Soldiers and Marines Saga, page 15
“And stand easy dammit. How’s your arm?”
“Yes Sir. Thank you Sir. My arm is fine Sir.”
“That’s four that I know of, Guns. Oh, and by the way I had a couple of officers out at 817 gathering up some facts for another medal. Their report says you gathered up fifty or so Marines and led them down a trench into a hand to hand battle with a bunch of Chinese who had broken through your lines. It says you killed a bunch of them up close and personal before you got hit. Is that true?”
“Uh. er. Something had to be done Sir.”
“Gentlemen, the General will see you now. This way please.”
******
General MacArthur greeted me with a snappy salute and a big smile. I saluted him back left handed. He was pleasant and absolutely effusive on the way down to the back garden in his private elevator, saying he’d heard I was one of the finest combat commanders in the entire army.
It is heady stuff and I have to force myself not to grin like a monkey all the way down.
“Thank you, Sir.”
The ceremony was short and sweet. Seven medals were being awarded–to me, five generals, and a colonel with one of those braids like Adams was wearing. Most of the citations are for what sounds like distinguished memos.
In any event, an army band played “The Caissons Go Rolling Along,” MacArthur read the citation, hung the medal around my neck, and saluted.
MacArthur’s staff watched and clapped enthusiastically when he finished hanging the medal around my neck and shook my hand. Among them, wearing the chicken wings of a full colonel, and not clapping all that enthusiastically, was Pettyjohn.
While the ceremony was going on, I found myself wondering if what I heard is true that getting the medal means I can stay in the army as long as I want, and can’t be demoted. I hope so. I like being in the army.
General Talley and I left for Korea as soon as the ceremony was over. We headed straight to the airport in a staff car into which Captain Adams had thoughtfully placed my weapons. We’re flying into Pusan because “Seoul is too dangerous.” That has a bad sound to it.
On the way to Seoul General Talley made small talk about his family and quizzed me about my plans for after the war. I told him I liked being a combat commander and hoped to stay in the army after the war, that somehow being in the army seemed to work for me.
I was encouraged when he smiled and agreed, saying he was sure “something can be worked out.”
******
Pusan is Pusan. Dirty and crowded. But being with a general officer sure smoothes things out. We were met at the plane and driven so short a distance to a waiting helicopter that we could have just as easily have walked and saved time.
It was my first ride in a helicopter. They are surprisingly noisy.
General Talley wanted me to go to Seoul with him on his helicopter to meet General Walker and tell him about 817 and my task force. He was candid about why. He hopes I can convince Walker that 817 can hold for a while longer. If 817 can hold, he explained, Walker can continue to concentrate our forces on Seoul, maybe even hold it.
I was being honest when I replied that I think we can hold 817 for as long as necessary, and that I would certainly try. What else could I say? It was two days before Christmas.
******
Late the next morning a helicopter carried me, and a couple of captains, back to 817. The captains are newly arrived surgeons, direct in from the land of the big PX, and permanently assigned to our aid station. Better late than never is what I thought, but never said, when I heard about them. A couple of crates of plasma, and other vital medical supplies, were on the helicopter with us.
Hart and Spinelli came rushing up as the helicopter landed. They were happy to see me and anxious to talk. We had not been hit again, but everyone feels that something big is in the wind. They were anxious for news.
“Is it as bad in Seoul as the radio chatter makes it sound, Guns?”
“Probably worse,” was my reply.
The briefing Talley and I got when we landed in Seoul was anything but encouraging. The Chinese are expected to come at Seoul with everything they’ve got.
“And what makes it even worse, if that’s possible,” I told them, “is that General Walker was killed this morning just before I left Seoul. Headquarters was in an uproar. They called it a traffic accident, but rumors are flying that it was a suicide, or some kind of communist attack.”
“What it all means is that we’ve got to get ready for another big attack, or a retreat to Pusan, or both,” I explained. “And complicating everything is that if the Chinese take Seoul there may be a lot of our troops retreating along the road on the south side of the Han River.”
