But they do not. In spite of the prospect, they continue fighting with their customary skill. Being the men they are, no other course is open to them.
Thwarted, the enemy changes his tactics. Attacks continue all round; but now great numbers concentrate on one small segment of the circle. The fire directed on to Geoff’s platoon is intensified. Sergeant Robinson, who has controlled the fire of a light-machine-gun group throughout the night from an exposed position, falls. His arm and shoulder shattered by a burst of fire, he nonetheless remains at duty, giving the crew their orders in this new engagement till he loses consciousness. Robson, a light-machine-gun Number One, keeps firing though his leg is badly wounded, till he too becomes unconscious with another wound. One by one, the strength of the platoon is reduced, the little fighting groups split up. Regardless of the fire which pours down in support from the remainder of the Company, the Chinese now rush in upon the few survivors—and the ground is lost.
On the long hill behind Geoff’s last position, two weak platoons and the company headquarters prepare for the next blow.
From the knoll, looking across the valley we had so recently occupied, we saw the end draw near. As the sun rose in the eastern sky, the massing figures of the enemy were silhouetted on the ridge which led to the top of the hill. Below them, reinforcements were scrambling up the steep hillside. Now, at last, we could give B Company positive assistance.
Sergeant Sykes and his machine-gun section opened fire from the left of the knoll. Carl brought concentration after concentration of artillery fire down upon the northern end of the ridge, and on the reinforcements climbing up. If this support did not absolutely relieve Denis, it delayed the final assault which must overwhelm B Company.
Withdrawal to the main body during the final hours of darkness would have been quite impossible for B Company. It would have meant a long trek across hills and valleys infested with enemy, without support either from artillery or from our own Vickers machine-guns. They would have been scattered and lost within the first hour. But now, in full daylight, with additional support that we could render, there was a chance that they might break out and join us. Group by group, under cover of fire from every weapon that we could muster, and with superb assistance from our Gunners, B Company began to evacuate their hill. At last, a part of Arthur’s platoon remained with less than half of Company Headquarters—no more than twenty men, in all. The Chinese on the northern slope were now thirty yards away, sniping from the cover of scattered rocks to supplement the fire of their machine-guns from the hilltop to the east, and the mortars firing from the valley. The defence replied with their last rounds from the shallow trenches so painfully scooped out of the loose rock, waiting for the word to go. Suddenly, on the signal, they rose to dash in a body down the slope to the rear. The Chinese, harassed by Carl’s artillery fire and the long bursts from the Vickers, could not recover quickly enough to prevent them going. And the line of attackers at the foot of the reverse slope could not resist the force of that determined rush. Before they could open fire, Denis’s party had broken through and entered the pinewoods. The branches closed behind them, concealing them from the pursuit that followed.
Jennings came up to the knoll from the Rear-Link wireless.
“The Brigade-Major wants you, sir.”
I put on the head-set and called Ken up: he had cheering news. The Filipino Battalion was being sent up during the afternoon to reinforce us. To-morrow, we would be relieved by a combined force of armour and infantry in brigade strength. To-morrow night we should be out into reserve with a chance to take in reinforcements and to re-equip. Already, the Filipinos were moving up along the hills on either side of the road from the south; while in the valley between, the Centurion tanks of the 8th Hussars were shooting them forward. Ken’s voice sounded cheerful in the headphones. I closed by telling him that I would take a drink off him on Thursday night.
From the area of the knoll came the sound of excited voices. Henry began to run up the slope from the saddle.
“It’s someone from B Company,” said Richard. We wriggled forward on our stomachs and found a convenient gap in the broken rocks. Far below us, around the hairpin bend to the south, a group of men had run out on to the road below Kamak-San. They were not Chinese: at least two of them had fair hair.
I said: “It’s Denis!”
Our binoculars followed them across the road. They began the long ascent of the re-entrant that led up to our saddle.
“There’s Sergeant-Major Morton,” Henry called, “and Denis, and Dawson.” They had come into full view round a rock face.
