“Switchblade Leader¸ this is Slowbird Four-Five,” the AO transmitted. “I’ve got something right up your alley. Railroad tracks exiting west side of Big Top, going northwest through target box four-niner. We got us a huff n’ puff on the run, further identified by the cloud of smoke she’s making.”
Huff n’ puff: a train pulled by a steam locomotive.
The AO added, “I’m over the river, keeping an eye on her.”
“Roger,” Tommy replied. “Drawing any ground fire?”
“Negative. No tracers, no muzzle flashes visible.”
Once down to 5,000 feet over the south side of Seoul, Tommy and his navigator Hank Roth had the train in sight. They counted fifteen cars behind the locomotive and its coal tender. Most were boxcars, the rest open hoppers. Whether there were soldiers in any of the cars, they couldn’t tell.
“How much you want to bet that train’s carrying a load of chinks evacuating the city?” Tommy asked. “Pretty brazen—or pretty damn desperate—that they’re doing it in the middle of a blue sky day, when they’re obvious as hell. This is going to be like France in ’44 all over again.”
“What do you mean by that, sir?” Roth asked.
“It means I strafed a whole lot of trains in the last war, Hank, so many that I’ve lost count.”
The ship was entering the last revolution of a spiral that would take them down to 1,000 feet, the altitude from which they’d begin a strafing attack. Tommy asked the AO, “Is that track as flat and as straight as it looks? No tunnels, no nothing?”
“What you see is what you get, Switchblade. The only obstacles are the hills rising on the north side of the tracks.”
None of my other pilots have much experience going after trains, Tommy told himself, so I’ll take Switchblade Two with me and go after the locomotive. Three and Four can attack the freight cars back to front after I’ve made my pass.
Once he’d briefed his flight on the attack plan, he told Switchblade Two, “Pull hard left after the run and get back to the river. Stay away from the hills. If there are chinks with weapons up there, you’ll be flying too damn close to them.”
As they rolled in on the locomotive from her eight o’clock, Tommy reviewed in his mind what he’d told Two on how to attack: Go for that big round boiler…anywhere on it will do. Lead her slightly and aim low. Then use just a little bit of rudder and elevator to walk those rounds right across the ground and up into that boiler.
Down to 400 feet now, Moon’s Menace VI was locked onto her target. Tommy told Roth, “Watch for small arms fire from the train so we can give Three and Four a heads-up what they’ll be in for when they make their run.”
Roth asked, “Okay, but is that boiler going to throw pieces everywhere when she blows up? You know, pieces that can knock us down?”
“Probably not, Hank. There’s going to be a lot of steam venting, though. It might look like she’s exploding…”
Six hundred yards out, Tommy had the sight picture he wanted. He waited another instant before firing the eight .50 calibers in the ship’s nose. As the first rounds fell short, they threw up plumes of soggy marsh; with slight back pressure on the elevator, he walked the next rounds toward the briskly moving locomotive.
“This is easier than in the jug,” Tommy said. “No wing gun convergence to mess—”
His words were cut short as the locomotive exploded spectacularly, hurling large chunks of the shattered boiler into their path. In a flash, they entered the opaque plume of escaped steam, Tommy holding his breath, bracing for those terrible thuds of metal striking metal.
They passed out of that plume as quickly as they’d entered, without hearing that tell-tale sound of impending disaster. But they were racing toward the hills Tommy had sworn to avoid.
Hard left, stupid. Remember?
As he stood the ship on her wingtip, Tommy asked Roth, “Any gunfire from the train?”
“Who could tell in all that? I thought you said she wouldn’t blow up…”
Tommy didn’t answer. He was much too busy flying the airplane through the tight and fast low-altitude turn.
Switchblade Three and Four were making their pass at the train now, which was rapidly slowing due to the powerless locomotive. They had less than a second to decide whether to target the cars themselves or the countless figures they could see jumping off and scurrying toward the hills like so many ants. With no time to adjust to this new development, the two pilots maintained their original objective and, attacking in trail, shot the entire length of rail cars to hell.
