McCoy had a gut feeling their prisoner was an intelligence officer, and probably an important one.
"Untie the skinny Slope, hand him a white flag, and send him over the hill," Zimmerman said.
"That would be a violation of the Geneva Convention," McCoy said. "It's against the rules to endanger a prisoner."
"Shit," Zimmerman said.
"Besides, I really want to talk to him," McCoy said.
"Killer, that Slope sonofabitch isn't going to tell us a goddamn thing," Zimmerman argued.
"I think maybe he will when he sees we're back in Seoul," McCoy said.
Zimmermann snorted.
"Sergeant Jennings, hoist the colors," McCoy said.
"Sir?"
"Unstrap the antenna on the jeep. Let's get the flag out so our friends at the roadblock can see it," McCoy clarified.
"Aye, aye, sir."
"What are you going to do?" Zimmerman asked, as Jennings scurried down the hill.
"Drive the jeep to the crest of the hill, and then—very quickly—get out of it, and the line of fire. Whereupon, the Army will—or will not—fire upon it. If they don't fire on it, I will ask for a volunteer to expose himself. We may get lucky."
"And if we don't?"
"Then I guess you get shot. You were going to volunteer, right?"
"Shit," Zimmerman said, smiling.
"I'll do it, Ernie," Major McCoy said.
Marine majors do not ordinarily address their subordinates by their first names, and certainly not with the affection McCoy had in his voice. But there is always an exception. In this case, the two had been friends since 1940, when both had been in the 4th Marines in Shanghai.
They watched as Jennings untied the whip antenna on the jeep. It sprung erect, but there was no breeze and the flag hung limply.
"We could give Dunston a call in Seoul," Zimmerman said. "He's got somebody sitting on his radio."
"How long would it take, Ernie, for Dunston—even if he was sitting on the radio himself—to get a message to that roadblock?" McCoy asked, patiently. "Hours, anyway."
Zimmerman shrugged, taking McCoy's point.
Jennings got behind the wheel of the jeep, put it in four-wheel drive, and started up the hill.
McCoy got to his feet and waited for him. When he got close, McCoy signaled him to stop.
"I'll take it out there, Major," Jennings said.
McCoy jerked his thumb, ordering Jennings out of the jeep, then got behind the wheel.
Then he put it in gear and drove it slowly to the crest and over.
"Shit!" Zimmerman said when the jeep was out of sight.
Two minutes—two very long minutes—later, McCoy reappeared on foot at the crest of the hill.
"I waved and some doggie waved back at me," he announced. "I think we're all right. I'm going to drive down there. I'll signal you with a flashlight when it's okay to come."
"Permission to speak freely, sir?" Technical Sergeant Jennings said.
McCoy made a let's have it gesture with both hands. I should drive the jeep, not you."
"He's right," Zimmerman said.
McCoy thought it over, then jerked his thumb for Jennings to come up the hill.
When he came to McCoy, Jennings handed him his rifle. Then he raised his arms over his head and waved to them as he approached the crest, and disappeared over it.
McCoy stood on the crest with his hands on his hips and watched as Jennings eased the jeep down the hill, then onto the dirt road. When Jennings got close to the roadblock, he suddenly stopped the jeep and raised his hands over his head.
McCoy raised his binoculars to his eyes to see what was going on.
Jennings got out of the jeep and walked the last fifty yards to the roadblock, then disappeared from view behind one of the Sherman tanks.
He was out of sight for five minutes, then reappeared, making a nonregulation but clearly understandable sign that it was all right for everybody else to come in.
Chapter Two
[ONE]
Thirteen Miles South of Suwon, South Korea
1725 28 September 195O
Captain John C. Allen III, a somewhat plump, pleasant-faced twenty-seven-year-old who was commanding officer of Company C, 1st Battalion, 27th Infantry, 7th Infantry Division, was hesitantly pleased with his current mission, the establishment and operation of a roadblock on a road south of Suwon.
