Combat Ineffective

by William Peter Grasso

  And if it goes to shit, the lieutenant told himself, I’ve got somebody else to blame for it.

  “All right,” he told Patchett, “take Second Platoon. It’s got no officer, just sergeants, so there won’t be any leadership conflicts.”

  “What happened to their platoon leader, Lieutenant?”

  “He bought it a couple of days ago, Sergeant.”

  *****

  It took Patchett and 2nd Platoon fifteen minutes to walk to the other side of the ridge. They saw no one except each other. “Just remember,” he told the three squad leaders, “when we get to the top, y’all go on line and just start walking straight across it. Shoot every sumbitch you see that’s in front of you.”

  Then they began the climb to the peak, a long, thin column with Patchett at its head. He turned to Redfield, who was right behind him carrying the backpack radio, and said, “Don’t you dare get separated from me in this fog, boy. Hang on to my belt if you need to. We gotta tell the rest of the company to start coming at just the right moment so the gooks don’t get no chance to recover.”

  Halfway up, they could see the silhouettes of men coming down the slope toward them. There were five of them, and they weren’t making a sound. On their heads were the unmistakable shapes of GI helmets.

  Redfield whispered, “They’re GIs! They must’ve taken the hill already.”

  Patchett muttered, “Bullshit.” He leveled his carbine at them and fired off two quick bursts on full automatic. Every one of the approaching men was taken down.

  “Shit, Sarge, what’d you do that for? They were…”

  Redfield couldn’t finish the sentence. The shock of what he’d just seen made the words catch in his throat.

  “Keep your fucking voice down,” Patchett hissed. “Get on that radio and tell the lieutenant to start moving.”

  When Redfield didn’t immediately do what he’d been told, Patchett added, “I mean right fucking now, boy. Or don’t you understand English no more?”

  As each squad emerged in turn out of the mist, Patchett pointed them to their attack position.

  “Now move quick, dammit,” he told each squad leader. “Don’t give them gooks a chance to figure out what all just happened.”

  He pulled Redfield to his feet and together they resumed the climb. It was only a matter of yards before they came upon the men who’d just been shot dead. Viewed up close, their uniforms were obviously KPA.

  Redfield stared at the bodies with disbelief. He’d been so sure they were GIs.

  The helmets. The fucking helmets.

  Beside each corpse was an American Thompson submachine gun, too.

  Redfield steadied himself against a tree. This was all too much for him, as if he’d been thrust into a new game with rules he didn’t understand. Patchett grabbed him and began pulling him up the hill.

  But Redfield had one question that couldn’t wait: “How’d you know, Sarge? I mean…they didn’t…I couldn’t…”

  “It’s simple, son. Them Thompsons…they got a shape like nothing else. And you ain’t never seen that many GIs all carrying ’em at once, have you? The only way these KPA gooks got ’em is they picked ’em up after some ROKs dropped ’em, because there sure as hell ain’t no ROKs around here.”

  “But the helmets, Sarge…”

  “Fuck the helmets. Steel pots are laying around all over this fucking country. Ain’t no big thing to scoop one up.”

  There were a few crazy seconds of continuous gunfire. Then it stopped; 2nd Platoon could find no more Koreans to shoot. They milled around the twin 40-millimeter gun carriage still parked there. The bodies of two KPA soldiers were slumped across the weapon, as if they’d died in a futile attempt to fire it.

  Second Platoon had suffered just two casualties of their own. Neither wound looked to be life-threatening.

  Patchett warned the GIs, “Y’all best find some cover now so your buddies coming up the other side don’t shoot your asses.”

  A minute later, the rest of Item Company came charging up the slope from the opposite direction, firing at any shadow that even vaguely resembled a human form.

  It took a few moments of frantic beseeching by the GIs of 2nd Platoon to get them to stop.

  When they counted the KPA bodies on the ridge, it came to fourteen, including the five Patchett had shot on the slope.

  “Well, Lieutenant,” Patchett said, “we sure had them gooks outnumbered. Good work. Are you gonna consolidate your position up here now?”

  “Yeah, Sergeant. That’s the plan.”

