But these triumphant skirmishes did nothing to stem the sheer panic of so much of the Allied withdrawal. So chaotic had most of the remainder of the withdrawal become that we imagined the Chinese must be laughing at the forces ranged against them.
The Commonwealth Brigade continued to withdraw in an orderly fashion, pulling back through the South Korean capital, Seoul, then another hundred miles to a defensive line simply referred to as Line D where we waited for the Chinese. Some of the American units arrived in reasonable order and others were a complete shambles, with a great many vehicles and much ordnance missing.
We braced ourselves for another Chinese attack, but several weeks of patrolling found no sign of them. The skipper told us air reconnaissance hadn’t detected any sign of a build-up, either. It seemed as though they might finally have outrun their capacity to get supplied. If ever there was an army that could exist off the land it was this one, and I have no doubt had it not been winter they would have kept coming at us. Put into their shoes, I know we’d have run out of supplies months ago. They seemed to be able to exist on the smell of an oily rag.
With the Chinese temporarily out of action the 8th Army started to advance again, but without the gung-ho previously shown by the American commanders. The long, fast and utterly humiliating retreat seemed to have shocked some sense into them, into all of us. The Chinese had taught us a little respect and the previously arrogant top brass had begun to realise that technical superiority and unlimited ordnance weren’t a guarantee of victory. That warfare was still the business of men with rifles sitting in foxholes with commanders like Charlie Green who were prepared to think outside the square.
Over the next few months we advanced very slowly. This time we included our previous nemesis, the central mountain range. It meant getting back to basics, leaving the trucks behind and heading off into the high country with scores of Korean porters bringing up the supplies and taking out the wounded. We were beginning to fight the Chinese their way, moving along ill-defined goat tracks and fighting along ridge lines and up steep, narrow spur lines. February turned into March and winter gave way to the spring rains, torrential downpours that turned the steep slopes and goat tracks into quagmire. It was familiar territory for those of us who had been to New Guinea, but that didn’t make it any easier.
By mid-April we’d advanced about sixty miles, pushing the Chinese back in pretty much continuous fighting. They were retreating the way we ought to have done, making us pay for every mile gained. I reckon we’d earned a bit of respect from them the hard way by winning against a skilled and determined enemy and taking a fair deal of punishment in the process. We’d learned that these Chinese gave as good as they got and we’d lost a number of mates killed or wounded. I’m sure, like me, most of the blokes wondered when the bullet would arrive with their name on it.
CHAPTER SIX
Hill 504
We’d largely lost our enthusiasm for a big showdown with the Chinese. We’d fought them often enough and long enough and we all felt it was about time we went home. Besides, moving forward, even without fighting, was bloody hard work. Putting it mildly, we were near exhausted when the word came through that we were to move back into Corps reserve. This meant we would be able to relax, forget for a while about mud, slush, slipping, slopes, spur lines, shrapnel and that bullet with your name inscribed on it. We’d be on easy street for a couple of weeks of good food and glorious rest. Anzac Day was coming up and we were all happy that we’d be out of action and into the grog ration when it came along. I don’t know, somehow dying on Anzac Day seemed a bit show-off, almost un-Australian, if you know what I mean.
The rain stopped for a few days as we retired to the rear and made our camp in a lovely wooded area. The trees, bright with new leaf, made the whole world seem young again. The camp was near the town of Kapyong, situated in the Kapyong Valley. Twenty-five miles up the valley to the north was the front-line. Not that we cared – we were well away from the business end of the war with no patrols or calls to stand-to, fresh food cooked for us, the ultimate luxury of a shower, clean clothes and, best of all, Anzac Day on the horizon. As luck would have it the Turkish Brigade was camped not that far from us and our commanding officer sent a delegation inviting them to celebrate the big day with us. Imagine celebrating Gallipoli with the enemy – I reckoned it couldn’t get much better than that.
We had an American with us as our artillery forward observer, a nice bloke. One evening after dinner he asked me, ‘Anzac? What’s that stand for, Jacko?’
