Soldiers and Marines Saga, page 11
Arriving trucks and armor were quickly gassed and the men riding in them and on them were similarly quizzed as to who is aboard. The Marines and heavy weapons infantry guys are told to get off and go into the mess tents and get some warm food. Everyone else is to stay aboard—even though almost everyone inevitably jumps out and pees. Everyone was simultaneously exhausted and elated to be here, and had loads of questions which we had no time to answer.
It was like a pit stop at an auto race in the midst of rapidly yellowing snow. Gas goes in, guys climb in and out, and the trucks pull out for either the cross roads or 817 as soon as they are full. We’re running a shuttle service and nobody walks after the checkpoint, not even the refugees.
What the gas trucks do is give everyone enough gas to get to Pusan. Each time a gas truck gets low, it pumps out what left in its tank into another gas truck, then heads to the petroleum dump north of Pusan for a refill. It will be back in about twenty hours, if all goes well. There are two drivers in every truck so it can go around the clock.
******
Two days ago, as soon as the retreat started, Hart took a couple of Shermans and three Porks down the road to act as the rear guard for our retreating troops. Now he was slowly backing towards the roadblock, keeping between the Chinese and the retreating troops. His blocking rear guard force is down to two tanks and two Porks. He lost one Pork when Chinese troops appeared on the road embankment above it and fired straight down into the helpless men.
Worse, the commander of the tank it was covering, a recently activated reservist from North Carolina, had been there talking to the Pork crew and was also killed.
“Never had a chance,” said Hart.
The retreat was increasingly turning into a nightmare with our road bound escapees running a gauntlet of periodic communist shooters. We sent a constant stream of trucks up towards Hart to pick up the wounded and the men who seemed unlikely to make it walking.
Despite all the trucks, many of the men had to walk until they reached our roadblock, both because there isn’t enough room in the trucks, and so they can help fight off the constant sniping and infantry attacks from the hills on either side of the road.
Hart’s trucks, with the guys who can’t go any further, go straight on through the roadblock without stopping. They unload for sorting at the heated tents Spelling is operating on the other side of the Han.
This time when I go back to the roadblock I’ll bring Sergeant Ortiz and a couple of machine gun equipped Jeeps full of his guys. We’ll wait at the roadblock until Hart passes through. Then we’ll follow him back to 817, blowing up the trucks and other vehicles that have been abandoned and pushed off along the road.
We weren’t able to blow them earlier because it would have delayed the constant stream of vehicles pouring southward towards the Han River and Pusan.
By 10am on the 29th, I was at the roadblock with Ortiz and his men and everyone was pretty much gone by the time Hart and the last of the retreating troops came through. The roadblock Shermans and Porks were beginning to move away from where they could be seen by the arriving retreaters and refugees, and into their nearby hull down positions to wait for the Chinese.
We wanted the Shermans and Porks out in the open to be seen so the retreating troops and refugees would know they had reached a degree of safety and not give up hope.
Our plan is simple. The roadblock Shermans and Porks will engage the Chinese and fall, back leapfrogging each other backwards from one pre-selected ambush position to the next, until they reach the Han River crossroads, and then move into their hull down positions on 817.
Hart stopped for a moment as he passed through the roadblock. He was exhausted and morose as he leaned down from his tank turret to talk. He’s just lost a Sherman and another Pork.
“And you saved many thousands of American and Korean lives,” I told him. “Go back to the hill and get some sleep.”
******
Ortiz was just starting to blow some trucks and a half track abandoned at the checkpoint when out of the snow and mist comes another deuce and a half packed with cheering Marines. They’d been off the road in a rearguard position and their truck had frozen up. They finally got it going by draining some gas onto the clothes they stripped off a couple of dead Chinese and lighting a fire under their truck’s engine to heat up the engine and then pushing it down a hill to start it.
Last night, after they finally got their truck restarted, the Marines drove down the road with the lights on and honking at the Chinese troops to get out of the way. They shouted and waved as they rushed on by to my thumbs up and pumping elbow motion to step it up.
