Korean Raider
by Nyles Hawkspurr
copyright 2012 Nyles Hawkspurr
All rights reserved
Smashwords Edition
Dedicated with love for Valentine J. Jones 'The Human Spider'
At 0400 hours on the 25th June 1950 (local time), The North Korean Peoples Army invaded the Republic of South Korea. Two days later the Security Council of the United Nations Organization, passed a resolution that members of the UN should, 'Furnish such assistance to the Republic of Korea as may be necessary to repel the armed attack and to restore international peace and security in the area. The nations which contributed to this call to arms were; Australia, Belgium, Britain, Canada, Columbia, Ethiopia, France, Greece, Luxembourg, Netherlands, New Zealand, Philippines, Thailand, Turkey, United States of America, Union of South Africa. Medical services were provided by Denmark, Italy, India, Norway and Sweden. Of the 345,000 men in the command, 300,000 came from America. In their initial success the UN forces drove the North Koreans back across the 38th Parallel, to the very border with China. But on the 25th October 1950, 200,000 soldiers of the Chinese Peoples Liberation Army disguised as 'Chinese Peoples' Volunteers' crossed the Yalu River, and the UN troops were pushed back in confusion. Corps was forced to retreat under attacks mounted through terrain that was thought impassable. Whole regiments were ambushed and annihilated. By March 1951 the opposing forces faced each other roughly along the dividing line of the 38th Parallel, and a bloody, bitter war of patrol and trench fighting ensued until an armistice was signed two years later on the 27th July 1953.
The casualties in this 'Police Action' were as follows:
United States 157,530 including 33,628 dead.
South Korea 1,312,836 including 415,1004 dead.
UN Allies 16,532 including 3,094 dead.
Total casualties- 1,486,898 including 451,26 dead
Estimated Communist casualties - excess of 2,000,000.
ONE
The flight of three MiG fighters had appeared silently in the valley ahead of him with the nerve wrenching flash of the Headsman's Axe. The fighter's speed and low level, and the fact that his scout car was a good 500 yards ahead of the other three vehicles of the patrol saved Hawkspurr from the first strike.
The knee-jerk reaction of his driver sent them slamming into the bank of rock on their right, and they ricocheted back across the track skidding crabwise down the steep slope to their left. With superb handling, the driver knocked the pre-select gear lever into low, kicked the change pedal and straightened the wheels. He applied the brakes, but to no avail. The armored car continued its bucking, sliding path to inevitable destruction.
"Jump Sir. Jump! She's had it." Yelled the driver.
Pausing only to fling the Bren machine gun over the side, Hawkspurr followed it with a well-practiced exercise accelerated by fear. The landing was far from textbook and only his steel helmet saved him from a cracked skull, but every ounce of breath was smashed from his body as he rolled helplessly down the incline for at least 15 yards.
He didn’t know how long he lay there, fighting the dizziness and gasping for air. He was conscious only of the clamor of explosions, and the roar of jet engines at the end of a long tunnel. When he finally raised himself to his knees the gradient was too steep to stand, and he looked around calling his driver's name. There was no sign of the man or his Daimler. Instead a further fifty yards down, the hillside ended in a cut as clean as a Saber stroke.
"Jones?" He called. No reply.
There was no way of telling how deep the drop was, but Hawkspurr realized that it was useless to approach it from his present position - he had to get back to the path above.
All was silent now. That strange, tangible silence that he was to learn from experience descended after any action.
Retrieving the machine gun, he started to make his way painfully upwards; clawing and slipping, his hands bleeding, he progressed to the top.
Hawkspurr was aware of the pall of black, greasy smoke rising to his south, but the sight that met his eyes chilled his gut as he stumbled towards the burning twisted remains of his patrol. It was outside of all his previous experience - so much devastation wreaked in such a small space of time. Of the three other vehicles of the Troop, only two were in sight, and they were barely recognizable. Twisted, incinerated heaps of tortured metal showing no signs of life. The men that had crewed them blasted to shreds by the high explosive of rockets so accurately placed, and the ammunition stored within.
The third car had left only a blackened trail akin to some primordial snail that disappeared over the precipice to the west. The stench of still smoldering chunks of rubber from the tires was beginning to make him feel sick, and patently there was nothing useful he could accomplish here. Best get away from the spot in case a communist patrol was following up the action of the jets.
Hawkspurr knew that there were no friendly positions this far north, and the present fluid action of the war meant that he was just as likely to run into friend or foe. The compass was still intact in the pouch on his belt, but the map case was with the scout car, as was spare ammunition for the Bren gun. Was Jones dead or alive and injured in the wreck?
He hadn't been able to see where the car landed, but neither had he sighted smoke in the vicinity. He would have to find a way down for his own peace of mind.
As he moved off he spotted a steel towrope, standard equipment and carried on the outside of all armored vehicles. The rope had been blown clear and was entirely unmarked - it might just be useful in reaching Jones.
Hawkspurr passed the place where the armored car had first gone over, but there was no point in trying to negotiate that slope again.
He moved forward cautiously to the next bend where the hills on his right contoured east. Crouching low, he peered around the rocks searching and listening. Nothing stirred.
The track here sloped away gently towards the floor of the valley and a thousand yards on crossed through a dry gully, which cut back to the southwest. That should lead him back to the vicinity of the crash.
Taking his beret from the side pocket of his battle-dress trousers, he made a pad under the steel cable across his shoulders, and started off at a trot down the path. He felt vulnerable and exposed in the open but his cuts and bruises were forgotten as he hurried to the cover below.
Reaching the sparse shelter, Hawkspurr prostrated himself behind a rubble pile of rocks. His breathing was labored, and he fought to fill his lungs as he listened intently for any foreign sounds. Nothing moved in the barren landscape and with a gasping sigh he released his breath, and moved away in the direction that he hoped to locate his driver.
He had lost all track of time and his wrist watch had been smashed, but as he stumbled along the rough bed of what was obviously a dry creek he noted that the sun was close to the mountainous horizon, and the air was developing a chill.
