When the attack on the outpost began, Cole and the rest of his squad were called from their sodden tents to bolster the defensive line. There was always the possibility that the Chinese attack on Outpost Kelly was just a ruse and that their real intent was to punch through the Main Line of Resistance.
“Don’t this beat all. I’ve seen hog troughs that looked better,” Cole muttered, slogging with the others into trenches half-filled with muddy water. They used their helmets to bail out the trenches as if they were on a sinking boat. Most of the men found themselves crouching in the muddy water as the occasional Chinese shell whistled overhead. Keeping dry was hopeless. Keeping the actions and muzzles of their weapons free of mud was challenging.
“Do you think we have anything to worry about from the Chinese?” the kid asked nervously.
“It’s hard to say, kid. They are sneaky bastards.”
“That’s for sure.”
“Whatever you do, keep your weapon clear of the mud. If the Chinese do show up, you’ll need it to shoot more than spitballs.”
The monsoon had been like a respite from the war, the heavy rain shutting things down, but now the war had returned.
Watching from a distance, Cole saw the explosions of mortars pounding their boys on the hill. The crackle of small arms fire and the chatter of machine guns carried clearly to them on the humid air. The damn Chinese blew their bugles and whistles. When you weren’t in the middle of a battle, getting shot at, Cole reckoned that war was indeed a grand spectacle.
He settled back, Cole’s boots squelching as he tried to get comfortable. He put the rifle to his shoulder, using the scope to scan for any targets. However, Outpost Kelly was just too far to do any good against the Chinese, who were mostly keeping out of sight.
Briefly, he considered working his way forward so that he could lend a hand against the Chinese, but just as quickly decided against it. If an attack on the main line did come, he would be stranded in no-man’s land.
It was best just to wait. He was sure their time to fight would come soon enough.
Until then, Cole would do what soldiers always had done. He would wait.
“Seems like a lot of fuss over nothing, don’t it?” Cole mused, watching the fighting from the sidelines.
“Sure does,” the kid agreed. “It’s just another hill. If you don’t like that one, pick another. There are plenty to choose from.”
Cole grunted. “You’d be right about that.”
There was nothing special about Outpost Kelly. It was just another outpost beyond the MLR that Cole and the others occupied.
The earlier days of the Korean conflict, with both sides moving over vast distances and fighting for control of huge territories, had long since devolved into something more akin to trench warfare. And yet, the lines remained somewhat fluid, with both sides pushing and pulling for every advantage.
The outposts set up by the United Nations forces were a way to lay claim to more territory beyond the MLR. The outposts also functioned as a canary in the coal mine to warn of enemy attack.
The problem was that the Chinese also wanted that territory — which explained the fight over Outpost Kelly, which otherwise occupied a useless hill among the many that filled the landscape.
It was no secret that the war had become like a game of musical chairs. When the music stopped, both sides wanted to make sure they had grabbed as much territory as possible, which explained why neither side was content to sit in their defenses and wait. Seizing the advantage of pushing a few miles one way or another could mean being able to lay claim to huge swaths of territory when the final lines were drawn between North and South Korea.
These lines on the map had real meaning, however. The entire futures of generations of Koreans would be decided by these final battles, depending upon which side of the boundaries their villages ended up. For Jang-mi and her village, it was looking more and more as if they would be on the wrong side of the fence.
Cole thought about that. Maybe he could talk her into staying? But for all he knew, she had already returned to her village in the hills.
The attack had come near dusk, and as full darkness arrived, the night came alive with explosions and tracer fire.
“Hey, that’s the best Fourth of July fireworks I’ve ever seen!” somebody shouted.
“Shut up, you damn greenbean. See how you like it when you’re in the middle of it.”
That comment silenced the soldier, who surely had been one of the replacement troops who had just rotated in. Even the damn officers were all new for the most part in this section of the MLR. If the Chinese and North Koreans attacked now, they would have every advantage against the green troops and officers.
Cole watched the attack with the others, his sense of apprehension growing. “Those boys are catching hell,” he said. “How much longer can they hold out?”
“The Chinese are throwing everything at ‘em but the kitchen sink, that’s for sure,” the kid responded.
Cole had to agree, and before long, they had their answer. The fire on Outpost Kelly began to slacken, but not because the U.S. troops were winning the fight.
A pair of figures loomed out of the darkness.
Nervous fingers soon found triggers, a shot or two was fired, and the figures threw themselves to the ground.
