by Unknown
As he prepared to leave, he stopped by Butler’s office again to find it empty. He walked over to the desk and placed a set of keys to his Oldsmobile in the center of the blotter with a short note. Take care of her, it said. Then he made his way through the corridors again and out the entrance. A limousine was waiting for him. He sat in the front with the driver and the big presidential machine exited the gate and made its way to 14th Street and Reagan International Airport. The driver went to the private plane section where a Cessna business jet was waiting. Inside he found three other officers, all heading for the west coast. Within 20 minutes the jet was climbing steadily into the morning sky.
South Korea
The North Koreans had tried one additional push along the road. Two old T-59 tanks pressed through the narrow passage and started shooting at the rock outcropping where the Claymores had gone off. They couldn’t know that no one had ever really been there. After several rounds each with no return fire, the tanks with infantry following close behind eased out of the gap and around the corner of the road. They were half way along the near side of the hill before the Major opened up with the light artillery he had. The M102 howitzer had been around a while. It was on wheels, fairly light, and shot a 105mm round. Major Peterson had two of them, and both were positioned where they could shoot down at anything along the road. Peterson loved the things, but whenever they fired there was a puff of smoke to give the position away. He had kept them silent until this moment.
Firing armor piercing rounds, the M102s cut through the armored bubble top of the old Russian tanks like they were butter. Immediately both tanks were knocked out and the mortars opened up again to take care of the infantry.
After knocking out the tanks, the M102s opened up on the far side of the hill, eventually knocking off enough dirt and rock to completely block the road, while also cutting off any means of escape. The North Koreans were trapped. They desperately tried to find cover, but none was to be found. Then they tried to climb the hill the Americans were on. They made it to just above the base when the .50 caliber machine guns and other small arms opened up. Within minutes, nothing was alive in the valley floor. Peterson again moved his equipment to new emplacements. The heavier guns were moved just over the top of the hill. No one would be coming along the road any time soon.
By 9 pm the sun was well below the horizon and Major Peterson’s men were firmly in place. All had been fed and they were fairly well rested, even after all the hard work of moving the equipment. Because they no longer had night vision glasses, Hufham had set some of the men to work laying noisemakers in the bushes and wire well ahead of the positions to give warning of an enemy’s approach. Unfortunately the crickets tended to mask the sound of someone moving around. Ricks reminded them that crickets fell silent when someone approached, helping some of the soldiers feel better.
Hufham was sitting in his foxhole looking out across the valley. There was a little moon, but not much. Nothing was moving. “Where would you come from?” he whispered to Ricks.
Ricks moved slightly and pointed. “Along the ridgeline from that low hill to ours. A lot easier than climbing it,” he said. “But I’m not worried about those guys coming in. I’m worried that they start raining some mortar rounds over here from the tops of those far hills. It will be tough watching for the bad guys when you’re trying to keep your head from being blown off.”
“True enough. Now that it’s dark, we really can’t see what’s going on over there,” Hufham agreed. Through the field telephone in his hand he could hear the Major giving orders to the mortar batteries. So far, there was nothing. One could only hope they had given up, but Hufham knew that would never happen.
Shortly after 10 pm flashes of dim light could be seen coming from the far hill. Mortar rounds began dropping all along the promontory next to the road. Round after round landed in the positions they had been firing from and even spread out along the length of the hill. Fortunately the Major had anticipated the move and their final emplacements were closer to the back end of the hill away from the tip. No rounds were fired in return that might give away their final positions. After thirty minutes of sustained mortar fire in the wrong place, the hills fell silent again.