  “Okay, then…I’m headed back to Regiment. I’ll see what I can do about rounding you boys up some more ammo for that forty millimeter over yonder.”

  Although it was combat on just a small scale, retaking that ridge was the first victory over the KPA any of the GIs had ever seen.

  But it wouldn’t change the big picture.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The fog cleared at 1000 hours, as if on cue. But there’d still be no air support; the solid overcast was so low that those at 26th RCT’s hilltop CP swore they could reach up and touch it. From that hilltop, there was now enough visibility to look across several miles of surrounding terrain. The view wasn’t comforting. In Patchett’s words, “I think I liked it a whole lot better when we couldn’t see what-all we were up against. There are just too damn many of ’em, sir.”

  “If only this sky would clear,” Jock said. “The Air Force could do us a world of good right now. Look at how bunched up the gooks are in those assembly areas. A couple of napalm runs would thin them out real good.”

  “They know the score, sir,” Patchett replied. “Ain’t no secret we ain’t getting no air support. And the fact that our artillery ain’t shooting…they gotta know we’re low on rounds. Those fucking ammo drivers must’ve gotten themselves good and lost. So the plan is we’re still not shooting them guns until you call for final protective fires?”

  “Affirmative, Top. Not until they get close, real close…so it’ll give us a fighting chance to pull out of here with as few casualties as possible.”

  “Let’s damn sure hope so, sir.”

  Jock was busy scanning the forces arrayed against him through binoculars. “Sergeant Moon was right about that notch between The Twins,” he said. “The gooks cleared that roadblock he made. Look, Top…there’s a column of tanks coming through right now.”

  “Yeah,” Patchett replied, “but there ain’t that many over that way, sir. Six at most, I reckon. All the rest of their armor is still to the east, smack dab in front of Bubba Moon. That boy got a real taste for shit, don’t he?”

  *****

  Sean’s seven tanks—six Chaffees and the Sherman he rode—were tucked behind a railroad embankment just one mile beyond 26th RCT’s perimeter. As hull-down positions went, this one was a gift, the best Sean had found since coming to Korea.

  But we’re still outgunned, he knew, and there ain’t anywhere near enough of us.

  Best we’re gonna do is stall ’em a little bit more.

  *****

  It all went to hell very quickly. Just before 1100 hours, the North Korean artillery—which had been hurling rounds for the last thirty minutes uninterrupted by American counter-battery fire—stopped shooting. To the sound of shrill whistles, their infantry assault on the hills began.

  Colonel Brand’s 3rd Battalion collapsed first. The flanking ridge Patchett had reclaimed just two hours ago was the first piece of the regiment’s high ground to be taken by the KPA. Worse, the ammunition Patchett had scared up for the twin 40s had arrived just a few moments before the assault began. There wasn’t even time to unbox it before it fell into Korean hands. Within minutes, the M19 was being deployed against other American positions with devastating results. It hadn’t taken the KPA troopers long to figure out how to use it.

  At the regiment’s CP, a tease of hopeful news spilled from the radio: the Air Force reported they were in the air, gambling that breaks in the cloud cover would develop, al
lowing strikes against the KPA onslaught. The fighter-bombers would arrive overhead in twenty-five minutes.

  “They’re loaded with napalm, sir, just as you requested,” the radioman told Jock.

  “Twenty-five minutes will be too damn late, sir,” Patchett said.

  “Dammit, Top…tell me something I don’t already know.”

  Then, like a poker player asking for his final card, Jock said, “Shoot the FPF.”

  The radioman had more news. “Eighth Army’s on the horn, sir. They’re asking what your situation is.”

  “Tell them I’m shooting my final protective fires. That’s my fucking situation.”

  Suddenly there was too much to do and too many questions demanding answers. Within the next minute, men throughout the regiment would be burrowing deep into the ground, praying they wouldn’t be killed by the friendly artillery that was about to protect them by landing on their heads.

  And hopefully, that same artillery fire would sweep the KPA from the hills just long enough for the GIs to make their escape.

  Patchett asked, “Which withdrawal plan are we gonna use, sir?”

  “Able,” Jock replied. “We’ll be using Plan Able. The XO will lead.”

