by T W Powell
MacArthur was a grand strategist, he disdained frontal assaults and wars of attrition. He devised a daring plan to land 75,000 UN troops at the Port of Inchon only 30 miles from the South Korean capital, Seoul. Inchon was on the far northwest coast of South Korea, only a few miles south of the North Korea/South Korea border. From Inchon, UN forces could retake Seoul, drive into North Korea, and threaten to cut off the bulk of the communist forces now besieging the Pusan perimeter in the far southeast.
The armchair generals and desk jockey bureaucrats in Washington opposed the Inchon landing as being too risky. Inchon’s tides were too high, there were only two narrow channels into the port and the channels were fraught with dangerous currents, plus there was a high seawall. MacArthur figured that the North Koreans likewise thought Inchon unsuitable for an amphibious assault, just like the Germans had discounted Normandy as an unlikely site for the D-Day landings. Through sheer force of will and at the risk of his own personal prestige, MacArthur won approval for the Inchon landing. Within two weeks of the Inchon landing, UN forces had retaken Seoul and the North Korean army was retreating pell-mell from Pusan to avoid being cut off.
While feeding the growing concentration of UN troops in Pusan, Private Ike Johnson fed his own reading addiction by reading every page of Stars & Stripes and news magazines like LOOK, TIME, and LIFE with an occasional Reader’s Digest and National Geographic thrown in for variety. Reading reports of MacArthur’s victory at Inchon convinced Ike that he would soon be heading north.
Ike’s suspicions were right. Within days, Ike was indeed heading north as the UN forces were hot on the tail of the retreating Korean People’s Army. It was during this advance that Ike first saw his enemy up close. The North Koreans were filthy, starving and disease ridden. The food he prepared for the North Korean prisoners was basic, but nutritious, and many of the POWs quickly realized how lucky they were to be prisoners of the “evil capitalists”.
In late November 1950, Ike was reassigned to Regimental Combat Team 31, also known as Task Force Faith, comprised of elements of the 31st & 32nd Infantry Divisions along with tank, artillery, and anti-aircraft units; 2500 men total. The UN forces were now deep inside North Korea and advancing toward the Yalu River that ran along the Red Chinese border. Rumor was that everyone would be “Home for Christmas”.
Task Force Faith was to advance up the east side of the Chosin Reservoir covering the Marines’ right flank. As Ike moved northward and November became December, the bottom fell out of the thermometer with nighttime temperatures routinely sinking to minus 25F. Digging latrines or trenches was virtually impossible in the frozen ground. Moving earth required the use of explosives. Frostbite was just as big an enemy as the North Koreans.
Task Force Faith arrived on the east side of the Chosin on November 27. Basic defensive positions were established, but a tight perimeter with 360-degree security was deemed unnecessary. The following day, they were to resume the attack northward toward their ultimate objective, the Yalu River. This would be the “Home by Christmas Offensive.”
Ike was busy that evening shuttling hot chow between a makeshift field kitchen and the few scattered forward strongpoints. The hot food was welcomed as the temperature plummeted after sunset.
Shortly after dark, all hell broke loose. Bugles blared, whistles blew, and star shells illuminated the night sky. Unknown to the UN Command, 120,000 Chinese “volunteers” had crossed the Yalu River and, in series of skillful, undetected night marches, moved into position to attack the US Marine and Army units around the Chosin Reservoir. The Chinese attacked in waves, screaming God only knows what as they charged straight at the strongpoints firing rifles, sub machine guns, and tossing hand grenades.
Ike was at one of the forward strongpoints when it all started. The four GIs manning the outpost opened up with M1s, a Browning Automatic Rifle, and a .30 caliber Browning machine gun. Ike immediately remembered Sergeant Miller’s words of advice and grabbed his M1 and took cover.
One in every five rounds of .30 caliber Browning ammo was a tracer. The Corporal manning the .30 caliber Browning and his loader noticed movement at about 75 yards. Then a figure was silhouetted by a star shell.
“Movement, about 75 yards to the front!” Cried the Corporal as he squeezed off a short burst from the Browning.
