The Captains (8 page)

Sergeant Woodrow disappeared for thirty minutes during the off-loading procedure and returned with a General Motors six-by-six truck and a Dodge three-quarter-ton ambulance without the Red Cross insignia painted on its sides. The trucks bore bumper markings identifying them as belonged to the 25th Infantry's Headquarters and Service Company. The bumpers were spread with track grease and then covered with dirt from the pier so the markings could not be read. When the platoon moved out, both trucks, loaded as heavily as possible with 76 mm ammunition, were placed in the column after the first two tanks.

Five hours later, coming around a bend in a narrow, tar-covered road, Lieutenant Parker came on the regimental headquarters. It consisted of a tent fly erected by the side of the road to shade the headquarters staff from the hot sun, and the regimental headquarters' vehicles, halfheartedly camouflaged across the road.

There was also one M24 tank. When Parker saw it, he thought he might be in luck; it was possible the company commander was at the command post.

He was not. And the M24 was all that was left of the first and second platoons of the tank company.

“My report to division said that Captain Meadows and the others are missing and presumed dead or captured,” the regimental commander said bitterly. “I have, however, been reliably informed that the captain, was seen together with several of his officers and approximately seventy men, on foot headed in the general direction of Pusan.”

“I don't quite follow you, sir.”

“I mean they bugged out, Lieutenant. They turned tail and ran. Is that clear enough for you?”

“What are my orders, sir?”

“Render what assistance you can to the 3rd Battalion,” the colonel said, pointing out their location on a map laid on the hood of a jeep. “The last time I heard, they were in this general area.”

The colonel was obviously distraught. And it was equally obvious that the colonel, if he did not expect Parker and his men to run like the others, at least would not be shocked or surprised if they did.

“I presume, sir, the orders are to hold that line?”

“Those are my orders, Lieutenant,” the colonel said.

Parker went back to the road and climbed in the turret of his M4A3. He put on his helmet and adjusted the radio microphone in front of his lips.

He looked around at his force: a few tanks, manned by frightened, inexperienced, inadequately trained black men. And they were supposed to take on the whole North Korean Army? It was absurd on its face. What was going to happen was that they were all going to get killed. Unless they ran.

But then he had another thought. This was not the first time a few black men had faced an enemy superior in numbers—and probably in skill. Master Sergeant Parker of the 9th Cavalry had fought and beaten Chiricahua Apache, and had lived to run up Kettle and San Juan hills with the Rough Riders.

The cold fact was that if he didn't do this right, if he didn't come through now as his heritage and his training required, the men with him would die.

It was clearly better to die fighting than die running.

He pressed the mike button.

“Wind 'em up,” he heard himself say. “Charge the machine guns. Load the tubes with a HEAT round. The bad guys are about a mile from here.”

He was frightened. He laid his hand on the wooden grips of the 1917 Colt revolver. So this was what it was all about. Not knowing what the fuck you were supposed to do, or how the fuck to do it.

Had his father and his grandfather gone through something like this?

“Move out,” he said to the microphone. The M4A3 jerked under him.

Around the next bend, he could see men on foot coming down both sides of the road. When he got close to them, he told the driver to slow. He put binoculars to his eyes. He could see nothing, except a haze that might be smoke residue from incoming rounds—or which might be haze, period.

A lieutenant flagged him down. Parker ordered the tank driver to stop. The lieutenant climbed with difficulty over the tied-on cases of 76 mm ammo.

“Turn around,” he said. “They're right behind me.” There was terror in the lieutenant's eyes.

“I don't see anybody back there,” Parker said.

The lieutenant looked over his shoulder.

“The colonel told me to tell you to secure your positions,” Parker said. “Reinforcements are on the way. We're the first of them.”

“I'm not going back up there.”

“Tell your men to climb on my tanks,” Parker said. “You'll have to show me where to go.”

The lieutenant looked at him out of wide eyes.

“Tell them,” Parker said, again, softly. “Everything's going to be all right.”

For a moment, he thought that he had won.

“Fuck you,” the lieutenant said, not angrily. A man who had made his decision. He jumped off the tank.

His men had gathered in a clump around Parker's tank, watching. Paying no attention to them at all, the lieutenant resumed walking toward the rear. Parker pulled the Colt from its holster, pointed it at the sky, and pulled the trigger.

The noise was shocking, hurting his ears.

The lieutenant turned and looked at him.

“Get your men on the tanks,” Parker ordered.

The lieutenant looked at him for a long moment, and then deliberately turned his back and started walking.

I'll fire a shot into the ground beside him, Parker thought; but even as he raised the pistol, he knew that wouldn't work. The sights lined up on the lieutenant's back. He pulled the trigger. The old pistol leapt in recoil. The lieutenant fell spread-eagled on the ground, tried to rise, then fell again and didn't move.

Parker looked at the men gathered around his tank. His eyes fell on a sergeant.

“Have your men climb on the tanks, Sergeant,” Parker shouted. “You are now under my command.”

The sergeant didn't move. Parker tried to put the Colt back in its holster. He missed. He could hear the pistol clattering around in the hull. He hoped it wouldn't land on its hammer and fire. He put his trembling hands on the handles of the .50 caliber machine gun, and—awkwardly—trained it on the infantrymen on the ground.

“Mount your men, Sergeant,” Parker ordered.

“OK,” the sergeant said, softly, and then raised his voice. “On the tanks,” he shouted. “Everybody on the tanks.”

Parker touched his throat microphone.

“If anyone jumps off, shoot him,” he ordered. “Move out!”

