The inside of the helicopter smelled like oil and more ominously, like an old electrical fire.
“You might want to sit on your helmet,” the co-pilot had said back when they were still on the ground.
“My helmet?”
“Wouldn’t want you to get shot in the ass. They don’t give Purple Hearts for that.”
He had thought that the co-pilot was ribbing him, but maybe not. Judging by the occasional muzzle flashes below, it was a rare enemy soldier who could resist taking a potshot at a chopper.
Hardy shook his head, thought about it, then removed his helmet and sat on it. Not exactly comfortable, but it was reassuring. Then again, if bullets started hitting this flimsy chopper, his helmet wasn’t going to save him no matter where he wore it.
The co-pilot glanced back, gave him a thumbs up. Hardy flashed him a grin. The truth was, he found it pretty exciting to be riding in the helicopter. It sure as heck beat a bumpy Jeep ride to the front lines.
The thrill of the helicopter ride almost made up for the fact that he was on a PR mission.
Hardy was a reporter for the Stars and Stripes, the newspaper that covered all the news for the military forces and that was read mostly by servicemen. His dispatches from the Battle of Triangle Hill had earned him the grudging acceptance of the hard-bitten officers who served as the newspaper’s editors. The editors had crossed out just about every adjective and adverb in his news stories, which had pained him. With a newly minted degree in English, he liked to work in a good literary allusion or a descriptive flourish wherever he could. The military editors did not share his enthusiasm for energetic prose.
“Let me explain something, Hornaday,” the editor had begun.
“That’s Hardy, sir.”
“If you say so.” The editor paused to gulp foul, burnt coffee, then inhaled deeply on a cigarette. He pointed at Hardy with a finger that was alternately stained black with ink and yellow with nicotine.
Despite all appearances and the stale fug that hung about his desk, the editor knew his craft. “You are not writing a novel. You are writing journalism. The five W questions. Do you know what those are?”
Hardy felt like a schoolboy put on the spot. He stammered, “Who, what, when, where, and why?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?” the editor wondered, sounding exasperated.
“Sorry, sir.”
The editor waved his stained hand like Hardy was a fly annoying him. “Listen. You have thirty-five words to each column inch, and there are only so many inches of space. Stick with the who, what, when, where, why, and how. If you find yourself with the urge to use an adjective, go take a cold shower. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
The editor had turned back to his typewriter, signaling that he had dismissed Hardy.
There was no saluting in the offices of Stars and Stripes, but the military pecking order was very much in place. The editor commanded his copy desk with all the confidence of an admiral on the bridge of a battleship.
In the end, Hardy wasn’t sure if it was punishment or a reward of sorts that he had been sent to what was being called Outpost Kelly to write about the Puerto Rican troops helping to hold the section of the Main Line of Resistance known as the Jamestown Line against heavy Chinese incursions. He did know that if the chopper went down, he wouldn’t be all that missed.
Before climbing aboard the chopper, Hardy had done his homework. His assignment to write about the Puerto Rican troops coincided with the fact that Puerto Rico had adopted a new Constitution as the Commonwealth of Puerto Rico, which some said brought the U.S. territory one step closer to statehood. The designation as a commonwealth also gave the island new clout and standing.
After all, it had been a territory since 1898 in the wake of the Spanish-American War. That had been the last gasp of the once-great Spanish empire before ceding its former colonies to the United States. The island was geographically about the size of the state of Rhode Island with double the population.
Hardy’s assignment was to write about the 65th Infantry Regiment, made up mostly of volunteers from Puerto Rico. These troops fell into the strange situation of being neither fish nor fowl, although they were officially part of the United States military. As such, they had a great deal to prove on behalf of their island. The soldiers wanted to show the so-called “Continentals” that they were just as good as them. Also, there was always the question of statehood. If the troops proved themselves worthy, the United States Congress might see its way to grant statehood. The matter had been championed previously by Senator Millard Tydings, but had been voted down.
The unit had also taken part in WWII, but had not seen much fighting other than a few dust-ups with fragments of the Wehrmacht in Italy. Korea was the first time that the unit had seen real combat.
Hardy’s job was to write about it and show everyone what the Puerto Rican troops were all about, doing their part to save the USA from Communism.
Hardy’s focus would be on the troops from Puerto Rico, but there were other units out here, of course, making a stand against the Chinese. He had written about one of these units making an attack on a place called Sniper Ridge as part of the sprawling Battle of Triangle Hill. If he ran into Lieutenant Ballard, he figured the officer owed him a drink for making him and his platoon look good in print. Hardy’s photograph of the unit’s sniper had gotten a lot of attention.
Below, he spotted more muzzle flashes, and the helicopter banked sharply away. He had no idea whether or not rifle fire from the hills could down the chopper, but the pilot evidently wasn’t taking any chances.
“Hold on,” he heard the co-pilot said, the voice coming through the headset. “We’re going to change course. Those Chinese down there are having a turkey shoot, and we’re the turkey.”
“Glad I took your advice about the helmet,” Hardy replied.
“Last thing you want is a bullet up the tailpipe.”
Hardy doubted that a helmet would stop a bullet, but it must be some kind of insurance. Better than nothing.
Rumor had it that the Chinese were especially riled up because the president of South Korea, Syngman Rhee, had announced that he would not forcibly repatriate the 24,000 POWs that had been captured during the war. Most of the Chinese and North Koreans had made it known that they preferred to stay in South Korea, rather than return to China or North Korea.
For the enemy, it was not exactly good public relations for the Communist Party that their own troops wanted no part of returning to the embrace of Chairman Mao. Maybe they just feared the consequences of having been captured rather than fighting to the death. Some of the poor POW bastards from the Soviet Union who had ended up in US hands during the last war had hanged themselves rather than be forcibly repatriated to Uncle Joe Stalin — who had them shot as traitors for not dying in battle.
Thinking about all of that, Hardy considered that he was very fortunate to have been born in the United States. It might not be perfect, but it was light-years beyond the dictatorships that its troops were fighting against.
The co-pilot’s voice interrupted his thoughts, “There it is.”
Hardy looked through the bug-eyed windshield. At first, all that he could see were more and more hills that seemed to stretch endlessly toward the Chinese border. All in all, the Korean landscape resembled a vast, rumpled bedsheet. And yet, wherever there was an open space, the industrious Koreans had planted crops. He could see these patches of cultivation among the wildness of the hills and mountains.
“Doesn’t look like much,” Hardy said.
“Somebody thinks it’s worth fighting over,” the co-pilot said.