The .30 Browning’s tracers leapt out into the darkness. The BAR man then added supporting fire from the prone position utilizing the BAR’s bipod.
There was now movement across the entire front of the perimeter. Ike began discerning dark shapes moving closer and began firing his M1 without being able to quite mark his targets.
Ike could hear the distinctive sound of the BAR ringing in his ear. The firepower of the BAR was greatly appreciated by American infantryman. It was portable, automatic, and fired a powerful .30-06 cartridge. Despite all the Tommy Guns featured in the gangster movies, real gangsters preferred the BAR. The major drawbacks of the BAR were its’ 20-round clip and non-changeable barrel. This limited the BAR’s ability to sustain high rates of fire, but the BAR could laydown short powerful bursts at specific targets.
As the Browning machine gun swept the front of their position, the BAR took out any Chinese that slipped through. Ike and the remaining GI fixed bayonets to their M1 Garand rifles and supported the BAR and machine gun crew.
It didn’t take long for the Chinese to zero in on the strongpoints with their own mortars and machine guns. About an hour into the fight Ike caught some shrapnel from a Chinese grenade in his left shoulder; a minor wound, but it hurt like hell.
He cried out, “I’m hit in the shoulder.”
“Can you still fight?”
Ike answered, “It’s fight, or die.”
With that, Ike buried his bayonet into the chest of a young Chinese soldier who was trying to do the same to him. This was the first time Ike actually knew that he killed someone, and this was very up close and personal. Sure, he had fired at shapes in the dark, but killing a man with a bayonet is a completely different story.
The desperate fighting went on all night long. By midnight, it became clear that Task Force Faith was surrounded, with some positions infiltrated. Shortly after midnight, the loader for the .30 caliber Browning was hit in the chest and died within minutes. The BAR man ran out of ammo about 2 a.m., then picked up an M-1 and continued the fight.
At first light the Chinese disappeared, but the aftermath of their attack lay everywhere. Chinese bodies were lying about in piles to the front of the strongpoints, most ripped apart by machine gun and BAR fire. There were a few bodies of ChiCom infiltrators scattered about inside the perimeter.
Task Force Faith had been mauled. Almost every strongpoint had lost at least one man and many of the survivors were wounded. Still, the Army brass thought this attack was a one-off and told the men to prepare to resume their northward advance on the 29th. Ike made his way back to an Aid Station. A medic cleaned his shoulder wound, then dabbed some disinfectant over the wound which hurt more than the wound itself.
Ike yelped, “Jesus Christ, what the hell is that shit?”
“Just some iodine. Looks like you lucked out, only a couple of small fragments just under the skin. Hold real still…”
“Damn it, what the fuck…” Ike was now crying like a baby.
“There ya go, got ‘em both.” The medic proudly showed Ike two BB sized pieces of metal.
“The entry wounds are pretty small, I’ll dust ‘em with sulfa and bandage you all up. Shouldn’t need any stitches.”
“Man, you must be dedicated to this shit, or do you just like seeing niggers cry…” Ike was now busting the Medic’s chops.
The Medic responded, “You know, today I’ve patched up Southern Rednecks, a few New York Dagos, some California Spics and even a couple of Jew boys. Every man up on that line last night was an American, including the niggers.
“All the MASH choppers are busy transporting the critical. This rotten weather and Chinese triple A isn’t helping m
atters. Your wound is really pretty superficial. You better camp out here tonight, that shoulder’s going to be tender for a while.”
Ike replied, “I didn’t catch your name. I’m Isaiah Johnson. My friends call me Ike.”
“Ike, I’m Bobby Ray Skipper. My friends call me Bobby Ray. Bobby Ray from Macon, Georgia.”
Ike rested that entire day, but just after sunset, the bugles and whistles started again.
“One-off my ass!” Ike mumbled to himself as he jumped to his feet.
“I done heard this tune last night!”
Just then, a Chinese infiltrator lunged into the Aid Station tent and turned his bayonet on Ike only to be smacked upside the head with a wooden stool before he could make his lunge. The ChiCom fell sideways, but quickly sprang back up off the floor and wheeled around with his bayonet targeted at Ike’s gut.
