Combat Ineffective

by William Peter Grasso

  Lewis looked crestfallen, like a man about to get fired. Apparently, this unorthodox—and to this point, unsuccessful—defensive disposition had been his idea. He asked Jock, “Do you plan to bring in your own staff officers, sir?”

  “To be honest, Colonel, I would if I could. But MacArthur’s Tokyo headquarters keeps skimming off the cream of the crop as soon as they show up from the States. I wasn’t much interested in what was left, so whoever’s here will be staying. But I was able to bag a couple of senior NCOs—fighting NCOs—to fill out this regiment’s staff. With any luck at all, they’ll both be here before supper.”

  *****

  Jock’s luck must’ve been good because the first of his two fighting NCOs—Master Sergeant Melvin Patchett—strolled into the CP van at 1430 hours. When he saw Jock at the commander’s desk, a tight-lipped smile crossed his weathered face. “As I live and breathe,” Patchett called out, “if it ain’t ol’ MacArthur’s worst nightmare, complete with a brand new chicken on his collar, too.”

  Their vigorous handshake turned into a mutual backslap and then a manly hug. “I didn’t know they let old folks out of the home to come and fight,” Jock said, still with a grip on Patchett’s shoulders. “How the hell old are you now, Top? You’ve got to be at least eighty.”

  “With all due respect, sir, you mind your tongue now. I just turned fifty years young.”

  Even at fifty, Patchett looked more fit than soldiers less than half his age.

  He continued, “And I figure, hell…any damn fool can do two wars. Why not go for three? And at least we won’t be fighting in no damn jungle this time. By the way, thanks for pulling me out of that replacement pool in Tokyo. Lord knows what shithole outfit this li’l ol’ country boy would’ve ended up in. But first things first…how’s Miss Jillian and them kids of yours?”

  “They’re all fine, Top. Settling into Monterey pretty well, I think.”

  “You think? You don’t know?”

  “I was only there with them for a few days. Next thing I knew, I was on a plane back to Korea. But what about you? You ever think about settling down? You ain’t getting any younger, you know. See much of Miss Ginny these days?”

  “Nah, we don’t cross paths no more, not with her life being on Papua and mine wherever Uncle Sugar decides to send me. But you know the drill, sir…if the Army wanted me to have a wife, they would’ve issued me one. Been thirty-two years and they ain’t got around to it, so…”

  Despite the indifference Patchett was trying so hard to project, Jock could still see the pain of loss in the man’s eyes. He and Ginny Beech had made quite a pair.

  But deep personal conversations would have to wait. They stepped outside the van.

  “We’ve got a seriously fucked-up situation here, Top.”

  “Don’t I know it, sir. I got me a good look at some of these dipshits that pass for soldiers on the way in. Where do you need me?”

  “I want you as regimental sergeant major. I need you to be out in the field with me, real hands on. Let some clerks handle the paperwork. We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

  “Understood, sir. But one question…”

  “Shoot.”

  “How’s your leg?”

  “I’ll be honest with you...it’s not one hundred percent.”

  Patchett smiled. “No sweat, sir. I carried you all over those damn islands when I had to. I can do it in Korea, too.”

  “Thanks, Top. I appreciate that. Now I’m sure that between you and me we’ve got our infantry tactics down to a science. But nobody in this regiment, including us, knows a whole hell of a lot about armored warfare, and we’re going to be seeing a lot of it here. So I’m bringing in a master sergeant with heavy armor experience. I worked with him at KMAG and he knows his shit cold. He was all over North Africa and Europe with Patton in the last one. We’re going to need him…bad.”

  “What’s this tanker’s name, sir?”

  “Moon. Sergeant Sean Moon.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “Brooklyn, Patch. That’s part of New—”

  “I know damn well where Brooklyn is, sir. Been there once, didn’t leave nothing behind, so I ain’t never gotta go back. But you’re telling me I’ve got to put up with not one but two of y’all damn Yankees now?”

  He quickly added, “With all due respect, sir,” since Jock was one of those damn Yankees.

