Red Phoenix

CHAPTER 22 Red Phoenix

The North Korean gun crews crouched motionless beside long-barreled artillery pieces and squat, openmouthed mortar tubes. Others stood beside truck-mounted, multiple-barrel rocket launchers. Outside their hardened shelters, they could hear jets roaring overhead on the way south, but the gunners were content to wait. Their moment was coming.

Deep inside a command bunker, the general of artillery studied his watch and then nodded to an aide holding a telephone. “Move into firing positions.”

The aide hooked the phone into the general command circuit and passed the order to the hundreds of battery commanders all along the DMZ who had been waiting on the same circuit.

The order stirred the waiting gun crews into frantic activity. Some men ran to open heavy blast doors that protected their shelters, while others levered the guns forward into their firing positions. The Ural-375 trucks carrying Soviet-designed rocket launchers rolled out into the open and parked with their launch tubes swung off to the side to protect the vehicle itself from blast damage. Mortar crews jumped down into firing pits that held their weapons and stood ready by them.

None of the gunners could see the enemy. The same snow-covered ridges and hillsides that protected them from enemy observation limited their own view of the areas their shells would strike. Once the battle was joined, they would rely on the data gathered by forward observers in the front line and passed back through the artillery chain of command.

Secure in his bunker, forty kilometers behind the DMZ, the general of artillery smiled, imagining the havoc his guns would wreak on the Americans and their Southern puppets. He had organized what would be the heaviest barrage seen since the end of World War II by concentrating more than 6,000 artillery pieces, 1,800 multiple rocket launchers, and 11,000 mortars against the imperialists. With an average of 500 gun tubes per kilometer of breakthrough front, he would overwhelm the enemy fortifications with a shock wave of explosive fire. All told, the first salvo alone would send nearly 2,000 tons of high-explosive smashing into their bunkers, command posts, artillery parks, and supply depots. And his men would be firing four to six salvos a minute. The imperialists would be annihilated.

Annihilated. He savored the thought as the second hand on his watch marked the hour. It was time. The general turned to his aide and barked, “All guns. Open fire!”

With a thunderous, rolling crash, thousands of artillery pieces fired at the same moment. And even as the first wave of shells arced up and over into the predawn night sky, the gunners were already racing forward to reload. Their next rounds would be in the air before the first salvo exploded on the imperialist positions.

Second Lieutenant Kevin Little dreamed of rain. Not a soft, whispering spring rain. A hard, cold winter downpour, with thunder and searing lightning to back it up.

The thunder threw him out of his cot and onto the CP’s dirt floor.

He came awake to find himself scrabbling on his knees and coughing in dust-choked air. The whole dugout seemed to be rocking back and forth, swaying first one way and then the other. A tiny Christmas tree his men had decorated toppled over in a heap of tinfoil and broken ornaments. He grabbed for the table with his maps and phones as a small, battery-operated lamp fell over and smashed. Jesus, what was this? An earthquake?

But the real answer came as his mind sorted out the separate parts of the unearthly din outside the small bunker. Dull, muffled rumbling from the north, high-pitched, whirring screams passing overhead, and a continuous, ear-splitting succession of explosions from the south. It was artillery fire.

Kevin grabbed for his helmet and flak jacket. Got to get out. Get out before this place came down around his ears. He looked around and saw Rhee fumbling into his own gear. The Korean lieutenant had a wild-eyed, disbelieving look on his face — an expression that was probably mirrored on his own. Oh, God, this had to be a nightmare. Please, make it a nightmare.

The door crashed open and Sergeant Pierce burst into the CP followed by Corporal Jones, the platoon’s signalman. Both Pierce and the corporal were in full combat gear, and both were wearing white camouflage snowsuits over their uniforms. Kevin could see the sky paling to a predawn gray through the open door.

Pierce pushed Jones over toward the commo gear and turned to Kevin, “Let’s go, Lieutenant! We’ve got big-time trouble in River City here. Got arty coming down all over the place behind us.”

