Combat Ineffective

by William Peter Grasso

  *****

  As Jock drove through Taejon to his CP in its northern outskirts, the city struck him as a place that had already fallen to the enemy, even though that enemy was still miles away across the Kum River. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d described to General Keane the ROKs flowing to the railroad station, intent on escaping. Many had shed their weapons and uniforms to disguise themselves as civilians, but the odds were a young man of military age in this country was, in fact, a member of its military.

  Then he saw a sight that sickened him: listless American soldiers wandering aimlessly, many without weapons.

  Those GIs have to be from outfits in Seventeenth and Thirty-Third Regiments, where unit cohesion broke down completely.

  I just hope to hell none of them are mine.

  He told Yarbrough to stop the jeep by a group of unarmed GIs gathered on a street corner. Approaching the group, Jock said, “What unit are you men from?”

  A lanky PFC replied, “We ain’t got no unit, Colonel. Not no more.”

  “Who’s your commanding officer?”

  “Ain’t got one of them, neither. He beat it out of here days ago.”

  “I see. Where are your weapons?”

  “We lost them,” the man replied.

  Jock didn’t need to reply. The half-smile, half-smirk on his face said it all: Bullshit. You threw them down when you ran away.

  Sensing the inadequacy of his lie, the PFC tried to expand on it: “In the fighting, you know?”

  Then he asked, “You gonna arrest us, Colonel?” He seemed ambivalent to the answer until he added, “A stockade back in Japan sounds like a pretty good deal to us.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t have time for that right now,” Jock replied. “But I’ll tell you what, men…if you’re interested in joining a real outfit and getting issued new weapons, report to Twenty-Sixth Regiment CP about a half mile down this street. We’ll take care of you.”

  “Why the hell would we want to do that, sir?”

  “Because we don’t have enough transport available right now to ship every deserter to the stockade. And you won’t last another day around here without a weapon. Think it over.”

  Then he got back into the jeep and told Yarbrough to drive on.

  *****

  Jock had only been back at his CP a matter of minutes when a commotion erupted on the street outside. Sean Moon was arguing with a ROK captain leading a squad of military police. Against the wall of a building across the street was a lineup of Korean men. They were all middle-aged or older; that alone seemed to rule out the possibility they were AWOL soldiers hiding in street clothes.

  “What the hell’s going on here, Sergeant Moon?” Jock asked.

  “These civilians showed up a couple minutes ago begging for help, sir,” Sean replied. “They say the captain here’s got plans to round ’em up and shoot ’em all.”

  One look at the men’s faces confirmed that they had no doubt their lives were in imminent danger.

  The ROK captain, who spoke excellent English, said, “They are communist dissidents. Teachers and such.” He said teachers like it was a dirty word. “Our government has ordered their arrest. This is none of your affair.”

  “Arrest, my ass, sir,” Sean said to Jock. “They’re gonna kill ’em. The only reason they ain’t done it yet is because we’re watching. Don’t want no witnesses, you know?”

  The ROK captain repeated, “This is none of your affair. This is the business of the Republic of Korea. You Americans cannot interfere.”

  With a hearty laugh, Sean replied, “Now ain’t that rich? You clowns didn’t mind begging for us to interfere when your cousins up north lowered the boom on you. Now, all of a sudden, this is none of our business? I don’t know, Colonel, but I never figured I’d be putting my ass on the line for some gook bastards who ain’t good for nothing except killing their own people.”

  A crowd of GIs had gathered. There was no doubt they agreed with Sergeant Moon.

  The ROK captain turned to Jock and said, “I demand this insubordinate sergeant be court-martialed at once.”

  Sean was done talking. He started for the captain, muttering, “Why I oughta wring your fucking neck, you little—”

  It was Patchett who blocked his path, saying, “Easy there, Master Sergeant. I reckon we should let the brass hats handle this, don’t you?”

  “Let go of me, Top. This son of a bitch got himself a beating coming.”

  “Let’s not be whooping up on Allied officers quite yet, okay?” Still with a firm grip on Sean, Patchett turned to Jock and asked, “So what’s it gonna be, sir?”

