Combat Ineffective

by William Peter Grasso

  He knew that as long as Colonel Eliason’s men didn’t break and run, they would inflict serious damage on the exposed North Korean infantry trying to advance across open terrain.

  It was the approaching tanks that had him concerned.

  *****

  With the attack underway, Jock hurried to the artillery battery. He had little doubt Patchett was right: the North Koreans would like nothing more than to silence that battery and the far-reaching threat it posed. More importantly, it might be the last chance to see—and correct, if necessary—Captain Swanson’s defensive plans.

  When he arrived at the battery, Jock was impressed by what Swanson had done. The six howitzers in the battery had been pivoted 180 degrees and were firing the mission Eliason had called, delivering perfect airbursts over the North Korean infantry by using VT fuzes on the HE rounds. Developed late in the last war, each VT fuze contained a tiny radio unit that unfailingly delivered the desired burst height of 120 feet above ground with no need for corrections. Jock had never seen them used in combat before, and like everyone else who’d seen them in action, he was duly impressed.

  The only problem was that the battery had just a handful of those fuzes left.

  He told Swanson, “I like the changes you’ve made, Captain. Is it safe to assume that any gun can be spun around to fire in any direction now?”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  “Outstanding,” Jock replied. “What’s your ammo situation?”

  “We’re getting low on just about everything, sir.”

  Jock asked, “How low is low, Captain? Start with HE rounds.”

  “We’ve got a little less than two hundred left.”

  With all six guns engaged, that would mean they had roughly five minutes of continuous firing with HE remaining. The current fire mission could expend that lot easily.

  “Cut off shooting HE when you’re down to fifty rounds, Captain.”

  Swanson looked puzzled. “Why, sir?”

  “There’s a good chance you’ll need it for the defense of your guns. How good are your men at direct fire?”

  “We haven’t had much practice, sir.”

  “Necessity is a great teacher, Captain…and I think class is about to be in session.”

  *****

  Lieutenant Colonel Eliason had—at the urgings of Jock and Patchett—moved his mortar sections to Hills 142 and 127, joining those of the other two battalions. Now clear of the fire crisscrossing the backslope below and nearly impossible to detect from the lower elevations, they’d been delivering effective support all night, first against the attacks from the north and now against the attack from the south.

  But they were getting low on rounds, too. Like the artillery, they could only provide continuous fire support for a matter of minutes.

  After the quad 50 had saved the day on Hill 142, Patchett had made it his mission—with Jock’s blessing—to muster as many of the regiment’s four quad 50s as he could. From the hilltops, they could throw their heavy rounds in a dense concentration to a range of four miles. It was just a question of how many of the weapons were still serviceable after the initial attacks and how much .50-caliber ammunition was still available.

  The two quad 50s on Hill 142 were both serviceable but were very low on ammo, about one hundred rounds per individual gun.

  A radio call to 3rd Battalion CP on Hill 127 was not encouraging: “No dice,” the voice of a staff officer reported. “Both quad fifties here were badly damaged in the fight, over.”

  “Roger,” Patchett replied. “How much ammo you got left for them?”

  “Plenty.”

  “We’ll come get it. Be there in about one-zero minutes.”

  “Negative. That requires Wyoming Six approval.”

  Wyoming Six: the commander of 3rd Battalion.

  Patchett replied, “Negative, negative. We’ve got Montana Six authorization, over.”

  Montana Six: Jock Miles, the regimental commander.

  Patchett’s concluding transmission: “Stack it up. We’re on our way. Out.”

  On the drive up Hill 127, one of the gunners with Patchett asked him, “Hey, Sarge, wouldn’t it be better if we just gave them one of our quad 50s?”

  “Not at the moment, son,” Patchett replied, “because all the time we’d be dragging it up this hill, it wouldn’t be shooting. And right now, that’s what we need most. They can hit anything they need to from up on One-Four-Two.”