  A staff officer said, “But the XO is down with First Battalion, sir.”

  “That’s all right. It doesn’t matter where Colonel Lewis’ ass is at the moment, as long as it’s under cover.”

  Turning to Patchett, he said, “Go ahead and execute Plan Able, Top.”

  The radioman again: “Adonis Six wants to talk to you, sir. Immediately.”

  Adonis Six: the call sign for General Walker, 8th Army commander.

  “Tell him we’re too fucking busy.”

  The radioman looked like he was about to be sick. “I can’t…I can’t tell him that, sir.”

  “Then just tell him to wait, Corporal.”

  Once all three battalions had acknowledged Plan Able, Jock made his way to the radio. He recognized the voice; he was surprised it was General Walker himself.

  “I need you to hold your position, Montana,” the general said.

  “No longer possible, Adonis.”

  “I can’t make myself any clearer, Montana. I need you to hold.”

  “I know you do, Adonis. I’m sorry. Montana Six, out.”

  He put the microphone down and returned to the daunting task of conducting a withdrawal while in contact with the enemy. As soon as the final protective fires were lifted, the men lucky enough to have survived them would execute Plan Able, the ceremonious name for their great bug-out south to Pusan.

  *****

  Sean got the word that Plan Able was in effect just a little too late. They were already engaging the lead elements of the KPA armor.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said, “they couldn’t have told me that a minute ago, so we coulda just turned around and gotten the hell outta here? Now we gotta disengage somehow without getting our asses roasted.”

  But he had a plan.

  He radioed the tank on his company’s right flank. “Blue Two-Four, take out that bridge to your right.”

  “I’ve got to move to do it, Sarge. Got no line of sight. This embankment’s in the way.”

  “Then go ahead and move, dammit,” Sean replied.

  Then he told the tank on their left flank, “Blue Three-Two, start leading the column back to the highway, but take out that bridge way out to our left while you’re at it.”

  “Shit, Sarge,” Blue Three-Two replied, “that bridge is a mile away.”

  “It’s nine hundred yards, give or take. Well within range. Start moving and shooting.”

  Sean’s gunner was confused. He asked, “What’s the big idea, Sarge? Shouldn’t we be shooting tanks instead of bridges? Better yet, shouldn’t we just be getting the hell out of here?”

  “Getting the hell outta here is exactly what we’re doing, pal. And as long as we got that railroad embankment between us and the gooks, we’re bad targets. To get a clean shot at us, they gotta get across that fucking muck, and they need the bridges to do that. If we can shoot those two out, they gotta go all the way into Taejon to cross it.”

  Blue Two-Four took its bridge out in five shots.

  Blue Three-Two took eight shots to collapse its bridge. At its greater range, two of the rounds had missed completely.

  By the time they were finished, the rest of Baker Company was rolling behind the embankment, headed to join the rest of 26th RCT on the highway going south.

  “How’s our gas?” Sean asked his driver.

  “Down to a quarter of a tank, Sarge.”

  If his Sherman was down that low on fuel, the Chaffees were in even worse shape.

  If we can’t beg, borrow, or steal some gas real soon, we all just joined the fucking infantry. Damn shame, too…we still got about half our ammo load.

  While the railroad embankment provided excellent cover for the hulls of Sean’s tanks, their turrets were still exposed. That’s why Sean had insisted that while they were traveling parallel to the Korean tanks, they keep their turrets pointed at them—perpendicular to their direction of travel—even though they no longer had plans to stop and shoot.

  “We show ’em our turrets’ thickest armor that way,” he explained.

  Heavy machine gun fire frequently bounced off the turrets as they moved to the highway. But if a T-34’s main gun had fired a shot at any of them, it had missed by a wide margin.

  “Hey, take a look at this,” Sean said. “One of their tanks is trying to ford the stream.”

  None of his crew took him up on sticking their heads out and seeing it for themselves, preferring Sean’s commentary from the turret’s cupola to a head wound.

  “Whoops, she didn’t get far,” Sean reported. “She’s stuck. Them tracks are just spinning, throwing mud like a fire hose.”