Hawkspurr did not know how much ground he had covered, but suddenly there was the Daimler laying on it's side like a wounded Rhinoceros. Incredibly the tough armored body was still intact, with only the equipment and tool bins crushed and the engine compartment cover missing, as was a front wheel. A quick look inside revealed that the commander's swivel seat had disappeared, but the sturdy No.19 Radio set was still intact. There was a strong smell of battery acid and petrol, but Jones had had the foresight to turn off the ignition.
"Jones." He muttered. Then as full realization flooded over him, he shouted "Jones! Jones!" Where was the silly bastard? The driver was not in sight, but neither were there any traces of blood in or near the car. Had Jones walked away from the wreckage? Not likely after a fall of this nature. The only possible solution was that he too had jumped clear.
The final slide before the car had come to rest was clearly marked and Hawkspurr could see a flattening out of the contours some feet above, certainly more that just a ledge.
Hawkspurr suddenly remembered his binoculars, which he kept securely fastened in the case, strapped to the hull when he was not actually using them. It was all very well trying to look like General Rommel, but bino's hanging around the neck in a bouncing vehicle are more likely to smash one's front teeth in.
"Good". He smiled with satisfaction as he found them in place. Hawkspurr started to search the heights above but there was no sign of his companion. Nothing for it but to climb up to the tiny plateau to be sure. With some difficulty he prized open the tool bin.
Amongst other tools it contained a pickaxe, all in immaculate condition and kept solely for the purpose of display during inspections. He laughed as he fingered the glossy red head and black enamel of the handle - a virgin - guaranteed to bring tears of joy to the eyes of any Sergeant major. "Bullshit. Sheer bloody bullshit!"
Removing his helmet Hawkspurr swung the pick over his head to cut the first handhold. He worked diagonally up and across the face of the gradient, and after the first 45 feet or so the going became easier. Protruding rocks offered a good purchase, and he was able to use the pick as a piton to take his weight as he hauled his way slowly upward.
He finally dragged his aching body onto the ledge and lay inert with his face in the dirt, the muscles of his thighs and shoulders quivered from the strain, and without moving his body he turned his head traversing the area within his periphery of sight.
"Jones". Hawkspurr sighed with relief. The crumpled figure lay prone, one leg at an unnatural angle and the trouser soaked with blood.
With an effort Hawkspurr raised himself to his knees and crawled across to the man. The face was ashen but he still breathed - shallow and erratic but respiration was evident.
The right eye and forehead were badly swollen and bruised, but the skin was unbroken. How many times had he told the bloody Welshman to wear a helmet?
Best have a look at the leg whilst Jones was still unconscious. Taking a knife from his boot, he carefully slit the trouser on the injured limb. The tibia was obviously fractured and the shin badly lacerated, but fortunately the bleeding had stopped.
Without bothering to be gentle Hawkspurr felt for the broken ends of the bones and manipulated them back into place. The fibula seemed to be whole, but his ministering had started the bleeding once more. Making no attempt to clean the wound he sprinkled on a generous portion of sulphur powder from his first aid wallet, and stemmed the bleeding with the driver's shell dressing carried by every soldier in the field.
He would now need to splint the leg, which meant a trip down to the car, and since Jones could not be moved yet he must rig some kind of shelter on the ledge. Arriving back at the crippled vehicle, Hawkspurr forced open the other damaged bins and gathered any equipment that he though might be useful.
The radio appeared to be operational, but as he had first feared the batteries were cracked and useless. Removing the set from its case he broke the valves - no point in leaving it for the enemy to make use of.
A further search of the immediate vicinity yielded only a bedroll, the battered but intact jerry can of water and a pack of tinned rations. It took him two ascents of the cliff to gather his stores on the ledge above and then he realized that it would soon be dark.
Using spare clothing for pads, he utilized the pick handle and small field shovel to splint the broken limb of the driver. As Hawkspurr sat back on his haunches regarding his handiwork he became aware of pangs of hunger, but first things first, and he contented himself with a swallow of water from his canteen.
Although it was the Korean summer and had not rained for weeks, he felt the psychological need for shelter for himself and the unconscious soldier. The rear face of the tiny plateau offered a slight overhang, and from this he anchored two groundsheets. The standard ponchos were designed to fasten together as a pup tent, and although the ends were open, provided adequate cover against the night. Hawkspurr placed the unconscious man in the bivouac, and made him comfortable on the bedroll.
"Now for some food." He said to himself. There was no shortage of tinned food to select from, as they were carrying rations for ten days, so he lit the solid fuel hexamine cooker and emptied two cans of meat and vegetables into a mess tin.
Whilst the food was heating he dampened a handkerchief and washed Jones' face. His color looked better and the breathing was steadier, maybe he would come round soon..
After the meal and a cup of hot tea, fatigue washed over Hawkspurr and he stretched out close to Jones. Pillowing his head on one arm, he fell into a deep sleep.
Although not aware of the cause, it was a groan from the now conscious Welshman that woke Hawkspurr from his slumber.
“Taffy?” he whispered, "wake up, you bloody Welsh twerp." He rolled onto his knees and grasped the man's head in his hands. There was just enough dawn light in the shelter for him to see that the eyes were open, with a puzzled and somewhat startled expression.
"Is that you Mister Hawkspurr?" Jones murmured in his soft Welsh accent.
"Yes Taffy. How do you feel?"
"Terrible. My head, my leg. Pain. Bloody pain."
"Hold on, I'll give you a shot of morphine." Hawkspurr took a tiny disposable tube and needle from his first-aid kit and administered the measured dose into the flesh of Jones' thigh. "You'll soon feel easier, just relax."
Jones nodded wearily and lay back.
As Hawkspurr busied himself preparing breakfast, he gathered his thoughts and finally spoke.
"Look Taff, I've decided to leave you here and go for help. I'd need a winch to get you down the cliff, and then I don’t think that I could carry you far in this terrain. I've strapped up your leg pretty well, but I won't guarantee the work if I try to move you. I can't give a warranty on a model your age mate!”
Hawkspurr paused to let the words sink in. “Well what do you think?"
Jones stared at the young officer. “Give us some grub sir, and let me think about it."
The men ate in silence, both busy with their own thoughts, and it was not until they had finished eating and were sipping tea, that Jones spoke again. "What are your chances of finding our lot sir?”
