Sniper Ridge

Chapter Two

From the passenger seat of the speeding Jeep, Don Hardy observed that the landscape was unlike anything he had seen before. He was a little awed by it, in fact — the jagged mountains against the distant icy blue sky, the dusty hills, Korean farmers working their fields using yoked pairs of oxen. You're not in Kansas anymore, he reminded himself.

Then again, Hardy wasn’t actually from Kansas, but close enough. He was from Indiana, Hoosier country. He looked like he could have been a midwestern farm boy himself, big and rawboned, ruggedly handsome in a blue-eyed, sandy-haired way.

But Hardy sure wasn't a farmer. He wasn't a soldier, either. He was a journalist, with a newly minted degree from Purdue University. He had been able to finish his degree with a deferment, but the ink had hardly dried when the Army got its hands on him and he was on the way to Korea. It was a rude awakening, being yanked from civilian life into uniform — or as one of his college friends might have put it more crudely, it sure would have been nice to be kissed before he was screwed.

Hardy sat beside his driver in the Jeep bouncing its way along the rough road toward the Taebaek Mountains, away from the coastline where Hardy had landed just a few days ago. Being a budding wordsmith, he searched his mind for descriptive snippets from all of the Faulkner, Hemingway, and Wolfe that he had read as an English major. He would need to include some details in the news article that he would be writing for Stars & Stripes. It didn't occur to him yet that his audience would already be quite familiar with the landscape.

He took his helmet off, to better enjoy the fresh breeze, which was spoiled only by a slight scent of… he wrinkled his nose, trying to pinpoint the odor.

"Best keep that on," the driver said. "Captain Dorchester will chew my ass if you get your head shot off before you get to take pictures of anything with that camera of yours."

“Has a helmet ever stopped a bullet?”

“Not that I’ve heard of, but there’s always a first time.”

Hardy put his helmet back on, just in case. Captain Dorchester was the editor of Stars & Stripes, and he didn't want to cross him, dead or not. Dorchester was a pudgy little ogre of a man who showed next to no patience with the fresh-faced reporters and photographers that he was sending out to document the war. Like some caricature of a big city editor, he kept a cigar clamped between his yellowed teeth and a bottle of scotch hidden in his desk drawer.

The publication itself was supposed to be quasi-military and independent, and yet the newspaper’s staff followed a military hierarchy, with most of the editors being officers and most of the reporters and photographers being newly minted privates like Hardy. There wasn't any saluting, but there was a definite pecking order. Still, Hardy supposed it might land him a newspaper job back home. Not only that, but it sure as hell beat being an infantryman in a foxhole.

Hardy wrinkled his nose again. "What is that smell?" he wanted to know.

The driver barked a laugh. "What's the matter, haven’t you ever smelled an outhouse before? This whole place is one big latrine. That's because all the farmers fertilize their fields with, you know, shit."

Hardy realized that he had a lot to learn about Korea.

Guys who had been there a while might have said, Good luck with that, buddy.

Testing out his journalistic skills, Hardy had already ventured to ask some of the soldiers that he’d met so far in Korea what the objective for the war was, and had mostly received blank stares. He turned to the driver.

“Hey, do you know what this war is all about? What we’re fighting for, I mean?”

The driver barely gave him a horrified look. “What are you, one of those secret Communists they keep warning us about? Don’t tell me I drove a Communist all the way out here.”

“Oh, never mind,” Hardy said, deciding that he had better keep his mouth shut unless he wanted to get out and walk. He went back to brooding over the landscape.

So much for that. Still, Hardy struggled to define the war clearly in his own mind.

The purpose of the war wasn't to defeat and invade China. Maybe it was to liberate North Korea. Or was the goal to make the Communists stay or their own side of the 38th parallel? The last two objectives might even have been obtainable if it hadn't been for a few hundred thousand screaming Chinese. In the end, the goal wasn't only uncertain, it was downright murky. And often, the goal changed from week to week. It was one hell of a slippery subject to write about, that was for damn sure.

Hardy had been sent by the irascible Captain Dorchester to document some of the fighting that was taking place in a new push to dislodge the enemy. He wasn't completely sure if the editor really wanted the latest news and some photographs, or if he was just trying to get Hardy out from underfoot. And if he didn't come back, to the editor's way of thinking, it might just be one less reporter to worry about.

"Find some happy news," Dorchester had ordered, although the captain didn't appear to be familiar with that particular emotion himself, poking the much-taller young reporter in the chest to emphasize his point. "These articles also get read by people back home. They need to hear about how their soldiers are fighting the good fight. They need some good news for a change, God knows."

It would be Hardy's job to interview some soldiers at the front, report on how the UN forces were winning Operation Showdown to drive the Chinese off these hills, and even to take a few pictures. He had been supplied with a small, state-of-the-art Kodak camera for this very purpose. The reporters at Stars & Stripes often had to do double-duty by taking photographs as well as writing articles.

