General Taal raised his voice in a belligerent roar. “The Third Cohort will drive the charge home, securing our people and destroying any Grik that remain. The Ninth will pursue those that flee, but no farther than two kilometers. Keep your cohesion, don’t overstress your animals, and you’ll shoot plenty of Grik in the back today!”
He was right. As soon as the tired horses began trotting forward again, in what must appear to the desperate Grik as a solid, impenetrable wall of death, almost all the rest of them bolted. Just a few hundred stayed to fight, likely because they had no choice. The same mushy, nearly solid ring of bloody carrion that actually started Kirham’s cavalry balking and rearing before it penetrated more than halfway to the enemy, trapped the panicking Grik as well. The beleaguered defenders, probably long out of ammunition, never stopped killing them with their bayonets, and cavalry troopers leaped from reluctant mounts and waded through the corpses with long-bladed spathas and pistols.
General Taal-Gaak himself was one of these, firing a couple shots from his 11mm revolver, but it was all over before he got close enough to swing his sword. Pushing onward through countless bodies, he finally saw what couldn’t have been more than a single century of bloody, blinking, dazed-looking survivors still on their feet, tightly ringing a cluster of bullet-riddled wagons full of desperately wounded troops. There was no cheering as the pitiful defenders began to realize their ordeal might somehow be over, there was only a kind of stupefied silence as nearly all simply dropped to their knees in abject exhaustion.
Taal was appalled and anguished by the scene, yet simultaneously so filled with a fierce pride and love for these troops who’d obviously endured so much that he didn’t know if the tears in his eyes were born of grief or thankfulness that at least a few survived. Probably both. Shots came from the Ninth Cohort, killing running Grik, but the only sounds around him came from moaning, crying, (sometimes gurgling Grik) wounded, and the neighing of still nervous horses. He cleared his throat and called behind. “Every squadron medicus to the front, at once! Prefect Kirham, details to clear a path through these bodies and get those wagons out. And have our own ambulance wagons brought forward!” He lowered his voice and addressed a kneeling Lemurian, staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes. “Who commands here,” he asked gently. The trooper blinked meaninglessly and just kept staring.
“Down here, General,” came a gruff, weak voice from under one of the wagons.
Stepping over more bodies, Taal patted the insensible trooper on the shoulder as he moved to squat by the musket ball-splintered spoke of a wheel. There were almost as many wounded under the wagon as on it, but Taal saw a Senior Centurion leaning against the inside of the right rear wheel staring intently back. His dark beard and hair were wild and matted with blood, and more blood stained the mustard brown cloth of his tunic around a large hole in his upper right chest. Leaning on him in turn, almost lying in his lap, was a female Lemurian with large yellow eyes and a Prefect’s rank tabs. There were only a few female infantry prefects so Taal recognized her at once, shuddering to note she bore even more wounds than the senior centurion, but her striking eyes were clear and bright.
“Prefect Soli-Kraar,” Taal said, smiling and blinking respect.
“You remember me!” she murmured softly, wetly, but her pleasure was clear.
“Of course I do! And I’m not the least surprised to find you, of all people, still holding your ground.”
She blinked regret. “I…attempted an orderly withdrawal, as ordered by Legate Zhao, but that became impossible. I fear I’ve squandered an entire division.”
“Nonsense!” Taal assured her, then looked at the senior centurion. “You are?”
“Fannius, General. Centurion Hanno was with her most of the night, but he caught a ball with his head.”
“You had elements of two legions with you?”
“Three. What was left of the Thirty-First fell in with us while we pulled back.”
“Most of a division,” Soli lamented again.