‘Australian and New Zealand Army Corps,’ I explained. He seemed none the wiser, so I continued, ‘Along with the New Zealanders we stormed the beach at Gallipoli in 1915.’
‘So, is that your . . .’ he paused to think, ‘Battle of Iwo Jima?’
‘Well, I suppose. It was the first time that Australia and New Zealand fought as independent nations – were like, you know, blooded.’
‘Oh, I see – first time out and a big victory.’
‘Well no, we endured eight months of fierce fighting against the Turks and lost 11 000 men between us.’
‘But in the end a great victory?’ he repeated.
I laughed and shook my head. ‘Nah, we lost.’
‘Lost!’ The American looked decidedly puzzled. ‘You celebrate the defeat?’
‘No, the blooding. We reckoned it was a draw. It was the first time we fought under our own flag and we did okay. The Turks lost 65 000 men at Gallipoli, though, of course, not all of them to us. We celebrate the spirit. The spirit of Anzac.’
‘Hmm . . .’ He thought for a moment, then said, ‘Okay, I can pay that.’ Then he asked, ‘If the New Zealanders are your buddies, you know, your brothers in arms, how come when we passed through the gun position of the New Zealand 16th Field Artillery they shouted abuse at you? Calling you a bunch of convicts and you yelling back with a rude reference to their sexual activity with sheep?’
‘Yeah, well, that’s what brothers do, isn’t it?’
‘And you’ve invited the Turks, your enemy, to celebrate your Anzac Day?’
‘We honour them as great warriors,’ I replied, but I could see he didn’t understand. ‘It’s the spirit of Anzac,’ I said, trying once more to explain. ‘Respect for your enemy. Know what I mean?’ But I don’t think he did, nor for that matter, could he imagine the prospect of inviting a bunch of Chinese communists to commemorate the Korean War after this particular stoush was over.
However, the spirit of Anzac was about to be terminated and we never did get a chance to share a beer with the Turks. The Chinese mounted a massive attack on the front-line and that was the end of the holiday – the Commonwealth Brigade was called in to occupy a blocking position astride the valley in case of a Chinese breakthrough at the front.
At first we hadn’t taken it too seriously – it seemed to be pretty much routine procedure. Anyway, recently the whole front seemed to have been pretty well holding up. We reckoned we’d soon be back in our holiday camp munching goodies with an extra beer ration for Anzac Day. We were positioned on Hill 504, where I’d been separated from my platoon and relegated to company headquarters to be a runner. Somewhat reluctantly I dug a weapon pit in the still half-frozen ground. The front was miles away and I reckoned any breakthrough would be stopped long before it reached us. From my weapon pit the view was magnificent. I looked out across paddy fields and in the distance I could see a road snaking its way through the Kapyong Valley towards us. It cut right through the battalion position a good distance below. As usual, it was packed with refugees.
I recall looking down at 12 Platoon, who were digging in a couple of hundred yards further down the hill at the forward edge of the company position. I must admit I would have preferred to be with my mates, but Ivan the Terrible had told me to get my arse into gear and report to company headquarters for runner duty. Communications in the mountains can get a bit dicey at times and breakdowns were not uncommon, so a company runner was pretty normal. Neverthele
ss, a soldier is never happy to be away from his platoon, from his mates. I’d consoled myself with the thought that things could be worse – I’d be with my old mate from New Guinea, Ian Ferrier. Being habitually curious, in the unlikely event of a battle, at least I’d have some idea of what was happening up front.
‘Welcome aboard, Jacko. How’d you cop the runner’s job?’ Ian asked.
‘Ivan,’ I replied, as if this explained everything. ‘“Give you a chance to be the little general,” he said. Sarcastic bastard! He knows nothing will happen and I’ll get bugger-all sleep.’
‘Never know your luck,’ Ian replied.
‘Nah, it’s a good twenty miles to the front. We’ll be sitting here like a shag on a rock.’
‘Oh yeah?’ he handed me his binoculars. ‘Take a dekko.’
I focused on the road below. It was filled with the usual refugees going south. ‘Refugees, so what’s new?’
