Under Fire

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  “Hold fire until I fire,” McCoy said.

  Ten minutes later, from his firing position—behind a knee-high rock halfway up the hill—McCoy surveyed the village below him. There was no one in sight, no sign of activity at all.

  He pulled the operating rod lever of his National Match Garand far enough back so that he could see the gleam of a cartridge halfway in the chamber, and then, after letting the operating rod slide forward again, hit it with the heel of his hand to make sure it was fully closed.

  Then he took a quick sight—primarily to make sure he had a good firing position—at the end of the wharf, then carefully laid the rifle on the rock.

  Then he put his binoculars to his eyes and took a good look at the junk, starting at the bow.

  Then he said, “I’ll be a sonofabitch.”

  “What?” Zimmerman asked from his position, twenty yards to McCoy’s left.

  “I was just about to shoot George,” McCoy said, laughing, and got to his feet, picked up the Garand, put the safety back on, and started to go as fast as he could down the hill.

  Zimmerman put his binoculars to his eyes and looked at the junk, then shook his head and got to his feet, and started after McCoy.

  “Dispatch, Dispatch, H-1, H-1,” Hart said into his microphone.

  “H-1, Dispatch, go.”

  “Five, I say again, Five,” Hart said.

  Five was a code phrase—one of eight hastily prepared in Pusan—that stood for: “In Tokchok-kundo. McCoy party safe.”

  “H-1, understand Five, Five, confirm.”

  “Confirm, confirm.”

  “Stand by.”

  “Standing by.”

  A new voice with a strong British accent came over the air.

  “H-1, this is Saint Bernard. H-1, this is Saint Bernard.”

  “Jesus, who the hell is that?” Hart asked, and told McCoy what he had heard over his earphones.

  McCoy gestured for him to hand over the headset and the microphone.

  “Station calling H-1, go ahead,” McCoy said.

  “Delighted to hear you’re all right, my friend,” the voice said. “We were getting a bit concerned.”

  “It’s Captain Jones-Fortin,” McCoy said.

  “My present position is Four Zero Three,” Jones-Fortin said.

  “Hold one,” McCoy said. “George, give me your chart and the overlay.”

  “Understand Four Zero Three,” McCoy said to the microphone.

  It took Hart at least a minute to unfold the chart and get the overlay in place. It seemed like much longer.

  “I have your location.”

  “Could you possibly come there at nine tonight? We need to talk.”

  “Dave, can you find that place in the dark?”

  “I think so. It’s about ten miles off the lighthouse, just about due west.”

  “Affirmative, affirmative,” McCoy said.

  “See you then,” Jones-Fortin said. “Saint Bernard Clear.”

  “George, do you know anything about this?” McCoy asked.

  Hart shook his shoulders helplessly.

  XXI

  [ONE]

  ABOARD WIND OF GOOD FORTUNE 37 DEGREES 36 MINUTES NORTH LATITUDE, 126 DEGREES 53 MINUTES EAST LONGITUDE THE YELLOW SEA 2055 25 AUGUST 1950

  “You understand this is dead-reckoning navigation,” Lieutenant David Taylor, USNR, said to Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR. “Sometimes known as by-guess-and-by -golly navigation.”

  They were standing by the forward rail of the “bridge” on the high stern of the Wind of Good Fortune with Major Kim. A Korean seaman had the tiller, and two more had been posted as lookouts, one high on the rearward mast, the other on the forecastle.

  They had been at sea since shortly after their radio contact with HMS Charity at 1800. McCoy hadn’t wanted to have the Wind of Good Fortune at the wharf in Tokchok-kundo, where it might be seen, and Taylor said the simplest way of concealing her would be to sail her back down the Flying Fish Channel into the Yellow Sea, out of sight of the Korean peninsula.

  McCoy had again left Zimmerman in charge on Tokchok-kundo, because he was obviously better qualified to have that command than George Hart, but after thinking about taking Hart with them on the Wind of Good Fortune, realized that Hart would be more useful on the island with Zimmerman, if for no other reason than Zimmerman could bring him up to date on what was planned. Hart was a Marine, and all Marines can fire rifles, and when they finally went to seize Taemuui-do and Yonghung-do, Hart would be needed.