"No sweat. The whole bloody country's only a hundred and thirty miles across at its widest point. If I move south and west I'm bound to find someone, even if he's a Russian. Only joking. Look, I have a map and a compass and I know exactly where we are. I'm going to mark this location on my map, with a message that you are here and wounded. Even if I buy it, there's a better than even chance that you’ll be picked up. I'm leaving you the Bren gun, and if the commies find you first." He paused. "Well the choice is yours. They do take prisoners you know."
Hawkspurr reached for the map case. "Better give me your full name and number."
"Bryon Lloyd Jones, 22105634, Trooper." He chortled. "Jones the Boots, they call me in the village. Apprentice Cobbler I was you see, before they called me up. That's why they put me in a cavalry regiment. Leatherwork, saddlery. Nobody told the silly buggers they haven't had a horse since 1918!"
“Ok Jones the Boots, let's get organized. I'll take the two water bottles and food for three days. There’s about three gallons of water left in the can and plenty of food, but don't eat too much though. I'll dig you a latrine pit outside, but apart from the obvious keep that leg as still as possible. You've got one more ampoule of morphine left, and codeine tablets. Don’t touch the dressing. Right?"
Hawkspurr filled the canteens with water, and his satchel with tinned rations. He moved everything else within easy reach of Jones, including the L.M.G. and spare magazines of ammunition, and then went outside and dug a shallow latrine pit.
As he checked his revolver and cartridges, he said to Jones. "There's a Very pistol next to the Bren, if you hear a chopper overhead put a light up. It's bound to be a Yank, and those pilots are damn good. You might end up in a M.A.S.H. unit, ice cream, coke, and if you're lucky with one of those sexy American nurses! They’ll love that Welsh accent of your boyo."
Hawkspurr knelt and clasped the wounded man's hand, "Rest easy Bryon." He said softly. Then lapsed into what he fondly considered to be a Welsh accent, "And do not be wanking all day, or I'll let Jones Chapel know!"
Jones just nodded, but as Hawkspurr lowered himself over the edge of the plateau, he called out. "Send me a postcard from Cardiff if you make it."
After carefully studying the map Hawkspurr decided not to retrace his previous route. Instead he headed directly south along the dry creek, past the location of the initial attack. All was quiet. No distant sounds of gunfire, no aircraft, maybe they had all packed up and gone home! At a point where his path touched the track once more, he left the creek bed and moved off down the road at a fast pace. Alternately trotting and walking, he made the best speed he could for Jones' sake. Stopping only for a cold snack when the sun was at its highest, he pushed southwest across seemingly endless ridges.
It was dusk when he caught the first alien sounds in the barren landscape - hobnailed boots rasping on loose rocks. Unsure of the direction, he drew his revolver and sank into cover behind a convenient boulder. With bated breath and pounding heart he strained every sense to locate the source of the noise.
He was suddenly sure that it was coming closer and peered anxiously from his hiding place. Emerging from a narrow defile came a file of cautious men, hunched in the peculiar fashion of soldiers in a dangerous situation, subconsciously endeavoring to shrink their bodies into a smaller target. Eyes alert, heads never still. The leading Sergeant, scornful of a tin hat was wearing a Highlander's Glengarry, and carried the familiar Sten gun.
Holstering his weapon and ducking back behind the safety of the rock, Hawkspurr shouted at the top of his lungs. "Patrol! Hold your fire, I'm a Commonwealth soldier."
He giggled nervously and thought to himself 'Maybe I should have said Scottish.'
He heard the group scatter for cover, and knew that every safety catch on their weapons was off. He remained frozen.
"Show yourself laddie, and step out gently." Came the command in a broad Scots brogue.
Hawkspurr adjusted his beret and moved clear of the cover, hands well above his head. He was acutely aware of several Lee Enfield rifle muzzles pointing in his direction, and called again. "Second Lieutenant Hawkspurr, Commonwealth Brigade."
The Sergeant rose from the ground and lowered his weapon. "Right lads." He called over his shoulder. "It's only a bloody Sassenach.” Then with a grin for the young officer, "Out for a wee walk laddie? You're lucky you found us, I was just about to turn back for the company position. We're expecting a big push from the Chinese, but there's no sign of the wee yellow bastards here. Let's get a move on sir you can give your report to the Captain at base, although you look knackered, can you keep going?"
"Sure." Hawkspurr replied. "I must get to a radio. I've a wounded man out there," he inclined his head, "and information for my own C.O."
The patrol moved off eagerly, and with a good deal less stealth than previously exhibited - the nature of the beast when returning home.
The light was failing fast when they were challenged by company piquets on a strategic ridge overlooking a wide valley, and Hawkspurr was taken directly to the company commander's dugout, where he made a full report to a Captain and gave the grid reference of his wounded driver.
After a brief conversation he left the command post escorted by the patrol sergeant. "Right sir, let's get you fixed up for the night. My name's McFarlane. Grub first and then a bivvy."
They moved to a back area where the company cooks had set up a field kitchen, and after an adequate meal of the inevitable stew, hard tack biscuits, tinned fruit pudding (plum duff) and thick sweet tea he was led to a large dugout covered with tarpaulin that served as the first aid post.
"Corporal Lewis." Shouted the sergeant. Get your fat arse out here!"
A plump ruddy-faced man emerged from the canvas. "What's up Sarge?" He said, but eyeing the stranger.
“This is Mister Hawkspurr.” Answered the sergeant. "Check him over and bed him down for the night. You stay alert - we're sending out night patrols later.” He turned on his heels and walked back up the ridge.
"Hallo sir. I’m Fatty Lewis. Where did you spring from?"
"Armored recce. Got clobbered by MiGs yesterday."
"Hmm, you look a mess come on in and I'll see what I can do for you."
The dugout was sparsely furnished with two field stretchers, a medical chest and hurricane lantern.
"Bit old for this show aren't you, and only corporal?" Hawkspurr grinned.
"Yeh. World War Two surplus - just like the tinned rations - that's me. Thought I'd finish me time nice and cushy like, in the depot at Crookham. But I'm too fond of the old Watneys' Best Bitter Ale, so they busted me from sergeant and 'offered' me a posting to the Jocks. Mind you, they're not a bad lot, and it beats the spit and polish at a base hospital. Six more months to collect me pension, and then I'll sit in a pub all day long, and sod the lot of them!"
