Combat Reckoning, page 10
part #2 of Jock Miles-Moon Brothers Korean War Story Series
Then he looked to Captain Stokely and—almost as an afterthought—asked, “If that’s okay with you, sir?”
“That’s fine,” Stokely replied, “but how long should we hold the civilians?”
“Until we get the word to go into Cheongju, Captain. Won’t be no secret we’re here after that.”
*****
The dozer tank pushed the wrecked cart and dead ox off the trail. The engineers found half a dozen more mines farther down the trail, which the Shermans skirted by having the dozer tanks plow through a stand of trees to widen the trail.
“Don’t bother digging the mines out right now,” Captain Stokely told the engineer sergeant. “Just mark them and advise Regiment of their location.”
Then he looked to Sean, as if seeking his endorsement.
A subtle nod told him he had it.
*****
It was 0130 when Captain Stokely sent the coded message to Regiment reporting that his ten Shermans were in position, tucked into a tree line near a deserted village just beyond the northern outskirts of Cheongju. They’d circled the wagons, forming a perimeter with each tank’s guns facing outward. Now the tankers had nothing to do but wait and protect their perimeter.
Per the ops plan, the engine on Stokely’s tank would be kept running so continuous radio communications with Regiment could be maintained without drawing down its batteries. That involved some risk: the idling tank would make noise which would carry farther in the night. But with Hill 349 between them and the KPA in Cheongju, some engine noise was a safer bet than having to crank-start a Sherman with a dead battery should the need to move and fight suddenly arise.
Just so there ain’t no KPA wandering around out here.
Sean told the captain, “While we’re standing by, we gotta make sure that in each tank only one guy at any time is catching some shut-eye.”
“Do you think letting them sleep is a good idea, Sergeant?”
“Hell yeah, Captain. Didn’t they ever teach you at West Point that there are two things a GI should never do? Like never turn down food and never stay awake if you ain’t on watch? Because you never know when you’re gonna eat or sleep again.”
“Yeah, but maybe not in those terms, Sergeant. Still…aren’t we a little too far out on a limb here to be taking naps?”
“The way I look at it, Captain, you’re out on a limb every time you climb into a tank. You can’t run and you can’t hide. You’re just a moving target. A pretty big one, too.”
Stokely still didn’t look convinced, so Sean added, “And face it, sir…they’re gonna sleep even if you forbid it. You won’t catch ’em and they know it. Just let ’em…and they’ll police it themselves so every swinging dick in the crew gets his fair shot at a snooze. And when you need ’em, they’ll be up and ready.”
The captain needed one more piece of reassurance. He asked, “Is that the way it was in Third Army, Sergeant?”
“You bet your ass it was, sir.”
*****
The pre-assault briefing at Jock’s regimental CP began promptly at 0230 hours. He hadn’t bothered to nap; he’d been too busy studying the reports from ground and aerial recon. He’d grown weary, though; his bad leg nearly gave way as he strode to the front of the seated staff members. Walking alongside, Patchett steadied him quickly enough that he stayed on his feet. But everyone who was looking that way saw the stumble.
“Watch your step there, sir,” Patchett said in a droll tone loud enough for all to hear. “We ain’t had time to run no grader over this dirt floor.” When a ripple of laughter flowed through the tent, he was satisfied he’d disguised the real cause of his commander’s near fall:
Don’t need no bullshit rumors getting started about the old man being crippled or nothing. Even if he had no legs at all, he’d still be ten times a better commander than any other officer in this man’s Army.
Pointer in hand before the big tactical map, Jock began, “I’ve been giving this some study, and I’ve decided we’re going to amend our plan of attack.”
He felt the barely audible groan washing over his staff; few things were more hated than last-minute changes in an operations order. But Jock continued, “And I wouldn’t do it unless I felt it could reap big benefits and be accomplished without confusion. So here’s the deal. We’re going to completely encircle Cheongju, attacking it from all four quadrants.” On the map, his pointer swept a large circle around the city.
“Captain Stokely’s tanks will strike from the north. Major Hopkins, your Third Battalion will move in along the highway from the south, led by the two companies of Pershings. You’ll be the hammer pushing the KPA back against the anvil of Stokely’s Shermans. Major Appling’s First Battalion will press in from the hills on the east, wrapping around the northeast corner of the city to meet with Stokely’s force. Finally, Major Harper’s Second Battalion will strike out of the paddies on the west and wrap around to meet Stokely’s tanks on the northwest corner. Not only will this have a better chance of sealing the KPA within the city, it’ll make sure Captain Stokely’s tanks aren’t without infantry support for very long…and vice versa.”
The tent had fallen completely silent. No one present had ever been involved in a quadruple envelopment before.
“Let me anticipate your first question,” Jock said. “Why are we not keeping any units back as a regimental reserve?”
He paused, watching the heads nod.
“Well, here’s your answer: each battalion will, no doubt, be using one company as its individual reserve, anyway. And I agree that that would be an excellent employment of your forces and one that will prevent any wholesale escape of the enemy from Cheongju. One centralized regimental reserve could not—I repeat, could not, gentlemen—effectively reinforce or plug gaps along the entire circumference of this effort. It simply wouldn’t be able to move fast enough. So, in effect, I’m releasing the regimental reserve to you, the battalion commanders, in advance.”
