Combat Reckoning Read online

  Patchett asked, “So it blew up in the sump? I reckon y’all wouldn’t be standing here talking about it if it hadn’t.”

  “I guess so, Sergeant. It must’ve gone into the sump. But I never saw it. Just felt it hit my helmet.”

  “Then you are two lucky sons of bitches. But did you dig that grenade sump wider like I told you to?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  Patchett replied, “Then I did damn fine, too.” With a tight-lipped smile, he added, “Y’all can thank me later.”

  *****

  Shortly after the quad 50 had swept the enemy soldiers from the hill, the torches across the Naktong flickered and died. The GIs on 143 heard nothing more from the KPA that night.

  As the sun rose on a new day, the commander of 26th Infantry Regiment—Colonel Jock Miles—made his way down from the peak of the hill to the river. Accompanied by Sergeant Patchett, the regiment’s sergeant major, Miles wanted a close-up look at the aftermath of last night’s fight.

  On the slope around LP Dog, they counted seventy-six KPA bodies, most horribly butchered by the heavy .50-caliber rounds.

  Patchett said, “About half these gooks are wearing at least one piece of GI clothing. Ain’t no wonder why, neither. Take a look at the ones that ain’t, sir.”

  The uniforms of the ones that ain’t were in tatters, worn until they’d practically fallen apart.

  “They been snatching more than just weapons and steel pots off them GIs they massacre,” Patchett added. “Now Uncle Sam’s putting the shirts on their backs, too.”

  They’d both studied the intelligence reports, the ones that said the KPA was at the end of its logistical rope. The scene before them was providing visual confirmation of that assumption. An army that couldn’t feed, arm, or clothe itself anymore, whose only resupply option was to forage and loot, was in dire straits.

  “Yet they keep coming, Top,” Jock Miles said. “What the hell’s driving these people?”

  At the river bank, they came across something that might answer that question. Six KPA soldiers lay dead in a line on the ground, each corpse face down. Unlike the other enemy casualties on the hill, their bodies hadn’t been shredded by .50-caliber bullets.

  Each had one neat bullet hole in the back of his head.

  “Plain and simple, sir, these gooks got executed,” Patchett said as he crouched over one of the bodies. “Powder burns on the scalp and everything. Done by a pistol, for sure.” As he stood up, he continued, “We know damn well none of our boys would do something like this.”

  He paused before adding, “GIs ain’t got the stomach for this kind of shit, sir. I’m telling you, these gooks got their tickets cancelled by their own cadre for not wanting to go up this damn hill. Those bastards are real big on killing their own kind. They’re vicious murderers, just like them fucking Japs.”

  “And like the Russians and Chinese, too,” Jock said. “After all, look who’s been teaching the Koreans all these years. That brutality has worn off on them. We saw it the minute we set foot in this damn country.”

  “Amen to that, sir,” Patchett replied.

  At the river, a platoon of GIs was rounding up dozens of small boats and rafts, pulling them onto the eastern bank so they wouldn’t drift back across into the hands of the KPA. The lieutenant in charge told Jock, “Looks like a big bunch of gooks beat it out of here once the quad 50 opened up, sir. There’s Russian equipment scattered all along the bank—mortars, heavy machine guns, you name it. They were in a big hurry to get back across the river.”

  Jock asked, “No sign of vehicles, Lieutenant?”

  “No, sir. Not a tire or tank track anywhere. No sign of big rafts or bridges of any sort, either.”

  Patchett took no comfort in that news. “Irregardless, sir, this regiment—hell, the whole Eighth Army—is still spread too damn thin. We can’t cover every fucking inch of this river at night, and it’s gonna bite us in the ass one of these days. Especially if KPA troopers got officers and NCOs who’ll put a bullet in their heads if they don’t keep fighting. Them gook soldiers don’t need no more motivation than that, from what I can tell.”

  They didn’t need to see much more; it was obvious what had happened last night. A KPA force of several hundred infantrymen had attempted to probe their defenses, looking for a weak spot to punch through. They didn’t find it and paid dearly in the attempt.