Captain Dorchester had poked him in the chest one last time before he left and warned him, "If you break that goddamn camera, it's coming out of your pay. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

He had then saluted Captain Dorchester, who rolled his eyes. The military press corps was not big on saluting. "Oh, for chrissakes. Get the hell out of here!"

So far, Hardy's only previous assignment had been to cover Marilyn Monroe’s visit to the troops as part of a USO tour. He had been excited about seeing such a big star in person, and he wasn't disappointed. The military's own press corps always managed to be right up front when one of the big stars arrived on a USO tour, and Marilyn Monroe had been no exception.

Her visit was already well-covered by reporters and photographers, meaning that Hardy really didn't have a role to play in that regard, but a buddy had found Hardy a spot right up front, supposedly helping with the microphones and other equipment.

Wow, had she been a knockout. She wasn't much of a singer; it was more like she talked her way through "Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend" and other songs in a sultry bedroom voice, but most soldiers weren't interested in the quality of her singing. Heck, even her band had the suggestive name of Anything Goes.

You couldn't hear much of her singing, anyhow, on account of all the hooting, catcalls, and whistling. To his surprise, a group of black soldiers was in the front row, although their enthusiasm seemed subdued. Maybe they felt like they shouldn't show too much excitement over a white woman.

To be sure, that woman could fill out a dress. The fabric hugged her hips and thighs, and despite the chill, she showed off her shoulders and revealed plenty of cleavage.

Up on the rough stage, surrounded by drab tents and dull landscape, she had looked incredibly out of place, like a diamond in a sea of coal. The thought occurred to him that she must be kind of chilly up there. Back home, she could live at the Ritz and wear all the furs she wanted. But she didn't complain, and she put on one hell of a show for the boys. Hardy had come to the realization that the soldiers weren't the only heroes that day.

Preparing for his first trip to the front, Hardy had looked through the clip files to get a sense of what Stars & Stripes wanted in its pages. Mostly, the reporting was heavy on interviewing soldiers about what they missed back home and short on any strategy details. There was lots of praise for their bravery and accounts of heroic actions. In his quest to figure out the war, the picture of the Korean conflict that Hardy had pieced together so far was not a great one.

First, the North Korean communist forces had initially swept through the entire peninsula with overwhelming success, capturing all of the major cities. The small American military presence had been unprepared to fend them off and had really been knocked back on its heels. The simple truth was that the peacetime military in the Pacific had gone soft and let its guard down.

Then, that old warhorse General Douglas MacArthur had roused himself long enough from his cushy headquarters in Japan to plan a daring but brilliant amphibious invasion at Inchon and consequent breakout from the Pusan Perimeter, where US and South Korean troops were hemmed in. The tables had soon turned, and it was the North Korean communist guerrillas who were in full retreat. But US and UN forces under MacArthur's right-hand man, General Almond, had overreached themselves, pushing relentlessly toward the Chinese border at the Yalu River.

Chairman Mao had not been eager to embrace the idea of a US-controlled territory on his borders, or with having troops from the world's democracies breathing down his neck. A hop, skip, and jump away, Uncle Joe Stalin had come to the same conclusion. The Soviets sent military advisors and supplies to the Chinese. Before long, Chairman Mao had unleashed masses of Chinese troops into the conflict, resulting in the disastrous Chosin Reservoir campaign for the Americans and UN. For days back home, newspaper headlines had trumpeted grim news about the war and the surrounded troops in every city and small town. The US troops had narrowly avoided complete annihilation.

Since then, there had been some changes in leadership. Part of the trouble with Korea was that there had not been a continuity in leadership, as there had been in Europe under General Eisenhower. General MacArthur had been replaced by General Ridgway who had been replaced by General Van Fleet, who was now in overall command. President Truman was still proving himself to be an ineffectual, hands-off leader who was content to rely on reporters filtered through the military than to see the situation for himself. He was definitely no FDR or Churchill.

The war continued to be limited, in that nuclear weapons were off the table. At the same time, Truman had opted against allowing the bombing of bases in China or any bridges across the Yalu River in an effort to avoid a larger conflict. The cost of that decision was that the Chinese forces in Korea could be resupplied with impunity. It was a bit like trying to use buckets to catch all the water coming out of a firehose, rather than turning off the valve.

Meanwhile, thousands of drafted American boys who didn't really want to be there had died, mostly fighting drafted Chinese boys. To use the term "boys" was not an exaggeration. Enlisted men in Korea were typically ages seventeen to twenty-four, although there were a few older Second World War veterans in the ranks. South Korean boys were drafted to fight starting at age sixteen. As usual, old men went to war and expected boys to do the actual fighting.

Hardy's musings on the landscape and the war were interrupted by the driver.

"There it is," said the driver, taking his hands off the Jeep's bucking steering wheel long enough to point. "Triangle Hill. That's where we're headed."

The road wound its way across an open plain, but Hardy looked ahead at the mountains and hills they were driving toward. He saw one rounded peak that rose above the others. It wasn't clear to him how this was a military objective of obvious strategic value because it looked much like the hills surrounding it, just a little taller.

"Doesn't look like much to fight over."