With his injuries cleaned and dressed and his belly full, Hawkspurr slept the night away on a comfortable stretcher.
It was dawn when Lewis shook him gently by the shoulder. "Give me a hand sir, the patrols are back and we've got wounded." The tarpaulin was raised, and two soldiers entered carrying a young private who was clutching his stomach.
"Put him down," ordered the medic as he turned up the lantern wick, "and send the others in."
Two more pale-faced young men shuffled in, one nursing a heavily bandaged hand, and the other's left arm was supported in a rifle sling, with a blood-soaked dressing wrapped around his upper arm.
"Sit down boys." Said Lewis, and turning to Hawkspurr. "Could you please let the Captain know we've got a casualty evacuation here sir?"
Hawkspurr nodded and left. There were two bodies under a groundsheet outside the dugout, with a corporal he had not seen before noting details from identity discs, but he hurried on to find the Company Commander.
"Ah Hawkspurr, come and sit down. I've been touch with your unit.” The Company Commander was seated on a pile of ration boxes, with his radio operator close by. "You'll be pleased to know that your man is safe." He stated.
“Thank you sir. Lewis is requesting casevac for the man with the stomach wound."
"Roger. Take care of that Palmer. Plus two bodies." The Captain ordered his signaler, and turned back to Hawkspurr. "Thank god for helicopters. They can mean the difference between life and death for a badly wounded man." He paused.
"Now we have to get you back to Headquarters in Seoul. I have replacements coming up sometime tomorrow, and then I'll want you to take the walking wounded down the line. There’s a Turkish Battalion on our flank, entrenched across the road. You'll find motor transport there, but in the meantime get some breakfast and then I’ll ask you to man one of the forward observation posts for the day. We’re down to one-third strength, and judging by last night's patrols we’re in for a visit. I have to warn you that before any attack, they’ll try to knock out the O.P.s with a sneak raid. Hand grenades first, and then close in with their Type 50 sub machine guns, we call them Burp guns with good reason - they can fire 900 rounds a minute. So.... Stay alert. Off you go, and thanks."
Hawkspurr made his way to the cooks' area and was given a mess tin of beans and sausage, with biscuits jam and tea. He was eating this when Sergeant McFarlane came and squatted down at his side. "I'll take you forward when you're ready sir. Is that your only weapon?" Pointing to the Webley revolver at Hawkspurr’s waist.
"I'm afraid so."
They sat quietly whilst he finished his tea, and the sergeant smoked a cigarette. As he threw the dregs from his mug, the sergeant jumped to his feet. "Right sir. Let's get you looking like an infantryman."
McFarlane led Hawkspurr to a covered pile of equipment. "Sten gun Ok sir?"
"Fine sergeant."
"Right, here's a spare mag' and ammo. Better take some extra grenades too, and to complete the ensemble - a chapeau du tin." He handed Hawkspurr a steel helmet.
Once Hawkspurr was equipped to the sergeant’s satisfaction, he was guided forward to a small spur commanding a good view of the valley and the broken ground preceding the ridge.
He noted the Vickers machine gun post to his left, and the gunners lazing beside it gave him a cheery wave. "What-ho the donkey wallopers." One of them called with a cheeky grin.
"Get stuffed." Hawkspurr retaliated just as cheerfully.
"Wake up McKenzie." The sergeant chided. Here’s one of her Majesty's cavalry officers come to keep the heathen off your back." He departed to check the other posts.
Hawkspurr jumped down into the pit, and faced the slight figure scanning the forward terrain through binoculars.
The soldier had not altered his position even to acknowledge the officer, and it was a full minute before he placed the glasses down and turned towards Hawkspurr. He had bright intelligent eyes set in pale, pinched features and when he spoke it was with the unmistakable brogue of Glasgow. "Are you really cavalry sir?"
"Yes, Royal Horse Guards - my regiment isn't in Korea, so I volunteered for secondment to an armored unit already here."
The young Scot smiled. "My dad took us to see The Trooping of the Color in '50. He was ex Scots Guards, but I never grew tall enough to join the Brigade." He grimaced with disappointment, and then brightened again. "Smashing it was. I loved the horses and the uniforms, and the music. The tears were running down Dad's cheeks when the massed bands, and the pipes and drums marched past. He was wounded in North Africa, but he saw the war through with the regiment." He finished proudly. "Look sir, will you watch out while I make a brew? Then you could tell me all about the Guards. I'll keep shufti, and you can talk. Please."
"Well, it’ll help to pass the time." Hawkspurr agreed. "I'm not used to being static, mobility is the attraction of a recce troop as far as I'm concerned but we'll take it in turns to stand watch." He laughed. "I can observe and talk at the same time, but I warn you - I'll probably bore you to death."
Hawkspurr took the proffered binoculars, and resting his elbows on the parapet examined the state of the barbed wire to their front, searching for the likely approach line of the enemy.
Hawkspurr was a tall, slim young man. 6'2" and almost thin, but with a well-formed muscular body at the peak of physical fitness. Dark brown hair, although close cropped for comfort and hygiene in the field, still showed a wave that he hated, and constantly tried to brush out with an application of Brylcream. A strong aquiline nose above full sensuous lips and a strong jaw line, the heritage of his Anglo/Norman bloodline, dominated his aristocratic features.
Women of all ages found the hazel brown eyes his most appealing feature. They were chameleon eyes, and Hawkspurr was unaware of the fact that they betrayed his every mood and emotion.
Sparkling with merriment, warm in love and compassion, penetrating during interrogation. Over the sights of a weapon, they transformed to merciless, flat black beads of onyx.
Sometimes moody, Hawkspurr was nevertheless basically good humored with a sense of fun and a love for all things beautiful.
He settled down to the task in hand.
TWO
Hawkspurr awoke with a start to the whispered insistence of his name. Feeling automatically for his weapon, he eased his cramped position in a corner of the trench and rose stiffly to his feet. It was Sergeant McFarlane crouching over the edge, barely discernible in the starlight.
"The Captain's got a wee job for you sir."
"What about me Sarge?" The eager query came from McKenzie.
