“If you think they’re C-119 Flying Boxcars, you’d be right, Sergeant. I didn’t think the Air Force had any of them over here yet. One of those babies can haul something like eight times what a Gooney Bird can…almost fifty thousand pounds.”
Sean replied. “Swell. Let’s hope we actually get some of it.”
Jock watched uneasily as the first chutes blossomed from the C-47s. “I wish they were a little lower. Maybe they’re skittish since we don’t know much about the KPA’s anti-aircraft capabilities.”
“Good thing the gooks don’t have much of an air force,” Sean added. “Those crates they fly—that’s the same old Russian crap we saw all over eastern Europe. My brother worked with the Reds a little, too. Even flew one of them planes of theirs.”
“What’d he think of the Russians?”
“He hated their fucking guts, just like me.”
Jock was right: the drop would’ve been much better if the C-47s had been lower. The south wind was pushing many of the chutes beyond the hills, into the rice paddies where Sean had battled the T-34s the night before.
“Ah, shit,” Sean said. “Picking that stuff up looks like a great way to get your ass killed. There’s gotta be gooks lying low out there. You want to use suppressive fire around the paddies, sir?”
“Yeah,” Jock replied, “just as soon as all these airplanes are clear of the area. Tell the artillery to prep for high-angle fire on a rough azimuth of north-northwest.”
The C-47s were done, their load distributed over several thousand square yards from the peaks of Hills 142 and 127, down their north slopes, and across the rice paddies. GIs were already collecting the bounty on the hills; the items dropped into the paddies were too far and too scattered to be collected on foot. They’d need trucks for that job.
As their mighty drones filled the air, the four C-119s lined up for their drop. Higher still than the C-47s had been, the Boxcars’ loads toppled from their open rear fuselages as a series of net-covered pallets, each freefalling for just a moment until multiple parachutes blossomed to slow its descent. Even with the braking of the chutes, the pallets were on the ground within seconds, their weight obvious as the sparse scrub trees on the hills shattered beneath the impacts. Those landing on the steeper slopes began to tumble downhill; their retaining nets broke apart as they went end-over-end, littering the hillside with crates of ammunition and rations. The dozen or so pallets that landed in the rice paddies sent up geysers of mud as they touched down.
It could’ve been worse. Jock’s assessment: “At least we can see all of it.”
*****
Patchett led the detail to collect the supplies from the paddies: four deuces and twenty GIs. “Don’t pay no mind to them artillery rounds,” he briefed the detail. “That’s suppressive fire—friendly suppressive fire—to keep the gooks off our asses while we scoop this stuff up.”
“But Sarge,” a nervous deuce driver said, “How are we going to know friendly from unfriendly fire out there? It all looks the same to me.”
“It works like this, son,” Patchett replied. “If it ain’t landing close enough to hurt you, it’s friendly. Don’t matter none who shot it.”
Nerve-racking though the close-in suppressive fire might have been to the men of Patchett’s detail, it seemed to be doing the job. Unmolested by the KPA, they’d picked up just over a thousand crates of ammo, rations, and various other items, enough to fill the trucks three times so far. But there was still one truckload to be collected: a pallet and several small canisters that had landed the farthest from the drop zone, nearly a thousand yards from the base of Hill 142.
The suppressive fire had stopped. The sudden silence was as unsettling as the fire itself had been.
“The artillery’s at bingo rounds,” Jock advised over the radio.
Patchett knew that meant one of two things:
They gotta hold on to some rounds for an emergency…
Or they’re just flat out of rounds. Either way, I ain’t getting no more help from the cannon cockers until they get their share of what came in this drop.
He weighed his options: Nothing’s gonna do the job like them artillery airbursts. It’s like a barbed wire fence all around those paddies the gooks can’t cut through. The mortars are down to just about nothing, too.
All we got handy is them quad fifties up on them hills. And they still got enough rounds left.
He glanced into the distance at that last pallet.
From what I can see, there’s nothing but long white boxes on that pallet. Gotta be ammo. Maybe more of them three point five rockets Moon’s been begging for. Or maybe more one-oh-five rounds.