“I can see Corporal Wellington, I think,” said Richard. “I wonder how many signallers he’s got with him.”
He stopped suddenly as a party of Chinese came running round the rock-face in obvious pursuit of the men from B Company. The sound of firing came to us faintly, and I saw that several of the Chinese had stopped to fire burp-guns at what appeared to be aparty of wounded with Sergeant-Major Morton.
It was going to be touch and go. Whilst a mixed party of mortar-men, signallers, police, and drivers was assembled to make asortie to their aid, Sam got one of Sergeant Hoper’s Vickers across. They began to fire down into the re-entrant; with relief we saw that the pursuit had stopped.
Henry was still distributing grenades to the relief party when I joined him. “It’s all right,” I said. “The Vickers has fixed them. Denis’s party will be up here in ten minutes.”
I think he had been looking forward to a chance to even up a part of the score against the Chinese, for he looked very disappointed.
“We’d better just make sure,” he said: and then Allum, the signaller, came tumbling down the slope.
“You’d better come up quick, sir,” he said. “There’s another party of Chinks just come round the end of the ridge and they’re going to head B Company off. Walker’s got the Bren on them.”
We hurried up the slope anxiously, the Colonel with us. He had heard the news from Sergeant Smythe.
“Where’s Walker?” I said to Allum. “I thought you said he was here with a Bren?”
“He was, sir,” said Allum. “He was right by this rock when——”
“There he goes,” said Henry, pointing: “down the hill.”
It seemed that Walker had decided to meet this threat on his own. Alone, entirely without orders, he was running down the hill with the gun on his hip, firing as he went. I think it was more his fierce determination than the bullets he fired that deterred the Chinese. To a man, they ran back round the end of the ridge.
It was so like Walker: he was an independent type.
We were twenty men stronger: twenty men, and a few rifles and Stens without any ammunition in them, and Denis’s pistol which contained four rounds: all that was left to us of B Company. Setting aside our personal delight at their survival, the addition of their numbers was invaluable. The Colonel combined B Company with C: they made a strong platoon. We now began to take steps to remedy a few of our immediate needs.
The valley where the Main Headquarters had once stood was now deserted. Every attempt by the Chinese to penetrate the dugouts, tents, and vehicles that still remained had been thwarted; for our positions commanded the valley almost as much as theirs. Here and there, by the road and stream, the bodies of bolder Chinese, anxious, perhaps, for loot, provided a warning to any of their fellows who hoped to venture forward. But so acute were our shortages, we now decided that we must attempt what they had failed to achieve. We needed, first, ammunition; second—almost equal in importance—batteries for the wireless sets; third, a little food. Mr. Hobbs began to assemble a party of men from Support Company and Headquarters, together with some of the native porters with whom he would descend to the valley through the gorge. Guy made up a small party of gunners to pick up batteries for his own sets from the CMC.
The machine-guns waited on either side of the knoll. The northern and eastern slopes rising from the valley disappeared as the shells, burstin
g in a shower of phosphorous sparks, released their white smoke swiftly. The moment had come.
Hidden just above the gorge, Mr. Hobbs and his party rushed down the last few hundred yards of the stream bed into the valley; with them, the little Gunner party. By the ford, they all split. The signallers and the gunners ran towards the area of the Command Post, disappeared into vehicles and dugouts, reappeared with batteries and, in one case, a reserve wireless left undestroyed when we had evacuated the valley in the early morning. The group with Mr. Hobbs were loading ammunition with all speed on to their backs. Beyond them, Sergeant-Major Strong selected rations from our forward dump.
Carl thickened up the smoke with another concentration; a few Chinese emerged from the screen along the road to the north, but were destroyed by one of Guido’s light machine-guns. Now the expeditionary force was coming back, staggering with their huge loads. I marvelled at the strength of our South Korean porters. The wooden frames upon their backs—shaped like an ‘A’, and so called “A-frames”—were heaped from waist to head with wooden boxes, crates, and jerricans. From the GMC came Guy, an unmistakable figure, his cap at a rakish angle on his head. They began the ascent through the gorge as Carl produced more shells—but this time, high explosive.
