Large sections of Los Angeles and San Diego were burning. Looters roamed the streets virtually unchallenged. The few police who remained on the job were overwhelmed and reduced to protecting their own stations from the threatening mobs. Almost 15 % of the California Army National Guard was in Ft. Polk, Louisiana preparing to go to Indonesia, much of the remainder was scattered throughout the state. Even if the governor called them up, the fear-driven chaos had spread so fast and furiously that it was doubtful 10,000 Guardsmen could do anything at all.
By three AM Judy made it to the Cajon Pass. Her fuel mileage was horrible and she feared that she’d be unable to make it to Ft. Irwin without refilling the tank. Fortunately, the freeway speeds picked up a bit and she began to average 30 mph in stop and go traffic. She hadn’t been this exhausted since the birth of her last child, but, with the same life and death issues at stake as in childbirth, she drove on.
Just outside of Barstow she noticed the strip of factory outlets that marked the unofficial end of civilization until Las Vegas (or at least the California-Nevada border where a small city had sprung up to cater to those who couldn’t last another hour before commencing their gambling). “No shopping today,” she said to herself, mainly to stay awake. KNX news radio out of L.A. helped her stay alert for a while, but soon the endless reports of increasing violence, arson and looting became repetitious and the news had the opposite effect.
Every motel in Barstow was full, every parking lot packed with fleeing people from the city. Three gas stations in town were still open. The others were either closed or out of fuel. Judy pulled into a line that was more than a city block long. She estimated by the time she’d make it to the front of the line it would be dawn. Her toughest task was staying awake. The kids were asleep and the puppy, long since having relieved himself in the back of the SUV, only occasionally whined.
Minutes stretched into two hours and she was finally at the front of the gas line. The price per gallon was $42.95 and 9/10th of a cent. The fill-up would cost about $800. Judy was shocked, but she needed the fuel. Within an hour or two she’d make Ft. Irwin.
Phase one of the ROC counterattack went as planned. Most units halted their retreat from the advancing PLA forces and dug in as ordered. Several ROC units were quickly surrounded after going to ground, but with hidden supplies to draw upon and the knowledge that holding fast would not be in vain, the men stood firm.
Chinese intelligence misread the Taiwanese moves as the actions of a dying army. They confidently assumed that, with no hope of American intervention and being cut-off from their capital, their foe was simply laying down to die. The PLA concentrated its efforts on the pockets of resistance and began to pummel the Taiwanese positions with artillery. This was exactly what the ROC commanders had hoped for.
With the PLA focusing its energies on eliminating its “trapped” quarry, ROC intelligence was able to gain valuable insight on enemy unit dispositions and strength. Well-placed Taiwanese rocket and artillery fire managed to reduce the rate of supplies coming to the PLA at Keelung, CKS International and Taichung. On Wednesday, for the first time in four days, the amount of supplies used by the PLA outstripped the fresh supplies moved onto the island.
In the gathering gloom of a darkly rainy Wednesday evening, the first deliberate ROC counterattack of the campaign began. Instead of leading the attack with mechanized and armored forces, the point of the Taiwanese spearhead consisted of reserve light infantry, elite airborne soldiers, and mortars for fire support. With a better than seven-to-one advantage over the unreinforced PLA airborne forces at the passes to the east of Taichung, the Taiwanese infantry quickly stamped out opposition. Within an hour the ROCs bagged 139 prisoners of war. Most importantly, their method of attack concealed the more ambitious nature of their offensive intent. PLA intelligence read the setback as nothing more than a local action — another pinprick raid designed to harass PLA forces or help regular army ROC forces in their general retreat from the victorious PLA.
By midnight two Taiwanese armor brigades (104 operational tanks) had maneuvered through the gap and were racing north. If the weather continued to cooperate and stayed rainy with a low cloud deck, the Taiwanese expected to continue their movement north for the most part unhindered by the PLAAF (only the most modern Russian-built aircraft were capable of all-weather operations — and these numbered less than 200 out of thousands of Chinese aircraft). If the weather cleared, the Taiwanese planned to break east for the hills and forest country and wait until nightfall before resuming their dash north.
After racing north to the outskirts of Taipei, Colonel Chu Dugen’s Jia Battalion was relieved by a regiment of regular infantry and given a welcome opportunity to rest for six hours. By Monday morning his commandos were restive and waiting for their new orders. The orders weren’t much of a surprise for Dugen, and, although of a conventional nature, he knew they would be the most difficult to carry out to date. Jia Battalion was to conduct a night river crossing of the Tanshui Ho and scout enemy positions on the western edge of Taipei. If the enemy was there in strength, Dugen’s lightly-armed commandos would have a difficult time in the urban terrain against a prepared foe.
Colonel Chu rehearsed his troops all day Monday, using a wide, but deserted thoroughfare to simulate the river. When he was satisfied everyone knew their part of the mission, he gave his men three hours to eat, rest, and prepare.
The battalion started the crossing at 0124 hours. A thick mist hovered over the river. Dueling artillery batteries muffled what, to Dugen’s ears, seemed to be a deafening racket as his team’s paddles struck the dark water again and again. He hissed at his men to paddle more deliberately and avoid splashing.
Halfway across the 400 meter-wide river, Dugen found himself praying for success and the safety of his men. Startled and embarrassed at his sudden faith, he stopped, then he said a prayer for his imprisoned mother.
As Dugen’s rubber boat reached the far shore he felt a small breeze blow by his ears. He hopped out of the boat and helped his soldiers drag it up on the shore. The wind picked up another notch. Dugen looked over his shoulder at the river, peering through his American-manufactured thermal sight. It showed nothing but a uniform gray—the river must be still shrouded in fog, he thought. The sight began to transmit images of heat on the river. There! A rubber raft with one squad. Dugen smiled that another ten men had made it across. The wind ticked up another notch, suddenly Dugen saw two, then three groups of men in their rubber boats. Dugen flipped the sight off his forehead. The pressure sensitive device automatically went to standby and darkened. He looked up. Stars! A sinking feeling gripped the pit of his stomach. Less than half his men were across and the fog was lifting!
Dugen heard a faint pop. He saw it out of the corner of his eye — the faint trail of a rising flare. Three seconds later the nighttime turned to a whitewashed day as a large mortar flare lit up the river, then lazily descended on its parachute. There was a shout from a few hundred meters away, then tracer rounds arced out of a building overlooking the river, piercing the thin rubber hull of an assault raft and the thin human skin of its occupants. In five seconds, more of Dugen’s commandos fell then had fallen in the previous three days. Among their number was Jia Battalion’s annoying mascot, the political officer.
By Wednesday night the commander of the 10th Group Army authorized a withdrawal of the remnants of Jia Battalion. In 48 hours of hard fighting, Dugen’s battalion of elite commandos was down to less than 150 men. Dugen himself was wounded (two flesh wounds, one in each leg) and exhausted almost to the point of collapse.