Combat Ineffective

by William Peter Grasso

  Sean leaned forward in the turret hatch, unfazed and relaxed as he rested his forearms on the hatch ring. He’d seen men go crazy in combat before, so afraid of dying that their fevered minds lost all grasp on reality.

  But this guy’s redeemable, he told himself. As long as they’re talking—even if it’s total bullshit—you can bring ’em back to their senses.

  It’s once they clam up and start that fucking staring into the distance—that thousand-yard stare shit—then he’s fucked up for life.

  “C’mon, pal,” Sean said, “why don’t you get into this nice safe tank and we’ll get you outta here.”

  “Safe, my ass,” the GI said, his eyes wild. “Don’t bullshit me. That ain’t nothing but a rolling coffin.”

  Sean tried a different approach. “You know, you must be a real lucky son of a bitch. You must’ve been walking around while all that artillery was coming down, and you didn’t get a scratch, did you? Me and my crew could sure use some of that luck rubbing off on us right about now.”

  The GI looked at Sean as if he didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “But everybody’s luck gotta run out sometime, pal…and that artillery just might be coming back this way, so I think you better climb aboard. We’re gonna drive up to you real slow and—”

  The GI leveled his M1 and fired again. This shot didn’t do any harm, either, bouncing off the glacis plate next to the driver’s viewing port.

  “This guy’s getting on my nerves, Sarge,” the driver said as he slammed his hatch closed.

  “Take it easy,” Sean replied. “That pissant M1 ain’t gonna hurt you or this vehicle none.”

  The GI stood defiantly in the middle of the road, rifle at the ready, a sentry guarding nothing but his own madness.

  “C’mon now, pal…nice and easy…climb up her nose and—”

  Sean sensed the shell coming. There was nothing to hear when you were on the receiving end; the round traveled faster than the swoosh it made as it streaked through the air. He’d felt it too many times before, that feeling in the split second before impact that something was suddenly amiss in the universe.

  He ducked into the turret.

  There was no telling which side had fired the round. It impacted close to the bow of the Sherman, the shock wave of its explosion making her shudder. Shell fragments clattered against her hull like brief but vicious steel rain.

  When Sean peered out of the turret again, the raving GI had been erased from the face of the earth.

  Slamming his hatch closed, he told his crew, “Stay buttoned up and let’s get through this pass lickety-split, before any more of that shit comes down.”

  As they roared ahead, he mumbled, “Well, that poor bastard got his wish, anyway. He’s out of the fucking Army now.”

  *****

  The FPF lasted only a few minutes, but to the GIs of 26th RCT, it seemed so much longer. When the explosions of the impacting rounds finally ended, there was no silence. Instead, there were the sounds of officers and NCOs bellowing orders to control their rapid withdrawal; the injured wailing for their mothers, the medics, or God to save them; the disappointing snarl of aircraft, undoubtedly American but invisible and impotent above the solid overcast.

  There’d be no formal account of the GI casualties from the FPF for now; there was too much else to do to ensure this tactical withdrawal didn’t devolve into a rout. At least it had accomplished its intended purpose; the only KPA troops still in the American position were dead. Now the GIs had a few precious, uncontested minutes to clear the hill and retreat down the highway toward Pusan.

  Jock had mandated they’d take their dead with them. Everywhere he looked, he could see the bodies of his GIs, hastily shrouded in ground sheets, being loaded into utility trailers. Each dead man was another knife to his heart, another marker in the cemetery of his mind at which to mourn the rest of his life. There would always be that question: Were their deaths inevitable or unnecessary? Could I have done something better—something different than the FPF—to save them?

  Many would offer their opinions in the days and weeks to come, for senior officers were experts at dispensing blame. They weren’t burdened by the need to be correct, only decisive. Jock knew there’d never be an objective answer to his question.

  But right now, he’d swear on his children that there was nothing else he could’ve done but rain friendly fire down on his own position.

  *****

  Sean’s six tanks met up with 26th RCT’s retreating column a few miles down the highway. The gas truck he’d asked for was nowhere to be seen.

