Retreat, Hell! Page 4

  “That’s a PPD 1940G,” Master Gunner Zimmerman said. “You don’t see many of those. Pretty good weapon.”

  Cole looked at him.

  “Proceed, Mr. Zimmerman,” McCoy said. “We’re fascinated. ”

  Zimmerman looked at McCoy to see if he was serious.

  “Okay,” he said. “PPD stands for ‘Pistolet Pulyemet Degtyarev.’ It means machine pistol Degtyarev. Degtyarev being the Russian who stole the idea from the Germans. It’s based on the 1928 Bergmann. The Bergmann had a stick magazine. Degtyarev stole a drum magazine design from the Finnish Soumi, chrome-plated the inside parts, including the barrel, put it all together, and got it named after him. But the Russians dumped it because it couldn’t be made fast enough for War Two, and went to the crude, easy-to-make PPsh you see all the time. That’s why you don’t see very many of these.”

  “I hope you were taking notes, Sergeant Cole,” McCoy said. “There will be a written exam at the end of the lecture period.”

  Master Gunner Zimmerman looked at Major McCoy and said, “You asked, Killer,” and gave the major the finger.

  “Can I have it?” Sergeant Cole asked.

  “You can if you give the pistols you took away from the other officers to the Koreans,” McCoy said.

  “And the other submachine gun, the PPsh, sir?” Cole asked.

  “I think Jennings wants that,” McCoy said. “Don’t be greedy, Cole.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The weapons carrier crawled back onto the road and headed for them.

  McCoy pointed to the half-off-the-road Russian jeep.

  “I was thinking about dragging this one down to the trees, but that would tear up the road, and I want to get out of here. Just push it over the side?”

  “Yeah,” Zimmerman agreed after a moment’s thought. “That’d be better.”

  When the weapons carrier stopped beside him, McCoy, in Korean, ordered the National Police driver to push the Russian jeep into the ditch.

  “And when you’ve done that,” McCoy continued in Korean, “we’re going to load the colonel in the back, tie him securely to the back of the seat, and put Sergeant Kim in there with him with a carbine. If the colonel even looks as if he’s thinking about causing any trouble, Sergeant Kim will shoot him in both feet.” He paused. “Did you hear that, Colonel?”

  There was no reply from the colonel.

  Zimmerman walked to him and nudged him with his boot.

  “The major asked if you understood him, Colonel,” he said in Korean.

  There was no reply. Zimmerman kicked the colonel in the waist.

  “I heard,” the colonel said.

  [FOUR]

  THIRTEEN MILES SOUTH OF SUWON, SOUTH KOREA 1705 28 SEPTEMBER 1950

  The sun was low in the sky, and the shadows were long. McCoy, Zimmerman, and Jennings were lying at the crest of a small hill from which they could see a road intersection about five hundred yards away.

  Elements—what looked like an infantry platoon reinforced by three tanks—of the United States 7th Infantry Division were manning a hastily erected roadblock on the dirt road paralleling Korean National Route 1.

  It had to be elements of the 7th Division. There were only two American divisions in the Seoul area, the 7th and the 1st Marine, and the armed Americans at the roadblock were not Marines.

  Gunner Zimmerman took binoculars from his eyes, handed them to Technical Sergeant Jennings, and then turned to Major McCoy.

  “Killer,” he said conversationally, “if we start down that road, those doggies are going to start shooting at us.”

  McCoy grunted.

  “Especially when they see that Russian jeep,” Jennings added.

  “Maybe not,” McCoy said.

  Then he pushed himself backward, sliding on his stomach away from the hilltop until he was far enough down the hill so there was no chance of his being seen. There, he rolled over onto his back and then sat up, holding his Thompson erect between his knees.

  Zimmerman rolled over on his back, and—holding his Thompson against his chest—slid down after him, and then, when he’d seen all he wanted to, so did Jennings, carrying his Garand.

  “I make it three tanks—M4s, Shermans,” Jennings said, “plus maybe thirty-five doggies, with two air-cooled .50s, at least that many .30s, and a mortar.”

