The skipper of the second ferry, reacting to the hits against the first, thought he’d try evasive action. He turned to port, presenting Meade’s gunners with a larger target. It only took eight shots to land five of them at the waterline and two in the engine room. The ferry quickly capsized. Meade actually saw little human stick figures falling off the ship as it rolled, showing its topside to the beached Americans as it settled upside-down.
The third ferry captain pressed onward. Meade saw the spray pound off his bow and blow over his low-slung deck. Meade muttered, “If we didn’t sink the brave fool the sea probably would on his return trip.”
The first shot hit the front of the superstructure, directly over the vehicle ramp. The gunners adjusted and…”
Ka-bamm! The Curtis Wilbur shook. Two more tinny-sounding blasts shook the ship.
Meade felt the vibrations under his feet, “What the hell?”
The intercom cracked to life, “We’re under attack. We’re under attack from the landward side! There’s a group of infantry off our portside stern and they’re firing at us with crew served weapons.”
Meade responded, “Get some crews up on the .50 caliber stations. Continue to engage the enemy ship. Whatever happens, don’t stop firing until he’s sunk.”
Meade heard shots outside the bridge’s starboardside hatch. A second later several rounds pinged against the hatch and bulkhead. He unholstered the 9mm pistol he really didn’t know how to use very well. At least they’ll be close, he thought, hard to miss.
A mile out to sea a 5-inch round exploded off the side of the ship — too high to let the heavy seas enter.
Meade could see a group of men run towards the 5-inch turret mount. They were setting something on the deck next to the gun. “Where’s the .50 caliber crews! We have a boarding party on the bow, they’re trying to take out the gun!”
The gun fired again. The shot fell short and exploded harmlessly in the water just in front of the ferry.
Meade yelled, “Everyone with a personal weapon, follow me!”
He burst out of the hatch and onto the superstructure that overlooked the main deck about ten feet below. The gun mount was about 40 feet away. He steadied his pistol on the wire railing and fired. His officers and sailors joined in behind him. Three of them had M-16s. Four of the enemy fell in the first volley. One pulled the pin on a grenade by the mount’s base and dove away. The smooth, featureless deck provided no cover and the man was quickly killed. The gun fired. Meade stood motionless, watching the ferry off in the distance. The shot hit the ferry’s bow at the waterline. Excellent!
The grenade exploded, sending fragments into the turret’s ring and freezing it in place. A fragment found Meade’s left leg, gouging his shinbone and tearing out a piece of his calf. His pistol flew out of his hand as he caught himself on the cable of the railing. The pistol was dangling off the cable from its lanyard. Meade began to pull himself up when an explosion rocked the side of the 5-inch turret, blasting a hole the size of basketball in its thin skin. He looked up the beach and saw a Chinese anti-tank missile team reloading its wire-guided weapon mount not 150 yards away.
A small explosion reverberated off the deck in front of the gun mount. Another crashed into the deck between Meade and the gun mount. An instant later, Meade’s ears were ringing and he felt suspended off the deck. A weird swinging sensation briefly captured his attention and overrode the dull pain he felt in his chest. He looked up. His pistol lanyard had wrapped around the cabling and he was hanging by the waist from the lanyard. He tried to grab the cabling. His hand wouldn’t move. It was strangely silent with only a light ringing in his ears. With a great effort he lifted his head up. In the distance Meade saw his final quarry sink beneath the waves. He had just enough consciousness left to smile. Commander Meade died a minute later.
The latest battle had not gone as well for the Marines. The airmobile infantry had hit hard and in large numbers. They were a lightly armed, but determined foe. The Chinese drove the Marines off of Shou Shan Hill, inflicting heavy casualties on the recon platoon: the Marines lost 11 men and two of four LAVs. Another five Marines were MIA. More importantly, the Chinese soldiers successfully destroyed the partially manned coastal defense emplacements along the bluff (partly staffed due to the combined effects of the chemical, electronic and biological attacks). At the beach, all the remaining LCACs had been destroyed and the field hospital had almost been overrun. If it weren’t for the Taiwanese 105mm howitzers from the reserve infantry division’s artillery battalion, they would have been killed or captured. As it was, the mixed force of Marines and Naval personnel barely broke contact with the enemy in one piece. At the beach they lost 46 Marines and 84 sailors. Another 65, mainly sailors, were unaccounted for.
Colonel Flint was bruised, but he hardly considered himself battered for what could have happened. And now, the Taiwanese were preparing a counterattack.
He owed a lot to the crew of the Curtis Wilbur. The last transmission from the overrun ship still haunted him. The female seaman calmly reported the loss of her skipper and the destruction of three large ferries bearing enemy troops. She then reported the ship had been boarded and that she could hear the enemy outside the bridge. The sound of demolitions blasting through a hatch was the last anyone heard from the Curtis Wilbur.
It was now 1900 hours local. With the situation somewhat stabilized, Lieutenant Colonel Cook turned to his commander, “Sir, I forgot to tell you,” he began with a broadening smile, “While you were out burning up fuel, you’ll never guess what we managed to do. Remember that phone we lifted off the enemy scout? It works fine. We were able to get a call through to PACOM. They wanted to talk to you ASAP.”
Flint narrowed his eyes, “I don’t remember needing to ask your permission to fly one of my helicopters, Cook. Now, give me my new cell phone and I might forget your comment. We can use some help.” Flint, his crow’s feet a little deeper with levity, snatched the SATCOM phone away from his S-3.
“Just push this button here, sir, it’s a redial,” Cook said.
The phone rang once, “Pacific Command,” a male voice said.
“Colonel Flint here…”
Outside, an enemy jet was tearing across the sky making it sound like the Marines were inside an envelope being ripped open.
“Stand-by, we’re patching you through to the General Keagan.” Flint heard some clicks. A few seconds of static and a voice Flint recognized as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff came on the line. (The first Marine Corps General ever to be made Chairman of the joint chiefs, General Keagan was a hard-nosed warrior.) “What’s your situation Colonel?”
“I am commanding combined elements of the 31st MEU and the Belleau Wood ARG in the Kaohsiung area of southern Taiwan. All four ships of the group have been sunk or severely damaged. My Marines have taken about 350 casualties. We have about 600 sailors ashore as well. We have killed, captured or sunk about 12 enemy battalions and at least four transport ships. I think we have seriously disrupted enemy war plans in our sector but we probably can’t withstand another coordinated assault. I am consolidating my forces at Kaohsiung International Airport where we are under aerial attack. Local ROC forces are attempting to gain contact with the enemy.”