He was ready to drive out there one last time.
“Ah, come on, Sarge,” a deuce driver complained. “We don’t want to go out that far. Let’s forget it…it’s just some more ammo, probably. We picked up plenty already.”
Patchett gave him a look that would freeze gasoline. Then he said, “Son, let me tell you something. You can never—and I mean fucking never—have too much ammo.”
They only needed one truck for this last run. As the GIs reluctantly climbed back on board, the walkie-talkie squawked.
The artillery FO atop Hill 142 was on the air, calling Patchett. “Relay from Montana Six…abort. Repeat, abort. We’ve got gooks in the open out there.”
Montana Six: Colonel Miles.
Grabbing his binoculars, Patchett could see what the FO described: a group of men—maybe a dozen or more—were climbing onto the pallet, cutting free the netting. Then they started throwing crates off the stack to their comrades on the ground.
“Shit,” he mumbled, “those little gook bastards are coming out of the woodwork to steal our stuff.”
Then the quad .50s opened up, shooting at the pallet itself.
On the third burst, there was a bright flash that quickly turned to steady flame.
Within seconds, it looked like every wooden box on that pallet was ablaze, as if someone had started a trash fire at the far end of the paddy.
Casually, Patchett asked, “Any of you men ever seen an ammo dump blow up?”
When the GIs all shook their heads, he said, “You’re fixing to.”
The first explosion blew so strongly that its rapidly expanding shock wave could be clearly seen rippling across the paddy, launching the KPA soldiers in its path as if shot from cannons.
Patchett’s deadpan observation: “Kinda tossing them around like rag dolls, ain’t it?”
The explosions continued as the hundreds of large-caliber rounds on the pallet cooked off in rapid sequence, each blast a brilliant orange orb more spectacular than the one before but lasting just an instant. The boom of each explosion arrived at the GIs’ ears seconds later, a time-delayed soundtrack well out of sync with the visual fireworks.
It lasted a solid minute. It took a few minutes more for all the dust and debris to settle. When it finally did, there was nothing left of the pallet or the KPA soldiers who’d tried to claim it.
“At least we didn’t give it away,” Patchett told his men. “C’mon, stop gawking. We got plenty more work to do.”
Chapter Nine
By 1200 hours, the supplies and ammunition from the airdrop had been distributed to the regiment’s three battalions. Lieutenant Colonel Eliason, the relieved commander Jock had put in charge of the process, summarized the results to the assembled commanders and regimental staff:
“We’re in good shape now with small arms ammunition, rations, and medical supplies. Still very short on artillery rounds, though…we received only ninety-six HE rounds and twelve WP.”
Jock asked, “How are we stocked for fuzes for the HE, Colonel?”
“Seventy-two fuze quick, thirty-six fuze time, sir.”
“No VT?”
“Negative, sir.”
“Shit,” Jock said. “All right, let’s hear the rest of it. What about the tanks?”
“We received no rounds for the Chaffees’ main guns, sir.”
Jock turned to Sean and asked, “How many rounds do the tanks have left, Sergeant?”
“Eight per vehicle, sir.”
“How much sustained fire does that give them?”
“About a minute and a half, give or take a couple of seconds.”
“Let’s make sure we don’t waste it, Sergeant,” Jock said. “While we’re talking armor, how are we fixed for anti-tank weapons?”
“We picked up twenty-four of the three point five-inch rockets in the drop, sir,” Sean replied. “Plus, they were nice enough to send forty bazooka rounds, for whatever good they’ll do.”
“Wait a minute,” Jock said. “Didn’t you say we killed a couple of T-34s with bazookas last night?”
“Yeah, we did, sir…but only because it was dark and we could sneak up right next to them. We won’t be lucky enough to get away with that in daylight.”
Lieutenant Colonel Lewis, the regimental XO, presented the operations order for the movement to Taejon. He’d only gotten a few sentences into it when Jock stopped him. “That’s not what I wanted, Colonel. The infantry will not—repeat, will not—be riding on the road in vehicles or on top of the tanks.”