  “All of which are going to shoot at whatever they see coming up the road,” Zimmerman said. “Like us, for example. ”

  McCoy chuckled.

  “What do you suggest we do, Mr. Zimmerman?”

  Zimmerman pointed down the slope of the hill toward their small convoy. The Russian light truck, which McCoy had impulsively decided to drive, was at the head. The weapons carrier came next, and the jeep brought up the rear.

  The Russian truck looked vaguely like a jeep. It was, McCoy had finally concluded, actually a Chinese-built version of a Russian vehicle, which in turn had been copied from a German vehicle, built on a Volkswagen chassis, which in turn had been inspired by the Truck, General Purpose, 1/4 ton, 4 × 4 of the U.S. Army, popularly known as the jeep.

  McCoy had found the vehicle very interesting, and not just as an example of the enemy’s military trucks.

  Very few North Korean lieutenant colonels had vehicles permanently assigned to them. There were signs that this one was—had been—the colonel’s personal vehicle. It was extraordinarily well maintained. The seats, for example, were thickly padded. There had been personal possessions in both the glove compartment and under the seats, including three packages of Chesterfield cigarettes.

  The dashboard instruments were lettered in the Cyrillic alphabet. Either the Russians had provided the instruments or the Chinese had copied the Russian vehicle slavishly. In any event, calligraphed Cantonese translations had been prepared and glued to the panel. There were no such Korean calligraphs.

  This suggested the possibility that the colonel had acquired the vehicle new from a depot, and had not felt the need for Korean translations from the Russian and Chinese because he spoke one or both of the languages.

  Two kinds of North Korean lieutenant colonels would be likely to speak Russian and/or Cantonese: political commissars and intelligence officers.

  A political commissar would most likely be at the front, exhorting the troops to give their all, not headed north in an obvious attempt to avoid capture by the now advancing Eighth United States Army. Political commissars are useful even in enemy captivity. Intelligence officers are not. Intelligence officers know a lot of things that should be kept from the enemy. Intelligence officers are taught not to place themselves in positions where they can be captured.

  McCoy had a gut feeling their prisoner was an intelligence officer, and probably an important one.

  “Untie the skinny Slope, hand him a white flag, and send him over the hill,” Zimmerman said.

  “That would be a violation of the Geneva Convention,” McCoy said. “It’s against the rules to endanger a prisoner.”

  “Shit,” Zimmerman said.

  “Besides, I really want to talk to him,” McCoy said.

  “Killer, that Slope sonofabitch isn’t going to tell us a goddamn thing,” Zimmerman argued.

  “I think maybe he will when he sees we’re back in Seoul,” McCoy said.

  Zimmermann snorted.

  “Sergeant Jennings, hoist the colors,” McCoy said.

  “Sir?”

  “Unstrap the antenna on the jeep. Let’s get the flag out so our friends at the roadblock can see it,” McCoy clarified.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “What are you going to do?” Zimmerman asked, as Jennings scurried down the hill.

  “Drive the jeep to the crest of the hill, and then—very quickly—get out of it, and the line of fire. Whereupon, the Army will—or will not—fire upon it. If they don’t fire on it, I will ask for a volunteer to expose himself. We may get lucky.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  “Then I guess you get shot. You were going to v
olunteer, right?”

  “Shit,” Zimmerman said, smiling.

  “I’ll do it, Ernie,” Major McCoy said.

  Marine majors do not ordinarily address their subordinates by their first names, and certainly not with the affection McCoy had in his voice. But there is always an exception. In this case, the two had been friends since 1940, when both had been in the 4th Marines in Shanghai.

  They watched as Jennings untied the whip antenna on the jeep. It sprung erect, but there was no breeze and the flag hung limply.

  “We could give Dunston a call in Seoul,” Zimmerman said. “He’s got somebody sitting on his radio.”

  “How long would it take, Ernie, for Dunston—even if he was sitting on the radio himself—to get a message to that roadblock?” McCoy asked, patiently. “Hours, anyway.”

  Zimmerman shrugged, taking McCoy’s point.

  Jennings got behind the wheel of the jeep, put it in four-wheel drive, and started up the hill.