You never knew what the hell was going to happen next in the Army; disappointment, sometimes bitter, was always just around the corner.
He had been told—and he had believed—that it would be days, perhaps weeks, before he actually had to face the enemy. The landing of X Corps (the 1st Marine Division and the 7th Infantry Division) at Inchon had severed the enemy's supply routes to the south. Without supplies, the North Koreans could not maintain their attack on the Pusan Perimeter. The Eighth U.S. Army had already counterattacked, broken out of the perimeter, and was driving the enemy northward.
There was still heavy action around Seoul, but most of that was being fought by the 1st Marine Division. Allen thought that the brass had at least enough sense to realize that the 7th Division really was in no shape to fight anybody.
Any military unit needs training to be effective. It was Captain Allen's professional judgment that none of the platoons in his company had adequate training. Neither had any of the companies in the 1st Battalion, any of the battalions in the 27th Infantry, nor any of the regiments in the 7th Division.
It was also Captain Allen's professional opinion that if the 1st Marine Division hadn't performed so superbly—if it had taken a licking—the 7th Division would have really gotten itself clobbered.
Captain Allen was perfectly happy to form—and to sometimes offer to select individuals, such as First Sergeant Grass—professional opinions about the military, although he was not a career officer, had not graduated from the United States Military Academy at West Point, nor, for that matter, attended the company-grade officers' course at the Infantry School at Fort Benning. He hadn't even gone to Officer Candidate School.
Drafted at twenty during World War II, "Jack" Allen had joined the 26th Infantry of the 1st Infantry Division in North Africa. By the time The Big Red One was training to land on the beaches of Normandy, it was Staff Sergeant Allen. On D—Plus Three, in Normandy, it was twenty-one-year-old Second Lieutenant Allen, holder of the Silver Star and directly commissioned after taking over the company when the officers had all been either blown away or wounded.
When war in Europe was over, Captain Jack Allen, who had added two Bronze Stars and two Purple Hearts to his Silver Star, had been one of the very first officers returned to the United States under the Point System for separation.
At Fort Dix, he had made the mistake of believing the Adjutant General's Corps major, who had told him that if he kept his commission in the reserve, he wouldn't be recalled to active duty unless and until enemy tanks were rolling down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House.
Jack Allen, star salesman and heir apparent to the throne of J. C. Allen & Sons Paper Merchants, Inc., Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, had received a telegram from the Adjutant General of the United States Army on 9 July 1950, ordering him to report within seventy-two hours to Camp Indiantown Gap, Pennsylvania, there to enter upon extended active duty for the duration of the present conflict, plus six months.
At Indiantown Gap, there was just time enough to buy uniforms and have his shot record brought up to date before being loaded on a battered Douglas C-54 and flown to Fort Lewis, Washington. Three days after arriving at Fort Lewis, he boarded a brand-new-looking Lockheed Constellation of Trans-Global Airways and was flown to Tokyo via Honolulu and Wake Island.
At Camp Drake, he was assigned to the 7th Division. When he got there, they didn't seem to know what to do with him. He was given one assignment after another—one of them lasting six hours—but finally he found himself in the 27th Infantry Regiment. There the colonel commandin
g—who looked smart and competent, if harried—took a sixty-second look at Jack's service record.
Jesus Christ, he thought, they finally sent me a company commander who's been in combat.
Then he said: "Congratulations, Captain Allen, you are now commanding officer of Charley Company."
When Allen found his new command, in a battered frame barracks building, the acting first sergeant—a technical sergeant who a week before had been running an NCO club—told him Charley Company's total strength was two officers and twenty-six enlisted men—plus thirteen enlisted men listed as "absent, in confinement." The other officer was Second Lieutenant C. Danton Foster IV, who looked to be about nineteen but who told Allen he had graduated just over a year before from West Point. When Allen looked at Foster's service record, he saw that he was unmarried and listed his next of kin as Major General C. Danton Foster III.
