Red Phoenix

by Larry Bond

  “You don’t need to worry about a thing, sir. The boys have been up to Malibu West so often they could probably load everything up in their sleep,” Pierce said.

  “Right, Sergeant.” Kevin cleared his throat. “You go ahead and get started then. I’ll tell Lieutenant Rhee about our new orders and meet you back at the barracks to go over the movement ops order.”

  Pierce saluted and left whistling. Kevin watched him leave, envying the man’s seeming ability to take anything that happened in stride.

  He turned on his heel and headed for the two-story, whitewashed BOQ to find his South Korean counterpart, Lieutenant Rhee.

  Under the Combined Forces structure set up back in 1978, virtually every American line and staff officer had a South Korean counterpart assigned to handle liaison with the ROK Army. It was a step that had been taken partly for political reasons — to smooth over growing South Korean resentment that an American general always commanded all allied forces. But it was also a very practical concept. In a situation where there were more than fifteen South Korean soldiers for every American, the counterpart system helped make sure that language and cultural barriers didn’t impede military efficiency as much as they might have.

  When Kevin had arrived at Camp Howze, Rhee had been off attending some kind of staff course, so he’d only met the Korean lieutenant a couple of times. But they’d gotten along fairly well, and Rhee spoke perfect English. So perfect in fact that Kevin felt embarrassed that he’d only been able to pick up a few sentences of phrasebook Korean.

  Second Lieutenant Rhee Han-Gil, wearing a crisp, newly pressed uniform, opened the door to his room at Kevin’s first knock and waved him in. Except for a cigarette smoldering in an ashtray on the desk, the room looked ready for an inspection by the entire General Staff. Every book was perfectly aligned, Rhee’s clothes hung in regulation order, and the sheets on his cot were pulled so tight that it looked like you could bounce even a paper won — the Korean currency — off it. The South Korean lieutenant seemed just as ready for an inspection. He was shorter than Kevin and stocky, but he had a lean, sharp-featured face.

  “What can I do for you, Lieutenant Little?” Like most Koreans, Rhee was a stickler for titles. The easygoing, informal way most Americans spoke to each other was completely alien to people raised in a culture steeped in the need to show respect for authority. Rhee would have been shocked if Kevin started calling him by his first name.

  “We’ve got movement orders — short-notice ones.” Kevin tried not to let his dislike for Captain Matuchek show. “We’re being sent up to some place called Malibu West for a week.”

  “Ah, yes, Malibu West. I have been there before. I’m afraid that it is not nearly so glamorous as the real Malibu in California must be.” Rhee smiled slightly.

  Kevin let that pass. He’d never been to Malibu anyway. “Yeah. Well, we’re moving out early tomorrow morning, so I thought I’d better let you know. You’ll need to be packed and ready to go by oh two hundred.”

  The Korean pointed to a duffel bag standing in the corner. “Thank you, but there is no need. I am quite ready. But I can make use of the time to coordinate with the units holding the other outposts on our flanks.”

  “How the hell … did Matuchek already tell you we were moving up to the Z?” Kevin asked, irritated that the captain might be trying to make him look like an ill-informed idiot.

  Rhee looked apologetic. “Oh, no. The captain didn’t tell me anything. It’s just that the communists caught my country sleeping once before. We shall never be caught that way again. We’re trained to be ready for any eventuality.”

  “Well, you’re way ahead of me on this one,” Kevin admitted. He paused, realizing it was probably time to swallow a little more pride. “Look, if you’ve been up to this place before, maybe you can give me some advice on what to take up there. I mean, besides the usual, my combat gear, rifle, stuff like that.”

  Rhee nodded. “Of course, I’d be honored to assist you in any way I can.” He thought for a moment. “First, I should take a set of extra blankets if I were you. The nights are growing colder and we won’t have any heat up at the outpost.”

  Kevin was surprised. “What? Well, hell, why don’t we take a couple of camp stoves with us then?” Christ, you’d have thought some bright Army officer before him would have figured that one out.

  Rhee didn’t look impressed. “Unfortunately,” he said, “camp stoves produce smoke. And the communists have the unpleasant habit of using smoke as an aiming point for the occasional mortar shell.”