Kevin stood uncertainly, having reconsidered his earlier decision. Now it seemed incredibly stupid to run out into the middle of an artillery barrage. Better to stay here; the bunkers were designed to protect people from this kind of stuff.

Pierce saw his momentary indecision. “It ain’t landing on us, goddamnit. It’s those poor rear-area slobs who’re getting dumped on. But we got North Koreans pouring around us like fucking ants. If we don’t do something about it, we’re gonna be eating NK kimchee for the rest of this frigging war. Now let’s go!”

The sergeant didn’t wait for a reply. He just turned and headed back up the communications trench toward the forward slope.

Rhee snagged his white camouflage jacket with one hand and lurched out through the door carrying his rifle in the other, heading for his position with 2nd Squad along the rear slope of the hill. Kevin bent and pulled his own jacket out from underneath his cot. Then he followed Rhee out into an icy maelstrom of windblown dust, snow, and smoke.

It was bitterly cold, and Kevin could feel the chill air bite down deep into his lungs as he jogged up the communications trench. The bombardment was even louder outside. A constant pounding that rumbled through every part of his body, not just his eardrums. He could feel his teeth rattling from the concussions. But he knew that was only half-right.

He was scared. Scared worse than he’d ever been before in his life. Something in his brain kept telling him to turn around, to run for cover while there was still time. But another part of him resisted, remembering the look in Pierce’s eyes. He kept stumbling forward.

The main trench was crowded with the other men from his platoon. Pierce moved among them, cajoling them into their gear and pushing them into their assigned positions. But he held them back below the trench’s firing steps.

He saw Kevin and nodded. “Take a look through the scope. You’ll see we’ve got company.” He had to yell to make himself heard through the howling din of the barrage.

Kevin turned the trench periscope into position. My God. The whole northern horizon was a flickering sea of light, an artificial sunrise made by the massed artillery firing from behind ridges and hills.

He swiveled the scope down to look at the ground around the outpost. It took him a moment to comprehend what he saw. Then he understood. He was looking at his worst nightmare come to life.

The rough, broken ground below Malibu’s small hill was crawling with North Korean infantry, tanks, and APCs. A part of him automatically started trying to count them. Fifty, no, sixty tanks at least. He couldn’t make out the exact types through all the dust and smoke, but they all had guns. One lay immobile, spewing a cloud of oily, black smoke. Must’ve hit a mine, thought Kevin. He stared transfixed at the spectacle laid out to either side of the small hill topped by Malibu West. Row after row of infantry, looking like black ants in the distance, marching south in open order, followed by waves of wheeled and tracked personnel carriers. At the very edge of his vision the enemy’s ordered lines were breaking up under what looked like an American artillery fire mission — bright, orange-red flashes opening like short-lived flowers as time-fused shells burst in the air. It gradually dawned on Kevin that he was seeing the forward elements of what could only be an entire North Korean motorized rifle division.

Pierce followed the direction of his scope and tapped him on the shoulder. “We’ve got some troubles a little closer to home, Lieutenant. Down by the wire.”

Kevin adjusted the scope and almost dropped it. North Koreans in snowsuits were worming their way through the barbed wire at the base of the hill. They were less than a hundred and fifty meters away. There were other troops crouched behind them. A company of infantry at least — around a hundred riflemen and machinegunners.

Good Christ. Where was the American artillery? Why weren’t they chopping these bastards down with high explosive and white phosphorus? Then he remembered that calling in the artillery for this sector was his job. The platoon’s attached forward observer had been rotated home weeks ago, and he hadn’t been replaced because of the Army’s scheduled withdrawal from Korea.

Kevin pulled his eyes away from the periscope, looking for his signalman. The ops plan for meeting a North Korean surprise attack gave him at least one artillery battery in direct support, with up to a full battalion on call. Plus whatever close air support could be arranged. That was a lot of firepower, the kind of firepower he was going to need to keep the NKs as far away from him as possible.

“Jones!” The signalman’s head snapped up from his phones. He had a pale, set look on his freckled face. “Get me the arty. We’ve got a fire mission.”