  Without hesitation, Jock replied, “It’s going to be like this. These gentlemen”—he pointed to the terrified dissidents lined up along the wall—“will be granted safe haven inside our CP until we receive instructions from higher headquarters how to proceed.” Turning to the ROK captain, he added, “Any problem with that?”

  “You are making a grave mistake, Colonel,” the captain replied.

  The crowd of GIs took a menacing step toward the Koreans. One dissuading look from their colonel held them at bay.

  “A grave mistake, eh?” Jock said. “We’ll see about that. Now why don’t you and your men make yourself scarce?” Turning to the seething GIs behind him, he added, “I think my men will agree that you’ve worn out your welcome.”

  *****

  Major Tommy Moon’s heavily laden F-51 finally broke ground from K-9’s runway after a takeoff roll that had seemed to go on far too long. As her landing gear came up and she gathered speed and a modest rate of climb, he thought, At least she’s got herself a name now. And that little bit of extra paint didn’t make her too heavy to fly, apparently.

  There’d been no time for fancy artwork, but the simple stencil job had still cost him a bottle of Tennessee sipping whiskey, smuggled over from the PX at Itazuke Air Base on Kyushu. It was worth it; the mechanic who’d become the proud and popular owner of that fine whiskey had done as he’d promised. Tommy’s ship now bore the name Moon’s Menace V on both sides of her fuselage just forward of the cockpit.

  The mechanic, whose name was O’Flaherty, had told him, “I couldn’t come up with a shamrock stencil on short notice, sir, so the closest I could come to the Irish theme you asked for was the green paint. I mixed in a little yellow with the O.D., so it’s sort of Kelly green. I hope you like it.”

  He did. On every previous flight in this new mount, all he’d had to make her his own was the photo of Sylvie Bergerac tucked in the corner of the instrument panel. Adding the name Moon’s Menace—the one Sylvie had thought up back in Germany in the spring of 1945—made his bond with the ship truly complete, as it had with her four predecessors who’d borne the name.

  As he trimmed the F-51 for the climb to 8,000 feet, he spoke to Sylvie’s picture: I got myself posted as near to you as I could, Syl. I’ve got to check the map...just how far is this place Vietnam from here, anyway? And why the hell would the CIA send you there?

  I’ll stand on my head to see you. It’s been way too long.

  Forward airfield K-9 had been as disappointing as he’d expected. A relic of the Japanese occupation, this one-runway accommodation to necessity, nestled between rugged mountains and the sea, was barely adequate to the contemporary needs of the USAF. In its current state, that runway was too short to handle the heavy four-engined transports required to bring in the volume of supplies and equipment needed to resurrect the floundering defense of South Korea. It was also too short for the front-line jet fighter rushed to Korea—the F-80 Shooting Star—if that plane was to carry any meaningful ordnance load.

  And my regular ship, that ground-loving F-84 named Moon’s Menace IV…we can forget about flying her out of here until the engineers make that runway a whole lot longer.

  The designation K-9 inspired the inevitable canine nicknames. Tommy had been having a rough time deciding which he preferred: Dogtown, Dogville, The Dog House, Dog Shit. No matter which one a man u
sed, though, everyone immediately knew what he meant.

  Tommy set a course for Taejon, some 120 miles northwest of K-9; a forty-minute flight. The other three ships of Banjo Flight had formed in echelon off the right wingtip of Moon’s Menace V. Once over the city, they’d rendezvous with FAC aircraft—forward air controllers—working out of Taejon’s airfield. The FACs would guide them to the targets for today: the KPA supply dumps across the Kum River that were feeding the drive against 24th Division at Taejon.

  I know my brother’s down there somewhere with the Twenty-Fourth. I talked to him the other day when we took out those KPA tanks for them.

  Got to figure out a way to meet up with him.

  But thoughts of reunions—with his brother Sean or with Sylvie Bergerac—would have to be set aside for now. This morning’s mission involved several flights of F-51s from Korean bases. B-26 attack bombers and F-80s from Japan would follow up later to hit targets the Mustangs couldn’t get to or that needed another dose.

  Tommy rehashed the pre-flight briefing in his head: Go for the fuel, the intel officer had said. Hopefully, the FACs will be able to figure out whether that fuel is in tanker trucks, barrels, or railroad cars.