  Only after it had grown dark had Taylor set a course that would take them to the rendezvous at sea with HMS Charity.

  “I’m afraid you’re going to tell me what that means,” McCoy said.

  “We don’t know precisely where we are,” Taylor said. “We have been sailing a compass course, which may or may not have taken us precisely where we want to go. There may be—probably are—currents moving us off course.”

  “What do we have to do to establish ‘precisely’?” McCoy asked.

  “Shoot the stars with a sextant is the usual means,” Taylor said. “But we don’t have a sextant.”

  A few minutes later, there was a flash of white light to port. It seemed to be pointed right at them. It was followed at ten-second intervals by a flash of light that seemed to be pointed ahead of them, then directly away from them, then behind them.

  Then the light went out and stayed out.

  “Are you trying to make this exciting for me, or don’t you know what that is?” McCoy asked.

  “Make for the lights,” Taylor called in Korean to the Korean on the tiller.

  “That’s the Charity?” McCoy asked.

  “God, I hope so,” Taylor said piously.

  Taylor reached into the control compartment and came up with a four-cell flashlight. He flashed it—sending, McCoy realized after a moment, the Morse code short and long flashes spelling M C—to port.

  “Is that the flashlight Dunn dropped to us?” McCoy asked.

  “All it needed was one battery, and it was as good as new,” Taylor said, somewhat smugly. “I had batteries.”

  Now there came a light aimed directly at them, spelling C.

  The C message was repeated once every sixty seconds after that. Five minutes later, just as McCoy began to think he could make out the ship on the horizon, floodlights mounted fore, aft, and amidship on the Charity lit the hull for five seconds and then went off again. It was now possible to judge the distance—no more than two hundred yards—separating the sleek, dead-in-the-water destroyer from the junk.

  A small spotlight flashed on and off at them until they were quite close to the Charity, and then floodlights illuminated a ladder swung over her side.

  “Why do they call that a ladder when it’s really a flight of stairs?” McCoy wondered aloud.

  “Jesus, Ken!” Taylor said.

  Two seamen, under the supervision of the diminutive chief petty officer who had supervised putting the lifeboats over the side of the Charity, were standing on the platform at the lower end of the stairs. The officer was wearing immaculate whites.

  “Captain,” he called, as the Wind of Good Fortune drew quite close, “the captain suggests you gentlemen come aboard, and that your vessel circle astern of us.”

  “Got you, Chief,” Taylor called, and issued the necessary orders to the helmsman.

  McCoy saw that he also handed him the flashlight Colonel Dunn had dropped into the mud.

  McCoy jumped from the deck of the Wind of Good Fortune onto the platform first, followed by Major Kim and finally Taylor.

  “Right up the ladder, if you please, gentlemen,” the chief ordered.

  As McCoy reached the level of the deck, the sea pushed the Wind of Good Fortune into the ladder, and the noise made him look down to see what had happened.

  There didn’t seem to be any damage; the Wind of Good Fortune seemed to be backing away from the Charity.

  McCoy climbed the last two steps of the ladder and step
ped onto the deck, where the executive officer was standing in his crisp white uniform. And there were two rows of sailors, in whites, three to a row, saluting. Just as McCoy realized what was going on, there came the shrill sound of a bosun’s pipe, and a voice called out.

  “United States Marines, board-ing!”

  McCoy faced the stern and saluted the British flag and then saluted the executive officer.

  “Permission to come aboard, sir?”

  “Granted.”

  The executive officer looked at Major Kim as he stepped onto the deck, dressed like McCoy and Taylor, in black pajamas, and for a moment a look of confusion crossed his face, but he rose to the occasion.

  “South Korean officer, board-ing,” he called out.

  And Major Kim rose to the occasion by mimicking every step of McCoy’s response perfectly.

  And finally, Taylor stepped onto the deck in his black pajamas.

  “United States Navy, board-ing!”

  When Taylor had finished saluting the British colors, the bosun’s piping died out and the executive officer put out his hand to Taylor.

  “Nice to have you aboard again, Lieutenant,” he said. “Will you follow me, please?”

