In the long silence that followed, with the acrid smell of gunpowder clogging his nose, Jeremiah had a few moments to think about his life choices. Joining the Army. Fighting for his country in the Pacific. Not simply refusing to return to the airport in Mobile when his all too short postwar leave had been up. He thought of his daughter, and how she’d screamed blue bloody murder when the strange man at the airport had scooped her up back in ‘46. Of the son he’d never met, almost certainly as a casual “Fuck off…” from the senior officers who’d been open about their thoughts the 758th’s troops were a bit “uppity.” Briefly, Jeremiah thought about just staying on the M18’s hull floor, of no longer fighting for an Army that made sure he was forever aware of his second-class status.
Then the moment passed, and he recalled that he was a damned commissioned officer…and some North Koreans were about to pay.
“Tanks! Tanks coming down the road!” one of the infantrymen was screaming from fifty yards in front of Dotty III.
I hope that damn radio is truly fixed, Jeremiah thought. Or that whatever the hell heavy artillery the North Koreans just dropped on us didn’t break it again. The commo section had found where either an artillery fragment or the Scout Platoon’s canister round had severed an antenna wire. To his great surprise, he plugged in in time to hear 2LT Collins calmly counting down the range from where Darkchild, his M18, was in a turret down position at the northernmost edge of TF McPeak’s infantry positions.
I can’t say I argue with Captain Larson’s decision to basically concede the center of the line, Jeremiah thought. In effect, C/1-24 had ceased to exist when the North Korean infantry battalion had managed to fall upon it. While the ROKs had placed anti-personnel mines across the small draw that had allowed the North Koreans to advance without being seen, Jeremiah kept casting nervous glances in that direction.
“Wait a second…” Collins reported. “Those tanks are stopping.”
“Red One, what do you mean they’re stopping?” Jeremiah asked, looking towards the ridge lip three hundred yards ahead of him.
“They’re stopping at twelve hundred yards or thereabouts,” Collins said. “Shit. Demon 6, I’ve got many, many more tanks coming out of Suwon!”
There was a long pause, then Collins reported with much more excitement.
“They’re heavy tanks, Demon 6! Looking like some of those damn Stalin tanks the boys from Europe kept talking about.”
Well this is bad, Jeremiah thought. He was about to inquire as to what the first group of tanks were doing when the ridgeline erupted with shell impacts and machine gun fire in front of him.
So much for letting them charge in, he thought.
“Up and at them, Demons,” he said. “We’ve got to take care of those tanks that are stopped.”
Reaching down, he switched to the 72nd Armored radio net.
We didn’t make sure the infantry had our frequencies, he thought stupidly. Shit.
“Crusader 6, we have heavy tanks coming out of Suwon,” he said, then quickly brought Kraven up on what he’d seen. He’d barely stopped talking when the artillery battery located to their rear began firing, followed by both the 72nd Armored and 24th Infantry mortars.
“Two battalions of infantry trying to work to the west also,” LTC Kraven replied. “Looks like that two-hour pause was the enemy bringing up reinforcements. Charlie, Baker, stand by to attack. Demon, I need you to get those tanks sitting still shooting up the ridge.”
“Roger, sir, we’re on it.”
The cracks of 76mm guns were swiftly answered by more distant booms and shells passing over the swiftly shifting Demon M18s. As Dotty III pulled up, Jeremiah began seeking targets.
“Tank, eleven o—”
Captain Jeremiah Gibson, son of a grocer and teacher, husband to a devoted wife, never even realized he’d been targeted by two platoons of the advancing Stalin tanks. Even if he had, at a range of just over 1200 yards there would not have been enough time for him to react to the incoming fire. In any event, the two 122mm rounds that hit Dotty III’s hull ripped completely through the M18’s front and detonated inside the vehicle’s turret. None of the five-man crew were alive to feel the secondary detonations.
Crusader 66
1620 Local
“Those which the gods wish to punish, they first make proud,” LTC Kraven muttered bitterly to himself as he watched Dotty III burn in front of him. His hands were shaking in rage as Crusader 66 sat in its firing position, the newly arrived Able Company coming on line with his track.
