by Leigh Kimmel
The U.S. Army made it perfectly clear that if allowed to stay, the KATUSAs would be more than welcome to accompany 2 I.D. to Diess. They were fully trained and integrated members of their units, and served a plethora of vital functions. Ultimately the Korean government left the decision up to the individual KATUSAs as to whether or not they would like to fly off into outer space and get killed with a bunch of obnoxious American G.I.s.
At first the invitation to accompany their American brothers in arms was not warmly received. While most of them felt a close relationship with their American comrades, they were not all that anxious to volunteer for a perceived "One Way Ticket to Hell." That was, until they learned that the ROK Army too, was getting mobilized for deployment among the stars.
Figuring that one suicide mission was as good as another, practically all the KATUSAs remained with their American units.
Since the KATUSAs generally had elected to stay with their American units, the 2nd Infantry Division found itself pleasantly over strength, with plenty of trained, talented personnel to go around.
As Murphy approached his Humvee, he could hear a lot of movement from inside of the vehicle, and could see someone up in the gunner's hatch working on the .50 caliber machinegun. When he got a little closer he could see that it was Corporal Kim up top, loading the crew-served weapon.
"Good morning sir." Corporal Kim had his night vision goggles on and had spotted his commander approaching.
"What's up Kim? You guys ready to roll?"
Kim had a fairly thick Korean accent, but his English was good. He was especially talented in the use of American profanity. "Not yet sir, Jenkins is still putting his shit away."
Murphy opened the passenger door of the Humvee to find Jenkins still struggling to put his sleeping bag in the back of the vehicle. He wasn't wearing his BDU shirt, his boots were unlaced, and there was MRE garbage and assorted articles of clothing scattered all over the inside of the truck. "For fuck's sake Jenkins, what happened to the inside of this vehicle? Are you going to be ready to roll sometime this century?"
Jenkins tossed the rest of the sleeping bag into the back, grabbed his BDU blouse, and started putting it on. "Umm, uh, I'll be ready in a minute sir."
Murphy just shook his head. "Are the radios even turned on?"
"Uhh..."
"Fuck, what is that smell?" Steve wrinkled his nose. "Is that you Jenkins? Christ, did something crawl up your ass and die?"
Jenkins continued to struggle with his uniform.
"Never mind." Murphy looked up at Kim, who was closing the feed-tray cover of his weapon. "Kim, did Jones give you a class on how to set the headspace and timing on that weapon?"
"Yes sir." Kim didn't sound convincing.
"Did you set the headspace and timing this morning?"
Kim took a second to respond. "We did it a couple of days ago sir."
"Well, do it again." Murphy was getting a bit irritated.
"I can't. I lost my headspace and timing gauge. Sorry sir."
"Jesus fucking Christ Kim, you better find that goddamn thing! Those fuckin' things don't grow on trees around here!"
"Roger sir."
Steve was trying not to lose his temper. He was failing. He wasn't a morning person, and he wasn't a terribly patient one either. "Alright Kim, at least get the radios switched on and do a couple of radio checks. Let me know when you and Jenkins are done. I'll just be standing here, with my thumb up my ass, waiting on the both of you."
Kim sounded a bit sheepish. "Roger sir." He then ducked down inside of the Humvee and started turning on the radios.
Murphy unbuttoned his chinstrap and scratched his chin. "It's going to be a long goddamn day."
0340 Hours May 18th, 2002
Phase Line "Razor"
Specialist Carl Myers pulled his poncho liner around him a little tighter as he stared off into the darkness. The stars were bright and everything seemed peaceful. He looked down at his watch for the thousandth time, checking to see if it was time for his shift to be over. The little hands on his issued watch glowed in the dark and read 0340 hours; still twenty minutes until he could wake up the LT and go crawl back into his sleeping bag.
