William Weber - Turning the Tide

“What the heck is this?” Heller, Alpha’s explosives expert, asked.

John switched his light off, feeling the rage surging up his throat like bile. “A mass grave,” he answered. “And it’s filled with dead Americans.”

After circling around the mass grave, they entered the cornfield and John was thankful to have the smell of decaying bodies replaced with that of damp earth. A violent explosion sounded up ahead as the trap sprang. Echo and Foxtrot were no doubt pouring anti-tank rockets and gunfire into the kill zone. His own men were deployed in a line-abreast formation as they pushed through the rows of cornstalks before them.

A few more meters and they would reach the clearing. Just then John’s radio crackled to life.

“Colonel, we found the armory,” Moss reported. “She’s filled with lots of small arms and grenades.”

“Good news,” John replied, pulling the charging handle on his AR and swinging his rifle into the low ready position.

“Well, if you liked that, then you’re going to love this.”

“Spit it out, Moss, there’s no time for cuteness.”

“We found an 81mm mortar.”

John smiled. “You’re right, I do love it. Set it up on the double. I’ll correct your round placement. Just remember that everything you send downrange will be danger close.”

The firefight was still going strong by the time John and the rest of the men reached the edge of the cornfield. The roadway was filled with enemy soldiers. To the right, a handful of infantry fighting vehicles burned on the road. Squatting behind them were clumps of North Korean soldiers, taking cover. Two platoon-sized reinforcements moved along the opposite side of the road and John called for his men to open fire.

Rounds peppered the unsuspecting enemy soldiers, tearing many of them to pieces. Several tried to fall back into the cornfield on the north side of the road and were cut down. The incoming rounds thudded into men and stalks of corn alike, sending them both tumbling to the ground as though a giant scythe had chopped them at the knee.

Some of the enemy soldiers who made it into the field began returning fire. Bullets whizzed by inches from John’s head, striking ears of corn nearby.

Even over the sound of battle John caught the distant crack of Reese’s sniper rifle and saw the devastating effects first-hand as the rounds found their mark, killing one and sometimes two soldiers at a time. A group of the enemy peeled away from the main force on the road and entered the cornfield to the left of John’s position.

“Bravo,” John shouted over the radio. “We’ve got company along our left flank. Have your men form a line along to intercept them.”

“Will do,” Gardner, the team leader, replied.

That was when the first mortar round came whistling overhead and slammed into the cornfield fifty yards in front of them. John signalled Moss on the radio.

“Left thirty, drop ten,” he said.

“Left thirty, drop ten,” Moss repeated.

Another round came sailing over and exploded ten yards into the cornfield, sending plants and men flying into the air.

“Great shot,” John called back. “Adjust fire. Left ten. Drop five.”

The North Korean soldiers firing at John and the other Americans seemed oblivious that the mortar team was zeroing in on their position. That was the difference between experienced troops and the kind who’d just come out of basic training.

The next mortar was loud as it came whistling in.

“Heads down,” John shouted, not wanting his men to take any shrapnel from so close a strike.

The mortar round struck the edge of the field, churning up soil and men in a giant explosion.

“Heavy contact,” Bravo’s team leader shouted over the radio. “Need reinforcements.”

John shifted what was left of Charlie over to help out while his own men in Alpha continued firing toward the road.

From the rear of their position came the sound of men charging through the cornfield. John turned, his weapon poised, just in time to see skinny men draped in tattered clothing wielding AKs and QBZ-03s. They were prisoners who had likely stripped weapons from the arsenal and were thirsty for revenge. They streamed past John’s men without any concern for their own personal safety. Alpha held their fire as they ran by, the prisoners letting loose with what sounded like the rebel yell as they opened up on a terrified enemy.

John radioed Moss and his mortar team to stand down. For their part, the North Koreans broke and ran in every direction. Many were shot in the back as they tried to flee. Without a doubt, this went against John’s sense of honour and dignity on the battlefield. But in this kind of war, where you were fighting for your very way of life, there wasn’t any room for mercy. As he had said before during that meeting in Oneida, John’s Rough Riders weren’t going to be like Jeb Stuart’s cavalry. They were Bloody Bill Anderson’s men reborn.

With the enemy broken and running back toward Jonesboro, John pulled his men together and made a quick tally of Alpha, Bravo and Charlie’s losses. Five killed and six with mostly minor wounds. They moved over the battlefield, finishing off the enemy wounded and collecting as much gear as they could. Even members of Foxtrot and Echo came to help. It wouldn’t be long before an even bigger force showed up and that meant they needed to leave and fast.

They headed back toward the prison, carrying the men who’d lost their lives, along with the plundered gear.

“What about those yahoos who ran off chasing the North Koreans?” Heller asked, not entirely able to hide his amusement.

“With no way to call them back,” John said, “I guess we’ll just have to let them have their fun and hope they don’t get themselves killed.”

“Colonel,” Moss said over the radio, “I think you better come quick.”

When John and his men reached the camp, they found Moss and a handful of others waiting for them at the mouth of the western gate. His second-in-command had his arm around a young prisoner in rags, the boy’s cheeks and eye sockets sunken with hunger. But it was only when John got to within a few feet that he recognized his son.

In spite of his weakened condition, Gregory ran into his father’s arms. John clutched him tightly, weeping with disbelief, his hands running over ribs that were never meant to protrude so far.

“I was told you were dead,” John said, unable to stop squeezing. Part of him wondered if this was real or some cruel hallucination.

“It was Brandon,” Gregory replied in a low voice. His chestnut hair was long now and in his face. “He offered to take my place and was taken away.”

“Taken away to where?” John asked, checking his son for wounds.

“To fight for the Chinese.”

They’d conscripted him. It was an inevitable move that had happened countless times throughout history as conquering armies sought to replace depleted manpower. Often that took the form of slave labour camps, like the one they had just liberated. But even the Nazi army had raised troops to fight for its cause in France, Norway and a host of other countries that would surprise many.

“Don’t worry, son,” John said. “We’ll find him and get him back.” John couldn’t help thinking about Emma and how devastated she would be by the news.

“We don’t have long,” Moss reminded him gently. “Several groups of prisoners have already fled into the countryside.”

John looked up, remembering what he’d seen on the way to the cornfield.

“We’re not done yet. I want every North Korean you can find assembled in the courtyard within five minutes.”