  “It’s empty, Bubba,” Patchett told him. “They all are. Wasn’t enough to go around as it is.”

  “So when are we gonna get more, Top?”

  “There’s supposed to be a refuel point down the highway at Kumsan.”

  “Shit,” Sean replied, “that’s almost twenty miles from here. The tanks’ll never make it. They’re practically dry already.”

  “Then you’re gonna have to abandon ’em all and put ’em to the torch with thermite, Bubba.”

  “Yeah, but I got a better idea. Colonel Miles wants us covering the ass end of this column, right?”

  “Affirmative,” Patchett replied.

  “Good. Then we can sit here for a while and pump out the driest Chaffees. That should give us enough to get the Sherman and one or two Chaffees to Kumsan. We’ll torch the rest.”

  Patchett nodded. “Sounds like a plan. You got a big-ass hand pump to transfer that fuel?”

  “Sure do, Top. How do you think we get the shit outta fifty-five-gallon drums?”

  Laughing, Patchett replied, “From what I seen, a buncha big bubbas like you just manhandle the drums onto the deck and dump ’em right into the fueling port.”

  “You gotta be pretty fucking desperate to do it that way, Top…or pretty fucking unprepared. Besides, if you gas up like that, I guaran-damn-tee you you’ll end up with a fire on your deck before you know it.”

  “So that’s your plan? Rob Peter to pay Paul?”

  “Damn right, Top. You do want at least a coupla tank guns covering your ass, don’t you?”

  Patting him on the back, Patchett replied, “I like the way you think, Bubba. You’re pretty damn clever for a tanker…and a Yankee.”

  *****

  Jock would be the last man off the hill. He needed to be sure his RCT was leaving nothing—and no one—behind.

  Checking 3rd Battalion’s sector with one of its staff officers, a glimmering object attracted his attention. It was hanging on a tree which had been denuded of leaves and scarred by shellfire. As he walked closer, he recognized what it was: a GI’s dog tag.

  Stepping forward to grab it, his bad leg betrayed him and he fell flat on his face. As he went down, a bullet smacked into the tree trunk behind him.

  Had he still been standing, that bullet would’ve struck him in the chest.

  Struggling to his knees, he reached up and snatched the dog tag. Then he and the staff officer—a captain—stumbled to the cover of the backslope.

  “You must be clairvoyant, sir,” the captain said. “If you’d been standing, that sniper would’ve taken you out.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Jock replied. “But believe me, Captain, clairvoyance had nothing to do with it.”

  Making his way back to his jeep, Jock thought, And all these years, I’ve been cursing this damn leg…

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  For almost two weeks, 26th RCT conducted a fighting withdrawal along the sixty miles of highway to Pusan, protecting the western flank of the retreating 8th Army. The weather had been mercifully good, allowing air support to inflict considerable punishment on KPA forces during daylight hours. But at night, the GIs were forced to survive on nothing but their wits.

  Far too many didn’t.

  On the morning of 1 August 1950, the retreat of the 26th ended as they crossed the Naktong River and entered what was now called the Pusan Perimeter. It was a rectangle of te
rritory measuring one hundred miles by fifty miles, with its back to the sea in the southeast corner of the Korean peninsula. Three US divisions and four ROK divisions—all battered and badly understrength—occupied the perimeter along with the fresh 1st Provisional Brigade of the US Marine Corps. These units comprised the sum total of 8th US Army forces in Korea.

  “Welcome to the Pusan Perimeter, gentlemen,” General Walker had told Jock Miles and his regimental cadre soon after crossing the Naktong. “The Eighth Army, along with its ROK allies, is now well consolidated within this perimeter and powerfully massed to repel the enemy. Very soon, more United Nations forces will be joining us. This is where we’ll begin the annihilation of these North Korean savages. The Naktong will be the last river you’ll ever have to fall back across, I can promise you.”