  *****

  Jock and Patchett spent the next two hours touring the regiment’s positions. Everything they saw required some degree of correction. “It’s like these youngsters ain’t never learned nothing about interlocking fields of fire,” Patchett observed. “A couple of dozen gooks could’ve walked line abreast through their fire lanes without ever getting themselves a scratch. You thinking what I’m thinking, sir?”

  “If you’re thinking they’re going to buckle at the slightest pressure, then yeah…we’re thinking the same damn thing. We’re going to have to get a handle on that real quick.”

  The other damn Yankee—Master Sergeant Sean Moon—was jumping down from an ammo truck when Jock and Patchett returned to the CP. “These dummies were lost as hell and I needed a ride,” he called out. “Figured I’d kill two birds with one stone, sir. It wasn’t coming here, but I’m pretty sure we could use this ammo, anyway.”

  “Damn right we could use the ammo,” Jock replied. “Good to see you again, Sergeant Moon. Glad to have you aboard.”

  Patchett nudged Jock and said, “I’m liking the way this Moon fella thinks already. Every good NCO’s gotta have hisself a set of sticky fingers.”

  Pointing to Patchett, Jock told Sean, “This man here is none other than Master Sergeant Melvin Patchett. He’s the top here, this outfit’s new sergeant major.”

  “No shit? The great Master Sergeant Patchett, in the flesh?” Sean said as the two NCOs shook hands. “I’ve heard a lot about you from the colonel here. The way he tells it, the sun rises straight out of your asshole.”

  Patchett appraised the much younger sergeant coolly. “Only when it’s facing east, son. I hear tell you’re gonna teach us how not to get run over by those commie spam cans. You’ve been up against T-34s before?”

  “Yeah. Had to face down a bunch of them in Germany, Austria, and Czechoslovakia at the end of the last big show. They’re tough…but they ain’t that tough. And from what I’m seeing, the gooks don’t know how to use ’em any better than the Russians did.”

  “Try telling that to the dogfaces in these parts,” Patchett replied. “Near as I can tell, most of these touch-holes left their balls in some Japanese whorehouse.”

  He pointed toward the ammo truck and added, “What’d y’all bring us, anyway?”

  “Mostly thirty cal,” Sean replied. “But there’s fifty cal and grenades, too…plus the trailer’s got HE and illum rounds for one-oh-five howitzers. That one-oh-five battery I passed about a mile back…that’s our direct support, right?”

  “Affirmative,” Patchett replied. Then he asked Jock, “If it’s okay with you, sir, why don’t I escort this vehicle to each of our units and distribute Sergeant Moon’s li’l ol’ housewarming gift? I’ll be back way before your commanders’ meeting at 1800 hours.”

  “Sounds like an excellent plan, Top. Do it.”

  As they watched Patchett climb into the truck’s cab, Sean said, “Watch this, sir. That driver and his assistant ain’t gonna like this one bit. They’re typical ammo humps…they just wanna dump all that shit in one big pile and get their asses back home before dark.”

  He was right; in the cab, a vigorous protest erupted. Patchett seemed totally unruffled; his response couldn’t be heard. But whatever that response was, the two fell immediately silent, looking like they’d just had the fear of God instilled in them. Without further delay, the truck drove off on its new mission.

  Smiling, Jock said, “I figured it would be like that. Top can be real persuasive.”

  “No kidding,” Sean replied. Though trying to hide it, he sounded c
restfallen as he added, “But I got a question, sir. If he’s the top, what do you need me for? I mean, where do I fit in with this outfit?”

  “I need you to wear two very important hats, Sergeant Moon—operations sergeant and NCO-in-charge of training.”

  “You know, sir…a wise man once told me that a guy trying to do two jobs won’t get to do either of them worth a damn.”

  “Well, Sergeant, that wise man probably didn’t get to see you working with the ROKs like I did. I think you can handle it. I’ve seen your personnel jacket, so I know your commanders back in Patton’s Third Army thought you could, too.”