Jones nodded and lifted one of the phones. “Charlie Victor Two Seven, Charlie Victor Two Seven, This is Alpha Echo Five Two.”

Kevin waited, watching Pierce as the big, gray-haired sergeant moved down the trench encouraging the men. “Got arty coming anytime, boys. Stay cool. Wait for the word. Hold your fire.”

“Sir!” It was Jones. “I can’t get through. All the lines are dead. That stuff” — he gestured over his shoulder to the explosions still racking the main American line — ”must’ve cut the wires.”

Shit. “Switch to the goddamned radio then.” Kevin could feel the panic bubbling up inside him. Oh, God. He wanted to be sick.

Jones bent over his radio, but Kevin could hear the confused squeals and hissing static pouring out of it. They were being jammed. Jones worked frantically, changing frequencies to find one still in the clear.

“Lieutenant. Those people down there are getting awfully close. Where’s the arty we’re supposed to have?”

“We’re blocked. The phones are out and the radio’s jammed.” Kevin kept his words clipped, trying to conceal the fear he felt.

Pierce just nodded. “Right, we’ll do this the old-fashioned way then. On our own.” He turned and headed back down the firing line. “Okay, boys. This is it. When I give the word it’s rock-and-roll time. Pick your targets. Get their heavy weapons men first unless you want an RPG up the ass.” One or two men laughed nervously. The others nodded grimly.

Kevin turned back to the scope. The closest North Koreans were only forty meters away and coming on fast, though bent low under the weight of full packs. It struck Kevin that they weren’t planning on going back to their own lines for food or ammo resupply. They must be pretty sure they’d push on right through his platoon on their way south. And for some reason that made him mad enough to momentarily push down the panic welling up inside.

He looked down the trench line toward Pierce. The sergeant gave him a thumbs-up, and Kevin pumped a clenched first back and yelled, “Let’s do it.”

Pierce’s bullroar cut through the unearthly din from the North Korean artillery barrage landing behind them. “Up and at ’em! Fire! Fire!”

All along the forward perimeter, troopers from the platoon’s 1st and 3rd Squads jumped up onto firing steps and cut loose with their M16s. Many fired their rifles on full automatic, wasting rounds as the recoil kicked the barrels higher and higher above their targets. Two of the platoon’s M60 machine guns joined in, hosing down the front slope of the hill in steady, regulation bursts. The concentrated fire cut the first rank of the North Korean assault company to pieces. Men trying to charge up the steep hillside were bowled over or thrown back to fall in crumpled heaps as bullets found them. Others dropped to the ground, looking for any kind of cover they could find. Only a few tried to shoot back with their AK47s and AKMs, but they were soon killed, wounded, or pinned down by the sheer volume of fire pouring out of the American-held trench.

Satisfied that his men had held off the first rush, Pierce shifted the platoon’s fire back down the slope into the North Koreans still struggling through the barbed wire and minefields. Caught bunched up like that, they were slaughtered. Through his scope Kevin could see them falling. Those left alive started to edge backward, away from the hill. A North Korean officer came running forward to rally them, but he went down with a bullet in the face.

Whistles shrilled from down by the wire, and the surviving North Koreans began moving back, leaving a trail of bloody, writhing bodies on the ground behind them. Pierce let the platoon shoot until they were outside effective range — about two hundred and fifty meters — and then roared, “Cease fire! Cease fire! Save your ammo. You’ll need it later.”

Kevin was elated. His earlier fears had faded as quickly as they’d broken the North Korean attack. He looked up and down his line. Not a man had been hit. They’d smashed an enemy infantry company without suffering a single casualty.

He grinned at Pierce as the sergeant came up to him. “Well done, Sergeant.”

Pierce nodded, his own face carefully expressionless.

Kevin could hear moans from the North Korean wounded left behind on the hillside. Time to be humanitarian about this. “Tell the medic I’d like him to see what he can do for those poor bastards out there.”

Pierce was astonished. “You gone nuts, Lieutenant? This ain’t the end of it.” He gestured in the direction the attack had come from. “That was just a probe. Now that they know for sure we’re here, they’re going to make us wish we weren’t.”