  Mortars? Oh, brother, this was getting worse and worse. A posting to West Germany would have been so much better. The Russians and their East German puppets might be a dour lot, but at least they didn’t lob mortar shells over the inter-German border on a whim.

  Kevin shook his head. “Okay, no camp stoves. Blankets instead. Anything else unusual I should bring?”

  Rhee flexed his fingers. “Well, you might bring along a deck of cards.” He twisted his Korean Military Academy class ring back and forth. “A good game of your American five-card stud always helps to pass the time.”

  So, Mr. Perfect enjoyed a game of poker, did he? Kevin concealed his surprise. He’d been in the country long enough to learn that the South Koreans were a proud people. It wouldn’t do to offend or shame Rhee by making a big deal out of the fact that he liked to play cards. After all, it wasn’t as if he had a surplus of friends over here. He grinned. “Okay, you’re on. I’ll see you on the parade ground at oh one thirty tomorrow.”

  Rhee smiled back. “As you American say, it’s a date.”

  “And Lieutenant,” he said as Kevin moved to the door, “I thought your point about the machine guns in today’s exercise was very interesting.”

  “Yeah, well, thanks. But I’m afraid the captain didn’t exactly think so.”

  Rhee didn’t exactly smile either, but Kevin could swear he saw an eyebrow twitch upward. “The captain is, of course, a good soldier. Is there anything so perfect, however, that it cannot be improved?”

  Kevin sketched a rough salute and stepped out of Rhee’s quarters in a happier mood. Things might finally be looking up, and even his hangover seemed to be fading.

  So his Korean counterpart liked to play cards. Well, if he was going to be stuck in some godforsaken hole for a week, he might as well make the best of it. Colonels, captains, and majors always seemed to be able to read the least bit of indecision on his face in military matters, but card games were something else altogether. He could hold his own there. Rhee couldn’t possibly know that playing poker had supplied him with spending money all the way through college.

  He headed back to the platoon barracks. Sergeant Pierce might be perfectly able to handle all the arrangements for the move on his own, but he’d better get some idea of just what was involved. It would beat sitting on his behind in his quarters, moping around. He stopped in his tracks for a second. My God, maybe he was actually getting used to this place.

  Kevin remembered that optimistic thought sourly as he watched his platoon assemble on the floodlit parade ground early the next morning. The sun wouldn’t be up for several more hours yet, and a cold north wind made the darkness outside Camp Howze seem even blacker. He pulled his fatigue jacket tighter around him, trying to stay warm, and did his best to look alert as Sergeant Pierce called the roll.

  The platoon had already loaded their gear on the row of canvas-sided Army trucks parked behind him. Now the men were lined up, shivering at ease, as Pierce took a last check — making sure that nobody got left behind, snug in a warm bunk.

  “Walton?” Pierce wasn’t shouting, but his voice carried across the parade ground.

  “Here.”

  “Wright?” Silence.

  Pierce waited a couple of seconds and tried again, “Wright? Look you dumb bastard, I saw you loading a truck not more than two minutes ago. So answer up.”

  “Yeah, Ah’m here, Sarge. Guess Ah must’ve fallen asleep. It’s jus
t so cozy here in Ko-rea.” The other men chuckled softly. PFC Wright’s deep Arkansas twang and deadpan delivery made him the platoon comic.

  Kevin waited for the platoon sergeant to come down loud and hard on Wright, but he didn’t. Instead, Pierce just chuckled himself and said, “Okay, Funnyman. You think it’s so warm? Then I guess I won’t hear any complaints from you when you pull sentry duty tomorrow night.”

  That brought a laugh from the rest of the platoon. “Way to go, Johnny,” called someone from the ranks to Wright. “Thanks for volunteering. We’ll be thinking of you while we’re freezing in our sleeping bags.”

  “Aww, Sarge,” Wright tried again. “You know Ah got me a delicate type of chest condition. Walking a beat could send mah poor little soul right up to heaven.”

  But Pierce was waiting for that one. “Well, PFC, be sure to give my regards to St. Peter then. I’ll let him know you’re on the way.” Even Wright broke up laughing. Kevin felt himself smiling in the darkness and tried to stop. He had to maintain his dignity, didn’t he? But he could hear Rhee, standing beside him, laughing as hard as all the rest.