Ten more damn minutes, he thought. If only the North Koreans had waited ten more damn minutes. Able had hauled ass up from Osan, maintaining radio silence the entire way. Now, just as the Demons were falling back off the hill as planned, Kraven stood up in his turret and extended his hands horizontally. The thirteen M26’s of Able came on line with his vehicle, their turrets sighted in on the ridgeline.
The infantry is holding, he thought, pleased to see that there were no masses of olive drab breaking and running from the ridge.
“Baker is in position.”
“Charlie is in position.”
Kraven watched as the remaining M18s passed back through Able then pivoted to find positions. Then his eyes were back to the front as the first massive Stalin tank came storming over the ridge.
“Gunner, fire!”
“On the way!”
Kraven was certain the North Korean commander had a moment to realize his danger, as the Stalin was attempting to stop just before Crusader 66’s 90mm gun slung its HVAP round at it. At just over 500 yards, the round penetrated the front hull, decapitated the driver, then burst into the turret in a cloud of spall and deformed penetrator. Lacking the energy to pass back out the other side, the heavy core ricocheted twice around the turret, turning the crew to ruined flesh as their vehicle caromed to a halt.
The next four minutes were a one-sided slaughter, as Baker and Charlie pressed to the top of TF McPeak’s defensive position at its north as Able continued to pummel the tanks from the front. While not nearly as well-trained in gunnery as the Demons had been, due to the difficulty of moving Pershings to and from the range, at under 1,000 yards, the Crusaders did not need to be experts. Unlike the lightly armored M18s, the Pershings had little to fear from the T-34/85s attempting to lend distant fire support from their stationary position. As the IS-2s attempted to turn to retreat, Baker company quickly taught those North Korean tankers the error of their way, picking off six of the offending vehicles before those tanks also turned to retreat back into Suwon.
“Driver move forward,” Kraven ordered as the Crusader’s cannonade slowly came to an end. He consciously did not look at the shaking, shuddering wreckage that was Dotty III continuing to burn as his Pershing skirted the minefield and a knocked out IS-2 that had indeed lost its track trying to push forward through it.
Well at least something went as planned, he thought angrily, bringing his binoculars up to look towards Suwon.
“Crusader 6, Baker 6,” his radio crackled. “Do you want me to continue the advance?”
For a long moment, Lieutenant Colonel Kraven considered his options.
You got lucky, Lenny, he thought to himself. Once more he looked over at Dotty III’s wreckage, then considered the fact he could still hear and see the infantry to the west engaging North Korean forces.
“Negative Baker, hold your position,” he said. “Able, head on over there to the west and lend the Scout Platoon and the infantry a hand. Charlie, stand by to help cover the infantry’s movement south.”
Kraven took a long second as he considered his next words.
“I think we’ve done enough punching for one day, gentlemen,” he said. “We’re not throwing in the towel, just finding a better gym to kick our opponents’ ass in.”
* * *
Epilogue
Osan AFB
1000 Local
1 July 1990
“…and it was here that my father, an American who could
not even eat at the same officer club back in Tokyo, gave his last full measure for the Republic.”
Lieutenant General (retired) Leonard Kraven gripped his cane at that statement, feeling the same old anger and disgust at his fellow officers’ bigotry and ignorance he always had.
All of us should have fought that bullshit a lot harder than we did, he thought, looking at the small boy next to him with a familiar face. The child was regarding Leonard with the intense curiosity only three-year-olds could muster, even as his grandmother was listening to her brother speak.
“Thankfully, his sacrifices were not in vain,” Brigadier General Custis Gibson II continued, his eyes meeting Kraven’s. “The 72nd Armored gave the North Koreans pause. That pause, in turn, gave the 24th and 101st Infantry Divisions time to dig in. More importantly, it gave the Air Force time to plan.”
Kraven fought the urge to smile at that.