There was not a sound in the tent. Jock looked to Patchett’s face; it would give him all the indication he needed of how well this new plan would be accepted.
It took a second—maybe two—but Patchett began that slow, solitary nod of the head that meant he was on board…
And Jock knew that if he could sell it to Patchett—a man with far more fighting experience than any other man in the tent—he could sell it to anyone.
“And by the way,” Jock added, “dispatching Captain Stokely’s force early has yielded an unexpected benefit. We believe that due to their taking the initiative to become forward observers, our artillery has already neutralized the KPA’s heavy guns at Cheongju. We were lucky tonight…the little shelling we took until those guns were silenced was badly aimed and ineffective. But if they’d been able to keep shooting, it might’ve been a very different story.”
He let those thoughts sink in for a moment. Then he continued, “The weather forecast for today is good, with little in the way of cloud cover. Any remaining enemy artillery will be easy pickings for the Air Force, which will be on station above us at sunrise.”
A hand went up. The regimental logistics officer—the S4—asked, “I’m sure you’ve seen the reports that the KPA is surrendering in droves all along the front, sir. Is it a prime objective of this operation to take prisoners?”
“The prime objective of this operation is to eradicate the KPA blocking force at Cheongju, Captain. We’ll take what Tokyo puts out about the KPA surrendering with a grain of salt…because that certainly hasn’t been this regiment’s experience. The far bigger issue is the number of KPA who are escaping into the civil population of South Korea to join guerrilla bands. As my logistics man, I know you’re aware of the depots that have been hit and the supply convoys that were ambushed and never made it to us. We’re feeling the pinch of those ambushes right now, especially in shortages of gasoline and artillery ammo. If we can hold down on the number of KPA that escape, we’re money ahead.”
“Yes, of course, sir,” the S4 replied, “but I’m wondering how we’ll be able to deal with a large number of prisoners.”
Jock replied, “A good point, Captain, which illustrates another reason why I want our reserves to be under control of the individual battalions. They’ll come in real handy when you have to police-up prisoners.”
The regimental adjutant—a major—raised his hand. “I’ve heard rumors that all prisoners are ultimately being turned over to the ROKs. Is that still the plan, sir?”
“First off, we turn over our prisoners to the Division MPs, per the SOP. After that, I have no idea what happens to them. And that’s really not our problem, anyway.”
“Well, I’m just asking, sir, because seeing how the ROKs operate, they’ll just kill the prisoners outright. Seems like we should save ourselves some trouble, stop being the middleman, and not bother taking prisoners at all. The KPA would do the same to us.”
A faint murmur floated over the assembled staff. There was no doubt what the adjutant had meant: Don’t capture. Just kill. But it was hard to tell whether the mood was in agreement with or opposition to that position…
But if I had to bet money, Jock thought, I’d bet they’re agreeing with him.
His reply: “Let me make myself clear to you, Major…and to the rest of you, as well. Under no circumstances will an officer or soldier of this regiment kill enemy troops who have surrendered to us, regardless of what we’ve seen or heard about how the KPA treats prisoners. We will follow the rules of the Geneva Convention to the letter. Are there any questions about that?”
A voice from the back of the tent asked, “Even if the other side doesn’t follow those rules, sir?”
“Yes,” Jock replied. “Even if they don’t. That’s what makes us different.” He paused, his gaze sweeping across the assembly. Feeling chastised, perhaps, few would meet his eyes with theirs. But those who did had no doubt their commander wasn’t just blowing bureaucratic smoke up their asses.
Then he added, “And that’s what makes us better. We’re soldiers, gentlemen, not murderers.”
As the briefing was turned over to the S3 so the revisions to the ops order could be ironed out, Patchett took Jock aside, asking, “I know you had to say that about killing prisoners, sir, but what’re we gonna do when it happens? You know as well as I do it will. We seen it before, ain’t we?”
Jock replied, “Yeah, we have, Top. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. And one more thing…thanks for the help when I stumbled back there. I owe you. Again.”
Patchett flashed a smile he reserved for very few people. Then he said, “You don’t owe me nothing, sir. After all this time, that bill’s been paid in full.”
Chapter Nine
Though the sun had just risen above the eastern mountains, Colonel Cho felt he was still in the dark. Information was flooding into his Cheongju headquarters, but each new bit just heightened the confusion. If the hysterical reports from his units scattered throughout the ruins of the city were to be believed, the Americans were everywhere.
He felt sure that couldn’t be so: The tactics of the United States Army do not include single envelopments, much less multiple ones. They know nothing but frontal attacks.
Americans lack the imagination to be good warriors. Even the landing at Inchon that MacArthur brags so much about is not the envelopment he claims. It’s just another frontal assault against a weakly defended city that does little, if anything, to support his campaign here in the south. It is almost as if the fool wishes his forces to be defeated piecemeal. Only his air power has kept him from being pushed back into the sea.
Even this morning’s pre-assault barrage of Cheongju by the American artillery was brief and did little more than rearrange the refuse that was once this city.