The driver laughed. "You are a regular green bean, aren't you? If you do find anything in this place worth fighting over, that's going to be headline news, Mr. Reporter."

"If you say so," Hardy said, unable to keep an annoyed tone out of his voice. He didn't need a Jeep driver telling him what to write about.

But the driver just chuckled, apparently amused by his passenger's lack of knowledge. Helpfully, the driver pointed out the other nearby hills and peaks. "Now, just in front of Triangle Hill, that's what they call Pike's Peak. Off to the left is the hill called Jane Russell, on account of it looking like a pair of tits. To the right is Sniper Ridge. You can probably figure out why it's called that."

"What do the Chinese call these hills?"

The driver barked another laugh. "Buddy, they call them theirs."

That explanation sounded ominous to Hardy, who began to feel a soupçon of concern, like that first tickle you get in the back of the throat as the flu comes on.

Slowly, the mountains loomed closer with each passing mile. The rough road carried them into the US base camp. He saw sandbags stacked around machine gun emplacements and tangled rows of concertina wire gathered like prickly tumbleweeds. Some of the sandbags were leaking sand, and he realized that these were bullet holes.

A few men glanced with curiosity at the approaching Jeep, but Hardy's arrival didn't keep their attention for long when they realized that the Jeep held only a couple of soldiers and not the brass. Anymore, most of the high-ranking officers flew in by helicopter to avoid the danger of being ambushed on the road. The sight of one of these ungainly "choppers" remained a novelty. If you weren't a general, your only chance of getting a ride on one was if you were wounded and lucky enough to be flown out to one of the new MASH units. Nobody wanted that kind of luck.

These men looked like they had been through the wringer. Streaked with mud, their worn uniforms had seen better days. Helmets bore scratches and dents — even bullet holes. One helmet that he spotted had a Confederate flag painted on the front. The eyes under the helmet flicked at him and Hardy recoiled at the soldier's pale gray stare that seemed to instantly dismiss him, like a wolf looking for worthier prey. These were hard men at the front. Some of them had that unfocused gaze of men who had seen too much and looked through Hardy and the Jeep without seeing them at all.

The faces that weren't covered in several days of stubble looked haggard. Nobody seemed particularly friendly, and Hardy gulped, just thinking about trying to interview one of these hard cases — or God forbid, take their picture for Stars & Stripes.

"Here you go, delivered safe and sound at HQ, which is sayin' something these days," the driver announced, pulling to a stop in front of what could only be described as a sandbagged bunker. The driver made no move to switch off the engine or to help Hardy with his duffel bag. "Hurry up and get your gear unloaded. I want to get back before dark, or I probably won't make it back, if you know what I mean."

Hardy had barely pulled his gear off the rear seat before the Jeep was rolling away, back the way it had come. Watching it go, despite the excitement of being on his first real assignment on the front lines, he regretted that he wasn't going back with it.

He hefted his duffel bag to his shoulder and headed for HQ. The sentries didn't try to stop him, so he walked right in. The dark space reeked of burnt coffee and stale cigarette smoke. He checked in with a harried sergeant sitting at a typewriter and got sent from one desk to another until he found himself in the presence of a major named Severn.

"Stars & Stripes, huh?" the major said.

"Yes, sir. I'm reporting on conditions here at the front, how the men are doing."

"In that case, I hope you can write good fiction," the major said.

Hardy wasn’t sure what to say to that. "I'll be taking photographs too, sir."

"Well, it's about time these boys got some attention," the major said. He put on a thinking face. "I'll assign you to Fox Company. That's Lieutenant Ballard. If there's one man in this Army who will love to see a reporter and get his picture taken, it's Ballard."

"Yes, sir."

"All right, son, now get out of here and try not to get yourself killed before you can make us famous."

Hardy saluted and turned to go, but the major called him back. "Hold on a minute, son." He looked Don up and down, as if noticing him critically for the first time. "Where is your weapon? Don’t you have a rifle?"

"I wasn't issued one, sir. They gave me a camera instead. I'm a journalist."

"Try explaining that to the Chinese when they start shooting at you. What kind of idiot would send you into the field without a weapon?" The major sighed. "Listen, son, shooting pictures is fine, but be prepared to shoot a few bullets as well. On your way out, tell the sergeant there that you need to be issued a weapon."

"Yes, sir."

Hardy found the sergeant, a grizzled looking old campaigner, and was issued an M-1 carbine.

"Remember how to use this thing?" the sergeant asked.

"Sure," said Hardy, who hadn't touched a weapon since basic training. He didn't sound all that convincing.

"That's what I thought." The sergeant gave him a quick refresher, emphasizing that the safety should be left on at all times and that he had better be careful about where he pointed the muzzle, and then handed him two magazines. "Here's a bit of advice. Save your last bullet."

"Sir?"

"If the Chinese overrun your position, you'll want that last bullet for yourself. But don't put that in your article."

Wondering what he had gotten himself into, Hardy gulped and went to find Fox Company and Lieutenant Ballard.