“Not hardly. This isn’t France or Belgium, where Patton could race across Europe, chasing the Germans. The Chinese are dug in. We are dug in. So here we sit.”
Hardy thought about that. “Seems like a shame, sir.”
The lieutenant laughed. “You’ve got that right.”
From their vantage point atop the tank, Hardy watched as a group of soldiers passed by along the line of defense in front of the tanks, which had been situated to fire over the heads of the defenders. To Hardy’s surprise, the men wore U.S. uniforms but appeared dark-complected. All of them wore mustaches, which stood out because soldiers were required to be clean-shaven. None of them carried weapons, which was unusual on the front lines. The men strolled along in group of three and four, talking as if they didn’t have a care in the world — never mind that the Chinese were almost within hearing distance. Hardy didn’t know whether to be appalled or reassured.
A couple of the men smoked cigars, thick clouds of smoke swirling about their heads.
“Those are the Borinqueneers that you’re here to write about,” the lieutenant said. He started to say more, then hesitated. “The jury is still out on them.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“If there is an attack on this outpost, those are the men who will be defending my tanks.”
“In that case, they might want to pick up their rifles, sir.”
“Military training seems to be a little lackadaisical in Puerto Rico,” the lieutenant said, then seemed to realize that he was saying too much. “Don’t quote me on that.”
“No worries, sir.”
They made their way back to the ground. There was something pleasurable about climbing around on the tank, as if it were a jungle gym for soldiers.
Looking up at the monstrosity that was the M-46 tank, Hardy was glad that he did not have to face anything like that on the battlefield.
Hardy had to admit that he had been so focused on his assignment to write about the 65th Infantry that he might easily have overlooked this other, interesting story about a tank unit deployed to Outpost Kelly. Maybe the lieutenant was somewhat self-serving in that regard, but Hardy was appreciative all the same.
He took out his camera and took several photographs of the tank crew stacking ammunition, and got the lieutenant to climb back up on the tank and pose with the Chinese-held Hill 377 in the background. He also interviewed several of the crew members, getting their names, ages, and where they were from. To his surprise, none of the crew was a day older than 19. The lieutenant was 28 and had served in the last war as an enlisted man, though he looked younger.
The lieutenant seemed pleased by Hardy’s efforts, and they chatted for a while. Once the lieutenant found out that Hardy was a recent college graduate, he appeared to relax even more. He seemed to feel that could let his guard down a bit considering that Hardy wasn’t under his command.
“Listen, where are you bunking while you’re up here at sharp end of the spear?”
“I have no idea,” Hardy admitted. “I think the last thing the CO is worried about is where a reporter should lay his head for the night.”
“We’ve got room in our bunker,” the lieutenant said. “I’m in there with my sergeant and the tank crew, but we can squeeze in one more.”
“That would be swell, Lieutenant.”
“Good, that’s settled then. Say, how are you at catching rats?”
As it turned out, Lieutenant Dunbar wasn’t kidding about the rats. They had moved into the bunker almost as soon as it was built, attracted by the relative warmth and the promise of food scraps. It was a strange thing, considering that they were nowhere near any cities, which were the sort of places Hardy usually associated with rats. Then again, when he thought about it, there had been plenty of rats hanging around the chickens and barns even in rural Indiana, where he had grown up.
Of course, the soldiers did everything they could to reduce the appeal of the bunker, being sure not to leave any open food around, but the rats hadn’t gotten the memo.
“Do they bite?” he asked Dunbar.
“Not as long as you keep moving,” the lieutenant said. “When you go to sleep, make sure that you wrap everything up tight. I wouldn’t sleep commando, if you know what I mean.”
Hardy winced at the notion. “Some of these rats are the size of cats.”
“You must have seen some puny cats in your life,” Dunbar said. “These rats are bigger than most cats.”
He ended up sleeping fully clothed, except for his boots. As it turned out, that was a good thing.
A tank crew of five men, along with Lieutenant Dunbar and Hardy, shared the cramped bunker. He would have thought the bunker would be warm, but it felt cold and damp. The nights were chilly here in the Korean hills. To take the chill off, a gasoline-fueled heater burned inside, vented through a pipe through the roof.
Hardy viewed the heater with some skepticism. He had grown up around kerosene heaters, and those were dangerous enough. Left untended, the fumes could kill and they were a fire hazard. But a gasoline heater? It seemed to him that they might as well be sleeping with a potential firebomb in the room.
Judging by the sounds of snoring around him, the takers didn’t seem worried. Hardy was so tired that he puts aside his fears of rats and rickety heaters, and went to sleep.
It was around midnight when a crescendo of small arms fire woke him up. He rolled out of the bunk and onto the dirt floor. The fire seemed to be coming from inside and outside their own lines.
Dunbar and his tank driver were already on their feet, shoving on their Mickey Mouse boots and running out the door. Dunbar had his gun belt in hand and he shouted back at Hardy, all business now, “Better grab a weapon, soldier!”
There was no doubt that their position was under some kind of attack. But by the volume of fire, it was clear that this was not a full-on assault. Hardy was glad for that much.
From the lead tank, a soldier was shouting that he’d lost his weapon. “They shot my rifle right out of my hands! Where are my grenades, dammit!”
Hardy had grabbed an M-2 carbine that was leaning against the wall of the bunker. He had no ideas whose weapon it was, or even if the thing was loaded. He followed Dunbar and the sergeant, who ran for the tank. None of the other tanks seemed to be under attack. Without hesitation, Dunbar and the sergeant leaped up onto the tank, which was still parked in its enfiladed position.
The two men ran forward to the front of the tank and angled their weapons down. If the tank was still under attack, then this was where the attackers would be found. The lookout in the turret might have lost his rifle, but he held a pistol in one hand and a grenade in the other. Hardy moved forward, his carbine at the ready.
“Nobody there,” Dunbar said in a low voice, looking out at the darkness. If the Chinese attackers had gotten this close, they had either breached the defensive line ahead or somehow slipped through it.
“They were there a minute ago,” the lookout insisted. “I saw some guys and called out to them thinking that they were from the 65th, and the next thing I knew, they’re shooting at me. I started shooting back, but they shot the rifle right out of my hands!”
As if to prove the lookout’s point, gunfire erupted, stitching the darkness with tracer fire.
“Take cover in the tank!” Dunbar shouted.
One after another, they slid down the turret. Hardy banged up his knees and elbows in the process, but it was still a hell of a lot better than being shot. They had been sitting ducks up there around the tank. The others were more than a little familiar with tanks and easily slipped inside. Dunbar was the last man, and no sooner was he inside than he slammed down the hatch and secured it. They were now buttoned up tight.