Master Sergeant Long depressed the talk button, responding, “Falcon Six, this is Falcon Three. Send.”
“Falcon Three, we just received word that we have an artillery battalion assigned for use by all Falcon units. The unit’s call sign is Thunder Five. How copy?”
Long smiled and suddenly felt a lot more confident in their ability to hold their position. “That’s a good copy. We are in intermittent contact with the enemy to our front. We’ll make use of the artillery support. What is the likelihood of getting some air support? Over,” asked Long.
There was a short pause in the dialogue before Captain Culley responded, “Air support is focused in other areas right now. Will be limited, if available at all. Try to make do with the artillery. How copy?”
“That’s a good copy. How about additional reinforcements to my position?” he asked, hoping there might be additional Marines headed his way.
“The rest of Falcon elements should be consolidating on your position within the next couple of hours. Please ensure additional fighting positions are ready. Out.”
Long nodded in approval and saw that Lieutenant Davis had moved next to him, apparently trying to listen in on the conversation. “We have an artillery battalion assigned to support us. Our CO said the rest of the company should be arriving at our position within the next couple of hours,” he explained.
“That’s good news, Master Sergeant, because it looks like the PLA is gearing up for another attack,” Davis said, pointing across the ridge.
As his eyes followed the direction of the lieutenant’s finger, Sergeant Long’s skin began to crawl. The top of the ridge was packed with enemy soldiers who were now filtering into the densely forested area that lined the ridges and valleys below them. They were moving down the valley to get in position to attack them.
Master Sergeant Long signaled for his radioman, or RTO, to head over to him. The radioman had a rucksack that contained their SINCGAR radio, which would allow them to make contact with the artillery unit and their battalion and brigade, if they needed to call in for air support.
As the RTO made his way over, Lieutenant Davis yelled to his soldiers, “Wake up and get ready for another attack!”
Lance Corporal Teddy Tipson finished trotting over. “You need me, Sir?”
“I sure do, Lance Corporal. Get on the horn to Thunder Five. Tell them I have a fire mission for them,” he directed as he kneeled down and pulled out his map. One of the other sergeants came over to him and pulled out his compass. The two of them identified where they wanted the artillery to land and wrote down the different coordinates according to the map. The RTO then handed the handset to Sergeant Long.
Long quickly picked it up. “Thunder Five, Falcon Three. Fire mission, fire mission, we have an imminent attack. How copy?”
The radio crackled with a bit of static, but a soft voice broke through. “Falcon Three, this is Thunder Five. Good copy, send fire mission.”
“I could barely hear them,” Lance Corporal Tipson said after he listened in on the conversation.
Master Sergeant Long nodded. “The PLA is trying to jam the spectrum right now. You got those coordinates?” he asked, holding his hand out to the sergeant who had been helping him identify the target grids. The sergeant quickly handed over the sheet of paper. “Thunder Five. Fire mission. Tango One, NK 7423 8724. One round HE. How copy?”
“Falcon Three, this is Thunder Five. That’s a good copy. One round HE… shot out!”
“Shot out,” replied Long as they waited for the round to impact.
“Splash,” the artilleryman said over the radio.
“Splash out.”
A few seconds later, they heard the scream of the round flying over their heads and watched as it impacted just shy of where they wanted it to hit.
Depressing the talk button on the mic, Long directed, “Thunder Five, adjust fire. Three hundred meters left, drop one hundred meters. Fire for effect, five rounds HE. Second fire mission, Tango Two, NK 7214 8435. One round HE. How copy?” The second set of coordinates would send additional rounds to the enemy soldiers who were gathered on the ridge across from them.
“Falcon Three. Good copy on Tango Two. Standby for a fire mission,” the artillery battalion responded as they prepared to fire the first mission. A minute later, they called back, “Shot out on Tango One. Shot out on Tango Two.”
As the Marines and Army soldiers on the ridge prepared for the coming onslaught, the outgoing artillery fire assaulted their ears with high-pitched screams overhead. As the rounds hit their targets below, they felt the reverberations in the ground. Twenty rounds bracketed the valley below, destroying trees and decimating the enemy soldiers moving underneath the pine trees. Then a lone round landed squarely on top of the ridge. A handful of enemy soldiers were thrown into the air from the blast, their bodies ripped to shreds.
“Thunder Five, good BDA on Tango One. Tango Two, right on the mark. Fire for effect, three rounds HE. How copy?” he called over the radio.
While Master Sergeant Long was relaying the next fire mission, they heard the sound of rockets flying over their heads, heading in the direction of the artillery battalion that was supporting them. Thunderous explosions roared from the rear area, where presumably their artillery support had been operating.
After not receiving a response from the Thunder unit for a few minutes and not hearing or seeing the second fire mission hitting the target they had just called in, Tim tried to raise them again. “Thunder Five. This is Falcon Three. What’s the status of that second fire mission? Over.”
The only thing they heard was hissing, popping, and static over the radio. “They may have just been taken out,” Lance Corporal Tipson offered. The others slowly nodded.
“Ugh — I was really hoping we’d be able to get a few more fire missions,” Sergeant Long thought.
Lieutenant Davis chimed in. “It was good while we had it. Looks like we’re back on our own,” he said, stating the obvious.
A few minutes later, they heard the distinctive sound of artillery rounds heading toward their own positions. The soldiers and Marines on the ridge ducked down in their hastily built fighting positions as the first artillery rounds arrived. The ground shook. Dirt, snow, and parts of the pine trees that surrounded their positions landed all around them.
The smell of smoke, cordite, burnt flesh and split-open bowels filled the air. Screams from the wounded rang out. “Medic! Corpsman!” they yelled.
The barrage lasted for maybe two or three minutes, but the damage had been done. All around them, their fighting positions had been torn asunder. Several of the amtracks had also been hit and were adding their own thick, oily black smoke to the surreal scene.
Master Sergeant Long poked his head above the foxhole he had jumped into. As he did, he heard the loud shrilling sound of a whistle being blown in the distance. Then the roar of hundreds, maybe even thousands of voices shouting sent a shiver of fear down his spine. The first wave of enemy soldiers that had survived the Americans’ first artillery barrage was charging their position.
“Here they come! Everyone up and ready!” Master Sergeant Long yelled to his Marines. His sergeants echoed his orders, as did Lieutenant Davis and some of his own sergeants as they, too, prepared themselves for the onslaught that was charging toward them.
Long moved out of the foxhole and ran toward a shallow slit trench that a couple of his men had dug. They were manning one of the platoon’s heavy machine guns, an M240 Golf mounted on a tripod with the spare barrel sitting next to it, ready to go.
“How many extra belts of ammo do you guys have here?” Master Sergeant Long asked the assistant gunner, a private who had been newly assigned to the platoon.