Chapter Nine

To Hardy’s eyes, these godforsaken hills were the last place on earth that anybody would want to fight over. All that he saw were rocks, hills, and scrub trees. Beyond the outpost, he saw more rocks and more hills. He recalled the rich farmland of the Midwest, where he had grown up. The fields here were small by comparison, scratched out of the rock, and mostly smelled like excrement due to the human waste that was used for fertilizer.

The communists can have it if they want it so much, he thought.

Although Hardy was a recent college graduate with an English degree, his education in the great works of literature mostly failed him in trying to describe the view. The landscape was just plain uninspiring. Eventually, a few lines from a poem entitled “Ozymandias” by Percy Bysshe Shelley came to mind: Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair/Yet all around the empty sands stretch away.

The Korean hills were not the desert, but the sentiment of futility was the same. What the hell was everybody fighting over?

“You look lost, soldier.”

The voice behind Hardy gave him a start. He turned around to find a young lieutenant standing with hands on hips, an amused expression on his face. The officer was only a couple of years older than Hardy.

“Yes, sir. I mean, no sir.”

“The billiards hall is just down this way, and ice cream parlor is just over the next hill.”

Hardy realized that the young officer was kidding. He grinned. “Don’t we wish, sir. But I am a little lost. I’m a reporter with the Stars and Stripes, and I’m supposed to write an article about the 65th Infantry.”

“You mean the Borinqueneers? I hope you speak Spanish. Most of them don’t know a word of English, and that includes the officers. We’re supposed to be working together and we can’t even understand each other.” He frowned. “Don’t put that in the article. Listen, the Borinqueneers aren’t going anywhere. What you should write an article about would be my tanks.”

“Tanks, sir?”

“Sure, that’s where the real story is. Have you ever been up close and personal with an M-46 tank?”

“Can’t say that I have, sir.”

“Then follow me, Private. I’m Lieutenant Dunbar, by the way.”

Lieutenant Dunbar led the way forward. Hardy wasn’t sure if he was being ordered to write about tanks or not, but he was curious now. With a shrug, he followed the lieutenant.

They climbed higher on the hill. Officially, this was designated as Hill 122. From up here, Hardy had an impressive view of the valley below with the Imjin River cutting through it. More hills marched away to the horizon.

The lieutenant pointed out one of the largest hills, front and center. “The Chinese hold that one right there. Hill 377. The boys call it the Rice Mound. Every now and then the Chinese get a hair up their ass and fire some artillery at us, and we shoot back.”

Hardy squinted at the Rice Mound, hoping for a glimpse of the Chinese fortifications, but didn’t see a thing.

The lieutenant seemed to read his mind. “They don’t show themselves during the day because our planes will knock the hell out of them. But they’re dug in on that hill, believe me.”

One of those hills was occupied by Outpost Kelly, the lieutenant explained, a forward position meant to provide warning of any attack.

“Who is Kelly?” Hardy asked. There was often a good story behind a name, but maybe not in this case, it turned out.

“Beats me,” the lieutenant said. “Just to the south of us there are three outposts named after cities in Nevada, so go figure. I guess somebody was homesick.”

Climbing a little higher, they passed a solid-looking dugout or bunker, its flat roof and sides heavily sandbagged. However, the front of the bunker was big as a garage. Hardy wasn’t far off about that. As he watched, a crew backed a quarter-ton truck fully laden with boxes of ammunition into the bunker. This must be a support vehicle for the tank unit.

Finally, they reached the tank battery itself. It was not what Hardy had expected. Instead of the tanks sitting out in the open along the ridge, each tank was pulled into its own dugout or revetment so that only the turret and gun sat above ground level. There was a lookout in the open turret, his head just visible above the hatch. The rest of the crew lounged on the ground at the back end of the tank, smoking cigarettes. They tossed them away and stood up as the lieutenant approached.

“How’s it going?” the lieutenant asked. “Anything?”

“No, sir,” one of the tank crew said.

“All right, I want you to make sure all the ammunition is squared away. When the supply comes around today, make sure you stack a dozen rounds right here.”

“Will do, sir.”

His orders given, the lieutenant turned back to Hardy. “Climb aboard.”

They scrambled onto the tank. Once he was standing on the back or deck of the tank, his perspective changed. Even dug into the revetment, the tank was much bigger and higher than Hardy had expected.

“Got a notebook?”

“Yes, sir.” Hardy was beginning to realize that not much got past this officer.