  Back at the CP, one statistic on the morning report stood out: no GIs were listed as missing from last night’s action. That meant that none of the regiment’s men had been captured or otherwise separated from the unit.

  Implied in that last category was this: no one had broken and fled to the rear at the first hint of enemy pressure.

  In that simple but crucial fact, Jock Miles knew that although this man’s Army was composed of men far less imbued with the sense of duty that had sustained the GIs of the last war, those men had finally understood that they were now in the business of kill or be killed, whether they liked it or not.

  And no overprotective congressman back home, railing against the harsh life imposed on his constituents in uniform, was going to stop a bullet for you, no matter how many letters of complaint you wrote to him.

  While this new breed of GIs was finally fighting well, they were fighting only in defense. To accomplish the job they’d been sent to do, they’d have to shift to offense and break out of the Pusan Perimeter.

  But 8th Army HQ didn’t seem to have any plans to do that. In the mind of a career soldier like Melvin Patchett, The brass got themselves way too comfortable being on the defensive. Defending is what you do while you’re getting ready to attack, but we ain’t getting ready to do jackshit. We can push these gooks back across the river every damn night if we have to…

  But that ain’t winning no war.

  The entire month of August had slipped by since the rumors of MacArthur’s big thing had started to circulate. There was no end to the speculation, but all theories had one thread in common: the big thing would be a game-changer that would win the war and have them all back home in the blink of an eye…

  Like maybe an atomic bomb or two.

  But speculation aside, nobody manning the Pusan Perimeter could say with any certainty what this big thing might actually be.

  Chapter Two

  The only other time Master Sergeant Sean Moon, US Army, had spoken with a member of the US Marine Corps was in a Hoboken, New Jersey, bar in 1942. Both men were enjoying a last night of leave before shipping off to war, Sean to North Africa, the Marine to the South Pacific. Their conversation had quickly turned to an exchange of insults aimed at each other’s branch of service. The inevitable fistfight followed, devolving into an interservice brawl that wrecked the bar and landed them and several of their comrades in the slammer. Both Sean and the Marine had been lowly PFCs back then.

  Here, at the southern corner of the Pusan Perimeter, it wasn’t likely that Master Sergeant Moon would be getting into a fistfight with Gunnery Sergeant Jim Ramsay, USMC. Brawling was fine for privates, but senior NCOs were, supposedly, above such things. At least in front of their men.

  But that didn’t mean the tone of their conversation had to be polite.

  “Look, Moon,” Ramsay said, “I appreciate you Army pukes trying to help us out with these new vehicles, but you gave us the worst pieces of shit and kept the good ones for yourselves. After one stinking tangle with gook armor, I’m down six of the ten Pershings I started out with.”

  Sean had watched that tangle from a distant hilltop near the town of Masan earlier that morning. As an NCO highly experienced in armor operations—experience he’d gained with Patton’s Army during the last war—8th Army HQ had detailed him to assist the attached US Marine Corps Brigade as they learned to employ a tank new to them, the M26 Pershing. In his work with the Marine brigade this first week in September, he’d gained a great deal of respect for their fighting spirit.

  But it was painfully obvious they’d never had to fight a serio
us armored threat before. The few Japanese tanks the Marines had come up against in the Pacific campaign of the last war were far inferior to what the Germans had massed in battle against the Allies in Europe. Now, up against the T-34 tanks of the North Korean Army, they’d be facing the Russian weapons and tactics that had demolished those tough German panzers.

  “First off, Ramsay,” Sean replied, “if I told your gyrenes once, I told ’em a hundred times: do not stomp on a Pershing’s gas pedal. Nine times outta ten, you’ll throw the fan belts and she’ll overheat on you in a heartbeat, just like four of your vehicles did today. Gotta give that pedal slow, steady pressure until the rpms build up. You ain’t got no clutch on these hydromatic trannies to help you control the torque like you do on a Sherman.”

  Fuming, Jim Ramsay mumbled, “These tanks are the biggest pieces of shit I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m damn lucky I didn’t get any of my Marines killed in them today. Now we gotta tow them back and—”

  “Bullshit,” Sean interrupted. “We ain’t towing nothing nowhere. I’ll take your mechanics, and we’ll go out and put new belts on ’em where they sit. Then you can drive ’em back. We only got one wrecker, and you gotta break the tracks to tow ’em, so this’ll be a hell of a lot faster and easier all around.”