They were stunned about Walker and the situation in Seoul.
“It can’t be that bad. It can’t. Are you sure?” Jim asks.
I nodded. “I’m sure. It looks like we’re gonna get hit again. At least that’s the way things are shaping up.”
Unfortunately I am sure.
******
I’d been gone three days. Hart and Murphy remembered my repeated orders “guns, pickup their guns and ammunition.” So they took our men out to the Chinese casualties and retrieved a lot of weapons and ammunition. They even found and evacuated some Chinese wounded.
More new citizens for Taiwan was my grim thought.
In any event, everyone on the hill now has a couple more Chinese weapons and lots and lots of Chinese ammo. Unfortunately, there were no AK-47s among them.
Another bit of good news was that our positions and trenches were hurriedly restored and, even better, the Chinese seem to have pulled back in order to move over the mountains towards Seoul.
And, wonder of wonders, yesterday the engineers were able to put a new pontoon bridge across the ice to replace the two we destroyed after our retreating forces got over the river.
According to what the combat engineers who built the new bridge told Hart, it will hold a tank. The theory, as Hart understands it, is that the weight of the tank will break the ice but the pontoon bridge will then float on the water below.
I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be driving the first tank across. That’s for damn sure.
That’s the good news. The bad news is that we are almost out of mortar and recoilless rifle rounds up on the hill, Spinelli is totally out of ammunition for his howitzers, and Lieutenant Goolby, in the closest of our two observation posts, has not reported in since right before the big attack.
First things first. I told Hart to take some of the colored sergeants, particularly Sergeant Jackson, and the first hundred men he can find who can drive a deuce and a half, and try to get to the Pusan docks and the supply dumps along the road. He’ll take two of Hammond’s Shermans and two of our four remaining Porks to discourage any Chinese who might be in the hills along the road.
“Bring back every vehicle you can get your hands on, particularly gas trucks if they’re full of gas. Try to fill them with the ammo and supplies we need, but bring them all, even empties, so long as they are fully gassed. We may need them for retreating troops or for ourselves if we have to run. But don’t risk bringing the Shermans and Porks over the new bridge. Leave’em with Tony at the firebase and just bring the trucks over here.”
“Oh, and tell Hammond to send the Shermans across with only their drivers. And tell him he’d better tie ropes around the drivers so they can jump out and he can pull them ashore if the bridge goes down and a tank starts to sink.”
Then I suddenly felt really tired, so I decided to sack out for a couple of hours. I woke up four hours later to find Big Joe, the little medic, sitting on my cot with a thermometer in his hand and a big needle with a vial of penicillin.
Must think I’m a horse was the last thing I thought before I dropped off to sleep again.
I woke up the next morning ravenously hungry, and thinking it’s about time to get back to work. So the first thing I did after breakfast was confirm the promotions to lieutenant colonel for Hart and Kim, major for Hammond and the six surviving trench battalion commanders; and to captain for all the lieutenants including Lieutenant Kim of the ROKs. Spinnelli’s evacuated ground commander was also promoted to major. A bunch of sergeants and other guys got more stripes including Big Joe, and the colored sergeant “Stonewall” Jackson, to master sergeant, and Murph to regimental sergeant major.
And every man on the hill, including Lieutenant Colonel Kim, Captain Kim, and all their Koreans, gets at least a Bronze Star with a “V” for valor. A whole bunch of guys got silver stars and everyone will now wear a distinguished unit medal as a permanent award. Lieutenant Smith of the Marines got a posthumous DSC.
******
The next day was clear and seemed much colder. Traffic was still going both ways on either side of the Han River, and the patrols we sent out found no Chinese. Hammond personally drove both the Sherman and both Porks across the bridge. Good man.
I called Captain, though he doesn’t know it yet, Billy Joe Flacco of Fort Worth at the Terry Two observation post. He hadn’t reported seeing Chinese for several days so I told him I was going to send a patrol to walk him in. But, just in case, he isn’t to start down until he sees the patrol and is sure it is ours.
