Combat- Parallel Lines

by William Peter Grasso

  “Let’s not waste time in speculation, Major. Focus on keeping our men alive.”

  As his commanders and staff trudged off to share the bad news with the troops, Jock pulled Patchett aside. “Top, there’s a planning meeting at Division headquarters at 1800 hours today. It’ll be to lay out plans for the defense of the Parallel. I’m sending the S3, and I’d like you to go with him. Snoop around as only an ace recon man like you can. Try and dig up any useful information they haven’t felt like divulging to us lesser mortals. The chopper will pick you up around 1630 hours.”

  Patchett replied, “It’ll be my pleasure, sir. And I could sure use that eggbeater ride to catch me a little nap.”

  Chapter Seven

  Tommy Moon couldn’t remember ever being so cold in an airplane’s cockpit. As he guided the Douglas B-26 Invader through the brilliant blue skies above the Japanese home island of Kyushu, he cursed the US Air Force for not including a cockpit heating system in the model’s specifications.

  Dammit, he thought, my old P-47 didn’t have a cockpit heater, either, but at least that big radial engine right in front of you sent a little warmth back your way, even in the coldest European winter. And the cockpit of that F-84 jet had heat! You could keep it nice and comfy in there. But in this ship, with her two engines sitting out on the wings and no heater, you’d better wear a couple pairs of long johns.

  And over Korea, it’s below zero even down on the deck.

  Why’d I let Pete talk me into this?

  The Pete in question—Major Pete Newsome—was relaxing in the right seat as he mentored Tommy through his first flight in the new ship.

  “For a guy with hardly any multi-engine time, you’re handling her just fine,” Newsome said. “But it shouldn’t be that big a deal for you. I mean, it’s the same Pratt engine we had in the jug…there are just two of them now. And an airplane’s an airplane. You fly one, you fly them all. A couple more check rides like this and you’ll be good to go.”

  “I figured with all this power, she’d be faster,” Tommy said, his gloved finger tapping the airspeed indicator.

  “C’mon, man…she’s a ground attack ship, not a racer. And she’s a natural fit for ground attack guys like you and me.”

  Tommy could find no argument with that statement. He and Pete Newsome had known each other since 1943. Back then, they were both young, novice P-47 pilots based in England, flying ground attack against the Germans in France and the Low Countries. A year later, after the Normandy Invasion, they’d performed that same mission from bases on the Continent. Though they flew in different sections of the 301st Fighter Squadron, no pilot in that squadron was a stranger to any other.

  They hadn’t crossed paths since the last war until they bumped into each other in the officers club bar at an airbase near Tokyo. Tommy had just been through the long and grueling debrief of his shoot-down, bailout, and solitary trek to safety through North Korea. Though he felt he’d acquitted himself well in front of the interservice brass, answering with clarity every question they’d thrown at him, he had little doubt he’d earned himself a new distinction, a dubious one he might wear around his neck for the rest of his Air Force career: Looks like I’ll always be the jet jockey who was the first to get knocked down by a MIG.

  It hadn’t helped that when he’d checked back in with his F-84 squadron after the debriefing, his commander informed him the squadron’s flights had been reorganized, there was no flight leader slot open for him, and it had far more pilots than aircraft at the moment. He could stay in the unit as a relief pilot—a very senior one, at that—but as far as bumping a less senior flight leader out of his slot, the commander left no doubt he wasn’t interested in doing that.

  Bad news travels fast, I guess. Looks like the boss already got the word from on high that I’m to be treated as a pariah.

  Later that night, after he’d lost count of how many beers he’d drunk, Pete’s offer to join the B-26 squadron sounded like salvation.

  “We’re real short on pilots, Tommy,” Newsome told him. “Most of these ships were in mothballs when Korea kicked off, and hardly anybody in the Air Force is still qualified to fly them. We’re getting some reserve units that actually fly the old girl over here in a couple of weeks, but it’ll be a while before they’re fully ready for combat operations. You should come over…you’re a natural for the ground attack role, and you’ve already got a lot of hours over Korea. You’d fit right in.”

