I’m thinking these gooks are just a bunch of AWOL screw-offs having a little fun.
Still, even screw-offs can jerk a trigger. We gotta get our boys out of there.
That was easier said than done. Although Patchett and his men could view what was going on below them in the gully while prone and hidden, they’d have to rise up and expose themselves to fire their weapons. When they did, they’d be in plain view of the Koreans.
I can’t guaran-damn-tee we’ll get the first—or the best—shot once we expose ourselves.
We need a diversion.
Patchett paused once more to scan the terrain beyond for any sign of other KPA activity.
If there’s a big unit out there somewhere, they couldn’t hide any better than this regiment of ours. And I ain’t seeing, hearing, or smelling nothing.
He unhooked a grenade from his shoulder harness. Then he whispered to his men, “I’m gonna fling this thing way the hell over there. When it blows, it should distract the gooks just long enough for us to pop up and cut them down before they can get off a shot at us or those poor bastards they got tied up down there. Don’t nobody get jumpy and fire until this pineapple goes off, you hear me?”
He squeezed the grenade’s handle, letting the safety pin drop out.
“Y’all ready?”
Laying on his back, Patchett released the grenade’s handle, catching it in his free hand so it didn’t make a sound bouncing off the ground. He began counting softly, “One Mississippi…”
If his GIs weren’t jittery already, the live grenade in their sergeant’s hand—just inches from their faces—was driving them crazy. Although it was just a fraction of a second, it seemed like a year had passed before he gave it a casual, low-angle toss, sailing it to a place down the ridge where it would threaten no one.
“Two Mississippi…three…”
Then, in what seemed an act of clairvoyant anticipation, he uttered the word NOW just as the grenade exploded, the always-disappointing poom that sounded more like a large firecracker than a weapon of war.
None of Patchett’s men had to fire more than two rounds. The Koreans, who’d all suddenly turned toward the grenade’s explosion, were cut down without a chance to return fire.
The shots were still echoing through the gully when Patchett said, “Let’s go police up them GIs and high-tail it out of here.”
*****
Colonel Brand wasn’t impressed by what Patchett had just done. “You jeopardized this entire regiment to save half a dozen men, Sergeant.”
“I don’t reckon that jeopardize part is true, sir. But you’re saying I should’ve left them for dead?”
“Do I have to remind you that the mission comes first, Sergeant, then the men? And they weren’t even our men.”
“The way I see it, sir, one don’t have nothing to do with the other. Where I come from, we don’t leave nobody behind. Feel free to press charges on me, Colonel…if you reckon it won’t hurt this mission of ours none, that is.”
Brand seethed quietly for a few moments. He knew that short of outright and provable insubordination, dereliction of duty, or murder, Colonel Miles would never consider charges against Sergeant Patchett.
And even if Patchett did commit any of those offenses, an old warhorse like him is crafty enough in the ways of the Army to never get punished for it.
“Speaking of the mission, sir,” Patchett said, “shouldn’t I be getting back to leading that patrol out in front?”
“Yes, Sergeant, you should,” Brand said, conceding this round. “Dismissed.”
Patchett took a moment to check on the GIs he’d just rescued. They’d overheard Colonel Brand’s comments. One of them spit in disgust on the ground as he said, “That son of a bitch is just like the worthless officers we had. As soon as they heard the gooks were coming, they all piled into jeeps and drove away. Just left us there to die.”
Patchett asked, “You think there are any other survivors from your outfit, son?”
“Ain’t likely, Sarge,” the GI replied, his glare of white-hot anger burning into Brand’s back. “If I ever see any of those officers who ran out on us again, I’m going to kill them. Every last damn one of them.”
Then he asked, “Sarge, you’re an old-timer. I’ll bet you know the score. Has it always been like this?”
“You mean about officers, son?”
The GI nodded.