Billy Joe’s escort patrol will deliver whatever supplies his post will need if he or someone else goes back. Another patrol under one of the Marine sergeants is going out to check on the other observation post. Captain Goolby hasn’t reported in at all since the attack.
Billy Joe walked in about three the next afternoon, and he was hungry for hot food and a cup of coffee. So we sat on ammunition crates in the mess and talked about his experiences as a hidden observer. He’s a dedicated career soldier out of the University of Arizona ROTC, and was truly tickled when I handed him his captain’s bars and told him he’ll be getting a Silver Star. But mainly I spent the day walking from position to position in the increasingly bitter cold.
A lieutenant Rust will go back out tomorrow and take Billy Joe’s place. We may or may not abandon Goolby’s position, depending on what Sergeant Shapiro finds.
Hart was right. We’re short of ammo, and a lot of our increasingly cold troops are having big post-battle bouts of depression. They’d once again lost a lot of buddies, and been scared silly. A number of the best of them are seriously depressed. Being constantly cold doesn’t help.
“Hey Guns....” “Hiya Sandy, glad to see you made it. Let me know if you need anything…Hey Bobby, how they hanging?…. “Hey Guns, can you fix the chow?” … “Congratulations on the promotion, Dick. You’ll make a great SFC.… “Is it true you’re gonna be a lifer, Jack?”… “Jesus its cold, Colonel.”…“Sir, do ya know when we’ll get some mail?”… “Yup, it’s true. You Marines did so good we’ve asked to keep you for a while.”… “Let me know if you need anything”… “You need a ticket to Chicago?”...
It went on and on like that all day long.
Big Joe caught up with me as I walked the line. He reported that the two new docs are doing fine, but sick call is starting to get a lot of pneumonia patients with high temperatures. He says the new docs think it’s the stress, not the cold.
Stress can make you sick? I didn’t know that.
Joe wants to give everyone a shot of penicillin and begin holding everyone with a temperature of 102 and up in the warming tents instead of waiting until they hit 103. He said it was getting colder, and the guys on duty need periodic warming, even more than they did before the Chinese attacked.
I shivered as I agreed, and told him to grab some guys, and put up three or four more warming tents on the north side. Then I told Hart and Murphy to be damn sure everyone is getting eight straight hours of uninterrupted sleep in the warming tents and periodic breaks from work to visit them.
“Thanks Guns. And while I’m here let’s have a look at your arm.”
The patrol I sent to the other observation post came in while I was standing out in the open in the trench shivering with my jacket off and my bare arm being inspected. They did not find Lieutenant Goolby, and saw no evidence of a fight. I’d sent a replacement observer with them, an infantry lieutenant, and soon-to-be captain, by the name of Harry Tompkins. He’d worked as an artillery spotter before we grabbed him off the retreat.
Tompkins came back with the patrol. I’d told him not to stay if they couldn’t find Goolby. No one ever did. Lieutenant Goolby was never heard from again. He’ll never know he’d been promoted to captain and awarded a Silver Star.
By the time I finished walking the hill, it was late afternoon, and Big Joe had reopened the now mostly empty first aid tents for the additional sick guys, and was in the process of opening more warming tents near each of the battalion trenches. Hart, good man that he is, had already reestablished the eight hours of solid sleep schedule with five hot meals per day for everyone as soon as the big attack petered out and our wounded got evacuated.
When I got back to the command post I called Tony Spinelli and reminded him and his ground commander to do the same. They said they would. They’re good guys but I’m glad I asked.
It was really getting cold. If we’re cold the Chinese must be freezing their balls off even with their better gear. The problemwas our boots and gloves. To put it as delicately as possible, they aren’t worth a shit. Half the army guys still have the cheap buckle boots with rough leather that might be useful in the summer in places like Camp Gordon or Fort Ord.
How bad are those old World War Two boots? They’re so bad almost every walker wearing them on the retreat had some degree of frostbite on his feet when he reached our roadblock. The gloves and the jump boots weren’t much better.