  Patchett howled with laughter when told of the general’s bravado. “I guess the general’s finally took hisself a look at a map. We done run out of rivers to fall back across. Next time our feet get wet, we’ll be swimming in the Sea of Japan.”

  “By the way,” Jock told his assembled commanders and staff, “we’re no longer Twenty-Sixty Regimental Combat Team. That designation is hereby retired. We are once again the Twenty-Sixth Infantry Regiment, one of three regiments comprising the resurrected Twenty-Fourth Infantry Division.”

  “Resurrected, sir?” Sean Moon asked. “You mean they’re coming back from the dead?”

  “More or less, Sergeant. The MPs have been real busy rounding up all the stragglers from Seventeenth and Thirty-Third Regiments.”

  “Stragglers, sir?” Sean said. “Ain’t deserters a more accurate term?”

  “Let’s just say that a lot of sins are being absolved for the sake of making headcounts look good, Sergeant. But let’s not kid ourselves. This regiment—this entire division—took a serious beating. The Twenty-Sixth’s manpower is only slightly better than fifty percent of authorized strength, yet we’re the strongest regiment. If you put every outfit in this so-called division together, you’d end up with the manpower of one real flush regiment.”

  Patchett said, “Well, sir, that’s what happens when a buncha starry-eyed generals believe their own bullshit. They throw route-step rookies into combat against an enemy they’re underestimating real bad, and them rookies get their asses handed to ’em. But it ain’t nothing we ain’t seen before.”

  When the murmur of agreement died down, Jock continued, “Until replacements start arriving from the States, we’ll be getting a lot of KATUSA to augment our numbers. I don’t have exact figures yet, but I expect every platoon will get half a dozen or so. The first group arrives today. Sergeant Patchett, you’re to see that they’re distributed to the battalions as necessary.”

  “Will do, sir,” Patchett replied.

  Major Appling, 1st Battalion commander, asked, “What about those UN forces General Walker was talking about, sir?”

  “All I know about them is that they’re on the way. Don’t have an exact arrival date yet, but it’s supposed to be within a few weeks. Looks like they’ll function as intact battalions, not replacement personnel, and be assigned to existing US regiments. The biggest numbers will be coming from Great Britain and the Commonwealth.”

  As the meeting broke up, Colonel Brand asked Jock, “A word in private, if I may, sir?”

  “Sure. What’s on your mind, Colonel?”

  “I request that my battalion doesn’t get assigned any of those KATUSA gooks, sir.”

  Jock regarded him coolly for a moment. Then he replied, “Colonel, you’ll get whatever your commander decides, is that clear?”

  *****

  Jock drove the three miles to Division HQ to inform his commander, the newly promoted Brigadier General Healy, that he was relieving Lieutenant Colonel Brand as 3rd Battalion commander, effective immediately. But he didn’t expect he’d be announcing it with General Walker in attendance, as well.

  “Are you sure that’s what you want to do, Colonel?” Healy asked when Jock delivered the news.

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  General Walker looked up from the folders he was thumbing through and said, “You realize what that’ll do to his career, don’t you, Miles? Being relieved of a combat command is a stain you can never wash out.”

  “I care more that my men have effective leadership, General. They deserve it, and that’s more important than any one officer’s career.”

  “I see,” Walker replied. “Well, this is General Healy’s show, so I’ll stay out of it.”

  Healy asked, “How do you propose to replace him, Miles?”

  “The battalion’s XO, Major Hopkins, is more than ready to assume command, sir.”

  “Wouldn’t a lieutenant colonel be more befitting to lead a battalion, Miles? We certainly have enough of them floating around here. I don’t have any privates, dammit, but I’ve got more light colonels than I know what to do with.”

  “To be honest, sir, I’d put a captain—or even a lieutenant—in charge if he knew how to properly lead a combat unit. My other two battalions are commanded by majors, and I have no complaints with either of them. They’ve done excellent jobs in some pretty terrible circumstances.”

  Healy asked, “So what am I supposed to do with Colonel Brand?”

