Combat Ineffective

by William Peter Grasso

  Potts replied, “Wouldn’t it be a big help if we could tell them where those tanks are going to cross the river, Sarge?”

  “You’re reading my mind, Corporal. That’s what we’re fixing to do. That trail we came up on looks to be dead in the middle of the only place tanks can ford the river. Everywhere else around here seems too damn swampy. We need to know just how wide the avenue of advance of them tanks is gonna be. If they’re canalized into a narrow column when they come at the airfield, they’ll be a whole lot easier to defeat.”

  *****

  Sean led Nuzzi’s two Chaffees to the middle of the airfield’s runway. He climbed up to Nuzzi standing in the turret hatch and said, “This is where I’m setting you up. Your vehicles will be facing west, right down the runway.”

  The dim glow from the turret’s interior lighting leaked up through the hatch, making it easy to read the look on Nuzzi’s face. It said he didn’t like that assignment one bit.

  “But we’re gonna sweeten the pot a little for you guys,” Sean continued. “You’re gonna get to build a big ol’ barricade for yourselves. Look over there.” He pointed to the mired semi-trailer that had been the second M19’s transporter. “I dug up enough cables so you and your other tank can pull that wreck out without going in the muck. Drag that useless son of a bitch across the width of the runway and nestle in behind it.”

  Nuzzi seemed less than grateful. “That’s all you got, Sean?”

  “No, Sal, I got plenty more. Look way over thataway.” This time, he pointed to Moon’s Menace V, now nothing more than a collection of scrap metal in the shape of an aircraft. “Feel free to use that hulk, too. Consider it a special gift from my flyboy brother. It used to be his airplane, until one of my zipperhead gunners shot his ass down. You remember my brother Tommy, right?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t he spend some time with us in France as an ASO?”

  “That he did, Sal.”

  “So where’s he now? I mean, is he okay after crashing that thing?”

  “He’s fine. Probably back in Pusan already, painting his name on a new airplane.”

  “Looks like you Moons are still pretty hard to kill. Hope it stays that way for you.”

  “Thanks, Sal. Same to ya. But you better get busy. It don’t look like the gooks are gonna be coming for a while, but when they do, they’ll probably try to push their T-34s right up this runway. It’s about the only place the traction’s good around here. Oh, and by the way, there’s piles of logs and railroad ties behind that building over there. Hang ’em on your tanks for some extra armor.”

  *****

  Patchett’s suspicions about the terrain proved correct. There was only one approach to the fordable part of the river that wasn’t a quagmire. He estimated its width at about four hundred yards; around a quarter of a mile. They’d crossed to the American side of the river to radio their report; Patchett didn’t want to do it from the KPA side. If they were found out, they would have had to flee across the open expanse of the river under fire and totally exposed. On the friendly side, they wouldn’t be so vulnerable.

  Once the report was made, they’d go back across to keep tabs on the enemy forces. As Patchett told his patrol, “A unit that big is like a mile-long freight train. It takes a while to get it all moving. But if we can give our guys just a couple minutes’ warning that they’re cranking up to come across, it could make a whole lotta difference in how the fight goes.”

  As they forded the Kap Ch’on for the third time, he still found it hard to believe the KPA hadn’t put out any security along the riverbank. When they’d marveled at this earlier, Corporal Potts had said, “It’s because they’re damn sure we’re not going to attack. We’re the best security they’ve got.”

  Patchett knew all too well that Potts was right.

  His plan was to return to the ridge overlooking the assembly area for the Korean armor. Halfway up the rise, though, the still-queasy PFC Staley suddenly became agitated. He was walking point—the lead man in the patrol’s column—when he threw down the BAR, did an about-face, and started running back through the column toward the river, not caring how much noise he made.

  Potts, the last man in line, tackled him. When Staley began to wail, the corporal pushed his face into the mud to silence him. Even then, his cries bubbled up through the ooze, sounding as if he was saying, They’re everywhere! They’re everywhere!