  McCoy got to his feet and waited for him. When he got close, McCoy signaled him to stop.

  “I’ll take it out there, Major,” Jennings said.

  McCoy jerked his thumb, ordering Jennings out of the jeep, then got behind the wheel.

  Then he put it in gear and drove it slowly to the crest and over.

  “Shit!” Zimmerman said when the jeep was out of sight.

  Two minutes—two very long minutes—later, McCoy reappeared on foot at the crest of the hill.

  “I waved and some doggie waved back at me,” he announced. “I think we’re all right. I’m going to drive down there. I’ll signal you with a flashlight when it’s okay to come.”

  “Permission to speak freely, sir?” Technical Sergeant Jennings said.

  McCoy made a let’s have it gesture with both hands.

  “I should drive the jeep, not you.”

  “He’s right,” Zimmerman said.

  McCoy thought it over, then jerked his thumb for Jennings to come up the hill.

  When he came to McCoy, Jennings handed him his rifle. Then he raised his arms over his head and waved to them as he approached the crest, and disappeared over it.

  McCoy stood on the crest with his hands on his hips and watched as Jennings eased the jeep down the hill, then onto the dirt road. When Jennings got close to the roadblock, he suddenly stopped the jeep and raised his hands over his head.

  McCoy raised his binoculars to his eyes to see what was going on.

  Jennings got out of the jeep and walked the last fifty yards to the roadblock, then disappeared from view behind one of the Sherman tanks.

  He was out of sight for five minutes, then reappeared, making a nonregulation but clearly understandable sign that it was all right for everybody else to come in.

  II

  [ONE]

  THIRTEEN MILES SOUTH OF SUWON, SOUTH KOREA 1725 28 SEPTEMBER 1950

  Captain John C. Allen III, a somewhat plump, pleasant-faced twenty-seven-year-old who was commanding officer of Company C, 1st Battalion, 27th Infantry, 25th Infantry Division, was hesitantly pleased with his current mission, the establishment and operation of a roadblock on a road south of Suwon.

  You never knew what the hell was going to happen next in the Army; disappointment, sometimes bitter, was always just around the corner.

  He had been told—and he had believed—that it would be days, perhaps weeks, before he actually had to face the enemy. The landing of X Corps (the 1st Marine Division and the 25th Infantry Division) at Inchon had severed the enemy’s supply routes to the south. Without supplies, the North Koreans could not maintain their attack on the Pusan Perimeter. The Eighth U.S. Army had already counterattacked, broken out of the perimeter, and was driving the enemy northward.

  There was still heavy action around Seoul, but most of that was being fought by the 1st Marine Division. Allen thought that the brass had at least enough sense to realize that the 25th Division really was in no shape to fight anybody.

  Any military unit needs training to be effective. It was Captain Allen’s professional judgment that none of the platoons in his company had adequate training. Neither had any of the companies in the 1st Battalion, any of the battalions in the 27th Infantry, nor any of the regiments in the 25th Division.

  It was also Captain Allen’s professional opinion that if the 1st Marine Division hadn’t performed so superbly—if it had taken a licking—the 25th Division would have really gotten itself clobbered.

  Captain Allen was perfectly happy to form—and to sometimes offer to select individuals, such as First Sergeant Grass—professional opinions about the military, although he was not a career officer, had not graduated from the United States Military Academy at West Point, nor, for that matter, attended the company-grade officers’ course at the Infantry School at Fort Benning. He hadn’t even gone to Officer Candidate School.

  Drafted at twenty during World War II, “Jack” Allen had joined the 26th Infantry of the 1st Infantry Division in North Africa. By the time The Big Red One was training to land on the beaches of Normandy, it was Staff Sergeant Allen. On D-Plus Three, in Normandy, it was twenty-one-year -old Second Lieutenant Allen, holder of the Silver Star and directly commissioned after taking over the company when the officers had all been either blown away or wounded.

  When war in Europe was over, Captain Jack Allen, who had added two Bronze Stars and two Purple Hearts to his Silver Star, had been one of the very first officers returned to the United States under the Point System for separation.

