Combat Ineffective

by William Peter Grasso

  “Son of a bitch! They’ll have them shot-up tanks towed out of the way before I can scratch my ass. Then I get to fight ’em all over again. Ain’t like that never happened before, though.”

  “Amen to that, Bubba. But listen up…we got ourselves a plan cooking.”

  “Yeah, we do,” Jock joined in. “Until this fog lifts, the KPA will be as blind as we are. But we’ve still got a slight advantage: we’re up on the high ground with all their avenues of approach covered one way or the other.” He looked to Sean and added, “But there’s still one problem.”

  “Yeah, I know what you’re gonna say, sir,” Sean replied. “If they force enough tanks down the highway, we ain’t got the muscle to knock ’em all out.”

  “Right, Sergeant. And once that starts to look inevitable, we’re going to have to fall back immediately. If for some reason we can’t withdraw south down the Taejon-Pusan highway, we’re going to have no choice but to escape into the hills to the east and try to link up with First Cav. My question is, how do we make the best use of the few tanks we’ve got?”

  Sean replied, “First off, sir, the tanks gotta be able to move. None of this using them as fixed fortifications, okay? And we gotta keep them together, too, to maximize their firepower, which individually is gonna be pretty shitty.”

  “But where should we position them?” Jock asked.

  Sean pointed to a spot on the map. “We start off right here, sir, at that village that’s stuck on the back of this hill we’re on. The one the guys are calling Calvary.”

  Jock smiled; he hadn’t yet heard that nickname for the village of Kao-ri. He asked, “Sounds ominously biblical, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe so, sir,” Sean replied. “But from there, the tanks can move real fast to cover an attack from either flank—or one coming straight outta Taejon. The terrain’s real good for tanks, too, unless we get a lot of rain and it all turns to muck. Most important, it’s a closer run to the east highway, where the gooks who kicked Tenth Tank’s ass last night are probably assembled to attack us today. I’m guessing that’s where our biggest problem’s gonna come from.”

  Jock looked to Patchett. “You agree, Top?”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  “Okay, that’s decided, then,” Jock said. “But one more question, Sergeant Moon. These tankers from First Cav…how good are they?”

  “Let’s put it this way, sir…the ones working with me are a hell of a lot better now than they were yesterday morning. But they still got a lot to learn. A hell of a lot.”

  “I understand their company commander was one of the badly wounded we evacuated early this morning,” Jock said. “Who’s in command of Baker Company now?”

  “I guess I am, sir, if that’s okay with you. They ain’t got no other officers out here, and I’m waaay senior to every NCO they got.”

  Patchett chipped in, “And a damn sight more experienced, I reckon.”

  Sean laughed and replied, “That gotta be the understatement of the year, Patch.”

  “It’s settled, then,” Jock said. “Congratulations, Sergeant Moon. You’re now the acting commander of Baker Company, Tenth Tank.”

  *****

  The steady casualty rate had elevated many a junior NCO to a leadership role far exceeding the stripes on his sleeve. Corporal Potts was now an infantry squad leader in 3rd Battalion of 26th RCT, a position usually filled by a staff sergeant. The fact that he was a colored man leading an otherwise all-white squad didn’t make the job any easier.

  Potts’ squad was dug in along a ridgeline, providing protection for one of the M19 gun carriages. Contact on this foggy morning had been light so far: two probes by KPA infantry had been chased away by bursts from the M19’s twin 40-millimeter guns. After the latest probe, Potts crawled along his squad’s five fighting holes, checking for casualties and ammunition status.

  There was a man missing.

  Potts asked the man who shared the hole, “Where’s Simpson?”

  PFC Redfield replied, “He’s off this morning.”

  “What do you mean, he’s off, Private?”

  “It means it’s his turn to sleep in, Pott-hole. He’ll wake up if we need him.” He paused, as if considering his next words. Then he delivered them: “We play by white man’s rules around here.”

  “I got news for you, Private…we play by gook rules around here, where there ain’t no such thing as the morning off. You’re on report, Redfield. Now where the hell is your buddy?”

