Combat- Parallel Lines

by William Peter Grasso

  Yet they made it.

  The emplacement of the Treadway sections encountered many technical challenges, and the Chinese harassing fire was continuous. But twenty-four hours later, the first tank rolled across the repaired bridge. His Pershing standing guard on the far side of the improvised span, Ramsay shook the hand of an engineer officer and said, “Lieutenant, if you told me yesterday we’d be across that damn gorge today, I’d have told you that you were out of your ever-loving mind.”

  *****

  Three days later, the survivors of 1st Marine Division—still a fighting unit despite being reduced to a third its size from the combined battering by the enemy and the cold—marched into the port city of Hungnam. In their wake, they left six shattered Chinese divisions who’d suffered far more catastrophic losses while failing in their mission to destroy them.

  *****

  Boarding the LST that would take them back to Pusan, Gunny Ramsay and his tankers had plenty of company: there were an equal number of Korean civilian refugees being rescued from the Chinese. As the flotilla of transports set out to sea, those grief-stricken refugees wailed as they watched US Navy ships bombard the deserted port city—and their homes—to dust.

  “Can’t let the chinks use the harbor facilities,” a deck officer explained.

  As Ramsay watched the sobbing Korean civilians, it brought back a bitter memory:

  Watching those people cry reminds me of our so-called victory at Seoul back in September, when we had to watch as MacArthur paraded his triumphant little motorcade through the ruins of the city. He even brought the missus along. But he never so much as looked to see the suffering his mistakes had caused those Korean civilians. He couldn’t have cared less that they were crying, too.

  I bet he expected them to throw flowers at him.

  We Marines wanted to throw something at him, that’s for damn sure.

  I said it then and I’ll say it now: we didn’t liberate these people. We slaughtered them.

  Chapter Eleven

  As much as he might want to, Jock Miles couldn’t greet every replacement joining his regiment the moment they showed up. He was just too busy, the burdens of command simply too great. For Lee Grossman and Theo Papadakis, though, he’d make the time. So would Patchett. The bond they shared fighting the Japanese in the jungles of Papua and the islands off New Guinea made any less of a welcome unthinkable.

  Papadakis was first off the truck, having ridden in the back with the enlisted men even though he wore the railroad tracks of a captain. He saw Jock and Patchett before his boots hit the ground. Not even bothering to scoop up his duffel bag, he marched directly to them and snapped to attention in front of Jock. In a booming voice straight from the streets of New York City, he said, “I hear you could use a little help, sir. Where do you need me?”

  Then he turned to Patchett and said, with mock surprise, “You still here, Top? I figured you had the good sense to get out after the last one, you old goat.”

  “Nah, I reckon any damn fool can do two wars,” Patchett replied, “so I went for three. But little did I know it would give me a chance to serve with The Mad Greek one more time. As I live and breathe, sir, them chinks gonna be damn sorry they pulled you into this fight, I tell you what.”

  Jock searched the crowd of arriving soldiers milling around the trucks. “Where’s that other damn New Yorker who’s supposed to be with you, Theo?”

  “Lee? He’ll be along in a minute,” Papadakis replied. Lowering his voice, he added, “Be gentle with him, sir. He ain’t in the best of moods at the moment. In fact, he ain’t been since we got on the boat back in Frisco.”

  Major Lee Grossman emerged from the crowd of GIs and approached slowly, almost reluctantly. There was a look of disgust on his face that finally dissolved to a tepid smile once he drew close.

  Jock and Patchett both wondered if he was mad at the world. Or mad at his present circumstances, at least.

  “It’s good to see you, sir,” Grossman said, “but I can’t say it’s good to be here.”

  “None of us can say it’s good to be here, Lee,” Jock replied. “But it’s damn good to see you, too. Why don’t we all go over to the CP and have some hot coffee? We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  Grossman seemed surprised, asking, “You mean you’ve actually got something hot in this godforsaken icebox? We haven’t had a hot meal since we got off the boat at Pusan. Couldn’t even eat the damn C rations they gave us. They were frozen solid.”