Lewis said, “But sir, that’s SOP for tactical motor marches.”
“We’re ripping that one up right now, gentlemen, because the KPA knows that’s the US Army’s SOP. They’d like nothing better than to ambush some more trucks overcrowded with GIs. And I’m sure Sergeant Moon would be glad to fill us in on why it’s a bad idea to be riding on the tanks.”
“Sure thing, sir,” Sean replied. “First off, guys riding on top of the tanks are sitting ducks. If they’re all you got for a short trip or hauling out wounded, go ahead and do it. But they ain’t buses. For a long road march, forget it. Second, they fuck up the tank’s ability to fight. Traverse the turret and you start knocking guys off the deck left and right. If they’re lucky, they won’t get run over. Last but not least, guys sitting on the aft deck block the cooling airflow to the engine…and all that heat just might set your trousers on fire, too.”
An aged and portly lieutenant colonel named Bryant, the C.O. of 1st Battalion, rose to speak. “If I may, sir?” he asked Jock.
“The floor is yours, Colonel. What’s on your mind?”
“Well, sir,” Bryant began, “I’ve been in this man’s army a long, long time and—”
Jock interrupted him. “Colonel, get to the point…or sit down.”
“It’s just that a foot march could take hours, sir, and—”
“Four and a half hours going cross-country, by my estimate,” Jock said.
“Are you sure of those times, sir?” Bryant asked. “That seems a little fast to be—”
“Colonel Bryant, I’ve moved battalions that distance through thick jungle, so I’ve got a pretty fair idea how fast men can cross difficult terrain. Aside from some mild hill climbing, the terrain we’re facing today isn’t all that difficult.”
“It’s just not fair to my men,” Bryant continued. “They’ve just been through a very tough night. They’re dog-tired and a cross-country march would be—”
“All right, that’s enough,” Jock said. “Now listen up, all of you. First off, we’re all dog-tired, Colonel, but that doesn’t mean the KPA is going to cut us any slack. Second, this regiment repulsed a major attack last night because, for once, it didn’t make the mistake of sticking to an SOP that was already a proven disaster. And we’re not going to start making mistakes like that now.”
He moved to the map, which covered the area between their current position and Taejon, ten miles to the south. “Our infantry will move to Taejon not on the highway but along this ridgeline, which runs almost two miles east of the highway. The KPA will most likely be strongest along the west side of the highway, where the high ground is only a few hundred yards distant. If we’re forced to engage, and I expect we will be, we’ve been promised air support. We’ll need it. Any questions so far?”
No hands went up.
“Outstanding. Now let’s discuss our order of march. Colonel Brand’s Third Battalion will lead the foot march.” Nodding to Brand, Jock continued, “That puts you, Colonel, in command of the infantry element. Major Harper, your Second Battalion will be next in the line of march. Colonel Bryant, your First Battalion will be last but not least. You’ll carry your light mortars and anti-tank teams with you. Your heavy mortar sections will ride in the truck convoy. Master Sergeant Patchett will be my liaison with the infantry element.”
Colonel Brand asked, “Where does that put you, sir?”
“Overhead, Colonel,” Jock replied. “I’ll be keeping one of the spotter planes after it’s done flying out our most seriously wounded men. A regiment’s supposed to own a few aircraft anyway, so it only seems right. Once airborne, I’ll be able to keep tabs on both the infantry going cross-country and motorized columns on the highway while performing scouting duties for both.”
Turning to Sean, Jock asked, “I’d like your advice on this, Sergeant Moon. Since we’ve only got two tanks left, where should they go in the convoy?”
“Put one as the lead vehicle, sir,” Sean replied, “and the other in the middle of the convoy. They’re going to be the slowest vehicles, so putting one up front will keep everyone together.”
“Okay,” Jock said. “Sounds like a plan.”
“Couple more things, sir?” Sean asked.
“Shoot, Sergeant.”
