Combat- Parallel Lines

by William Peter Grasso

  “Let me see if I can fix this, sir,” he said to Jock Miles. “I got some skin in this game, seeing how the first sergeant swap was my idea and all.”

  “Negative, Top. I need you here.”

  Jock’s reason why: nobody brought order to the chaos of battle reports like his top sergeant. It’s almost like having a savant in your CP, he thought. He understands what every trooper is going through because he’s done it all.

  Patchett wasn’t happy being refused, but he understood a no when he heard one. “As you wish, sir,” he said. “But who’s gonna handle it?”

  Jock looked to Sean Moon, who had a phone in one ear and a radio handset in the other. “Can you break free, Sergeant?” he asked.

  “Well, sir, now that Third Battalion took out those rinky-dink airplanes and the tankers got Second Battalion’s left flank covered, I guess the S3 can do without me for a little while.”

  “Good. Now go find out why that battery is so damn late with their fire support.”

  *****

  It took Sean only a few minutes to drive to Baker Battery. The illumination from the searchlights was brighter there, since those powerful beams were being generated from a position only a few hundred yards away. That light allowed him to see that something was obviously wrong; the gunners were poised with rounds in the tubes, ready to fire. The firing lanyards were taut, waiting for that quick pull that would ignite the propellant and send the round on its way.

  But these gunners were waiting for a command to fire.

  It ain’t supposed to work like that, he told himself. They ram in a round…and once the gunner levels his bubbles and yells “Ready,” the assistant gunner jerks the lanyard. That’s all there is to it.

  So what the hell’s the holdup?

  As he approached the fire direction center tent, he could hear the battery’s white first sergeant—an old-timer named Fritz Waltzer—shouting angrily into a field telephone.

  “No, goddammit, you’re the ones who fucked up,” Waltzer was saying. “The elevation’s all wrong. Either your chart operator’s got his head up his ass or that whiz-bang you’ve got doing the computing’s been hitting the bottle.”

  Captain Little, the black officer commanding Baker Battery, explained the situation to Sean. “Battalion doesn’t trust my FDC to do the firing computations. Their FDC has to double-check all of my guys’ work before we have permission to fire. That takes a lot of unnecessary chatter back and forth on the landline, and it’s slowing everything down. So if you’re asking why it’s taking so long to get rounds on target, there’s your answer, Sergeant. We’re trying to do our job, but they’ve got us handcuffed.”

  “Whose big idea was that, Captain? I know it didn’t come from Regiment, that’s for damn sure.”

  “It comes from Colonel Sanchez, the artillery battalion commander,” Little replied.

  “Sounds like he fucked up, then,” Sean said. “You use one FDC’s numbers or the other. You don’t waste time looking over each other’s shoulder.”

  “I agree, Sergeant, but he won’t listen to reason. And orders are orders, you know?”

  “Well, sir, I believe I can get you a different set of orders right quick. You got a line to Regiment?”

  “Affirmative. We’ll ring them up for you.”

  Jock Miles was on the line within a minute. In that time, the battery had fired only one volley. They could’ve easily fired three or four if not slowed down by the roadblock at Battalion FDC.

  Three minutes after that, Colonel Sanchez was on the landline to Baker Battery, lifting the requirement for their computations to be checked by Battalion.

  “Sounds like a certain gentleman just stepped into a pile of shit,” Waltzer said.

  Captain Little smiled, adding, “The man earned it.”

  Sean stayed on for a few minutes to watch the battery’s FDC function. It ran as well as any he’d ever been in, the five-man computation team working together like clockwork. Rounds were in the air within seconds of receiving the firing data at the guns.

  “That’s more like it, Fritz,” Sean said to Waltzer. “But tell me, one top kick to another…did Battalion have a reason to think your guys were, shall we say, error-prone?”

  Waltzer laughed and shook his head. “Sure, they’ve got a reason, Sean…but it ain’t a good reason. My guys know their shit. In fact, did you hear me yelling at those idiots up at Battalion? They just made a mistake. If we’d fired their data, we would’ve dropped rounds into our infantry, for sure. And it ain’t the first time Battalion’s fucked up, either.”