Damn those Marines do have balls. I hope they’ve got enough gas to make the crossroads. The last of the gas trucks pulled out fifteen minutes ago.
The Chinese will arrive any second. I was already in my jeep and the roadblock Shermans and Porks have their engines running and are ready to shoot and scoot. That’s when, out of the misting snowflakes, came a clunking army truck from the 22nd Infantry. Its left front wheel is running on the rim and the front end of the truck was wobbling from side to side as it approached.
The Porks and Shermans began sending noisy fifty caliber bursts down the road to hold the approaching Chinese as we rushed to the truck and climbed in the back. It was filled with dead and wounded Americans lying on top of each other in pools of frozen blood. The driver stepped out of the cab and collapsed. Jesus H Christ.
There was no time to triage or assist the wounded. All we could do is toss them into the last deuce and a half, the truck standing by to take Ortiz and his demolition crew out if their demolition truck fails, and hope we don’t leave any wounded in the back with the dead.
Ortiz and his guys and the loaders from the nearby Porks ran over to help. The Porks were already firing periodic bursts down the road as Ira and I climbed in the back and literally began tossing the wounded men down into their waiting hands.
One was a slim little PFC who looked like he was about thirteen years old. He screamed in agony as I picked him up and handed him down.
I’ve heard screams like that before. It is heart breaking.
The little kid and everyone else got thrown into the freezing back of the last truck. It pulled out with a roar and its spinning back tires splashed us with muddy ice when I slapped the driver’s side fender a couple of times and shout “Go. Go.”
Then Ira and I jumped in our Jeep and rushed off to get behind the truck to provide what cover we could as it ran the gauntlet. I was driving and a grim-faced Ira was holding on to the thirty caliber’s handles for dear life, and silently crying. I know because the tears began freezing on his face and eyelashes. As we pulled out I caught a glimpse of Ortiz shoving a grenade into the gas tank of a disabled truck. We never saw him again.
Chapter Sixteen
Someone was shaking me.
“Yo Guns, someone here to see you.”
“What’s up, Sammy,” I asked groggily as I sat up and unzipped my sleeping bag.
“Dunno boss, but I just took a call from Big Joe. He says some colonel just landed in one of those helicopter thingies in the open area up by the aid tents. Harry called to let me know he’s bringing him down. He says he needs to talk to you pronto. Says it’s important.”
“Thanks Sammy, get me a cup of coffee will you? Cream and sugar. Oh, and check with radio to see if anyone heard from Captain Hammond and the rear guard.”
Hart handed off the rear guard to Hammond as he passed through the checkpoint and I haven’t brushed my teeth in days so I figure it might be best if I have coffee breath when I meet the new arrival.
Then I had an uneasy feeling. According to my watch it is oh dark hundred and I’ve asleep for about four hours.
Uh Oh. He flew through the mountains at night to get here. Something must be up.
******
Our visitor stumbled in the dark and almost fell as he stepped down into our darkened dugout. He was one of the colonels Talley had with him last week, Jim Shelly. He told me he’s on his way to retrieve Colonel Spelling so Spelling can go back to Seoul and take General Talley’s place as the division’s deputy commander.
“There’s no more troops and refugees coming through Spelling’s triage camp so I’m going to tell Colonel Spelling to shut it down and leave with me on the helicopter that brought me here.”
He also told me that General Evans has been pulled back to a staff job in Tokyo and Talley is now the division commander and “wants me to get a status update from you. He wants your estimate on how long you might be able to hold.”
“General Talley also said to tell you he would’ve called but the wire running along the Han River road was apparently cut yesterday and he didn’t want your report on the radio, not even in code.”
I nodded my understanding. Keeping the Chinese in the dark makes sense to me.
We talked a bit and when the sun came up I walked with Colonel Shelly down the hill to the crossroads and listened as Spelling quickly briefed him. Then the two colonels and I walked together back up to the waiting helicopter.