  *****

  Sean was counting his lucky stars that Colonel Eliason’s scattering of the three Chaffees had been preempted by the North Korean assault. From their hull-down positions, the light tanks—with their low-silhouette turrets—had proved difficult targets for the T-34s. They’d even scored some hits against the Korean tanks, immobilizing one by damaging its track and bringing another to an unexplained halt in both firing and movement. It was a good thing, too; that was the closest enemy tank to their position, less than four hundred yards away.

  “The crew’s probably concussed and groggy from that hit against her turret, that’s all,” Sean told the tanker sergeant. “We didn’t make no hole in her, but somebody had better finish her off real quick, while she’s standing still.”

  The problem was that they’d be shooting at her frontal armor. As Sean had said, they hadn’t—and wouldn’t—penetrate it. The only weapons powerful enough to knock her out were the howitzers about a thousand yards away, shooting direct fire. When he called Colonel Miles on the command net, he was surprised—and happy—to learn he was at the battery.

  Sean told himself, How about that shit? I figured I’d have to go through a couple of relays to talk to the artillery. But I got me a direct line. This must be my lucky night…but it would be even luckier if I had some more three point fives to use on these damn gook tanks right now.

  *****

  Jock asked Captain Swanson, “Who’s your best crew at direct fire?”

  He could tell from the look on the artilleryman’s face that the question was pointless: all his crews were equally inexperienced.

  “I tell you what, Captain…let’s give the honors to Number One. That gun’s got the best angle on the flanks of those T-34s.”

  “Okay, sir,” Swanson replied, “but should we keep the other guns firing the airburst mission?”

  “Affirmative, Captain…until you’re down to fifty rounds left, that is.”

  The section chief of Gun One, a buck sergeant just promoted from gunner a few days ago, seemed momentarily overwhelmed by the transition to direct fire. His orders to the gunner and assistant gunner only managed to confuse them.

  As the section chief struggled to clarify the target identification, he forgot to tell his ammo handlers what type round, fuze, and propellant charge to prepare. They were starting to load a round prepared for the mission they’d been shooting only a few moments ago, one that would have fallen hundreds of yards short.

  While Swanson corrected the ammo handlers, Jock identified the target for the gunner: “It’s the tank farthest to the right. Sight down the tube…now go three fingers more to the right.”

  “Okay, got it,” the gunner said. “But what’s the range, sir?”

  “Put it just under the thousand-yard line in the scope. And I mean just barely a hair under.”

  Then Jock added, “Remember, you’re firing max charge at low elevation. She’s going to recoil like a son of a bitch. Don’t get behind one of the trails unless you want your legs broken.”

  As the gunner adjusted his sight picture, he said, “I thought you were infantry, sir. You sure sound like you know this gunnery stuff.”

  “I am infantry,” Jock replied, “but you pick up a hell of a lot when your life depends on it. Even about gunnery.”

  The assistant gunner began the chant: Set…set…set…

  And then the gunner replied: Ready!

  With a jerk of the firing lanyard, the howitzer roared, jumping up and sliding backward a few feet from the recoil, its spades plowing
the dirt just as Jock had promised it would. A few seconds later, they saw the flash of an impact. A few seconds after that, they heard the boom of the round’s detonation.

  “Did we get her?” the assistant gunner asked.

  “No, we’re a little short,” Jock replied. “Bring the elevation up just a little…just a tiny bit on the wheel. There…that’s good.”

  Another round was rammed into the breech.

  The assistant gunner again began the chant: Set…set…

  “Hold up,” Jock said. “Check your sight picture one last time. Ramming that round can knock off the aim just enough to miss.”

  After small tweaks that barely moved the traverse and elevation handwheels, the chant began again.

  This time, the assistant gunner only had to say Set once before the gunner responded with Ready.

  And this time, they scored a direct hit.

  Over the radio, Sean’s enthusiasm was obvious: “Excellent shot. Don’t know if you can tell, but you knocked the turret loose. She’s gonna brew up in a second or two, I’m betting. Can you take out a few more?”

