by James Rosone
“At least this officer isn’t naïve enough to believe he knows everything,” Ian thought to himself. “He might yet turn into a decent officer.”
The captain continued, “Look, the weather is going to clear up in the next couple of days. The colonel said that when that happens, the ROK is going to try and make a final push to cross the Taeryong River and drive the Chinese and North Koreans to the Chinese border. While the ROK will continue to do the brunt of the fighting, our brigade is going to continue to support them. When the ROK armored units secure a hole in the enemy lines, our brigade is going to punch through that hole and try to drive the enemy to the Yalu River.”
Captain Porter took a deep breath. “I don’t know how much time we have to get our replacements ready, but I want you guys to focus on making sure they know what their responsibilities are and what to expect as best you can. I know this is a crappy situation we all find ourselves in, but we need to make the best of it and do our best to keep our soldiers alive. Everyone understand?”
They all nodded in agreement. The group talked a bit longer with the captain, making sure they knew what the next day’s plans were before being dismissed to head back to their platoons and squads.
“Promoted two ranks… so much for shooting myself in the foot and getting out of this mess,” Ian thought as he struggled back through the snow to his squad’s armored vehicle.
When he walked in, he was wearing his new rank, which caught everyone by surprise. While the soldiers in his squad respected him as their sergeant, they all knew he hated being in the Army and wanted out of Korea. They were surprised to see he had been promoted; they were even more surprised when he promoted three of them to sergeants and informed them of the new recruits that would be arriving in a few hours.
Slater suddenly realized that his little squad was going to be split up, and he was now in charge of an entire platoon. “How can I be a platoon sergeant?” he thought. “I’ve only been a squad leader for three months.”
That evening, the replacements arrived, along with the new armored vehicles. The next two days were spent getting everyone organized into their squads and making sure everyone had the right load-outs of ammunition, hand grenades and everything else they would need. Sergeant First Class Slater made sure they loaded the vehicles with enough food and water to last each squad three days. He also made sure they were packing three times their normal load of ammunition. Once the ROK secured a breakout, their unit would punch through the hole in the enemy lines and work to roll up the enemy position. It also meant they might be operating outside of their normal supply lines for a couple of days or more.
* * *
It was Christmas Eve, and the snowstorm had at long last cleared. High above the Allied lines, the soldiers below could see the contrails of dozens of B-52s as they moved north. Then, as if on cue, they heard the sound of falling bombs. The loud screaming noise they made as they fell from high altitude towards the targets below was terrifying. Off in the distance, the soldiers watched in wonder and terror as the enemy positions across the river were hit by hundreds of explosions across their lines. Trails of smoke and fire filled the horizon.
While they were observing the bombers turning back towards friendly lines, they saw several of the lumbering aircraft explode. Either enemy aircraft or surface-to-air missiles were finally catching up to them.
Once the explosions from the bombs fell silent, the unmistakable sound of artillery whistled through the air. ROK and American artillery started to fire hundreds of white phosphorous or WP rounds all along the enemy positions. While this was happening, dozens of engineering vehicles with portable bridging equipment rushed forward towards the river, establishing multiple pontoon bridges to ferry the Allies across.
Several of the engineering vehicles and crews were blown up by some unseen enemy. One of the pontoon bridges blasted into flying shards as the enemy artillery scored a direct hit.
In the midst of the Allied artillery barrage, the WP rounds were switched to smoke rounds, blanketing the river crossing area in smoke as the Allies tried to conceal their efforts to cross it.
Sergeant Slater winced when he heard the sound of incoming artillery flying high over their heads, heading towards where their own artillery was set up. The Chinese were starting their counterbattery fire in hopes of suppressing whatever the Allies were planning to do.
Under the cover of smoke, the engineers worked feverishly, connecting one section of bridging with another to get the pontoon bridges completed. As soon as bridges were assembled, they watched as one ROK unit after another crossed the river to engage the Chinese soldiers. Within an hour, they had observed probably at least three or four battalions’ worth of tanks and other armored vehicles cross the pontoon bridges. Then, waves of light infantry soldiers ran across the bridges, trying to get to the opposite side.
While Slater’s platoon seemed to be transfixed watching the river crossing, their radio crackled to life. “Baker Platoon, we’re moving out. Prepare to cross the river,” Captain Porter announced. It was now their turn to work their way down the road that would lead them to the river crossing.
The soldiers in the vehicle with Sergeant Slater were mostly young replacements. Most of them had just finished basic and advanced infantry training less than a week ago, and now they found themselves on the front lines, advancing to contact with the Chinese People’s Liberation Army. It was quite a shock to most of them. They reacted to the scream of each artillery round flying over their heads and flinched at the boom of any nearby explosion. Ian envied their naivety; he wished he still had that same innocence, but that had been stolen from him when the war had started without any warning.
