*****
Eighth Army, General Walton Johnnie Walker’s command, was holding the left—or western—half of the UN line, just as it had since summer without interruption. General Almond’s X Corps was scattered throughout the mountainous and desolate eastern half. But all across that line—which stretched over one hundred miles across the Korean peninsula from coast to coast—the Chinese were attacking once again with what seemed an unlimited supply of light infantry. They still possessed little artillery, no armor, and no air support, but that came as small comfort to those GIs and Marines facing the endless, crushing waves of determined infantrymen who seemed indifferent to the massive casualties the CCF was suffering.
The Marines and GIs ringing the Chosin Reservoir quickly found themselves on their own, as Gunny Ramsay had feared:
This fucking brutal weather has slowed traffic on the MSR to a trickle. Right now, we don’t have the fuel to drive any farther north into those damn mountains, and we ain’t likely to get it any time soon, either. Just as well…my tanks will never make it through those mountains, anyway.
So we’re stuck here. Like sitting ducks…
Or maybe frozen ducks.
General Smith, our division C.O., has established our perimeter up on three peaks overlooking the Chosin and the road north. It’s good that our infantry’s on that high ground…
But there’s not a damn thing my tanks can do to support them up there, so the armor mission is to provide security for the airfield General Smith is trying to build at Hagaru and make sure no chinks slip behind us to cut off the MSR. Because that one damn road isn’t just the only way we’ll get supplies—it’s the only way we can back out of here if we have to withdraw.
The CCF is already coming up the back side of those mountains for tonight’s attack—the side my tankers can’t even see from down here. The radio is alive with reports of contact and calls for mortar fire. It’ll be another bloodbath. Mostly theirs, but plenty of ours, too.
Our guys are holding their ground, at least for now.
But if we can’t get resupplied with enough ammo, fuel, and food…
We won’t be able to hold those mountains for long.
*****
Twenty-Fourth Division’s withdrawal plan was a simple one; it had to be, because night movements when in contact with the enemy were among the most risky maneuvers a unit can undertake. The potential for confusion, chaos, and deadly errors was monumental.
As it would be this night.
Jock’s regiment—the 26th—would lead the division column south toward Pyongyang, setting the pace for a major vehicle movement that would last all night and into the following morning. Once on the road, the motorized units of 24th Division had little fear of pursuing Chinese. Without vehicles to transport them, the CCF couldn’t keep pace. Only able to march at night due to the threat of American aircraft, they’d have to walk for two nights to reach Pyongyang. By that time, the GIs could be well dug in on flat terrain that would deny the Chinese the concealment to infiltrate American positions they’d enjoyed in mountainous terrain. That flat ground would become a killing field for the CCF’s mass attacks.
Ten minutes to the scheduled time for 26th Regiment to start rolling, frantic radio traffic began to spill from the CP van’s speakers. It painted a picture of a plan already falling apart. “Seventeenth Regiment jumped the gun, sir,” Patchett told Jock. “They’re already on the road, and it’s the wrong road, to boot. Near as I can tell, they got panicky that the ROKs on their left had cut and run, so they did the same.”
Jock asked, “And where’s the Seventeenth now, Top?”
“They’re already behind us on the Pyongyang highway, sir.”
Jock kicked a tire of his jeep in frustration. “Dammit, that means our left flank—hell, the whole Eighth Army’s flank—is wide open.”
“What do you reckon we oughta do, sir?” Patchett asked.
Spreading the map on the hood of his jeep, Jock told his driver to hold a flashlight on it. Tracing a secondary road that fed into the highway just south of Sunchon, he asked, “Is this the road the Seventeenth took to get behind us, Top?”
“Has to be, sir.”
“All right, we’re going to drive south down the highway and plug that road junction. It’s only two miles from here, and we’re all ready to roll. Second Battalion will go in first with a company of tanks as a blocking force until the rest of us can get there. That should put the brakes on any chinks that might be running after the Seventeenth…and stop them from getting behind the whole damn division.”