Myers sat on the roof of his Humvee. His legs hung down into the vehicle through the hole in the top that served as the gunner's hatch. In front of him was the .50 caliber machinegun with a monstrous night site mounted on it, and some of his gear. His helmet sat next to him, as did a cold canteen cup of instant coffee. Beside the weapon were two handmikes, which enabled him to speak to the rest of his platoon on their internal frequency, and also to communicate with battalion on the Operations and Intelligence net. He had a map-board in front of him with a number of overlays taped to it, and also a small maglite, with a red filter affixed to it.
Specialist Myers was the platoon leader's driver, one of three men that lived, ate, slept, and bitched in the vehicle. He was a cavalry scout in the battalion's scout platoon, and usually found himself on the "pointy end of the stick." Right now, the platoon's mission was to conduct a "screen line" in front of the battalion, which meant that he and the rest of the guys were to establish positions roughly three kilometers in front of the battalion's forward elements, and act as the "eyes and ears" for everyone else. They were out front, in camouflaged positions, and would give the first warning if and when the bad guys were about to attack. They would then give detailed reports about enemy movements and draw first blood by hitting them with mortar and artillery fires without revealing their locations. This was almost always easier said than done. If they did their jobs correctly, they would see the enemy first, and report it, giving the rest of the battalion time to alert subordinate its companies and ready themselves for the impending attack. Meanwhile, the scouts would contribute to the fight by reporting the enemy's size, actions, and locations, while pummeling them mercilessly with indirect fires.
Myers was a good scout. He had been totally dedicated to his job since the day he joined the Army. At the time of his enlistment he was eighteen years old, a recent high school graduate, had no plans for the future, and a pregnant sixteen-year-old girlfriend. His prospects didn't look very bright at the time, considering the limited opportunities available to him in his hometown of Bangor, Wisconsin.
His parents, after finding out that his girlfriend Sarah had a bun in the oven, told Carl that he needed to get a job at the local IGA, and get started taking care of his new family. Carl was hardly enthusiastic about the idea of working his way up the local corporate ladder, and he was even less enthusiastic about his parents telling him how he should live his life.
His father, a hard working man who had spent most of his life as a heavy equipment operator working for a local excavation company, had always been tough on his sons. He loved them dearly, but didn't express it well, which eventually led to the alienation of the very children he worked so hard to raise. Carl constantly fought with his father. Sometimes their fighting was especially bitter, and no matter how hard Carl's dad tried to help, the more he pushed his son away.
When Carl came home one night and told his parents that he was going to marry Sarah, and then join the Army, his father was furious and his mother simply broke down crying. Carl's father was a Vietnam veteran, a former infantryman who never talked of his time in Southeast Asia. One thing he did talk about, was that he had fought hard, and his country returned the favor by treating him like shit. Needless to say, Carl Sr. was not a big supporter of his government. He felt that young people that joined the military were pawns, their lives to be cheaply squandered by uncaring and inept politicians.
No matter how passionately Carl's father tried to convince him not to join the Army, the more he wanted to sign up.
A couple of weeks later, Carl's new wife, and his mother dropped him off at the bus station in nearby Sparta, and gave him a tearful goodbye as he embarked on his new military career. His father refused to see him off.
The Army had been good to him, even if things back home had
n't been so hot.
Carl and Sarah had decided that she should stay home with her parents and finish school, while Carl was away. When she graduated, she and their new little girl, Miriam, would join him at his new duty station at Fort Carson, Colorado. He had been anticipating the reunion of his young family and of eventually cashing in on his G.I. Bill benefits. He planned on getting out of the Army after his four-year enlistment, in order to go to college, and get himself a decent paying job in Colorado. Things were starting to work out for him.
Unfortunately, things didn't quite work out the way he had hoped. Sarah started seeing someone back home while Carl was away. She ended up getting pregnant again, with a local boy's child. It was Carl's mom that broke the news. She called the barracks and asked for him soon after he and the rest of his squadron had returned from the field.
Carl didn't take the news very well.
