Combat Reckoning, page 6
part #2 of Jock Miles-Moon Brothers Korean War Story Series
But it’s got so much going against it. First off, this place they call Green Beach isn’t much of a beach at all. Pretty shitty spot for an amphibious assault—too narrow and it’s strewn with rubble from the bombardment, which really favors the defender. It gives them a thousand places to hide while our Marines are in the open coming off the landing ships. And there was so much smoke from the bombardment when our first boats hit the beach. The infantrymen said they couldn’t see their hands in front of their faces for a while.
But still, they did real good. Already, they’re halfway to taking the high point on this island, Radio Hill. But what did you expect? They’re Marines.
Now here’s the thing—there are only two ways off this island. The first is across that narrow causeway that connects it to the city of Inchon on the mainland. But there are a lot more KPA in Inchon than there were on Wolmi-do, so we won’t be going over that causeway until we own both ends of it. Until then, between our tanks and the naval gunfire, we can keep the gooks from counterattacking across it.
The only other way off is back onto the sea. But we don’t have that option at the moment because this place must have the worst tidal pattern of any amphibious assault in Marine Corps history. It’s running out now…and in a little bit, it’ll be so low that no boats will be able to get on or off this island for almost twelve hours. We’re on our own until then. Everything from Flying Fish Channel to the shore will be nothing but mud flats. Can’t walk through them, can’t drive through them. Can’t even swim through them. How fucked up is that?
Like I said, we’re on our own until then.
Once the tide comes back in around 1700, a second wave of Marines will hit the two beaches at Inchon and secure the far end of the causeway. Then we can cross it and join up with them.
If we’re still alive to do it.
It figures that this whole SNAFU is an Army concoction. And to top it all off, the general in charge is some Army guy named Almond, like after the nuts.
Like I said, it figures.
As his tank rolled around the base of Radio Hill to its back side, Ramsay could see Marine infantrymen diving for cover as bullet strikes kicked up dust all around them.
“Get in front of those Marines,” he told his tank’s driver. “All of you, button up.”
Bullets pinged off the Pershing’s hull as it rumbled into position. A voice came over the interphone; it belonged to an infantry lieutenant, pinned down with his men. He was using the external handset mounted on the tank’s stern.
“The gooks are dug into the side of the hill, about halfway up,” the lieutenant said. “It might even be a cave. Can you take it out for us?”
Ramsay asked, “Anything bigger than that machine gun up there? Like an anti-tank gun?”
“Not that I know of.”
The tank’s gunner said, “I’ve got a crummy angle here, Gunny. But if we can move right a little bit, I can put one right down the throat.”
Ramsay was thinking the same thing, but he told the gunner, “Negative. Too risky for the Marines behind us. Take the shot from here. And do it right now, dammit.”
“Aye, sir,” the gunner replied, immediately followed by, “ON THE WAY.”
The Pershing’s 90-millimeter round exploded against the rim of the cave mouth, collapsing it. Its occupants were now buried inside, along with their gun.
“Damn,” the gunner said. “Probably couldn’t do that again in a million years.”
Like everything else about taking this little island, it had been too easy.
And that had Jim Ramsay worried.
*****
Wolmi-do was firmly in the Marines’ hands by noon. At the top of Radio Hill, the frustrated battalion commander assembled his staff. “It’s a damn shame,” he told them, “that we can’t just go across that causeway right now. But this is an Army plan, and you know how the Army works: hurry up and wait. I guess MacArthur thought we Marines would take all damn day to neutralize this little island. It was supposed to be a veritable fortress protecting Inchon from seaborne invasion, remember? Now we get to be sitting ducks for about five hours until the rest of the force can come ashore. Stupidest thing I’ve ever had the misfortune to be a part of.”