  Redfield smirked. The threat of discipline—especially from some Negro corporal—meant nothing to him. “I’m on report, am I? What’re you gonna do? Send me to fucking Korea? Besides, you ain’t got that nigger-loving Master Sergeant Patchett to protect your black ass now.”

  “Where’s Simpson? I ain’t gonna ask you again, Private.”

  Redfield waited a few moments before answering, that same smirk still plastered on his face. Once he figured he’d pushed the corporal far enough, he replied, “Behind that ammo trailer over yonder.”

  Before Potts could take two steps toward the trailer, a mortar round blew it to pieces. If it hadn’t been empty, the resulting explosion of the ammo within would’ve killed them all. As it was, it just killed the napping Simpson.

  Then it rained mortar shells for a few seconds.

  Potts had thrown himself into the hole with Redfield, who’d dropped his M1 and was cowering in the bottom. “Move your ass, cracker,” Potts told him. “You’re covering up the grenade sump.”

  As soon as the mortar rounds stopped falling, KPA infantry came charging up the rise again, emerging like gray ghosts from the fog once they got to within fifty yards of the peak.

  Nobody was shooting at them, not his squad, not the M19 behind them. The mortar barrage had sent the 40-millimeter gunners diving off their piece. The small arms fire snapping all around them was keeping those gunners flat on the ground.

  Potts could see the heads of his men stealing peeks over the rims of their holes. None of them began shooting at the attackers, though. A few climbed out and started running to the rear. Those who stayed dropped back into their holes.

  When Redfield tried to run away, Potts decked him with an uppercut to the jaw. Then he thrust the M1 back into the private’s hands and said, “You ain’t dead yet, so you better be firing that damn weapon.”

  Then Potts started climbing out of the hole.

  His eyes wide with terror, Redfield screeched, “Where the hell you going, boy?”

  “To get those forty millimeters firing, that’s where.”

  The KPA infantry was cresting the rise when Potts opened up with the twin 40 millimeters. It chopped down the first wave like an invisible scythe.

  It did the same to the second wave.

  By the time the third wave emerged from the fog, the 40-millimeter guns were out of ammo…

  And all of Potts’ men had fled.

  *****

  Sean had been right: the major thrust of the KPA armor was coming from the east, the same force that mauled Colonel Parker’s column last night. Using the fog as a screen, he would attempt to interdict their column a mile outside 26th RCT’s perimeter, positioning his ten tanks broadside to the much larger enemy force. To fire, his tanks would advance through the fog toward the Koreans until they could see the outlines of the opposing T-34s. Then they’d quickly pick a target and shoot before withdrawing in reverse gear back to the concealment of the mist.

  A stream with marshy banks that would mire a tank would keep the opposing forces separated, ensuring they would get no closer to each other than several hundred yards.

  Still, Baker Company—with Sean as its acting commander—would be badly outgunned. Their only hope was to inflict as much damage as they could on the enemy tanks while hiding in the fog as much as possible.

  “Remember,” Sean told his tankers, “all we’re trying to do is keep the gooks away from the Twenty-Sixth. Disabling a T-34 out here on the highway is just as good as blowing it to king
dom come. If you just knock off a track or jam her turret, that’s as good as a kill.”

  To make it seem that his force was much larger than it was, he’d deploy only a pair of his tanks forward at a time across a wide front. His Sherman would be in the first pair, just to see firsthand that his concept of engagement was sound.

  It went well for the GIs—for the first few minutes.

  But when the third pair emerged from the fog to take their shots, some Korean gunners must’ve anticipated their approach. Both Chaffees took multiple hits and were quickly turned into smoking hulks. Only four of their ten crewmen managed to escape, running back into the fog and the dubious safety of the other American tanks.

  Rather than allowing another pair to venture forth and be sacrificed, Sean revised his plan. “Stay in the fog and fire blind,” he told his tankers. “Set the range to four hundred fifty yards. Spread your shots in a twenty-degree arc. Keep shooting until I tell you to stop. Then we get the hell outta here.”

