I feel like I’m in the middle of a manure tornado, Jeremiah thought glumly, looking to his left over the M18’s side. Unlike American tanks, the Hellcat’s commander and gunner sat to the left of the vehicle’s 76mm gun, its loader on the right. While it made feeding the main gun difficult, Jeremiah had to admit he liked sitting on the same side of the vehicle’s turret as he had while driving his father’s fruit truck back home.
Although I’m pretty sure if I drove this into town back home people would be…upset. Before he could continue that thought, the sound of piston engines brought his eyes upward, and he saw four dots rushing down from the north.
Oh my word, he thought for a brief second, his hand tightening on the butterfly grips of the Hellcat’s .50-caliber machine gun. As the shapes grew closer, he immediately relaxed at their familiar gull-shaped wings, then shook his head grimly as he noted the trail fighter was streaming thin smoke behind it.
“Oh shit!” his loader, Specialist Washington, shouted and grabbed his arm. He snapped his gaze down just in time to see the ox cart enter the road from a hidden entrance off to his left.
“Schiller, right!” he shouted into the intercom, gripping the turret edge as the poor farmer, farmer’s wife, and five children riding on the cart’s back all looked at their onrushing doom. Private First Class Schiller, Dotty III’s driver, and his assistant, Private Downs, both worked the controls to throw the nimble M18 into a hard right turn. Unfortunately, the raised road they were on was not used to that sort of abuse from pivoting tracks, and Jeremiah felt it start to crumble under the tank destroyer’s weight. Washington, lacking a platform, tumbled down onto the turret’s floor with a surprised cry.
Hold on, dammit, hold on! Jeremiah thought, hearing the right track threatening to slip off its sprockets. With several audible pops the tread remained where it was supposed to, and Jackson turned around to make sure the next Hellcat in line saw the farmer. To his relief, D32’s commander was on the ball, his evasion far less violent than that of his company commander’s.
Those poor bastards, Jeremiah thought, turning to give the man a wave. The ROKs had managed to start gaining control of their refugees compared to even a few short days before, but the clog of humanity streaming out of Osan had still considerably slowed the Americans’ movement north. Jeremiah couldn’t help but be sympathetic and understanding of the people’s fear and anguish as the Communists struck south.
Like a damn Klan convention rolling down the road towards a town of Freedmen, he thought. As the son of dirt poor Alabama sharecroppers, Jeremiah knew exactly what his fellow man was capable of. Burying his lynched uncle in a closed casket, the sickly sweet smell of burned flesh filling the church, had been his first introduction to man’s inhumanity to man. Being a platoon leader during the final weeks of the Battle of Tokyo had just further cemented it.
“Sir!” Washington, shouted, slapping his arm. He looked to where the man was pointing, squinted his eyes, and saw nothing.
“I saw a tank!” Washington said, his eyes wide. “Just crossing that ridge over yonder.”
Jeremiah checked his map. The sound of artillery opening off somewhere to his right, followed by an eruption of small arms, bazookas, and the crack of several tank main guns told him more than his loader’s warning did.
Looks like the North Koreans got out of Suwon quicker than Lieutenant Colonel Kraven thought they would, Jeremiah thought grimly.
“Schiller, there’s a railroad cut fifty yards in front of us! Take it and find us a hull down, now!”
“Yes sir!”
As Dotty III made the turn, Jeremiah quickly whipped his binoculars up. With the diesel suddenly quieted, the sounds of warfare were much louder. He estimated that the fighting was just on the other side of the low rise roughly five hundred yards in front of him. Jeremiah watched as mortar rounds began impacting on that ridge and instinctively knew that’s where the friendly infantry they were supposed to be linking up with had been.
“Demons, we have armor to our front,” he said after switching the microphone to radio. There was nothing but static.
Of all the times to have problems, he thought angrily, looking over at the device. It was half out of its mount, clearly thrown off in the hard turn.
“Washington, fix the radio!” he snapped. Looking over Dotty III’s rear, he saw that his 3rd Platoon was already deploying towards a nearby hill, the lighter M18s fighting their way up towards the top. His 2nd Platoon was just starting to round the ox cart, the farmer having somehow managed to overturn the vehicle while cutting across to a paddy trail. Inexplicably, D24 had stopped, its crew starting to dismount to help the South Korean family.
