Combat Ineffective

by William Peter Grasso

  The flare had finally burned out on the deck of the third tank. She didn’t move, either, but her turret began to slowly traverse their way.

  Two rockets struck her in rapid sequence, one shattering the drive sprocket for the right track.

  The other exploded harmlessly against her turret’s tough armor.

  “I got her!” one of the GIs said.

  “Don’t think so,” Sean replied. “You gave ’em a headache, that’s all. At least she can’t move with that busted track.”

  But she could still shoot.

  And after a few anxious seconds, she did just that, spraying machine gun bullets from her turret that chewed up the sodden dirt of the paddy but came nowhere near the GIs.

  The T-34s farther back in the line were still blinded by the flares. But that was only temporary. Perhaps in coordination with the second tank—or just in their own confusion and fear—a few of the farther ones began pumping machine gun rounds across the rice paddies, too.

  Even if the GIs hadn’t been spotted, it didn’t matter: a bullet that hits you by sheer luck kills you just as dead as a well-aimed one.

  “Time to cut a chogie, boys,” Sean yelled. “Fall back to those sheds on the far side of the paddy.”

  *****

  It took longer than Sean figured to get to the sheds. The sweeping fire from the tanks’ machine guns came perilously close a few times, forcing him and his men to low crawl through the watery slime of the paddy’s troughs, using the dikes for cover as bullets hissed above them. But they all made it unscathed.

  The sheds weren’t meant for habitation; they were there to house the tools and supplies used in cultivating the rice. Their only advantage to the GIs was concealment. They provided no cover from bullets or shell fragments and were hundreds of yards from the base of the hills on which the regiment was perched. The machine gun fire from the T-34s never reached the sheds. Then it stopped.

  “They sure wasted a lot of rounds shooting at nothing,” Sean whispered.

  “So what do we do now, Sarge?” Corporal Dowd asked.

  “We wait and see what those tanks decide to do, then we tell the boys up on the hill all about it. We still got three rockets left, so we might get ourselves another T-34 or two before this is all over.”

  Dowd replied, “We don’t have three rockets, Sarge. We must’ve lost some crawling through that damn paddy.”

  “How many is some?”

  A GI held up one rocket. It was wet and coated with sludge from the crawl through the troughs.

  “All right,” Sean replied, “we’ve got one rocket left. Let’s not waste it.” He grabbed an empty burlap sack from a pile and tossed it to the GI. “Here,” he said, “dry the damn thing off…and try not to lose it, too, okay? And nobody throws their tube away, neither. They ain’t expendable. You got me?”

  Twelve heads nodded in the darkness.

  Then Dowd asked, “Why aren’t those tanks moving?”

  “Because they’re confused, probably,” Sean replied. “They’re lucky if they got one or two radios between the whole bunch. And who knows? Maybe we knocked those radios out already.”

  A GI at the far corner of the shed started waving his arms wildly. At first, everyone thought that maybe he’d been attacked by a squadron of flies; there were certainly enough of them around the paddies. They’d been swatting them away all night.

  But then the GI whispered, “We’ve got company. Lots of it.”

  As they looked across the moonlit rice paddies, they could see the outlines of human shapes coming from the north toward the sheds and the hills beyond, where the rest of their regiment was.

  “How many do you figure, Sarge?” Dowd asked.

  “Couple of platoons’ worth…maybe a company,” Sean replied.

  Even at a whisper, the panic in the corporal’s voice was unmistakable: “What the fuck do we do?”

  “We lay low and hope they walk right the hell by,” Sean said. “Everybody down, now. And if anyone makes a fucking sound, I’ll kill you myself.”

  The shapes drew closer, becoming silhouettes of well-dispersed soldiers advancing cautiously with weapons at the ready...

  And they sure as hell ain’t carrying GI rifles like our guys or the ROKs would, Sean thought.

  But the sheds didn’t hold any interest to the North Korean infantrymen. They stole past on either side, their objective apparently farther in the distance.