He leaned forward to bring his face closer to Kevin’s. “And next time they’re gonna give us a dose of that arty.”

Senior Lieutenant Park Sung-Hi of the North Korean People’s Army couldn’t see the body of his company commander from where he lay. In fact, he couldn’t see much of anything at all.

Park and the remains of his platoon had been driven back from the American outpost to a place where a small fold in the ground offered cover from the imperialists’ murderous fire. One of his men hadn’t made it all the way to safety, and his body lay sprawled half in and half out of the shallow ditch. Park gripped his AKM assault rifle tighter and tried to burrow deeper into the frozen snow.

Technically his captain’s death had given him command of the company, but there wasn’t much left to command. Just the four, no, five men huddled on either side of him. There were undoubtedly others left alive and unwounded, but they’d either sought cover elsewhere or kept running. For their sake Park hoped that the men who’d run stopped before they got back to the company’s Start Line. The commissars of the Main Political Administration had made it clear that would-be deserters would be dealt with harshly.

The North Korean lieutenant lay in the snow and considered his options — none of which seemed particularly palatable. He could try again to take the hill with what he had left. And that was suicidal madness, of course. The Americans were too well dug-in. Or he could wriggle back to the company’s communications gear, report the failure of this attack, and ask for support from a higher headquarters. That was the militarily sensible thing to do, but it might be viewed as cowardice by an unsympathetic political officer.

He bit his lip while trying to decide what to do and spat the blood out onto the snow. Oddly enough, the pain helped clear his mind. Better to be shot for trying to do the right thing than to be killed while doing something utterly foolish and wasteful. He would call for help.

The North Korean division commander smiled all the way through his staff’s situation report. The attack was going well, much better than he’d dared hope possible. His first echelon tank and infantry battalions had already broken into the first enemy defensive line in three separate places. Casualties in some units had been heavier than expected, but others had suffered only minimal losses. And according to the reports, whole enemy units had collapsed under the weight of the unexpected attack. The Special Forces and the artillery had done their work well.

He leaned over the map table to get a better look. The grease-penciled wedges showing his spearheads were being erased and redrawn as new information came in. They were now well on their way to their first day objectives. Excellent. But then his smile faded. One of the American hilltop outposts had not yet been seized.

He tapped the map. “What is the problem here, Comrade Colonel?”

His deputy moved closer, his eyes magnified behind thick glasses. “We’ve just had a report from a platoon leader outside that position, sir. It was supposed to be taken by a company strength surprise attack before our barrage began, but there was some sort of delay as they moved through our forward lines. Consequently, the attack failed. The platoon leader is now requesting artillery support and reinforcements.”

“Casualties?”

“Extremely heavy, sir.”

“Hmmm.” The general rubbed his chin absentmindedly. He hated the idea of diverting resources from the main attack to reinforce failure. Doctrine spoke against that. But on the other hand, the American outpost sat squarely on his flank. From there its defenders could call down artillery onto his resupply units and lines of communication — and that might cause delays he couldn’t risk. He made up his mind.

“Very well.” He studied the map. “Order the Twentieth Rifles forward to attack this hill. The Americans there have defeated a company. Now let’s see how they fare against a full battalion. And tell the artillery that I want a hurricane preparatory barrage on the imperialist position. I want their fortifications pulverized. Understand?”

His deputy nodded sharply and hurried away to issue orders for the second attack on Malibu West.

Kevin Little was beginning to wish that he hadn’t been so quick to pull his men back inside their bunkers. He could still hear the artillery landing to the south, but everything around Malibu West was quiet. What if the NKs were sneaking back up the hill while they just sat here? Kevin knew that Pierce had put an OP — an observation post — out on the forward slope to give the platoon advance warning. But what if the two men in it had been surprised? Or what if they were looking the wrong direction? It had been over an hour since the last attack. What the hell was going on?

He could hear Jones muttering into the radio. “You got anything, Corporal?”

The radioman twisted round with his earphones still on. “Not a damned thing, sir. Every time I find a clear frequency and start talking, the frigging gooks come in and mess it up.”