“Amen to that, sir,” Patchett replied. “I reckon you want a staff meeting right here?”
“Yeah, Top. Right here, right now. We’ve got to get everybody on the same page real quick.”
Chapter Four
Sean Moon led the company of tanks supporting 2nd Battalion. Once they’d gotten the order from Colonel Miles, it had taken twenty minutes for the combined arms team to drive to the road junction that would become their blocking position.
“I hope we’re not too late getting here,” Major Harper, 2nd Battalion’s C.O., said as he struggled to get his rifle companies emplaced in the darkness. “I’d hate to think some chinks have already slipped past here.”
“Not likely, sir,” Sean replied as he and Harper studied the map on the hood of the major’s jeep. “They can’t run too fast with all the shit they carry with ’em. They ain’t got trucks, remember?”
“Do you think we ought to use the flare ship?” Harper asked.
“Why not, sir? It’s supposed to be way better than shooting illum rounds. We just gotta get that ship to drop those babies in the right place. Where the hell is that damn ASO who’s supposed to be with us? It’s his job to get that stuff on target.”
A voice replied, “That damn ASO is right here. I’ve been trying to find you, Major. Good thing that big noisy tank decided to find you first. I just followed the sound.”
An Air Force captain—the air support officer—appeared out of the darkness and joined the two. He asked, “So what can I do for you, sir?”
Harper told him they wanted the flare ship to deliver the deluxe illumination package. “I want it so bright that I’ll be able to look through a chink to see the one behind him,” he added.
“Firefly is five minutes out,” the ASO replied. “She can start dropping immediately.”
“Whoa, not so fast, sir,” Sean said. “We gotta time the drop for when the chinks are in the open. Otherwise, we’ll spook ’em.”
The ASO didn’t see the problem with spooking the Chinese. “Wouldn’t that be just as good, Sergeant?”
“Negative, sir. Negative. They’d still be out there somewhere. We gotta get rid of ’em before they start popping up all along this damn highway. We don’t need no fucking ambushes tonight.”
“Okay,” the ASO said, “but how will we know when the chinks are coming?”
Harper replied, “I’ve already got listening posts set out. The second they hear anything, they’ll pull in and we’ll light up the fireworks like it’s the Fourth of July.”
“I got a question,” Sean said. “How do we get this flare ship oriented in the dark?”
“They fly intersecting radio beams out of Pyongyang and a mountaintop near Yankdok,” the ASO replied. “They’ll guide her close enough to us that I can signal the crew with my blinker light. That way, they get positive ID of your unit’s position, too. Just tell me how far out you want the light sticks. The wind’s going to make the flares drift toward us, so we’ll have to compensate for that.”
“Sounds like a plan, sir,” Sean said. “Just do us a favor and have the ship loiter about a mile east of here so the drone of her engines don’t mask any sounds for the guys on the LPs.”
“What about the noise from your tank engines, Sergeant?” the ASO asked.
“Once my vehicles are in position, we shut ’em down. I hate doing that—you never know if the damn things are gonna start again,
especially in this icebox we’re in—but the chinks will hear ’em, too, if we keep ’em running before it’s time to engage. Kinda ruins the surprise, you know?”
*****
Twenty minutes later, the first LP reported the unmistakable sound of many footsteps crunching through snow. Within thirty seconds, the other two LPs reported the same thing.
“Let there be light, Captain,” Major Harper told the ASO.
The flare ship—a C-47 transport with a cabin full of parachute flares, each flare capable of providing several million candlepower of illumination—began her run. Night became day as her crew hurled the canisters from the ship’s open cargo door at an altitude of 2,500 feet. The blanket of snow covering the ground heightened the flares’ effect, reflecting and enhancing their brilliant light. Her pass complete, the ship headed back to the holding pattern, safely away from the bedlam that was about to erupt.