  Gun One fired four more rounds of direct fire. Two missed. Of the two that hit, one shattered a T-34’s track, immobilizing her.

  The other hit didn’t require a close observer to describe the damage. The tank’s explosion was visible for miles.

  Then Captain Swanson reported, “Fifty rounds HE remaining, sir.”

  *****

  Sean wasn’t sure how many T-34s were part of this assault. Four had been knocked out so far by the concerted efforts of the Chaffees, the artillery battery, and a few courageous bazooka teams who—at his direction—set ablaze the two immobilized but still-firing Korean tanks with multiple point-blank shots, despite the inadequacies of their overmatched weapons. But the darkness had let them get close, simply too close to miss the T-34s’ most vulnerable areas.

  But he’d counted at least eight more tanks mounting a second wave…

  And this time, their focus was the artillery battery. There seemed to be plenty of infantry with them, too. The burning tanks had illuminated enough of the battlefield to get a rough count: it looked like hundreds of foot soldiers were advancing behind the tanks.

  He tried to report that fact over the command net, but he got nothing but silence in reply. His radio was dead. The only working radios he had left—those in the tanks themselves—operated on a different band. They only spoke to each other.

  Then one of the Chaffees was struck squarely in the turret by a round from a T-34. A momentary tongue of flame shot from each of her hatches, followed shortly by a string of internal explosions that spelled her—and her crew’s—instantaneous death.

  Hull-down as she was, with only her turret visible, she may have been a small target, shot at and missed countless times since this fight began. But some Korean tank gunner had finally found her. Whether it was skill or luck didn’t matter.

  The Korean force kept swarming toward the battery. Once the T-34 gunners could see enough of the artillery pieces to target them, they’d make short work of destroying the guns.

  Sean grabbed a GI from a nearby fighting position and told him he was now a runner. “Get your ass to the battalion CP on the fucking double. Tell ’em Sergeant Moon says there’s a shitload of infantry behind them tanks headed to the cannon cockers. Shift all the mortars onto them. Now say it back to me.”

  The GI repeated it verbatim. Then he said, “But I don’t know where the battalion CP is, Sarge.”

  “How about your platoon CP? Do you know where the hell that is?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. Start there.”

  The runner on his way, Sean turned his attention back to the two remaining Chaffees. “We gotta hurt them T-34s before they can get a shot at the one-oh-five battery,” he told the platoon sergeant. “We got a chance…the closer they get to them guns, the more they’ll be broadside to us. As soon as you can hit one anywhere but the front, start shooting. Don’t fucking stop until we’ve got as many burning as we can.”

  *****

  Sean’s runner made it to the battalion CP as Colonel Eliason was being briefed by one of his mortar sergeants. The sergeant was experienced in target acquisition techniques. He’d had the chance to analyze several impact craters from Korean mortar rounds.

  “We’ve got their azimuth of fire dead to rights, sir,” he told Eliason. “I’d only be guessing at how far out they are, but judging by the caliber, I’d say it’s about two thousand yards.”

  A staff officer interrupted. “Colonel, this man has an urgent message for you.”

  As soon as the runner’s message was relayed, Eliason said, “Negative. Our mortars will continue to protect my battalion’s position. Who the hell is making this request, anyway?”

  “That master sergeant from Regiment, sir,” the runner replied. “Moon, I think he said his name is.”

  “I see,” Eliason said. “One of our new regimental commander’s whiz kids. He’s only been here a day, and already I’m getting a little tired of his senior NCOs telling me how to run my battalion. Private, you go back and remind Sergeant Moon that I don’t work for him. Tell him he needs to coordinate his requests through Regiment.”

  “But his radio’s dead, sir.”

  “That’s not my problem, Private. Now, why are you still here?”

  He turned to his mortar sergeant, adding, “With the data you’ve provided, our tubes are to immediately begin shooting counter-battery fire against those gook mortars. Good work, Sergeant.”