  “I’m sure he’ll make someone else an able staff officer, sir. But he’s just not an effective combat leader. His decision-making skills leave a lot to be desired. I want him gone.”

  Healy wasn’t happy about it, but he said, “Well, then...so be it, Colonel Miles. I’ll have my adjutant cut orders immediately.”

  Then General Walker added, “Have Brand assigned to my headquarters. I know the man—he’s worked for me before. I’ll make good use of him.”

  Jock tried not to smile. Not only was he getting rid of Brand, but now he understood the basis of the man’s uncooperative attitude, too: He’s in Johnnie Walker’s pocket. No wonder that surly son of a bitch thought he could make his own rules.

  Walker wasn’t finished. “Your problems with Brand wouldn’t have anything to do with that Negro trooper of yours who assaulted a white man, would it? I’m told you let him off the hook.”

  Damn, word travels fast, Jock thought. I wish my supply requests moved up the chain as quickly as political bullshit does.

  Jock replied, “I prefer to think I put the issue into proper context, sir, and dealt with it accordingly.”

  “Well, just remember, Colonel, that even though the official Army policy is one of integration in the ranks, we can’t let these darkies think they can do whatever the hell they please, like they’re back in Harlem or one of their other shitholes. That would be terrible for morale, don’t you think? This isn’t the first bit of racial trouble that’s flared up in Eighth Army. Rest assured I’ll be doing something about it very damn soon.”

  Then General Walker went back to studying the reports.

  Healy asked, “Anything else you need to discuss, Colonel Miles?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then you’re dismissed.”

  Jock was just about to walk through the door when General Walker called him back. “Speaking of morale, Miles, how’s yours?”

  “I’m holding up just fine, sir.”

  “That’s good, because I’ve got to ask you, do you think your wife is happy with Army life?”

  The question stunned him. It’d been only three weeks since he’d left Jillian and the children to return to Korea. That wasn’t even enough time to receive a letter from her. Whatever Walker was alluding to, he had no idea.

  “General,” he replied, “my wife has survived more combat than most of the soldiers in your Army and came back stronger each time. I don’t think her morale will ever be an issue.”

  “I certainly hope you’re right, Colonel,” Walker replied. But he sounded decidedly skeptical.

  After Jock was gone, Walker pulled a folder from the pile he’d been perusing and placed it on the desk in front of Healy. It was Jock’s personnel file.


  Flipping the file open, Walker tapped a buck slip fastened to it with his fingertip. Written on the slip were the words: DO NOT PROMOTE THIS OFFICER.

  “This comes from the man in Tokyo himself,” Walker said. “Consider it gospel.”

  Then he added, “Now let me fill you in on this big thing MacArthur’s got planned. But remember, this is top secret.”

  *****

  During the entire drive back to 26th Regiment, Jock’s head was filled with speculation about why General Walker had brought up his wife, a woman the general didn't even know. But MacArthur knew her, and Jock had no doubt the king of Japan hadn’t forgotten the contentious dealings he’d had with both Jock and Jillian in the last war. They’d rejoiced when circumstance finally got them out from under the general’s thumb. But now they were beneath it again and nothing had changed: MacArthur still considered himself a god—a vindictive one, at that—and Jillian didn’t suffer fools easily. Especially fools in Army green.

  Stepping into his CP brought Jock back to tangible matters quickly. Patchett had a laundry list of things on which to update him. “First off, sir, I see you succeeded in firing Colonel Brand. His new orders beat you here by a couple minutes.”

  “Where is he now, Top?”

  “Gone. Didn’t waste no time. He’s headed to Pusan…on one of them newfangled helicopters, yet. Major Hopkins done took over Third Battalion already.”

  “Outstanding. What else?”

  “I need to fill you in on a little racket I just busted up, sir. Seems some GIs took it upon themselves to employ KATUSA for their personal use. I found a bunch I’d assigned as ammo bearers digging holes instead. These GIs were paying the gooks a buck apiece to dig their fighting holes for ’em. Had to put a stop to that bullshit right quick.”