“Here are a few facts about the M-46 for you. This tank weighs forty-eight tons. It is twenty-eight feet long, twelve feet wide, and nine feet high. The steel on the front and the turret is four inches thick. The tank is powered by a twelve-cylinder engine that generates eight hundred and ten horsepower, which makes her a little thirsty. Three gallons of gas to the mile.”

“Glad I don’t have to fill her up, sir.” Hardy scribbled frantically in his notebook as the officer spouted facts. “That could get expensive. Back home, it was a big Saturday night if I could put two gallons of gas in my old man’s Buick.”

“You’ve got that right. Lucky for us, Uncle Sam foots the bill,” the lieutenant said, laughing. He moved forward, nodded at the man in the turret, then slapped the big gun. The easy way that he moved around the tank showed that he was right at home aboard this beast. “This is a 90 mm gun. You can see that we’ve also got a .50 caliber machine gun and two .30 caliber machine guns.”

Hardy whistled. “That’s a lot of firepower.”

“This is the finest tank in the world,” the lieutenant said. “A truly formidable machine of war, if there ever was one. There’s only one problem.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“A tank is meant to be mobile. We’re the modern cavalry, for God’s sake! Do you see a problem with our current situation, Private?”

Hardy ventured a guess. “Well, you’re not very mobile at the moment.”

“Not hardly. This isn’t France or Belgium, where Patton could race across Europe, chasing the Germans. The Chinese are dug in. We are dug in. So here we sit.”

Hardy thought about that. “Seems like a shame, sir.”

The lieutenant laughed. “You’ve got that right.”

From their vantage point atop the tank, Hardy watched as a group of soldiers passed by along the line of defense in front of the tanks, which had been situated to fire over the heads of the defenders. To Hardy’s surprise, the men wore U.S. uniforms but appeared dark-complected. All of them wore mustaches, which stood out because soldiers were required to be clean-shaven. None of them carried weapons, which was unusual on the front lines. The men strolled along in group of three and four, talking as if they didn’t have a care in the world — never mind that the Chinese were almost within hearing distance. Hardy didn’t know whether to be appalled or reassured.

A couple of the men smoked cigars, thick clouds of smoke swirling about their heads.

“Those are the Borinqueneers that you’re here to write about,” the lieutenant said. He started to say more, then hesitated. “The jury is still out on them.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“If there is an attack on this outpost, those are the men who will be defending my tanks.”

“In that case, they might want to pick up their rifles, sir.”

“Military training seems to be a little lackadaisical in Puerto Rico,” the lieutenant said, then seemed to realize that he was saying too much. “Don’t quote me on that.”

“No worries, sir.”

They made their way back to the ground. There was something pleasurable about climbing around on the tank, as if it were a jungle gym for soldiers.

Looking up at the monstrosity that was the M-46 tank, Hardy was glad that he did not have to face anything like that on the battlefield.

Hardy had to admit that he had been so focused on his assignment to write about the 65th Infantry that he might easily have overlooked this other, interesting story about a tank unit deployed to Outpost Kelly. Maybe the lieutenant was somewhat self-serving in that regard, but Hardy was appreciative all the same.

He took out his camera and took several photographs of the tank crew stacking ammunition, and got the lieutenant to climb back up on the tank and pose with the Chinese-held Hill 377 in the background. He also interviewed several of the crew members, getting their names, ages, and where they were from. To his surprise, none of the crew was a day older than 19. The lieutenant was 28 and had served in the last war as an enlisted man, though he looked younger.

The lieutenant seemed pleased by Hardy’s efforts, and they chatted for a while. Once the lieutenant found out that Hardy was a recent college graduate, he appeared to relax even more. He seemed to feel that could let his guard down a bit considering that Hardy wasn’t under his command.

“Listen, where are you bunking while you’re up here at sharp end of the spear?”

“I have no idea,” Hardy admitted. “I think the last thing the CO is worried about is where a reporter should lay his head for the night.”

“We’ve got room in our bunker,” the lieutenant said. “I’m in there with my sergeant and the tank crew, but we can squeeze in one more.”

“That would be swell, Lieutenant.”

“Good, that’s settled then. Say, how are you at catching rats?”

* * *

As it turned out, Lieutenant Dunbar wasn’t kidding about the rats. They had moved into the bunker almost as soon as it was built, attracted by the relative warmth and the promise of food scraps. It was a strange thing, considering that they were nowhere near any cities, which were the sort of places Hardy usually associated with rats. Then again, when he thought about it, there had been plenty of rats hanging around the chickens and barns even in rural Indiana, where he had grown up.