“You’ll be going to the ball soon enough Cinderella. Just keep your fucking eyes peeled."
Hawkspurr just caught the muttered “Fuck you too!" as he scrambled out of the trench.
With a glance at the two very large soldiers squatting behind the NCO, he queried. "What's up Sergeant?"
"You and these two laddies are off for a wee stroll down to the wire sir." Replied McFarlane, thrusting a pick handle into Hawkspurr's hands. "Here take this." "There's no much time. The Captain’s sure there's a probing patrol approaching, and he wants a prisoner. That's your job sir. Clobber the first one you can get close to, and bring him back here. These boys will take care of the rest of them.”
His mind full of doubts and unasked questions, Hawkspurr started down the ridge away from the defensive trenches. "Keep close, and keep bloody quiet." He whispered savagely to his companions. A spasm of fear gripped his gut, and his heart started to pound. He sucked in a large breath, and with an effort concentrated on his descent.
As his night vision improved, his eyes searched ahead for any alien shape or movement. He had a good mental picture of the terrain from his afternoon vigil, and he was moving toward a shallow gully where the wire dipped. It afforded some likely spot for a breakthrough.
An indefinable sound - or was it a shadow moving, caused him to halt, and he was suddenly conscious of heavy breathing at his back.
A meaty hand tapped his shoulder and pointed slightly to the right. Nodding imperceptibly, he swallowed - it sounded to his ears like the not so subtle noise of a flushing toilet.
He had taken only two more paces forward when, with a crack and a splutter overhead the world was lit like center stage at the Folies Bergere and the moment froze in time for him. This was no isolated probe - just the whole bloody Chinese Army advancing in ranks along a front as far as his vision allowed.
The flare was a signal for general mayhem to commence. Mortars and heavy machine guns opened up along the entire perimeter. The soldier on Hawkspurr's left was thrown backwards, his chest a gaping cavity from the impact of a burst from a burp gun.
A figure loomed to his front, and without a conscious thought he stepped forward and swung the pick handle for a boundary drive. The dull crunch was not willow on leather - but every bit as satisfying, and as the body fell he dropped the length of wood and drew his revolver, squeezing off two panicky shots in the general direction of the enemy.
He turned to the Highlander on his right who was calmly firing short bursts from a Sten gun. "Move back. Move back!" He shouted, and tugging at the man’s arm started up the slope to his own positions. Turning his back to the enemy made feel at once naked, afraid and ashamed, but the fear drove him on.
"Jesus, I'm hit!" The big Scot fell on Hawkspurr, taking them both to the ground.
Hawkspurr scrambled to his feet grabbing the man by his waist belt, and with difficulty heaved him up and forward. "Hang on." Christ he thought, I hope the sergeant is watching out for us.
"Coming in!" He screamed at the top of his lungs. "Patrol coming in. Hold your fire."
Pulling, stumbling and slipping, Hawkspurr and the wounded Scot were reached for by friendly hands, and dumped without ceremony into the nearest pit.
The noise of explosives was by now almost deafening, but Sergeant MacFarlane with his hands cupped to Hawkspurr's ear was yelling, "Where's Rattray?”
“Rattray!" God thought Hawkspurr with a start, a man just died alongside me and I didn’t even know his name. Ignoring the sergeant, he turned to the wounded man laying half under him and shouted, "What's your name? What's your bloody name?"
McFarlane wrenched Hawkspurr's fingers from the tunic, pulling him further along the trench. "Kirk. He's Kirk. I take it Rattray's bought it? Calm down sir. You've done a good job just getting back here. Let's get a dressing on Kirk - we'll be busy enough in a wee while."
The general cacophony had by now taken on a new dimension with the outgoing mail from a New Zealand Artillery Battery screaming overhead to welcome the incoming Chinese.
Having received Hawkspurr's report, the sergeant disappeared in search of his company commander, and Hawkspurr crawled away to find McKenzie's post, and locating it seated himself in a corner to compose his nerves and control the fear that numbed his brain and sent tremors through his body. Had his father felt this trepidation before he died at Salerno during the last war?
Had his Grandfather, that dashing old survivor of three wars ever known these self doubts, this cringing flesh? He had certainly never mentioned any base emotions whilst regaling him with tales of glory. The thrill of a saber charge across the South African Veldt against the wily Boer. The knee-to-knee mounted combat, and clash of steel upon steel with Prussian Uhlans - pride of the Kaiser's cavalry.
Weren't those heroes of yesterday ever scared? No one mentions fear in the military history books.
His forbears had landed in England with the Conqueror, on the only date he could recall from school days 28th September 1066. Since that day their male progeny had served England well. Fighting, bleeding, and dying in foreign lands stretching across the continents of Europe, Africa, Asia and the new world.
Long hours spent with his grandfather in a room dedicated to Imperial conquest by arms, had led him to military school on his twelfth birthday. A room hung with the accumulated trophies and souvenirs of generations of soldiers.
A room one of his more irreligious uncles dubbed The Mausoleum, and solemnly told the boy that, "When Pop dies, we're going to have him stuffed, stick a Lance up his backside, and stand him in the corner!"
A room that, for the boy, was a roll-call of British history. He was fascinated by the remnants of uniforms, the helmets and swords, lances, assegais and buffalo hide shields. Arab khanjars, who’s cruel curved blades were the epitome of native savagery. A room which, in the night conjured up for the boy visions of Napoleon's disciplined ranks, glistening Zulu warriors, silent Pathans, the whirling Dervish, Arab horsemen in flowing robes, hirsute Boer marksmen, and tall Prussian Guards wearing spiked Picklehaube.
The room was dominated by a huge oil painting of Queen Victoria's Durbar the gathering of representatives of her Indian Army. Every regiment resplendent on parade in full dress, and the boy spent hours happily studying every detail of the colorful uniforms, and equestrian trappings.
He had a fierce desire to be present, to be mounted and magnificent in front of the Old Queen. He would close his eyes tightly and wish to be transported miniature to that glorious field.
Hawkspurr forced his body deeper into the hole, trying in his fear to become one with the sheltering earth. The whole planet seemed to be heaving under him, with ear shattering explosions and the vicious whine of tortured metal as shrapnel screamed through the air seeking his vulnerable flesh.