  They stepped outside the tent to watch the gun crews in action.

  “You like what you see, Sean?”

  “Yeah, Fritz, they look good. Real good.”

  “Like I said, buddy…my guys know their shit.”

  As Sean headed back to his jeep, Waltzer called after him: “Tell that redneck Patchett he owes me one, big time.”

  *****

  There were many close calls that night, but 26th Regiment held the line against the Chinese onslaught.

  The same couldn’t be said for some other units in 8th Army.

  “Twenty-Fifth Division to our west got torn up pretty bad,” Jock told his commanders and staff at sunrise, once the CCF facing the regiment had melted back into the wooded landscape to the north. “The Chinese have broken through their line in a couple of places. That’ll put them on the other side of the Imjin, headed south for Seoul…and racing to get behind us.”

  Every man in the CP tent knew what was coming next.

  “So it won’t come as any surprise to you that we’re pulling back again,” Jock continued. “Start getting used to a new term Eighth Army just coined to identify where we’re going to dig in and hold the Chinese: the MLR, or main line of resistance. Our MLR will be the Han River, and that means Seoul.”

  A staff officer asked, “So that’s where we’re going to spend Christmas, sir? In Seoul?”

  “That’s the plan, gentlemen,” Jock replied.

  Once the briefing was over, Jock called Colonel Sanchez aside and led him to a corner of the CP tent, where what he was about to say wouldn’t be overheard. Ass-chewings needed to be done in private.

  “Colonel,” Jock began, “did you have any good reason for the restrictions you put on Baker Battery?”

  “Well, sir…my staff just didn’t feel we could trust them to—”

  Jock cut him off. “I’m not interested in what your staff felt, Colonel. They’re your problem. I asked about your decision as commander. What basis did you have for not trusting them?”

  The artilleryman started to blather about their record of unreliability. But Jock wasn’t buying it.

  “That’s all bullshit and rumor, Sanchez. Despite any past issues they had, there have been no instances of fire direction errors at Baker Battery while supporting this regiment. The only problem they exhibited last night was delayed delivery of fires, which was entirely your doing. By my calculation, your bad judgment was singularly responsible for about half the casualties this regiment took before Sergeant Moon alerted me to what was going on. That adds up to roughly twenty-five men who needed that fire and didn’t get it in time.”

  “But sir, I was concerned that if I’d let them fire unchecked, we might have had even more casualties, and they’d be due to friendly fire.”

  “That’s pretty weak, even for a hypothetical excuse, Hector. Now I’m only going to tell you this once: as far as this regiment is concerned, the color of a man who puts his life on the line is irrelevant. He’s entitled to the same treatment and respect as any other soldier. If you don’t agree with that, you and I have a big problem. So tell me…do we have a problem here, Colonel?”

  “No, sir, we don’t have a problem.”

  “And in your opinion, has swapping first sergeants between the white and colored batteries had the desired effect?”

  Hesitantly, Sanchez replied, “Yes, sir…it seems to be working.”

  “Out
standing. We’re all in agreement, then. Do you have any other questions, Colonel Sanchez?”

  When he had none, Jock said, “You’re dismissed. But a word of caution, Colonel… don’t ever fuck my men over like that again.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Eighth Army wasn’t the only mass of humanity traveling south to Seoul; civilian refugees fleeing the approaching Chinese clogged the highways, greatly slowing the GIs’ withdrawal to the MLR on the Han River. Jock Miles’ 26th Regiment had been the rear guard for 24th Division’s motor movement, fighting small, sporadic skirmishes with advance elements of the CCF all along Highway 33 for the past week. They were still fifteen miles from Seoul and the Han.

  Jock and Patchett watched their column crawl through the mass of refugees from high ground overlooking the highway. “With any luck at all, it’ll only take us one more day to reach our destination,” Jock said.