Here come the usual Zoomie talking points, he thought.
“That fiery July night, when the nascent SAC rained atomic ruin on Pyongyang, brought the war to a screeching halt,” Gibson finished. “While it would not be a lasting peace, and our nation’s resolve would be tested twice more on this peninsula before the specter of Communism was finally ended, it was enough of a pause for the surviving men of Delta Company, 758th Anti-Tank Battalion to be finally returned back to their loved ones.”
Brigadier General Gibson paused, and Kraven could see several conflicting emotions pass over his face.
“When…” the man began, then took a moment to gather himself. “When then Lieutenant Colonel Kraven came to visit my mother, I will never forget what he said to me.”
“Mommy, why is that man crying?” Kraven heard the young boy ask, his voice suddenly clear as a bell in the silence as everyone turned to look at him. In the total quiet, to the horror of the boy’s relatives and family in earshot, Jeremiah Gibson III continued.
“Is it because his face is all burnt up?”
There was a collective intake of breath at that. Kraven saw the boy’s grandmother recoil in horror, then start to open her mouth. He waved his hand at her, smiling.
“No son, I’m crying because I miss your grandma’s daddy,” Kraven replied evenly. “He was very brave, just like your great uncle.”
“Ohhh,” Jeremiah said. The boy looked like he was going to ask another question, but was quickly “embraced” from behind by his grandmother. Brigadier General Gibson, recognizing the fiasco that was unfolding, had quickly continued with his prepared remarks.
Your father was just as quick on his feet, Kraven thought with melancholy.
“…this memorial to the ‘Delta Demons.’”
With Gibson’s gesture, the cloth covering was drawn back with a flourish to reveal a full scale sculpture of an M18 Hellcat. A group of four men stood in front of it, their gazes raised northward. As he gazed at the statues, Kraven had to fight back a laugh.
Oh McPeak, looks like some artist had the last damn laugh, Kraven thought. The statue’s left arm was resting on the Gibson statue’s left shoulder, his right arm extended as if he were pointing at something in the far distance.
How fitting that after all that, the racist son-of-a-bitch will be standing shoulder to shoulder with Gibson for eternity, Kraven thought. Looking up, he saw Brigadier General Gibson regarding him with a smile as the gathered group applauded.
Looks like Mr. Dewey’s Tank Corps did a good job after all, Kraven thought with a smile.
* * * * *
Dedication
To the men of Task Force Smith. Outgunned, outnumbered, and undeservedly forced into being a cautionary tale.
* * * * *
Author’s Note
Astute readers will note that this is a continuation of the “Lightnings and the Cactus” (found in To Slip the Surly Bonds) timeline. With an earlier than historical victory in the Pacific coupled with a successful Operation Valkyrie (and resultant Nazi collapse), this story assumes most of the Manhattan Project’s funding would have slipped away even before a misfire at Trinity. Add on the brutal bloodletting of a May 1945 invasion of Japan and…well, you get Harry Truman called the Butcher of Honshu and Thomas Dewey victorious in 1948. The rest, as they say, is (alternate) history.
* * *
James Young Bio
James Young holds a doctorate in U.S. History from Kansas State University and is a graduate of the United States Military Academy. Fiction is James’ first writing love, but he’s also dabbled in non-fiction with articles in the Journal of Military History and Proceedings to his credit. His next alternate history, Against the Tide Imperial, is the third novel in his Usurper’s War series set during World War II and will be published in 1st Quarter 2019. You can find more information on the series and James’s Comic Con schedule on his FB Page (https://www.facebook.com/ColfaxDen/), Twitter (@Youngblai), or by signing up for his mailing list on the front page of his blog (https://vergassy.com/).
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Soldiers of the Republic by Justin Watson
Jack Beasley struggled to appear calm and unfatigued even as the altitude, heat and humidity of central Vietnam at mid-day conspired to steal the air from his lungs and drain life out through his pores. From his position traveling between 2nd and 3rd squads he could see ten to twelve guys of the forty man platoon of the Viet Minh—Free Vietnamese Army—Jack corrected himself mentally. They marched single file along a narrow footpath on a hillside winding between thick stands of bamboo and growths of dagger-edged elephant grass.