He gave no thought to the other men exposed on the barren rocky hillside - each round was aimed personally at him. He remembered tales of the First War, and recounts of the horrors of shelling - "Ye Gods!" Surely it could not have been worse than this?
This was Hawkspurr's first experience of a day in the life of a 'poor bloody infantryman', and they’re welcome to it! Only forty-eight hours earlier he had been a nineteen-year-old cavalry Troop Leader, and enjoying every moment. Patrolling narrow tracks to locate the biblical Yellow Peril, in order for the Centurion Tanks of a time honored regiment of horse to blast them back across the Yalu River.
Shades of Biggles! Of course at that time he hadn't been shot at, and was as full of enthusiasm as a Knight Errant hunting his first Dragon.
His eyes flew open to a momentary pause in the din of bombardment, and a new sound insinuated its tune into his consciousness - the blare of alien bugles, emanating from the ranks of advancing communist troops. The calls were answered defiantly by the skirl of Bagpipes from a lone Highlander, and the calls of "Stand to! Stand to!" echoing along the line.
His fears conquered or at least contained, replaced now with a chill excitement, Hawkspurr stood to the edge of the parapet and cradled the butt of a Bren light machine gun to his cheek. The familiar feel of hard wood scented with oil and cordite, the automatic disciplined checking of magazine and safety catch calmed him, and as he focused on the dim drab figures to his front he added careful, aimed bursts of jacketed projectiles to the steadily unceasing firepower.
In the bedlam of combat he lost all sense of time, conscious only of the tunnel of vision into which his world had condensed, and into which he directed his lethal fire. He was also aware of McKenzie, steadily refilling spare magazines with .303 bullets, and placing them to his right hand.
Around him the night was filled with the muzzle flashes of weapons, the whine of shrapnel and ricocheting bullets and the steady, reliable beat of a Vickers machine gun pumping death at 450 rounds per minute. Mortars thumped and threw their finned offspring amongst the massed rear ranks of the attacking force, as dirt and debris rained from the sky. The badly wounded screamed in their suffering, and fighting men cursed and mouthed defiant oaths as they levered round after round into the breeches of now hot rifles.
A stretcher party was digging frantically at a collapsed foxhole, begging to find a comrade still alive; unwilling to accept the evidence of severed limbs, torn and bloody flesh, the stench of urine and faeces from ruptured bowels. A young drummer from the regimental pipe band gagged and vomited but carried on under fire with the gruesome task, bandsmen, cooks, and clerks tended the wounded and carried ammunition to the riflemen and machine gunners.
Ordnance was running drastically low now, and the non-combatants jumped into pits to recover unused magazines and bandoliers from the dead and pass them to those still fighting.
Mingled with the blasphemy on men's lips was a plea common to all - "Mother!"
Hawkspurr was filled with a cold fury. There was not enough ammunition left to operate the Bren gun now, and no respite to fill magazines, but he and McKenzie were maintaining a steady rate of aimed, single shots from that most dependable of all current weapons - the Lee Enfield rifle.
Momentarily pinned down by the accuracy of the British fire, the Chinese replies were sporadic, and Hawkspurr noted that as one of their number fell, a man from the rear picked up his weapon. "Good god!" Now he understood the term cannon fodder, the poor bastards were coming against them without sufficient weapons to arm them all.
Despite the luminescence overhead from parachute flares, Hawkspurr thought he discerned a growing spread of light in the eastern sky. Surely it would be over soon; he knew that with the superior United Nations air power, the communists would not want to be caught in the open once daylight enabled the fighter bombers to operate effectively.
He was suddenly startled by a figure dropping into the trench from behind. "Sorry sir,” shouted the Highlander, “there's no ammo left. Here's a bag of grenades, I've primed them for you but I'm buggered if I know what time delay they are. Better drop 'em like the whores drawers as soon as you pull the pin."
The soldier left without further comment.
Hawkspurr grunted and reached into the satchel containing the bombs, which were standard British, Mills No.36.
"Head down Mac!" He pulled a pin releasing the safety lever, and flung the grenade over arm with all his strength. "One thousand... two thousand..." listening for the explosion. "Right. Five seconds. Let's give the bastards some curry."
As Hawkspurr and McKenzie stood once again to the firing step, a renewed hail of fire from the Chinese greeted them. Bugles spewed out their warning, and drab khaki shapes rose from the ground like wraiths and advanced towards them. His first impression on seeing the foe at close quarters was the Zombie like, expressionless faces. Drugged perhaps? Then he was kneeling on the edge of the pit, pulling pins and lobbing the lethal, diminutive pineapples into the enemy ranks below. Still they pressed forward now too close for grenades.
Retrieving a Sten gun placed carefully to hand, he squeezed off the last remaining rounds in a single long burst, arcing along his front. Bodies fell, but relentlessly the seemingly fearless Mongols strove upward.
"Bayonets! Bayonets!" The command echoed along the line.
McKenzie responded, jumping up with a scream like a Banshee, and flung himself at the nearest man. Thrusting, hacking, smashing with his rifle butt, his impetus carried him yards forward of Hawkspurr - frantically fighting to cover the heroic little Scot.
Gone was the cool reasoning, just a passion to survive lashing out with bayonet and boots, profanities on his lips. Blood streamed down his face from a scalp wound, and was washed from his eyes by tears of rage and frustration. "Kill! Kill!"
The rifle was wrenched from Hawkspurr's sweating hands - jammed between the ribs of a faceless torso falling away from him.
He moved on, lashing out now with clenched fists. Closing in on the enemy, punching, kicking, and kneeing. "Back you bastards! Back!" He sobbed. He felt no pain, no fatigue, just the mindless urge to inflict pain. To slaughter these alien men...
Abruptly it was over. The curtain rose on the final innings, and fresh players entered the game.
Australian Meteor Jets roared out of the new dawn cannons hammering, rockets flaming to earth to consume the fleeing enemy. Huge eruptions of earth and mangled bodies spouted and blossomed amongst the retreating communists.
"Fall back. Fall Back!" Someone ordered, but cheering soldiers, alternatively waving to the aircraft and shaking their fists at erstwhile opponents, ignored the command.