Kevin swore under his breath. What a clusterfuck. Here he was sitting blind in this little hole on a hill, and he couldn’t get through to anyone to get some help or to find out what was going on. None of his ROTC lecturers had ever warned him that it would be so hard to communicate on the battlefield.

He jumped up. Enough of this waiting shit. “Tell Pierce I’m going to check the OP personally.” He’d just make sure his observers were on the job and come right back.

“But sir!” Jones started to yell something as Kevin pulled the bunker door open. Then he heard it.

An enormous howling arcing down out of the sky. Falling right on him. Kevin froze, one hand on the door, the other holding his M16.

Jones knocked him flat onto the CP floor just as the 152-millimeter shell exploded outside.

The shock wave tore the air out of Kevin’s lungs and throat and buried him in a tidal wave of dirt and smoke. He blacked out.

He came to seconds later, aware first of the dirt caking his face and then of a heavy weight holding him down. The ground bucked up and down as other shells landed around the hill, but he couldn’t hear the explosions. He’d been deafened by the first burst.

He shifted uncomfortably beneath the corporal’s weight. Why didn’t Jones get off him? Then he felt something warm and sticky pouring onto his neck. And there was a hot, coppery smell mixed in with the sharp, acetone odor left by the shell burst.

Kevin wriggled frantically out from under his signalman and rolled him over. Jones was dead.

A fragment thrown by the North Korean shell had spiraled out at several hundred meters a second, catching the corporal just below the eye and tearing through into his brain. Kevin stared for a moment at the ragged mess left of the man who’d saved his life, then he spun away on his knees, retching. In all his worst dreams he’d never imagined it would be this bad. Jones was dead because he’d done something stupid.

After a moment Kevin crawled over and pushed the door shut with shaking hands. He leaded against it for a second, feeling the bone-rattling vibrations thrown by the artillery pounding his hill. Then he scuttled over to the radio, carefully keeping his eyes off Jones’s body. The bunker rocked under a near miss, spilling dirt through cracks in the reinforced log roof. He had to get help. The platoon needed support.

His hearing was coming back. Kevin could make out muffled explosions now as North Korean salvos landed on Malibu West. He fumbled with the radio, setting it back to the main tactical frequency.

“Charlie Victor Two Seven, Charlie Victor Two Seven, This is Alfa Echo Five Two. Repeat, this is Alfa Echo Five Two. Over.” Kevin was ashamed of the high-pitched quaver he could hear in his voice.

Nothing. He switched to an alternate frequency and tried again, praying for an answer.

“Alfa Echo Five Two, this is Charlie Victor Two Seven. Over.” The American artillery officer’s voice crackled through the headphones.

Thank God. “Victor Two Seven. I have an immediate fire mission. Pattern Hotel. Repeat, Pattern Hotel.” Pattern Hotel would create a horseshoe-shaped curtain of American high-explosives around the base. That should keep the NKs from crawling up under the cover of their own barrage.

Victor Two Seven’s answer was quick and horrifying. “Negative, Echo Five Two. Half my guns are gone. The rest of us are pulling out. We’ve got NKs coming down around our…” The artilleryman’s voice faded in a spray of hissing static as North Korean jammers swept across the frequency.

Kevin stared at the radio for a moment. Then he heard a whistle from one of the sound-powered phones that linked his outlying positions to the outpost. He grabbed it.

“Little.”

“This is Donnelly, Lieutenant!” It was one of the men he’d assigned to the OP “We’re in deep, sir. Me and Smith can see two NK companies assembling down in front of us. And we seen another one moving around the flank a minute ago. What should we do, Lieutenant?”

Kevin could hear the fear in Donnelly’s voice and it matched his own. Three North Korean companies. God, that was at least three hundred men coming against his forty or so troops. This was not the way it was supposed to work. Where was the artillery and air support those rear-area bastards had all promised Malibu West would get?

“Lieutenant?”

He started. He hadn’t answered Donnelly’s plaintive question yet.

“Lieutenant? It looks like the arty’s starting to lift. What should we do?”