  “Yeah? Who’s gonna provide the security for you and your guys while you’re doing that?”

  Sean laughed, like the answer to that question was the most obvious thing in the world. Then he said, “You are, Ramsay.”

  Before the Marine could protest, Sean continued, “And not for nothing, mind you, but your tactics are for shit. You ain’t fighting Japs on bicycles no more, for cryin’ out loud. You’re using your tanks like they’re just rolling pillboxes for your infantry to hide behind. That’s where you jugheads got it all wrong.”

  “It’s not jugheads, Moon. It’s jarheads. Get your terms right.”

  “Jugheads, jarheads…I don’t see no difference. But as I was saying, if you’re up against another tank, your infantry is working for you, not the other way around. You maneuver to get the kill shot on the other guy while they keep the sappers off your ass. You got two tanks shot up today because they were so damn busy shielding the infantry that it prevented them from maneuvering, so they were dead meat the second they came up against a T-34.”

  Jim Ramsay was like every other Marine in the Pusan Perimeter: they hated being attached to 8th US Army. They’d never be happy under the thumb of anyone other than a Marine Corps general.

  But Korea was MacArthur’s show, and as few as their numbers were, the Marine Corps had no choice but to comply.

  “I tell you what, Moon,” Ramsay said. “If you think you’re such a hot shit tactical genius, how about you get your ass out there on an operation with us?”

  “Boy, you got a short fucking memory. I tried, remember? But your colonel said no dice. So I watched you guys get your asses handed to you from the grandstand.”

  He let Ramsay stew for a few moments before adding, “But whaddya say we hit the old man up again? Maybe he’s ready to change his mind now.”

  *****

  The Marine colonel didn’t need much convincing. His only condition: “You’re an advisor, Sergeant Moon. Nothing more. Under no circumstances do I want you giving orders to any of my Marines. I get enough of that from Tokyo. You do know how to advise, don’t you?”

  “Affirmative, sir. I did plenty of that in KMAG with the ROKs.”

  The colonel stifled a laugh. Like most officers below the rank of general, he understood KMAG—the Korean Military Advisory Group—to be just another of MacArthur’s delusions that Washington had bought into lock, stock, and barrel. He was well aware its members decoded the acronym as Kiss My Ass Goodbye.

  “Well, let’s hope you have better luck advising my Marines than you had with the Koreans, Sergeant Moon,” the colonel replied. “It must’ve been a thankless job at KMAG. I don’t think anybody can teach those people anything.”

  “Actually, sir, the common soldiers were pretty tough cookies, for the most part. Their officers, on the other hand…they weren’t worth the—”

  The colonel cut him off. He really wasn’t interested in Sean’s thoughts on the strengths and weaknesses of the South Korean military. Only the North Koreans concerned him at the moment.

  *****

  The Marine brigade’s area of operation—the southern corner of the Pusan perimeter—occupied an area beyond the Naktong River, which flowed along the brigade’s right flank before emptying into the Tsushima Strait. Assaults by the KPA were unhampered by the need to cross the deep river, so they came in daylight as well as at night.

  It was early afternoon by the time the tanks that had thrown fan belts in the morning’s action were repaired. That put the strength of the Marine tank company at eight Pershings. Along with a battalion of infantry, the company had been immediately tasked to take the highway intersection two miles to the west, the same critical junction the Marines had failed to reach, let alone secure, in the morning’s fight. If the KPA still held the junction at nightfall, they’d be able to mass considerable forces under cover of darkness from two different directions against the Marines at Masan.

  The eight Pershing tanks were quickly reorganized into two platoons of four tanks each. Gunny Ramsay told Sean, “You ride with Second Platoon. They’ll be near the back of the column. Lieutenant Wadley’s the platoon leader. Go meet up with him and get yourself squared away.”