Hawkspurr moved to where McKenzie was kneeling on the ground, his head bowed and sobs racking his slight frame.
"Hell, you're a tiger in a scrap aren’t you Jimmy?"
"Aye. Where's Errol Flynn when you really need him?"
"Still screwing all those Burmese girls I shouldn't wonder."
They laughed. They looked into each other's eyes. They turned away - embarrassed at the emotions they felt.
"How many do you think there were?" Hawkspurr asked.
"Every bloody mothers' son and his cousin. China must be empty except for Chairman Mao and the birds."
As they talked, the Scot was occupied attempting to dress a wound in his side. His upper arms were lacerated and blood was seeping from both thighs.
“Let me do that for you Jimmy, you're a bloody mess."
"You're not so pretty yourself sir. Look at your trou' s.”
Hawkspurr glanced down at his pants, and realized with disgust that he had wet himself.
They both laughed again.
"The last time I pee'd myself was two years ago, on the Lord Mayor's Show in London." Hawkspurr recalled. "I was a Trooper then, mounted in full dress uniform and surrounded by hundreds of cheering civilians! I sat there stiff backed, trying to look nonchalant; and just let it run down inside my breeches and into my boot. Boy, what a relief. The night before I'd been to a party in Kensington, and barely made it back to barracks for reveille. All I had for breakfast was a pint of tea. The funny thing was, it was the very same boot that had received the invitation to the party. I'd been on duty outside Whitehall two days before, and a rather good-looking girl slipped a note into it. The public knows we daren't move a muscle, and in fact some tourists will go to any lengths to make you smile, or look into their cameras."
He stopped speaking, his mind far away.
"Go on sir." McKenzie Encouraged, as Hawkspurr tended his injuries.
Hawkspurr continued, "Well-meaning kids give you sweets, and even pieces of chocolate and because the boots are so wide at the top, they're an open invitation. Mind you, that wasn't my first embarrassment concerning a bladder, one year I was riding a rather stubborn old mare, and we had been halted outside the Guildhall for some length of time. Just when the command came to move off the bloody horse decided to relieve herself. Of course she wouldn't budge - just spread her hind legs apart, and let go a gush of steaming stale accompanied by a long satisfied grunt."
He chuckled again at the thought. "The whole squadron moved off around us, leaving me alone with my dignity, and then I had to trot along the gutter to catch up. People in the crowd were cheering and shouting ribald remarks - as if I were running in the Derby. Ye gods - I'd sooner face the Chinese again! Come on. Let's see if there's a mug of char going.”
Hawkspurr helped McKenzie to his feet, and they were aware for the first time of the scene of utter devastation around them. Earth and bodies, chewed up and spat back, the litter of war, discarded weapons and equipment, clothing torn from men's bodies by blast alone.
Studding the backdrop of this macabre scene were the players, pale faced exhausted defenders of the salient, moving amidst the carnage to tend the wounded and identify the dead. Pioneers would come later to clear these grim props, but for now the soldiers knew they must regroup and prepare themselves for any further attack.
In the distance they could see the flash of napalm, delivered by American Thunderjets on North Korean entrenchments.
"Have you ever see what that stuff does, close up sir?" McKenzie questioned.
"No."
"It's foul. A few months ago we took a hill after a napalm air strike. I'll never forget the stench of jellied petrol and human flesh. I don't mind admitting I put a bullet into the head of one poor bugger still twitching."
"Well I suppose the end justifies the means, if you're sitting on your ass in the Pentagon or Whitehall." Hawkspurr gave a sardonic laugh. "I wonder how many generations of soldiers have voiced that opinion?"
The two moved to where a group of men were administered first aid on each other. A cook was boiling water for tea, and dispensing tins of fatty but tasty bacon.
Ravenous soldiers unceremoniously wolfed down the meat, barely warmed through and served on chunks of stale bread, and the grease washed away with mess tins of hot, sweet tea. Napoleon's army might have marched on its stomach, but the British army floated along on a river of the stimulating golden beverage.
"Who cares how much bromide they put in the tea?"
"You'll go blind before it effects you Lofty!"
"Dear Mum, its' a bastard, sell the pig and buy me out: Dear son, so are you and the pig's been eaten!"
They all laughed at the hoary old chestnuts, happy to be alive. Engulfed by a feeling of comradeship, and closeness that would never be duplicated in civilian life. The horrors of war would dim, but these memories would be nurtured and retold by many a fireside, and in numerous bars whenever they met...."Do you remember old…?"
The company commander approached Hawkspurr, who snapped to attention and saluted.
The Captain grinned at the second lieutenant. "Ever a Guardsman, eh Hawkspurr?"
Hawkspurr remained silent. Superfluous conversation was not encouraged in the Household Brigade.
"I’ll need you a little longer I'm afraid Hawkspurr. I've only a handful of fit men left, and one junior NCO".
"What about Sergeant McFarlane sir?"
"Chopped I’m sorry to say. Bloody good chap, he survived Tobruk and Normandy and was a genuine old school professional. I suppose he treated you like a boy?"
Hawkspurr nodded glumly.
"I shall miss him. Right, let's get on with it." Snapped the captain. "First make sure all the wounded are attended to including yourself. It looks as though they are all being fed, so put out a couple of forward piquets just in case of visitors. Then fall in the remainder for a weapons check, we'll have supplies and ammunition arriving at any minute. Warn the men that I'll be asking for reports later on, so that I can piece together some sort of picture for Brigade. You can tell them that we're being relieved by the Australians later in the day, and I'll talk to you after I've been on the blower to HQ."
Hawkspurr gathered the men together with as little fuss as possible, and they started to strip and clean their individual weapons.
"Hey sir." One of the older privates tossed a Highlander's Bonnet to Hawkspurr. "If you're staying with us, you'd better be properly dressed." Hawkspurr caught the headdress with its distinctive badge, and placed it at a jaunty angle on his head to the accompaniment of cheers and whistles. "This calls for a drink. Where's the beer ration?"
"Don't ask!" A corporal answered. "Last night I had to use it to cool the mortar barrels and old McFarlane watched me pour every drop."
For a moment the mood became solemn.
"Right." Said Hawkspurr jumping to his feet, and using an exaggerated Scots accent. "Let's get this shambles tidied up before the Diggers arrive."