After driving for a little while towards the river, their vehicle finally approached the pontoon bridge. Ian had actually never crossed a bridge like this in an armored vehicle, and he crossed his fingers that there wouldn’t be any problems. He was terrified of being trapped inside if the vehicle fell into the water. He had heard from other soldiers in his unit about how some guys had drowned when a Humvee had been flipped over by an IED in Iraq and rolled into the river. Those soldiers had been unable to get their wounded comrades out of the vehicle before it had sunk, and the guys stuck inside had been too injured to push the heavily armored doors open against the water.
“I could never be in the Navy,” Ian realized.
“Sergeant Slater, when do you think we’ll see some action?” asked one of the new soldiers, guilelessly believing in the romanticism of war.
Ian looked at the new guy for a second. He seemed eager to fight, while the others in the vehicle were a lot more reserved. They all looked like they would rather be anywhere than there, just like him. But not this guy. He wanted to be there. He wanted to kill.
“Once we get across this bridge, we’ll be across our lines into enemy territory. After the ROK units force a break in the Chinese lines, our brigade is going to punch a hole right through it and push to the Yalu River. When that happens, we’re going to see a lot of action. I want everyone to stay frosty, OK?” he replied, more to the rest of the group of soldiers than directly to the private who had asked him the question.
“Basically, another hour or three, then, right?” the private asked.
“Is this kid serious?” Slater thought.
“Private, I don’t know when we’ll be in combat, but trust me, you’ll know when it happens,” Ian replied, obviously annoyed. “Either our vehicle will be blown to bits and you’ll all die in a fiery burning mess, or you’ll start to hear bullets and shrapnel bounce off our armor. In either case, you’ll know when we are in combat. Just listen to what I tell you, guys, and hopefully we’ll all live through the next couple of days.”
“I liked being a specialist or buck sergeant,” Slater finally realized. “I was only responsible for a small group of soldiers. Now I have a whole platoon to worry about. If any of these guys get killed, I’m not writing any letters home to families. The officers can do that.”<
br />
As their vehicle moved forward, the vehicle commander yelled back to them, “We’re holding up for a bit!”
Some fuel trucks were moving up, and they were going to top off while the ROK pressed their attack. A few minutes later, Ian’s vehicle came to a halt.
Sergeant Slater told the guys, “Get out and stretch your legs while you can.” They happily obliged. Some of the soldiers pulled out their cigarettes or chewing tobacco, while others did some stretches.
In the distance, they could hear the explosion of artillery rounds, the booms of tank guns, and the thumping of helicopters racing to the front. Ian looked up and saw two Blackhawks heading away from the front, back towards friendly lines. The helicopters had red crosses on them, designating them as medevacs. Surveying the scene around them, Ian realized they had essentially stopped in a Chinese armored graveyard. Dozens upon dozens of armored vehicles and tanks were strewn around the back side of the slope they were on. Some of the vehicles were still burning; others had dead or charred bodies near them or hanging from some of the hatches, a sign that they had tried to escape the burning vehicles but had failed in their effort.
While the vehicles were being fueled, Ian walked down the line to talk with a few of his squad leaders and make sure they were doing OK. He started talking with the corporal he had promoted to staff sergeant — the guy also happened to be his roommate prior to the war starting, so of course he was going to hook him up. In the middle of their chatter, they heard the whistling sound of incoming artillery rounds.
Everyone flattened on the ground or dove into a nearby armored vehicle. Four rounds landed around their vehicles and the fueling tankers. The ground shook violently as the overpressure from the explosions smacked the soldiers who had flattened themselves on the ground. Next came two large secondary explosions, which rocked their area further.
Then Ian heard the agonizing screams of the wounded. He looked up and saw the fuel tanker that had been refueling his Bradley exploding, throwing fuel everywhere, including his own vehicle. One of the soldiers that had hit the dirt near the vehicle screamed and rolled around on the ground, desperately trying to extinguish the fuel that had splashed all over him and ignited from the blast. Then, another soldier emerged from the back of the Bradley, also on fire and screaming. The soldier just ran in a straight line in the snow; he made it maybe ten feet, screaming and flailing his arms around, until he dropped to his knees and fell face-first, silent while the fire continued to consume his body.
Sergeant Slater and some of the other soldiers nearby grabbed fire extinguishers and ran towards the flaming Bradley. As they approached the vehicle, one of the two missiles that was stored in the launcher on top of the vehicle cooked off, blowing part of the turret off and throwing shrapnel everywhere. Ian felt something hot and sharp cut the side of his face as he fell to the ground.
When he pulled his mind out of the daze he found himself in, he realized that there was nothing he could do for the soldiers that might still be in the track. They were all gone, dead.
Medics ran towards the various wounded soldiers nearby. Grown men screamed for their mothers or wives or cried out in agonizing pain. Slater immediately waved to one of the soldiers with a radio that was nearby. “Call a medivac! Get us some help, and then radio the captain and let him know we took casualties from that artillery barrage.”
Ten minutes later, a Blackhawk with a red cross descended towards them, just as Captain Porter arrived. The medics quickly carried the wounded to the waiting angels of mercy.
“Sergeant Slater! What the heck happened?” yelled Captain Porter over the roar of the helicopter.