“Hold your fire!” Lieutenant Ballard shouted. “Those are our guys!”
Ballard ordered the squad out to help them, and they half-dragged, half-carried the men back to the lines. These were the survivors of the fight for Outpost Kelly, which had been completely overrun.
A dozen more stragglers came in, battered and bloodied by the fight.
“Where’s the rest of them?” somebody asked. The outpost had been in company strength. But as hard as the men in the trenches peered into the darkness, they couldn’t see any additional survivors.
“The Chinese wiped them out,” the kid said.
“So they did,” Cole agreed.
“The whole company,” the kid said in disbelief, a catch in his throat. “Just gone.”
The kid was expressing how everybody felt, thinking about so many men being lost on that hillside. The Chinese would have used their bayonets to finish off any wounded left behind. Those poor, unlucky bastards. More than a few of the men around Cole had friends or acquaintances in the decimated company.
Soldiers shouted out names to the survivors. “Did Jameson make it?”
“What about Bowlegs Johnson?” another asked. “He still owes me ten bucks from a poker game.”
The survivors just shook their heads before moving off toward the rear. In the darkness, a gloomy silence fell over the muddy ditches and trenches.
“Better get some sleep if you can, kid. Sure as a cow chews a cud, they’re gonna send us to take back that hill in the morning.”
“All right, men, here’s the plan,” explained the battalion commander at the bunker. “We cannot allow those Chinese to occupy Outpost Kelly permanently. If they establish artillery on that hill, they will be within easy range of our lines. Hell, they can just throw rocks at us if they want. It will also give them a base from which to constantly attack and harass our MLR.”
In the crowded bunker, there were only grunts of assent. “Damn straight,” someone muttered. “Shouldn’t have lost Outpost Kelly in the first place.”
“All right, that’s enough of that,” Lieutenant Colonel Switalski said impatiently. “We’re just going to have to get that hill back.”
The lieutenant colonel waited until everyone settled down. During the monsoon rains, the CP had been spared the same fate at the tankers’ bunker and remained standing. Several officers and NCOs were packed into the cramped bunker, along with a few company clerks to serve as errand boys. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of bitter coffee, along with the dank odor of unwashed men and damp uniforms. It was clear that this was not a party at the 500 Club.
Don Hardy glanced at his Timex, blinking at the fact that it was two o’clock in the morning. For the men and officers in this section of the MLR, there was going to be precious little sleep tonight. Maybe not the next night, either.
Hardy stood in the back of the jammed bunker, trying to blend in. At over six feet tall, he stood out from the crowd, so he slouched down a bit.
“You may as well come along,” Dunbar had said. “That way, you’ll get the lay of the land for the attack.”
“Are you sure it’s all right, Lieutenant?”
Although Hardy was an enlisted man, he and the lieutenant had hit it off because they were nearly the same age and both college graduates. They had also turned out to have a similar enjoyment of reading western novels. They had even ended up swapping the paperbacks they had just finished. In the pages of a good western, the good guys always won and the bad guys always lost, which was not the case in Korea.
In one on one conversation, they were on a first-name basis. In front of anyone else, Hardy was careful to address the lieutenant as “sir.” He was an officer, after all.
Unlike some officers, the lieutenant seemed to respect the fact that Hardy was doing his best to cover a war that was largely being forgotten. Americans back home had lost their taste for the war. Fighting Hitler and Emperor Hirohito in the last war had been a necessity that anyone could grasp, but defending a place most Americans couldn’t pick out on a map felt pointless.
Although the Stars and Stripes was mainly a military publication, a lot of people back home read it — mainly the families of those in the military or retired military. Nonetheless, it remained an influential publication.
“If anyone asks, I’ll just say that you’re my aide de camp,” the lieutenant had said. “But believe me, nobody is going to ask.”
“All right, then. I’ll come along and bring my notebook.”
Hardy was just as happy to remain with the tankers during any counter-attack against Outpost Kelly. At the battle of Triangle Hill, he had found himself as part of the squad assaulting Chinese positions. While it had given him a great story, it was not an experience he was eager to repeat anytime soon.
Hardy didn’t feel any need to prove himself again, nor did he feel any sense of cowardice at not being part of the attack. Instead, he felt a strong desire to survive the war and get on with his career as a journalist, preferably somewhere like the Indianapolis Star—where nobody would be shooting at him.