  He’d cringed when the briefer said Hopefully. That was one of those ominously speculative words around which so many missions failed.

  Hopefully the ground-pounders had called in the right target.

  Hopefully that target wasn’t obscured by smoke, haze, or clouds.

  Hopefully a lucky triple-A gunner didn’t knock you down before you even got there.

  Hopefully you’d hit what you aimed at.

  But going for the fuel sounded like the smartest idea he’d heard lately. It was the KPA’s fast-moving mechanized attack that was chewing up the GIs and ROKs. Taking away their fuel could be a game-changer. At least for a little while.

  He could see Taejon now, a wooden city of low brown and gray buildings sprawling across flat terrain ringed by rivers close in and jagged peaks beyond. The railroad tracks running through the city glistened in the mid-morning sun; Banjo Flight had followed those tracks from Pusan. The drab highways were harder to make out, only identifiable by the convoys of GI trucks kicking up dust as they made their way to and from Taejon.

  “Good morning, Banjo Leader,” a buoyant voice boomed from Tommy’s headphones. “This is Spectral One-Seven with you at angels six at your ten o’clock. I’ll be your host for this morning’s fun and games. I’m the bright, shiny T-6 headed your way.”

  Tommy couldn’t spot the FAC at first; the silver plane was lost against the shimmering backdrop of the Kum River. As she drew closer, though—just a few miles separating them—the broad wings of the rugged trainer-cum-forward air control ship gleamed with reflected sunlight.

  “I’ll pass below you as I come around to your heading,” the FAC said. “Please be so kind as to orbit right one circuit so you don’t leave me in the dust.”

  Even though the T-6 flew nearly twice as fast as the high-winged, fabric-covered Piper and Stinson ships which usually performed FAC duty, she was still designed to be a trainer of pilots, not a combat aircraft. But her rugged, fighter-like airframe, wide performance envelope, and high reliability made her a natural for spotting duties. When the need for such aircraft suddenly arose, the Air Force hadn’t hesitated to fly some over from Japan.

  “Spectral One-Seven, I’ve got one question, though,” Tommy said. “Don’t those low wings block your view of targets when you’re down on the deck?”

  “No problem,” the FAC replied. “If the wings get in the way, you just stand her up on a wingtip for a couple of seconds. You’ve flown one of these birds, haven’t you?”

  “Sure,” Tommy replied, “but way back in Forty-Three.”

  “Then you know what I’m talking about.”

  By the time Banjo Flight completed its orbit, Spectral One-Seven was well in front of them, flying north of the Kum River. Tommy slowed his ships as they began a descent to 5,000 feet.

  “The triple-A will be heavy,” the FAC said, “so I suggest you bring it in low. Don’t give them too much time to track you. I’ll mark what looks like the fuel storage now. When you hit it, we’ll know right away if I got it right.”

  The T-6 rolled hard left and began a rapid descent, picking up speed for her target-marking run.

  Tommy told his flight, “Get in trail and start S-turning. I don’t want to have to orbit again if we can help it. Might lose the smoke.”

  Spectral One-Seven was right about the triple-A; anti-aircraft artillery of several calibers began to stream tracers into the air. But the gunners were having trouble tracking the fast-moving FAC plane as she raced by them at only a few hundred feet off the ground.

  The T-6 bore down on a bowl-shaped depression framed by hills to the north and south. Her flight path would take her into the bowl from the east and exit to the west. Once down in the bowl, there was no other direction of escape.

  Nearly there now, the FAC said, “Bingo! No doubt about it. We’ve got fuel in barrels and trucks. Tons of it.”

  Turning a few degrees to the right, he fired two smoke rockets. Then he pulled his ship’s nose up sharply so she’d climb away from any explosion the rockets might cause as she streaked for that western exit.

  As Tommy viewed it all from behind, the smoke rockets seemed to meander wildly on their brief trip to the target. He knew it was an optical illusion. The rockets were really flying straight as arrows; it was his tail-end view of their swirling exhaust trail, compressed by his distance from it, that gave the illusion of meandering.

  There were two tiny flashes of brilliant light as the rockets struck home, and then thick clouds of white marking smoke began to rise from the points of impact.