By late morning the company survivors had been re-supplied, and the serious casualties evacuated by helicopter. The Scottish commander was briefing his Australian counterpart, and fresh troops were at work efficiently repairing the shattered defensive positions.
A few ribald remarks passed between the Commonwealth soldiers, but for the most part the weary Highlanders sat quietly awaiting the order to move out.
The march down to the road was uneventful but tiring as they picked their way along steep sided ravines and past sheer cliffs, but here and there patches of pine and vegetation had somehow escaped the devastation wrought by both side on the scarred landscape.
Fought over for centuries by Manchurians and Mongols, and first invaded by the Japanese in the late 16th century, Korea became the center of a struggle for power between China, Russia and Japan, which led to the Sino-Japanese war and later to the Russo-Japanese war. In 1910 Korea was formally annexed to Japan, and renamed Chosen when it remained under Japanese control until 1945. Following the end of World War Two the country was occupied by both the United States and Soviet forces, with a guarantee of independence after a maximum five year period of Allied trusteeship.
Military commanders of both factions were subsequently unable to agree on terms for the formation of an all-Korean provisional government, and during 1948 the Republic of Korea was proclaimed south of the 38th Parallel, followed by the Moscow supported Democratic Peoples Republic of Korea in the north.
The cleavage between the rival republics gradually deepened, with an abortive uprising occurring in various parts of South Korea.
Approximately 15,000 insurgents were killed in the most serious revolt, and frontier clashes along the border culminated in the communist invasion of 1950.
On reaching the road head, the British soldiers mingled with the gallant survivors of the Turkish and Belgium Battalions. Language barriers do not seem to hinder the international soldier, and cigarettes, chocolate bars and bottles of wine were passing from hand to hand. Amidst much backslapping and hand shaking, and to the amusement of the Turks - British Tommies were soon coughing and choking on the pungent tobacco peculiar to Asia Minor.
With a rumble, a clatter, and a throaty roar Sherman Tanks of the Canadian Army appeared from a bend in the road, followed by ambulances manned by the Indian Medical Corps, and after embarking those wounded who required further attention, Hawkspurr directed the remaining men to where huge, multi wheeled American trucks waited to transport them to Seoul some 120 kilometers distant. Without exception, the soldiers settled themselves as comfortably as possible and promptly fell asleep.
It was well after dark when the convoy rolled into the ruined city of Seoul, and the American driver awakened Hawkspurr - who had taken advantage of his rank to ride in the cab of his lorry. "Hey sir, the Captain said to put you off here. Good luck."
Hawkspurr clambered down shakily and found himself standing outside a battered old stone building, guarded at the entrance by two immaculate Military Policemen wearing red caps.
"Yes sir?" They challenged. Eyeing him distastefully from his filthy boots to his blood stained clothing.
Hawkspurr ignored them for a moment and turned to watch the trucks, grinding slowly up through their gears disappear into the dark. He half raised a hand in salute, but none of his erstwhile companions were aware of his departure, and he turned sadly back to the sentries.
"Second Lieutenant Hawkspurr." He passed over sheet of paper torn from a field message pad.
"Right sir. Samuels here will show you where to go, you won’t be seeing the Colonel until morning."
Hawkspurr followed the redcap into the building. "I'll organize some new gear and a meal sir. Here are the ablutions, and if you're lucky the showers will still be hot."
He pushed open a side door and marched off down the corridor.
Hawkspurr entered the tiled room and emptying the pockets of his scant possessions, quickly stripped off the soiled uniform and stepped into the nearest shower stall. "Oooh bliss." He said to himself as clean water sprayed from the head.
Eyes closed, reveling in the pure sensual delight of hot water, he was unaware of the return of the military policeman.
"Don't go to sleep in there sir. Here's a towel, I've turned out the storeman and a cook. As soon as you’ve finished here, go down the passage three doors and draw any new kit you need. Private White will take you to the mess as soon as you're decent." He saluted and left.
Wrapped in a towel, Hawkspurr padded to the third door and entered the domain of Chalky White.
A cheerful old sweat of Cockney extraction greeted him. "Welcome to Shangri-la sir. 'Ere, have a pew, and get this down your froat." He handed Hawkspurr a large glass of neat scotch from a well stocked bar hidden discreetly behind a curtain.
This corner of the stores, which comprised the old soldier's quarters, showed that Chalky believed in the adage that any fool could be uncomfortable.
"Cheers Chalky, and many thanks."
"You're welcome sir. Now I'll give you enough gear to make you presentable tonight, and tomorrow we'll kit you out completely. Ok? Right, we'll start off by burning that little lot." He indicated the heap of dirty clothing at his feet.
Hawkspurr nodded his agreement but retrieved from the pile his boots, and the two berets.
"Don't worry about those sir. Have some nice new gear. Just keep your cap badge."
Hawkspurr smiled. "I’ll hang onto the berets thanks. Sentimental reasons." He was thinking that the crafty old bugger probably had a racket selling secondhand clothing to the locals. Well good luck to him.
Having dined on the best meal he'd had for weeks and slept soundly in a real bed, Hawkspurr woke refreshed, took advantage of the luxury of another shower and dressed carefully in his new uniform. Although devoid of unit flashes he felt reasonably smart, and the old storeman had furnished him with a pair of highly polished boots fit for the depot at Pirbright.
The bleeding on his small scalp wound had stopped, and he changed the dressing for a smaller adhesive patch. What would today bring?
THREE
Since he had no direct orders, Hawkspurr decided to first scrounge breakfast and then go in search of the colonel. He was astonished to see that the clock in the mess read 11 o'clock, but the duty cook showed no surprise when he asked if he might have breakfast.
Having finished the meal, he was still seated at the table drinking coffee when an officer entered the room and approached his table. As Hawkspurr rose to his feet and stood to attention, the smiling gray haired man indicated that he should resume his seat. Hawkspurr noted the red collar tabs, the pips and crown of a full colonel, and the campaign ribbons of two world wars.
"Good morning Hawkspurr, I trust you are fully rested. I'm aware that you’ve had a rough time, and as soon as we've had a little chat I'll arrange a spot of leave. Right?"
"Thank you sir."