Chapter Twenty-Two
As Cole and Lieutenant Commander Miller climbed down from the watchtower, it was becoming more evident that the battle for the fortress had reached a turning point. Below, Chinese soldiers swarmed across the road in coordinated attacks. Some troops focused on dismantling the barricade, while others crept closer to the walls of the fort itself, firing all the way.
On the fortress wall, with so many wounded, there were fewer defenders now to shoot back. Those who could still fight were having to scavenge ammunition from the dead and wounded. Whoever had called this place the Alamo wasn’t far wrong.
“We can’t hold out much longer,” Cole said.
“Should we pull out? I guess that’s up to Lieutenant Ballard.”
Cole shook his head. “Ballard is badly wounded, along with Sergeant Weber. They’ve both been dosed with morphine. Lieutenant Dunbar is down in his tank, which means he’s got his hands full. You know what? That makes you the ranking officer up here on the wall.”
“Ranking officer? Hell, I’m the only officer still standing,” Miller said. “But I’ve got to say, I feel a lot more at home in the cockpit.”
Cole nodded, appreciating the officer’s honesty, and decided to offer some advice. Most officers did not want to hear anything from enlisted men, but by the pilot’s own admission, he was in a different situation. “Sir, we might have called this place the Alamo, but it doesn’t have to end the same way,” Cole said. “We’ve held the Chinese off for as long as we could. I hope they put that time to good use back at HQ and brought up some reinforcements.”
“You’re not talking about surrendering, I hope.”
“Hell no, sir. I’m talking about living to fight another day.”
“Good. I like the sound of that. Anyhow, I’ll be damned if I’ll surrender to the Communists and get paraded around for their cameras like a monkey in the zoo.”
“You would be the lucky one, sir. The Chinese won’t take many prisoners. They never do. They’ll kill all of the wounded, maybe the Borinqueneers because they don’t look like proper Americans or even speak any English, and they will definitely slaughter the Koreans.”
“Those bastards would kill Jang-mi and all the rest?” Lieutenant Commander Miller looked stricken by the thought of the fate that might befall Jang-mi and Seo-jun, not to mention the other villagers. “We can’t let that happen.”
“We’ve done our part,” Cole said. “Our orders were to fight a delaying action, not stop a whole battalion. I reckon we have delayed them all that we can.”
“I hope it’s enough.”
“If we leave now, there’s a chance that we can get out ahead of the Chinese, especially if we have a rear guard to hold them off. We can come out on the other side of the barrier, which the Chinese still have to cross.”
“We’ll need to gather the wounded and make stretchers for those who can’t walk. We’ll leave anything else we can’t carry, except for weapons.”
“What about those two tanks?” Cole asked.
“What about them?”
“I have an idea for how we can put them to use.”
“I’m all ears.”
Cole explained his plan, and Miller nodded.
“All right, let’s move out,” Lieutenant Commander Miller said. “That’s an order.”
At the foot of the fortress wall, the two tanks and their crews fought for their lives. The Chinese were throwing everything they had at the tanks, intent on revenge after the tanks had wreaked so much carnage on the road.
“Our gun is useless, sir,” the gunner reported. “We can’t depress the barrel low enough to hit these bastards.”
“I know, I know,” Lieutenant Dunbar said impatiently. He was well aware that the tanks were in trouble. “Fire in short bursts to hold them off and preserve our ammunition,” Dunbar said to the crew of tank Twenty-one, then relayed the same message to the crew of tank Twenty-two.
Private Hardy was crammed into a corner of the tank, trying to keep out of the way — which wasn’t easy in such a tight space. He could hear enemy rounds of small arms fire hammering insistently on the armor plating of the tank. Without thinking about what he was doing, Hardy put his hands over his ears as if hoping that he could squeeze out those sounds.
“We’re low on ammo, Lieutenant,” came the reply from tank Twenty-two, crackling over the radio. With the other tank just a short distance away, the note of fear in the other tanker’s voice registered clearly.
“Short bursts,” Dunbar repeated.
He knew that there was no hope of resupply. When they were out of ammo for the machine guns, that was it. Once the Chinese swarmed the tanks, it would all be over. Sure, they could button up and hold out for a while, but for what purpose?
They would just be caught inside like sardines in a can. The thought brought up an unhelpful image of a spinster aunt, peeling open a can of sardines to feed to her many cats. Dunbar shuddered at the memory of the sharp smell of fish and those nasty, mewling cats. Those enemy hordes weren’t much different, waiting to claw them to pieces.
If nothing else, the Chinese could pour gasoline onto the tank and set it on fire. If the burning gas didn’t seep into whatever chinks it could find in the armor, then the flames would slowly suck all the oxygen out of the tank. Dunbar had seen the aftermath of this approach more than once.
He wanted a better ending for his tank crews, but he was at a loss.
“Sir?” The gunner was asking him something.
“What?” Dunbar snapped.
“We’re almost out of ammo for the fifty.”
“That’s just great.”
“What are we supposed to do, sir?”
He noticed the others looking at him, a little surprised. He knew that they had always been able to count on him for solutions or to get them out of a jam. But Dunbar was finally out of answers.
He reached down and drew his sidearm, then jacked a round into the chamber. The sound was so loud in the confines of the tank that it made Hardy jump.
“Listen, fellas, I won’t tell anybody how this ends for him, but I know how it ends for me. When the time comes, I’m not going to be burned alive inside this tank, and I’m sure as hell not going to surrender.” He held up the pistol. “If any of you feel the same way, let me know. I’ll shoot myself last.”
The inside of the tank grew quiet as the crew considered the dreadful decision that they must make in the next few minutes.
That’s when the radio crackled, breaking the silence.
“This is Lieutenant Commander Miller, up here on the Alamo,” came the voice. The pilot sounded almost cheerful.
Dunbar grabbed the radio. “Miller? Where’s Lieutenant Ballard?”
“Wounded. Listen, we are pulling out.”
Dunbar might have argued that he was the ranking Army officer and it wasn’t a pilot’s decision to make. But the way he saw it, the time had come either to retreat or die in their tanks. With the enemy pressing in around them, he wondered if it wasn’t already too late for options.
“We’ll have to abandon the tanks,” he said. “I hate to do it, but they will only slow us down. Anyhow, we don’t have enough gas to make it back.”
“You’re right about leaving the tanks, but we’ve got an idea for that,” Miller said, then explained his plan.
Lieutenant Dunbar nodded, then signed off. For the first time in hours, something like a grin crossed his grim features. He gave the order to fire up the engines one last time.
The tank crew had overheard the order to retreat, but it was easier said than done. There was the best part of an enemy battalion shooting at them. With the barricade across the road, the tanks were as boxed in as the Chinese battalion. Even a tank would be hard-pressed to smash through that mess.