‘Take a closer look, mate.’
‘Jesus! Not again!’ I now made out the fleeing South Korean soldiers among the refugees. ‘What outfit?’
He’d stopped rolling a cigarette, ‘6th ROK Division.’
‘Why don’t we just tell them to pack up and go home? They’re bloody useless, anyway.’
Ian grinned. ‘I’d dig that weapon pit a bit deeper if I was you, mate.’
At dusk, with the light failing and having dug my weapon pit, I took a last look at the road. ‘The road’s full of the bastards!’ Below me the South Koreans were thick as flies, some in the back of trucks although most on foot, running for their lives. Circumstances had definitely changed and we may just have been in for a long and uncomfortable night.
Describing the positions of the various units in battle can be difficult – you have to get a picture in your mind. But here goes. Imagine Hill 504 rising 1300 feet out of the valley below. It was a big feature and completely dominated the area surrounding it. From it, a spur line ran for a mile or so down to the road that snaked through the valley. By the way, a spur line is a narrow ridge projecting from a mountain, a bit like an aboveground root extending from a large Moreton Bay fig tree. D Company was positioned on Hill 504. We were on the right flank. A Company occupied the spur line and was at the centre. Across the road on our left flank was B Company, situated on a much smaller hill rising no more than 300 feet up from the valley. These three companies, each of about a hundred men, were stretched across the main route down the Kapyong Valley. Not far behind this forward line was C Company, held in reserve. If the proverbial hit the fan and any of the companies were overrun it was their job to come to the rescue. Finally, a little over a mile further back was battalion headquarters with our mortars and support personnel. That’s the best ‘the little general’ can do; hopefully you get the idea.
It may have been early spring but it was still bloody cold. Ian was busy on the radio and I was feeling lonely away from my platoon, sitting on my arse in my weapon pit with bugger-all to do. Night fell not long before nine p.m. and soon after a pale, near-full moon rose over the valley. It was an ideal night for an attack and, of course, the Chinese were aware of this. Half an hour later the first shots rang out.
‘There ya go, mate, the chinks are coming,’ Ian shouted from the radio pit. ‘Keep your head down, Jacko!’
You always hear the echo of the first shots, but after that your ears tune to the trajectory of an incoming shell or the direction from which the small-arms fire is coming. I could hear these first shots being directed at some tanks to the front of B Company because, in reply to the fast rrr-rrrt of the Chinese burp guns there followed the pedantic, heavier sound of the thirty and fifty calibre machine guns fired from the tanks. Shots rang out to our rear, in the direction of battalion headquarters. They appeared intermittent and didn’t sound too determined. What was getting really hairy was less than half a mile down the spur line towards the road, where the Chinese were beginning to mount an attack against A Company.
I don’t know why, but the Chinese preparation for battle is somehow different to any other enemy’s. On the one hand the sound of their bugles is like something out of Boys’ Own Annual, but on the other, it’s scary as shit when it’s combined with their various whistles signalling the start of an assault. First the bugles then the whistles, followed by silence. We knew what that meant – they were moving forward up the steep slope in the dark, heading for the A Company blokes on the spur line below us.
I could hear my heart pumping as I waited for the next set of bugle calls. They sounded suddenly, indicating the enemy had reached the correct distance from our defences to hurl their stick grenades. These now showed out of the semi-darkness as a sudden burst of fireworks, and then the screaming began. Their sound when they attack, I guess, is the equivalent of the yelling we do when we mount a bayonet charge. But, of course, when this occurs you only hear your own voice belting out the courage to rush into the jaws of possible death. It’s quite a different sound when you’re on the receiving end. It’s frightening, yet you can sense the fear of the attackers, their muscles pumped with adrenaline, their voices attempting to silence their fiercely beating hearts.
The Chinese infantry were coming in to kill or to be killed. The vociferant charge was immediately mixed with the brash, clattering sound of our machine guns attempting to halt them in their tracks. Barrels that would soon be too hot to touch were spitting bullets determined to mow them down, to obliterate the advancing human horde, to silence it forever. The last thing they would see would be a flash of malice from the barrel of a machine gun, the last thing they would smell would be the acrid stench of cordite. Looking down I could see the red-and-yellow bursts of light as the grenades exploded and the lines of red tracers from our machine guns criss-crossing the battlefield as the killing commenced.