Hmm. Wonder what we can do to keep the guys’ feet and hands warmer.
Hart just came up on the radio. He said he and his troops had an uneventful trip and his efforts to get more supplies was mostly unsuccessful. In other words, he got a lot of stuff and there is no sign of any Chinese. Maybe they really are all headed for Seoul.
Three minutes later Hart radioed in again. His Sherman just threw a tread. I told him to leave it and keep coming. He can try to retrieve it on the next trip. An ammo resupply is more important than a Sherman.
I was coming down with something. By sundown I was coughing and getting dizzy when I try to stand up. Ira must have sent word to Big Joe because he came back with one of the docs, Reuben Feinberg from Chicago. The good news is that my arm is not infected; the bad news is I’ve got pneumonia along with just about everyone else on the hill.
After I had dropped my pants and got a humongous shot in the ass accompanied by a cheerful “Merry Christmas,” I told Big Joe to fix me up with something right here in the command position, so I can stay near the radio and phones.
A couple of Kim’s Chogis came an hour or so later with a folding cot, a little Korean charcoal stove, and a couple of bags of charcoal. I feel like shit and a bit guilty because the other positions don’t have stoves but my “office” is toasty, and we can heat coffee, and cook eggs, on the stove.
Ira laughed and cheerfully told me I looked like shit. Two hours later he was as sick as me. So off he went to the sick bay tents, and Murphy sent a new guy, a Marine corporal by the name Harry Golden from Phoenix, to temporarily take Ira’s place on the radio and phones.
While they were setting up my cot, Hart came in and said he’s brought us a lot of ammo and will be going to Pusan again in the morning to get more. He said he was going to leave a repair team to get the tread back on the tank. The Korean Chogis and a company from each battalion are unloading the trucks and distributing the ammo as we speak.
“Yup. Got the ammo. Even got some extra barrels to replace the 30s barrels we burned out during the attack,” Hart said cheerfully.
He also confirmed that he had done what I suggested and left his good Sherman and our two Porks at Spinelli’s firebase.
“There are no more Shermans to be had but I did find a couple of quads we can mount. That’ll give us seven Porks if we move the quads from the trucks that got hit. That’s the good news.”
“The bad news is that the word on the Pusan docks is that Seoul can’t hold and a General Ridgeway will be taking Walker’s place. Trouble is Ridgeway is still in Tokyo kissing MacArthur’s ass and no one knows when he’ll show up. By the way, it’s Christmas Eve. Merry Christmas, Guns.”
“Christmas? Is it really Christmas Eve? I’ll be damned.”
Then, after a moment of reflection, I continue, “yeah I believe it about Seoul not being able to hold. It appears the Han River roads have again been cut on both sides of the river. We’re sure to go south if Seoul is abandoned again.”
We better. We’re toast if we don’t.
Hart just grunted. Then he said “at least we won’t have to care for a lot of retreating troops. Just our guys” and then, after a pause, he added “unless they tell us to stay put.”
Then he asks the sixty-four dollar question.
“Which way do you think Tokyo will jump about leaving us here?”
“Damned if I know, but we better be ready either way.”
At that point, Golden took his earphones off, and looked up from the radio with cynical smirk.
“Armed forces radio in Tokyo says all the troops in Korea are getting turkey and mashed potatoes for Christmas. The lying shits. We’ve been fuckin robbed, you know.”
I didn’t reply. I was distracted. What will happen if Seoul falls? Will we be ordered to retreat or hold? Yeah, for sure, we’ve got to prepare for both.
“Hand me that map, Eddie ... Thanks.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Hart and I spent Christmas Eve going over the maps by lantern light, sharing experiences and our thoughts about a possible retreat. It’s going to be damn difficult if we have to walk out of here through the snow.
“What’d you see in Pusan?” I asked. “Any chance of getting more 105s or armor to support us?”
“I showed the task force orders but no luck. Not a chance. Everything that can shoot is heading towards Seoul as fast as it lands.”
