Frozen Sniper

Chapter Nineteen

The rumbling of tank engines carried far in the frigid air. Like armored beasts, the tanks seemed right at home in the brutal landscape. With a clanking of treads and a roar, they started up the frozen road toward the Pungyuri Inlet.

Contrary to what the surrounded soldiers might think, they had not been completely abandoned or forgotten. Riding with the 31st Tank Company, Brigadier General Henry “Hammerin’ Hank” Hodes was among those trying to fight their way north to help the stranded troops.

Despite the tanks' appearance of invincibility, so far, the effort to bring the tanks into play on the battlefield had not gone all that well. The tanks under Captain Drake had rushed to the battle zone and arrived by nightfall on November 27th, but their commander had wisely opted for daylight the next day before attempting the narrow road leading north from Hudong-ni.

"Keep your eyes open," Drake had exhorted his men the next day as the three tank platoons moved along the narrow road. His warning was unnecessary because it was more than clear that the road was heavily defended by the Chinese. The Chinese did not have armor or heavy artillery to attack the tanks, but they did have their version of the bazooka. The weapon could fire into the tracks of a tank and disable it. As the tankers quickly discovered, knocking out the lead tank on the narrow road was as good as crippling them all because there was no easy way to get around it.

This was not ideal country for tanks. First of all, there were no clear avenues of fire. Here in the mountains, a tank could only see as far as the next bend in the road. And in this rugged terrain, the road was the only option. Striking out cross country through the steep ravines and mountains was not even possible.

But it was not in the nature of the tankers to sit idly by. If there was even a remote chance of reinforcing their stranded troops, they had to try.

One of those tanks was commanded by Staff Sergeant Paul Roxbury. At age 26, and untested in battle, he was as eager as anyone to take on the enemy.

"Look at this," Roxbury said, pointing out the remains of a medical unit that had tried in vain to bring supplies north. All of their trucks and most of their men had been wiped out by the Chinese. To Roxbury's eyes, the scene looked something like the remains of burned wagons left behind by an Indian attack. "The poor bastards never stood a chance."

Roxbury had to admit that the North Koreans and their Chinese allies knew the terrain, that was for damn sure. The enemy had set up their defenses in and around what was designated as Hill 1221, the tallest and largest of the mountains ringing the Chosin Reservoir. Ironically, the heights had been occupied by Marines until it was necessary for them to withdraw. The Chinese had since taken the high ground, occupied the abandoned defenses, and created a roadblock at a hairpin turn in the road that followed the foot of the mountain. Clearly, the Chinese plan was to use the blockade to prevent U.S. and U.N. forces from retreating — or from anything like this tank column to reinforce them.

Roxbury's tank was the third one back in the column. Up ahead, there was a flash and a trail of blowing smoke that signaled that the Chinese had fired one of their own bazookas at the lead tank.

"They got a direct hit on the lead tank!" Roxbury shouted to his men, practically unable to believe his eyes. The round had knocked the treads off the tank, effectively crippling it. "We have no choice but to go around it."

This proved easier said than done. For starters, the tank just ahead of Roxbury was heading downhill on the frozen road at a good clip. When the tank tried to brake, the result was that it slewed sideways and slid the rest of the way down, coming to rest against the crippled tank. Immediately, the second tank came under small arms fire. Chinese soldiers rushed toward it. Without supporting infantry, the behemoth tanks were largely helpless.

Roxbury looked around for a target to unleash his tank’s main gun upon, but saw nothing.

Another Chinese bazooka fired, hitting a tank. This shot had gotten luckier, though, and smoke soon poured from that tank's hatch.

"Back it up!" Roxbury shouted. Again, it was easier said than done. The tracks spun for purchase on the frozen slope. The tank immediately behind Roxbury tried the same maneuver and began to slip off the road and down a steep embankment.

Before long, the order came to withdraw. But for four tanks and twelve men of the unit, the order came too late. There had been a heavy price to pay for trying to relieve the stranded men. And in the end, the rescue attempt hadn't made any difference.

For all their snorting and power, the tanks had not proved up to the task.

Although they were itching to fire on something — anything — Roxbury and his crew had no choice but to withdraw with the other tanks.

Not that the remaining tanks of the 31st were ready to give up. They regrouped and were ordered to try again the next day. Now, they had just a dozen tanks, including the captain's command vehicle. This time, they also had air cover and even a platoon of supporting infantry. The question was, would that platoon be enough?

"I don't know that they'll hold up," Roxbury muttered. "Look at those poor SOBs."

Indeed, the sight of the supporting infantry did not inspire much confidence. Short on men, the captain had rounded up a motley collection of men who did not normally carry a rifle. These were cooks, clerks, and assorted support staff. They all looked grimly determined.

Roxbury had to give them that much. The trouble was that none of them had fired a weapon since basic training. But no one had the luxury anymore of simply being a clerk or a cook. This was turning into one of those battles where a soldier had to be a soldier.