Patchett replied, “Well, every now and then, we gotta skim a little scum off the top. But in this shithole, looks like we got ourselves a whole pot full of scum. Somebody’ll come along to dump it out, though. Better be pretty soon, too.”
*****
Twenty-Sixth Regiment’s convoy was four miles into the ten-mile drive down the highway to Taejon. It had maintained a steady pace of thirty miles per hour, just shy of the Chaffees’ top speed. Sean Moon’s only worry was at that sustained clip, the two tanks consumed so much fuel that they’d run out short of their destination…
Provided them transmissions don’t burn up first.
The way Sean saw it, they’d driven through two choice ambush sites already, where the high ground to the west would’ve yielded perfect fields of plunging fire down onto the highway. But they’d had no contact with the KPA.
I get the feeling I’m whistling past the graveyard, he told himself. The gooks gotta be somewhere.
Jock Miles found that somewhere from his spotter plane. Two miles ahead of the convoy, he could see KPA positions on the ridge to the west of the highway. These guys don’t know much about concealing themselves from aircraft yet. Even in the places they’ve tried to hide the guns and mortars, I can see tire tracks leading straight to them.
The pilot asked him, “You think we’re getting shot at, sir?”
“No,” Jock replied. “That would give them away, for sure. They’re hoping we haven’t seen them so maybe their ambush isn’t ruined.”
Air support from a US Navy fighter unit was available, but he chose not to use it. I’ll save the flyboys for a big brawl, when it’s worth the wait for them to get here. I believe we’ve got the firepower to take care of this one ourselves…and right away, too.
Colonel Lewis, the convoy boss, had been annoyed when Sergeant Moon insisted the lead tank be given a walkie-talkie for communicating with the rest of the units on the road. He’d thought it a waste of critical communications gear. “After all,” he’d argued, “I’ll be in the vehicle right behind it. I can control the tank with hand signals.”
“Them tankers ain’t gonna be looking at you behind them, sir,” Sean had replied. “They’ll be looking out for gooks.”
Jock’s call for fire set off a flurry of activity within the convoy. “Range is short,” he told Lewis, “so use the four-deuce mortars. Slow everyone else down to a crawl so you don’t fall into the ambush zone while it’s still alive.”
Within ninety seconds, the mortar section trucks had pulled off the highway, set up their pieces, and had a round in the air. Nobody expected that first hastily aimed shot to be accurate. But a round right now, one which could yield quick adjustments to the target, was so much more valuable than an accurate one arriving too late.
As the convoy continued moving ahead, leaving the mortars by the roadside, Sean parked one of the deuces carrying a mounted quad .50 among them to provide protection.
That’s the second thing Colonel Lewis can thank me for, he told himself. If it wasn’t for that walkie-talkie in the lead Chaffee, she wouldn’t know to slow down, and we’d be losing her right about now. And if it wasn’t for this quad, these mortar guys could get wiped out by a couple of gooks with Tommy guns.
That first mortar round landed well behind the KPA emplacements. The gooks probably didn’t even see it, Jock thought, but they sure as hell heard it. Let’s give them a correction of left one hundred.
The next round was much closer…
And the fire for effect volley that quickly followed started the KPA soldiers who’d survived it running.
Jock shifted the fire onto the fleeing Koreans, giving them two more volleys.
That’s enough, he told himself as the final rounds took their toll. Time to get this convoy moving at full speed again.
As the trucks raced through what would’ve been the ambush site, some KPA troopers on the ridge’s front face opened fire on the vehicles with rifles and a few machine guns. They’d let the lead element pass by—the Chaffee, Lewis’ jeep, and half a dozen trucks—before they began shooting up the next batch of deuces.
They didn’t realize that among those deuces was one mounting a quad .50 until it was too late. As its heavy-caliber bullets riddled the KPA position, the tracers marked it clearly for the Chaffee in the middle of the column. Two rounds from its main gun silenced any further opposition.
Jock radioed to Lewis, “What’s the damage?”