  Chapter Four

  As the regiment’s commanders and staff filed into the CP at 1800 hours, there wasn’t a doubt in Jock’s mind that aside from himself and Sergeants Patchett and Moon, they were a beaten-down lot. They’d presided over two weeks of deadly, unrelenting rout, being steadily pushed back by an enemy that MacArthur’s headquarters kept insisting was nothing more than a collection of primitives, incapable of prevailing on the modern battlefield.

  Yet these primitives were prevailing, extracting a terrible toll in American lives, equipment, and prestige in the process.

  Jock knew that in their desperate state, his leaders would be skeptical of any plan he proposed, at least until that plan had borne some positive result. It would be no different in any other regiment of the three American and five ROK divisions that currently comprised 8th US Army; collectively, they had all failed to hold back the North Korean onslaught.

  One of the battalion commanders, a lieutenant colonel named Brand, was particularly unhappy about Jock’s plan to employ a regimental reserve. “We can’t afford to do that, sir,” Brand said. “All our troops need to be up on the line. Every rifle’s going to count when the gooks come at us again. We can’t be holding any men back.”

  “That hasn’t worked for this regiment so far,” Jock replied. “What makes you think it’s going to work now?”

  Brand sputtered a few words in response, but they didn’t qualify as a coherent answer.

  “Let me put it this way,” Jock said. “From what Sergeant Patchett and I observed this afternoon, none of you were employing proper fields of fire. If that’s the way you’ve been doing battle in the past, it’s no wonder they keep penetrating your positions. And when they do break through, you’ve got no reserve to throw them back.”

  He stepped to the big tactical map and continued, “Now, I’m not saying we’re going to stop the North Koreans in their tracks. They’re a clever fighting force—regardless of the nonsense being pumped out by Tokyo—and for the moment, they’ve got superior firepower, especially in armor. But that doesn’t mean we can’t make them pay a heavy price for every foot of ground we have to yield before we get enough manpower and weaponry shipped in here to start pushing them back. The way I see our current position, as long as we hold the hills on either side of the highway, their armor will have a very difficult time breaking through.” Pointing those hills out on the map, he added, “The trick, of course, will be holding them against pressure from North Korean infantry—in the dark, at that. First and Third Battalion will remain on their respective hills. Second Battalion is now our regimental reserve.”

  Then he asked the nine officers and two NCOs assembled before him, “How many of you fought in Europe in the last war? And by fought, I mean you earned combat stars.”

  Two officers and one NCO—Sean Moon—raised their hands.

  “Okay, good. Now how many fought the Japs anywhere in the Pacific or Asia?”

  Only Jock and Patchett raised a hand.

  Noticing Brand was among the officers who hadn’t responded either time, Jock asked, “What about you, Colonel? Where’d you serve?”

  “The Canal Zone, sir.”

  Jock couldn’t resist a glance at Patchett. He was expecting to see the sergeant’s trademark smirk. Instead, with a straight face, Patchett, like a preacher from the pulpit, called out, “An underappreciated campaign, Colonel. Crucial to the war effort, by God.”

  He made it sound like he was deadly serious, too.

  Patch can still blow smoke up your ass with the best of them.

  “Okay,” Jock said, “we can swap war stories some other time. Let’s get back to the problem at hand. As we just found out, a few of us have a great deal of combat experience, which we’re going to share with you and your men, beginning tonight. Sergeant Moon—a highly experienced tank commander—will be working with the anti-tank teams. Sergeant Patchett and I will be sharing some infantry defensive techniques you probably haven’t had the opportunity to pick up yet. Are there any further questions?”

  Another battalion commander—Lieutenant Colonel Eliason—had one: “Since my battalion is in reserve, Colonel, just what exactly is it supposed to do when the gook tanks break through again?”

  Jock pointed to Sean. “You want to take that one, Sergeant Moon?”

  “I’d be glad to, sir. Let me answer it like this…any tank that’s rolling past you is showing you her most vulnerable parts. If you don’t take advantage of that and kill that bitch right then and there, either with a rocket up her ass or a grenade down her throat, then shame on you, sir.”