Of course, the soldiers did everything they could to reduce the appeal of the bunker, being sure not to leave any open food around, but the rats hadn’t gotten the memo.

“Do they bite?” he asked Dunbar.

“Not as long as you keep moving,” the lieutenant said. “When you go to sleep, make sure that you wrap everything up tight. I wouldn’t sleep commando, if you know what I mean.”

Hardy winced at the notion. “Some of these rats are the size of cats.”

“You must have seen some puny cats in your life,” Dunbar said. “These rats are bigger than most cats.”

He ended up sleeping fully clothed, except for his boots. As it turned out, that was a good thing.

A tank crew of five men, along with Lieutenant Dunbar and Hardy, shared the cramped bunker. He would have thought the bunker would be warm, but it felt cold and damp. The nights were chilly here in the Korean hills. To take the chill off, a gasoline-fueled heater burned inside, vented through a pipe through the roof.

Hardy viewed the heater with some skepticism. He had grown up around kerosene heaters, and those were dangerous enough. Left untended, the fumes could kill and they were a fire hazard. But a gasoline heater? It seemed to him that they might as well be sleeping with a potential firebomb in the room.

Judging by the sounds of snoring around him, the takers didn’t seem worried. Hardy was so tired that he puts aside his fears of rats and rickety heaters, and went to sleep.

It was around midnight when a crescendo of small arms fire woke him up. He rolled out of the bunk and onto the dirt floor. The fire seemed to be coming from inside and outside their own lines.

Dunbar and his tank driver were already on their feet, shoving on their Mickey Mouse boots and running out the door. Dunbar had his gun belt in hand and he shouted back at Hardy, all business now, “Better grab a weapon, soldier!”

There was no doubt that their position was under some kind of attack. But by the volume of fire, it was clear that this was not a full-on assault. Hardy was glad for that much.

From the lead tank, a soldier was shouting that he’d lost his weapon. “They shot my rifle right out of my hands! Where are my grenades, dammit!”

Hardy had grabbed an M-2 carbine that was leaning against the wall of the bunker. He had no ideas whose weapon it was, or even if the thing was loaded. He followed Dunbar and the sergeant, who ran for the tank. None of the other tanks seemed to be under attack. Without hesitation, Dunbar and the sergeant leaped up onto the tank, which was still parked in its enfiladed position.

The two men ran forward to the front of the tank and angled their weapons down. If the tank was still under attack, then this was where the attackers would be found. The lookout in the turret might have lost his rifle, but he held a pistol in one hand and a grenade in the other. Hardy moved forward, his carbine at the ready.

“Nobody there,” Dunbar said in a low voice, looking out at the darkness. If the Chinese attackers had gotten this close, they had either breached the defensive line ahead or somehow slipped through it.

“They were there a minute ago,” the lookout insisted. “I saw some guys and called out to them thinking that they were from the 65th, and the next thing I knew, they’re shooting at me. I started shooting back, but they shot the rifle right out of my hands!”

As if to prove the lookout’s point, gunfire erupted, stitching the darkness with tracer fire.

“Take cover in the tank!” Dunbar shouted.

One after another, they slid down the turret. Hardy banged up his knees and elbows in the process, but it was still a hell of a lot better than being shot. They had been sitting ducks up there around the tank. The others were more than a little familiar with tanks and easily slipped inside. Dunbar was the last man, and no sooner was he inside than he slammed down the hatch and secured it. They were now buttoned up tight.

From behind four inches of armor plating, they could barely hear the bullets splashing against the metal. To Hardy, it sounded a bit like rain falling on a tin roof. Of course, that was a peaceful sound. There was nothing peaceful about bullets hitting the tank.

“I’d shoot back if I knew what to shoot at,” the sergeant muttered.

“All dressed up and no place to go,” Lieutenant Dunbar agreed. “We’ve got all this firepower and we can’t even use it.”

Once the firing had subsided, the crew emerged.

Now that the excitement was over, the night seemed very quiet.

After an hour with nothing doing, Lieutenant Dunbar doubled the guard and returned to the bunker with Hardy. “You may as well try to get some sleep,” he said. “Besides, the rats are getting lonely.”

“What about you?”

Dunbar shook his head. “I’m going to make the rounds to the other tanks and make sure they’ve got both eyes open,” he said.

“You think the Chinese will be back?”

“It’s hard to say, but they’ve lost the element of surprise. If I were them, I’d wait a couple of nights and try again.”

Hardy curled himself tight in a blanket to keep out the rats, and much to his surprise, fell into a dreamless sleep.