Only ten minutes later one of the outposts heard the rattle of an empty can. It was reported quickly and at a whisper through the system. A few minutes later more were heard. Now the whole compound was alerted. Hufham sat in his position and waited. Slowly, he began to see faint movement as the North Korean soldiers eased their way along the hill. There was no reason to do anything yet. Wait until they had the largest number of them dead to rights, then let them have it, he thought. Hufham glanced over at Ricks. In the faint moon he could see a glint of concentration in Ricks’ eyes as he peered at the slowly moving Koreans. They continued to crawl in closer. In a few minutes Hufham motioned for Ricks to get ready while he pulled out some grenades. All along the line, the other men in their positions were doing the same thing. Closer and closer they came until Hufham could see individual parts of their uniforms. When it seemed that he could almost reach out and touch them, the telephone crackled “Now!”
The entire side of the hill seemed to explode at once and riflemen and machine gunners opened up on the hapless Koreans. Grenades went flying through the air, exploding in packed groups of soldiers who let out cries of pain and fear as a result. All along the line came shouts of anger as the soldiers charged towards the fortified positions, only to be mowed down by the American assault weapons and machine guns. The flash of the .50 caliber weapons occasionally illuminated a North Korean soldier as he rose up or fell down. Many times it caught the agony of the dying soldier’s face.
The mortars were in business now hitting along the crest of the hill where the North Koreans were coming with a few peppering the far hill where the North had set up their own mortars. At one point a large explosion was seen indicating a round that hit an ammunition supply. The M102s then fired a set of star shells over the enemy positions showing for the first time the extent of the assault.
North Koreans were everywhere. Their forces had been hurt badly but more and more seemed to be pouring over the top of the hills toward the American lines. Several machine gun positions were set up and firing into the lines, killing indiscriminately. As Hufham watched, heavier artillery rounds began falling around them. The North Koreans obviously placed their guns farther back where they could not see.
The M102s began hammering at the Koreans to keep them from reinforcing their lines, but the effort was running short. In several places the Americans were overrun. Hand to hand fighting was starting to break out and the North had the weight of numbers on their side. The American mortars were doing their best, but after several assaults, they were running low on ammo.
A North Korean soldier suddenly appeared in front of Hufham’s position. Hufham nearly cut him in half with his rifle as two more came up. With methodical precision, Hufham and Ricks, along with two other men, mowed down the soldiers until they were piled so deep the advancing soldiers had to climb over them.
Still they came. One screaming soldier managed to get into the small emplacement and lunged at Ricks, who calmly shoved his bayonet almost clean through the man. As he fell back, two more came in. Both were picked off by the Americans, but not before one was killed by a rifle shot.
In a final effort, the North Koreans were repulsed. Hufham killed one in a hand-to-hand duel where he slung the man against a piece of splintered wood and then pressed him into it. He turned around to see one last soldier scrambling toward him; his bayonet leading the way. Just as it seemed Hufham’s life was over, the soldier doubled over and fell like a wet rag at Hufham’s feet. That was when Hufham saw Ricks standing there holding his rifle by the barrel. The stock was broken and hanging. Ricks looked at him and shrugged his shoulders. “Out of ammo,” he said.
Major Peterson stumbled into the position and looked at the carnage. “You’ve been busy,” he said. “We won’t be able to tak
e another assault. Gather the men you can and head to Hill 419. See if you can drag one of the 102s with you. I’m going to set the charges. As soon as they come again, we’re all out of here. Get going,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir,” said Hufham. He turned to the others. “You heard the man, get going. Ricks, go along the line and tell the men to be ready to move out when I say.” All the men took off to get things ready. Hufham had two men head to the jeep and hook up one of the mobile guns. The second was hooked up to a deuce and a half sitting unscathed nearby. As they were finishing up, a cry went out from across the ridge as seemingly thousands of North Koreans charged through the brush toward the American lines. The last of the mortar rounds were expended and men kept up the fire while the rest began their orderly retreat. Major Peterson ordered the men to leave and Ricks jumped in the Jeep and pulled out toward the next hill. Hufham led the remaining men in their fall back, still taking a toll on the North Koreans as they advanced blindly and foolishly into what was to become a trap.