  At Fort Dix, he had made the mistake of believing the Adjutant General’s Corps major, who had told him that if he kept his commission in the reserve, he wouldn’t be recalled to active duty unless and until enemy tanks were rolling down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House.

  Jack Allen, star salesman and heir apparent to the throne of J. C. Allen & Sons Paper Merchants, Inc., Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, had received a telegram from the Adjutant General of the United States Army on 9 July 1950, ordering him to report within seventy-two hours to Camp Indiantown Gap, Pennsylvania, there to enter upon extended active duty for the duration of the present conflict, plus six months.

  At Indiantown Gap, there was just time enough to buy uniforms and have his shot record brought up to date before being loaded on a battered Douglas C-54 and flown to Fort Lewis, Washington. Three days after arriving at Fort Lewis, he boarded a brand-new-looking Lockheed Constellation of Trans-Global Airways and was flown to Tokyo via Honolulu and Wake Island.

  At Camp Drake, he was assigned to the 25th Division. When he got there, they didn’t seem to know what to do with him. He was given one assignment after another—one of them lasting six hours—but finally he found himself in the 27th Infantry Regiment. There the colonel commanding—who looked smart and competent, if harried—took a sixty-second look at Jack’s service record.

  Jesus Christ, he thought, they finally sent me a company commander who’s been in combat.

  Then he said: “Congratulations, Captain Allen, you are now commanding officer of Charley Company.”

  When Allen found his new command, in a battered frame barracks building, the acting first sergeant—a technical sergeant who a week before had been running an NCO club—told him Charley Company’s total strength was two officers and twenty-six enlisted men—plus thirteen enlisted men listed as “absent, in confinement.” The other officer was Second Lieutenant C. Danton Foster IV, who looked to be about nineteen but who told Allen he had graduated just over a year before from West Point. When Allen looked at Foster’s service record, he saw that he was unmarried and listed his next of kin as Major General C. Danton Foster III.

  Charley Company’s ranks were soon filled out. Among the first “fillers” to arrive the next day was First Sergeant Homer Grass, a beer-bellied regular from West Virginia. It took Captain Allen and Sergeant Grass—who wore the “Bloody Bucket” of the 28th Infantry Division on his right shoulder and the Combat Infantry Badge on his chest— about ninety seconds to judge the o
ther, assess the situation, and conclude that they were both in the deep shit and unless they could fix things in a hurry, they were liable to get killed.

  When the next group of fillers appeared—the thirteen just-pardoned malefactors from the Tokyo stockade still wearing fatigues with a large P painted on the back—resisting despair had been difficult.

  Neither did Charley Company have much in the way of equipment to boast of. They had nowhere near the numbers of individual items prescribed by the Table of Organization & Equipment, and what they did have was in lousy shape—in the case of several bundles of blankets, literally lousy.

  Second Lieutenant C. Danton Foster IV—who had immediately become dubbed “Foster Four”—proved far more useful than either Jack Allen or Homer Grass expected. The three other officer fillers, all lieutenants, however, ranged from mediocre to awful, and none had ever heard a shot fired in anger.

  Surprising Jack Allen, none of the filler officers ran to the Inspector General when he announced at Officers’ Call that seniority regulations be damned, Foster Four was his Exec, and when Foster Four said something, it was to be treated as if he himself had said it.

  As the enlisted fillers dribbled in, Jack Allen adopted, with Grass’s and Foster Four’s approval, a training philosophy of first things first. Everybody fired both his individual weapon and then the .45 pistol, staying on the firing range until they achieved a basic skill. Then they learned to fire—more important, to service—the Browning automatic rifles, the .30- and .50-caliber machine guns, and the mortars. Soon Grass had them throwing grenades and attacking sandbags with bayonets and entrenching tools.

  Some of the fillers were noncoms. Charley Company got a good supply sergeant—a blessing—and an incredibly bad mess sergeant. The company needed three really good platoon sergeants. It got one, with War Two credentials on a par with Grass’s, and two who had never heard a shot fired in anger.

  Charley Company was almost at authorized strength when they boarded the transport at Sasebo, and before they got into the landing barges at Inchon it was actually overstrength.