Combat Reckoning, page 21
part #2 of Jock Miles-Moon Brothers Korean War Story Series
Those extraordinary measures wouldn’t prove necessary, however. Padlock Three made it to Kimpo Airfield.
Tommy had already sent his number Two and Four ships back to Japan. All he had to do now was nurse his dwindling fuel so he’d make it back there, too.
But in that crucial last mile to the runway threshold at Itazuke, his efforts were rapidly coming to nothing. He heard that first poom, feeling the shudder as a combustion chamber went dry, flaming out for a split second. Then another spurt of fuel sprayed into the chamber, relighting it…
But for how long? I’m at one hundred feet and I don’t see anything but soup all around me. Time to abort this landing and—
There were white lights ahead: two…then four…and then a long string stretching into the mist.
I’ve got the runway.
It wasn’t the best landing he’d ever done. Far from it; there wasn’t enough time to fully arrest the sink rate for a proper flare. The contact of tires with runway was firm, to say the least.
But at least he was down at his intended destination.
Halfway through the rollout, the engine sounded two more pooms in rapid succession and flamed out for good.
Tommy didn’t mind being unceremoniously towed off the runway. It was the second best outcome to what could’ve been a very bad day.
*****
The mission debrief was long; they always were when one of your ships didn’t return. There were so many more questions to be answered, so much more second-guessing to determine if proper tactics and procedures had been applied…
And, of course, so much blame to be assessed if the brass decided you fucked up.
But that wasn’t the case this time: the tactics and procedures had been declared appropriate to the situation, and the bomb damage assessment by aerial recon showed Padlock Flight’s mission had achieved its objective. Most importantly, the absent pilot was known to be safe and sound at a friendly airfield. Whether his damaged airplane would ever fly again was an issue for the maintenance and engineering staff, not the pilots.
Once the debrief ended, the operations sergeant caught up with Tommy as he was headed for the door. “Major Moon, I’ve got a message for you,” the sergeant said, handing him a sheet of paper.
On that paper was just a phone number and the letter S…
S, for Sylvie.
*****
Their late afternoon lovemaking was fast and ferocious. They’d both endured the intense strains of combat for too long. The physical release was most welcome.
By 1900 hours, they’d left Sylvie’s Fukuoka hotel to have supper in a tiny restaurant they’d chosen carefully, a place they were fairly confident no one would know them. They needed the anonymity and isolation: a CIA agent’s conversations were not to be overheard.
In this rare establishment that didn’t cater to the crowds of American servicemen roaming the city’s streets, diners removed their shoes on entering and sat on cushions at low tables. Ordering their food was every bit the challenge they’d expected. Between the two of them, they knew only the Japanese words for yes, no, and thank you. Expressing anything beyond those words became an exercise in pointing and gesturing.
“I think we ordered grilled fish, didn’t we?” Tommy asked, once the polite but exasperated server left them to place the order.
“I’m not so sure,” Sylvie replied. “We may end up with fish heads and rice.”
But they couldn’t care less what they were served. It was such a treat just to be together again, something neither of them would’ve thought possible just a short while ago.
As they settled into their second cups of sake, he asked, “Maybe now we can talk about why you’re really here in Japan, Syl?”
“I told you, Tommy…I was ordered to leave Vietnam. I’m here in Japan for debriefing and to await my next assignment.”
“Who ordered you out? The CIA or the French?”
“Both,” she replied without hesitation. It wasn’t a lie. It didn’t even stretch the truth. She just hoped the bluntness of her answer would stop him from probing further.
“But why, Syl? What happened?”
“Let’s just say the French weren’t thrilled with the information I was sending to the Agency.”
That wasn’t a lie, either.
“Wait a minute…how would the French know what you were reporting? Aren’t those dispatches diplomatic secrets?”
“Yes, of course. But if one way or another the CIA makes it obvious to the French what they’re being told, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out there’s a spy in their midst.”
She tried to gauge the look on his face. Have I said enough to satisfy his curiosity? Or does he suspect I’m not telling him everything?
What a silly question. Of course he suspects I’m not telling him everything.
He knows better.
“Syl, from what you said in Hanoi back in August, you’ve never sent in a report that put the French in a favorable light. Why—all of a sudden—do they care about it now?”
She sighed, considering her reply carefully. He knows I was going into the field with the French military…and he suspects I’ve been in the middle of the fighting.
He also knows I’m forbidden from divulging the details…
But knowing I’m in danger drives him crazy. The details would make it worse, not better.
If he knew how lucky I am to be alive right now…how my life was spared by a squad of overwrought Vietminh who were probably more terrified than I was…
But I have to tell him something or his mind will spin out of control.
I can’t lie to Tommy…but is simply not telling him something the same as lying?
“My identity was compromised in Saigon, Tommy. The Vietminh know who I am now. They have my picture.”
He was quiet for a few moments, rocking slightly on his cushion at that low table as if seeking some elusive comfort. Then a slight, tight-lipped smile appeared on his face.