As the last of the Americans scrambled down the hill and away, Major Peterson’s last surprise was unleashed. The fuses were set for a number of charges throughout the camp; especially around the remaining ammunition. The Americans were only about half way down the hill when the entire top seemed to lift as one gigantic piece straight into the air and fall with a thud back to earth. Men were knocked from their feet and the sounds of the explosions were deafening.
Suddenly all fire ceased. The Americans continued to make their way back down the hill, but no one followed. Hufham went back a short distance to help retrieve the last of the soldiers. In the midst of the carnage Major Peterson suddenly appeared in front of him. His uniform was torn and bloodied. There was a gash across his temple and what looked like blood running down his arm. He was dragging himself slowly toward the hill with a pronounced limp.
Hufham took the Major’s good arm and draped it over his shoulder to steady him. Peterson winced slightly, and then continued at a faster pace. “You know, you are one ugly sumbitch in the dark,” he said.
Hufham chuckled. “Shouldn’t talk to your guardian angel that way, sir,’ he joked.
Peterson shook slightly as he let out a stifled laugh. “Yeah, maybe,” he said. Then he turned serious. “Everybody out?” he asked.
“As many as were alive,” Hufham said.
The Major seemed to droop slightly. “Well, at least we made them pay for it,” he said sadly.
The two men were met by several of the other men and helped up Hill 419. There wasn’t much to be thankful for. Hill 419 was next.
Chapter 10
July 8 - New Command
San Diego, California
After two stops along the way, the Cessna business jet landed at San Diego’s Lindbergh Field. As the engines shut down, a man came back, opened the cabin door, and let down a set of stairs. Hammond and two others stepped out of the aircraft into the warm early evening. The sun was setting and he could smell the sea. It was like being reborn.
An old Cadillac pulled up beside the jet and a weathered looking Chief Warrant Officer stepped out. He was wearing summer whites that contrasted with his tanned and wrinkled face. He walked up and saluted the Captain. “Captain Hammond, I am Bos’n Patnaude. The XO asked if I could come pick you up, sir,” he said. Hammond extended his hand. It was met with a firm grip. The old man’s steely blue eyes never left him. It was almost as if he were sizing him up. “Let’s get your bags and head out,” the man said.
The suitcases and some boxes were piled into the trunk of the car. Instead of sitting in the back, Hammond crawled into the front seat beside the Bos’n or ‘Boats’ as rated Boatswain’s Mates are called. The car was started and moved rapidly out of the airport grounds and onto Interstate 5 headed north.
“Where are we going?” asked Hammond.
Patnaude kept his eyes on the road. “Towards LA, Captain. Don’t know why they didn’t fly you up there, but that’s above my pay grade,” he said. “We got a couple hours or so before we get there, so you can sit back and enjoy the scenery.”
The car sped along at a rapid clip and Patnaude seemed to enjoy speeding along. At first not much was said, and then Hammond broke the ice. “Okay, Boats, are you going to tell me the name of my ship or what?” he asked early in the ride.
Patnaude let out a crusty laugh. “You mean you really don’t know, sir?”
“Not a clue.”
He was still laughing a little. “Well, I’m sorry to say the XO told me I couldn’t tell you until you caught sight of her. It seems he got a call from none other than the White House to set some things up, so you can imagine we’re kinda impressed. When we get there, there’s a dinner going on in the wardroom with the Mayor and a few others to welcome you aboard. Everybody’s been anxious for you to get here,” he said as he drove.
Hammond let out a sigh. “Great. That’s just what I need.”
Patnaude glanced at his captain. They all heard of their new captain and what he had been doing, but now that he met him, Hammond seemed a pretty decent guy. No wonder the President liked him. Patnaude couldn’t let him linger. “Well, Captain, they didn’t say I couldn’t tell you what’s going on,” he said. Hammond twisted slightly to watch the old Bos’n.