  But the verbalized fears didn’t last long; Staley was going to drown in the mud.

  Patchett was crouched over both of them now, whispering in Staley’s ear, “We’ll let you up, son, but you gotta promise to shut the fuck up. Otherwise, your face goes right back in the shit. Squeeze my hand if you understand me.”

  Bullets were snapping over their heads before he could respond, first rifle fire, then a machine gun. The GIs seemed to be in the middle of a ring of gunfire, with rounds coming from every direction.

  But no one was hit. Patchett noticed that no round had even splashed around them.

  It’s all over our heads. The damn gooks must be shooting at each other.

  He and Potts grabbed Staley by an arm each and began duck-walking him toward the river as fast as they could. The other two men scooped up the discarded BAR and were duck-walking right behind them. By the time they reached the river, they were upright and on the dead run.

  Staley was still babbling, “They’re everywhere! I told you, they’re everywhere!”

  Reaching the other bank, they threw themselves into the concealment offered by a thicket to catch their breath. Looking back through the darkness across the Kap Ch’on, they could see clusters of brilliant muzzle flashes and the occasional tracer rounds flying in opposite directions between those clusters. It seemed certain that two KPA units were having a gunfight with each other, because there were certainly no other American units on that side of the river.

  Staley, still terrified, had fallen silent. He was still clamped in Potts’ vice-like grip; the corporal was prepared to silence him once again, if necessary.

  The gunfire across the river began to fade away, dwindling in a matter of seconds to random rifle shots whose echoes bounced around the hills as if trying to get the last word in a violent argument. Then it stopped.

  “I told you they were everywhere,” Staley said for what seemed the hundredth time.

  “Yeah, you did, son,” Patchett replied, “but that was a damn fool way you did it. Nearly got us all killed.”

  “You gonna have me court-martialed, Sarge?”

  “The thought crossed my mind, Private, but I’m thinking now that I won’t.”

  He motioned to Potts to release his hold on Staley.

  Nobody said a word for a moment. Perhaps they were trying to understand Sergeant Patchett’s sudden benevolence.

  Finally, it was Potts who asked, “How come, Sarge?”

  “Because we all fuck up sometimes, Corporal. And the way I look at it, the only harm done here was maybe a coupla gooks shot each other.”

  Potts said, “Yeah, but—”

  “But nothing, Corporal. We got lucky, that’s all. And I’ll take a win any way I can get it.”

  Then, with a smile more chilling than a curse, he told Staley, “So, nice work, son…but don’t you never fucking do something like that again, you hear?”

  *****

  It was one of those rare moments when Jock found himself alone in the CP. It would only last a minute, but it felt so strange, as if he was fighting the entire North Korean Army all by himself.

  Physically, he’d reached the point he’d known in combat so many times before, where exhaustion had become the normal state of being. He’d slept so little since taking command of the regiment four days ago. He only hoped his troops were managing to get some rest before the fight began again. They’d need it more than him.

  What he needed most right now was another cup of coffee. As he hopped off the stool, his bad leg buckled beneath him as if the muscles within had suddenly turned to rubber bands. He cr
ashed to the floor face down.

  I’m kidding myself if I keep thinking this leg will be even close to one hundred percent ever again.

  But I can’t let anyone see me flat on my face like this.

  He’d struggled back to his feet just as the first man to return to the CP stepped inside out of the pre-dawn darkness.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The dawn brought a fog no one expected, its dense mist blanketing the Kap Ch’on River and most of Taejon Airfield. Back at the CP now, Patchett told Jock, “If they can find their way across that river, this would be one hell of a time for the gooks to attack. If I was them, and they got the numbers I think they do, I wouldn’t even bother with the artillery prep or the tanks, just start coming real quiet-like out of that soup like a bunch of ghosts. We wouldn’t see the bastards until they were right on top of us. I reckon most of our troopers would shit their britches sooner than fire their weapons.”