Charley Company's ranks were soon filled out. Among the first "fillers" to arrive the next day was First Sergeant Homer Grass, a beer-bellied regular from West Virginia. It took Captain Allen and Sergeant Grass—who wore the "Bloody Bucket" of the 28th Infantry Division on his right shoulder and the Combat Infantry Badge on his chest—about ninety seconds to judge the other, assess the situation, and conclude that they were both in the deep shit and unless they could fix things in a hurry, they were liable to get killed.
When the next group of fillers appeared—the thirteen just-pardoned malefactors from the Tokyo stockade still wearing fatigues with a large P painted on the back—resisting despair had been difficult.
Neither did Charley Company have much in the way of equipment to boast of. They had nowhere near the numbers of individual items prescribed by the Table of Organization & Equipment, and what they did have was in lousy shape—in the case of several bundles of blankets, literally lousy.
Second Lieutenant C. Danton Foster IV—who had immediately become dubbed "Foster Four"—proved far more useful than either Jack Allen or Homer Grass expected. The three other officer fillers, all lieutenants, however, ranged from mediocre to awful, and none had ever heard a shot fired in anger.
Surprising Jack Allen, none of the filler officers ran to the Inspector General when he announced at Officers' Call that seniority regulations be damned, Foster Four was his Exec, and when Foster Four said something, it was to be treated as if he himself had said it.
As the enlisted fillers dribbled in, Jack Allen adopted, with Grass's and Foster Four's approval, a training philosophy of first things first. Everybody fired both his individual weapon and then the .45 pistol, staying on the firing range until they achieved a basic skill. Then they learned to fire—more important, to service—the Browning automatic rifles, the .30- and .50-caliber machine guns, and the mortars. Soon Grass had them throwing grenades and attacking sandbags with bayonets and entrenching tools.
Some of the fillers were noncoms. Charley Company got a good supply sergeant—a blessing—and an incredibly bad mess sergeant. The company needed three really good platoon sergeants. It got one, with War Two credentials on a par with Grass's, and two who had never heard a shot fired in anger.
Charley Company was almost at authorized strength when they boarded the transport at Sasebo, and before they got into the landing barges at Inchon it was actually overstrength.
Allen thought privately, and more than a little bitterly, that someone knew that poorly trained troops were going to take heavy losses, so they were sending in replacements early.
But after they got ashore, the 1st Battalion went into Division Reserve. They weren't needed and weren't used. It was either the exigencies of the service or the kindness of a merciful God, but Charley Company was not thrown into combat.
It had been, however, subject to personnel levies from division headquarters, ordered to transfer officers and men elsewhere within the division to fill vacancies created by combat. While he hated to lose the men he had trained— it was possible, if not likely, that the reserve would be called to combat—this did provide Allen with the opportunity to get rid of most of the pardoned prisoners, the mess sergeant, and all of the lieutenants except Foster Four.
Before long, Charley Company was down to not many more people than it had had when he assumed command.
Then the battalion was given the mission of setting up roadblocks south of Seoul, and Charley Company and its two officers and fifty-two enlisted men were given the mission of establishing one south of Suwon.
Their mission was to prevent North Korean troops being forced back up the peninsula by the advancing Eighth Army from getting any farther north.
As soon as the trucks dropped them off, Allen had let it be known that they could expect to see the enemy any minute. That had the desired result of energetic position building and foxhole digging.
Then Allen sent First Sergeant Grass and the supply sergeant on a scrounging mission for ammunition of all kinds. When the enemy finally did appear, he wanted his peacetime soldiers to have as much experience in actually firing their weapons as possible. And the chance to replace what weapons that were going to fail.
Then he went to Regiment himself and begged the S-3 for tanks to reinforce the roadblock. He argued that not only was Charley Company way understrength, but that the Shermans of the Regimental Tank Company weren't being used at the moment. He made it clear that he understood that when the enemy finally showed up and the tanks were needed elsewhere, he would have to give them up.