A soft thunk drew Jack’s eyes away from scanning the verdant landscape for threats to the rear of the column. One of the Vietnamese troops, a short rifleman carrying an M1 carbine bent to pick something up from the ground; a curved magazine. A sheepish expression was apparent on the Vietnamese soldier’s face, and he kept his almond-shaped eyes downcast as Jack stormed towards him. Jack’s interpreter, Corporal Dong, followed close on his heels. Slinging his own Garand rifle on his shoulder as he walked, Jack snatched the lighter weapon and magazine away from the shamefaced young trooper.
It was the third time on this patrol that one of the Vietnamese had dropped a magazine from their weapon unintentionally. Instead of tearing into the hapless private, Jack snapped in French, “Who is this man’s squad leader?” Dong repeated the question in the sing-song Vietnamese language.
An older man turned from his place in the column in response. Unlike the soldier who had dropped his magazine to the ground, the FVA sergeant approaching Jack looked more annoyed than intimidated. This man was tall, for a Vietnamese, only surrendering two inches to Jack, and the ease with which he crossed the jungle floor and the faint burn scars on his right cheek bespoke experience.
“Sergeant,” Jack said in French. “I know we talked about this when we got the new thirty-round magazines. They do not fit in the old M1 Carbines, only the M2 Carbines, the ones that can fire fully automatic. I know they look the same, but they are different.”
As Dong translated, Beasley held up the curved, 30-round magazine in one hand and shook the M1 in the other, then shook his head vigorously side to side.
The FVA sergeant’s nostrils flared, and he exhaled sharply before he turned to Dong and started chittering away. Jack, who had drawn this assignment in part due to his knack for picking up languages, hated the sound of Vietnamese. It pitched up and down too fast and too sharply. Much as he tried, Jack couldn’t get a grounding in it like he had Tagalog, Korean, Japanese, French and Spanish.
“Sergeant,” Dong said in French to Jack. “He says that his men are trading them out because they don’t want to run out of ammunition before their friends do. He says they think you’re playing favorites with who gets them.”
“Jesus H. Donovan Christ,” Jack said, English profanity slipping into his French. “I’m not playing fucking favorites. You see here—”
Jack flipped the carbine in his hand upside down so the magazine well was facing up.
“It doesn’t have the right la
tch,” Jack said. “The M2 does, but if you use a thirty-round mag instead of the fifteen-round mag in an M1, the fucking magazine falls out of the fucking gun, and some Franco-Fascist sonofabitch turns you into Swiss cheese while you’re fumbling for it. I don’t know how to explain it any goddamn simpler than that.”
Dong struggled to keep up with the rapid fire, profanity-laced rant.
“Sergeant Beasley, a word.” A calm voice from behind Jack said.
Jack took a deep breath before turning around, knowing who wanted a word. The words were English, but the man’s accent made his name and rank sound like, “Sar-zhaun Beez-lee.” Jack thrust the carbine back at the soldier and the magazine at the NCO, then turned to face his commanding officer.
Captain Rapicault was shorter than Jack, with dark eyes that never seemed surprised at anything. He wore the same uniform as Beasley and the Vietnamese, save the captain’s bars on his collar and the black stenciled USMC and Eagle, Globe and Anchor insignia on his breast. He carried a radio in his ruck sack and a Thompson submachine gun held at the low ready in his hands. Rapicault’s posture was relaxed and his perpetually amused expression pissed Jack off every time he looked at him.
“Yes, Captain,” Jack said. “How can I help you?”
Instead of annoyance, Rapicault smirked at Jack’s avoidance of the word, “sir.” The Gallic nonchalance only pissed Jack off worse.
Bad enough I’m humping a ruck through a goddamn jungle…again…but I had to pull a CO who is a frog and a fucking jarhead on top of that.
Trouble in the Wind Page 36