It was almost as good as Christmas after their return. The slopes below the knoll and behind the saddle were littered with boxes. As I went from dump to dump, I felt like the man who opens his presents to exclaim delightedly: “Just what I wanted!”
Without losing a single man, Mr. Hobbs’s party had brought back sufficient to relieve our immediate necessities.
We checked our newly-delivered goods and examined the relative requirements of each element in the force. The ammunition was collected by parties of porters from each company and Frank’s Mortar Troop. The magazines of rifles, Brens, and Sten machine-carbines were refilled. Grenades were issued. The Vickers machine-gun sections added a belt or two to their dwindling stocks. There had been no need for ammunition for the medium and heavy mortars; for although they had carried up the barrels to deny them to the enemy, the base plates remained in their pits in the valley. As far as the Battalion was concerned, our defence would be continued with small arms, aided by the support of our guns.
The Colonel now considered what policy we should adopt concerning our vehicles, equipment and stores that remained below. If the Filipinos should manage to arrive before darkness, there was every prospect that we could go down again to collect what we needed, and to send our drivers back with vehicles no longer required, under the protection of the 8 th Hussars tanks. Yet we could not bring ourselves to believe that they were going to reach us; the Chinese were so numerous that it seemed incredible that they would manage to break their way through the numbers that were already miles to the south. However, no good purpose could be served either by showing a long face to the remainder of the Battalion, or by under-estimating the ability of the force attempting to get through. For the moment the Colonel merely wished to know whether or not to bring artillery fire down upon our Headquarters site to effect its destruction. We called Brigade Headquarters on the Rear-Link set.
It seemed that, by coincidence, Ken had been about to call us. Throughout the morning and the early afternoon, he had reported the progress of the Filipino Force. The last news had been encouraging: they had reached a point four miles south of us where, meeting strong resistance, they had been in process of mounting a full-scale attack. The outcome of this was now reported to us: the attack had failed. The Chinese had reinforced the area from Kamak-San. The 8th Hussars had lost some tanks in a road block constructed in one of the gorges, and could get no further forward that day.
That was that.
The Brigadier had just come back to Brigade Main Headquarters from a visit to the Fifth Fusiliers and The Rifles, each of whom were fighting a bitter action against enormous odds. The Belgians had been withdrawn intact across the river but with heavy casualties. It appeared that the Chinese were exerting strong pressure in an attempt to force the parallel road to the east of us; and that if they could not have both roads, they would have one or the other. Since leaving the other Battalions, he had spoken to both the Divisional Commander and the Corps Commander. There was no alternative but to hold on.
The Colonel looked down at his map as the Brigadier spoke. There was a slight pause after the latter finished speaking. Then the Colonel put his map on top of the wireless.
“I understand the position quite clearly,” he said. “What I must make clear to you is the fact that my command is no longer an effective fighting force. If it is required that we shall stay here, in spite of this, we shall continue to hold. But I wish to make known the nature of my position.”
These were grave words for a Battalion Commander to speak; they were spoken in a grave moment. We had less than four hundred effective men—and many wounded. Our magazine was low and ten or twelve hours fighting on a moderate scale would certainly empty it altogether. Many of our weapons had been damaged or smashed completely beyond repair by enemy fire—we were especially short of Bren light machine-guns. Our wireless batteries, thanks to the expedition, might last another twelve or fifteen hours if used sparingly. We could not hope for a further supply of any of these before mid-morning to-morrow, at the earliest.
Yet, the Colonel was not asking obliquely that we might be permitted to withdraw while there was still time; that the outcome of the battle might be risked in order that we might be spared. He was not that sort of a man. He was a man who believed in facing realities; he was facing them now.