Every officer and NCO on the battalion staff was a veteran of the last war’s Pacific island campaigns. The same thought had crossed all their minds when they realized Wolmi-do was so weakly defended: This is just like every amphibious landing we did against the Japs—they didn’t fight you much on the beach. But gazing across the causeway to Inchon, they had a good idea what awaited them when they set foot on the Korean mainland: Once you moved inland, though, they fought you tooth and nail, bleeding you dry for every foot of ground you took from them.
So many of these Koreans were forced to fight for the Japanese back then. It figures that they’d pick up the same tactical mindset.
Do you suppose MacArthur figures that, too?
They weren’t giving much thought to the orders that called for pressing on past Inchon to Seoul, some twenty miles to the east. At the moment, not getting bombarded into oblivion or pushed back into the sea was their main concern.
Still, they were determined to prevail, telling themselves, We avoided a “Dunkirk” at Pusan. We can avoid one here at Inchon, too.
*****
Every news bulletin trumpeted the complete success of the Inchon landings. The Marines were ashore, MacArthur’s headquarters reported to the world, with the Army’s 7th Division right behind them. Together, they were pushing to Seoul. Once that city was secured, this American force—designated X Corps under General Almond—would push eastward across the Korean peninsula, blocking any exodus from South Korea by the KPA.
All that was needed now was for the rest of 8th Army—three replenished GI divisions and four lightly armed ROK divisions—to break out of their Pusan Perimeter and force the KPA north, becoming the hammer that crushes the enemy against X Corps’ anvil.
The Pusan breakout was proving a slower and more logistically daunting process than any of the planners at 8th Army had envisioned. They had been far too optimistic in assessing the capabilities of the bridges across the Naktong. The few pre-war spans that still stood—ones the Americans had crossed as they withdrew into the perimeter back in August—had suffered from the six weeks of combat that had raged on and around them. Sean Moon expressed the tankers’ sentiments this way: “If we try to put a Pershing across one of them bridges, don’t even bother trying to fish it out after it falls through because you’ll never retrieve one of those monsters once it sinks. Just use if for a support when you build the bridge to replace the one you just broke.”
The Division engineers agreed with him. “A Pershing weighs ten tons more than a Sherman,” they said. “Even the pontoon and Bailey Bridges we’ve been constructing will barely be able to take the strain. No more than one Pershing on a bridge at a time, with no jeeps or trucks, either. Keep the speed down to walking pace. We just don’t have the material to keep repairing those bridges over and over again.”
Jock Miles’ 26th Regiment had just received four of the lighter M4 Shermans to supplement the M26 Pershings. Two of the M4s were equipped with bulldozer blades. The other two had been converted to flamethrower tanks.
“We’ll put the Shermans across the river with the infantry right away,” Jock had told his commanders and staff at the briefing late last night. “Once we have two of our three infantry battalions across, we’ll give Boston Bridge and Pittsburgh Bridge over to the Pershings for no more than a half hour.” Turning to his tank company commander, he asked, “Captain Stokely, I figure that will give you enough time to get half the Pershings across—about ten vehicles. Do you agree?”
“Affirmative, sir,” Stokely replied. “We should be able to get ten across in that time frame. But if I can get a few more across, will that be okay with you, even if doing it involves splitting a platoon?”
Before he answered, Jock cast a quick glance at Sergeant Moon’s face. He’d learned how to read him unerringly; if the sergeant didn’t like an idea, you’d know immediately, without a word being said.
And as far as splitting up units go, nobody understands the tankers’ command and control issues better than they do.
But there was no hint that Sean objected to extra Pershings getting across in that first wave. In fact, he seemed enthusiastic about it.
“No, it wouldn’t be a problem, Captain,” Jock replied. He paused, and then added, “But getting less than half the Pershings across in that time slot would be a problem.”
“I understand, sir,” Stokely said. “We’ll make it happen.”
Jock continued, “Once the first group of Pershings has crossed, the reserve infantry battalion will come next. Then, the rest of the Pershings, followed by the support trains. Any questions?”
The artillery battery commander raised his hand. “When do my guns cross the river, sir?” he asked.