“Good,” he said. “If that’s what it takes to get you out of the shit, I’m glad.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes, both enjoying a great sense of relief. But the source of that relief was different for each of them: his was that she’d be out of danger, at least for a little while; hers was that he’d stop asking so many questions.
As he finished his last bites of fish, Tommy changed the subject. “I heard Russians on the radio when we were over North Korea, Syl.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“When I reported it, the intel people told me I was hearing things.”
That didn’t surprise her, either. “They’re sticking to the MacArthur line, no doubt,” she said. “He’s convinced that neither the Soviets nor their Chinese will intervene in Korea.”
“And you don’t agree, Syl?”
“No, I don’t. Neither does the Agency, which has already advised Washington that the Chinese will enter the fight if they feel their border is threatened, as MacArthur seems intent on doing. The Soviets won’t directly involve themselves but will prop up their Chinese proxies all they can. The Truman administration chooses to believe MacArthur over the CIA, though.”
“Hmm…that’s not very reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be reassuring, Tommy. It’s meant to be realistic. Truman feels he has to go along with MacArthur—for now, anyway—to counter the accusations that his administration lost China to Mao and is still soft on the Communists. But there are limits to his support.”
“What kind of limits?”
“Surely you’ve heard that MacArthur is proposing to drop atomic bombs on China?”
“You mean somebody started that rumor again? A few months ago, people were saying he wanted to drop them on North Korea.”
She replied, “It wasn’t a rumor then, and it’s not a rumor now. That really was—and still is—MacArthur’s position. But Washington won’t hear of it. Truman wants to be seen as tough…but he isn’t crazy.”
Tommy took another slug of sake, considering what that all meant. Then he said, “Everything I see tells me we’ll be moving into North Korea any day now. Am I right?”
“It certainly looks that way. Despite everything the United States and the United Nations have said about the goals of this police action in Korea—to roll back the North Korean aggression in the South—the Agency is of the opinion that MacArthur always intended to take the war into the North. Do you remember all that talk of how his Inchon landing force would cut off the retreat of the KPA?”
“Sure, that’s what everyone believed,” he said.
“Well, it didn’t turn out that way, did it? And there’s a very good reason for that. MacArthur never actually intended to cut off their retreat. To do so would’ve robbed him of the excuse to invade the north.”
Her words stunned him. He’d never considered that possibility before. Nobody he knew had, either.
“And now, Tommy, we get to watch once again how this man who, in his entire life, has spent exactly one afternoon on mainland Asia yet professes to be the world’s leading authority on everything Asian, prepares to make another colossal mistake on that continent.”
“So I guess we’re not going home for Christmas, then?”
She replied, “I’m afraid your guess is correct.”
“Okay, but what does your Agency say about our chances of beating the commies?”
“Most of us believe they’re not very good.”
“Are we talking Korea or Vietnam?” he asked.
“No, we’re talking Asia in general.”
“But how could that be? You’ve told me about how the Vietminh brutalize their own countrymen. I’ve heard the same type stories about the North Koreans. Why would any people in their right minds want to go communist after being treated like that?”
Her face lit up with an amused smile as she replied, “Ah, you Americans…how charmingly naïve you can be. You still don’t understand that people of other nations might not think as you do.”
“That’s not fair, Syl…”
“Oh, it’s very fair, mon pilote. But I’m not trying to pick a fight with you.” She leaned across the table to give him a quick, consoling kiss.
“But you did ask, Tommy, so here’s your answer, which comes in two parts. The first is that the brutality you speak of only repulses a very small percentage of the population. The rest simply don’t care about it. They expect brutal behavior from the authorities, since they’ve known nothing else their entire lives.”
She let that sink in for a moment.
“The second part will be even harder for you to understand. Most Asians have lived with the boot heel of Western or Japanese imperialism on their necks for decades, if not longer. They’ve come to believe that their only path to ridding themselves of the imperialists and finding true liberty is to be communist. There really is no other option for them.”
He had no reply. Instead, he started to pour her yet another cup of sake.
She jerked the cup away. “No more, please. I’d like to remember what comes next…”
And she smiled warmly as she led him back to the hotel.
*****
He was up at four a.m. As he dressed, she asked sleepily, “Are you flying today?”
“I have no idea, Syl.”
“Just be safe if you do. Turn the light on. Let me look at you before you go.”
He stood beside the bed for her inspection.
“You look perfect, Major.”
He pulled the covers down to expose her nakedness.
“You look pretty damn good yourself, lady.”
Snatching the covers back, she pulled him close for a kiss.
“You know, Syl…I’ve been thinking about what you said last night, about how Asians have no choice but to go communist.”
“And what conclusion have you come to?”
“I think you’re probably right. But yet we keep fighting them anyway, don’t we?”
She held him tight and whispered, “Yeah. It’s insane, isn’t it?”
