Major McCoy didn't say a word for the next ten minutes, until the ox path came onto a dirt road. He stopped the jeep and took a map from under the cushion.
"Well, at least we know the bastard's still alive," he said. "Your guess is he stamped that out twenty-four hours ago?"
"No more than that. Just before they took the picture," Zimmerman said.
"Well, if he hung around, he would have seen us," McCoy said. "I have no idea where to look for him."
"What do you want to do, Killer?" Zimmerman asked.
Marine master gunners do not ordinarily address Marine majors by anything but their rank—or, of course, as "sir"—but Major McCoy did not seem to either notice or take offense.
"Well, we can't hang around here, can we, Ernie?" McCoy said. And then he added, bitterly, "If at first you don't succeed, fuck it."
He put the jeep in gear and turned onto the dirt road, heading north.
[THREE]
Thirty-eight Miles South of Suwon, South Korea
1205 28 September 195O
The map showed the unnamed road—which ran north from Pyongtaek toward Suwon along the rail line, paralleling Korean National Route 1—as paved, and surprising both Major McCoy and Gunner Zimmerman, it had been. They had been on it for just over an hour.
There was always the potential threat of mines, but neither the macadam nor the cobblestones with which the road was paved showed signs of having been disturbed. The shoulders, too, had appeared undisturbed, although of course it would have been far easier to conceal the traces of mine-burying in dirt and clay than in macadam or cobblestones.
The thing to do, obviously, was stay off the shoulders, and they had done so. And neither had they driven very fast. They wanted to have plenty of time to stop in case they saw dislodged cobblestones or suspicious-looking disruptions in the macadam.
Major McCoy raised his left arm above his head to catch the attention of Sergeant Kim in the weapons carrier following, then braked.
He pointed to a copse of gnarled pine trees a hundred yards or so down the road.
"I don't think anyone'll see us in there," he said, adding, "I'm hungry." He slowed to a crawl as he approached the trees. Zimmerman first leaned out the side of the jeep, studying the shoulder, and then held his hand up in a signal to stop.
Then he got out of the jeep and intently studied the shoulder before motioning to McCoy to come ahead. Then he walked carefully across the shoulder and down a slope into a wide ditch. McCoy carefully eased the jeep after him, then Sergeant Kim followed with the weapons carrier.
McCoy took a Thompson from a rack below the windshield, got out of the jeep, and walked carefully southward along the ditch, looking for signs of disturbance in the mud—and for trip wires, booby traps, anything.
Finally, when he was about one hundred yards from the vehicles, he stopped and turned his attention to the grassy slope up to the road. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he scurried up the slope. From the road, he looked back to the copse of trees. He could not see anything but the top of the jeep's antenna and maybe eight inches of the flag.
He went back into the ditch and returned to the vehicles. When he got there, Sergeant Cole and two of the Koreans were waiting for him.
"See that they're fed," McCoy ordered, "and then post one up there. You can see where I climbed the slope."
"Aye, aye, sir," Cole said.
"And then post another one a hundred yards north. Watch out for mines and wires."
"Mr. Zimmerman's already been down there, sir."
"Then you really better be careful," McCoy said with a smile.
"Aye, aye, sir," Cole said, smiling back.
McCoy walked to the jeep. The hood was up, and Zimmerman was warming cans on the radiator. McCoy grabbed the antenna, bent it nearly horizontal, and tied it down.
Without really thinking about it, he made sure that no part of the flag was touching the ground.
"I couldn't see anything from the north," Zimmerman said.
"I could see maybe eight inches of the flag," McCoy replied. "What are we eating?"
"Salisbury Steak and Beans and Franks," Zimmerman said. "Your choice."
McCoy laid the Thompson on the driver's seat, then reached for a ration can.
"I wonder who they think they're fooling when they call hamburger 'Salisbury Steak'?" he asked, not expecting an answer.
He leaned against the side of the jeep, took a fork from the baggy side pocket of the Army fatigues, and began to saw at the Salisbury Steak in the ration can.
He had just about finished raising the final forkful to his mouth when there was a short, shrill whistle, and then a second. He laid the ration can between the rear of the jeep and the back of the radio as he looked toward the sound of the whistle.
Sergeant Cole, who had posted himself with the Korean to the south, made several hand signals, not all of them official, indicating that something of interest was happening and he thought Major McCoy should pay whatever it was his immediate attention.
"Heads up," McCoy ordered as he passed the jeep—picking up the Thompson and a pair of U.S. Navy binoculars as he did—and headed for Cole.
Zimmerman, similarly, made several hand signals to Technical Sergeant Jennings—these indicating that appropriate defense measures immediately be taken. Jennings indicated his understanding of his orders with a thumbs-up gesture. Zimmerman then trotted after McCoy, toward Sergeant Cole.
There was little -doubt in either McCoy's or Zimmerman's mind that what had caught Sergeant Cole's attention were elements of the army of the People's Democratic Republic of North Korea.
The questions were: How large an element and what were they up to? Had McCoy's two-vehicle convoy been spotted, and were the North Koreans in pursuit of them? Or was it a unit trying to get away from the Eighth Army, which had broken out of the Pusan Perimeter and was in hot pursuit of the North Koreans up the peninsula?
Shattered, demoralized, whatever, if it was a company-strength unit—or a single tank, for that matter—McCoy & Company were going to be seriously outnumbered, or outgunned, or both.
"What have you got, Cole?" McCoy asked, handing him the Thompson.
"Looks like a couple of jeeps, sir," Cole said. "Russian jeeps."
McCoy crawled up the slope to the shoulder of the road and looked down it through the binoculars. He then handed them to Zimmerman, who had crawled beside him, and then slid down the slope. A moment later, Zimmerman slid down and returned the binoculars to McCoy.
"Two jeeps, and I make it five Slopes," Zimmerman said. "Moving slow; probably looking for mines."
"The passenger in the second jeep has leather boots—shiny leather boots," McCoy said. "I'd really like to talk to him."
"What do we do, Killer?" Zimmerman asked.
"I don't think we could get across the road without being seen," McCoy said. So, Cole, run down there and tell Jennings what's going on, and to make sure if they get past Mr. Zimmerman and me, they don't get past him."
"Aye, aye, sir," Cole said. "You want me to come back here, sir?"
"No. Your BAR will be more useful there, if they get past us."
Cole nodded and took off at a run.
"How do you want to do this?" Zimmerman asked.
"You shoot out the tires of the first vehicle and watch what happens there. I'll deal with the second jeep." He paused. "I really want to talk to that officer, Ernie."