“Dead last, Captain,” Jock replied. “Right before first light, your battery will reposition from its present position behind the hills to an area close to the river so it can provide maximum fire support for the crossing.” He pointed to the large red goose egg drawn on the wall map, adding, “Set up anywhere in that area that suits you.”
“But, sir, I thought the directive from Division said that all direct support artillery would cross in conjunction with their dedicated units.”
“I’m interpreting that directive a little differently than you are, Captain,” Jock replied. “I want you as close to my troops across the river as I can get you, without having to worry about your guns being tied up in traffic jams on the bridges. Once I’ve gotten everyone else over the bridges, I’ll bring you across.”
With a worried glance to the map, the artilleryman said, “I’m just afraid you’ll be beyond the range of my guns before we ever cross, sir.”
“That’s a problem we’re not likely to have today, Captain.”
*****
Crossing the Naktong began easily enough. The only resistance 26th Regiment had met was light but persistent mortar fire. A forward air control ship had spotted the KPA tubes five hundred yards west of the river. F-51 fighter-bombers swooped down through the broken, low-lying cloud deck and strafed them into silence.
First Battalion was leading the advance. The only intact unit across the Naktong so far, it met serious resistance from the KPA only a few minutes after its trailing company cleared the bridge: heavy machine guns emplaced in two earthen bunkers straddling the road tore into the head of their column.
Attempts by GI infantrymen to execute flanking attacks on the bunkers were beaten back by the small arms and mortar fire of KPA troops dug into the hills just beyond.
The FAC couldn’t pinpoint the bunkers; they were well camouflaged from air observation.
“Let’s not waste time trying to mark them for the Air Force with our own smoke,” Jock told his battalion commander. “It’s too windy for that. Hit them with artillery instead.”
But two fire for effect volleys from the artillery didn’t harm the bunkers. They were dug in too well.
“Bring up the Shermans,” Jock ordered.
Within a minute, two M4s were on the scene, with Sean Moon commanding the leader, a dozer tank. Shouting up to the turret, Jock asked him, “How do you want to do this, Sergeant?”
“You tried shooting them with a three-point-five, sir?”
“Yeah. The rockets bounced off.”
Sean replied, “Shit. Let’s see what a seventy-six millimeter will do.” On the radio to his Number Two tank, he said, “Rocky, see if you can put a round on one of the firing slits. Better make it HEAT. Those bunkers got thick skin.”
The anti-tank round blew a cloud of dirt and shattered timbers high into the air above one of the bunkers. It didn’t appear penetrated, but the machine gun inside went silent.
“Did I knock it out?” Rocco Micelli asked.
“Don’t know, Rocky,” Sean replied. “Hit the other one, same way you just did.”
A second round flew, sending pieces flying off the second bunker but not penetrating it, either. That machine gun went silent, too.
“You shook ’em up a little, but they may just be playing possum,” Sean said. “Ah, what the hell…let me do it this way.”
He told the tank’s driver, “Raise the dozer blade halfway so we don’t take no shit in the face while we’re driving up to it. When we get close, we’re gonna plow up the ground right in front of that bunker and push it all up against the hot side.”
“What if they’ve got one of those Russian anti-tank rifles with them, Sarge?”
“Then we’re gonna get a hole in the blade, but that’s about all. Just don’t get sideways and give ’em a kill shot. Now get moving.”
In short order, the dozer tank smothered the front of both bunkers with a thick barricade of dirt. The driver asked, “You want me to get her up on top and try to crush this thing, Sarge?”
“Negative, negative,” Sean replied. “You’ll expose her soft belly when she’s on the upslope. That’s a good way to get our asses blown up. Let’s keep all her feet on the ground. Now drive around the back side so we catch the runners.”
He called for the other Sherman to come forward and provide covering fire as GIs approached the bunkers.
But there were no KPA runners. Jock’s infantrymen crawled on top of the bunkers and dropped grenades down the vent pipes. They used more grenades to blow the doors open.