  “But I’ve only got three hours of multi-engine time in my book, Pete…and it’s all in C-47s, for cryin’ out loud. Not exactly a hot ship.”

  “That’s okay. I had zero hours when I came over. You’ll be up to speed in no time. I’ll give you the check rides myself. How’s that for a deal?”

  Tommy stamped his boots on the cockpit floor, trying to get the circulation back in his feet. He’d need those feet to function properly for the next—and most crucial—part of this check ride. He asked, “I guess we should go out over the water for the engine-out stuff?”

  “Yeah,” Newsome replied, “and bring her up to angels ten, okay? Let’s get a couple of mistakes high.”

  Once level at 10,000 feet, Newsome said, “Okay, before we get into it, I’m going to pull back the power on the good engine just a little bit.”

  “So it’ll feel like she’s got a full load on board?”

  “Absolutely right, Tommy. That’s what I like about you…you catch on fast. Just remember—she’s got a real big rudder. You won’t need to stomp on the pedal very hard to keep her straight once we kill an engine. Just a couple of units of trim will do it, actually.”

  “How easily will she spin if you overdo it with the rudder?”

  “You’d have to push it to the stops. She’s real forgiving, believe me. You can even turn into the dead engine as long as you keep her speed up.”

  “So Mister Douglas really knew what he was doing when he built this baby?”

  “You got that right, Tommy.”

  Newsome adjusted the throttles for the exercise and then asked, “Ready?”

  “Yeah, Pete. I was born ready.”

  “Okay, hotshot…you just lost number two.”

  The B-26 quickly slowed and yawed as Newsome shut down the engine. With sure, deft motions, Tommy feathered the windmilling propeller and cranked in rudder trim. But he never lost focus on his primary job: fly the airplane. The ship lost only a few hundred feet of altitude in a smooth, controlled descent. With his gentle power corrections, her airspeed settled into the optimum single engine speed of 150 miles per hour.

  “That’s real good, Tommy,” Newsome said. “I’ll say it again…you’re a natural. Now let’s try a few turns.”

  “Do you mind if I turn into the good engine first? I’m still trying to get used to the idea that it’s okay to turn into the dead one.”

  “Sure. Give me a one-eighty to the left.”

  When that turn was done, Tommy steeled himself and began a gentle right turn. Much to his surprise, the ship showed no tendency to spin even as he tightened the turn into that dead engine.

  “I think I could learn to like this girl,” Tommy said.

  *****

  Once all the engine-out maneuvering was done, Newsome said, “Excellent. Now go ahead and restart number two.”

  Easing the ship into a gradual descent, Tommy engaged the starter as he prepared to unfeather the prop and bring the shut-down engine back to life. Looking through the right side of the windshield, he watched two blades slowly pass as the big radial engine cranked…

  And then the propeller stopped dead.

  Newsome’s calm shattered like a glass bottle being used for target practice. He straightened up in the seat and said, “Dammit, Tommy, hit the starter again.”

  “No joy, Pete. I think it’s sheared. I’m getting some current draw but no rotation.”

  “Can’t be! This ship is so low time it still smells of Cosmoline.”

  “Tell that to our busted starter.”
>
  “Here…let me do it,” Newsome said, his finger pressing the starter button.

  Nothing happened.

  “Told you,” Tommy said, still calmly flying the airplane. “But I didn’t figure I’d get the bonus of an engine-out landing on a check ride. You ever done one?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “You want to change seats?”

  Newsome thought about it for a minute. Then he replied, “Are you okay with doing it?”

  “Sure. And if I make the landing, you’ll sign me off right then and there as good to go, right?”

  “Man, you’re pretty eager to get back into the fight, aren’t you?”

  “You’d better believe it.”

  “Okay, then…not only will I sign you off, I’ll buy the beer for a solid month.”

  “You’ve got yourself a deal, Pete. Dial up Itazuke. Tell them we’ve got a little emergency.”