“Three wounded, not too badly. The medical section’s picked them up already. Two deuces out of action, but nothing on them we can’t live without.”
“Then keep it moving,” Jock replied. “Good job.”
*****
The next few miles of highway ahead looked clear, so Jock told his pilot, “Let’s slide over and see how our boys on foot are doing.”
They were only halfway through the turn when they saw the dust cloud billowing several miles farther east.
Dust means vehicles. Lots of dust means big vehicles—maybe tanks. And they sure as hell won’t be ours.
Colonel Brand was calling Jock on the radio now, his strained voice sounding as if he’d just seen a ghost.
“KPA armored column,” Brand said, “moving through our column from east to west.”
“Through?” Jock replied. “Are you in contact?”
“Negative. But we’ve been split. Third Battalion and some of Second is south of the KPA column. The rest of Second Battalion and all of First is north.”
Jock asked, “How many vehicles in this KPA column?”
“Ten T-34s, a couple of light trucks with machine guns.”
They’re traveling east to west, Jock thought. That puts them headed straight for the highway…and my convoy. That’s all we need—a strong broadside armored attack. I’ve got to stop them before they get anywhere near the highway.
This is what I saved the air support for, I guess.
He told Brand, “Stay clear. Do not attempt to engage. Once they’ve passed, continue your column’s move south without delay.”
Then he told his pilot, “Get higher and do a one-eighty. I need to see everything.”
The Navy flight answered his call for help immediately.
“We’re three minutes out,” the flight leader replied. “Be advised we’re low on fuel and ordnance. It’ll be rockets and machine guns, one pass only. Then we’ve got to get back to the boat. Any special requests?”
“Yeah. Come out of the east. Get the head of the tank column if you can. Be advised friendly infantry is danger close.”
“Roger, copy the danger close. Can you give me smoke rockets where you want the stuff?”
Jock replied, “Negative. Don’t have rockets. But you won’t need the smoke. They’re kicking up so much dust you can’t miss them.”
“Roger, we might be seeing it already. Are they on that north-south highway?”
“Negative, negative. Friendlies on the highway. Repeat, friendlies on the highway. Target column is presently two miles east of the highway, heading due west.”
“Roger, copy that,” the Navy pilot said. “Target identified.”
As his spotter plane climbed higher—they were at 2,000 feet now—Jock had a grandstand seat for the unfolding battle. He could see his convoy still making good speed; if the GI vehicles didn’t get slowed down again and the KPA tanks stayed on the same course—roughly perpendicular to the highway—they’d reach it just after the last vehicles had passed.
But if the T-34s shifted their course to the south, they could still engage the trailing elements of the convoy, which included the mess sections, the medical section transporting the wounded, and the artillery battery. The tanks would have to travel cross-country, but the terrain would permit it: the ground appeared dry and fairly level. If the T-34s could move fast enough—and if they had eyes guiding them to their quarry from the high ground to the east or west—intercepting the convoy was possible.
“One minute out,” the Navy flight leader reported.
Jock could see the planes now, four dark blue Corsairs streaking across the mottled green backdrop of the mountains to the east as they descended for their attack run. He’d had no trouble identifying the type: the gull wings of these legendary Navy and Marine Corps fighters of the last war made them unmistakable, even from several miles away. They were in their last days as frontline fleet aircraft, already being replaced by the first jets that could operate from carriers. But just like the Air Force’s F-51s, the sudden and unexpected need for close-support aircraft had pressed them into the fight one more time.
A stream of tracers rose up toward the spotter plane; Jock’s pilot did a quick turn and dive to dodge them. The bullets hadn’t come from the T-34s; as Sean Moon had briefed him, the tanks weren’t meant to fight aircraft. They usually had no flexible machine gun on top of the turret and the men inside would be far too busy to man it, anyway. The tracers had come from the wheeled vehicles mixed into the tank column.