  “It’s all yours, Banjo Leader,” the FAC said. “Put your stuff right on the dot. I’ll be out of your way to the south.”

  Banjo Flight’s target run had already begun, with Tommy in the lead. As they raced closer, he could see what the FAC had described. There were big tanker trucks—at least a dozen of them—parked in a field of barrels. The white smoke of the marking rockets had begun to turn a dense black. The ground itself seemed to be on fire around the trucks.

  Diesel’s leaking out of something and already burning, Tommy told himself. Let’s see if we can finish this job.

  They were traveling faster and lower than the FAC plane had, making them even more difficult targets for the AAA gunners. Ignoring the tracers whizzing above his ship, Tommy put the pip in his gunsight on the target smoke. Satisfied he was close enough, he let two rockets fly and then immediately pulled up to let Banjo Two take her shot.

  The fuel dump was burning ferociously by the time Banjo Three and Four added their rockets to the effort. Dense clouds of black smoke were rising high into the sky. The smell of burning diesel permeated the cockpits of the last two ships, as they had no choice but to fly through that smoke.

  But once Banjo Four passed through that blackness, he knew he had a problem. “My Prestone temp’s going off the scale,” he told Tommy. “I felt some hits right before I fired. The triple-A must’ve got me.”

  The curse of the Mustang had descended on Banjo Flight already. As fine an interceptor as she’d been at altitude, the P-51—now F-51—had that critical vulnerability at low level. When Tommy eased Moon’s Menace V alongside the wounded ship, he could see the thin, clear streams of engine coolant leaking from several punctures in the lower fuselage’s radiator fairing.

  “Dump your ordnance and head straight for Taejon,” Tommy told him. “Keep her throttled back as much as you can. You may get a few more seconds out of the engine that way.”

  The FAC had one further piece of advice. “If you can’t get your gear down, please don’t belly her in on the runway. It’s the only one we’ve got, and there’s no recovery equipment there.”

  “Any place you suggest?” Banjo Four asked.

  “Yeah, in the grass on the north side,” the FAC said. “The ground
’s pretty firm there, so that belly scope may not dig in too badly.”

  Then, his voice expressionless, he added, “And maybe we can use her as part of the barricade.”

  The pilots of Banjo Flight weren’t sure if he was trying to be funny or if he was dead serious. But considering the ruthless speed of the KPA onslaught so far, they decided it was probably the latter.

  Something else crossed Tommy’s mind, too. In the last war, if your flight had a damaged ship limping to an emergency landing, another aircraft would accompany her, providing protection to minimize her chances of being easy prey to enemy fighters. In this war, though, the North Koreans didn’t have much of an air force. The little they did have—all prop-driven hand-me-downs from the Soviet Air Force—hadn’t made much of a showing, especially as interceptors. Even though MacArthur’s headquarters dismissed the idea out of hand, there’d been some fearful speculation among the American pilots of Chinese—or even Russian—jets and pilots joining the fray. That would increase the danger in the air tremendously.

  But so far, it hadn’t happened. Without airborne opposition, damaged ships limped home on their own.

  The FAC made another pass over the target area, now an inferno. “Banjo Leader, I believe we’re done here,” he told Tommy. “Nice work. Let’s go beat up some other gas station now.”

  *****

  The Korean civilians taking refuge at 26th Regiment’s CP had gone out of their way all morning to make themselves useful. They’d carried supplies, erected barricades, dug fighting holes, and provided a wealth of information about the ins and outs of the city’s streets and alleys, information that would come in handy in the urban combat that was sure to occur very soon.

  Patchett had been resistant to the idea of allowing them to work. At this point, he didn’t trust any Korean. In his eyes, they were all useless incompetents at best, potential saboteurs at worst. But Jock had convinced him of the wisdom and necessity of using their labor. His exhausted GIs needed to catch some sleep whenever they could; there’d been precious little of it since he’d taken command two days ago. With the Korean volunteers pitching in, preparing the headquarters for the inevitable attack could continue apace, even though a little more than half the GIs manning that headquarters were taking their turn to sleep, or at least trying to in the midst of the usual noisy and bustling activity of the CP.