Should have let 1st Platoon lead! he chastised himself. Ignorant officers or not! Major Klein’s hurried briefing as the Demons left Osan hadn’t given Jeremiah much confidence in 1/24 IN’s leadership. Which was the reason why the Demons had changed their usual march order from 1-2-3 to 3-2-1. His 1st Platoon Leader, 2nd Lieutenant Collins, was a mouthy college kid from Chicago. It hadn’t struck Jeremiah as a good idea to bring him into contact with some racist wearing oak leaves.
“Wash, what’s in the breech?!” Sergeant Mullock, his gunner asked.
“HVAP!” Washington replied, referring to the High Velocity, Armor Piercing rounds that were the M18s primary tank killer. Jeremiah looked at the five ready rounds next to the gun.
Here’s hoping we can shoot straight, he thought. Also, that the intelligence idiots are right about them working against the North Korean tanks. One advantage the M18s had over their armored brethren had been their ability to cross most of Japan’s remaining bridges and thus find areas to train in. The 758th’s former battalion commander had been a stickler about gunnery, even in the resource-strapped Truman years. Jeremiah had taken the man’s teachings about training to heart, even as his men had grown dismayed at their fellows slowly rotating home.
All that time away from the whorehouses is about to pay off, I hope, Jeremiah thought. Even if the men thought I was just making sure if I wasn’t getting laid, neither were they. His eyes briefly turned towards the picture taped on the front of his ring mount.
Dorothy, I’ll see you soon I hope.
“Sir, I don’t see a thing!” Sergeant Mullock stated, scanning to their front.
“Four tanks came over a hill and then down into a valley,” Jeremiah responded. “They’re going to be coming at our eleven…”
An artillery piece opening fire to his left front interrupted Jeremiah. Whatever it was shooting at was just behind the slight rise roughly six hundred yards to their front, just below the ridgeline. The shot was a hit, however, as the artillery shell ricocheted up towards the heavy clouds that seemed to be reaching ever lower above them.
Well clearly that wasn’t effective, Jeremiah had time to think. Then suddenly a dark green tank, red star prominent on its prow, was hauling over the hill. The vehicle’s turret was traversing right towards the offending artillery piece, and the tank stopped suddenly.
“Tank!” Jeremiah barked.
“Identified!” Mullock replied.
The North Korean vehicle’s 85mm gun belched fire towards the artillery position.
Well at least that confirms he’s hostile!
“Fire!”
“On the way!”
The 76mm gun had originally been designed to equip the ubiquitous M4 Shermans fighting across Europe. The M18, the bastard child of the tank destroyer corps, was at best half the Sherman’s weight, and Dotty III rocked backwards like a toy truck nudged by a clumsy St. Bernard. Jeremiah held onto the ring mount as the muzzle blast washed back over the vehicle’s open turret in an unpleasant stench of gunpowder, fertilizer, and singed dust.
The HVAP round would have had more than enough power to punch through the T-34/85’s front turret at 500 yards. Hitting the much thinner side armor, the tungsten penetrator hardly slowed down before passing first through the ready ammunition, then the loader and commander, and out the structu
re’s other side before the 85mm rounds began exploding. The eruption of flames from the North Korean tank’s turret hatches served to signal the transition from fighting vehicle to crematorium, but not quickly enough to prevent 3rd platoon putting two more HVAP rounds into its front hull.
Oh man, that rain needs to just start falling, Jeremiah thought, his eyes burning. Reaching upwards, he dropped his goggles as first 3rd, then 2nd platoons engaged the next four North Korean tanks to come over the rise.
“Driver back up, seek alternate,” he managed to croak out as Washington slammed another HVAP into the 76mm gun’s breech.
Now I see why they said the company commander riding his own Hellcat might be a bad idea, Jeremiah thought. The muzzle blast had completely obscured things to his front, and he was no more coordinating the company’s fire than the man on the moon.