  *****

  Five miles from the runway’s threshold, Tommy noticed that despite the cold in the cockpit, Newsome was sweating bullets. His face looked as white as a ghost.

  “Are you going to make it, Pete?”

  “Yeah, yeah…just land the damn airplane, okay?”

  Tommy smiled, remembering the old airman’s truism:

  Takeoffs are optional. Landings are mandatory.

  *****

  The planning meeting at 24th Division Headquarters dragged on well into the night. Patchett used the time to do some of that recon Jock had requested. But the only interesting details he could uncover had nothing to do with the treacherous tactical situation the Americans and ROKs faced.

  First, there was a sealed communiqué from the States addressed to Jock Miles and stamped eyes only in big red letters. From the routing information on the envelope, he figured out it had come from the Inspector General, 6th US Army.

  Hmm…Sixth Army. California’s in Sixth Army’s region. That’s where Miss Jillian’s having that problem that’s got Colonel Miles all riled up.

  I wonder if the IG has something to do with all that? I reckon he wouldn’t have no business with us otherwise. We sure as hell ain’t part of Sixth Army.

  He didn’t have to wonder much about his second discovery: experienced combat officers were being pulled from the inactive reserve for duty in Korea. An old friend in the Adjutant’s section had shown him a list of the activated officers assigned to 24th Division. Two names practically jumped off the page:

  GROSSMAN, LEON A., MAJ, INFANTRY

  PAPADAKIS, THEO M., CPT, INFANTRY

  As I live and breathe, Patchett told himself, two of the finest fighting officers who ever served with Jock Miles and me are putting on the Army green again.

  He told his friend, “Bucky, Twenty-Sixth Regiment got dibs on these two. Where are these fine gentlemen, anyway?”

  “Probably on a plane headed for Kimpo, Patch.”

  “How about cutting them orders for the Twenty-Sixth right now? I’d like nothing better than to deliver that news personally to Colonel Miles. He could use some cheering up.”

  “No problem, Patch. Everybody’s gotta be someplace, so they might as well be at the Twenty-Sixth. Nobody else around here is gonna give a rat’s ass where they go.”

  “Damn right, Bucky. Now get those fat little fingers of yours banging on that typewriter.”

  *****

  By 1000 hours the next morning, 26th Regiment had already covered twenty-five miles on the road bringing them south to the 38th Parallel. The helicopter carrying Patchett and the S3 intercepted the column near the city of Hwangju.

  “Any problems with the chinks on the road?” Patchett asked Jock.

  “Nothing serious. It’s daylight, you know?” No sooner had he said that than a flight of F-51s streaked overhead. “The CCF knows that if they show themselves, they’re going to get burned by those flyboys.”

  That wasn’t just a figurative use of the word burned. Every prisoner they’d interrogated—both Chinese and North Korean—had said their armies were terrified of napalm. A few GIs who’d been captured were promptly released with instructions to relay this message: Tell your airplanes to stop firebombing us, or else.

  Nobody could imagine what or else might entail, except, perhaps, attacks by even vaster human waves.

  Or, perhaps, Russian divisions suddenly showing up on the battlefield.

  As Patchett handed the eyes only envelope to Jock, he said, “Before you open that, there’s something I just gotta tell you.”

  “Go ahead, Top.”

  “I pulled a few strings to get us Lee Grossman and Theo Pop as replacement officers.”

  At first, Jock thought he might have misunderstood. It didn’t seem possible.

  “Did I hear you right, Top? Grossman and Papadakis are coming our way?”

  “Affirmative, sir. Ain’t that good news?”

  “The best I’ve heard in a long while. When do they show up?”

  “They’re in Seoul now. They’ll meet up with us once we’re on the Parallel.”

  “Outstanding,” Jock replied. Then he examined the envelope in his hand, hesitant to open it.

  “You want some privacy, sir?”

  “I’d appreciate it, Top.”

  The communiqué read more like a personal letter than a military message. Its sender was Major General Dick Molloy, Jock’s regimental commander during the Southwest Pacific campaigns of the last war and a good friend. He was now 6th Army’s Inspector General.