Taal glanced around, taking in the survivors—perhaps a bit more than a century still in one piece—who knew how many wounded, but alive, and the absolutely stunning number of Grik heaped around them. All accomplished by this young female and her sturdy XO after they’d been driven from their position. The ability to inspire that kind of loyalty and confidence simply couldn’t be lost. “Medicus!” Taal called insistently. “I need a medicus here now, damn you all!” He looked back at Soli. “You kept your head when older, presumably more experienced commanders lost theirs, and diminished though it might be, you did save your division, and kept it fighting until relieved. The Second Division disintegrated entirely.” He didn’t mention they’d probably picked up twice as many survivors from the legions of the 2nd in the night, but they’d been useless, doing nothing but running while the 11th fought—incidentally making itself the focus of all the semi-organized Grik left in the area. “Your action here might well have prevented the Grik from organizing sufficiently to hamper General Kim’s movement to the west. You lost a lot of people, Prefect,” he acknowledged, “but I’ve no doubt you saved many, many more.”
“Thank you, General,” Soli whispered. “I hope you’re right. I feared I’d let so many die because I wasn’t ready to lead.”
Taal harrumphed. “‘Ready’ or not, I wish more of our commanders could lead so well,” he assured. “And after last night, I suspect you’re better qualified to do so than anyone else in the Army of the Republic, General Kim included.” He smiled. “But let’s keep that between us, shall we?” Locking eyes with Fannius, Taal nodded significantly at the man, then stood to allow a Gentaa medicus room to crawl under the wagon.
Looking around, Taal took in the activity. Bodies were being cleared and wounded tended, while the ambulances drew up behind their blowing teams. Squadrons of the 9th Cohort were filtering back, and Kirham was sending squadrons of the 5th out to scout. They’d be here a while, getting everything sorted out. Stepping briskly down the growing, blood-muddy path that members of the 5th were making, he called for a runner. “Ride back to the column and tell Prefect Diola to hurry along, and send the remaining ambulances ahead.” He paused, glancing back toward where another medicus had joined the first, frantically working on Soli. “Go to the comm-cart when you get there,” he added, “and have them send a message to General Kim from me. Tell him I hope his sudden change of strategy was worth the cost.” Taal actually suspected it was, coming at the insistence of Courtney Bradford and Bekiaa-Sa-At, after all. “But I also want him to know that, worth it or not, it’s likely that only the magnificent, orderly, fighting withdrawal Prefect Soli-Kraar and her Eleventh Division performed, prevented the Grik from crawling up his army’s arse.”
The Lemurian runner hesitated, blinking incredulously. “Sir…You want me to say…to General Kim?”
“Those exact words,” Taal growled, tail whipping, as he turned to look back under the wagon where the battered heart of the 11th lay bleeding on the ground.
* * * * *
Taylor Anderson Bio
Taylor Anderson is the New York Times bestselling author of the Alternate History/Military Sci-fi DESTROYERMEN Series. He’s a gun-maker, forensic ballistic archeologist, and technical/historical consultant for movies and documentaries. He has a Master’s Degree in History and has taught at Tarleton State University in Stephenville, Texas.
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Mr. Dewey’s Tank Corps by James Young
Chapter 1: Words Have Meaning
TF McPeak
0830 Local
1 July 1950
“If you use that word to describe any of my men again, you best either make sure your deputy can perform your duties or learn how to give orders with sign language,” Lieutenant Colonel Leonard Kraven, commander of the 72nd Armored Battalion, spat. Unsurprisingly given his martial profession, K
raven was a short, squat block of a man hailing from upstate New York. As he looked at his opposite number, Kraven could feel the bottom half of his face, horribly marked by a pattern of burn scars, starting to throb.
I could give less of a fuck that I look like some freak show right now, he thought angrily, well aware that the flesh tended to outline in stark white against his flushed face. It seemed to have a salutary effect on three of the officers standing on the other side of the terrain model in front of him, as the trio of company commanders took a seemingly involuntary step back.
Their commander, on the other hand, simply raised an eyebrow at Kraven’s comment, his face serene as if he were unconcerned. A tall, slender man, Lieutenant Colonel Ramsey McPeak had seen combat as an infantry platoon leader, then company commander, during the Second World War. Unlike Kraven, however, it had been in Europe, a fact which gave him a much different perspective on “colored” troops it seemed. Which was why the commander of the 24th Infantry Battalion had felt so comfortable using a racial slur in reference to his imminent reinforcements.
