Combat Reckoning, page 23
part #2 of Jock Miles-Moon Brothers Korean War Story Series
At first he thought Bishop might actually refuse the offer of a ride. The aircraft was only a hundred yards away.
But the general suffers from arthritis pretty badly. Just standing here for a couple of minutes was probably hell for him. I’ll bet he takes the ride.
He was right. Bishop replied, “Very well, Miles.”
There was another reason for Jock to be glad the offer had been accepted: he’d done a lot of walking and hill climbing the last few days; as a result, his bad leg was starting to act up. It would be protocol to escort the general to his helicopter, and he needed that extra walking like a hole in the head.
It could prove embarrassing, too:
That’s all I’d need…to have my leg give out and fall flat on my face in front of yet another general.
Or even better, let the men see me and Bishop trying to help each other to the helicopter like two broken-down old men.
That ought to be a real morale builder for the troops.
*****
By the time Jock got back to his staff on the hill, they’d worked up an excellent attack plan but with a few catches. It was Sean Moon who broached the problems.
“The northern route is definitely the way to go, sir,” he said, “but there’s a couple of things we need to be sure of. First off, we know we can ford the river at Honan-ni”—he pointed north, toward the village he’d just named—“but we gotta backtrack almost four miles to get there. If we have to put every vehicle in the regiment across in single file at that point, it’ll take all damn day. So we need another bridge or fording point…or something.”
“Okay,” Jock replied as he scanned the river with binoculars. “What else?”
“Once we’re across the river, we’ve got a clean shot into the city down the Kangdong Highway. But we don’t have any intel on that route. If it’s mined, we could be in deep shit. What’s worse is it crosses a belt of swamps about two miles outside the city limits, so going cross-country ain’t an option if we gotta go around a minefield.”
Patchett said, “Sounds like we need ourselves a little night recon, sir. Get us some answers to them questions.”
“Are you volunteering, Top?”
Jock expected his reply to sound something like this: I never volunteer for nothing, sir. If you’re ordering me, though…
But he was flabbergasted when his old friend replied, “Affirmative, sir. Count me in.”
*****
Patchett hand-picked the men for his night recon patrol: Corporal Delaney and PFCs Gomez, Medley, and Swoboda. He’d seen Delaney work in the dark before and had been impressed. He’d make an excellent second-in-command. The other three came highly recommended by their platoon sergeants; they all knew how to move quietly and stayed calm under pressure, he was assured.
Just before nightfall, the deuce carrying the patrol forded the Taedong River at Honan-ni. To their surprise and delight, they found the shallows there were broad enough to accommodate three lanes of river-crossing traffic. They didn’t even have to get their feet wet to make that discovery; they used a long survey pole from the bed of the truck to check the depth of the water.
That oughta make ol’ Bubba Moon happier than a pig in shit, Patchett told himself. We can get all our vehicles across in no time flat.
They stayed on board the deuce for several miles more, until the trail intersected the Kangdong highway. There the patrol dismounted and sent the truck back to the regiment. They’d be on foot and in darkness from that point on.
It was colder than anyone had expected. “I wish to hell we had gloves and thicker jackets,” Medley complained, his voice just above a whisper. “Florida boys like me don’t take to this climate too well, Sarge.” He was shivering already.
“You ain’t in Dixie no more, son. Better get used to it. It’s only gonna get colder.”
After they’d scouted the highway toward Pyongyang for about a mile, Patchett said, “I ain’t seeing no evidence of mines on this road. Ain’t none of that pavement been dug up, not this far outside the city, anyway. Let’s keep on going.”
Corporal Delaney replied, “Hell, Sarge…we ain’t even seeing confirmation that there are actually gooks here, either. It’s awfully damn quiet…and awfully damn cold.”
“Too damn cold,” Gomez mumbled as he rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them. “Ain’t you cold, Sarge?”
“Of course I’m fucking cold, numbnuts. But there ain’t nothing I can do about that right now. Neither can y’all.”