“Great job, Switchblade,” the AO called after his own low pass over the smoldering, shattered train, which had come to a stop. “You blew that son of a bitch sky high.”
“Thanks,” Tommy replied without enthusiasm, “but it looks like the cargo got away. You see any troop activity in the hills we can go after?”
“Negative,” Slowbird said. He paused a moment before adding, “I guess those chinks live to fight another day.”
Tommy didn’t bother transmitting a reply. Instead, he turned to Roth and said, “Shit. I’m afraid we only did half the job.”
“But it looks like they were running away from Seoul,” Roth replied. “That’s a good thing, right?”
*****
Hank Roth was right on both counts: the Chinese were abandoning Seoul, and that was a very good thing for the 8th Army troops entering the city. They met little in the way of organized resistance. What they did encounter came mainly from lost stragglers and shaken deserters.
On 14 March 1951, Seoul was returned to the government of South Korea for the second—and final—time since this conflict began. That day, there was no pomp, no parade, and no MacArthur returning the keys to the city to Syngman Rhee.
Chapter Thirty
As the sun rose on the last day of March, the goals of Operation Ripper had been mostly achieved. Eighth Army had advanced to just twelve miles south of the 38th Parallel; despite the skillful retrograde operation waged by the Chinese forces who had abandoned Seoul, Ridgway’s forces had not been appreciably slowed in their push northward. The massive destruction of CCF forces he’d hoped for had still not been achieved, but the Parallel, at least, was finally within his grasp.
Twenty-Sixth Regiment held the town of Kap’yong, nestled in the valley of the Pukhan River, with towering high ground on all sides. One such piece of high ground—Hill 425—lay just a mile north of the town, in the sector of Lee Grossman’s 3rd Battalion. Anyone on the ridgeline atop that hill had an excellent view of Kap’yong, the river, and the two major roadways that traveled north from the town.
Jock Miles’ instructions to Grossman had been clear about Hill 425: “Sure, there may be chinks up there watching our every move, Lee. But I’m not exhausting your men—or anyone else’s—climbing that steep bastard. If you think they’re up there, just isolate the hill and let the Air Force take care of them.”
But several hours later, Jock was startled when Patchett told him, “Major Grossman’s on the command net, sir. You ain’t gonna believe this, but he’s on top of that damn mountain with two of his companies.”
“Shit. Tell him to get the hell off that hill right now, Top.”
“Says he can’t, sir. He’s got the peak, but them chinks are ringing the slopes on all sides.”
Together, they studied the situation map, looking for some way—any way—to prevent a sudden Chinese surge into the division’s rear area through the gaping hole Grossman had created by diverting his forces to Hill 425. “He left only one damn company—Baker—with a coupla tanks to block both highways,” Patchett said. “Pulling units from any other battalion to cover ’em just moves the hole someplace else.”
“You’ve got that right,” Jock replied. “Let’s do this—pull the armor from First Battalion and put it into Third Battalion’s area. Have Sergeant Moon coordinate the shift…and make damn sure those tankers know they’re working for Baker Company of the Third now. I’m going up that hill to see what
else I can do to straighten this mess out.”
Patchett couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “How the hell you gonna get up there, sir? You can’t drive it…you gotta climb the bastard on foot. And you ain’t gonna be doing it with that leg of yours, that’s for damn sure.”
“That’s why I’m taking the chopper, Top. It’ll drop me right on the peak.”
“But the pilot’s already had a look up there, sir. Says he can’t land…it’s too damn windy to set down on that narrow ridgeline.”
“He’s not going to land, just get close enough so I can hop out,” Jock replied.
“Hop out? How, sir? Your leg’s been outta the hopping business for quite a while.”
“My leg’s not the issue here, Top. If you’ve got a better idea, I’d love to hear it.”
But Patchett didn’t have one. All he could think was, This is just fucking great. I thought we were done with officers of this regiment having death wishes.