  But the KPA wasn’t listening to Patchett’s advice. He’d barely finished speaking when the CP rattled with the distant boom of artillery. It sounded like many pieces firing in near-perfect synchronization. With shouts of take cover, Jock and his staff at the CP hunkered behind walls stacked high with sandbags. GIs defending the airfield burrowed into their bunkers and fighting holes, counting the seconds to an impact they prayed they’d still be alive to hear.

  Their prayers were answered, at least for the moment. The barrage fell well forward of the regiment’s position. The impacts couldn’t be seen through the fog, but based on the sound of the explosions, they were landing along the Kap Ch’on or, perhaps, farther west, closer to the KPA troops than the GIs dug in around the airfield.

  “Now I get why the gooks didn’t have any outposts along the river,” Patchett said. “They don’t trust their own artillery. Wanna give ’em a real wide berth.”

  “I wish we could see the flash from the tubes, though, Top,” Jock said, peering through a firing slit in the sandbagged wall. “Then we could get some counter-battery fire on them. But this damn fog…”

  Somebody yelled, “Atten-hut.” They all snapped to as General Keane dashed into the CP. “What’s your situation here, Colonel?” he asked Jock. His tone was disturbing, sounding more like a question from a casual observer than the demand of a commander.

  “My situation? That artillery you’re listening to is pretty much it, sir,” Jock replied.

  “No attack by infantry or tanks yet?”

  “No, sir, not yet.”

  “I wish I could say the same for the other regiments,” Keane said. “By all reports, they’re getting hammered.”

  The other regiments—the 17th and 33rd—were situated east of the 26th, centered two and five miles away, respectively, if you took the general’s situation map as gospel. But if they were in a fight, Jock and company should’ve heard it. There’d been nothing over the division command net to indicate attacks in progress, either. That assumed, of course, that their consistently unreliable radios were still working.

  It was Patchett who finally expressed the collective skepticism: “Well, sir, they must be fighting with swords and cudgels, then, because we ain’t heard a damn thing. Are those boys holding their positions this time, at least?”

  “As far as I know, they are, Sergeant,” Keane replied. Then he asked Jock, “Colonel, where is that artillery landing?”

  “Along the river, sir. They’ve shot several volleys, but nothing’s hit the airfield yet. We don’t think the KPA across the Kap Ch’on can see the impacts well enough to adjust them.”

  Patchett added, “And if they’re trying to adjust by sound, they’re doing a piss-poor job, sir.”

  “Well, let’s hope they keep doing that piss-poor job,” Keane replied. “Keep your heads down, men. I’ll be back when I can.”

  Jock and Patchett locked eyes; they both knew what the other was thinking: Golly, General, we’ll be waiting with bated fucking breath.

  Once the general drove off, Sean said, “You know, there’s another reason we might not be hearing anything from the other outfits.”

  Jock replied, “What’s that, Sergeant?”

  “Maybe the gooks are rolling tanks at ’em, and our guys just turned around and ran the second they showed up, like they already did a couple of times, right? Might be that not one damn shot got fired.”

  He had a point. Like it or not, that scenario was entirely possible.

  One of the radio operators called out, “Colonel, I’ve got Spectral One-Seven on frequency.”

  “The FAC? Gee, he’s up in the air bright and early.”

  “Says he’s got those guns spotted, sir.”

  *****

  It had been a very early morning for Spectral One-Seven’s pilot, Don Gerard. Flying an unarmed FAC ship, he’d been allowed to take off from K-2 before dawn. Armed ships had to wait until sunup; it avoided the possibility of the darkness causing a ground collision or takeoff accident, either of which could result in a daisy chain of catastrophic destruction on the small, crowded airfield when armament detonated in a post-crash fire. The smoke rockets his ship carried weren’t considered quite as capable of such devastation.

  I can crash all I want, I guess.