Patchett turned to Swoboda and asked if he wanted to bellyache about the cold, too.
“Me? Hell no, Sarge. I’m from Wisconsin. This is fucking warm for October…and it ain’t even snowing.”
Before walking another mile, they found out the KPA were definitely still around. They could hear the roar of tank engines behind them, the sound growing louder by the second. Patchett and his men got as far from the road as they could and crouched in the only concealment they could find: the darkness.
They held their collective breath as two T-34s barreled past them down the road, headed in the direction of Pyongyang.
Delaney whispered, “So I’m guessing this part of the road ain’t mined, either, Sarge?”
“Pretty good guess, Corporal.”
The sound of the tanks faded into the stillness of night.
Medley was carrying the radio. Patchett told him, “Get Regiment on the line, son. It’s time to report what we’ve seen so far.” He pulled a towel from his pack and draped it over the RTO’s head so his voice wouldn’t carry. The microphone didn’t pick up whispering very well, so he’d have to speak into it at normal volume.
Once the report was transmitted, Medley asked, “Does that mean we can go back now, Sarge?”
“No, son, it don’t. We ain’t done until we scout this road all the way to the city.”
Medley’s entire body shivered momentarily. Whether the cold or his fear was the bigger cause, he wasn’t sure.
*****
They realized they’d reached the swamp that straddled the highway when Delaney’s leg sunk into it up to the knee. He toppled, catching himself just before going face-first into the ooze. “Like I ain’t fucking cold enough,” he moaned. “Now I’m fucking wet, too.”
Patchett checked him over carefully. “You’ll be okay, Corporal. You ain’t wet nowhere above the waist. But let’s give you a break as point man, okay? Gomez’ll spell you.”
They set out again, this time with all five of them on the dry pavement. “Move quick now, y’all,” Patchett whispered. “This swamp ain’t supposed to be too wide.”
It wasn’t. After ten minutes of walking briskly, they were past the swamp, off the pavement, and paralleling the highway on dry ground again.
He brought his men to a halt, telling them, “Cover the clock, boys, while the corporal here gets his feet dried out. Can’t be letting you get no frostbite or trench foot on those dogs of yours, son.”
Swoboda asked, “What the hell’s trench foot, Sarge?”
Patchett just smiled and said, “Sometimes I forget just how young y’all are…and how little time y’all got in this man’s Army.”
But at least now they understood why he’d made them put a spare pair of socks in their packs.
Another five minutes of walking brought the moonlit outlines of blacked-out Pyongyang into view. Halting the patrol again, he told them all to listen carefully.
“Don’t you be making no sound yourselves, neither,” he warned.
The rifle shot that rang out almost immediately might as well have been the toll of a cathedral bell; it sounded impossibly loud, almost deafening. The muzzle flash lit their startled faces as if caught by a tabloid photographer.
Patchett knew Swoboda had fired the shot. Even from ten yards away, he could see the outline of a man lying at the GI’s feet. That man didn’t appear armed. He looked like a peasant farmer, not a soldier. There were two overturned buckets next to his lifeless body.
Swoboda stammered, “He just…just…just popped up. Right there…right in front of me.”
The tragic mistake couldn’t be undone. They might as well have lit a bonfire to announce their presence. Patchett told his men, “Nice and easy, let’s get outta here and go home.”
He kept them on the highway. Speed had become more important than stealth; if there were places to hide, they couldn’t see them, anyway.
They were back where the swamp bracketed the road. Once they were past it, he’d tell Medley to radio for the deuce to pick them up at the fording point.
A burst from an automatic weapon sent them to their bellies.
This time, the gunfire hadn’t come from one of his men.
Sounded just like a Thompson. The gooks still got more of them than we do, dammit.
In stilted English, a voice called out, “Do not make this harder than it has to be. You are surrounded. Lay down your weapons.”
No, we ain’t fucking surrounded, Patchett told himself. It’s for damn sure there ain’t nobody behind us. But if they got numbers on us up front, we might as well be surrounded, because if we go into that damn swamp, we’re as good as dead.
