Jock personally stopped the jeep of 17th Regiment’s commander, an older colonel named Baldwin, who’d been intent on blasting right through the roadblock without even slowing down.
“We could sure use your regiment’s help,” Jock told him. “Especially along the railway. We’re really strung out in the hills around there.”
Baldwin was a man in a hurry. With great impatience, he replied, “I have no such orders, Miles.”
“Nobody has orders, Colonel,” Jock said. “We’re doing this out of necessity.”
“That may be your interpretation, Miles, but I don’t take orders from you, that’s for damn sure.”
Jock tried a different tack, asking, “When’s the last time you even heard from Division?”
Baldwin just shrugged and motioned to his driver to get moving.
“Hold on a second, Colonel,” Jock said. “Last I heard, this division was conducting a delaying action here at Taejon. That means you, too, doesn’t it?”
“Negative, Miles,” Baldwin replied. “The only thing that makes sense is to withdraw until we meet up with First Cav. Staying around here is just going to get us all killed.”
Jock replied, “Nobody’s talking about conducting a suicide defense of Taejon, Colonel, just delaying the KPA for a little bit. We can do that if we pull our heads out of our asses and start using sound tactics to—”
Not liking the tone of that comment one bit, Baldwin interrupted, “Just who the fuck are you to decide what I should be doing? We could’ve all been safe and sound in Pusan already, but you’re the one who’s screwing everything up, always pretending to be standing tall and holding your ground, facing light attacks while the rest of us get hit with the brunt of the KPA.”
Jock replied, “From what I’ve seen, you haven’t gotten hit any harder than my regiment.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Miles. You’re running backward just like everyone else. Stop being such a show-boating buddy-fucker and face facts. You’ll live longer that way. Now get out of my goddamn way.”
Disgusted, Jock waved him through.
A few minutes later, the colonel commanding division artillery drove up in his jeep. Scattered back through the throng of refugees and fleeing GIs were a handful of trucks towing howitzers. Two had already passed through the roadblock.
Jock knew this colonel fairly well; his name was Mike Frost.
“Where you headed, Mike?” Jock asked.
“Any place but inside that fucking city, Jock. It’s a slaughterhouse in there.”
“How about setting up your guns about a thousand yards south of here? There’s plenty of level ground for your guys along the highway.”
“I’ll be glad to, Jock, but don’t get your hopes up. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s not much left in the way of guns. I can barely field two batteries. We just got another one overrun. And the guns that are left are getting really low on ammo. If we don’t get a resupply in the next couple of hours, we’re out of business.”
“Welcome to the club, Mike. So I can count on you to back us up?”
“I guess so. Your regiment seems to be the only one that’s got a grip on itself. Are you in contact with Division, by any chance?”
Jock replied, “Nope. Haven’t heard from them since early this morning. And we’ve been trying, believe me.”
“Do you really think we’re going to be able to hold on here, Jock?” Frost asked.
“With the Air Force’s help, I think we’ve got a chance in daylight, Mike. I’m not so sure about what’s going to happen at night, though.”
*****
It was mid-afternoon at K-9. Three flights of F-51s—Banjo, Trombone, and Oboe—were being refueled and rearmed while another squadron provided air support for the beleaguered GIs at Taejon. There would be a change of armament for this mission: instead of the five-hundred-pound general purpose bombs they’d been carrying, they’d be dropping napalm instead. The intent was simple: try to turn the tinderbox city of Taejon into an inferno, incinerating the KPA swarming its streets.
The mission briefing brought Banjo Flight some good news. Ted Waleska was safely in the hands of the ground-pounders after his emergency landing. Riding with a supply convoy, he’d be back in Pusan sometime tomorrow.
“The lucky bastard,” Pete Sublette said. “Some guys’ll do anything to get a couple days off. But at this rate, we’re going to run out of Mustangs real soon. Those fucking radiators hanging out down there…”
Sharing the truck driving them to their planes was the crew of a C-119 Flying Boxcar transport. The Boxcar pilot asked Tommy, “You guys heading up to Taejon, sir?”
“Yep. This’ll be our third run up there today.”
“Good,” the pilot replied, sounding relieved. “You know the way. Mind if we follow you? This is our first drop in that area.”
“Sure, be my guest. What’re you dropping?”
“Ammo, mostly artillery. Not real sure where they want it, though.”
Tommy pulled a map from his flight bag. “We’re going to be setting fires with napalm here, on the north side of the city,” he said, his finger making a goose egg on the map. “So stay away from that area. I’m told there are no GIs or civilians left anywhere near there…they’re all on the south side now.” He sketched a line across the paper with his finger. “The Pusan highway runs south out of Taejon through this valley. Look for their panel markers in that area. If you can’t tell where to drop, bring up the FAC on channel eight and ask for help. Maybe he can identify the good guys for you.”
“Got it, sir,” the pilot said. “I’ll do that.”
Tommy replied, “Good plan. And good luck. I’ve got a brother down there. I know he’ll be real appreciative of your efforts. It’s going to be a long night for those guys. They’ll need that artillery.”