Kevin could hear the noise from outside diminishing. Not much time left now. “Okay. Get back inside the perimeter. Get back to the trench!”

He switched connections, trying to get Pierce’s bunker. Had to let the sergeant know what was going on. Had to find out what he should do. Nothing. Christ, didn’t anything work around here?

Kevin put the phone down slowly. He was going to die. And it just wasn’t fair. Not at all.

Everything went quiet. The shelling had stopped. Then he heard the whistles blowing from all around his hill. This was it. Kevin grabbed his M16 and headed out through the bunker door.

Malibu West looked like a moonscape now, full of smoking craters, partially collapsed trenches, and smashed bunkers. Kevin could hear moans from all around him: “Medic! Medic!”

Rifles fired from the forward slope of the hill, rising quickly from a few isolated shots to a continuous, crackling roar. The North Korean attack was coming in. He ran down what was left of the communications trench and stumbled into the firing line.

His troops were up on the edge of the trench firing as fast as they could down the hill. But this time, they were being answered by the harsh rattle of North Korean automatic rifles and heavy weapons. And Kevin could see Americans lying dead or wounded along the trench floor.

“Lieutenant!” Pierce grabbed his shoulder. “You all right?”

Kevin suddenly realized he was covered in Jones’s blood. He must look like a walking corpse. He leaned forward to yell in the sergeant’s ear. “I’m not hit. Jones…”

Pierce nodded in understanding. “Yeah. Well, we got a whole shitload of troubles, Lieutenant.” He half-ducked involuntarily as a grenade went off just outside the trench, spraying them with dirt and ice-cold snow.

“We’re holding ’em for now. But Kostowitz and Ramos are down. Along with a bunch of others. The Dragon teams took a direct hit on their bunker. And we’re shooting up our rifle ammo too damned fast.”

A GI next to him suddenly screamed and fell back away from the firing step. Most of the man’s right arm had been shot away. Kevin stared at the corpse in shock.

“Lieutenant! Snap out of it! There’s others still alive who need you.” Pierce pulled him away from the body. “Look, we gotta have some support.”

Kevin shook his head. There wasn’t going to be any support. He pushed Pierce away and jumped upon the dead man’s firing step to get a better look at what they were facing.

The first wave of the North Korean assault had gotten to within twenty meters of the trench line before being stopped. But instead of retreating back down where they’d come from, the survivors had taken shelter in new shell craters on the slope, and they were laying down covering fire for a second wave now forming up inside the outpost’s barbed wire.

An NK light machine gun burst tore into the ground in front of him, and Kevin ducked back below the lip of the trench. A 1st Squad trooper groaned and toppled back to the bottom, cursing and clutching at his stomach. Kevin couldn’t remember the man’s name. He looked away as the firing rose to a new crescendo.

The North Korean major winced as the medic pulled the bandage tighter around his lacerated upper arm. It was ironic that his first wound of the campaign had come from his own country’s artillery. But it had been worth it, the major thought. He’d pushed his men right up to the edge of their own barrage — accepting casualties from friendly fire to close with the Americans before they’d had a chance to shake off the effects of the bombardment.

The medic finished tying off the wound, and the major pushed him away, half-rising to a crouch to look over the edge of the gully his command group occupied. He could see the rocky hillside carpeted with bodies, but enough men had survived the first rush to pin the Americans down inside their trenches. Good.

He glanced around for the commander of his second company, “Captain Han!”

The man scuttled over to him, eyes wide under the lip of his Russian-style steel helmet.

“You will take your company forward on my signal. We’ll wait for Koh’s attack to go in first. That should draw off enough of the fascists for you to close with their trenches. Clear?”

Han nodded. “Yes, Comrade Major.” He scurried back along the gully to pass the word to his platoon leaders.

The major watched him go and then slid back down to check his watch. Captain Koh’s 3rd Company should be in position behind the American-held hill any minute now. Soon they would find out how the imperialists held up under a two-pronged attack.