  Jock,

  I’m told you’ve been made aware of an effort by US immigration authorities to deport Jillian back to Australia. I found out about her situation while members of my IG staff were investigating a possible case of criminal activity by military personnel at Fort Ord. Since that action is intertwined with the criminal matter my people are investigating, I’ve persuaded some people in Washington to put the brakes on the deportation while that investigation is ongoing.

  She’s being charged with falsifying the intent of her entry into the United States. They claim she acted as the agent of a foreign corporation, which is not an authorized activity for someone residing in the US on a spousal immigration visa. The issue is far more complicated than that, however, and involves possible malfeasance by Army personnel and their associates. Due to the legal nature of the investigation, I cannot reveal further details to you at this point.

  I’m afraid the delay of deportation may only be temporary, but I’m doing all I can to get the deportation order rescinded, if possible.

  I’ll keep you posted on what develops.

  Dick Molloy

  Jock stuffed the piece of paper into his pocket. Then he walked over to Patchett, who was in a discussion with the artillery battalion commander, a lieutenant colonel named Hector Sanchez.

  “Good news, sir?” Patchett asked.

  Jock replied, “Let’s just say it’s not bad news, Top.”

  “That’s encouraging, sir, because I’m afraid the colonel here’s got some bona fide bad news.”

  Sanchez laid out his problem. “It’s Baker Battery, sir…the colored battery. They’re just not working out. They dragged their feet badly this morning, nearly missing their slot in this motor movement. I practically had to lead every officer and NCO in that outfit by their noses just to get them on the road.”

  Jock asked, “What do you propose to do about it, Colonel?”

  Having to ask that question worried him; it sounded like the man had already given up trying to solve the problem. It was surprising, too: of all his officers, Hector Sanchez would, in all likelihood, be the man who could best understand and direct the motivations of those troopers immersed in racial and ethnic prejudices. As a Hispanic officer who’d grown up the son of migrant farm workers in the American West, he’d suffered—and overcome—the institutional xenophobia of American society in general and the Army in particular. Surely, Sanchez would, at least, have an idea how to improve the morale and motivation of the Negro troopers under his command.

  And
he did. But Patchett didn’t like the idea. Not one bit.

  “I thought we’d exchange battery commanders,” Sanchez said. “Swap a white man for Captain Little and vice versa. But Sergeant Patchett tells me he’s dead set against it.”

  Here’s another surprise, Jock thought. Melvin Patchett may be from Alabama, but when it comes to the GIs standing before him, he treats everybody the same regardless of race, with malice toward none. Off the top of my head, I’m not sure I’m crazy about Sanchez’s idea, either, but I want to hear Patchett’s reasoning before I say anything…and make this bad situation even worse.

  “Tell me why, Top,” Jock said.

  “Because we’re gonna ruin two outfits in one shot, sir. Everybody’s gonna feel like they’re getting punished, the colored and white boys alike.”

  That’s exactly what I was thinking, Jock told himself.

  But Patchett wasn’t finished. “And it’s typical of this man’s army to think that officers are gonna be the ones to solve all its damn problems. Now I got no qualms mixing the races—shit, I think the Army fucked up when it resegregated itself last summer—but expecting officers to make it happen is a big mistake. What’s worse, it’s a mistake we keep making over and over again, too.”

  “So what do you suggest we do, Top?”

  “Exchange the first sergeants, sir. That’ll get Baker Battery back on its toes real quick because they’ll want to show their new white top kick that they know their shit. And it ain’t gonna hurt whatever white unit got itself a colored top kick one little bit, neither. Some good ol’ boys will gripe, but the outfit’ll still perform just fine. Let ’em get settled in a little while, then swap a section chief or two. Before you know it, you’ll be able to mix white and colored personnel all you want…but let us sergeants take the lead on this. I guaran-damn-tee we’ll make it work, because we live with the men. No offense, gentlemen, but you officers don’t.”

  “None taken, Top,” Jock replied. Looking to Sanchez, he said, “What do you say we give that a try, Colonel?”