He shook his head sadly and said, “As you wish, sir.”
*****
The helicopter pilot offered another reason not to be thrilled with the idea: “It’s going to be dark in less than two hours, sir. I won’t be able to pick you up then.”
Jock replied, “Let’s not belabor the obvious, Captain. Are you taking me up that mountain or what?”
“Is it just you going, sir?”
“No. Me and my RTO.”
The pilot considered the details for a moment. “I’ll have to leave my copilot behind, then. We can’t afford the extra weight if we’re going to be screwing around near that mountaintop. It’ll just be me and my crew chief with you two. I wouldn’t take the crew chief, either, but I’ve got to have someone down in the cabin full-time with a better view of that peak than I’ll have once we’re right over it.”
“Whatever it takes, Captain.”
“Well, sir…if that’s what you want to do…we’ll give it our best shot. There’s still no guarantee we’re going to be able to pull it off, though. If that wind gets to swirling off the peak…”
“I understand, Captain. This isn’t my first chopper ride. Now let’s get airborne.”
*****
It took less than five minutes for the helicopter to arrive over the peak of Hill 425. Jock could see Grossman and a few of his men crouched against the icy wind and rotor wash. His aircraft bobbing like a cork in a stormy sea, the pilot struggled to keep the chopper just a few feet above the peak. The crew chief told Jock, “If you’re going, you’d better go now, sir. We can’t hold this forever.”
Jock and his RTO jumped when it seemed the gyrating ship was as close to the peak as it would get. The moment they were out the door, the helicopter lifted several feet and then barreled forward, skimming the downhill slope, building speed to gain lift. In her quest to escape the perils of the high-altitude hover, those on the peak were pelted by the stones and chunks of icy dirt propelled by her rotor wash.
Jock landed poorly, his bad leg crumpling beneath him as his feet hit the ground. For a moment, he feared he’d undone all the years of therapy that had enabled him to keep that leg, so grievously wounded in 1944. Pain shot through his thigh like electric shocks. When that pain subsided, he found he could stand and walk, not without difficulty and discomfort, but well enough to deal with Grossman and the problem he’d caused.
“You’d better tell me just what the hell you’re doing up here against my explicit orders, Lee,” Jock said.
“Better I show you, sir.”
He led Jock to a circular cluster of boulders that formed a sort of parapet. Seated within that cluster were two Chinese military men, hands bound behind their backs. They were middle-aged, older than the common soldiers the GIs usually captured or found dead. Their uniforms were clean and in relatively good condition, considering the harsh conditions on the mountaintop.
And they wore high-top leather boots on their feet, not the sneakers or wrapped rags of ordinary CCF soldiers.
“We took some prisoners at the base of the hill,” Grossman explained, “and they spilled their guts to the interpreters right away. Said there was the CP of a major command up on the peak, watching over the whole valley, coordinating the CCF efforts to stop us.”
Unimpressed, Jock asked, “And you figured the Air Force couldn’t kill them just as well as you could, Lee?”
“I figured it was too important to leave to chance, sir.”
“Bullshit. You knew I would’ve told you to leave it alone. So now you’ve got half your battalion under siege up here…and I’m looking at a massive hole in our regimental line.”
“But, sir, these chinks we captured…they’ve got to be colonels, at least, maybe—”
“Generals, Lee? Is that where you’re going with this? I thought we agreed you wouldn’t pull any more of this kamikaze commando bullshit to capture some high-ranking chink.”
“No, wait, sir! It’s not like that at all. I wasn’t trying to get myself killed. I wouldn’t have needed all these men with me if that’s what I had in mind.”
Hmm…he’s got a point there. But he’s still trying to play hero…and he’s made a horrendous mistake doing it.
“Trouble is, Lee, regardless of your intentions, there’s a good chance you’re going to get us all killed, anyway. We’ve got to get your men off this mountain before it gets dark.”
“I’ve been trying, sir…but they keep blocking us every time we head down.”
“How many casualties?”