If the Regimental Three believed that, fine. Allen thought it was highly probable that if the enemy showed up and he was using the tanks, and then came a radio message ordering them elsewhere, that message would be garbled beyond his understanding.
The tankers—under the command of a young second lieutenant, a West Point classmate of Foster Four—surprised Jack Allen. They were well trained and welcomed the chance to practice-fire their tubes at maximum range directly down the road. And one of the tank sergeants was a mortar expert and soon had Allen's mortar crews accurately laying their fire on the reverse sides of the slopes lining both sides of the valley.
After a few days, Captain Allen was confident that his men could deliver fire where it probably would be needed—and, as important, that they had the confidence they could.
Allen, Grass, and Foster Four were feeling pretty smug about what they had accomplished when an asshole from division headquarters showed up. He introduced himself as Major Alfred D. Masters and said he was the assistant Division G-2.
He was a natty little Regular Army bastard in shiny boots, a nonregulation zipper jacket, and a scarf made from camouflage parachute silk around his neck. He carried both a .45 in a tanker's shoulder holster and a .45 ACP Grease Gun. If he had earned a Combat Infantry Badge, he hadn't sewn it to his fancy jacket.
He had come, he said, to place Charley Company on the alert for "a reconnaissance patrol possibly operating south of these coordinates."
Allen thought there wasn't much useful information in that . . .
What does "possibly" mean? Is there a patrol or not?
Whose patrol? How big a patrol?
What am I supposed to do if the patrol shows up?
What if the patrol gets in trouble and asks for help?
. . . but when Allen asked those questions of Major Masters, the answers had been something less than completely helpful.
Major Masters said he couldn't get into that, "for security reasons." All Allen had the need to know was that if the patrol showed up, he was to notify him by the most expeditious means. He clarified that somewhat by saying Allen should transmit the code words "Trojan Horse," on receipt of which further orders would be issued.
Major Masters had then gotten back in his jeep and driven off.
There were three possible communications links between the Charley Company roadblock and Division Headquarters, none of them direct. There was a radio in Allen's sandbagged command post—the CP—which sometimes could communicate with Battalion and/or Regimen
t. The Signal Corps equipment available was about as old and unreliable as everything else. Each of the tanks had radios that in theory permitted them to communicate with one another and with the CPs of the Regimental Tank Company and Regiment. Only two of the three tanks were on that "net," and communications with Tank Company and Regiment were the opposite of reliable.
Finally, there was a field telephone system, called a "landline," which connected the roadblock CP with the 1st Battalion Command Post by wire. That usually worked during the day, but only after the Signal Corps wire men had laid fresh wire to replace the wire Korean farmers had stolen during the previous hours of darkness.
With these problems in mind, Captain Allen had ordered that one of his three jeeps and a driver always be parked next to the CP, so that if either the enemy or the mysterious patrol showed up, and neither the radios nor the land-line was functioning, he could shag ass—Paul Revere-like—down the road to Battalion, crying, "The gooks are coming! The gooks are coming!"
When word of a jeep flying an American flag on its antenna had appeared at the crest of a hill five hundred yards south of his roadblock, it came from George Patton, as Second Lieutenant George Parsons, USMA '49, of Regimental Tank Company had inevitably been dubbed. Captain Allen and Foster Four were in the CP discussing over a mug of coffee whether it would be safe or not to conduct yet another midnight requisition on the regimental ration dump.
The SOP was that one officer (First Sergeant Grass was included) would always be on the line in case something happened. When Allen and Foster Four got to the line, they saw George Patton in the turret of one of the Shermans and Grass in the left .50-caliber machine-gun emplacement, both studying the hill and the jeep through binoculars.
The jeep with the outsized flag hanging from its antenna was an odd sight, and Captain Allen was pleased that his order "No one fires at anything until the word is passed" had been obeyed. He hadn't been at all sure that it would be. When soldiers—even experienced soldiers, and his men were anything but that—are told there is nothing in front of them but the enemy, the natural inclination is to shoot at anything that comes into sight before it has a chance to shoot first.
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