There was another burst of fire, this time from several weapons. One of them was even shooting green tracers. They could sense the rounds were well above their heads; intentionally so, probably.
They’re just doing a little recon by fire…and making a point at the same time.
Yeah, they got numbers on us.
And we’re lying here like roadkill.
Ain’t got no fucking choice. Better we fold…and maybe luck out with a better hand after a while.
“Don’t resist,” he told his patrol. “Lay them weapons down.”
Swoboda, his voice choked with tears, said, “I’m sorry, Sarge. I didn’t mean…”
“It don’t matter now, son.”
The voice called out again, saying, “Kneel with your hands above your heads.”
Then a flashlight clicked on, its beam backlighting the silhouettes of many armed men rushing toward them.
*****
Patchett had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. He was inside a building, seated on its cold stone floor. There was one bare window; only darkness loomed beyond the pane. It’s still night, he thought. Probably the same night, I reckon.
His hands were tied behind him with what felt like some sort of wire, its cruel bite slicing into his wrists. The left side of his face throbbed with pain. Trying to move his jaw amplified that pain to searing agony. His eye wouldn’t open: Probably swollen shut. Somebody smacked me upside my head but good.
There were three soldiers in the room with him. Two wore the battle dress of the KPA. The other, partially veiled in shadow at the far side of the room, was wearing a different uniform, one Patchett had never seen before. While Asian like the other two, there was something about his appearance—beyond his clothing—that set him apart from the Koreans.
Patchett recognized his voice the moment he spoke: He’s the one from the highway, when we got captured. Sumbitch speaks pretty good English. Gotta be some kind of officer.
“I’ll ask you again, Master Sergeant,” the officer said, stepping closer, “what time will your Twenty-Sixth Regiment attack Pyongyang?”
“Patchett, Melvin…master sergeant…serial number one six niner zero—”
His recitation of name, rank, and serial number was cut short by a blow to the head, administered by one of the KPA soldiers. Fists still clenched, he then stepped back so his victim could see his face.
Damn, I seen looks like that before, Patchett told himself as he took in the man’s demonic grin. That boy likes hurting people, whether he’s in or out of uniform. He’s got a screw loose somewhere.
A KPA officer hurried into the room. He seemed agitated yet subservient as he took the man in the strange uniform aside. Patchett couldn’t understand a word of what he said, but his pleading tone was unmistakable.
The tone of his superior’s reply was unmistakable, too: No. With a flick of his wrist, he dismissed the KPA officer.
“My counterpart is very eager to execute your men, Master Sergeant Patchett. But I have forbidden him from doing so.”
Gee, ain’t you a sport…
“Are you not curious as to why, Master Sergeant?”
“I reckon you’re gonna tell me one way or another.”
“Indeed, I will. The lives of your men will ensure that you answer my questions. So I ask you again, when will—”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“That is not very polite, Master Sergeant. Would you prefer I allow Comrade Pang to change your attitude?”
He pointed to the soldier with the demonic grin, that boy with the screw loose.
“Pang likes nothing better than to inflict pain. He’s especially proud of the many American soldiers—some very high ranking, like yourself—who he’s punished, even put to death.”
“He can go fuck himself, too. And I’ve got news for you, zipperhead…I ain’t high ranking. I’m an NCO. I work for a living.”
Patchett toppled over as Pang struck him twice more in the head. He could taste the awful metallic flavor of blood in his mouth.
The KPA soldiers returned him to a seated position. The officer now sat before him on a low stool, no more than an arm’s length away. The swirling stars had cleared from Patchett’s open eye. He could see his interrogator’s face clearly for the first time…
And it occurred to him what made this man different from the Koreans:
The eyes…the shape of his face. This ain’t no gook. He’s a chink. MacArthur’s full of shit again, thinking the Red Chinese wouldn’t butt in.
I got news for him: they’re already here.