  “Amen to that, sir,” Patchett replied, “but I’m getting to feel real bad for these people. I wish now I’d shot that son of a bitching ROK lieutenant we caught beating on them old men and women yesterday. There was no call for that. A Korean just can’t get enough of pissing on anybody he thinks is lower than his sorry ass.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t shoot him, Top. That wouldn’t have helped a damn thing.”

  “At least we made that bastard give ’em back the rice he stole from ’em. But I swear, as I live and breathe, sir, if he’d mouthed off one more time…”

  They could see the trucks of the regiment’s medical section parked in a circle off the road, creating an ad hoc aid station. A column of refugees waiting to enter that circle for treatment stretched back almost a half mile. A platoon of GIs stood watch over the refugees, keeping the line orderly.

  Patchett said, “Kinda ironic that since we pulled back from the Imjin, the docs ain’t had hardly nobody to treat but civilians. You still think it was a good idea to start taking care of ’em like we’re doing, sir? They’re causing a big drain on our supplies.”

  “Yeah, I still think it’s a good idea, Top. From what our surgeon tells me, something like twenty percent of them were unlucky enough to get wounded in crossfires. Another ten percent got hit by our vehicles.”

  “Is he talking about the ones that didn’t get themselves run over and killed?”

  “Yeah, Top.”

  “It ain’t like we don’t warn ’em to stay outta the way, sir. And all the rest are just plain sick, I reckon?”

  “They get dysentery and frostbite just like we do,” Jock replied, “and a lot of other diseases we’re not used to seeing.”

  The muttering of a helicopter caught their attention. It was flying toward them from the direction of Seoul. “You expecting company, sir?” Patchett asked.

  “That’s all we need. Let’s take bets who’s in that eggbeater.”

  “My money’s on General Ellis, sir.”

  “Ah, that’s who I was going to bet on, too. Or maybe Santa Claus bringing our Christmas presents a week early.”

  The Sikorsky orbited twice before selecting a landing spot on the opposite side of the highway from the medical section.

  “I guess I’d better go meet him,” Jock said, steeling himself to the task.

  When he drove up to the idling helicopter, he was startled to see the man emerging from the aircraft was not General Ellis, the assistant division commander, but General Bishop, the division commander himself. A crewman had to help him exit the ship. Once he was on the ground, he walked slowly and unsteadily toward Jock’s jeep.

  This is one guy I never expected to see out here. Arthritis, severe cold, and the numbing vibration of aircraft don’t go together well. The shape he’s in, I can’t believe he’s still in command.

  Reaching the jeep, Bishop settled wearily against the passenger’s seat. The exertion of the walk had him breathing heavily; each exhalation blew great clouds of condensation into the air. It took almost a minute before he could speak.

  Pointing to the column of refugees lined up for the aid station, Bishop said, “Just what in blue blazes do you have going on over there, Colonel? Are we running free clinics for the gooks now?”

  “We were told by Eighth Army to provide medical care to civilians as required, sir. I don’t believe that directive has been rescinded.”

  “That doesn’t look like you’re dispensing as required care, Miles. In fact, you’re being taken advantage of. I’d venture a guess that most of those people don’t have a damn thing wrong with them. And there are probably a good number of KPA and Chinese infiltrators among them.”

  Bishop’s comment seemed ridiculous on its face, considering that everyone queued up for treatment was either a woman, child, or elderly man. While the regiment had rounded up a few communist infiltrators along the way—always men of military age with bogus or no papers and unlikely stories—no one who appeared to meet that description could be seen among this crowd.

  “I’m afraid you’d be incorrect on all counts, sir,” Jock replied. “If there are any young men in that line, they’re probably ROK deserters.”

  “There you go, quibbling again, Miles. Good lord, you West Pointers just love to do that, don’t you? If you ask me, those people are running a scam to get free medical supplies. And you’re playing right along. I’m ordering you to disband that little operation right this minute, Colonel.”

  “That would be going against Eighth Army’s directive, sir. Are you telling me to disobey orders?”

