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 peace-time 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 Regiment. 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 landline 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.
The driver of the jeep was standing beside the vehicle, waving his arms over his head.
“First Sergeant, you want to take a chance and go out there and wave back?”
First Sergeant Grass handed his binoculars to Allen and walked in front of the sandbags. Allen then steadied himself on the sandbags and put the binoculars to his eyes.
The driver, leaving the jeep on the hill, walked back over the crest and disappeared.
A minute or so later, another soldier appeared . . . That’s not the same guy . . . waving his arms over his head, got in the jeep, and started easing it down the hill.
Sometimes you can’t see diddly-shit through binoculars, and sometimes there is extraordinary clarity and detail. This time—even though it was rapidly getting dark—it luckily was the latter. Allen could even read the front bumper markings on the jeep: HH7DIV on the right, 36 on the left. The jeep was Vehicle #36 of those assigned to Headquarters and Headquarters Company, 25th Infantry Division.
The somewhat less than deep and confidence-inspiring voice of George Patton called from the turret of the Sherman to his righ
t.
“Vehicle on the road, Captain!”
“I wonder who the hell that is?” Allen asked aloud, and then called back, “Americans?”
“An officer and somebody else in a jeep,” the voice called back.
Allen pushed himself off the sandbags and climbed up on the tank to see for himself.
In a moment, he was able to identify the officer in the jeep. It was the assistant Division G-2, Major Masters.
Well, he probably had word that this mysterious patrol of his was coming in.
Allen climbed off the tank, and a minute or so later the jeep slid to a halt beside the tank and Major Masters jumped out.
Allen saluted. Masters returned it crisply.
“You were told to be on the alert for a patrol. . . .”
“Yes, sir,” Allen said. “I think that’s what’s coming in now.”
He pointed down the road.
“Did I or did I not, Captain, tell you to notify me by the most expeditious means when that happened?”
“Yes, sir, you did,” Allen said. “This just happened, sir. Just a couple of minutes ago. I don’t know if it’s your patrol or not.”
Major Masters peered carefully around the skirts over the tank’s tracks.
“That’s one man in a jeep,” he declared, “not a patrol.”
“The jeep came over the hill a couple of minutes ago, sir. The driver waved, we waved back, and now somebody else is driving the jeep.”
Major Masters either grunted or snorted.
There was the sound of a carbine firing. One round.
The jeep skidded to a stop, and the driver got out and held both arms over his head.
“I think that was an accidental discharge, sir,” Captain Allen said.
And if Sergeant Grass saw who fired it, he’ll kick his ass all the way back to Japan.
“Unfortunate,” Major Masters said.
“Only a few of my men have ever been in a situation like this, sir.”
“Tell me about it,” Major Masters said, then added: “Well, he’s coming in. Let’s see what he has to say.”
They walked to the .50-caliber air-cooled Browning position on the left, arranged themselves behind its sandbags, and watched as the tall soldier, his arms still over his head, walked toward them.
The soldier was no boy, but there were no chevrons visible on the sleeves of his fatigue shirt.
When he was twenty yards away, Captain Allen stood up.
“Over here, soldier,” he called.
The soldier trotted to the machine-gun emplacement, dropped his arms, and saluted.
“Who are you?” Major Masters demanded.
“Technical Sergeant Jennings, sir.”
“Are you in charge of this . . . patrol?”
“No, sir. Sir, with respect, may I go wave the others in?”
“Go ahead, Sergeant,” Allen said.
Masters gave him a dirty look, and when Jennings was just possibly out of hearing range, said, “I was talking to that man, Allen. You should not have interfered.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Fuck you! Until someone relieves me, I’m in command here, and you’re just a goddamn visiting brass hat. A minor-league brass hat.
Jennings trotted halfway toward where he had stopped the jeep and gestured toward the hill that it was all right to come in. Then he trotted back to the machine-gun emplacement.
“Just who is in charge of your patrol, Sergeant?” Major Masters asked.
“Sir, with respect, if I don’t find a slit trench in the next sixty seconds, I am going to have a personal catastrophe.”
“Over there, Sergeant,” Captain Allen said, chuckling as he pointed.
“Thank you, sir.”
Masters gave him another dirty look.
“Vehicles coming down the hill, Captain!” the sergeant in the turret of one of the Shermans called.
Allen and Masters looked.
“What the hell is that?” Masters asked.
“Jesus, I don’t know,” Captain Allen said.
The vehicle leading the weapons carrier toward them was jeeplike but not a jeep. After a moment Allen remembered seeing pictures of a Russian vehicle like it in a magazine. Or was it during one of those endless goddamn Know Your Enemy! briefings?
“It looks like a Russian jeep,” Allen said.
Major Masters snorted or grunted again; Captain Allen wasn’t sure.
The Russian, if that’s what it was, jeep stopped behind the jeep the sergeant had left out there, and a man . . .
How do I know that guy is an old-time noncom? Allen thought.