Freakin’ cake walks make it easy to be a bigot, Kraven thought. Russians did most of the killing for you idiots once that bomb saw off Hitler. Hell, when we killed Hirohito it made things worse.
“My point remains,” McPeak said, his accent growing thicker as he began to drum on the map board. “Ni…Negro troops are unreliable, and I respectfully request that you reconsider your order of movement.”
Unreliable? Kraven thought, his mind’s eye turning back to a night of absolute madness. The screaming waves of Japanese soldiers, their faces contorted with rage as they swarmed towards his tank. The women and children bearing improvised Molotov cocktails, spears, and even rocks as they ran with their men. The flames of Tokyo burning all around his platoon and the company of armored infantrymen desperately holding onto a crossroads…
“Sir,” his S-3, Major Andy Klein said as he grabbed Kraven’s shoulder. The touch and familiar voice brought Kraven out of the fugue state he’d slipped into while taking a step forward. Kraven noted McPeak’s slightly shaking hand had drifted down to the bayonet on his belt during his brief mental flashback.
I think my S-3 just saved your life, asshole, Kraven thought angrily. Too bad your S-3 decided it was a good idea to try and reconnoiter north in an unarmed liaison plane. Having met you in person now, I can see why such idiocy would be acceptable in your unit. The North Koreans had been demonstrating their anti-aircraft prowess against aircraft far superior to a Piper Grasshopper.
I’d sooner have Demon company at my back than your whole battalion. Dog Company, 758th Anti-Tank battalion, was not technically part of Kraven’s unit. However, the “Demons,” as the last Japanese holdouts had taken to naming the M18 Hellcat company, had been assigned to 72nd Armored when the latter had shipped to Korea in order to “deter aggression.” Which, it seemed, had now morphed into “stopping” the same.
“Lieutenant Colonel McPeak,” a third voice interjected from the tent entrance, “it would be extremely entertaining to watch “Mad Dog” Kraven forcibly sodomize you with that bayonet you’re foolishly thinking of using. However, I remind both of you that the North Koreans are a more pressing issue.”
The gathered officers all came to attention as Brigadier General Jeffrey Watson, Military Advisory Command-Korea (MAC-K) stepped further into the tent. Like McPeak, Brigadier General Watson looked the part of a stereotypical Southern gentleman, with a patrician face, blue eyes, and graying cropped hair.
“If you don’t want to have Lieutenant Colonel Kraven’s men supporting you, Lieutenant Colonel McPeak, then I strongly suggest you do your men a favor and go stick a .45 in your mouth,” Watson spat, completely erasing any thoughts the gathered men might have about ‘Southern solidarity.’ Whipping the walking stick he carried up in one savage motion, Watson speared the map that was between the two men.
“Major General Paek informs me that his men, quite possibly the last one thousand good men the ROKs have, are giving way as you are busy here complaining about having to actually work with colored troops,” Watson continued angrily, his voice savage. “If you cannot bring yourself to close with the enemy regardless of who is beside you, take off that damn rank and tell me which one of your company commanders has fighting spirit.”
McPeak drew himself up to his full height.
“I will…”
“You will what?” Watson cut the man off angrily.
I’d choose your next words carefully, Kraven thought, feeling bemused as he looked over at Klein. There was a long pause as McPeak’s Adam’s apple moved several times before he looked down at the map.
“Sir, I will integrate Lieutenant Colonel Kraven’s men into my defenses,” McPeak said, his voice just above a whisper.
The brigadier general turned to Kraven. The sound of distant artillery made the senior officer’s lips purse. The explosions were carried by the strong wind out of the north, but Kraven could tell the North Korean People’s Army (NKPA) forces would likely be through Suwon by that afternoon.
“Lieutenant Colonel Kraven, how soon until your company of Hellcats can be here?”
“Captain Gibson’s M18s can get here in another two hours,” Kraven replied. “The rest of my battalion will likely take another hour beyond that.”