“Request permission to mount the quad fifties on deuces. If we leave ’em as towed loads, it’ll take too long to get them into action when we need ’em. Since them trucks won’t be carrying any infantry, we can make the room, no sweat. I’ve scrounged up enough lumber to lift ’em onto the beds and secure ’em.”
“Excellent idea, Sergeant. Permission granted. What else?”
Sean replied, “We salvaged enough of those shot-up quads to make one good one, so we got three now.”
“Even better, Sergeant,” Jock replied. “Got any more good ideas?”
“That’s it, sir.”
“Okay, then, let’s talk about the schedule,” Jock said. “For openers, Third Battalion will jump off in one hour.”
He paused, expecting groans of protest. One hour was cutting it pretty tight, and he knew it.
But there were no complaints.
Sergeant Patchett smiled as he looked at the faces of the officers. Yesterday, those faces had shown nothing but skepticism. Today, there was only resolve. He told himself, They all know damn well that if it wasn’t for Jock Miles, they probably would’ve been killed or captured last night, along with most of their men. Now they’re ready to follow him to hell and back…
Just like me.
*****
All the infantry battalions of 26th Regiment were on the move now, heading south toward Taejon. Their column stretched nearly two miles, over eight hundred men tactically dispersed in open terrain that offered little cover and no concealment. Colonel Brand’s 3rd Battalion was in the lead, as specified in Jock’s ops order; its command group was stocked with backpack radios covering a variety of frequency bands. They’d be able to talk directly with anyone in a five-mile radius except the tankers, whose radios remained incompatible with theirs.
Patchett led the five-man patrol scouting ahead of 3rd Battalion. He was hard-pressed to remember a time when he’d felt more exposed to the enemy: At least we’re on the back side of this ridge, so any gook to the west will have a hell of a time seeing us.
Then he gazed warily at the mountains to the east, their bases some four miles away according to the map. But they sure look a hell of a lot closer from where I’m standing. And if there’s any KPA up there with even dime store binoculars, they can see every last one of us. It’d be just a question of which direction their artillery’s gonna come from.
But we ain’t got no vehicles with us, so we’d be pretty hard to identify from that distance. Who knows? They just might think we’re a gook outfit.
They’d traveled an
other half mile when he spotted a vehicle: an American-made three-quarter-ton truck. Unlike the GIs, the truck’s nationality would be highly recognizable, even from several miles away. It was parked in a gully; Patchett could see only the top half of its unmistakable shape until the patrol drew much closer.
With hand signals, he told the patrol get down on your bellies. Then he summoned the RTO to him.
He called Colonel Brand and in hushed tones told him, “We’ve got contact. Hold up until I get a better look.”
Brand immediately wanted a detailed situation report.
“Just ignore him for a spell,” Patchett told the RTO. “He can find out all about it once it’s over.”
Then his patrol crawled to the edge of the ridge. From there, they could peer down into the gully with little chance of being seen.
The truck’s bumper markings identified it as belonging to a sister regiment, the one that used to be on the right flank of the 26th.
But there was a KPA soldier lounging in the driver’s seat, casually smoking a cigarette.
Three more KPA stood alongside the vehicle, laughing and pointing their rifles toward something—or someone—hidden at the bottom of the gully beneath Patchett’s field of view.
“We’re gonna move a ways over yonder,” he whispered, pointing down the ridge. “I got a bad feeling what we’re gonna find when we get there.”
Peering over the edge of their new vantage point, they could see six GIs on their knees, faces to the gully wall, their hands bound behind their backs with wire.
Only four gooks…we can take them out easy…and make enough noise to attract the whole fucking KPA doing it, too. If there’s more of them around, that is.
But those boys will be dead real soon if we don’t do something right quick.
For the moment, though, the KPA soldiers seemed more intent on tormenting their captives. With great delight, they’d teasingly place bayonets across the GIs’ throats, going through the motions of cutting without actually piercing flesh. One had taken a pistol—unloaded, apparently—placed it against the head of a trembling prisoner and pulled the trigger. When the falling of the hammer made no more noise than an empty mechanical clack, the Koreans would erupt in mocking laughter.
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