A surreal scene appeared to the GIs: in their puffy white uniforms, the approaching Chinese—still about two hundred yards away—appeared to be ranks of snowmen trundling toward them. Though their usual procedure if caught in the light of flares was to freeze, the CCF soldiers began to charge the American positions on the dead run. Perhaps they realized that even if they stood stock-still, the shadows they cast while being backlit by the flares would give them away.
Or perhaps they started running because they were terrified.
“They got two choices,” Sean said. “Run away or run straight at us. Looks like they picked the wrong one.”
Within seconds, hundreds of Chinese were cut down by the interlocking fire of dozens of machine guns. Even those who tried to crawl under the bullets grazing the earth found no safe haven; airbursts from mortar rounds showered them with deadly steel, the sizzling hot, razor-sharp fragments slicing through flesh and bone like paper.
“They didn’t play that one real smart,” Sean said. “But we’d better get another flare drop lined up real quick. It ain’t like a chink unit that big to quit after only one try.”
The American gunfire began to taper off; there was little to shoot at anymore. Nothing was moving in the dimming light as the first drop of flares began to burn out.
Then the GIs heard the bugles sounding the call they’d come to associate with an impending attack. Sean said, “See? What’d I tell you? Get ready for round two.”
*****
The Marines at the Chosin Reservoir could hear bugles, too, echoing through the mountains, announcing that another attack by the CCF was on the way. It would be the second of the night; the first had been repulsed by the skin of their teeth.
As they fired great volumes of lead into Chinese troops assaulting up the steep slope, the men of the platoon holding the south face of the peak were startled to find enemy troops among them, seeking out their fighting holes, trying to kill the unwitting Americans in those holes with bullets, grenades, and even bayonets.
When his squad leader was shot dead from behind, a Marine PFC named Morton grabbed the .30-caliber machine gun the sergeant had been firing. Pulling the weapon from its tripod, Morton stood, turned around, and laid down a deadly curtain of fire behind his platoon’s position on the peak.
“GRAB ANOTHER BELT,” he yelled to the closest Marine.
The man didn’t move. He just hunkered deeper into the fighting hole. It looked like he was trying to disappear into his helmet.
“FUCK YOU, THEN,” Morton said as he grabbed the ammo belt and slung it over his shoulder. He climbed from the hole and started walking across the peak, firing the machine gun from the hip. The only illumination was from the flashes of weapons firing all around him. There wasn’t enough light for him to see where he was going or who he was shooting at.
Then Morton tripped over something.
As he scrambled back to his feet, the obstacle that had taken him down began to groan. He reached out to the man, telling himself, Please don’t tell me I shot one of my own guys.
But just a touch of the man’s rough clothing—the brittle feel of cotton stiff with ice—told him this was no Marine. He felt no need to shoot the man again. Bullets were precious.
Then he continued to stalk the peak of the mountain, firing at the many silhouettes still darting about in the darkness.
Anything running around like that gotta be a chink.
Morton was almost out of ammunition when something struck him in the midsection and knocked him off his feet.
He didn’t remember falling.
*****
Despite the freezing weather, the Marine Corps engineers at Hagaru were making steady progress on the runway General Smith so desperately wanted. Their bulldozers and graders were turning the frozen, rocky turf into a surface long enough, smooth enough, and flat enough for large transport aircraft to takeoff and land. Within the next twelve hours, the engineers felt confident an R4D—the Navy and Marine Corps designation for the C-47—could land there. “She might be a little weight-restricted on takeoff,” the engineering officer told General Smith, “but she’ll have a good twenty-five hundred feet of runway.”
The work was too important to be delayed by darkness, so they toiled through the night in the glare of floodlights, hoping—praying—the enemy didn’t possess artillery powerful enough to fire over the mountains at the well-defined targets they were.
But even without artillery, Chinese infantry could still infiltrate and attack. Every engineer kept his weapon close as he labored; they couldn’t forget that every Marine, whatever his specialty, was an infantryman first.