  *****

  With their first five shots, the Chaffees knocked out two T-34s. All the American tankers—Sean included—expected at least some of the T-34s to direct their attention back their way. But they all kept rolling toward the artillery battery.

  “I’m telling you,” Sean told the Chaffee crew he had joined, “these gook tankers fight just like the Russians. Once they get rolling, they can’t communicate for shit. Half those tanks don’t even know we’re shooting at ’em. Get enough of ’em burning, though, they’ll get the message, dammit.”

  “Do they really only have two guys in that turret, Sarge?” the loader asked.

  “Nah, that’s only in the real old models. These ones look to be dash eighty-fives, with a three-man turret. But it’s still a tight little box they’re cooped up in, and the tank commander’s got bad communications and crappy visibility. Once a fight starts, he don’t know whether to shit or go blind.”

  The Chaffee lurched as she fired another round. A direct hit, it knocked out a third Korean tank.

  And then her sister knocked out the fourth.

  “Now things are getting interesting,” Sean said. “We got their range cold…but if they turn toward us, we’re screwed.”

  There were four T-34s still on the move. Suddenly, they stopped dead.

  “Now ain’t that the dumbest thing I ever seen?” Sean said. “Turn ’em inside out, boys.”

  In the next ten seconds, two more T-34s were in flames.

  Of the remaining two, one began to pivot toward the Chaffees. Before it could get a shot off, it erupted in a flash of flame, struck by a direct-fire round from the artillery battery.

  “Remind me to buy those cannon cockers a beer,” Sean mumbled.

  The last T-34 fired a shot at the battery. The men in the Chaffees couldn’t tell if it had caused any damage; they were too busy trying to knock her out.

  So far, they’d pumped four rounds at her without scoring a hit.

  “She’s farther than you think, guys,” Sean said. “Up it another hundred yards.”

  The next shots missed, too.

  “I didn’t see no flash,” Sean said. “We musta shot right over her. Split the difference.”

  They did…and still missed high.

  Sean knew they’d find the range now without his help; they had her bracketed too well. But the North Korean infantry was still plodding toward the battery, rank after rank of men still unchecked.
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  Where the hell are those fucking mortars I called for?

  He climbed onto the turret roof and began to fire at the soldiers with the .50-caliber machine gun mounted there. It was an act of desperation, and he knew it; powerful as the weapon was, it was the wrong tool for the job, like trying to drive a pin with a mallet. One stream of bullets at a time—large-caliber bullets, at that—simply didn’t have the scope to take down great numbers of well-dispersed attackers.

  Even the tracers the tankers had left in the ammo belts failed to provide the satisfaction they’d always given Sean before. Watching them bounce off the ground a thousand yards or more away and then sail high into the sky was only enhancing his sense of helplessness.

  Maybe the darkness was playing tricks on his eyes, but there seemed to be more than enough Koreans—even if they took heavy casualties—to overrun the artillery battery.

  Those cannon cockers may be real good at a lot of things, but fighting off hordes of gooks in close combat ain’t one of them.

  The Chaffees let loose two more rounds at the last T-34. Both missed.

  *****

  From atop Hill 142, Patchett saw Sean’s tracers streaming from the Chaffee. He couldn’t see the advancing North Koreans, but he felt sure of one thing: Tankers don’t waste their time engaging other tanks with machine guns. Whoever’s shooting that thing is shooting at gook infantry headed toward that battery…and he’s the only damn one doing it.

  Looks like that boy could use a little bit of help.

  He’d just finished repositioning one of the quad 50s. Since there’d been no time to remove the tracers from the newly acquired ammo belts, he’d made it a point to move one of the two gun sections fifty yards or so just as soon as they’d finished engaging a target. That way, a T-34 might return fire at the weapon with her deadly main gun, but she’d be targeting where it used to be just a moment ago. While one was being moved, the other would still be available to provide its devastating fire support.