  But there was little time to get squared away. No sooner had Sean found Wadley, the lead elements of the column were on the move. The tanks of 1st Platoon were at the front, followed by two companies of infantry crammed into fifteen deuce and a halfs; the trucks began to roll slowly behind the Pershings in turn, like the cars of a long freight train being jerked into motion from a dead stop one at a time. Second Platoon’s tanks would come next, with one company of infantry in deuces bringing up the rear.

  The only good thing I can say about this SNAFU, Sean told himself, is at least there ain’t no gyrenes riding on the tanks. Maybe I got through to them that you only do that in emergencies. Tanks can’t fight worth a damn when you use them as buses.

  Lieutenant Wadley wasn’t sure how having an advisor would work—or where this tall and brawny advisor would fit inside the cramped tank. He asked Sean, “Where were you planning on riding, Sergeant? I don’t have a shoehorn big enough to stuff you inside this vehicle with the rest of us.”

  “Give your loader the day off, Lieutenant. I’ll take his place.”

  The loader didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled from the turret and hustled back to the tank park, intent on savoring his reprieve from certain combat, however brief that reprieve might be.

  By the time the Pershing carrying Sean and Lieutenant Wadley was moving on the highway, the leading element of the long column was already nearing the dismount point for the infantry: a town with an unpronounceable name the Marines had decided to call Ping-Pong. Beyond that town, the flat coastal terrain turned hilly, the high ground on both sides forming a natural ambush zone for traffic on the highway. Dismounted from the trucks, the Marine infantry could sweep the overlooking hills and neutralize any KPA ambushers lying in wait.

  Scanning the empty sky from the loader’s hatch in the turret, Sean asked, “You Marines ain’t real big on air cover, are you, Lieutenant? I don’t see a plane anywhere. No chatter on the air support frequency, neither.”

  Wadley replied, “Marine and Navy air are in pretty short supply in these parts right now, Sergeant. Scuttlebutt has it they got sent someplace else to do God-knows-what.”

  “That ain’t no excuse, Lieutenant. Ain’t the Air Force good enough for you? They’ll come if you call ’em. They ain’t particular.”

  Wadley said nothing in reply, but from the look on his face, he’d already dismissed the suggestion. He went back to scanning the road ahead with his binoculars.

  When he saw the tracers ripping through the head of the column, h
e couldn’t believe his eyes.

  “Holy crap! Are they getting hit?” the lieutenant asked.

  “You bet your ass they are,” Sean replied. “And they ain’t even reached the dismount point. Your Marines are gonna get sliced to ribbons if they don’t get outta them damn trucks.”

  “This is a dumb place for the gooks to stage an ambush,” Wadley said, as if an umpire rather than a participant in the fight. “The terrain doesn’t favor them at all.”

  “Yeah? The gooks don’t think so, Lieutenant. Maybe they didn’t read the rules you want ’em to play by.”

  Then the trucks behind Wadley’s tank platoon began to take fire from heavy machine guns, too.

  “Dammit, they’re everywhere!” Wadley shrieked, as he started to climb from the turret to man the .50 caliber on its roof. Sean grabbed him by his ankles and pulled him back inside.

  “There’s a better way, Lieutenant,” Sean said, “and you might not get your ass killed doing it, neither. For openers, stay in the fucking tank.”

  “But the deuces! We’ve got to protect them!”

  “And we will. All the fire at this end of the column is coming from one fucking spot, a coupla hundred yards south—”

  “You saw them?”

  “It ain’t too hard to figure out where they’re at. Now how about we take this tank and your Number Two and drive straight at those gooks?”

  “But the ditches! We don’t know if the terrain off the road is—”

  “Nothing wrong with the terrain, Lieutenant. Just make sure the drivers leave the road on the perpendicular, so the hulls don’t bottom out in the gully. And radio for those Marines in that next deuce back to dismount and follow us, before they get their asses riddled like sitting ducks. They can make themselves useful keeping the gooks off our decks.”

  Wadley issued the orders as Sean suggested. Within seconds, the tanks were off the road and plowing toward the KPA machine gun nest. The Marine infantry in the trucks behind them dismounted, a squad following behind each of the two Pershings. The rest took up firing positions in the roadside ditches.