Ike shouted, “Not today, you communist son-of-a-bitch.”
Ike parried the bayonet thrust, grabbed a scalpel from a nearby tray, and sank it deeply into the Chinaman’s neck. The ChiCom dropped his rifle and sank to his knees with blood spurting from his neck. To finish the job, Ike grabbed the ChiCom’s bolt action Mosin-Nagant M1891/30 rifle and plunged the bayonet into the dying man’s abdomen.
Ike then heard muffled sounds from the large Red Cross tent next door. He placed his right foot on the dying Chinese, pinning him to the floor. Then with a sharp tug, Ike freed the rifle, sans bayonet, from the now dead Chinese. He swiftly, carefully, and quietly approached the Red Cross tent and peered through a flap.
Three Chinese infiltrators had slipped into the tent and had begun bayonetting wounded GIs as they slept. Four GIs were already dead.
Suddenly, from the rear of the tent, Bobby Ray Skipper came rushing toward the three Chinese, screaming like a madman and flailing away with a crutch in one hand and bed pan in the other. During the commotion, Ike slipped into the tent and shot two of the Chinese. When the third turned to face Ike, Bobby Ray cold cocked him with the crutch, which was immediately followed by Ike’s rifle shot to the Chinaman’s chest.
After they made sure the other two Chinese were dead, Bobby Ray confirmed that the four bayonetted American patients were dead. Bobby Ray spent the rest of that long night tending to the wounded and dying, both Chinese and American, while Ike fought like hell wherever he was needed.
After the second night of vicious fighting around Chosin, the UN Command finally figured out that they were in deep shit. The Marine and Army units around the Reservoir were surrounded. Close air support by carrier based Marine Corsairs prevented a massacre. The Corsairs bombed and strafed Chinese positions mercilessly.
This was the end of MacArthur’s push to the Yalu. After several days of, now legendary, desperate fighting, US Marine and Army Units finally fought their way out of the Chosin deathtrap and retreated southward.
Ike Johnson was wounded again on December 1, this time a more serious wound in the right hip. It’s unknown if the shrapnel with Ike’s name on it was Chinese, or friendly fire. This time Ike was evacuated by helicopter to a nearby MASH unit.
All told, 85% of the Army and Marine personnel at the Chosin Reservoir were either killed, wounded, or captured. Those who survived were dubbed, “The Chosin Few”.
Mountain Parkway
Junior would be traveling alone on his trip home. No use risking other lives. He planned on hiking directly west from the Boy Scout Camp through the Kentucky backcountry for about five miles until he hit the Mountain Parkway, a limited access four lane highway. Since the Revolution, the highway had fallen into disrepair, but was still passable to vehicular traffic, what little there was. Over the last few years, horse drawn wagon and buggy traffic had increased on rural Kentucky roads, but that traffic was typically locals, certainly no friends of The Collective.
Junior was dressed in layers, a light, camo weatherproof windbreaker with hood on the outside. Under that, for warmth, was a faded U of K hooded sweatshirt. That blue sweatshirt was like an instant passport through Wildcat Country, but he also had a matching red U of L sweatshirt in his backpack that he would switch into after he passed Shelbyville and entered Cardinal Country. Of course, neither of those schools, or their sports programs, existed in the Peoples’ United States, but pride and memories died hard in the Bluegrass. Yep, Kentucky was a real problem for The Collective.
Junior carried no firearms, but had the proverbial razor hidden in his right boot. True to his RAMBRO nickname, a sheathed Randall 18 Survival Knife hung from his belt. The knife’s handle was hollow, waterproof, and contained matches, fishing line, sinkers, hooks and had a screw on/off pommel with a built-in compass.
Within a couple of hours, Junior reached the Mountain Parkway. There he stopped beneath the KY 974 overpass and took a break admiring the springtime forest with its’ redbuds in full bloom. The dogwoods were just about to pop. In another week, the Kentucky hills would be a collage of red, pink, and white.
Then he heard a voice from the other side of the median. “Hey, mind if I come over?”
“Suit yourself, but I ain’t got no food, but I do got a fucking big knife, so watch yourself.”