Gunnery Sergeant Jim Ramsay had a hunch: This airfield is more an insurance policy to get our wounded out of here than a supplemental way to bring supplies and reinforcements in. It’s no secret we can’t advance any farther than the Chosin without decimating First Marine Division…despite the bullshit the Army generals are trying to peddle.
And there sure as hell isn’t much point in our Marines dying just to hold this useless piece of ground.
Ramsay had another hunch, too: If the chinks are going to try to overrun the airfield, they’re going to come from the east, infiltrating around that route-step Army outfit on the east side of the reservoir…and those GIs won’t even have a clue they did it.
The Marines on the west side of the Chosin won’t let that happen.
That second hunch was proved right when, on the airfield’s darkened eastern edge—beyond the glare of the engineers’ floodlights—the startling flash from the main gun of his Number Three tank lit the night like a lightning bolt. In that brief moment of illumination, the tankers could see the squads of CCF sappers running toward them. Some had already made it to the tanks, climbing onto their decks.
“Dust them off, Marines,” Ramsay commanded. While his lead tank and Number Two trained their machine guns in the direction of the sappers still approaching, the other three tanks turned their machine guns on each other, firing into the Chinese who’d already clambered on board with their grenades and satchel charges.
Within seconds, the decks of all the Pershings had been swept clean. But for Number Four, it was too late; a sapper had managed to wedge a satchel charge against the grate covering her engine inlet. Though a stream of bullets quickly found him, he’d done his damage. The explosion tore into the engine’s inlet duct and dual carburetors. It was still running but only at an unsteady idle; any attempt to accelerate made it sputter to the point of stalling.
But her crew could—and did—keep firing, imprisoned in the immobile steel cocoon that had just saved them. They all shared the same thought: Just so she doesn’t start burning.
A voice from the airfield’s CP boomed from Ramsay’s radio: “Do you need illumination and support from the engineers?”
“Affirmative on the illumination. Negative on the engineers. They don’t need to get caught in the middle of this.”
Immediately, several floodlights were turned the tankers’ way. The harsh light left no doubt the fight was over. A ghastly scene surrounded them: by Ramsay’s
rough count, there were thirty dead Chinese littering the ground, a few more on the decks. If there were survivors among those sappers who never reached the tanks, they had vanished into the night.
“Correction my last transmission,” Ramsay radioed the CP. “Tell the engineers we need a bulldozer to dig a real big hole. Maybe a padre to say some prayers over these dead chinks before we throw them in, too.”
*****
At sunup, Ramsay’s tank platoon was relieved from patrolling the Hagaru airfield construction site. It was the first chance for the crews to talk face to face. Ramsay had a question for Number Three’s commander: “Dave, how come you fired your main gun instead of your MGs when you first spotted the chinks? I mean, it was a hell of a way to get everyone’s attention, but why’d you waste the round?”
“I didn’t waste the round, Gunny. I had a chink swinging from my tube. I couldn’t shake him loose, so I blew him off with the muzzle blast. You said never open a hatch to take a shot at somebody trying to pull shit like that, right?”
*****
Ramsay’s platoon of tanks—minus the one still disabled on the edge of the airfield— had one more job to do before catching their brief daytime sleep. The four Pershings drove five miles to the Toktong Pass at the base of Hill 1451—one of the three peaks the Marine infantry held on the Chosin’s west side—to serve as ambulances for the wounded being brought down off the mountain.
Damn, there are a lot of them, Ramsay told himself. Looks like a company’s worth, at least…
And Lord knows how many dead are still up there.
With eight wounded Marines crammed across his aft deck, Ramsay’s vehicle started rolling slowly toward the field hospital at Hagaru. They hadn’t gone more than one hundred feet when he saw a Marine sitting on the side of the road. He was staring into the brightening sky as if in some sort of trance. Ramsay told his driver to stop.
Combat- Parallel Lines Page 4