This was fighting at the closest possible quarters, the Chinese bursting out of the darkness only five or six yards in front of 1 Platoon, who took the brunt of the charge. Our blokes were holding their nerve, careful not to fire into the darkness, waiting until they could squeeze off a killing shot. A careless shot that missed could cost you your life. The Chinese would be dropping like flies but some would be getting through, their burp guns ablaze, and they’d have to be dealt with by bullet or bayonet from the next line of defence. The pressure was relentless – as the first wave was cut down the second appeared screaming out of the darkness, jumping over their dead and wounded comrades. By the time the third wave came at us it would be a flurry of recharging magazines and, God forbid, dealing with weapon stoppages. Regardless of loss of life the Chinese would keep coming, until you believed they couldn’t be beaten. With all this going on we knew enough about the enemy to know that, in addition, their patrols would be probing to see what troops were defending Hill 504. We were going to be the next to die, nothing was more certain.
Our company commander motioned over to Ian to call battalion headquarters. ‘Comms ain’t good, boss,’ Ian said, then repeated his call sign, twiddling knobs and yelling into the handset. Finally, he passed it to the boss.
‘Where the hell is the artillery?’ The company commander shouted, without first introducing himself. It was then that I realised I hadn’t heard the familiar crump, crump, crump of artillery shell and mortar bombs. It is a sound that always brings hope to the soldier in his weapon pit and now it was missing. Below me the boys in A Company were fighting the chinks without artillery support. In military terms this is a bit like fighting with one hand tied behind your back. The company commander appeared to be listening for a few moments then, shaking his head in disbelief, he handed the set back to Ian in disgust. ‘Get through to A Company and bring me up to date,’ he snapped, not explaining the absence of artillery.
The firing from A Company seemed to have diminished somewhat, but we didn’t know if they’d been overrun and the Chinese were heading our way or they’d seen the enemy off. After some time Ian looked up from the handset. ‘They’ve sent ’em packing, boss, but they’re sure they’ll be
back. They report the Chinese are in big numbers and appear even more fired up than usual.’
‘That’s understandable,’ the boss, still annoyed, replied. ‘We are the only thing stopping the bloody Chinese from a headlong rush to Seoul.’
So much for being a back-up battalion: the bastards had turned us into the front-line. Down below us A Company would be attending to their dead and wounded, carrying them to a position in the rear while some of the blokes in the second line of weapon pits would be filling the vacancies in the front stalls.
The boss departed and Ian got off the radio to take a break, getting out the makings to roll a smoke. ‘Here, mate.’ I struck a match, shielding its light in my pile cap, lit a fag I’d previously rolled and offered it to him. ‘Where the bloody hell’s our fire support?’ I asked, not really expecting him to know.
He took a slow drag, careful to shield the glow, then exhaled. ‘Just about to tell you. The New Zealanders, with the Middlesex Battalion alongside them, were way up the valley supporting the no-hopers in the South Korean division. Now they’ve come back, retreating among the rabble clogging the roads. The Poms are supposed to occupy a position on our left flank but they’re somewhere way to our rear now.’ He paused and took another drag of his fag. ‘Christ knows where the guns are. If you ask me, it’s an unholy fuck-up – a wide-open left flank and bugger-all artillery support.’ Forgetting himself he waved his fag in the air. ‘Christ help us if the chinks come at us now.’
What he was saying was that there were less than 400 of us blocking the enemy’s way to Seoul and the Chinese intended to go through us like a dose of salts and get to the capital pronto. With no artillery support and an unprotected left flank we’d have Buckley’s – or as Ian put it in his colourful way, ‘We’re going to hell in a hand basket!’ He went back to the radio, twiddled a few knobs then listened, and moments later looked up. ‘Fuck me dead! The cunning bastards!’
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