Junior watched closely as a skinny White boy with long, curly, black hair hopped over the concrete barrier wall in the median and strolled across the westbound lanes.
“I’m not from these parts, is there any place around here where I might find work?”
“Ain’t no place ‘round here going to hire a scrawny White boy for a real job. Hell, I can’t find work myself.” as if Junior were looking.
“Then guess I’ll just head over to Lexington, or Louisville. Maybe I’ll find something there…”
Junior started chuckling, “You’ll find something there alright. Your scrawny White ass will get locked up and next thing you know you’ll be shovelin’ shit at a collective farm around Lexington or shoveling coal at a Racial Reparations Mining Camp down Hazard way. Where you from, boy?”
“My family is from down around Macon, Georgia. My family has always lived down there. I’m Bobby, Bobby Ray.”
Junior froze when he heard that name.
“Mister, are you OK?”
Junior finally replied, “Well Bobby Ray, friends call me Junior and I guess I’m heading your way. But let’s get a few things understood. First of all, if anybody asks, we ain’t buddies, I don’t know you, right?”
“OK Junior, anything you say.”
“Hold on, there’s more. If we get in a jam, you are a liability. I will turn your White, male ass over to The Collective at the drop of a hat.”
Bobby Ray uneasily replied, “Okaaay.”
“Like I said, I ain’t got no food, nor anything else of value, understood?”
“Alright, alright, I ‘ve got the picture.”
“What again is your last name boy?”
“I didn’t say, but it’s Skipper. I’m Bobby Ray Skipper.”
Junior froze again, like a statue, “What was that name?”
“Skipper, like a boat captain, Skipper.”
“Lemme see your right hand.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask questions, show me your hand!”
Bobby Ray extended his hand and Junior lightly pinched the area between Bobby Ray’s right thumb and index finger.
Junior grinned and said, “I think you’re OK, Bobby Ray. Now, let’s haul ass! I want to hit I-64 over by Winchester by this afternoon.”
Gone
When the 8:30 a.m. bell rang at People’s Academy #7 on Monday morning there was an empty seat in Member Brown’s Level 4 classroom. Tasha called the roll and Akeno didn’t answer.
About mid-morning Natasha checked in with the Academ Administrator’s office, “Member Administrator, the student that received correction yesterday is not in class today.”
A thin, 50ish woman with olive skin and a thick accent responded, “Yes, Member Brown, he is gone.”
“Member Administrator, when should we expect Akeno to return?”
&nbs
p; “He is gone. He will be replaced in the next few days. Is that all, Member Brown?”
“Yes, Member Administrator.” Tasha knew when to shut up and inquire no further. Akeno was gone.
Later that day, Tasha was listening in on some of the gossip in the Teachers’ Lounge. Word was that Akeno’s entire family was gone. The incident with Akeno was just the icing on the cake. Akeno’s family had been working hard, shrewdly bartering, and saving to improve their lives. This was intolerable. They were gone.
That evening Tasha beat Beth home. A middle-aged, heavy, black lady was carrying clothes up the stairway to Ms. Warner’s apartment.
Tasha greeted her as they passed on the staircase, “Good evening Member.”
“Good evening to you, Member Brown.”
Tasha did not recall knowing the lady and was a bit confused, “Member, have we met? If so, I can’t recall your name.”
“No Member Brown, we have never met. It is my duty to The Collective to know the name and face of every Member on this block. I am the new Block Coordinator. You may call me Member Block Coordinator.”
“It’s a pleasure meeting you, Member Block Coordinator. May I help you?”
“That will not be necessary, I have just about finished moving in. I am your new neighbor. Your former neighbor is gone.”
Natasha’s experience from earlier that day was still fresh in her mind, “The Collective has provided you with a nice apartment and provided me and my roommate with a true Member as a neighbor. Nice meeting you, Member Block Coordinator.” Tasha then beat a hasty retreat into her own apartment.
A few minutes later Beth made it home. By then the stairway was clear.
As Beth entered the apartment and muffled her Peoples’ Phone, Tasha greeted her with the news, “Guess what ‘Mother Teresa’, your friend next door is gone.”
“That’s strange, she didn’t mention anything to me about moving.”