  Bishop began to sputter, his irate face nearly vanishing in a cloud of breath turned white in the frigid air. It took him a few moments to calm down. Once he had, he turned strangely philosophical: “These Koreans…they really are the Irish of the Orient, aren’t they? So mercurial. Either they’re reveling in murderous glee when they’ve bested someone, or they turn into sniveling victims when things don’t go their way, like this sorry rabble before us.”

  He paused, looking quite pleased with his little sermon. Then he continued, “But that’s not what I’m here to discuss, Miles. I’ve been going over the after-action reports from the fight on the Imjin. I see you took advantage of having the only searchlight company in the division to give yourself an easy night. In the meantime, the rest of the division—in fact, the rest of the whole damn Eighth Army—was taking a beating.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but my men took quite a beating, too. And am I not supposed to use all the tools available to me to get the job done?”

  “That’s not the point, Miles. You’ve been hogging those lights for months.”

  “They’re not my lights, sir. They were delegated to me by your staff after nobody else wanted them. And since there isn’t much of an aircraft threat, they’ve been fairly useless except on the few totally overcast nights we’ve been able to use them for indirect illumination. The rest of the time, I’ve been using the searchlight crews as utility manpower. And to my knowledge, no other regiment has expressed a desire to have the lights.”

  “Be that as it may, Colonel, but I’m giving that searchlight company to Seventeenth Regiment. Their sector on the MLR will be perfect for them, since it looks out on miles of flat terrain.”

  “So you’re planning on using them for direct illumination, sir?”

  “Of course, Miles. Isn’t that their primary purpose?”

  “They won’t last a night, sir. They’ll be exposed and get shot out the first few minutes of operation.”

  “We’ll just see about that, Colonel. Have the searchlight company report to the Seventeenth at Uijonbu by 1500 hours.”

  *****

  Twenty-five miles north of the 38th Parallel, Moon’s Menace VI was alone in a crystal blue morning sky as she cruised the North Korean coast near Yangyang. She was standing by to provide air support to a ROK division that was slowly withdrawing to the south. She’d been on her own since her sister ship turned back to Japan an hour ago with engine trouble.

  Hank Roth, Tommy Moon’s navigator, said, “Too bad Blondie had to a
bort the mission. We could’ve used a glass-nosed model with a bombsight, letting us drop our liquid fire from much higher up.”

  Bob Allen, the gunner in the rear of the fuselage, chimed in with, “Yeah, it’s a hell of a lot safer that way. Altitude is your friend, right?”

  “Can’t have everything, boys,” Tommy replied. “It was nice of that Navy Corsair to escort her back, though. Let’s stay on station…and maybe do some good for these ROKs.”

  Roth said, “And if something else goes wrong with Blondie and she has to ditch, at least that Navy guy can guide the Dumbo bird to the spot so those guys get picked up ASAP. Did you ever have to go in the drink, sir?”

  “I thought I’d have to a couple of times…but I always managed to make it home.”

  “Where’d they happen?”

  “The first time was way back in Forty-Three. My jug outfit was coming back from a rhubarb over the Low Countries—”

  “Rhubarb…that’s what you called a mission that looked for targets of opportunity on the ground?”

  “Exactly right, Hank. The visibility was lousy and I got separated from my flight. I was still pretty green, just a second louie with low hours…”

  “Like me.”

  “Yeah, just like you. Anyway, coming back across the Channel, my gyro started acting up. I got all turned around for a little bit. While I was preoccupied trying to sort out my heading on the wet compass, I forgot to switch tanks and the engine quit when I was only a couple of thousand feet up. I swear I was skimming the waves before I got her started again. And, of course, I had no idea where I was.”

  Trying not to sound too flippant, Roth said, “That’s because you didn’t have a navigator in those P-47s to keep you straight, sir.”

  “Yeah, I could’ve used you, that’s for sure. But luckily, England’s pretty big, and I managed not to miss it. Had to scud run like crazy to find an airfield, though.”