The counterattack began before first light. A remnant of the monsoon had moved in, resulting in a light drizzle adding to the misery of the already damp troops. After the gathering at the command post, the officers had returned to their units to prepare for the attack. For the men of the tank unit, this preparation had meant stacking rounds both on the ground and high on the back deck of their tanks for easy access.
Normally, ammunition was stored within the tank itself. But with the tanks stationary and acting as artillery, the idea was to enable a high rate of fire. Lieutenant Dunbar’s plan was to essentially create a bucket brigade passing shells into the tank turrets. Hardy could have sat out the fight as an observer, but he volunteered to help with passing the shells.
“Much appreciated,” Dunbar said, clearly pleased because the tankers were going to be shorthanded, even with the mechanics pressed into service. “This is going to be harder than pushing a pencil, you know.”
“No worries there,” Hardy said, flexing his big shoulders. He had stuck his reporter’s notebook in his back pocket. “I grew up tossing hay bales, so this is nothing.”
“One bit of advice,” the lieutenant said. “Stuff some cotton in your ears.”
When the firing began, Hardy was glad for that cotton. The four tanks on the hill opened up on the outpost with a deafening cacophony amplified and echoed by the hills and valleys.
Soon enough, Hardy realized that tossing hay bales into the loft of a barn had been good preparation for tank duty. Each 90 mm high explosive round weighed forty pounds and required wrestling it up from the ground to the tank turret. The first few shells weren’t so bad, but then the work became grueling. It was taking two smaller men working in pairs to lift the shells, while the bigger men like Hardy insisted as a matter of pride that they didn’t need help. They soon swallowed their pride and worked in pairs. The surface of the tank itself became slick with mud and rain. Hardy slipped and banged his knee hard against the tank. He felt his trousers rip and blood trickle, but there was no slowing down.
“Keep ‘em coming!” one the tank crewmen shouted, popping his head out of the turret. If this was hard work out in the open, Hardy couldn’t imagine what it must be like handling the heavy shells inside the cramped, stifling interior of the tank. The tankers’ knees, elbows, and shins paid a heavy price with all of the jutting metal configurations of the tank interior that they navigated in semi-darkness.
It didn’t help that the monsoon had left steamy summer-like temperatures in its wake. The sun hadn’t even made an appearance, but the young men stripped off their shirts and let the sweat run off them in the humid pre-dawn stillness.
Hardy barely had time to look up and notice the fireworks show taking place on Outpost Kelly. Not only were four tanks hammering the Chinese-occupied position, but also the artillery. One white-hot explosion followed another on the hilltop. A dense pall of smoke hung over the hill, lit an angry red from below. The scene reminded Hardy not of a bombardment so much as a volcanic eruption.
It was almost possible to feel sorry for the enemy troops up there. How could they possibly survive?
However, the Chinese were not defenseless. Mortars returned fire from Outpost Kelly, along with Chinese artillery from Hill 377—the Rice Mound. Lucky for the tankers, they were well dug-in and protected.
A head popped out of the turret again. “Where’s the lieutenant? We’ve got a problem. We can’t see a thing. The barrel keeps steaming up.”
The tanks were delivering such a high rate of fire that the light rain instantly turned to steam when it hit the hot steel of the barrel, obscuring their aim.
Expecting just such a problem, Lieutenant Dunbar had already worked out a solution earlier by plotting an azimuth and gunner’s quadrant elevation to deliver fire to the hill. “Forget aiming by sight,” he said. “We’re going to aim by the numbers.”
The tanks continued firing, adding to the hell on the hilltop.
Chapter Fourteen
Cole moved forward, rifle at the ready, trying to see into the gloom. He was the first man in the squad, on point, leading them in the attack to retake Outpost Kelly.
Behind him, he heard a soldier fall out of line and retch, overcome by nerves. The squad was forced to halt and wait for him.
Cole held his breath, worried that the sound would give them away.
“Sorry, Hillbilly,” the soldier muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and getting back into line. The man was no greenbean, but a veteran of more than one fight.
“Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry about,” Cole replied quietly. Cole himself had lain awake much of the night, using the time to hone the Damascus steel of his Bowie knife to a razor’s edge. “It’s just the jitters. Hits everybody different.”
“You think the Chinese are up there?” the kid asked, right behind Cole. “It’s really quiet. Maybe they pulled out. Maybe they’re all dead.”
“Keep hoping, kid.”
“I don’t know how anyone could have survived that bombardment. That was a real pounding.”
“You know these Chinese as well as I do, kid. They’re damn hard to kill no matter how many bombs you drop on them.”
“You’ve got a point, Hillbilly.”
“Keep your eyes sharp. I want intervals, ya’ll. Spread out now.”
Cole resisted being in charge, but giving orders to the squad felt natural, like these men were an extension of himself.
Right now, their lives were in his hands.
It was also fair to say that his life was in their hands as well. They were counting on one another. That was the thing about combat. You knew the other guy had your back. He knew that you had his back. You might not like the other guy much; you might not even know him very well. But you sure as hell would fight for each other.
The kid was right about it being quiet. The bombardment by the tanks and artillery had been a real fireworks show. Now, the quiet was spooky.
The only sound was the scampering of rats, unseen in the gloaming. Humans and rats, he thought. Where you found one, you were likely to find the other.
But even the rats seemed to tread lightly, trying not to disrupt the quiet.
What made it worse was that Cole knew for damn sure that they weren’t alone. Off to their left and right, more troops were converging on the hill. Behind them, yet more soldiers waited to move in and hold the defenses as the advance squads cleared them.
The troops around them were a given. But it was hard to say how many Chinese awaited the attack that they surely knew was coming. They had attacked in force, so there was at least one company dug in like ticks.
Outlined against the growing daylight, he could see the hump of the hill ahead. He had visited the outpost once or twice and was somewhat familiar with the layout. The crest of the hill contained defensive positions — or what was left of them after that hellish bombardment. He guessed that any Chinese who had survived would be waiting for the attack in the defensive ring of trenches that surrounded the crest of the hill. Several slit trenches stretched outward from the ring, resembling the fingers of a groping hand, extending down the face of the hill. It was one of these slit trenches that Cole and the squad moved through now.
Suddenly, he came to a stop. He could smell the Chinese just ahead. It was a foreign odor of garlic and raw onions, maybe with some fish mixed in.
He raised his rifle to his shoulder and pointed it down the trench.
Something shifted in the darkness ahead.
Cole fired.
The muzzle flash was like a stab to the eyeballs.
Up head, somebody cried out. Cole worked the bolt, fired again. Again, another stab of flame in the dark. He heard another body fall.