. . . climbed out of it, got in the jeep, and led the Russian jeep and a weapons carrier into the roadblock.
When the jeep got close and he could see its stocky, barrel-chested driver, Captain Allen was even more sure he was a longtime noncom. He said so, calling out, “Sergeant, park your jeep behind the Sherman on the left.”
The driver nodded his understanding.
The Russian vehicle—That’s what it is, I’m sure—immediately followed.
With its headlights on, for Christ’s sake! Doesn’t this guy know that turns him into a bull’s-eye?
“Turn those headlights off!” Captain Allen ordered firmly, even a little angrily, then impatiently signaled the Russian vehicle to move past him and get behind the closest of the three tanks.
As the weapons carrier rolled up to him, Allen ordered, “Put that behind that tank,” and pointed to the third Sherman.
As the truck passed him, Allen saw that the truck bed was just about full of people. It was now dark, so he couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw at least two, maybe three, Orientals.
Major Masters marched purposefully toward the Russian vehicle, with Allen following.
The driver . . .
Who’s not wearing a helmet . . .
Goddamn it, none of these people are!!!
. . . who looked a little old to be a private—there was no rank insignia in sight—was already out of the Russian vehicle, leaning against it, lighting a cigar with a wooden match.
“Are you in charge of this . . . operation?” Major Masters demanded.
“Yes, I am,” the driver said, taking a deep, satisfied puff on his cigar, then examining the coal.
“And don’t you salute officers, soldier?” Major Masters demanded icily.
“Sorry,” the driver said, straightened, and saluted. Masters returned it impatiently. After a moment, Allen did so too.
“What’s your name, soldier? Your outfit?” Major Masters demanded.
“My name is McCoy, Major,” the driver said. “And I’m a Marine. Actually, I’m a Marine major.”
Captain Allen accepted this immediately. There was something about this guy’s voice, the smile on his face, that made the announcement credible. Major Masters had trouble with it.
“Is there some reason you’re not wearing the insignia of your rank, Major?”
“Who are you?” McCoy asked.
“My name is Masters. I’m the assistant G-2 of the 25th Division.”
“You work for Colonel Lemuleson?” McCoy asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Masters admitted. The question had surprised him.
Zimmerman walked up to them. He saluted.
“Thanks for not shooting first and then asking questions, ” Zimmerman said.
“This is Master Gunner Zimmerman,” McCoy said.
“Master Gunner?” Captain Allen asked as he offered his hand. “The Marine equivalent of our master sergeant?”
“Mr. Zimmerman is what the Army would call a chief warrant officer,” McCoy corrected him.
“Neither of you is wearing any insignia—” Major Masters began.
“I know,” McCoy interrupted, smiling.
Masters glowered at him.
“If you work for Colonel Lemuleson, you’re just the man I want to see,” McCoy went on.
“Is that so?”
“I need two things,
Major,” McCoy said. “I need to get a message to Colonel Lemuleson, and—”
“Before we go any further, Major,” Masters interrupted, “I’d like to see some identification and your orders. Who the hell are you?”
“If you work for Colonel Lemuleson, and he didn’t tell you, then I guess he decided you don’t have the need to know,” McCoy said.
He turned to Allen.
“Have you got a landline I can use to call 25th Division, Captain?” McCoy asked.
“It was working fifteen minutes ago, sir,” Allen said. He pointed toward his command post.
“I demand to see your identification, Major!” Masters said loudly.
His face was red. McCoy seemed amused rather than cowed.
“Colonel Lemuleson’s holding all that for us, sorry. Why don’t we see if we can get him on the horn?”
He started to walk toward the CP. Masters, red-faced, stood with his hands on his hips, watching McCoy walk away.
Allen started to follow him, saw Foster Four with a May I go too? look on his face, and nodded permission.
Allen caught up with McCoy.
“Somehow, sir, I get the feeling Major Masters is annoyed with you,” he said.
McCoy chuckled.
“I . . . uh . . . didn’t know what to think when I saw your jeep,” Captain Allen said. “The first one, I mean. Or this thing . . .”
He stopped when he became aware that Major Masters was trotting after them.
“We’ve been doing a reconnaissance,” McCoy said. “No big deal, but it’s none of that guy’s business.”
“I thought the Marines were operating in Seoul, north of it,” Allen said.
“They are,” McCoy said.
“Where’d you get the Russian jeep?”
Major Masters was now walking beside them. He announced: “We’ll see what Colonel Lemuleson has to say about all this.”
McCoy acted as if he hadn’t heard him. He turned to Allen. “We bagged some Inmun Gun. They were driving this thing. I figured, what the hell, why not take it with us?”
Major Masters picked up on that.
“Can I take that to mean you have engaged the enemy?”
“It wasn’t much of an ’engagement.’ They were coming up the road, Mr. Zimmerman shot the tires out on the first vehicle, and we bagged them.”
Retreat, Hell! Page 5