  Patchett asked, “They didn’t have no immersion heaters to heat up them entrees back in the rear area?”

  “Fuck no, Top,” Grossman replied. “The only immersion heaters I saw were being used to keep the plasma at some field hospital from freezing.”

  “By the way, sir,” Patchett said, “they call them field hospitals MASH units now. Mobile Army Surgical Hospitals.”

  Grossman scowled; he didn’t much care what they were called. But he asked, “What else did the Army change on me in the last five years?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid,” Patchett said. “All the individual and crew-served weapons are pretty much the same ones we used back in the jungle, except we got better rocket launchers now. They’ll actually stop a tank if you hit it right. They upgraded the M1 carbine to an M2 with full auto, but they don’t work worth a shit in this cold. And the radios still stink.”

  Jock added, “You’ll have to get used to working with armor, though. We didn’t have to do much of that back in the jungle. Take my word for it…you’ll learn to appreciate those tankers real quick.”

  Lee Grossman didn’t seem to be appreciating much of anything. But that first sip of hot coffee seemed to perk him up a little. He seemed positively eager to hear the answer when Papadakis asked, “By the way, how’s Miss Jillian, sir?”

  Jock assured them that she and the kids were fine. He didn’t get too deep into the possible deportation. This wasn’t the time or place.

  “But Colonel Molloy’s working on it, right?” Papadakis asked.

  “Yeah, but it’s General Molloy now.”

  “Even better. He’ll straighten things out, for sure.”

  “Let’s hope so, Theo.”

  Then Jock and Patchett gave them a down-and-dirty overview of the struggle with the Chinese, the regiment’s successes and failures, and dealing with that other enemy—the Korean winter. The avalanche of details drove Grossman back into a funk. Jock told him, “Let’s you and I have a talk, Lee. Step into my office.”

  The office was a field desk and some crates used as tables and chairs in a corner of the big CP tent. “Something’s on your mind, Lee,” Jock said. “I need to hear it.”

  “This is a screwing and a half, sir,” Grossman began. “It doesn’t seem fair. Guys like me and Theo…we did our bit already, in spades. There are plenty of others out there who haven’t.” He went on to explain that since he’d left the Army back in Forty-Five, he’d finished law school, gotten married, and finally landed a highly competitive position at a good Manhattan firm. But two months after being hired, he was recalled to active duty from the reserve officer pool for service in Korea.

  “I can pretty much kiss that job goodbye now,” he said, his eyes downcast, staring at the dirt floor, which was frozen as hard as concrete. “With any luck, I won’t have to kiss my marriage goodbye, too. At least we don’t have any kids yet. Rachel and I were focusing on our careers for the time being.”

  He took a long swallow of coffee before continuing. “When I got to in-processing, I tried to pull a transfer to JAG, considering I’d been accepted to the New York Bar. I thought the personnel officer was going to laugh in my face. He told me they’d take my transfer request but not to hold my breath. They wanted officers from the combat arms”—he tapped the crossed rifles of the infantry on his shirt collar—“and they got me hook, line, and sinker, dammit.”

  Jock let him fall into self-pitying silence as he thought, Lee Grossman was one fine warrior, tough as nails and smart as
a whip, with a year’s experience as an exceptional battalion commander in tough jungle combat.

  But the man sitting before me doesn’t sound like the same Lee Grossman.

  Maybe I should reconsider giving him Third Battalion?

  After a few moments, Grossman broke the silence, asking, “So what kind of job do you have in mind for me, sir?”

  “Actually, Lee, I was considering giving you a battalion.”

  His answer, delivered without a moment’s hesitation and almost upbeat, floored Jock. “Okay, sir. That’s fine with me. It’s not like I haven’t done the job before when the shit was flying. But what happened to the last battalion commander?”