  The hill, Sean told himself. They must be headed for Hill 142, where First Battalion’s dug in. It’s right behind us.

  This is some of the infantry support those T-34s are waiting for.

  And then they’d moved past without so much as a peek inside the sheds.

  The GIs were about to let out their collective breath when they noticed two more men approaching from the same direction as the others. They didn’t appear to be in any hurry; if anything, they were dawdling, hanging back.

  Stragglers, Sean thought, looking to make themselves scarce. Like goldbricking GIs.

  Or maybe they’re just officers.

  The two stopped about ten yards away, as if trying to decide what to do next. After exchanging a few words, they headed for the sheds.

  Sean wondered if any of the GIs with him knew how to kill quietly.

  The odds are real good they don’t.

  Dammit. That’s all we need—gunfire and screaming with a whole bunch of gooks a stone’s throw away.

  The two North Koreans walked into the shed where Sean and one rocket team were hiding. There was nothing between them and the GIs but some crates, stacks of straw baskets and burlap sacks, and the darkness.

  One of the Koreans stepped back outside the shed, gazing into the distance as if following the progress of their comrades headed for the hill. The other poked around inside, stopping about ten feet from Sean, who was lying on the ground behind a pile of crates.

  The Korean seemed curious—and then fascinated with something. It took Sean a moment to realize what it was:

  Ah, shit! He’s staring at the muzzle end of a three point five. It’s propped up on a pile of something. Dammit!

  The Korean called to his partner while pointing excitedly at the launcher. But the man wouldn’t come; a dismissive gesture accompanied his verbal response.

  I need something long and sharp, Sean told himself.

  Then he realized he had such a tool within his grasp. On the ground an arm’s length away were several long, thin poles sharpened to a point.

  I bet the gook farmers must use these to plant seeds or something.

  The poles looked sturdy enough to be used as a lance. Whether they’d penetrate flesh was another matter.

  The Korean put his face right up to the muzzle, as if needing a better look in the dark. Then he pulled his face away. He called to his partner again.

  But he still wouldn’t come.

  The curious soldier had placed his rifle on a crate, and with his hands free now, reached out to pick up the rocket launcher. As he did, he put his face up to the muzzle one more time…

  And Sean thrust the lance through the empty tube, straight into the Korean’s eye.

  His yelp of shock and pain brought his partner running back into the shed. As he bent over the groaning man, Sean grabbed him from behind in a one arm choke hold. With his free hand, he wrenched the rifle away from his startled captive.

  Corporal Dowd was now standing over the wounded Korean, pointing his carbine at him, frantically looking back and forth between his captive and Sean as if seeking instructions.

  Though the struggling man was inescapably in his grasp, it still took some effort for Sean to say, “Wrong weapon. No noise. No prisoners.”

  “Then what am I supposed to do, Sarge?”

  “Slit his fucking throat.”

  The corporal took a sudden step back. It was obvious he wasn’t up to the task.

  The choke hold had taken effect. The captive was losing his fight—and consciousness—quickly now. The incomprehen
sible string of words he’d been hissing as his air supply was throttled had finally ceased.

  “Do me a favor,” Sean told Dowd. “At least stick a sock in One-Eye’s mouth. And if he tries to get up, butt-stroke him in the head until I’m done with this clown.”

  Grabbing a burlap sack, Dowd tried using a corner of it to gag One-Eye. But the Korean still had plenty of fight in him. Thrashing wildly, he bit the American’s hand and shoved him back with a violent thrust of his foot.

  While still holding the nearly unconscious man in the choke hold, Sean kicked One-Eye squarely in the side of his head. He fell back to the ground, stunned and silent.

  In a few quick motions, Sean rid himself of his captive’s weapon, pulled his GI bayonet from his belt, and slit the man’s throat.

  Then he squatted behind One-Eye, propped the man’s head against his thigh, and slit his throat, too.

  “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he told the four GIs in the shed. Even in the darkness, their eyes shone with the horror of what they’d just witnessed.

  Then Sean added, “Next time, though, a little help would be greatly appreciated.”