Chapter Nineteen
Pyongyang was one hundred miles over the road from Kosan-ni. Twenty-Sixth Regiment had covered half that distance in two days. It had been an easy drive for the most part; enemy resistance was light and swept aside quickly, and the highway followed the flat terrain of river valleys, where the threat of ambush from flanking high ground was nonexistent.
But their rate of progress was governed by their slowest vehicles, the tanks. The speed of the Pershings and Shermans would get even slower now as the terrain began to rise into the mountains that studded the second half of their route. The Pershings would be especially afflicted.
As they approached the village of Sibyon-ni, the convoy’s leading armor element had some bad news, delivered over the radio by Sean Moon: “I don’t know where the gooks are getting all these rice cookers from, but there’s about a dozen of ’em in that village, blocking what looks like every intersection. I can dance around to their right and get a good line of sight on about half of ’em without sticking my neck out too far.”
Jock Miles replied, “Do you need air support for the rest?”
“Affirmative. The flyboys can handle the whole damn bunch as far as I’m concerned. Send me up some infantry to cover my ass when I go into the town.”
It would take ten minutes for the fighter-bombers to make their appearance. That gave Sean the maneuver time he needed to flank the village. The trail he used climbed a shallow grade as it crested a hill. It would be a tough haul for the heavier Pershings.
Those damn things are just too heavy and underpowered. Ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag. Gotta let the Zippos lead the way.
His estimation had proved correct: the Shermans—the Zippos—had to wait on the other side of the hill a good five minutes before all the Pershings had made it over the top. Even in the cool of autumn, with the temperature in the thirties, two of the four Pershings began to overheat on the uphill grade.
We’re in big trouble once we hit the serious mountains. All this talk about an uprated vehicle to replace the Pershings better be true. And we better get ’em soon. Keep the ninety-millimeter gun and all that armor on ’em, though…just give us a bigger damn engine and a tougher transmission.
There was something strange about the F-51s that showed up to attack the KPA tanks; they weren’t from the USAF. The national insignia on their ships was Australian.
“The diggers oughta be getting a kick outta this,” Sean told his crew. “Let’s see what these flyboys from down under can do.”
The Aussie pilots did very well, knocking out four T-34s on their first pass. They got two more on their second—and last—pass.
“Okay, boys, it’s our turn now,” Sean told his tankers. “Wedge formation, on me. Standard leapfrog—take your shot, move up. Keep doing it until there ain’t no more gooks to shoot at. Just don’t outrun our infantry. Move out.”
The Battle of Sibyon-ni lasted less than an hour. Of the six KPA tanks not destroyed by Aussie aircraft, Sean’s tanks crippled three. Two more were knocked out by diggers firing 3.5-inch rockets. The remaining T-34 fled north, her escape concealed by the smoke and confusion of combat.
The victory had been largely an Australian effort. Triumphant diggers prowled the streets of Sibyon-ni, ferreting out KPA troopers either left behind or intent on being a rear guard for their fleeing comrades.
The Americans suffered only two casualties, both in the turret of the same Pershing. Though their vehicle had not been hit, they’d suffered severe burns to the hands and face when, after firing a round from the 90-millimeter main gun, a fireball engulfed them as the breech was opened.
Sean knew what had happened. In colder weather, the Pershing’s main gun was prone to having moisture-laden, unburned propellant remaining in the barrel after a round was fired. When the breech snapped open, the sudden reintroduction of oxygen-rich air into the tube would often cause that unburned propellant to ignite, shooting a blowtorch of flames into the turret. It would be brief but vicious.
Sean berated the Pershing’s commander. “What the hell’s wrong with you guys? How many times we gotta tell you to turn away from the goddamn breech? You know that’s gonna happen when it’s cold out.”
“Yeah, Sarge,” the TC replied, “I know that. Shit, we all do. But that’s supposed to only happen in winter. It’s October, for cryin’ out loud. Sure, it’s cold…but it ain’t that cold.”
“Well, we just learned the hard way, pal. And until we get an extractor system on these tubes that works worth a shit, we gotta protect ourselves.”
*****
No sooner had the 26th secured Sibyon-ni than a liaison aircraft appeared overhead. It circled the town a few times and then landed on the highway west of the village. To everyone’s surprise, General Bishop, commander of 24th Division, emerged from the ship. He moved awkwardly, a man in great discomfort; rheumatoid arthritis, cold temperatures, and cramped aircraft cabins didn’t go together well. They hadn’t seen him anywhere near the front lines since the Pusan breakout a month ago.
“What’s taking you so long, Miles?” Bishop asked, sounding none too pleased. “You should’ve been knocking at Pyongyang’s door by now.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Jock replied, “but according to the ops plan, we’re right on schedule. It allocates four days from Kosan-ni to Pyongyang. We’re two days out and halfway there.”
Bathing him in a judgmental look, Bishop continued, “Isn’t there anybody in this Army capable of exceeding expectations anymore? Just doing the minimum that’s expected of you never wins any battles, Colonel. What’s it going to take to get your people moving faster?”
There was no point getting trapped in another of Bishop’s games of rhetorical chess. Better to go on the offense instead…