A round impacting in front of the reversing Dotty III highlighted another danger, the spray of dirt clods washing over the M18’s front. The offending T-34/85 did not live long enough to try and correct, two rounds knocking it out. Its three surviving crewmen attempted to bail out, only to die in a hail of .50-caliber fire.
At least we seem to have justified our reorganization, he thought. Originally Delta Company had had only two four-vehicle platoons rather than its current 13-vehicle organization. In less than two minutes, it appeared the Demons had killed five T-34/85s, and no more North Korean tanks were trying to rush down the road. A single T-34/85 was attempting to turn away from the Demons, misses throwing up dirt as smoke poured from the tank’s diesel.
“…get that bastard trying to pass east of the road!”
The radio traffic in his headphones told him Washington had worked magic with the electronics. The Demons’ net was a bedlam of crosstalk as 1st platoon joined the fray with three solid hits to the lone remaining tank. The Russian-made vehicle burst into flames.
“Clear the damn net!” he shouted into the microphone, then waited for the chaos to simmer down some.
The sound of machine gun fire and mortars to the north told Jeremiah that some sort of fight was still going on, and as he tried to get his bearings, he saw men running south roughly five hundred yards to his right front. Bringing up his binoculars, Jeremiah focused in on the group even as he heard 2nd Lieutenant Collins call out a warning about infantry sneaking around the Demons’ right flank. The distinctive rhythm from at least two M2 machine guns told Jeremiah others had sighted the dismounts.
Holy shit, has 1/24 been overrun? Jeremiah thought, focusing. What he saw through the lenses caused a wash of nausea. The men diving into the muck wore olive green uniforms and steel pot helmets.
“Cease fire! Cease fire! The infantry are friendly!” Jeremiah shouted into his radio. Even as he received acknowledgments, he saw one of group of men bowled over by an accurate burst.
“Schiller, get us over this railroad and follow the paddy trail,” Jeremiah said, hoping his voice wasn’t as shaken as he felt. Third Platoon, with its elevated vantage point, was continuing to lob desultory rounds at some distant target.
“Third Platoon, what are you shooting at?” Jeremiah asked over the radio as Schiller pulled them onto the narrow dirt roads leading towards the infantry positions. There was a long pause, then 2LT Hamm’s belated answer.
“There’s some infantry huddling under an enemy tank, Demon Six,” Hamm replied, his voice apprehensive. In his mind’s eye, Jeremiah could see the skinny, bookish lieutenant standing in his M18 turret. The sole white officer in the Demons, Hamm had never given Jeremiah an ounce of trouble despite being from Birmingham, Alabama.
“Let the mortars and artillery take care of them,” Jeremiah said. “We need to save that ammo for the next bunch. Cover Red and White while we all get moved up.”
Fifteen minutes later, Jeremiah was grabbing his Thompson submachine gun from its makeshift scabbard within the turret and preparing to dismount. 1/24 IN had dug in on a low ridgeline through which the Osan-Suwon road passed. To Jeremiah’s quick glance as he’d directed Schiller into position, the North Korean probing force had apparently come hell for leather down the road towards the American infantry positions.
Infantry riding tanks always seems like a good idea…and then the artillery arrives, Jeremiah thought, gazing over the clumps of mustard brown bodies lining the road. Of course, artillery doesn’t do a damn thing to actual tanks.
A lone T-34/85 sat off the side of the Osan-Suwon road, looking from all appearances like it had thrown a track. The vehicle’s crew had bailed out and, along with some of their infantry brethren, taken shelter near their vehicle. 1/24’s mortars had made Jeremiah a prophet, a quick barrage quickly killing most of the hiding North Koreans.
“Captain Gibson!” a man shouted from roughly 50 yards away. “Captain Gibson, you need to get over here right now.”
Looking over at the tall, Caucasian officer, Jeremiah had a feeling he knew who the man was. That guess was reinforced by the numerous NCOs and enlisted nearby trying to be inconspicuous in paying attention to the two men’s interaction.
“Sir, I have to see to the platoons’ sector,” Jeremiah called back, gesturing to where 1st and 2nd platoons were arranging their vehicles then holding up his radio microphone.
“Goddammit, boy, I didn’t ask you, I said come here,” Lieutenant Colonel McPeak shouted, starting to come out of his foxhole.