  The GI with the walkie-talkie was in another shed. Sean found him and said, “Gimme that squawk box. Gotta warn the guys up on the hill they got gooks coming their way.”

  But when he keyed the transmitter, he knew he’d be delivering no warning.

  The radio was dead.

  “Ah, shit,” he mumbled. “Don’t tell me this thing went into that sewer water, too.”

  Then he heard a sound that told him more bad news was on the way: the revving engine and squeaking tracks of a T-34. It was coming from the direction of the highway and getting closer.

  Back in the shed with the two dead North Koreans, Sean had a good view of the tank. She’d left the highway and was coming toward the GIs on one of the dikes that crisscrossed the paddies. Her tracks were nearly too wide for the narrow, earthen path. There was someone walking in front of her, giving signals to the driver.

  “They need that guide to keep them on the dike,” Sean said. “If she slips off, it’s all over. She’ll sink so deep into that mush they may never pull her out.”

  “What are we going to do, Sarge?” Dowd asked.

  “Give me one guy and a three point five with that last rocket,” Sean replied. “Take everyone else about fifty yards west, to the other side of the sheds. Give yourself good fields of fire at that tank.”

  “But rifles aren’t going to stop a T-34, Sarge.”

  “No shit. But they can sure stop anybody climbing out of it or walking in front of it. I’ll take the three point five and put this lady out of her misery. But if I don’t knock her out with the rocket, you’d better skedaddle west, and quick. Don’t even think about engaging. Just beat it into the night. You hear me?”

  Corporal Dowd didn’t need to be told twice.

  Sean asked the man assigned to him, a PFC named Curran, “You ready to get down in the stink again?”

  “We already smell like shit, Sarge. What’s it gonna matter?”

  “I like your attitude, pal. Just keep that fucking rocket dry.”

  Using an adjacent dike for cover and concealment, Sean and Curran quickly got behind the T-34 without being seen. They were only fifty yards away from her when Sean said, “Load that baby.”

  The rear end of the tank seemed to fill Sean’s sight picture. “I can’t miss,” he whispered. “Not from this close.”

  He squeezed the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  “Something’s wet,” Sean said. “Unhook the igniter wires and pull the rocket out.”

  He said it so calmly, so casually—as if this was just some minor malfunction and not a matter of life or death—that Curran forgot for just a moment how terrified he was. As he did what Sean told him, he was surprised how steady his hands were, despite the fact that at any second the malfunctioning rocket motor could ignite and burn those hands right off.

  But, somehow, he knew Master Sergeant Moon would never allow that to happen.

  Sean took the rocket from him the moment it was out of the tube. “It ain’t trying to burn,” he said. “It never lit off. Dry the contacts real quick and we’ll try again.”

  Curran really wanted to do that. But he couldn’t think of how he could dry them. Every piece of cloth they wore or carried was soaking wet.

  When Sean saw his confusion, he said, with that same casual air, “Use the shit paper under your steel pot. I bet that ain’t wet yet.”

  Those three sheets of toilet paper—the ones the first sergeant always made you store there—was for more than just wiping your ass, apparently.

  The contacts now dry, Curran slid the rocket back into the tube. Gingerly, he reconnected the igniter wires.

  The T-34 was twice as far away from them now, some one hundred yards distant.

  But it was still an easy shot. When Sean squeezed the trigger again, the weapon fired.

  The shaped charge on the rocket’s head penetrated her aft hull like a knife through butter, tearing into the engine compartment.

  She faltered and then stopped. A pregnant silence seemed to go on for an agonizingly long time, although it was only a matter of seconds.

  Then they heard an explosion from within her hull like a brief clap of thunder. All her hatches blew open.

  But none of her crew were escaping through those hatches.

  They couldn’t see the guide who’d been in front of the tank; their view was blocked by the iron beast they’d just killed.

  They heard a rifle shot, though, and then another.

  And then there was nothing but that silence again.

  “You think the crew’s dead?” Curran asked.

  “Probably.”

  “How about we have a look inside, then, Sarge?”