  He led them between the lines of saluting sailors—who seemed to find nothing strange, McCoy saw, in their rendering honors to three men in black pajamas—into the superstructure, and through interior passageways to the bridge.

  Captain the Honorable Darwin Jones-Fortin waved them permission to come on the bridge.

  “Your welcome overwhelms us, Captain,” Taylor said.

  “Well, the last time I rather sneaked you aboard. You’re now here officially, and it seemed appropriate. First things first. I dislike sitting here dead in the water. How many knots can your magnificent vessel make? And do you have enough fuel?”

  “Twelve to thirteen knots, sir,” Taylor said, “in a sea like this. And there’s plenty of fuel aboard.”

  “Good show,” Jones-Fortin said. “Make turns for ten knots,” he ordered. “Make a wide circle to port.”

  The helmsman repeated the order.

  “You have the conn, Number One,” Jones-Fortin ordered.

  “I have the conn, sir,” the executive officer said.

  “Why don’t we go to my cabin?” Jones-Fortin said, and motioned them ahead of him into an interior passageway.

  There was already someone in the captain’s cabin, a Royal Marine lieutenant in field clothing and web gear.

  “Gentlemen, may I present Lieutenant Richard Diceworth, Royal Marines?” Jones-Fortin said. “Diceworth, this is Captain McCoy of the U.S. Marines, Lieutenant Taylor of the U.S. Navy, and I haven’t had the privilege . . .”

  “Major Kim Pak-Su, Korean national police.”

  The men shook hands.

  “Admiral Matthews,” Jones-Fortin explained, “apparently after consulting with your General Pickering at some length, and having decided that your Flying Fish Channel operation deserved a bit more support than he initially offered, sent Diceworth and fifteen Royal Marines from HMS Jamaica, his flagship.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” McCoy confessed.

  “Let me tell you what we have to offer, and then you tell me if you think it would be helpful,” Jones-Fortin said. “In addition to Diceworth and his men, we have the boats that brought them to Charity from the Jamaica. There’s two of them, each with a coxswain, and they’re a bit larger— about twice the size, I would guess—of the lifeboats. They’re also a bit faster and more seaworthy.”

  McCoy just shook his head.

  “And while we were waiting for you to join us, my Number One and my gunnery officer, after studying aerial photographs of the islands, have offered the opinion that they can bring all of them under our guns.”

  “You’d have to go into the Flying Fish to do that, Captain, wouldn’t you?” Taylor asked.

  “No, actually not. We can lay the cannon fire from a position seaward of the islands, and use the islands, so to speak, as rocks behind which to hide from possible enemy observation.”

  “Jesus!” McCoy said.

  “Sir William made it quite clear to me, Captain McCoy, that the use of British elements in your operation is by no means an order. Using any, or all, of what we can offer is entirely up to you. What do you think?”

  “I think if it wouldn’t give Taylor the wrong idea about Marines, I’d kiss Lieutenant Diceworth,” McCoy said.

  “Well, perhaps there would be time for that later,” Jones-Fortin said. “But right now, nose to the grindstone, et cetera, right?”

  [TWO]

  TOKCHOK-KUNDO ISLAND 0330 25 AUGUST 1950

  “What the hell is going on?” Master Gunner Ernest W. Zimmerman asked when Captain Kenneth R. McCoy jumped off the Wind of Good Fortune onto the wharf. “I almost blew you out of the water when I saw you coming in with that light.”

  Another man jumped onto the wharf, and Zimmerman looked at him in absolute surprise.

  “Lieutenant Diceworth, Royal Marines, Master Gunner Zimmerman,” McCoy said.

  “How do you do, Mr. Zimmerman?” Diceworth said, politely.

  Zimmerman saluted, then looked at McCoy for an explanation.

  “I want everybody who won’t fit in Boat Two—including the militia—on the Wind of Good Fortune in ten minutes, ” McCoy said. “I want to be in the Flying Fish Channel in fifteen minutes.”

  “I asked you what’s going on, Killer,” Zimmerman pursued.

  “There’s been a slight change in the operation.”

  “What kind of a change?” Zimmerman asked dubiously.