He jumped in his beat-up Ford Escort and went AWOL. He started driving back to Wisconsin. He didn't know what he was going to do when he got there, but he figured that he would work that out on the way there.
It took a couple of days before he arrived back home, to find his mother and father waiting for him. Carl was glad to see his mother, and he had very mixed feelings about seeing his dad again. To everyone's surprise, it was Carl Sr. that got through to Carl, and probably ended up saving him from himself.
Carl Sr. told his son that he shouldn't see his wife. He told him not to go looking for her new boyfriend. He told his son, that he was proud of him, and that he should go back to Colorado and report back to his unit before he threw everything away. Carl agreed and went back to Colorado Springs.
When he got back to Fort Carson, he was an emotional wreck. He couldn't sleep, he couldn't eat, and pain was his constant companion. He just didn't care what happened to him anymore.
Fortunately for him, his chain of command was sympathetic. Carl had proven himself a good soldier and a hard worker, and that was all taken into account when he received his Article 15 for being AWOL. He was given seven days restriction, and seven days extra duty in summarized proceedings; none of which went on his permanent military record.
After completing his punishment, his buddies decided to lift his spirits in a truly soldierly fashion, by keeping him good and drunk. They managed to keep this up for weeks.
It wasn't long after that, that Carl received his orders for Korea. He felt that his luck just went from bad to worse. The general consensus was that duty in Korea was a fate worse than death. It was considered a miserable purgatory that was to be avoided at all costs by anyone with a brain in their heads. But, he really didn't have a choice in the matter, and reluctantly he went.
His arrival at Kimpo airport was uneventful. His in processing at Camp Mobile was even more unremarkable. He was in a daze as he filled out reams of paperwork and hoped half-heartedly that he would get up to Camp Gary Owen, and get a job up in 4-7 Cavalry as a gunner on a Bradley. He had been a driver before and he was ready take position in the gunner's seat. It seemed as if he deserved at least that much, after all, hadn't he been punished enough?
Apparently not, because when he did finally receive his orders, it wasn't for duty in his beloved Cav, it was for duty in 1st Battalion, 9th Infantry.
Infantry? It was official. God hated him.
He was too numb to care anymore.
It turned out that life in the Manchu's wasn't nearly as bad as he thought it would be. He was assigned to the battalion scout platoon, and discovered that he had found a new family there.
The scouts were highly motivated, well trained, and highly regarded in the battalion. This was all due to his platoon sergeant, a Sergeant First Class Washburn, a redneck of the highest order.
When Sergeant Washburn wasn't drinking and chasing Russian hookers with the mortar platoon sergeant, he was planning and executing training. The man lived to be a scout, and he made sure that his troopers were good ones. He would constantly train his platoon on their weapons, communications equipment, and tactics. He would get with the fire supporters and train on calling for fires. He would get with the Air Force guys and train on close air support. He would bug his platoon leader and commander until he could get his platoon out in the field and train on infiltrations, counter-reconnaissance, and general field craft. He was obsessed with weapons qualification and maintenance, and demanded excellence from his scouts. His attitude was "We're Cav damnit! We lead from the front!" His attitude was contagious, and his guys loved him. The men of the scout platoon didn't push themselves to exhaustion because they were afraid of their platoon sergeant, they did it because they looked up to him and they wanted to please him. The platoon was tightest knit group Carl had ever seen since he first joined the army, and he was happy to be there.
As time wore on, things started getting better for him.
Late one night, after finishing an obstacle course in the cold rain, and low crawling through a bunch of mud, Carl received his "Spurs." This highly coveted award was given to him after his successful completion of the ritual known as the "Spur Ride." His company commander was there waiting to congratulate him, and on Carl's request, reenlisted him right there. Carl stood there on top of that hill, covered in mud, soaking wet, shivering in the cold, with his right hand raised, and swearing his oath to defend the constitution while his buddies looked on. It was probably the proudest moment of his life.
It wasn't long though, before events took a turn for the surreal.