I didn’t like what I heard. It instantly became clear that the retreat from the north into Seoul did not go well. The ROKs up north have been decimated and Seoul is under great pressure from the Chinese. The handful of ROK units along the Han, the ones my task force is supposed to hand off to if we pull back, are themselves already pulling back even before the Chinese arrive.
Christ, that means we’re the only unit north of the Han and there’s no one behind us to back us up or cover our withdrawal.
General Talley and General Walker, Colonel Shelly had already explained, want an idea as to how long I think my men and I can keep the Chinese armor and artillery from turning right at the crossroads and coming down the river roads to attack Seoul from the east. He and Spelling were more than a little surprised when I explained that it depends on our Han River water pumps.
“Water pumps?”
“Yes sir,” I responded. “Water pumps.” Then I explained how we have two water lines using gasoline powered pumps to bring water from the Han up to our positions on 817. “We’ll probably only last only six or seven days if both of them are cut.”
“If they aren’t cut,” I go on, “we’re good for weeks, maybe months. No tanks or vehicles are going to waltz down the road and get past us as long as we have our recoilless rifles and hull down tanks. The artillery firebase on the other side of 647 is an insurance policy, frosting on the cake.”
“I don’t get it about the water pumps,” Colonel Shelly said as Colonel Spelling listened intently.
“It’s what we do in Alaska,” I said. “The pipes let us bring a constant stream of water from under the Han ice. Running water doesn’t freeze. So we run their pumps constantly, all day and all night, to keep them from freezing up.
“The only difference is that instead of running the water we don’t need back into the river, we’re discharging it on the hill—to make the slope even more icy and difficult to climb than it already is.”
“Basically,” I explained, “two important things happen because of the pumps: We get the water we need and,” I emphasized the and, “and we can concentrate more of our firepower on the other side of the hill because the ice makes it virtually impossible for attackers to get at us by climbing up on that side.”
“Besides,” I added, “the ice will make it easier for us to use the breeches buoy sleds we’ve rigged to evacuate the wounded and bring in supplies.” If the wounded have any place to go and the supplies can get up to where we can unload them.
“Water? That’s surprising. I would have thought you were going to tell me your weakness is having all your positions located so close together.”
“Well, that sure will be a weakness if the Chinese bring in heavy artillery. But they seem to be short on artillery and tanks so we’re betting, maybe I should say praying, they’ll come at us with infantry and try to soften us up by saturating our position with mortars.”
Spelling thought about it for a moment and then, “Well Colonel, I think you’re right about them using mortars because we’re pretty sure they’re short of artillery and tanks—they’re road bound in this terrain and our airpower has been working the roads over pretty good. It’s their infantry we can’t stop because they stay off the roads except at night.”
“Let’s hope so,” I said. “If they use mortars, we’ve got them by the balls.”
Spelling and Shelly look surprised.
“Colonel,” I said to Spelling as we trudged along in the cold, “when you and Colonel Shelly came here with General Talley and got the big two-dollar tour, did you notice how our two man fighting positions are dug down into the rock and have sandbags on the roof?”
He nodded. “Sure. So what?”
“Well under those sandbags we laid quarter inch steel road repair sheets – our own version of armor plate for infantry positions. We..uh..found the plates on the docks at Pusan.”
Then I smiled a grim smile and added “so as long as our guys stay hunkered down in their positions they’ll be mostly safe from mortar rounds and fragments.”
Then I explained.
“What I’m hoping is that the Chinese will see all the mortar explosions and send in big human wave attacks to mop up what’s left of us. We’ll slaughter the bastards. That’s what they’ve done in the past.” As I damn well know.
“Even better,” I said, “the guns in our firebase across the river are going to hit them before they get to us. I’ve got officer volunteers in two observation posts hidden out there in the mountains. They can’t see 817 but they can see the logical places on the other side of the surrounding hills where the Chinese will probably form up for their attacks.”