One of them was a clerk named Hood, who still was trying to get used to the feel of a rifle in his hands. That was just about the only thing that he could feel, considering that his feet, ears, cheeks, and fingers were already numb. He was glad when they finally got moving so that he could keep the blood flowing.

Once again, the tank column headed north in hopes of pushing past Hill 1221 and the blockade. Roxbury was reminded of the myth of Sisyphus, the Greek gent who had been doomed for eternity to push a boulder up a hill, only to have it roll back down so that he had to do it all over again. He snorted, thinking that Sisyphus would be a promising nickname for his tank — if they survived the next few hours.

Moving north, the tank column was shadowed by its air support. But they lacked any communication with the Corsairs, which meant that the pilots were just going to have to use their own best judgment. Roxbury had seen what a load of napalm could do, and he wasn't entirely reassured by the planes hovering above.

It didn't take them long to reach the section of road at the base of Hill 1221 where they had run into trouble the day before. The wreckage of the medical unit trucks and the burned hulks of the tanks lost yesterday looked stark against the snow, stinking of burned rubber — and worse.

Once again, the Chinese were waiting for them.

Rifles fired, pinging harmlessly off the steel skin of the tanks. But it was the Chinese bazookas and Bangalore torpedoes that Roxbury was worried about. All that the enemy needed to do was disable one tank to block the road again.

The infantry platoon fanned out along the road, buffering the tank column from attacks by Chinese troops rushing forward with one of those Bangalore torpedo charges. A Corsair swept in, fast and nimble as a sparrow, hammering the hillside with its machine guns.

The trouble was that the pilot had mistaken the figures far below for Chinese troops. Without communication from the ground, he fired at the movement he saw parallel to the road.

"Dear God, no," Roxbury muttered, watching as the heavy slugs mowed down a handful of their own men. Some of those guys didn't even know enough to get down. They died staring up at the sky, never expecting their own planes to shoot at them.

That's when the Chinese opened up on them like they meant it. Machine-gun fire rattled off the tank. An unsettling sound, despite the thick armor skin. Then came the telltale whoosh and smoky plume of a Chinese bazooka fired at the lead tank.

Roxbury thought at first that the tank had come through unscathed. It was still rolling, that was for sure. But the tank was slewing sideways down the road, sliding down the frozen mud. Roxbury cursed. He could see that the right-hand track flapped ineffectively, so that the tank was like a ship without a rudder. The steel beast came to a stop, square in the middle of the road, blocking the rest of the column.

Outside, the makeshift infantry platoon of clerks and cooks was busy counter-attacking the Chinese troops closing in on the tanks. At first, Hood had welcomed the chance to actually fight after typing up reports as a company clerk. Now, he felt terrified. He fired his carbine at the Chinese, astonished to be so close to the enemy. Hit by enemy fire, the men on either side of him went down. Hood got off a couple more shots.

The next thing he knew, one of the Chinese threw something at him that proved to be a grenade. Before he could react, Hood was knocked out cold by the blast.

He came to because someone was pounding on his back. He rolled over to find a Chinese soldier bent over him, hitting Hood with his rifle. Either the Chinese soldier had run out of ammunition or his weapon was inoperable in the cold. Lucky for Hood, the soldier didn't seem to have a bayonet for his rifle or hadn't thought of it. From the angry shouts of the soldier, however, it was clear that the man planned to beat Hood to death.

He reached around and grabbed for his own rifle, lying in the dirt and snow nearby. With an effort, he swung the muzzle toward the Chinese soldier and pulled the trigger, killing him.

Then Private Hood rolled to his feet and skedaddled back toward the line of tanks.

There wasn’t much safety to be found among the tanks. Roxbury and the other tankers were astonished when the Chinese attacked the rear tank, trying to knock it out and box them all in. A few bursts from that tank's gun solved the problem temporarily. But the Chinese were far from done. The tank column found itself surrounded.

Another tank was hit, and the crew climbed out to try to make repairs. The Chinese were waiting for them, though, and picked them off. The disabled tank created yet another obstacle on the road.

Roxbury could see that this whole operation was falling apart. He had to admit that the tanks were next to useless on this road, hemmed in by close hills on all sides and unable to use their firepower to any effect. In those hills, the Chinese were dug in too deep to dislodge. He was relieved when the order came to withdraw.

But this would be a fighting retreat.

He opened the hatch so he could guide the tank as it reversed up the icy road — getting the tank turned around wasn't an option. He was surprised to see one of the infantrymen hurrying after them, in danger of being left behind. The poor bastard was bleeding and dragging one leg.

"Climb on!" Roxbury shouted, after ordering his driver to halt.

The soldier got aboard the tank, and they got the hell out of there.

Looking back toward where they had been attacked, he could see that the Chinese had set the disabled tanks on fire. Bodies lay strewn everywhere — some of them wearing Chinese puffy uniforms, and others the olive drab of Americans.

Most of the infantrymen who had been pressed into service were now dead, brave but unfortunate bastards that they were. They had lost two more tanks. The Chinese hadn't budged. Nobody was going to the rescue of the stranded troops.

What a snafu, Roxbury thought, only too glad to get the hell out of there while they still could.