  “Okay, troops. Settle down,” Pierce said. “The sooner we get this roll call finished, the sooner we can get in out of this damned wind.” That shut them up.

  “Yates?”

  “Here.”

  “Zelinsky?”

  “Here, Sergeant.”

  Pierce shoved his clipboard back under his arm. “Tenshun!”

  The platoon snapped to attention.

  Pierce turned to Kevin. “Platoon present and accounted for, sir!” He saluted.

  Kevin stepped out of the shadows and returned the salute. He took a line out of the movies. “Very good, Sergeant. Load ’em up.”

  The sergeant wheeled back to face the platoon. “You heard the lieutenant.

  Let’s go. Everybody on the trucks!” The men broke ranks and started clambering into the canvas-sided trucks, one eleven-man squad per vehicle.

  Kevin pulled himself into the passenger seat of the lead truck. Rhee clambered into the one just behind him, and Pierce took the last truck in the convoy.

  The five trucks wheeled off the parade ground and roared out through the main gate. Once on the highway running past the camp, they turned north and lumbered toward the DMZ.

  Camp Howze was only about fifteen kilometers behind the DMZ but the trip to the assembly point took nearly two hours. Every kilometer or so they were stopped at fully manned checkpoints, complete with barricades, barbed wire, and machine guns. And at every checkpoint their papers were scrutinized by submachine gun-toting South Korean security troops. Kevin didn’t know what made him more nervous, the intense security or the possibility that it was necessary.

  At last they turned off the main highway onto a tree-lined dirt road winding up a narrow valley. The corporal driving the lead truck slowed down to a crawl, and the ear-splitting engine noise fell away to a low, dull roar. A helmeted soldier appeared in the headlight’s beams, waving a flashlight fitted with a red lens. The driver said, “There’s our ground guide.”

  Reaching forward, he doused the truck’s headlights, turning on the dim red blackout lights.

  Startled, Kevin turned to ask him just what he thought he was doing.

  The man drove and kept his eyes on his guide. “Regulations, sir. We’re within five klicks of the Z here and we’re not supposed to make it any easier for the North Koreans to know what we’re up to.”

  Kevin had to admit that made some sense. He sat back and tried to act nonchalant as they drove slowly up the valley.

  The assembly point was a small clearing just behind the trenches and bunkers of the main line of resistance, the MLR. They were ten minutes behind schedule. Kevin clambered out of the truck cab and walked toward the lone figure who had guided them. Urged on by Sergeant Pierce’s low, hoarse voice, his men clambered out of the trucks and formed up in a column of twos. It was still pitch-dark outside. The moon had set and low clouds covered most of the night sky.

  The red beam came up and centered on his face.

  “Second Platoon from Alpha?”

  Kevin nodded, then realized the man probably couldn’t see him all that clearly. “Yeah. You the guide to Malibu West?”

  “Sergeant Hourigan, sir. Third Platoon, Bravo Company. Lieutenant Miller’s waiting back up at the outpost. If you’re ready, sir, we should hit the trail. Sunup’s in a little over an hour and a half, and we’ve got some hard walking to do by then.”

  “Okay.” Kevin half-turned toward the column behind him. “Sergeant Pierce?”

  “Here, sir. Platoon’s assembled and ready to move.”

  Kevin turned back to their guide. “Okay, Hourigan. Let’s do it.”

  Hourigan lead them out through an opening in the rolls of barbed wire strung along the MLR. The ground was rough and uneven, but even in the dark Kevin could see that every tree or tall patch of brush had been cut down or uprooted to provide clear fields of fire for the troops stationed behind them.

  Hourigan stopped suddenly, then moved over to the left a few yards. Kevin followed him. The sergeant reached over and tapped him on the shoulder. “See them white stakes up ahead, Lieutenant?”

  Kevin nodded.

  “Well, there’s a pair every few yards. Stay between ’em unless you want to get blown to bits. We’re going through the main minefield now.”

  The column pushed on, moving slower now that they were in the minefield. Kevin kept going, trying to keep pace with Hourigan. He brushed away sweat that was beginning to trickle into his eyes. Jesus, he hadn’t carried a fifty-pound pack since basic. He could feel his heart pounding. In the still night air every scuffed rock, patch of dried grass, or broken twig made a noise he could swear would carry for miles.