  “I only want to do it once, Ernie,” McCoy said. “Get everybody loaded up.”

  “Good morning, Lieutenant,” Zimmerman said to Diceworth. “With respect, sir, may the gunner inquire where the hell the lieutenant came from?”

  Diceworth smiled.

  “From HMS Jamaica, actually,” Diceworth said.

  “He and fifteen more English Marines,” McCoy added.

  “Actually, Captain,” Diceworth said, “that’s Royal Marines.”

  “Sorry,” McCoy said. “And two pretty-good-sized boats with people who know how to drive them, and radios with which they can talk to Charity, the destroyer, who’s laying just outside the lighthouse.”

  “No shit?”

  “And can bring naval gunfire to bear on all the islands, and has aerial photos, so we can call in what we need when we need it.”

  “No shit?”

  “And now, if your curiosity is settled for the moment,

  Mr. Zimmerman, would you please get your ass out of low gear, and start getting this circus on the road?”

  The essential difference between the pre-Royal Marines and pre-HMS Charity plan, and what they were going to try to do now, was that the element of surprise wasn’t nearly as important as it had been.

  If the two-lifeboat “invasion fleet” had been detected and brought under fire by any of the North Korean forces, it would almost certainly have meant disaster. The North Koreans had both machine guns and rifles, and would have brought the lifeboats under fire the moment they saw they were filled with armed men.

  Machine-gun and rifle fire from firm ground goes where it is directed. Machine-gun and rifle fire from crowded lifeboats bobbing in the rapidly receding tide waters of the Flying Fish Channel would have struck its targets only by wild coincidence.

  So the element of surprise in the initial plan was of prime importance. Now it fell into the category of “nice to have if we can get away with it.”

  The plan now had a role for the Wind of Good Fortune. With the two boats from HMS Jamaica running to her starboard, where they could probably not be seen, and towing the lifeboat, she would move up the Flying Fish Channel past Taebu-do and Taemuui-do under both diesel and sail power. The sails probably would do very little to propel her forward, and their being raised might have the opposite effect, if there was a strong wind from the north—in which case they would be lowered.
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br />   All the Marines—Royal and U.S.—and most of Major Kim’s national police would be in the boats. They were now divided into three teams, scattering the Royal Marines among the U.S. Marines.

  The two larger teams, one commanded by Captain McCoy and the other by Lieutenant Diceworth, would, if everything went well, land undetected at the narrow point—the center of the hourglass—of Yonghung-do, and then split, and simultaneously move over land, Diceworth’s team to take the village of Oe-ri on the south end of the island, and McCoy’s to take Nae-ri on the northern end.

  The lifeboat would hold a seven-man team, commanded by Zimmerman, as the reserve.

  Taylor, Hart, and Kim would be aboard Wind of Good Fortune, Kim to control the militia, and Hart to operate the radio to report what was going on—especially if something went wrong.

  It was a good plan of operation, and it almost worked.

  They managed to get past Taebu-do and Taemuui-do without, so far as they could tell, arousing any interest whatever.

  But as they approached Oe-ri on the south end of Yonghung-do, hoping to pass there, too, undetected, the junk sailing up the Flying Fish Channel attracted the attention of a North Korean sentry. First, there was a siren, and then the Wind of Good Fortune was in the light of a searchlight, and finally there came machine-gun fire, which, after a moment, walked its way through the water and into the hull of the Wind of Good Fortune.

  And a moment after that, two rounds of five-inch naval gunfire landed on the machine-gun position. The searchlight went out, the machine gun stopped firing, and the outer of the two Jamaica boats—which held Lieutenant Diceworth’s team—cut free from the Wind of Good Fortune and headed for the village.

  As a Royal Marine handed twenty-round magazines to a U.S. Marine firing his Browning Automatic Rifle from the bow of the boat, two more rounds of five-inch from Charity landed in Oe-ri.

  The second boat from HMS Jamaica—carrying Mc-Coy’s team—now started to edge ahead of the Wind of Good Fortune, headed up the Flying Fish Channel for the north end of the island and the village of Nae-ri.

  With the loss of the element of surprise, there was no need now to land in the middle of Yonghung-do and go overland.