  “Not yet,” Sean replied. “She may have some more blowing up to do…and if we start wandering around her, the rest of the team’ll probably shoot our asses. Let’s get back with them first.”

  Working their way down a trough past the inert tank, they stumbled over the body of a North Korean. “I guess we found the ground guide,” Sean said.

  When they reached the rest of the team, Sean told them, “Whichever one of you clowns did the shooting…well, you did a good job. Real nice shot.”

  “You mean we got him?” a surprised GI asked.

  “Deader than a doornail, pal,” Sean replied. Then he told the group, “C’mon…let’s steal the machine guns outta that tank. If she ain’t brewed up by now, she ain’t gonna.”

  Corporal Dowd asked, “I don’t know, Sarge…you sure those guys inside are all dead?”

  “If they didn’t come out by now, they ain’t never coming out. The way she blew, they’re probably just pink stains on the walls. Now let’s get those MGs. We might need an automatic weapon or two to get back inside our lines. I’ve got a bad feeling there’s a whole bunch of gooks between us and home.”

  The silence in the air was broken once more. The sounds of explosions and gunfire were rolling down from Hill 142.

  Chapter Six

  It was near midnight when Jock and Patchett linked up at the OP on Hill 142. The FO had an interesting tale to tell them.

  “It started out with a dozen or so T-34s coming down the highway, sir,” he said. “Whoever we’ve got down there in those paddies took out three of them. Couldn’t tell if it was reckless rifles or three point fives that did it. I did the radio relay for them when they wanted illum rounds.”

  “It was three point fives,” Jock replied. “Sergeant Moon’s team, I suspect. That was Montana Four-Six who engaged the tanks, right?”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  “Then that’s Sergeant Moon. Have you heard from him lately?”

  “Not in about two hours, sir.”

  In unison, Jock and Patchett mumbled, “Shit.”

  The FO added, “But it was a good thirty minutes after his last transmission that the last T-34 got knocked
out, sir.” He was pointing to the inert tank sitting in the rice paddy.

  “Maybe Moon’s radio crapped out, sir,” Patchett offered.

  “Let’s hope that’s all it is, Top.”

  Except for the other two dead T-34s, there were no vehicles on the highway. Jock asked the FO, “What were those tanks doing all that time, Lieutenant?”

  “They sat still on the highway for a good hour after they showed up, sir. The one that’s laying in the paddy, I think she was the one who went all by her lonesome toward the pass between Hills One-Four-Two and One-Two-Seven. But then she came back, drove into the paddy, and ended up getting killed right there. It wasn’t long after that, maybe just a couple of minutes, that the rest turned tail and went back the way they came.”

  “I reckon we ain’t seen the last of them, sir,” Patchett said. “Everything that’s happened so far tonight is probably just a feint. Even the gook infantry coming up One-Four-Two got discouraged a little too easy to suit me. Tripped a couple of our grenade traps, took some fire, and vanished. Don’t expect we’ll find too many of their bodies on the upslope come sunup. And I ain’t heard a bit of artillery fire from our flank regiments, neither. What do you hear from Division?”

  “Not a damn thing, Top,” Jock replied. “It’s like everyone but us is off the air. For all we know, the rest of the whole damn Twenty-Fourth Division is on a boat back to Japan.”

  “Let’s hope not, sir. Where do you need me next?”

  Before Jock could answer, the distant chatter of machine guns erupted. It was coming from the rear of the regiment’s defensive perimeter, where 2nd Battalion—the regimental reserve—was emplaced.

  Jock’s driver called out, “Second Battalion needs you on frequency, sir. Sounds like he’s in a big pile of shit.”

  As they ran to the jeep, Jock told Patchett, “I guess that answers your question about where I need you, Top.”

  *****

  It took less than five minutes to drive to 2nd Battalion’s CP. Jock and Patchett found Colonel Eliason, the battalion commander, shouting frantic instructions to his companies over the radio. The sounds of gunfire had become sporadic, more random potshots than a coordinated assault.