Carl remembered when they had all first learned of the war with the Posleen. The division alerted at 0200 hours and recalled everyone. But instead of going through the typical alert procedures of drawing weapons, ammo, and loading vehicles, the company was told to stand in formation, and receive a briefing from the company commander.
The CO pulled them in around him in sort of a horseshoe so that he didn't have to shout in order to be heard properly. When he told them of the aliens and the war, and how they would be likely be deploying very soon; the soldiers thought it was all some big joke. It seemed too ridiculous, too unbelievable. Word spread around quickly that it was all just a bunch of disinformation briefed to the "Joe's," and that the real reason they were redeploying was for a war with China, or Russia. That rumor persisted right up until they found themselves staring at their first space ships. They were cargo shuttles, hauling equipment up to star freighters that were anchored in orbit. Rumors of war with China, Russia, or Outer Mongolia, quickly came to an end, when Americans found themselves loading personnel and equipment on many of the same shuttles with some rather exotic foreign armies.
After the division was loaded on the freighter, the intelligence briefings began. It made everybody's head hurt. Posleen, Indowy, Darhel, Himmit, Big Foot, the Loch Ness Monster, whatever... it just didn't seem real.
Now Carl found himself staring off into the darkness, occasionally scanning with his night vision goggles, wondering how come this rotten fucking planet could be so miserably hot during the daytime and freezing cold at night.
Carl looked down at his watch again. 0343 Hours. This shift was never going to end.
0345 Hours May 18th, 2002
"V.I.P. Hill"
Lieutenant Colonel Brian Smith hung up his handset on the piece of parachute cord that had been affixed over the radios expressly for that purpose. He then looked down at his map with his red-lens flashlight. He flipped through several overlays until he got to his engineer overlay and studied it for a moment. He then reached into the plastic tub that he kept next to him in his Humvee that contained any number of things to include copies of operations orders, spare maps, alcohol pens, and even the occasional field manual.
He pulled out the file folder that contained the battalion operations order, and he went through it until he found his engineer execution matrix, which listed engineer priorities of work, obstacles, their locations, and a time table for their emplacement. According to the matrix, the engineers should have been almost finished with their last obstacles. Colon
el Smith wanted to see if his engineers were in fact on schedule.
"Mr Shin, why don't you turn the heater on, it's getting chilly in here." The colonel cupped his hands together and blew into them, trying to warm his fingers. The colonel's driver switched on the blower without saying a word, folded his arms together, closed his eyes, and leaned his head against the window.
He picked up the transmitter with the battalion frequency and pulled out an alcohol pen in case he needed to write something down.
"Bulldog Six, this is Manchu Six, over."
There was silence.
"Bulldog Six, this is Manchu Six, over." Colonel Smith didn't like having to call twice. Someone should be monitoring the radios at all times.
"Manchu Six, this is Bulldog Six Delta. Bulldog Six Actual is on the ground right now. Can I relay your traffic, over."
Colonel Smith was trying to raise the engineer company commander on the radio and discuss the status of his obstacles. Instead, he was talking to the company commander's driver. That wasn't always a problem, but it could be a fairly painful experience if the driver on the other end of the radio wasn't very bright, or articulate.
"Bulldog Six Delta, what is your current location, over."
"Manchu Six, wait one, over." There was silence on the radio for almost an entire minute. Colonel Smith imagined that Bulldog 6's driver was looking for a map, or a flashlight, or somebody else to talk on the radio.
"Manchu Six, this is Bulldog Six Delta, we are currently vicinity south end of Obstacle Number Nine. Do you need a grid location, over"
"Six Delta, that's a negative. I think I can find you without the grid. Tell your boss that I'm heading to your location, and I would like to meet with him when I get there, over"
"Wilco Manchu Six."
Colonel Smith switched off his flashlight. "Manchu Six, out."
He hung up his handmike again, placed his map-board on top of his radios, and put the alcohol pen back in one of his ammo pouches that was stuffed full of other writing utensils.