  “I relieved him a few hours ago. He was a total disaster. I moved up his XO to keep the seat warm temporarily…but he’s not the right man for the job.”

  “Okay,” Grossman said. “When do I start?”

  “How about right now, Lee? I know it’s a little sudden, but that’ll give you a whole half a day to settle in…because once the sun goes down, there’s a real good chance the chinks will start coming out of the woodwork.”

  *****

  While Jock and Grossman were having their private chat, Patchett and Papadakis—Captain Pop, as GIs had always addressed him so as not to mangle his actual surname—did some serious catching up.

  “When I got home in Forty-Five,” Papadakis said, “I got a job with the New York City Department of Sanitation right away. But I couldn’t see myself hanging off the back of a trash wagon the rest of my life, picking up other people’s crap. I guess I had a pretty big chip on my shoulder from being an officer and all. In fact, the other can smashers on the crew started calling me The General…and not in a respectful way, either. One day, some wop union steward started breaking my balls about how I was working too fast, making it hard on everyone else who just wanted to go along to get along and put in their eight.”

  Patchett smiled. He had a hunch where this story was going.

  “It got kinda heated,” Papadakis continued, “and then the jerk-off throws a punch at me…”

  “And?” Patchett asked.

  “And I beat the ever-loving shit out of him, Top. He wanted to press charges, but too many guys saw him throw that first punch. When the cops heard that, they decided that maybe it wasn’t worth their time getting involved. I figured I’d get my ass fired, but the next thing I knew, the department moved me to a different garage and made me a foreman. By Forty-Eight, I was assistant manager of the place. And then, a coupla months ago—”

  “Uncle Sam sent you his greetings, right?”

  “You got it, Top. I didn’t take it hard like Lee did, though. To be honest, I needed the change. It was a two birds with one stone sorta thing. There was this woman breaking my balls to get married, see? I didn’t want any part of that.…and I’d kinda gotten to the point where I was looking forward to breaking a few heads again like we did back in the jungle.”

  “You’re gonna get your chance, sir. You can bet on that. But if you missed this man’s army so damn much, why’d you stay out? It woulda took you back any ol’ time.”

  “Hey, let’s not talk crazy, Top. Not everybody’s got Government Property stamped on his ass like you and Colonel Miles. But if you’re gonna order me back in, well...”

  His voice dropped to a whisper as he asked, “But what the hell is the colonel still doing here, anyway? Ain’t he a millionaire now or something?”

  “His wife is, not him.”

  “Yeah, but ain’t that the same thing?”

  “No, it ain’t like that, sir. The colonel’s got a special bond with the US Army. Miss Jillian understands all about it. She always has. Jock Miles ain’t hanging it up until he’s good and ready. And that’s an outstanding break for us, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “And his leg’s holding up okay?”

  “His leg’s doing just fine, sir,” Patchett replied.

  He considered it just a small fib.

  *****

  Lee Grossman wasted no time assuming command of 3rd Battalion. Within an hour of his heart-to-heart discussion with Colonel Miles, he convened his first meeting with the battalion’s cadre. He expected to be met with skepticism, even hostility. Jock had pulled no punches about how screwed-up the battalion was. But Grossman wasn’t concerned.

  When I took over the battalion from Jock Miles on Biak back in Forty-Four, it was a tough transition, too. Not because that battalion was dysfunctional like this one is—far from it—but Jock’s a tough act to follow. The men loved him. After having worked for him for so long, I loved him, too. Still do, I guess. A lot of us wouldn’t be alive today if it wasn’t for him.

  This transition’s going to be a lot different. But I’ve got a plan that’s going to work for me…and if the men in this outfit are smart, it’ll work for them, too.

  “My name’s Grossman,” he told his assembled officers and senior NCOs. “By the time the sun goes down, I’ll know all of yours, too. This is not the first battalion I’ve commanded in combat, and I’m going to tell you right now that I’m not here to win any medals. I’ve already got all I need from the last war. Some of you old hands might feel that way, too, and that’s fine.”