  Colonel Eliason then asked, “But what if there’s infantry accompanying the tanks, Sergeant? How are we supposed to get close enough to kill their armor then?”

  “The gooks operate their armor just like the Russians do, sir. Ain’t no surprise since that’s who taught ’em all they know. But that means they’ve got shit for communication between their armor and infantry—especially in the dark—so any protection the infantry might offer the tanks is gonna be a fucked-up, uncoordinated mess once the shit starts flying. And a tank taking on infantry without its own infantry in support is still dead meat.”

  Whether Sean Moon’s explanations had swayed any minds, Jock couldn’t tell.

  *****

  It was nearly dark as Patchett joined up with 1st Battalion, the unit holding down the left sector of the regiment’s defensive line. It was time to see if they’d followed through with the instructions he and Jock had given during their afternoon inspection tour.

  “Show me your listening posts, sir,” he told a lieutenant whose platoon was positioned on a ridge covering the flank.

  “Why, Sergeant? We’re not going to be manning those LPs. Too risky.”

  “Well, sir…I don’t think much of that plan, but those empty holes can still work for us. You ran the commo wire down to the LPs like I told you earlier?”

  “Yes. It’s all there.”

  “Outstanding, Lieutenant. Now where’s that box of grenades and ball of string I asked for?”

  “These two men right here have them, Sergeant.”

  “Very fine. You two come with me.”

  Reluctantly, the PFCs followed Patchett down the slope. He used the commo wire already on the ground as a guide, lifting it almost waist high and letting it slide through the curled fingers of one hand as he walked. When they reached the empty hole that had been dug for the LP, one of the PFCs said, “Here’s that foxhole. I made the dummy machine gun out of a broomstick myself.”

  “Nice work, son, but that ain’t no foxhole,” Patchett replied. “A foxhole’s something a useless numbnuts hides hisself in. In this regiment, we call them fighting holes. Got that?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Good. Now you boys turn around and follow that wire back up the hill about ten paces.”

  When they got there, Patchett said, “Now take one of them grenades and tie a string to the loop of that safety pin. Hold onto that pineapple for dear life now, you hear?”

  That task done, he continued, “Now measure that string against your forearm and cut the other end at your elbow. Y’all see where I’m going with this?”

  “I think so,” the other man replied. “We’re going to tie it off to the commo wire, right?”

  “Correct,” Patchett said. “Now hang onto that grenade real good while y
our buddy does the tying.”

  The knot was made. Patchett took the grenade and placed it on the ground with the loop of the safety pin pointing straight up and the handle clear to fly off once that pin was gone. Then he set a rock on top of it to hold it in place.

  “Now in case you hadn’t already figured this out,” Patchett explained, “the gooks’ll try to follow this wire up to your position just like we followed it down. When they lift the wire off the ground right here, the pin’ll get pulled and the handle’ll fly off all by itself because nothing’s holding the damn thing on no more. Before they know what the hell’s going on, they blow themselves to kingdom come…and y’all up on the ridge’ll know exactly where they’re coming from. We call that recon by grenade.”

  One of the PFCs sounded skeptical as he asked, “You ever done this before, Sarge? I mean, does it really work?”

  “The answer to your first question is affirmative. The answer to the second one is I wouldn’t be standing here still drawing breath if it didn’t. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yeah, Sarge. Real clear.”

  “Good. Now move another twenty paces up this hill and hook yourselves up another one.”

  “Why, Sarge? Won’t one be enough?”

  “Son, you think them damn gooks gonna quit just because a couple of their buddies just got pureed? The Japs wouldn’t quit, and that’s who taught ’em their infantry tactics, seeing how they occupied this country for years. Besides, it’s gonna be dark, and they ain’t gonna have the faintest fucking idea what just happened. So, yeah, y’all are gonna set out another grenade on this wire, and then y’all are gonna do the same to every damn wire from every other damn LP.”

  *****

  There were only three tanks at Sean’s disposal, lightweight M24 Chaffees that were designed as infantry support vehicles and never intended to fight other tanks. Sean asked the tank platoon sergeant, “What the hell happened to the rest of you?”