“The ship is up in San Pedro, and the head of the shipyard up there talked to the mayor about refurbishing the ship on their own. So the city paid all the bills and got things going. They called in a bunch of veterans to help out. As a matter of fact, about half of the crew is veterans,” he said proudly. “When they called me back up, I jumped at it. Figured I’d never get this chance again. Anyway all us old hands have been drilling the younger guys on all the usual things – you know, planned maintenance, getting their personal qualifications up, how to actually run the older systems, and even some operations drills. We figure there won’t be much time for any kind of real training, so we’re improvising a little.”
“That sounds pretty good. What about damage control?”
“An everyday thing, Captain. We got a crash course at the firefighting school and have been training the guys in pretty much everything. I figure we can hold our own,” Patnaude said.
“What about the ship’s condition? Is she ready to rock and roll?” Hammond asked.
“We’ll find out. We get underway tomorrow evening for Seal Beach and the ammunition onload. The Weapons Officer has been drilling his crews like a demon with dummy rounds,” he said. “Needless to say all of the weapons types are really getting anxious to get some things going. We’ll be onloading the missiles and gun ammo.”
Hammond smiled. So it wasn’t a supply ship. Missiles and gun ammo meant a warship of some kind. Now he was happy.
Patnaude could see the change in the Captain’s demeanor. He plowed ahead. “The snipes are pretty anxious, too. They want to see the engines really move the ship. Then again, I guess we all do. I know my guys have been working on the main deck making sure everything’s ready. The windless is operational and the brake was relined. All the anchor chain was repainted and stowed. The accommodation ladder is rigged if we need it and all the fittings are greased and ready. It was a task, but not that bad,” he said.
Hammond listened carefully. The man rattled his way through a myriad of things necessary for getting a ship underway, but he stopped short of saying something that might give him clues to its identity or type. Hammond actually believed the old man was enjoying himself in his torture. Patnaude kept up a running conversation all the way.
Continuing north on Interstate 5, the men eventually turned off on I-405 and passed through Long Beach. Exiting on 710, Patnaude followed the Seaside Freeway, steering the car across the Gerald Desmond Bridge. They began making their way through a number of streets and buildings and eventually larger industrial complexes. In the dim light of sunset they pulled past part of the river and went through a shipyard gate. They drove back into a large set of warehouses and workshops. It was hard to see much in the dim light. Th
e sunset left a slight orange glow on the buildings as they passed. Then they turned down a narrow road between two sets of warehouse buildings. In the clearing he saw the outline of a clipper-like bow. It rose majestically from the water to a bulb at the top. A huge anchor was seated in its hawser and just below it was a number. The number was 61.
Hammond gripped the arm rest of the car. This was definitely not a supply ship. It was a battleship. It was the kind of ship that every surface line officer dreamed of someday commanding. Before the advent of the aircraft carrier, this was the primary means of projecting power at sea. Although the aircraft carrier could strike harder and farther away with her aircraft, this ship could slug it out one-on-one with anything afloat. More importantly, it could fling its lethal cargo to support troops ashore. As they rounded the buildings he could see the two forward turrets with their three guns each pointing proudly into the night sky. Her tall towers swept upwards silhouetted in the evening sky. The ship was immense. She oozed strength.
Patnaude pulled the Cadillac beside the forward gangway. He came around and opened the door for Hammond to get out. As he did, the sound of four bells was heard and a voice announcing “Captain, United States Navy, arriving.”
Patnaude looked at his captain. He could see the emotion on his face, but knew that was as far as it would get. “Welcome home, Captain,” he said smiling. “I’ll take care of getting your things to your cabin.”
“Thanks, Boats. Thanks a lot.”
Hammond walked to the set of stairs on a platform and climbed to the top where the brow leading to the ship was placed. He then walked to the quarterdeck. A crowd of men in uniform had gathered. Just before him were two sets of men facing each other and another holding a Bos’n’s call. It was a formal reception. As he stepped over the edge of the ship, the Bos’n’s Mate began blowing the call and the men saluted. Hammond saluted and walked through the sideboys, dropping his salute when the pipe stopped. A tall man in a commander’s uniform stepped up extending his hand.