Watson scowled at the report.
“Well, hopefully the North Koreans will have to take a pause when they get through clearing Suwon,” Watson said worriedly. “Lieutenant Colonel McPeak’s men will have lanes marked for the M18s when they arrive.”
The brigadier general gave the infantry commander a hard look.
“Let me know if they’re not, Lieutenant Colonel Kraven,” he finished. “I’m sure Major Klein would like a chance to get promoted.”
“Sir, are my orders to defend or delay?” Lieutenant Colonel McPeak asked stiffly. “Major General Dean…”
“Major General Dean has placed me in command of all American forces north of Taegu,” Watson replied, well aware of what McPeak had been trying to infer. “Your orders are to punch the North Koreans in the face until you can’t punch anymore. Do you need any additional guidance?”
“Sir, words have meaning,” Lieutenant Colonel McPeak replied angrily. “I do not want to be accused of cowardice if I judge it prudent to leave my position…”
It was not Lieutenant Colonel McPeak’s day to finish a sentence.
“Lieutenant Colonel Kraven?” Watson asked.
“Yes, sir?” Kraven asked.
“You may order the general retreat when you feel that the position has become untenable here north of Osan,” Watson replied. “Lieutenant Colonel McPeak’s surviving forces will ride on your tanks if you are forced to retreat, and he has no remaining transportation.”
Holy shit, Kraven thought.
“Understood, sir,” Kraven replied, watching as McPeak’s jaw moved in frustration.
“And where, pray tell, will you be, sir?” Lieutenant Colonel McPeak asked. The implication and belligerency in his question were clear.
“In Osan with my damn .45 to the head of the ROK engineer lieutenant,” Watson snapped. “His charges are currently on the bridge over the river,” Watson replied.
Kraven winced at that.
If that bridge drops, we’ll have a long way to go to find another bridge.
“I’ll be damned if the only armored battalion for at least a thousand miles is going to end up on the wrong side of a dropped bridge,” Watson snapped. “Happened to those poor ROK bastards in Seoul a couple days ago when the Han River bridges got blown. Fat lot of good giving Rhee an armored regiment last year did at that point.”
Watson looked at the map, then at Kraven and McPeak. Just as he was about to speak, he was interrupted by the snarl of several piston engines flying close overhead.
Sounds like Navy birds, Kraven thought. The Marines had just finished establishing airfields around Pusan when the North Koreans had struck.
“I guess we can
’t get lucky and have one of those guys carrying Oppenheimer’s Firecracker, can we?” one of the captains asked nervously, referring to the name the newspapers had given to the new bomb tested just the previous June. The redheaded officer’s comment drew a hard look from Lieutenant Colonel McPeak.
“Captain, I’m pretty sure the first one of those will be going to Moscow if they’ve got one ready,” Kraven replied. “Be nice if a couple of those had been available in ‘45 when we could have used them.”
“If wishes were horses, we’d all ride,” Brigadier General Watson said. Once more, the general met the eyes of every man around the room.
“We can hope for wonder weapons all we want, gentlemen,” he stated. “The fact of the matter is, with China gone red, you are standing on the last piece of free ground between the Sea of Japan and Siam. If you don’t want our children and their children to curse our names, we have to stop the damn Reds here in Korea.”
If we can stop them, Kraven thought, sharing a look with Klein.
“Your role in this is to slow them down long enough for more help to get here and for defenses to be prepared,” Watson continued. “You have your orders. Godspeed.”
Dotty III
1230 Local
Sweet mercy, what the hell do they have in these fields? Captain Jeremiah Gibson thought, holding onto the ring mount that enclosed the commander’s position on his M18 Hellcat. The tank destroyer was going north from Osan as fast as its driver, Private Schiller, could force it. Unfortunately, given the vehicle’s open turret and the wind coming from the north, that had the effect of forcing the rice paddies’ stench into Jeremiah’s face as well as that of the loader, SPC Washington.
Trouble in the Wind Page 33