  The Koreans decided to fire blind, too. But the fewer American tanks, spread farther apart, proved difficult to hit. Only one Chaffee was knocked out in a shootout lasting almost two minutes, which seemed an eternity. Engagements like this were usually over in a matter of seconds.

  When Sean withdrew his tanks—now down to seven—he had no idea how many T-34s they had hit, if they’d hit any at all.

  The gooks couldn’t see shit, too, so they won’t know how many they hit, neither.

  *****

  The loss of the 40-millimeter guns made it clear that 3rd Battalion was on the verge of being flanked and overrun. By the time Jock had arrived at the battalion’s CP, Colonel Brand, the battalion commander, had readjusted his lines to check the KPA’s incursion. But the situation was far from under control.

  “It looks like we’ve lost the high ground on our left flank,” Jock said to Brand. “Is that the case, Colonel?”

  “We lost just a part of it, sir.”

  “Yeah, I can see that,” Jock replied, “but the part you’re talking about gives the gooks a clear route to the back side of our perimeter, and once this pea soup clears, a bird’s eye view of about half our positions. What are your plans to retake that ridge, Colonel?”

  His silence was all the answer Jock needed.

  “So you have no plan, Colonel Brand?”

  “Well, sir…we are putting mortar fire on them.”

  “The gooks can dig holes for cover just as good as we can, Colonel. In fact, I’m sure they’re using the ones your people already dug for them. You need to take back that ridge immediately.”

  “Sir, if I move any of my units, I’ll just create new weaknesses for the gooks to exploit. I’ve got no reserve. I just don’t have the people anymore.”

  Jock knew there was no point arguing about manpower; casualties had taken their steady toll, making every commander’s headcount perilously low. With no hope of replacements, 26th RCT’s combat effectiveness was in bad shape. Barring a miracle, he told himself, we’ll be pulling back from this position very soon.

  Studying 3rd Battalion’s situation map, Jock pointed to a spot and asked, “Is your entire Item Company covering this area here?”

  “Yes, sir, they are.”

  “Hell, Colonel, a platoon with a machine gun could cover that gap. Pull Item Company from the line and have them do the counterattack. I’ll slide the boundary between you and First Battalion over so they can cover the hole.”

  Just then, an artillery round impacted near the CP, knocking everyone to the ground.

  When the dust settled, no one had been seriously hurt, but the CP’s radios were destroyed, torn apart by shell fragments.

  “I’ll see if I can scare up another radio for you,” Jock said as he headed for his jeep. “In the meantime, warm up your runners. I’ll need to know ASAP when you’ve taken back that ridge.”

  Outside the CP, he was surprised to come upon a Negro corporal huddled behind a pile of sandbags. “Potts, isn’t it?” Jock asked.

  He only had a handful of colored GIs in the RCT. Their names had stuck with him. Especially Potts, who was the only NCO among them and a man Patchett had classified a good troop.

  “Yes, sir. That’s me.”

  “What’re you doing just sitting out here, Corporal?”

  “I’m under arrest, sir.”

  “For what?”

  “Assault, sir. One of my peckerwood privates is pressing charges. Says I hit him.” With a forlorn laugh, he added, “Ain’t that some shit? We’re fighting for our lives here, and the colonel’s talking about putting my ass in Leavenworth. I got a whole damn squad of white boys that cut and run. Nobody’s talking about putting them in no stockade.”

  “Get in that jeep, Corporal,” Jock said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Back inside the CP, Jock asked Brand, “What’s the story with Corporal Potts? You’re bringing him up on charges?”

  “Damn right, sir. Bad enough we’ve got to live with these coons, but I’m not going to have them assaulting any of my boys. Fucking Truman and his integrate the services shit. The world’s going to hell, sir.”

  “It sure as hell is, Colonel, when my battalion commanders are taking combat-experienced men out of action in the heat of battle for what sounds like petty bullshit. I’ll tell you what…Corporal Potts is coming with me. Consider him transferred out of your battalion, effective immediately.”

  “But I’ll still be bringing him up on charges, sir.”

  “I’m afraid that’s in my hands now, Colonel. And in case I didn’t make myself clear before, I’d better hear by 0900 hours that you’ve taken back that ridge.”