“Two dead…maybe ten wounded.”
“Dammit, Lee. You’re wasting good people for no damn reason. Now let’s think this through and come up with a plan to get us all out of here in one piece. Show me the withdrawal routes you’ve already tried.”
As they huddled over the map, Jock’s RTO said, “Sir, I’ve got Backstop One-Five for you.”
Backstop One-Five: Patchett.
The news he reported was not good. Massed Chinese had pushed almost to Kap’yong along Highway 17, the very route some element of Grossman’s battalion was supposed to be blocking. That meant CCF forces were now on three sides of Hill 425—north, east, and south. That left only the west slope, which was extremely steep and very lightly wooded. Just a few enemy machine guns could turn it into a killing field that few Americans would escape.
Grossman’s people had already tried that route once and been beaten back. That’s where two GIs had died.
Jock asked Patchett, “Do the flyboys have any flame ships in the area?”
Flame ships: he was asking for a napalm mission against the west slope. With any luck at all, it would burn a path down the mountain, incinerating some—maybe all—of the Chinese trying to stop them.
It only took Patchett a moment to confer with the ASO. He relayed the answer to Jock: “Negative. We just missed out—someone else got the last dose for today. By the time they refueled and rearmed, it’d be dark, so there won’t be no more until morning.”
If we’re still up here, we’ll probably all be dead by then.
And if Lee had called for that napalm two hours ago, instead of launching into this damn fool exercise…
Jock asked Grossman, “Is there an artillery FO up here with you?”
“Negative, sir.”
“Well, we’ll have to call our own shots, then.” Getting back to the radio and Patchett, Jock called in a fire mission on the west slope.
“Just one hangup,” Patchett replied. “The cannon-cockers got radio problems. I’ve been running them a direct landline so I can relay calls for fire. I reckon it’ll be another two-zero minutes or so before it’s up and running.”
Random rounds from Chinese mortars were beginning to fall around the peak. Grossman said, “They’ve been doing that on and off for the last hour. Haven’t hit anything yet. Probably can’t see us to adjust fire…and you know how tough it is to fire a mortar with any accuracy when there’s a big vertical interval, anyway.”
“Let’s hope that holds true a while longer,”
Jock replied.
It had been cold on the hilltop, but the temperature had stayed just above freezing. A sudden wind shift changed all that in a matter of minutes. Frigid air from Manchuria to the north was now swirling over Hill 425.
The sudden bitter cold did more than chill the GIs; they watched in horror as the moist air down at the level of the river began to condense into a thick fog. It wrapped around the base of the hill and then crept upward, the ascent stopping halfway to the 1,300-foot peak. Viewed from above, the still visible part of Hill 425 looked like an island in a sea of white.
“This is all we need,” Jock said, “fighting in the blind, dammit.”
It might’ve been an ethereal experience, this perch above cottony clouds, glowing milky white in the late afternoon sun…
Like a castle in the sky.
But this natural wonder, no matter how breathtaking, was conspiring to make their survival less likely:
We can’t see a damn thing below us. The chinks could be massing for one of their human wave attacks right under our noses and we wouldn’t have the faintest idea.
When Patchett finally called to announce the artillery was ready to fire the first adjustment round, Jock was almost reluctant to let it fly; he might never see where it hit…or who it killed.
But what choice do I have? I’ve got to try something.
“Request splash,” Jock said, asking for that five-seconds-before-impact advisory over the radio.
“Roger on the splash,” Patchett replied. Ten seconds later, he reported, “Shot, over.”
The first adjustment round was on the way.
Twenty seconds later came, “Splash, over.”
The men on Hill 425 could hear the whoosh of the round as it flew past, sounding closer than they’d expected it would.
Then, after a few seconds that seemed impossibly too long, the crump of impact rolled like a single clap of thunder from the white mist below and promptly began echoing through the valleys. They’d seen no flash, and the echoes mocked their attempts to determine the blast’s direction by sound alone.
Combat- Parallel Lines Page 34