*****
The sun was ready to drop behind the mountain peaks to the west as Sean and Patchett took in the panoramic view from the regiment’s hilltop CP. Below them was the southern highway. Three miles to the north, they could see the fires the napalm had started on the far side of Taejon.
“You think that fire’s gonna burn the whole city down, Bubba?” Patchett asked Sean.
“Maybe, Patch. It’s a lotta wood out there. Could use a little more wind to spread it, though.”
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. The flyboys are saying they buried a lot of gook tanks under that napalm. What’s your take on that?”
Sean offered one puff of laughter and said, “We love our flyboys…but they do tend to exaggerate from time to time.”
“So you’re still taking some of them rocket boys into the city with you?”
Sean replied, “Damn right I am, Patch, just as soon as it gets good and dark.”
A mile south, they could see the artillerymen still gathering up the pallets full of ammunition the C-119s had dropped. Patchett said, “That gotta be about the best airdrop I ever seen. Looks like every damn chute landed where they could get their hands on it.”
Then he glanced back toward Taejon and said, “Well, Bubba, where do you reckon the gooks are gonna come at us first?”
“We’re gonna get hit by infantry that goes around the city and through the hills,” Sean replied. “Probably on both flanks at the same time.”
“Yep, that’s how I figure it, too. The M19s and quad fifties are gonna be real busy tonight, I’m afraid. But what about their armor?”
“Unless they manage to come straight through the city, we ain’t gonna see much in the way of T-34s for a day or two. Too many hills if they try to work the flanks with the infantry. They’ll tear up their transmissions before they get anywhere near here.”
They fell into silence for a few moments, until Patchett said, “But no matter what, there’s still gonna be a lot more of them gooks than there are of us.”
A jeep was driving up the hill to the CP. Even in the shadows of dusk, both sergeants recognized the man in the passenger’s seat from a long way o
ff. It was the assistant division commander, a colonel named Healy.
Patchett turned to Sean and said, “How about you and me mosey inside and give a listen to what the man’s got on his mind?”
*****
The news Colonel Healy brought seemed beyond comprehension at first: General Keane, the division commander, was missing.
This was something new. Some generals might occasionally be wounded if they got in the way of a bomb or a shelling. In rare cases, one might be unlucky enough to get himself killed.
But generals never went missing.
Until now.
Healy said, “I just got off the horn with General Walker at Eighth Army, Colonel Miles. For the time being, we’re considering your regiment an independent regimental combat team comprised of your unit and whatever resources you can salvage from what’s left of the other outfits in Twenty-Fourth Division. You are in command of this RCT. The mission to delay the North Koreans at Taejon falls squarely on your shoulders now.”
Patchett leaned to whisper in Sean’s ear: “Hell, ain’t that the way it’s been ever since we got here? Seems like Eighth Army’s just now getting around to making it official.”
Sean replied, “A day late and a dollar short, as usual.”
Patchett replied, “Worse than that, Bubba. The way I see it, this man’s army got itself a whole new definition of FUBAR going on here. Putting Jock Miles officially in charge is the only smart thing they done lately.”
“Let’s just hope it ain’t too fucking late, Patch. But how much you wanna bet this is all just a smokescreen so some generals can beat the rap for losing a division? Or maybe this whole damn war?”
*****
Lieutenant General Walton “Johnnie” Walker, commander of US 8th Army, finally had most of the American divisions currently assigned to that army on the ground in South Korea; they included 1st Cavalry Division, 25th Infantry Division, and what remained of 24th Infantry Division, an entity that, for the time being, existed only on order of battle charts. First Cavalry Division was moving northwest from Pusan toward Taejon. Its three battalions of armor—one per cavalry regiment—contained a total of just over one hundred tanks, mostly Chaffees but with a handful of WW2-vintage M4 Shermans. Twenty-Fifth Infantry Division was spilling off ships and aircraft from Japan into Pusan. It would take a few days to gather their equipment; once they did, they’d head northwest to positions on First Cav’s right flank. The 1st Provisional Marine Brigade would be landing in a matter of days, as well, and—much to the displeasure of the Marine Corps’ leadership—would fall under the command of 8th Army.
More Army divisions—2nd Infantry and 7th Infantry—were in transit to Korea. They’d be joining 8th Army within a few weeks.
Johnnie Walker was anxious to leave his Pusan headquarters and be out among his embattled troops near Taejon. He couldn’t leave yet, however. He had a visitor: Major General “Ned” Almond, MacArthur’s chief of staff. Even though Walker outranked him, Almond figuratively wore MacArthur’s stars as if they were his own, relishing the power that came with his proximity and devotion to the throne. Talking to him was as good as talking to MacArthur. Pissing him off was as good as pissing MacArthur off, too, so Walker had little choice but to make time for Ned Almond.
Walker couldn’t help but smirk as he remembered the nickname officers who’d served in Europe had bestowed on Almond: Bidet, as in the device found in posh restrooms on the Continent used to wash one’s anus. The joke around Tokyo: MacArthur never had to worry about wiping his ass after taking a shit because ol’ Bidet would be there to lick it clean.
As Walker tried to explain the disturbing details of the delaying action at Taejon, an obviously disinterested Almond waved him off. “We don’t need any more of this negative talk,” Almond said. “What we’re witnessing is just another example of MacArthur’s brilliance.”
