter the gorge.
CHAPTER THREE
24th April, 1951
IT seemed a long morning: there were many incidents.
The dry stream bed which ran down the hillside and through the gorge divided half way from the top. We had taken the left fork as we ascended.
The steep, rough, trackless hillside was crowded with men: weary, breathless men who laboured upwards carrying weapons, wireless sets, ammunition—a few water cans—on backs and shoulders; other men whose muscles cracked with the weight of the stretchers they carried; men who lay, white-faced, pain-racked upon the stretchers; more wounded men, walking with difficulty, aided by comrades up the difficult ascent. A long sweating snake of soldiers moving up into the darkness.
At the top was a saddle, connecting a knoll with D Company’s new position. Beyond the knoll, a ridge ran towards Kamak-San, parallel to the road on which the Main Headquarters had been established. The occupation of this area began.
On the northern slope of the saddle, just below the crest, we set up Battalion Headquarters; Bob and his medical staff, with all the wounded, were disposed in a small re-entrant where the saddle joined D Company’s hill. A section of machine-guns took on the defence of the high point of the knoll: to their right, a composite body of signallers, drivers, and police, guarded the slopes leading up from Solma-Ri to the south; and at the other end of the saddle, thickening up the defences behind D Company, Frank and his Mortar-Gunners took on an infantry role just above the Drums. When Guido arrived with the remnant of C Company, they settled into the last gap in the defences on the northem slope of the knoll.
A grey, overcast dawn broke. We were all very dirty from our scramble up the hillside, all unshaven, all tired. Our hunger merely brought into the forefront of our minds the recollection that there was, literally, no food, except a little for the wounded. Weapons, ammunition, dressings, water, wireless sets and batteries had been carried up in obvious preference to rations; of these essentials, there were not enough for a sustained engagement.
A little after seven o’clock, the sun broke through the overcast. The grey clouds thinned and, by eight, a pleasant warmth began to pervade our cold, tired limbs.
I lay by the Rear Link wireless set and dozed with the crackle of voices in my ears, undisturbed by them. Jennings and Miles, on duty by the set, were talking nearby, taking alternative pulls at acigarette: some question of the advantage of British Compo Rations over the American C6 seemed to be involved. From somewhere above me came the sound of several grenade explosions. I forced myself to wake up, rise, and investigate.
Above me stood agroup of machine-gunners and mortar-men; near by two signallers. They were all watching the Colonel. Armed with rifle and grenades he was completing the rout of agroup of Chinese who had crept forward along the ridge—somehow unnoticed—in order to secure the knoll. Supporting him were two of the police and a driver.
It was already over. Two Chinese soldiers lay dead about forty yards away and, a minute or so later, the Colonel was walking back, slinging the rifle over his shoulder as he came along towards me, filling his pipe.
“What was all that about, sir?” I asked.
He looked at me for a moment over the match that lit the pipe.
“Oh, just shooing away some Chinese,” he said.
For the remainder of the morning we were left in comparative peace. The whole weight of their effort was now directed upon B Company, who throughout the night had fought off a series of attacks and held their ground. Now, with the dawn, weakened by their many casualties, their ammunition running low and isolated from the remainder of the Battalion, they faced a further onslaught. As with A and D Companies on the previous morning, the enemy was determined to end resistance in that area as soon after first light as possible. Reinforced with men who had crossed the river throughout the night, they flung themselves upon B Company and began their destruction, piecemeal. For this was the only means by which B Company could be overcome.
We read so often in histories, sometimes in news reports, that one or another company of such-and-such a Battalion was “cut up”, “cut to pieces”, “destroyed”. What does this mean exactly? How is this done to a hundred odd men, organized and armed to fight asemi-independent battle, with all the means to hand of calling down artillery fire to support them?
In Korea, in the battle of The Imjin River, it was done like this.
The whole Company front is engaged by fire—fire from heavy machine-guns from ranges in excess of two thousand yards, machine-guns well-concealed in hollows or behind crests which take our artillery from other, more vital tasks if they are to be engaged. There is fire from mortars and from light machine-gu
ns at a closer range. Meanwhile, the enemy assault groups feel their way forward to the very edge of our defences; and, finding the line of our resistance, creep round our flanks to meet each other in the rear. To the defenders, these circumstances do not constitute disaster. Holding their fire for sure targets; exploiting their advantage of positions carefully sited for just such attacks as these, they are undaunted. Again and again, they see the shells from their artillery burst amongst the crowded ranks of the enemy. Their own small arms pile up another dreadful score of casualties. Each enemy assault is beaten off without great difficulty. For hours, this repetition of attack and repulse continues, the night wanes, the dawn begins to break. Little by little, a terrible fact becomes apparent to the men of the defence. This is not a battle in which courage, tactical, and technical superiority will be the means to victory: it is a battle of attrition. Irrespective of the number of casualties they inflict, there is an unending flow of replacements for each man. Moreover, in spite of their tremendous losses, the numerical strength of the enemy is not merely constant but increasing.
Now the courage they have shown throughout the long hours of the battle during the night is surely surpassed. It is no longer a question of personal bravery in the heat of the battle. This courage is now the force which makes them determined to continue an action which, for them, is almost certainly hopelessly lost. What else should they do? Why, they might run away—a number might well escape in the confusion that abounds upon a battle-field like this. They could surrender, throw their arms down, call for quarter. Surely, they might say, we have fought well; the end is the same, at all events; for us the battle is over.
The Edge of the Sword Page 4
