"Okay," Zimmerman said. "You going to call it?"
"I'm going to go another twenty-five yards that way, in case they turn around. When I hear your shots ..."
Zimmerman nodded.
McCoy moved quickly, but carefully, farther down the ditch, then stopped, examined the slope again, and climbed up it.
Four minutes or so later, McCoy could hear the exhaust of the engines of the Russian jeeps, and the whining crunch of their tires on the road. It grew slowly louder.
When the first vehicle passed McCoy, he began to count. When he reached ten, there were two bursts of fire—one of three shots, followed by a second of two. Then there was the squeal of worn-out brakes, and then a loud thump.
McCoy scrambled onto the road, going over the top of slope on his knees and left hand—he had the Thompson in the right—feeling for a moment a chill of helplessness until he gained his feet and could put his hand on the forestock of the Thompson.
He was very much aware that two hands were necessary to fire a Thompson.
It took him a moment to see and understand what had happened.
The Russian jeep with the North Korean officer in it was stopped, stalled sideward across the road, the driver grinding the starter. The front end of the other jeep was off the road, halfway into the ditch on the near side of the road. The frame had caught on the edge of the road, keeping it from going all the way down into the ditch.
McCoy had just time to wonder—in alarm—if by intention or accident the jeep had run over Zimmerman when he heard Zimmerman order, in Korean, "On your belly, you son of a whore."
McCoy ran toward the stalled jeep.
The officer was trying to work the action of a strange-looking submachine gun.
"I don't want to kill you, Colonel," McCoy called in Korean. "Just drop that and hold your hands over your head."
The North Korean officer complied.
McCoy saw that the look on his face was as much surprise, even astonishment, as fear.
"Yeah, Colonel, I speak Korean," McCoy said.
He walked closer to the-jeep and held the Thompson on both of them until Technical Sergeant Jennings ran up the road to them, followed by three South Korean National Policemen.
"See if Mr. Zimmerman needs any help," McCoy said in English, and then switched to Korean as he spoke to one of the National Policemen: "Take the submachine gun from the colonel's lap. Then lay him on the ground and search him."
Jennings walked to the edge of the road, where the first jeep was hung up, and looked down.
"Well, just don't stand there with your thumb up your ass, for Christ's sake, Jennings," Zimmerman's impatient voice came up. "Get down here and frisk these Slopes."
"I never saw one like this before," Sergeant Alvin Cole said, holding the submachine gun taken from the North Korean colonel, who was now lying on his stomach, his hands tied behind him.
The other prisoners—a captain, a lieutenant, a sergeant, and a corporal— were being marched, barefoot, their hands tied behind them, down the road toward the copse of trees by Sergeant Jennings and two South Korean National Policemen.
"That's a PPD 1940G," Master Gunner Zimmerman said. "You don't see many of those. Pretty good weapon."
Cole looked at him.
"Proceed, Mr. Zimmerman," McCoy said. "We're fascinated."
Zimmerman looked at McCoy to see if he was serious.
"Okay," he said. "PPD stands for 'Pistolet Pulyemet Degtyarev.' It means machine pistol Degtyarev. Degtyarev being the Russian who stole the idea from the Germans. It's based on the 1928 Bergmann. The Bergmann had a stick magazine. Degtyarev stole a drum magazine design from the Finnish Soumi, chrome-plated the inside parts, including the barrel, put it all together, and got it named after him. But the Russians dumped it because it couldn't be made fast enough for War Two, and went to the crude, easy-to-make PPsh you see all the time. That's why you don't see very many of these."
"I hope you were taking notes, Sergeant Cole," McCoy said. "There will be a written exam at the end of the lecture period."
Master Gunner Zimmerman looked at Major McCoy and said, "You asked, Killer," and gave the major the finger. Can I have it?" Sergeant Cole asked.
"You can if you give the pistols you took away from the other officers to the Koreans," McCoy said.
"And the other submachine gun, the PPsh, sir?" Cole asked.
"I think Jennings wants that," McCoy said. "Don't be greedy, Cole."
"Yes, sir."
The weapons carrier crawled back onto the road and headed for them.
McCoy pointed to the half-off-the-road Russian jeep.
"I was thinking about dragging this one down to the trees, but that would tear up the road, and I want to get out of here. Just push it over the side?"
"Yeah," Zimmerman agreed after a moment's thought. "That'd be better."
When the weapons carrier stopped beside him, McCoy, in Korean, ordered the National Police driver to push the Russian jeep into the ditch.
"And when you've done that," McCoy continued in Korean, "we're going to load the colonel in the back, tie him securely to the back of the seat, and put Sergeant Kim in there with him with a carbine. If the colonel even looks as if he's thinking about causing any trouble, Sergeant Kim will shoot him in both feet." He paused. "Did you hear that, Colonel?"
There was no reply from the colonel.
Zimmerman walked to him and nudged him with his boot.
"The major asked if you understood him, Colonel," he said in Korean.
There was no reply. Zimmerman kicked the colonel in the waist.
"I heard," the colonel said.
[FOUR]
Thirteen Miles South of Suwon, South Korea
17O5 28 September 195O
The sun was low in the sky, and the shadows were long. McCoy, Zimmerman, and Jennings were lying at the crest of a small hill from which they could see a road intersection about five hundred yards away.
Elements—what looked like an infantry platoon reinforced by three tanks— of the United States 7th Infantry Division were manning a hastily erected roadblock on the dirt road paralleling Korean National Route 1.
It had to be elements of the 7th Division. There were only two American divisions in the Seoul area, the 7th and the 1st Marine, and the armed Americans at the roadblock were not Marines.
Gunner Zimmerman took binoculars from his eyes, handed them to Technical Sergeant Jennings, and then turned to Major McCoy.
"Killer," he said conversationally, "if we start down that road, those doggies are going to start shooting at us."
McCoy grunted.
"Especially when they see that Russian jeep," Jennings added.
"Maybe not," McCoy said.
Then he pushed himself backward, sliding on his stomach away from the hilltop until he was far enough down the hill so there was no chance of his being seen. There, he rolled over onto his back and then sat up, holding his Thompson erect between his knees.
Zimmerman rolled over on his back, and—holding his Thompson against his chest—slid down after him, and then, when he'd seen all he wanted to, so did Jennings, carrying his Garand.
"I make it three tanks—M4s, Shermans," Jennings said, "plus maybe thirty-five doggies, with two air-cooled .50s, at least that many .30s, and a mortar."
"All of which are going to shoot at whatever they see coming up the road," Zimmerman said. "Like us, for example."
McCoy chuckled.
"What do you suggest we do, Mr. Zimmerman?"
Zimmerman pointed down the slope of the hill toward their small convoy. The Russian light truck, which McCoy had impulsively decided to drive, was at the head. The weapons carrier came next, and the jeep brought up the rear.