Something else occurred to him, too: He’s threatening to kill my guys to get me to talk…but what’s stopping him? I expect he would’ve paraded one of them in here by now so this sumbitchin’ Comrade Pang could do him in.
I think this chink just might be bluffing me.
Don’t matter much if he is, though. I’m as good as dead already…
And if those four GIs of mine are still around here somewhere, so are they.
But I swear on my mama’s grave, I won’t give this bastard nothing. I won’t let the outfit down.
I owe Colonel Miles that much.
I owe every swinging dick in the unit that much.
“I will ask you one more time, Master Sergeant, when will the—”
“Don’t even bother, chink. Just go fuck yourself.”
The Chinese officer muttered a few words to the KPA soldiers and then stomped from the room. Comrade Pang was beside himself with crazy joy, shouting things in Korean that seemed to disturb even his partner. He kept saying those things as he slammed Patchett’s head against the wall several times.
Then Pang yanked him to his feet and pulled him to the door.
They stepped outside into the pinkish-gray light of dawn.
*****
The more Jock studied the maps and aerial photos, the more he was convinced: The KPA will try to escape Pyongyang to the north. Failing that, they’ll go west but will have to turn north sooner rather than later. Otherwise, they’ll end up in Korea Bay. The information in that one broadcast from Patchett’s radio made it clear the regiment could block both escape routes; as the main force plunged into the city from the north, a mobile team of armor and infantry would be able to split off and position itself on the city’s west side.
The main force wouldn’t encounter serious resistance until they were within the city itself. Kind of makes me wonder why we aren’t just bypassing and isolating the damn city, Jock thought, but that wouldn’t make for good headlines.
He—and every other man in the 26th—tried not to think that they might have lost Patchett and his recon team. The prevalent hope: The old goat’s radio just died. We’ll run into him hoofing his way back as we advance to Pyongyang. He’ll probably have a bushel basket full of intel for us, too.
*****
At sunrise, every unit of the regiment had already crossed the start line for the assault. Lieutenant Meriden’s tank company was spearheading the northern drive into the city with a battalion of GI infantry. Behind them was the regiment’s other battalion of GI infantry supported by a company of tanks led by Sean Moon; that battalion’s objective was to block the KPA’s escape to the west. Both elements had begun crossing the ford at Honan-ni in darkness at 0400 hours, once they’d received Patchett’s confirmation that the Kangdong Highway was not mined and wide open.
The weather was on their side. As FAC aircraft circled overhead, ranks of fighter-bombers—both prop planes and jets—loitered well above, waiting for targets to be designated.
The Australian battalion, reinforced with a battery of American artillery and a platoon of Pershings, would feint a frontal assault from the east to confuse the KPA and hold them in place within Pyongyang. They wouldn’t actually enter the city until the main thrust from the north had the upper hand.
“Remember,” Jock told his commanders right before they pushed off, “if we bottle them up here, we won’t have to fight them someplace else. And then, once we capture this capital, that should put the screws to this whole damn war.”
*****
Meriden’s tanks were on the Kangdong Highway two miles from Pyongyang, steamrolling toward the city’s outskirts. That’s where they ran into Delaney, Gomez, Medley, and Swoboda. The four GIs were soaking wet and on the verge of hypothermia.
But they were four, not five. When asked about Patchett’s whereabouts, Corporal Delaney shook his head. “Don’t know for sure, Lieutenant,” he told Meriden. “We were hoping he might be with you.”
“Afraid not. What happened to you guys?”
“We got jumped,” Delaney said, “but Sarge saved our asses. He hid a grenade on him somehow, and the gooks didn’t find it. They were marching us down this highway toward the city and they stopped…don’t know why. They were talking something over…they were real jumpy, you know?...and he rolled that pineapple into a bunch of them. Must’ve killed three or four of the sons of bitches. They didn’t see him do it, either…but they figured it out pretty quick. Things got crazy after that…half the gooks were still stunned from the blast, the rest were beating on Sarge…and the four of us managed to get away. Had to crawl through that fucking swamp, though.”