Walker was wondering if he’d heard the man correctly. “Excuse me, General? Are you really suggesting our current catastrophe is the product of brilliance?”
“Absolutely,” Almond replied. “MacArthur is waging a brilliant—yes, General, brilliant—retrograde operation against a numerically superior force that will result in the North Koreans being lured into his inescapable trap.”
“What kind of trap are we talking about?”
Almond’s face took on a sly smile as he said, “You’ll find out, General. All in good time.”
Walker shook his head in disbelief. “We don’t have a lot of time, Almond…and I’m still not buying this brilliance song and dance. The only brilliance I’m seeing out there is the work Colonel Miles is doing. Without him, I fear the entire Twenty-Fourth Division would’ve been destroyed by now. For God’s sake, the division commander is missing in action!”
“That’s General Almond, Johnnie…and MacArthur doesn’t wish to hear any more talk pumping up this Colonel Miles. He’s acquainted with the man, who he considers just another colonel with an overinflated opinion of his own abilities. Disloyal, too, so I’d watch your back around him.”
“I disagree, General. Completely. The man deserves to be wearing a star.”
“Absolutely not, Johnnie. The man’s got black marks in his file going all the way back to Pearl Harbor. The only reason MacArthur allowed him a regimental command is that we’re very hard up for full colonels in theater at the moment. But his name will not be put forward for promotion. Is that clear?”
“Yeah, crystal,” Walker replied.
But the words felt like dirt in his mouth.
Chapter Twenty
All Jillian Miles knew was that her husband Jock was somewhere in Korea; his exact location in that country was a mystery. The newspapers in California were reporting on a battle of epic proportions around the South Korean city of Taejon. The nightly news broadcasts on the radio were saying the same thing.
It all sounds like a bloody cockup, she told herself while dressing for her first officers’ wives’ tea at Fort Ord. But wherever the fighting is, I’ll wager that’s where Jock is. He wouldn’t want it any other way, the bloody mug.
Wherever he is, though, I’d rather be there with him than sit through this ridiculous tea. But an officer whose wife doesn’t attend gets a black mark on his fitness report.
We bloody well can’t have that now, can we?
Resolved to the necessity of making an appearance, she loaded her children, Jif and Jane, into their Ford station wagon with the wooden side panels. It was just a short drive onto the post and the residence of General Jarvis Whitelaw and his wife, Priscilla.
Driving up to the smallish but stately Whitelaw residence in the most well-tended corner of Fort Ord, Jillian couldn’t help but smile; she’d always felt at odds with the social hierarchy of the military. As she put it, The wives might as well pin their husband’s insignia of rank to their bloody bodice. All this “yes, ma’am” if her husband outranks yours or “fetch me a drink, dear…there’s a good girl” if it’s the other way around. It hadn’t been quite so bad when we were still in Australia. It was my country. It was my home.
Everybody knew who I was, where I’d been, what I’d done…
And nobody gave me any shit.
Yanks were the outsiders then.
But here, I’m the outsider…and I’m starting from scratch.
As soon as they arrived, the children were shepherded off to play with the other young army brats in attendance under the supervision of the Whitelaws’ teenaged daughters. The seventeen wives, wearing their white gloves and Sunday best, topped with stylish yet conservative hats and cashmere sweaters to ward off the coolness of a late July afternoon in Northern California, took their seats on the patio. Instinctively, each woman knew where to sit: cushioned rattan chairs for Mrs. Whitelaw and the colonels’ wives, hard wooden folding chairs for the wives of the lower-ranking officers.
There was no doubt Priscilla Whitelaw considered herself a queen holding court. She steered the small talk through the usual laments of neophyte army wi
ves: the pains of frequent relocation; the low pay; the poor choice of products available at the PX; the quality of the schools around Monterey. But Mrs. Whitelaw quickly grew bored of the repetitive drivel. She redirected the discussion to how hard it had been for the veteran wives like herself during the last war. While she threw inclusive nods to the few wives whose husbands had served overseas back then, it was clear to all that she’d be the only one allowed to wrap herself in the banner of sacrifice.
“It was just awful,” Priscilla Whitelaw said. “Back in the real war, with mobilization in full swing, there was no housing available for dependents. They just gave you a paltry little housing stipend and kicked you into the street to find someplace decent to live. And believe me, ladies, there was no affordable, decent lodging anywhere. I was practically homeless and had to shuttle my children back and forth between my family and the general’s for almost two years. And having to organize all those tiresome war bond and USO events! But that’s the price we pay to live in the greatest country under God.”
She paused for effect, her eyes making one sweep of the room to take in the sympathetic glances being cast her way. Somehow, she didn’t notice the dismissive look on Jillian’s face.
“But we won’t have to worry about all that this time,” Mrs. Whitelaw continued, “because there’s no need for full mobilization. MacArthur’s boys will take care of those little Asian toy soldiers in no time flat. Another feather in his cap for the elections in Fifty-Two, when this nation will elect the great man himself to the presidency and fix the mess our country is in, all caused by that little sales clerk Truman and his China-losing Democrats.”
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