Kevin was starting to regain his confidence when the sound of firing mixed with grenade explosions surged from behind them. That goddamned third North Korean company! Now they were under attack from all sides at once. He couldn’t hear a lot of American return fire from Lieutenant Rhee’s position either.

Movement from down by the wire caught his eye. A second wave of snowsuited North Koreans were worming their way through, getting ready to lunge up the hill. Kevin looked frantically up and down the trench. He barely had enough men here to hold the NKs as it was. He didn’t have anything to spare for the rear slope. Could the South Korean lieutenant hold his ground without reinforcements?

He grabbed Pierce. “Check with Rhee. See what’s going on back there.”

The sergeant nodded and ducked back up the communications trench toward Rhee’s position. Kevin turned back to the forward slope.

He walked up and down the trench, trying to encourage his troops. “Keep it up, guys. Keep it up. You’re murdering the sons of bitches.” Yeah, sure. He felt like a liar for even saying it.

The fire from his line fell away as men were hit or ran out of ammunition. And now the North Koreans were taking advantage of it, advancing by short rushes from cover to cover — working their way up the hill.

A grenade landed on one of his machine gun positions and silenced it. Kevin raced over to try to get the gun back into operation, but there wasn’t anything he could do. The machine gun’s barrel had bent under the full force of the grenade burst. The gunner and his loader were both dying.

He lost track of time. The battle seemed to have been going on forever, although he knew that couldn’t be true. He tried to swallow and couldn’t. Where was Pierce? He needed the sergeant’s advice and steadiness. He didn’t think they were going to be able to hold here much longer.

Kevin looked around frantically. His line was down to about half strength, and the North Koreans weren’t going back. What should he do?

Bugles blared from the other side of Malibu West. Kevin spun around and saw Sergeant Pierce skidding down the slush-filled communications trench, arms pumping and head down. He put an arm out and the sergeant stumbled to a stop. Pierce nodded his thanks and gasped out his message, “NKs inside the perimeter. We gotta throw ’em — ”

Pierce’s head suddenly exploded, sending a spray of brains and blood over Kevin’s uniform. The sergeant crumpled into his arms. Oh, Christ. Pierce had been shot from behind. Through sudden tears Kevin saw North Koreans flitting up the communications trench toward him. He couldn’t move or speak. The men nearest to Kevin stared in shock at the body. Some dropped their M16s into the frozen mud.

Time started running again. Still holding the sergeant’s body, Kevin looked up and saw a grenade flying into the main trench. He threw himself to the ground as it went off. The explosion rolled Pierce’s corpse over on top of him and tossed another man dead across his legs.

North Koreans jumped up onto both sides of the trench, firing down inside it at full automatic. Kevin could hear his men screaming and trying to surrender. He lay still in the mud, trying to control his breathing.

The firing stopped. Everything was quiet for a moment, and then Kevin heard a chorus of groans from what had been his line: “Medic! Medic! I’m hit.”

Laughter drifted downwind, harsh guttural laughter. Someone shouted an order in Korean and rifles cracked. Moans turned into screams and then into silence.

Kevin tried to stop the tears he felt dripping into the blood-soaked ground under his face. Corpses don’t cry. He heard more loud voices as men jumped down into the trench, their combat boots squelching into the mud. He held his breath.

The North Koreans were making sure of their handiwork. Kevin didn’t look up, but he could hear men moving down the line toward him. Every now and then they stopped and fired a burst into an American who’d been wounded or lying doggo. There were fresh screams.

The boots were coming toward him. Oh, God. Please make them think I’m dead, please, Kevin prayed without moving his lips. The boots stopped. Don’t move. Whatever they do, don’t move, Kevin told himself. He heard a dull, meaty thunk from his left and then something cold and sharp sliced across his ribs. A bayonet. He bit down the pain and stayed still, waiting for the bullet that would end everything.

But the bayonet pulled back and the boots moved away down the trench. They thought he was dead.

There were isolated pistol and rifle shots from around the perimeter as they finished off others who’d survived the attack, but the North Koreans didn’t come back. Kevin lay amid the bodies of his men, alone with the knowledge of his failure.

Malibu West had fallen.