Jeremiah set his microphone down and looked at 1/24’s battalion commander.
I will not be summoned like some cur, he thought.
“Don’t get yourself shot, sir,” SPC Washington muttered from beside him.
“I think if anyone’s going to get shot, it’s going to be that asshole if he’s not careful,” Sergeant Mullock muttered.
Then again, I can’t expect my men to have discipline if I’m going to ignore a superior officer, Jeremiah thought angrily.
“Both of you, hush,” Jeremiah snapped. He pulled his Thompson submachine gun out of its traveling scabbard just below the ring mount. Moving just the right side of glacial, he started clambering down the M18’s front.
Stupid son-of-a…
Jeremiah did not hear the initial shells of the artillery barrage. One moment he was getting ready to jump down off the M18. The next he was face down in the Korean dirt, struggling to breath from the blast that had knocked the wind out of him.
CRUMP! CRUMP! CRUMP!
As the world heaved beneath him, he finally began to hear the tearing canvas sound that signified incoming artillery. That was almost as much a relief as the dull, throbbing pain in his left shoulder, as experience told him both meant he was not in shock from a severe injury. Rolling over, he slithered underneath Dotty III as the bombardment shook the ridge.
Dammit, dammit, dammit, Jeremiah thought, dragging in a shuddering breath. He looked down and was strangely unsurprised to see he’d literally had the piss knocked out of him. The front of his body felt like a giant bruise, and even as the M18 rocked above him Jeremiah did a quick check to make sure he actually hadn’t caught some shrapnel.
Thank God, he thought. The bombardment stopped almost as suddenly as it began, the explosions stilling causing Jeremiah’s ears to ring. As his hearing gradually returned, he realized two things. First, as if the shells had pierced the clouds and opened them, a hard rain was starting to fall. Second, a high-pitched, terrible screaming told him that someone close by had been hit.
Oh damn, please not one of the crew, he thought, adrenaline suddenly giving him a snake’s alacrity as he slithered out from under Dotty III.
“…get out and check the damn track!” Sergeant Mullock said.
“Someone shut that fucker up!” an infantryman was yelling, hopping out of the foxholes to Dotty III’s front. Jeremiah saw the chevrons and rockers of a platoon sergeant, the NCO’s eyes wild and darting. From the way the man was holding his pistol in the deluge, Jeremiah had a feeling the sergeant didn’t intend to render first aid.
This is profoundly not good, he though
t, slowly sliding the Thompson off his shoulder as he also moved towards the screams. Men were running around in the chaos, attempting to treat the wounded and prepare weapons for an assault that could be right behind the artillery barrage. Looking to either side, Jeremiah felt bile rise in his throat as he spotted at least two of his M18s ablaze.
Damn open turrets, he thought. That had to be heavy guns.
“Holy Christ…” the NCO muttered in front of Jeremiah. The man was stopped stock still at the edge of an impact crater, looking down at what was within. The man who had been screaming slumped at the bottom. Jeremiah, upon stepping up to the crater, realized why the NCO had stopped dead in his tracks. While the ruin that had been a healthy human being not two minutes before was startling in and of itself, it was not the half severed right arm or savaged lower abdomen and groin that had stopped the sergeant and made him fall to his knees.
Well, looks like we get to find out who the senior captain in 1/24 is, Jeremiah thought, seeing the decapitated body just beyond Lieutenant Colonel McPeak’s mortal remains. It was hard to tell in the rain, but given McPeak’s lieutenant colonel’s rank was visible on his helmet, Jeremiah could only assume the headless body’s oak leaves were gold, not silver. Which meant that 1/24 had, ironically, also been decapitated.
“Sergeant, you need to go grab your company commander,” Jeremiah stated. The man turned to look at Jeremiah, and the black officer could see the moment of hesitation.
No time for that shit.
“Now, Sergeant!” Jeremiah shouted.
The man shook himself out of his moment of near insubordination and hurried off. Jeremiah looked south, then north.
“Lieutenant Colonel Kraven, you need to hurry the hell up.”
* * *
Chapter 2: Jabs
Trouble in the Wind Page 34