“Okay, I get it,” Jock said to his pilot. “They’re starting to wise up to needing an anti-aircraft capability for their tanks. Let’s see if we can keep them occupied. Maybe they won’t even see the Navy coming.”
“Occupied, sir? As in draw fire?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean.”
The pilot didn’t sound crazy about the idea. He asked, “You ever done much time in one of these flimsy little kites, sir?”
“Plenty,” Jock replied. “I did a stint in an L-4 over Papua back in Forty-Two.”
“Did you try to draw fire then, too?”
“Only when necessary, Captain.”
The Corsairs’ attack was over in the blink of an eye. Jock counted eight HVARs fired, those being high-velocity air-to-ground rockets five inches in diameter. Two of them actually scored hits, causing two tanks near the front of the column to brew up spectacularly. The other six rockets only contributed to the dust cloud. Machine gun fire from the trailing Corsair tore up one of the wheeled vehicles, knocking its machine gun out of action.
“That’s all we’ve got,” the Navy flight leader reported. “There’s an Air Force unit that just got into the area. Dial them up if you need more support. Good luck. Out.”
Despite the two burning tanks, the attack hadn’t slowed down their column at all. Eight T-34s were still bearing down on Jock’s convoy.
Damn right I need more support.
He called for the Air Force unit.
Banjo Leader replied, “Roger, Montana Six. We’re about two minutes out.”
Then Tommy Moon—Banjo Leader—told his flight, “Gentlemen, welcome to the Korean Police Action.”
Chapter Ten
The F-51s of Banjo Flight were over the target area at 4,000 feet. There was something in that fast-moving column of T-34s Tommy couldn’t identify.
“Montana Six from Banjo Leader,” he radioed to Jock, “what’s that other vehicle behind the tanks?”
“It’s a truck with a heavy-caliber machine gun.”
“Copy. Has he been shooting at you?”
“Affirmative,” Jock replied.
“Has he hit anything?”
“Negative.”
“Roger, Montana Six. Any preference as to how we do this attack?”
“Negative, just so you keep them away from my boys on the highway and you do it real soon.”
Mindful of that big coolant radiator hanging beneath the F-51s, Tommy quickly hatched a plan to take the truck with the machine gun out first.
“Banjo Flight, listen up,” he broadcast. “Orbit over the friendly convoy while
I get rid of that flak gun.”
He smiled as he thought of what he’d just said: flak gun.
That sure dates me as some relic from the last war. Maybe I’m being too cautious here, but I’m really leery about low-level attacks with that radiator hanging under my ass.
That flak gun’s got to go. If I come in from behind—out of that dust cloud they’re raising—maybe he won’t see me until it’s too late.
Assuming I’ll be able to see him through all that dust, that is.
He flew well to the east before turning back toward the Korean column. Then he brought his ship down practically to the deck and pushed her throttle forward.
Good thing it’s pretty flat around here. Altimeter says 100 feet but I don’t have a good baro setting…could be a little more or a little less.
It feels like a lot less.
Just so I don’t fly right into the back side of this column.
The dust cloud he was racing through was thickening to where he could hardly see the vehicle in front of his ship any longer.
Now, he told himself and squeezed the trigger, letting a burst from her six .50-caliber guns fly.
A split second later, when the dark shapes of vehicles became blurs slipping rapidly beneath him, he released the trigger and banked away to the right.
Don’t go left. That’s where Montana Six is. Don’t want to mid-air my spotter.
Tommy clawed for altitude while flying a wide circle, still unable to see the results of his run. He asked Jock, “How’d I do? Did I get the truck?”
“Let’s put it this way…it’s burning and laying on its side.”
It would be a few more seconds until Tommy’s ship had turned enough to view the results of his gun run. Once he could see it, he was satisfied:
Well, that part of the job is over. Now let’s see how many of those tanks we can brew up. Sure wish we had some five-hundred-pounders on the hook, though.
Combat Ineffective Page 10