Ian turned his back to the helicopter as the captain came running up to him. “We got hit by some random artillery fire. It nailed one of my Bradley vehicles, and then another Bradley was destroyed when a tanker exploded and doused the vehicle in fuel,” he replied, disgusted by what had happened.
Captain Porter paused for a second, then looked Ian in the eyes. “You OK, Slater?” he asked out of genuine concern.
“I don’t know, Captain. Half of my platoon is made up of replacement troops, and in less than 72 hours, I just lost them all. I was a sergeant three days ago; now I’m responsible for a platoon, and half of my guys are dead. And we haven’t even attacked the Chinese yet,” Ian stammered, clearly shaken by the events and starting to feel a bit of the shock of his own injury. While the cut on his face was not deep enough for him to be medevacked out, it still stung.
Captain Porter put his hand on Ian’s shoulder, looking at him for a second. “I know this is tough. I know you don’t feel like you’re ready to be in charge of a platoon, but these guys are counting on you, and so am I. I need you to pull it together and lead your soldiers. Can you do that for me?”
Ian took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment before responding. “Yes, I can do that. I’ll be OK, Sir. You can count on me.”
In that moment, Ian realized that no matter how badly he wanted out of Korea and the Army, he was stuck, and he needed to make the best of the situation. He had soldiers depending on him, and he didn’t want to let them down. The cut on his face reminded him of his own mortality and how close he had come to being killed. While it was a minor flesh wound, had it been a few centimeters to the left, it would have torn right into his skull.
Spies
Beijing, China
It was a cool November morning as Major Wong poured himself a cup of tea and sat down at his desk to review the week’s flight plans for anything of interest. One item that caught his attention was a flight to New Delhi, India, at the end of the week. When he saw who would be on the trip, he became suspicious, and then a plan formed.
“I need to contact my handlers about this immediately,” he thought.
* * *
After completing a series of advanced training programs and extensive background checks, Wong had been assigned to a small cadre of PLA Air Force pilots who flew executive aircraft for high-ranking members of the Chinese Communist Politburo. Wong had been a member of this elite group for nearly four years, ferrying senior government officials around the country and the world, until one day he had impressed Chairman Zhang, the Head of Chinese State Security.
While making a routine flight from Beijing to Shanghai, Wong’s aircraft had come into contact with a small group of birds. One of the birds had been sucked into an engine intake, causing the engine to fail. Had Wong not been as expertly trained as he was, the aircraft might have crashed. Ever since that day, Wong had become Chairman Zhang’s personal pilot.
Unknown to Chairman Zhang, Major Wong had been secretly recruited by the American Defense Intelligence Agency nearly ten years ago, when he had attended a flight training program held by Bombardier Aerospace regarding various executive aircraft that the Chinese Air Force was purchasing. During his training, he had been approached by one of the flight instructors.
The instructor had told him casually, “If you’re willing to provide information on the flight plans of certain individuals, you will be compensated handsomely.”
At first, Major Wong had refused, but the more he’d thought about it, the more he’d begun to tell himself it really wasn’t a “state secret” who was flying on his plane or where they were going — not with social media and the press always reporting on everything.
Then, during one of his training flights, when it was just him and his instructor on the aircraft, he asked what they would want to know, how much he would be compensated, and how he would communicate that information to them. Once these questions had been clarified, and he felt reasonably sure he could pull it off, he’d agreed to be a spy for the Defense Intelligence Agency.
After a couple of mundane years flying senior Politburo members around the country, he had been promoted to major and transferred to private service for Chairman Zhang. When he’d informed his handlers of this new posting, they increased his compensation considerably. At last check, he had accumulated over three and a hal
f million US dollars in his account in the Cayman Islands. His plan was to retire to some white sandy beach in another few years, drinking Mei-Tais and chasing scantily clad women.
Then the war had started, and everything had changed. His handlers had tripled his pay for information to compensate for the increase in his risks. His handlers especially wanted him to identify when and where Chairman Zhang and President Xi would be traveling outside of China. While Chairman Zhang was not going to be traveling to India at the end of the week, his trusted aide Wu was. Major Wong was pretty sure his handlers would still be interested in this information. He was one step closer to a sunny, sandy shore.
Beijing, China
US Embassy
While the majority of the embassy personnel had been flown out of the country at the start of the war, a small skeleton crew still remained at the compound and carried out the daily functions of diplomacy, which, while minimal, were still important. Terry Bell, the head of the Defense Intelligence Agency in China, continued to man his post at the embassy, despite the risk of being detained as a spy in China during a time of war. This took an extraordinary amount of courage, considering that he could legitimately be shot if he were ever captured or his true identity discovered.
While he sat in his office, reviewing the latest military report from Korea, his smartphone chirped, indicating he had received a text message. Knowing this smartphone was only used by his sources to contact him if they had information he would value, he immediately opened the message. A grin spread across his face.
“This could be the opening in the war we’ve been hoping for,” he thought as his mind began to process what his source had just offered.