I heard the Brigadier’s voice in the head-phones again. I could tell by his voice that he did not like committing us to such a desperate task. He said he realized how things stood with us, but the job had to be done; and we were the only ones who could do it. No one else could hope to get through that day. Knowing him, we were at least content with the absolute necessity of what we were to do. And, to-morrow, they still planned to send forward the regimental combat team of infantry and armour—perhaps by ten o’clock.
But to-morrow was another day.
The Colonel had gone up to Hill 235 to make a reconnaissance of the positions held now by A Company and the Assault Pioneer Platoon. He had decided to concentrate the whole force on that long thin ridge for the night. It was a difficult piece of ground to attack, since the southern approach was precipitous and the northern side extremely steep. Only the ends of the feature, north-west and south-east, favoured attack in strength, and these we could expect to hold through the night without losing ground.
We packed our few pieces of equipment and gathered together our scant arms and ammunition. Two observation planes had just completed an attempt to free-drop wireless batteries, Brens, and ammunition with but little success. To-morrow, the Fairchild Packets would bring us more supplies which they would drop by parachute. Meantime, we would make the best use of what we had got.
At dusk, when the Chinese could no longer see our movements, we began the march up through D Company’s position to the ridge whose highest point was 235. It was a slow march, for the track was narrow and winding, often steep. The wounded, now increased in number by the few B Company had managed to bring in, and those who had sustained injury in the skirmishes during the morning, were carried by shifts of men in order to avoid returning to the knoll or saddle for a second journey with equipment. At length, the last man crossed the saddle connecting D Company’s hill to our night position and the business of settling-in began.
Taking up a strange position by night is never a pleasant or easy task for a soldier. To do so with one pick and shovel among twenty men in an area at least a half of which is solid rock, is apt to aggravate the business. In spite of this, there were no complaints; spirits were high as the defence works were constructed, even where the construction involved digging away sharp stones with bayonets and bare hands. There was no frantic, panic-stricken excavation of trenches: everyone worked steadily throughout the night. Later, a pitifully
small ration was issued from the stocks brought up by Mr. Hobbs, the Provost Sergeant, Peglar, and Sergeant-Major Strong. The sections each drew lots to see which portion of the rations they should have: tinned rich fruit cake or bully beef; tinned peaches or tinned salmon; half a loaf of bread or a tin of unsweetened milk. Much of the food was put away until later. Men wanted water rather than food; the heat of the day and the loss of sweat in the march up to the night position had made them thirsty, and there was no water to quench their thirst. We had rationed out a quarter of a pint per man earlier, and sent the remainder to Bob for the wounded, who now lay just south of the ridge crest in a hollow. There were some vacant stretchers there: some of the men had died.
At last there was silence: no sound of battle disturbed the night, the noise of picks and shovels in the rocky earth nearby had ceased. The signallers had dug their trenches for the night. For an hour or so, the world pretended to be at peace.
Below me, in a slit trench dug some days before by Spike’s pioneers, the Colonel slept. Behind, in the adjacent trench, slept Guy and Lucas. Biting on the stem of my empty pipe, I began to reflect on the day’s events and the coming battle. Gradually, all my thoughts drifted, and I began to connect my present situation with all the things I had done or seen throughout my life as an Infantry soldier. And I remembered, suddenly, the words of a very famous general whose lecture I had attended.
“The Infantry,” he said, “are the cutting edge of the battle.” If the Eighth Army in Korea was a sword, I knew full well what part of that sword we helped to form: the edge of the sword. Half-sitting and half-lying by the slit-trench parapet on that sharp ridge, the stars shining down on me through the white clouds, it seemed to me that it was not a bad description of our job: the cutting edge of the sword.
I was not to remain in fantasy for long. Nearby, two signallers had been awakened for their watch; and they had something far more real to think about. A voice that surely came from Bristol was declaring: “I don’t care what you say about your fancy London beers, Jack. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no beer in the world like George’s Home Brewed.”
The Edge of the Sword Page 5