I sure hope the OPs are hidden or my boys out there are screwed.
“Also, as an insurance policy, I have a couple of dozen men under a newly commissioned lieutenant across the way on the top and south side of that peak right there. He’s a steady guy by the name of Candelaria,” I said, pointing to a rock formation on the other side of the Han. “His battlefield commission just came through.
“The southeast side is where we have the least firepower because it’s the steepest and hardest to climb, particularly with all the ice we’re laying down. But, just in case someone does try to come up to get behind us, all my mortar guys up at the top have automatic weapons and can fight as infantry—so can our wounded at the aid station up there if it comes to it.
“What it means is that anyone who tries to come up on that side is gonna be a sitting duck out in the open, with no place to fly. That’s important. It lets us concentrate our positions and firepower on the north side where the Chinese are likely to hit us.”
“Damn Guns, that’s pretty smart. The boss is gonna like it.”
******
The Marines and heavy weapons infantry we pulled out of the retreat were taken straight to the sleeping tents where they found hot coffee, more sandwiches, cans of C-rations, and sleeping bags laid out on rubber air mattresses jammed side by side, covering the entire floor.
There are separate groups of tents for the Marines and army troops. But what each man finds laid out on his assigned air mattress is exactly the same: a winter sleeping bag, two sets of long johns and four pairs of new wool socks—two to wear and two to shove under their shirts for when they need them. There are also woolen caps and woolen gloves, some really warm dark blue hooded woolen sweat shirts that say Chicago Bears on them, and hooded field jackets with useless rabbit-fur fringes. The gloves aren’t worth a damn. Some of they guys cover them with woolen socks but most of the time, when they can, they keep one hand in a pocket and work with the other. We need big mittens and face masks with eye and mouth hold like we use in Alaska.
One of the guys from the trench battalion they’ll be joining spent the night with them to answer questions, point to the latrines and mess tents, and act as the fire guard for the tent’s gasoline-fired heater while they slept.
There were a lot of nightmares and some of the guys had trouble sleeping. But, overall, it’s surprising how fast able bodied young guys recover when they have a good eight hours of sleep, warm clothes, and a couple of hot meals.
When the new arrivals woke up and finished eating and crapping they were taken to their positions and someone, usually one of the original Charlies, briefed them about how strong our position on Hill 817 is. Got to give them confidence. Then they are shown their fighting position and given a work assignment. They always have a lot of questions.
“Hey Sarge,” Where’s the chow hall?”
“Is it true there’s hot food around the clock?”
“Will we have Marine officers?”
“Where you from?”
“Anyone know what happened to the Second Battalion?”
******
Captain Hammond radioed in about 9 a.m. His roadblock Shermans and Porks are pulling back to yet another set of ambush positions. The Chinese, it seems, are sticking to the hills and walking around his ambush positions. No sign of tanks and no artillery fire. His best guesstimate is that Chinese patrols will walk through the mountains and reach us in about twenty-four hours.
That’s not good news. I’d hoped for more time.
Murphy and I had been walking all over the hill and checking things out ever since Colonel Shelly left and took Colonel Spelling with him. After a while Hart woke up and joined us.
Everything seemed in order. Our guys, and the first of the replacements we took off the road, were already in their positions and already damn cold and uncomfortable. We’ll keep them rotating out of their positions and into the heated sleeping tents until the Chinese begin attacking. Then we’ll increasingly need the tents for any of our wounded we can’t immediately evacuate.
The cold would have been even worse, but we outfitted everyone with two sets of long johns and a hooded field jacket. Every position also has an inflatable rubber mattress to keep the sleepers and sitters off the ground, a crew-served weapon, a couple of sleeping bags, and big stacks of ammo as well as a week’s worth of C-rations and water. Since it’s covered by a four by eight steel plate resting on sandbags, there is just enough space for one guy to curl up and sleep while the other keeps watch through one of the two narrow firing slits between the sand bags.