  They were almost to the highway now. Sean could see smoke from the impacts of the final protective fires ahead.

  Then he saw something he hadn’t figured on: KPA infantry running toward them.

  A Chaffee commander’s frantic voice was on the radio, asking, “Should we engage them?”

  “Hell, yeah,” Sean replied. “Knock ’em down.”

  Within seconds, the lead Chaffees were raking the KPA soldiers with their bow machine guns.

  Then the Koreans surprised him again. In small groups, they turned and began swarming the American tanks. Each group seemed to have a specific vehicle picked out.

  “These clowns ain’t too scared of tanks, are they?” Sean said as the KPA troopers tried to clamber onto their decks.

  “Dust ’em off, boys,” he ordered. “Traverse your turrets as necessary. Forget the T-34s for now.”

  The nerve-racking clatter of bullets bouncing off their hulls and turrets began as the tanks defended one another. Those that weren’t at the ends of the column were cleared of KPA sappers in seconds.

  Those at the ends, though—Blue Two-Four and Three-Two—had a problem Sean was well aware of:

  Them gook bastards on those tanks are only getting shot at from one direction. They can hide behind the turret and there’s nothing you can do about it, unless…

  “Two-Four and Three-Two, spin your damn turrets all the way around, right fucking now,” Sean said over the radio. “Knock ’em off you with the tube.”

  Three-Two succeeded in doing just that. Once the two sappers were swept off her foredeck, the tank behind her gunned them down.

  Two-Four wasn’t so lucky. Her crew hesitated to traverse the turret. It gave the three sappers on her aft deck an extra moment to stuff grenades down her engine vents. By the time the tube pivoted around to sweep them away, they were gone, fleeing toward the stream and the Korean tanks.

  Two-Four’s engine faltered, damaged by the grenades. Then she burst into flame.

  Her crew abandoned her and scurried to crowd into other tanks.

  Sean’s Baker Company was down to six tanks—five Chaffees and his Sherman.

  When t
hey’d left Yongdong yesterday, they’d numbered fourteen.

  *****

  As they approached the pass just east of 26th RCT’s position, the final protective fires began to fall right in front of Sean’s tanks. “Hold here,” he told his crews. “The FPF is sweeping the whole area. It’ll move away in a couple of seconds. When it does, blast right through to the highway.”

  Just like he said, the fires quickly shifted west. The tanks began to plow through the pass.

  Sean’s Sherman was at the rear of the column, its main gun facing aft in case any T-34s tried to overtake them. Better a Sherman’s gun than a Chaffee’s, he thought. Neither one’s gonna kill ’em with a head-on shot, but a Sherman will at least give ’em a bigger headache.

  The others had cleared the pass now. As the Sherman started through, the driver said, “Hey, Sarge, get a load of this.”

  There was a lone GI standing in the middle of the road. He was pointing his M1 at the Sherman.

  The driver asked, “What do you want me to do, Sarge? Go around him? Knock him down?”

  “No. Just stop when we’re close enough so I can yell at him.”

  When they’d closed the distance to about two hundred feet, the GI fired a shot from his M1. It pinged harmlessly off the turret.

  “Whadda you wanna do that for, pal?” Sean said. “We’re on the same fucking side here.”

  But the GI was pacing frenetically in a small circle, ranting words Sean couldn’t hear. Alternately, he’d point his rifle at the tank and then pump it back and forth across his upper body, as if performing a crazed and repetitious close order drill between the positions of port arms and right shoulder arms.

  “Get a little closer,” Sean told his driver.

  The Sherman creaked to about one hundred feet from the raving GI. Now Sean could make out what he was saying:

  “FUCK ALL THESE GOOKS. I AIN’T DYING FOR THEM. I AIN’T DYING FOR NOBODY, SO FUCK MACARTHUR AND FUCK TRUMAN, BECAUSE I’M GETTING OUTTA THIS STUPID GODDAMN WAR AND THIS FUCKED-UP ARMY, TOO. IF I GOTTA WALK ALL THE WAY HOME, I’M GONNA DO IT. IF ANYONE TRIES TO STOP ME, I’LL SHOOT THEM DEAD.”