Lieutenant Colonel Switalski went on with the battle plan. “After the artillery and tanks firing in support soften them up, our assault will begin. The boys from the 65th will lead the advance, here and here.” The officer tapped at a map that had been hung on the wall. “Charlie Company will attack here. Your orders, gentlemen, are to occupy and hold all positions. We need to take back that outpost.”
“Yes, sir.”
Looking closely at the map, Hardy could see that it was rudimentary — almost like something the coach would have drawn to illustrate plays back in his high school football days. And yet, the map effectively showed the hilltop, on which was a single command bunker and several mortar and machine-gun emplacements fortified with sandbags. About two thirds of the way up, a deep trench encircled the crown of the hill itself, reminding Hardy of a monk’s tonsure. Basically, for the defense of Outpost Kelly, the United States Army had reconstructed an ancient hill fort.
Even from the back of the room, the plan seemed clear to Hardy. But he had been in the Army long enough to know that plans were one thing, and what actually came about once the shooting started could be something totally different.
The counterattack began before first light. A remnant of the monsoon had moved in, resulting in a light drizzle adding to the misery of the already damp troops. After the gathering at the command post, the officers had returned to their units to prepare for the attack. For the men of the tank unit, this preparation had meant stacking rounds both on the ground and high on the back deck of their tanks for easy access.
Normally, ammunition was stored within the tank itself. But with the tanks stationary and acting as artillery, the idea was to enable a high rate of fire. Lieutenant Dunbar’s plan was to essentially create a bucket brigade passing shells into the tank turrets. Hardy could have sat out the fight as an observer, but he volunteered to help with passing the shells.
“Much appreciated,” Dunbar said, clearly pleased because the tankers were going to be shorthanded, even with the mechanics pressed into service. “This is going to be harder than pushing a pencil, you know.”
“No worries there,” Hardy said, flexing his big shoulders. He had stuck his reporter’s notebook in his back pocket. “I grew up tossing hay bales, so this is nothing.”
“One bit of advice,” the lieutenant said. “Stuff some cotton in your ears.”
When the firing began, Hardy was glad for that cotton. The four tanks on the hill opened up on the outpost with a deafening cacophony amplified and echoed by the hills and valleys.
Soon enough, Hardy realized that tossing hay bales into the loft of a barn had been good preparation for tank duty. Each 90 mm high explosive round weighed forty pounds and required wrestling it up from the ground to the tank turret. The first few shells weren’t so bad, but then the work became grueling. It was taking two smaller men working in pairs to lift the shells, while the bigger men like Hardy insisted as a matter of pride that they didn’t need help. They soon swallowed their pride and worked in pairs. The surface of the tank itself became slick with mud and rain. Hardy slipped and banged his knee hard against the tank. He felt his trousers rip and blood trickle, but there was no slowing down.
“Keep ‘em coming!” one the tank crewmen shouted, popping his head out of the turret. If this was hard work out in the open, Hardy couldn’t imagine what it must be like handling the heavy shells inside the cramped, stifling interior of the tank. The tankers’ knees, elbows, and shins paid a heavy price with all of the jutting metal configurations of the tank interior that they navigated in semi-darkness.
It didn’t help that the monsoon had left steamy summer-like temperatures in its wake. The sun hadn’t even made an appearance, but the young men stripped off their shirts and let the sweat run off them in the humid pre-dawn stillness.
Hardy barely had time to look up and notice the fireworks show taking place on Outpost Kelly. Not only were four tanks hammering the Chinese-occupied position, but also the artillery. One white-hot explosion followed another on the hilltop. A dense pall of smoke hung over the hill, lit an angry red from below. The scene reminded Hardy not of a bombardment so much as a volcanic eruption.
It was almost possible to feel sorry for the enemy troops up there. How could they possibly survive?
However, the Chinese were not defenseless. Mortars returned fire from Outpost Kelly, along with Chinese artillery from Hill 377—the Rice Mound. Lucky for the tankers, they were well dug-in and protected.
A head popped out of the turret again. “Where’s the lieutenant? We’ve got a problem. We can’t see a thing. The barrel keeps steaming up.”
The tanks were delivering such a high rate of fire that the light rain instantly turned to steam when it hit the hot steel of the barrel, obscuring their aim.
Expecting just such a problem, Lieutenant Dunbar had already worked out a solution earlier by plotting an azimuth and gunner’s quadrant elevation to deliver fire to the hill. “Forget aiming by sight,” he said. “We’re going to aim by the numbers.”
The tanks continued firing, adding to the hell on the hilltop.