A half mile further down the road, he came on the defense positions. There were twenty men manning them. Another sergeant ran out when the tanks approached.

“Is there an officer here?” Parker asked.

“No, sir, he bugged out,” the sergeant said.

“You're in command?”

“I guess so, Lieutenant.”

“Put these men to work,” Parker ordered. “If any of them try to leave without my specific order to move, shoot them.”

The sergeant, a wiry little black with an acne-scarred face, came to attention and saluted.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“I'll see you're decorated for this, Sergeant,” Parker said. Then he touched the throat microphone. “Woodrow, put the tanks in a defensive position.”

“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Woodrow's voice came back.

“Let's take a run up the road a little and see what we can see,” Parker said to his driver.

There was no response. Parker looked into the tank interior. The driver was handing the old Colt up to him.

“You really shoot that bastard, Lieutenant?” the driver asked.

Parker looked at him a moment before he nodded his head.

“Get back in the saddle,” he ordered. “I want to see what's up ahead.”

“Yes, sir!” the driver said. He dropped back into the hull. In a moment his voice came over the intercom. “OK, Lieutenant.”

“Scouts forward,” Parker said, almost to himself.

“Right up the fucking road, Lieutenant?” the driver asked, as the tank began to move.

“Right up the fucking road,” Parker replied.

Another half a mile further forward, they came across six M24 light tanks. Five were facing forward, one toward the rear. They formed a half-circle.

“Maybe they're booby-trapped,” the driver said, putting Parker's thoughts into words.

“Yeah, and maybe they're not,” Parker replied. “Maybe they were just left here.” He thought for a moment. He touched his throat microphone again. “If anybody shoots at me, return the fire,” he said. “I'm going to go see.”

He hoisted himself out of the turret, climbed down the tracks, and ran to the nearest M24, the one facing to the rear. The hatches were open, but there was no sign of damage at all. He climbed onto the hull, looked down into the driver's seat, and then stood on the hull and looked into the turret. Finally, he climbed into the turret. There was ammunition for the tube, and the machine guns were cocked and ready to fire. Just to be sure, he dropped into the driver's seat and tried to start the engine. It cranked but wouldn't start, and for a moment, Parker thought it was out of fuel. But the gauge showed half full. Perhaps a fuel line stoppage. He wondered if he remembered enough from watching mechanics to clear a fuel line stoppage.

And then the engine caught. It ran roughly for a moment or two and then smoothed out. He put it in gear and drove it to where his M4A3 sat and climbed out.

He ordered the gunner and the loader from his tank. He installed the gunner in the M24 and told him to go back to where the rest of the platoon was in place and to tell Sergeant Woodrow to send four crewmen back, anyone who thinks he can drive an M24.

“You always wanted to be a tank commander,” he said to the loader, the junior man in a tank crew's hierarchy. “You go get one of those M24s, and its yours…as commander.”

“Jesus Christ, Lieutenant!” the loader said, unnerved.

“Go on,” Parker said. “I don't see why we should give our tanks to the enemy, do you?”

“No, sir,” the loader said, and he ran toward the parked tanks.

Parker climbed into the M4A3 and took the gunner's position. He strapped on the throat microphone.

“You're the commander,” he said to the driver. “Until we get some people back up here, I'll have to fire the tube.”

He put his eyes to the rubber eyepieces of the gunsight. He moved the turret from side to side. There was nothing out there but a bright summer Korean day.

In fifteen minutes, crewmen from his M4A3 showed up, clinging to the hull of the M24 he had taken over. Five minutes after that, the last of the M24s had driven past him on the way to the defensive positions. He watched the last one depart, and then took a final look through the sight.

He saw movement, and then quite clearly saw crouching figures coming onto the road at a right angle from the left, and then following the road in his direction, in the ditches on either side.

He touched the throat microphone.

“I'm going to fire one round in this thing,” he said. “The minute I do, turn it around and shag ass.”

“Gotcha, Lieutenant,” the driver said. Parker aimed the cannon. HEAT rounds were High Explosive, Anti-Tank, not very effective against personnel. What he needed was a cannister round. But he didn't have a cannister round.

He took aim at a concrete drain abutment and pressed the trigger. The round went whistling over it, to explode harmlessly five hundred yards away. Immediately, the driver spun the tank around on one track and hightailed it for the rear.

Furious, Parker climbed awkwardly into the turret of the lurching tank, skinning his hands and knees. He stood on the seat, grabbed the handles of the .50 caliber machine gun, and spun the turret around to face the rear. By the time the turret swung, they were around a corner in the road; and there was nothing for him to fire at.

When he got back to where he had left Woodrow and the platoon, he didn't know what to do with the M24s. He was unable to raise the regimental CP on any of the tank radio frequencies.

He walked over to Sergeant Sidney's M4A3. Sidney was sitting with his legs stradding the tube.

“Sidney,” Parker said, “take one of those M24s and go back to regiment. Tell the colonel we have six of them and ask him what to do with them. And get us a radio frequency.”

Sidney looked at him as if he were very sleepy. He nodded without saying a word and climbed off the cannon barrel. It was not, Parker decided, the time to remind Sidney that when sergeants were given an order by an officer, they were supposed to say, “Yes, sir.”

Twenty minutes later, the regimental commander showed up, driving a jeep himself.

Parker climbed off his tank, walked to the jeep, and saluted.

“Where did you get the tanks, Lieutenant?” the colonel asked.

“I found them on the road, sir,” Parker said. “They had apparently been abandoned. I'm going to need crews for them.”