  When he was based at Taejon, close to the front line, predawn takeoffs hadn’t been necessary. But flying out of Taegu now—almost one hundred miles from the action—he needed to be off the ground almost an hour before dawn to be on station when the sun rose. That would give him roughly forty minutes to recon and select targets before the fighter-bombers would be in the area. Once they arrived, his T-6 would still have enough gas to stay on station another two hours before having to return to K-2 and refuel. Hopefully, another FAC ship would be on hand to fill in while he was gone.

  Over the target area now, he couldn’t wait for the fighter-bombers: he’d spotted the guns firing at Taejon Airfield. It was time to double as artillery observer.

  “Montana Six, this is Spectral,” Gerard replied when Jock came up on frequency. “I have your problem in sight, artillery in battalion strength four miles northwest of the airfield. I don’t have direct commo with your guns. Can you relay?”

  “Affirmative, Spectral. Send your fire mission.”

  In about a minute, the first adjustment round from the American artillery landed. It was short of the KPA guns.

  “Add two hundred,” Gerard radioed.

  This time, it only took forty seconds for the next round to splash.

  Shit, I’m still short.

  He called in, “Add one hundred.”

  Listening at the CP, Patchett said, “Dammit, that flyboy’s walking them rounds too slow. He still ain’t got a bracket. Them gooks are gonna reposition themselves before he ever gets to fire for effect.”

  One more volley was fired by the Korean gunners. The twenty rounds actually landed on the western edge of the airfield, among the GIs of Colonel Brand’s 3rd Battalion.

  Orbiting well to the east of his target, Gerard watched as the next adjustment round landed just beyond the line of twenty guns, which were compactly emplaced hub-to-hub.

  Finally! I’ve got the bracket.

  “Drop five-zero, fire for effect,” he transmitted.

  But they better hurry up and get those rounds in the air...

  Because Patchett was right; once they fired their last volley, the KPA gunners began to feverishly hook their weapons to the trucks that towed them.

  Shit. Rare is the mobile target that stands still while you’re adjusting fire on it.

  By the time the American rounds struck, only a few of the KPA guns were caught in their impact. The rest had already driven well clear. Gerard lost sight of those that escaped as the road they traveled disappeared into the hills.

  He called in the disappointing results.

  “That’s okay, Spectral,” Jock replied. “We’ll take whatever break we can get. If they pop up again, let us know.”

  Then Jock asked, “Spectral, do you see any KPA movement to the wes
t of the airfield?” He was referring to the formations Patchett and his men had encountered during the night patrol.

  “Negative, Montana,” Gerard replied. “Can’t see much of anything. Still a lot of fog down there.”

  “How about to the east? Any movement over that way?”

  “Stand by,” Gerard said. “Give me a minute to get turned around.”

  Once he reversed direction, he reported, “Hard to tell. The early morning haze is taking its sweet time burning off today. Must’ve rained a lot yesterday.”

  *****

  The casualties from that last, on-target volley of KPA artillery had been mercifully light. “We got lucky,” Patchett reported. “None killed; only a handful of men from Third Battalion are at the regimental aid station, none serious.”

  That was the end of the good news. Within minutes, the roar of KPA tank engines pierced the thinning fog, growing louder. They weren’t waiting for their artillery to start firing again.

  “They’re coming,” Jock said, “and by all reports, they’re right where you said they’d cross the river, Top.”

  “You didn’t doubt me, did you, sir?”

  “Not for a damn minute.”

  That would put the tanks’ axis of advance straight into Major Harper’s 2nd Battalion. The width of that advance would be initially narrow; the boggy terrain would prevent the T-34s from widening their front until they’d penetrated deep into the airfield. Neatly centered on that narrow route of advance was the runway, with Sergeant Nuzzi’s two Chaffees behind their makeshift barricade composed of the semi-trailer rig, Tommy Moon’s wrecked F-51, and all the lumber they’d been able to move into place before the artillery barrage began.

  The biggest threats to the T-34s were the 3.5-inch rocket launcher teams Sean had positioned close to the river and the fighter-bombers that Spectral One-Seven advised would be arriving within ten minutes.