He was awakened early to find Dunbar and his crew making coffee on the gasoline-fueled heater.

“Anything else happen last night?”

“All quiet on the western front. But now that it’s daylight, we’re going to walk out and see if we can figure out where that patrol came from and what they were up to.”

After a quick cup of coffee, he joined the tank crews on the line.

By light of day, they were able to inspect the damage to the tanks. The hail of Chinese gunfire had still caused its fair share of damage.

The radio antenna used to communicate between tanks drooped, having nearly been severed by a bullet. A second antenna for the radio to the command post had been shot clean off. Bullet splashes were spread across the flat surfaces of the tank. The bullet-proof glass of the viewing port was chipped and cracked from bullet strikes. Even the inside of the turret hatch had a bullet splash from when it had been flipped open. If the sentry hadn’t dropped inside to radio for help at that moment, he would likely have been killed.

Inspecting the damage, all that Lieutenant Dunbar could do was shake his head.

“I’ll bet you thought that we were giving you a quiet place to rest lay your head,” he said to the reporter. “Instead, it turned out to be one hell of a night here on Outpost Kelly. How’s that for a story?”

Lieutenant Dunbar formed the men into a skirmish line, just in case any of the enemy was still lurking in the tall grass and brush, and they moved forward from the tank position.

One of the first things they found was the sentry’s shattered carbine.

“I’ll be damned.” Dunbar picked it up and stared dumbfounded at the pieces. It really had been shot right out of his hands, the bullet smashing the stock to kindling. The man had been lucky that the wooden rifle stock had been there to stop the bullet, or he would have been the one to be mangled.

“Sir!” a soldier called.

Dunbar ran over and looked down at what the man had found. It was a Chinese soldier, shot through the chest. It looked as if he had died instantly, his eyes open and staring. He wore the familiar padded uniform, the once bright fabric gone grayish from hard campaigning. On his feet were a pair of thin-soled sneakers that wouldn’t have done much to keep the soldier’s feet warm. He wasn’t even wearing socks.

The dead combatant had been carrying a captured M-1 rifle, still slung over one shoulder. The sight of the rifle rankled them. Knowing the awesome firepower of that weapon, nobody wanted to see them used against their own troops.

“Our sentry managed to fire a few shots before that bullet wrecked his carbine, and I suppose he must have hit this guy.”

“Looks like the bullet drilled him right through the breastbone. He was dead before he hit the ground.”

“Poor bastard,” Dunbar said, shaking his head. “I’ll never get used to the sight of a dead man or feel good about it, either, whether he’s the enemy or not. Then again, I guess it was either him or us.”

As it turned out, the lieutenant wasn’t far wrong about that. Near the Chinese soldier’s body lay not one, but two, Bangalore torpedoes. These were essentially shaped charges on a stick, designed to destroy vehicles or even penetrate tank armor. Wielding them was basically a suicide mission.

The small arms fire had done enough damage to the behemoth tank. The blast from a Bangalore torpedo would have had a far worse outcome and probably killed most of the tank crew.

Oddly, scattered around the dead soldier’s body they could also see several leaflets in English. Dunbar picked one up, read for a moment, then snorted in disbelief. “Get a load of this. The Chinese want us to surrender and come over to their side. They’re asking us to abandon our imperialist ways and join our Communist brothers.”

“Do you think that ever works?” Hardy wondered.

“Hell, the Germans tried the same tactic in the last war,” Dunbar said. “We know how well that worked. Let’s just say that when they weren’t dropping leaflets, the Germans with any sense were busy surrendering.”

It did seem unlikely that any American soldiers would join the Chinese Communists, but Hardy supposed that stranger things had happened. Maybe one in a million switched sides just because he was crazy.

On the other hand, it wasn’t nearly as unusual for the Chinese or North Koreans to abandon Communism. One ploy that had worked was the U.S. Government offering a reward for a Soviet-made MiG. A North Korean pilot had taken them up on the offer, earning himself a hundred thousand dollars and amnesty for delivering a MiG that could be taken apart and studied by the military.

Unfortunately, the rumor was that MiGs were outflying U.S. planes due to a superior design. The design came from German engineers snatched up by Stalin at the end of the last war. This was all part of the on-going chess game known as the Cold War.

But here on Hill 122 overlooking Outpost Kelly, there were more immediate concerns.

“If that Chinaman had gotten through with his Bangalore torpedo, we might have lost the tank, not to mention the crew.” Dunbar shook his head. “We need to be on the lookout in case they try this stunt again. Knowing the Chinese, you can bet they will.”

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