  Then, as if addressing a jury, he continued, “But I don’t want to be here any more than any of you, and I’m going to keep my time in this stinking country as short as possible. Here’s how I plan to do that: as you’ve already heard, your rotation home is contingent on accumulating the necessary points. You all know the math involved—the speed at which you collect points depends on what type of unit you serve in, whether or not that unit is in contact with the enemy, and for how long it’s in contact. A man in an infantry outfit like ours, positioned here on the front line and remaining in that position, will leave Korea in a little less than a year. I plan to keep this battalion on the front line for as long as I’m here, because that’s my quickest ticket home. Yours, too. In fact, most of you already have a month’s head start on me.”

  A captain asked, “What happens if we were to go into reserve, sir?”

  “Then your time in Korea will increase proportionally. It could add as much as fifty percent to your stay.”

  Then a skeptical master sergeant asked, “Interesting plan, sir…but ain’t it a little risky? I mean, it sounds like a whole lot of ways to get dead as fast as you can.”

  “You’re as good as dead from the moment you were born, Sergeant. But you don’t get to pick the time, so there’s no point worrying about it. Your job will get a hell of a lot easier once you realize that.”

  Just like reading a jury, Grossman could tell that about half of the officers and NCOs before him found his argument appealing, although most were guarded about showing it. But there were enough small, tell-tale gestures—chin rubbing, positive eye contact, gentle nods, relaxed posture—to indicate their agreement.

  Then he added, “But let there be no doubt that when we have to fight, we will fight and fight well. Some of you may already know that Colonel Miles and I go back a long way. I served under him in the Southwest Pacific during the last war…and I’m proud to serve under him again. You should be, too.”

  He paused and then asked, “Are there any more questions?”

  When no one raised his hand, Grossman said, “Okay…I’ve got a couple more things. I understand your last commander was real big on creature comforts and not so big on command and control. I assure you that I’m not afflicted with either of those diseases. If any of you are so afflicted, I suggest you take the cure immediately, or you and I will be having serious problems very shortly. And yes, it’s cold here…cold enough to hurt you, even kill you, if you’re not smart. But the last place I fought was hotter than a blast furnace, with deadly snakes as big as telephone poles, crawling insects the size of taxi cabs, and squadrons of mosquitoes intent on giving you malaria, which you either came down with or turned yellow as a Jap from the drugs that supposedly prevented it. So in other words, get your heads out of your
asses about how miserable you are here, button up real good, and start counting your blessings. You could be in worse places.”

  *****

  Theo Papadakis asked Jock, “What’d you tell Lee to turn him around so quick, sir?”

  “I didn’t have to tell him much of anything, Theo. I think he just liked the idea of being in command again.”

  “I can go along with that,” The Mad Greek replied. “So what’ve you got in store for me?”

  “Able Company in Second Battalion has no officers,” Jock told him. “It’s yours, Theo.”

  “No officers? What happened to them, sir?”

  “Two dead, the rest wounded and airlifted to Japan. The company took a beating a couple of nights ago, but the NCOs did an outstanding job holding the unit together under heavy pressure from the chinks. Major Harper is your battalion commander. He’s waiting for you with bated breath.”

  *****

  On the jeep ride to drop Papadakis off at 2nd Battalion’s CP, Patchett drove past Baker Battery, the regiment’s Negro artillery unit. When he caught sight of all the colored GIs busy around the howitzers, Captain Pop said, “Pull over, Top. I ain’t believing my eyes.”

  “What’s the matter, Captain? You never seen a colored outfit before?”

  “Actually, no, Top. I thought the Army was supposed to be integrated now.”

  “Technically, it is, sir. But practically speaking, we still got a long way to go. To be accurate, though, it ain’t an all colored unit no more. The first sergeant’s a white man.”