Inside the two bunkers, they found eight Korean soldiers. Six of them were already dead. The rest were too dazed to fight.
Despite the Shermans’ attempts to neutralize it, the Americans were still taking small arms fire—and casualties—from the hills beyond. When Jock called for artillery to sweep those hills, he was told his direct support battery couldn’t comply; it wasn’t in its firing position anymore. The guns were hooked to their prime movers and were stalled in a traffic jam as they lined up to cross a bridge over the Naktong.
“Son of a bitch,” Jock fumed. “This is exactly what I wanted to avoid.” Then he asked his artillery commander, “On whose orders are you moving?”
The reply: “Sunshine Six ordered it.”
Sunshine Six: the commander of 24th Division, General Bishop.
His patience exhausted, Jock said, “Well, then, give me a hip shoot right where you are.”
“Unable.”
“Why?”
“We’re strung out on the bridge.”
Jock’s only viable option was to request the heavier guns at Division Artillery provide the fire support he so desperately needed. But that would take precious minutes to coordinate.
In those minutes, the stalled column became all the more vulnerable.
As soon as his RTO had called in the fire mission to Divarty, Sunshine Six was on the frequency, ordering Jock’s presence at Pittsburgh Bridge.
Overhearing the transmission, Patchett said to Jock, “Sounds like you just stepped in some shit, sir.” Then he added, “But before you run off, I took me a good look at those bunkers. They’re the spittin’ image of the ones we ran into in Papua back in the day. Reinforced every which way. Probably take a die-rect hit from a one-oh-five and wouldn’t hardly do nothing to the gooks inside except make their ears bleed a little. I’m telling you, sir, fighting these KPA is like fighting the Japs and Russians all rolled into one.”
*****
Since Jock took command of 26th Regiment back in June, he’d seen three division commanders come and go. Major General John Bishop was the latest. The first C.O. had vanished from the face of the earth during the battle at Taejon last summer; he was listed as missing in action. His replacement turned out to be more of an interim commander than anyone had figured, relieved in a matter of weeks. And then came John Bishop.
One look at the division commander led to the impression that he wouldn’t be around long, either. A frail man wracked with arthritis, he remained seated in his jeep as Jock approached. When he spoke, his words seemed strained, as if the act of speaking them was exhausting.
“I heard you fancy yourself as something of a renegade, Miles,” the general began. He said the word renegade as if he was spitting dirt from his mouth. “Do you consider my orders mere suggestions?”
Jock knew better than to attempt a reply to a question that had no good answer. He’d been in this man’s Army more than long enough not to fall into that tired old trap.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” he said, “but I have no idea what you’re referring to.”
“You know very well what I’m referring to, Colonel. I specifically instructed that all direct support artillery would remain with their parent units during the river crossing.”
“And remain they did, sir. They were just scheduled to cross last.”
“Considerably last, I’d say, Miles. Like hours behind you.”
“The directive didn’t specify who would go across when, sir. It only assigned time blocks for the crossings.” He paused as the general’s features tightened. Then he added, “And wouldn’t you say a regiment’s order of march is the prerogative of its commander, sir?”
Bishop’s irritated reply: “All you West Pointers are nothing but a bunch of quibblers, Colonel. I’ve put up with that nonsense from you ring-knockers my whole career, but I won’t have any of it in my command. Orders are to be followed to the letter. Is that clear?”
Jock looked at his hands, wiggling his fingers conspicuously. The only thing adorning them was his wedding ring. He’d lost his West Point ring in the jungles of Papua and never bothered to replace it. It hadn’t seemed that important anymore.
“May I ask you a question, General?”
Bishop nodded without altering the scowl on his face.
“When are you coming across the Naktong, sir? There are some things I think you need to see right away.”
The inference in that barbed question obviously annoyed the general. That had been Jock’s intention; the word on the new division commander was that he was a man who led from the rear.