  At last they came out of the minefield and started up a winding trail that got steeper and steeper. They began passing through piles of boulders lying half-buried on the slope. Kevin could feel the straps of his pack starting to cut into his shoulders as they climbed. God, this was a damned high hill. It hadn’t looked this bad on the map.

  A voice broke through the darkness. “Halt.” It was accompanied by the sound of a machine gun’s being cocked. Shit.

  The sentry called, “Advance and be recognized.” The party walked forward in the pitch-blackness. After a dozen steps they heard, “That’s far enough. Marbles-Galore.”

  The sergeant stopped. “It’s Hourigan, you dumb son of a bitch.”

  “I don’t give a shit. Give the countersign or you’re a deader.”

  “Zebra-Cardinal.”

  “Okay, Come ahead.” They could hear the safety being snapped back on. Kevin ran a hand across his face and wiped it across the front of his jacket. Damn, what a bunch of paranoid assholes.

  The platoon stumbled over the crest of Hill 640 and into the middle of Malibu West. Another column was there, waiting to go down.

  A figure wearing black plastic bars stepped out from the head of the other column. “Little? I’m Miller. Glad to see you’re here. Look, let’s go into the command post and I’ll get you settled in before I head down after my troops. Hourigan and your platoon sergeant can get your men squared away.”

  Kevin still couldn’t quite make out the man’s face in the darkness, but he could tell that it was getting lighter.

  He followed Miller down a couple of steps into a low, lamp-lit bunker. The command post, or CP, was scarcely five feet high, made of green sandbags with a beamed ceiling. Inside, it was barely big enough for the two cots, a table, telephone, and backup radio. And it stank. A mixture of unwashed bodies, damp mustiness, and old food hung in the air. Kevin tried not to breathe in too deeply.

  Miller laughed. “I know. It’s pretty bad, isn’t it? Our laundry and bathing facilities aren’t exactly first class up here. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.” The other lieutenant had dark shadows under his eyes.

  He motioned Kevin over to a low table crowded with a map and a communications setup. �
��Okay, here are your fire concentrations.” Kevin could see a sheaf of plastic overlays with colored-pencil markings showing preregistered artillery firing points and code numbers.

  Miller continued on down the table. “Your radio, field phones, sound-powered phones to your squad leaders and the other outposts nearby, one to your company CP back on the MLR, and the artillery direct line.” Kevin nodded his understanding.

  “Any questions?”

  Kevin shook his head, then thought better of it. “Just one. Has it been hectic up here lately?”

  “Nah. Pretty damned quiet — for once. Only one alert, the usual ‘hold your ass and pray until the all-clear comes.’ ” Miller stood up, stooped low to avoid the roof. “Okay. That’s it then. Good luck and I’ll see you back at the camp.” He held out his hand.

  Kevin shook it, suddenly realizing that Miller couldn’t wait to get out of Malibu West. Well, he couldn’t blame him for that.

  Miller nodded and ducked back out the door up into the cleaner air outside.

  Kevin sat down heavily onto one of the bunks. Great, he had a whole week in this combination rattrap and outhouse to look forward to. He dropped his pack off onto the ground by his feet. At least that felt better. Then he remembered that he’d better report the platoon in to Captain Matuchek back in position along the main line. He stepped over to pick up the phone to the company CP.

  Now, just where the hell was that list of code names he was supposed to use? Kevin fished around in the pockets of his fatigue jacket before coming up with a small pad of radio codes.

  He lifted the field phone’s receiver. “Alfa Echo Five Six. Alfa Echo Five Six. This is Alfa Echo Five Two.”

  “Go ahead, Echo Five Two. This is Echo Five Six.” The line was clear of static. Good, he could call for help without much trouble if he needed it. That was reassuring.

  “Echo Five Six, Echo Five Two is in position. Say again, Echo Five Two is in position.”

  “Roger, Two. You’re in position. Out.”

  Kevin put the phone back down on the table and rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t gotten any sleep the night before, and he knew he’d have to stay awake at least until past dawn to make a daylight inspection of the position.