Griffin W.E.B. - The Corps 09 - Under Fire

"In the Dai-Ichi Building?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Where does the lady fit in?"

"Eighth Army didn't have wheels for us, sir. So I com-mandeered hers."

"And brought her along?"

"Yes, sir."

"Okay. I'll tell you `what's going on,'" he said. "Appar-ently largely based on your intelligence, we expect an at-tack sometime between right now and 0300. The only signs we've had of anything are reports-half a dozen re-ports-of small groups of North Koreans trying to wade across the Kum River"-he turned to his map and pointed'-"in this area."

He turned back to face McCoy.

"Small groups," he said. "I think they know we're short on artillery. You heard about the 63rd Field Artillery get-ting overrun?..."

McCoy nodded.

"... and are reluctant to fire what little we have on groups of five or six men. And they're also aware of the location of our positions. As a ballpark figure, my regiment is holding three times as much line as I was taught was the absolute maximum at Leavenworth, (Graduation from the U.S. Army Command and General Staff College is a prerequisite for promotion to colonel and being given command of a regiment.) and there are holes in it. The North Koreans are wading across where, in many cases, it is impossible for us to bring small-arms fire to bear."

"Can you give us a guide to some of these positions?"

"Why?"

"I'd like to try to get another prisoner or two, sir."

"I'd like another one, too," the colonel said. "Particu-larly since you speak Korean. I can send you up here"- he pointed at the map again-"with Major Allman, my G-3, and one of his sergeants. It'll be really dark in an hour..."

"Thank you, sir."

"... which means that you and the lady will have to re-main here for the night. Which means that you had better hope we can hold out until first light, because you won't be able to get out of here before then."

"I understand, sir."

[FIVE]

Five minutes after Major Allman, Captain McCoy, and Master Gunner Zimmerman had started out from the regi-mental command post for the outpost positions of Baker Company, 1st Battalion, 19th Infantry, a female voice called out, "Hey, guys, wait for me!"

"Miss Priestly," Major Allman said, dryly, "has appar-ently chosen to ignore the colonel's suggestion to remain in the CP."

"Escaped from the CP is more like it," Captain McCoy said.

"Fuck her," Master Gunner Zimmerman said.

"That thought has occurred to me," Major Allman said. "But this isn't the time nor place. The question is what do we do about her, here and now?"

"The light's failing," McCoy said. "We don't have time to take her back."

"Your call, Captain," Allman said.

"I don't see where we have a choice," McCoy said.

He started walking again.

Three minutes later, the war correspondent of the Chicago Tribune caught up with them. She had a Leica III-c 35-mm camera hanging around her neck, and was carry-ing a.30-caliber carbine in her hand.

"You're supposed to be a noncombatant," McCoy said.

"I should use it on you, you son of a bitch," Jeanette said, conversationally, "for leaving me back there."

Five minutes later, they reached the Baker Company CP-which was nothing more than a sandbag reinforced shelter on the military crest (The military crest of a hill is just below the actual crest, and therefore is not under enemy observation.) of a small hill overlooking the river.

The company commander was not there; the first ser-geant said he was out checking positions. He showed them-on a hand-drawn map-where they were, on the other side of the bill, overlooking the river, and thus visible to the enemy.

`This is as far as you go, Jeanette," McCoy said. "If nec-essary, I'll have you tied up."

"Where are you going?" she demanded.

"Zimmerman and I are going to go down to the posi-tions, the foxholes. We're going to try to get a prisoner. Maybe two."

"And I don't get to watch?" she asked, angry and disap-pointed.

"There's an FO OP right up there," the first sergeant of-fered helpfully, pointing. A forward observer's observation post. "It's sandbagged. She could watch from there. They've got binoculars."

"And you'd go with her, right?" Major Allman asked, smiling.

"Yes, sir."

"I don't think so, Jeanette," McCoy said. "How do I know you'd stay in the OP?"

"I'll stay there," she said.

"I'll make sure she doesn't leave the OP," Major Allman said, and added: "Unless you'd rather have me go to the outposts with you."

"I don't think that would be necessary, sir," McCoy said. "Thank you."

It took McCoy and Zimmerman another five minutes to climb past the military crest of the hill, and then to run, zigzagging, down the other side until they reached an obvi-ously freshly dug, sandbag-reinforced two-man foxhole.

It held two men, manning an air-cooled Browning.30-caliber machine gun on a tripod. There were half a dozen cans of ammunition in the hole, and half a dozen hand grenades-with their pins in, and the tape still holding the safety lever in place-were laid out neatly on the sand-bags.

The sergeant and the PFC manning the gun were sur-prised when two officers suddenly joined them, and even more surprised when they saw the Marine Corps emblem painted on Zimmerman's utilities jacket.

McCoy looked back up the hill for the forward ob-server's position, and easily found it-its brown sandbag reinforcement stood out from the vegetation-which meant the enemy could also see it.

He turned to the sergeant, who so far had neither said a word nor saluted.

"Sergeant, they tell me there's North Koreans trying to wade across the river," he said.

The sergeant pointed over Zimmerman's shoulder. Mc-Coy and Zimmerman looked where he pointed. Zimmerman reached into one of the cavernous pockets of his utili-ties and came out with a pair of binoculars.

At what McCoy estimated to be from 450 to 500 yards, half a dozen men were wading across the Kum River. When Zimmerman had his look through his binoculars and handed them to him, McCoy saw that the North Koreans were holding their weapons and packs over their heads.

He handed the binoculars back to Zimmerman.

"Sergeant, have you been ordered not to fire?" McCoy asked.

"We're not that heavy on ammo," the sergeant said, pointing at the ammunition cans. "I decided we better save that for later."

"And your rifle?" McCoy asked, pointing to an M-l Garand resting against the sandbags beside a.30-caliber carbine.

"You can't hit them with a rifle at that range, sir," the sergeant said.

Zimmerman looked at the sergeant incredulously, and opened his mouth. McCoy held up a hand to silence him.

"Sergeant," McCoy said, not unkindly, "when I had an air-cooled thirty-caliber Browning machine-gun section, we were taught that if you could hit something with a machine gun, you could hit it with a rifle. It's the same cartridge."

The sergeant shrugged.

Zimmerman made a give it to me gesture toward Mc-Coy's Garand, and McCoy handed it to him.

The sergeant and the PFC were now fascinated.

"Where's the zero?" Zimmerman asked.

`Two hundred," McCoy said.

"You're sure? I really hate to fuck with the sights."

"Give it back, Ernie," McCoy ordered. "You spot for me."

Zimmerman shrugged, and handed the Garand back.

McCoy moved up to the sandbags, tried the sitting posi-tion, found that it placed him too low to fire, and assumed the kneeling position.

Then he reached up and moved two of the grenades out of the way.

"Sergeant," he said. "If you think you might need those grenades in a hurry, it might be a good idea to take the tape off now."

The sergeant looked at him a moment, and then offered a noncommittal, "Yes, sir."

McCoy pounded the sandbag with the fore end of the Garand until the groove in the sandbag provided what he thought was adequate support. Then, with quick sure movements born of long practice, he unlooped the leather sling of the Garand from the stock, adjusted the brass hooks, and arranged it around his arm.