So why are my commanders in such a panic?
From a rooftop that was still mostly intact, he could see the American tanks in the southern outskirts of the city, exactly where he’d anticipated they’d appear. When the first rank of Pershings had come into view just moments ago, he’d been thrilled to count only five, because he had five T-34s of his own, a battery of anti-tank guns, and teams of anti-tank riflemen to counter them.
The odds are well in my favor.
But then another rank of tanks emerged from the dust cloud, tinged a pale pink by the morning sun…
Like the spray of blood.
And then a third rank appeared.
At that same moment, his troops defending the north side of the city—barely trained peasants recently pressed into service—sent runners who screamed that enemy tanks were approaching from the north.
He’d sent the runners back with messages saying it simply couldn’t be possible. The only vehicles that would come from the north had to be reinforcements…
But I’m not expecting any more reinforcements.
Has an urgent dispatch telling me of additional armor support not arrived?
How can an army that communicates mainly with whistles and messengers ever hope to exchange crucial information in a timely and accurate manner?
That was the last message from his northern flank. But units on the eastern and western flanks were now reporting swarms of American infantry bearing down on them.
How could that be? Americans only fight along roadways, not from the swamps or down from the hills.
Cho’s spirits were momentarily uplifted when a Pershing was knocked out by multiple hits from an anti-tank gun. But the gun’s success had also sealed its fate; with its location now pinpointed, American fighter-bombers swooped in less than a minute later, destroying not only that gun but the battery to which it belonged.
Hiding in the burned-out shell of a building, a T-34 found its concealment to be its undoing. Hemmed in and unable to maneuver, it was quickly dispatched by American infantrymen on its flank armed with rockets. As the F-51 fighter-bombers positioned themselves for another pass, the other four T-34s began to rapidly withdraw into the center of Cheongju. They’d deserted the infantry they were supposed to be supporting.
American forces, now with vastly superior firepower, communications, and air support, quickly overran those infantry positions. Colonel Cho’s vantage point on that roof was in jeopardy. Abandoning it, he ordered the driver of his Soviet-made armored car to follow the T-34s to the center of the city, nearly a mile to the north.
He was easy pickings for an F-51 pilot. A torrent of .50-caliber bullets ripped the lightly armored vehicle apart. Though badly wounded, Cho wouldn’t succumb in its wreckage. That would happen twenty minutes later as he lay on a stretcher among other soldiers, some American, some Korean. The last thing he perceived through the blurred lens of imminent death was an American medic hovering over him, shaking his head in futility before moving on.
*****
Two hours past sunrise, 26th Regiment had the battle for Cheongju firmly in hand. Though their victory seemed assured, it hadn’t gone exactly as planned.
It never does.
But this time, the evolution from concept to reality had been surprisingly fortuitous.
Huddled over a map spread on the hood of his jeep, Jock told Patchett, “I figured we’d be pushing them back against the tanks of Task Force Stokely on the north side, but it’s turned out to be the other way around. The KPA seem so disorganized that Stokely’s boys are all the way into the middle of the city, pushing the gooks to us.”
“Probably need to give Bubba Moon a little bit of credit for that, sir. The captain’s a good lad…but I’m sure our old tanker’s giving him a whole lotta help.”
“No doubt, Top. But I’ll take a win any way I can get it.”
“Amen to that, sir. One thing about them Shermans covering ground so fast, though…it made it real easy for our flanking battalions coming in from the east and west to close ranks with ’em. That change you made to the ops plan looks like a damn stroke of genius now.”
“Now, Top? You didn’t think it was a stroke of genius back at the briefing?”
“Proof’s in the pudding, sir, not in the cooking.”
*****
At first, Sean had been worried that the tanks of Task Force Stokely were being suckered into a trap. This is too damn easy, he thought. The only Zippo we lost so far wasn’t even due to enemy fire...the idiot drove into a ditch, got hung up, and peeled a track.
These ain’t the same kind of gooks we been fighting all along. The only thing these clowns know how to do is surrender.
Looks like their talent pool mighta finally struck bottom.
Reluctantly, he’d agreed with Captain Stokely’s order to press deeper into the city when they’d met no serious resistance. The task force still had no infantry support; as they’d advanced a mile into the city on their own, it had been necessary to mutually protect each other against KPA sappers by rolling in diamond formations that provided all-around fields of fire. Only twice in that first mile had it been necessary to dust each other off.
We ain’t even needed to call for air support. The handful of anti-tank guns we came across were so badly emplaced that we spotted ’em and blew ’em up from way out. And then our own infantry popped up all of a sudden and fell in with us. They were thrilled to hear we were much deeper into the city than they figured we’d be. Saved ’em a lot of walking…or maybe a lot of low-crawling.
Since then, it’s been a fucking turkey shoot.
When a fight was going your way—when that critical mass of combat had shifted obviously in your favor—some of the fear of dying evaporated. The effect of that lessened fear was more pronounced in the inexperienced, who often became reckless. But the veterans knew all too well that even in victory there were still plenty of ways to be killed. While they, too, grew more confident of prevailing, they never dropped their guard.