  *****

  When Jock returned to his CP, Patchett told him, “Ain’t looking too good, sir. Bubba Moon did what he could, but we still got an armored force of unknown size sitting a mile to the east. He’s down to seven tanks now. The ammo convoy ain’t even left Taegu yet, so we ain’t gonna be seeing it any time soon. You still want to hold to the artillery shooting final protective fires only?”

  “Yeah, I do. The weather forecast change any?”

  “No, sir. Once this fog burns off, say about 1000 hours, we’re looking at solid overcast until late afternoon.”

  “Man, you’re the only ray of sunshine around these parts, aren’t you?”

  “I do what I can, sir. Third Battalion going to hold up?”

  “Could go either way, Top.”

  “Want me to go see what I can do to help out over there, sir?”

  “Yeah, and if you can dig up another Angry Nine, bring that with you. Their CP radio just got shot to hell.”

  “Will do, sir,” Patchett replied. Then he noticed Corporal Potts standing in a corner of the CP. “You lost, Corporal?”

  Potts explained how he’d come to be there.

  “Any witnesses to this assault?” Patchett asked.

  “Don’t think so, Sarge…unless they could still see with their heads up their asses.”

  *****

  Patchett dropped off the radio at 3rd Battalion’s CP and then drove his jeep to where Item Company was assembling for the counterattack on the ridge. Along the way, he came across several GIs wandering the trail. With one look, he knew what they were up to: These touch-holes are fucking off. They ain’t where they’re supposed to be, doing what they’re supposed to be doing. That’s for damn sure.

  He recognized one of them: PFC Redfield, the trooper who’d called him a nigger lover during that recon patrol a few nights back and the man who’d accused Potts of assault.

  “Climb in, son,” Patchett said. “You and me gonna have ourselves a little chat, one cracker to another.”

  He drove behind a thicket of trees where he was sure nobody could see them. Climbing from the jeep, he said, “C’mere, Private…I wanna show you something.”

  Once Redfield was standing before him, Patchett sent him to the ground with a punch so quick the private couldn’t even flinch in anticipation, let alone block it.


  As the stunned Redfield sat on the ground rubbing his aching jaw, Patchett said, “Ain’t no witnesses, you yellow-bellied dumbass. Your word against an NCO’s ain’t never gonna mean shit, irregardless of whether that NCO’s white, brown, blue, or purple. Now pick yourself up because you’re coming with me. I need me an RTO, and you just got yourself volunteered, boy.”

  When they reached Item Company’s assembly area, its commander, a green second lieutenant, was briefing his platoons on his plan to take back the ridge. He returned again and again to the combat principle behind his plan: the double envelopment.

  But to a combat-seasoned infantryman, his plan sounded like a debacle in the making.

  “Begging your pardon, Lieutenant,” Patchett said, “but maybe we’d be money ahead if we threw an element of surprise into this attack of yours.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” the lieutenant replied.

  “It’s simple, Lieutenant. Basically, you’re just planning to walk straight up that ridge like lambs to the slaughter. It don’t make no nevermind that you’re splitting your force so it sorta looks like a double envelopment because your zone of advance is too damn narrow. Y’all will look like just one lump of GIs coming at them, and they’ll eat y’all for second breakfast.”

  “You have a better idea, Sergeant?”

  “Yeah, I believe I do, Lieutenant. How about I take your lightest platoon around this ridge and come up the other side? They probably won’t be looking out for that. With any luck at all, we’ll send half of them to commie heaven before they even know what hit ’em. Then the rest of y’all can come charging up this side and maybe actually make it to the top. Now that’s a real double envelopment.”

  “But what if there are KPA all over the place on the other side of the ridge, Sergeant?”

  “This fog’s pretty damn thick in the low-lying areas, Lieutenant. We could probably walk right past ’em and nobody’d be the wiser.”

  Patchett read the lieutenant’s face. He could tell the man didn’t like being shown up by an NCO. But on the other hand, that NCO’s plan was suddenly sounding a hell of a lot better than the one he’d been forced to concoct on the spur of the moment.