He leaned forward to bring his face closer to Kevin’s. “And next time they’re gonna give us a dose of that arty.”
Senior Lieutenant Park Sung-Hi of the North Korean People’s Army couldn’t see the body of his company commander from where he lay. In fact, he couldn’t see much of anything at all.
Park and the remains of his platoon had been driven back from the American outpost to a place where a small fold in the ground offered cover from the imperialists’ murderous fire. One of his men hadn’t made it all the way to safety, and his body lay sprawled half in and half out of the shallow ditch. Park gripped his AKM assault rifle tighter and tried to burrow deeper into the frozen snow.
Technically his captain’s death had given him command of the company, but there wasn’t much left to command. Just the four, no, five men huddled on either side of him. There were undoubtedly others left alive and unwounded, but they’d either sought cover elsewhere or kept running. For their sake Park hoped that the men who’d run stopped before they got back to the company’s Start Line. The commissars of the Main Political Administration had made it clear that would-be deserters would be dealt with harshly.
The North Korean lieutenant lay in the snow and considered his options — none of which seemed particularly palatable. He could try again to take the hill with what he had left. And that was suicidal madness, of course. The Americans were too well dug-in. Or he could wriggle back to the company’s communications gear, report the failure of this attack, and ask for support from a higher headquarters. That was the militarily sensible thing to do, but it might be viewed as cowardice by an unsympathetic political officer.
He bit his lip while trying to decide what to do and spat the blood out onto the snow. Oddly enough, the pain helped clear his mind. Better to be shot for trying to do the right thing than to be killed while doing something utterly foolish and wasteful. He would call for help.
The North Korean division commander smiled all the way through his staff’s situation report. The attack was going well, much better than he’d dared hope possible. His first echelon tank and infantry battalions had already broken into the first enemy defensive line in three separate places. Casualties in some units had been heavier than expected, but others had suffered only minimal losses. And according to the reports, whole enemy units had collapsed under the weight of the unexpected attack. The Special Forces and the artillery had done their work well.
He leaned over the map table to get a better look. The grease-penciled wedges showing his spearheads were being erased and redrawn as new information came in. They were now well on their way to their first day objectives. Excellent. But then his smile faded. One of the American hilltop outposts had not yet been seized.
He tapped the map. “What is the problem here, Comrade Colonel?”
His deputy moved closer, his eyes magnified behind thick glasses. “We’ve just had a report from a platoon leader outside that position, sir. It was supposed to be taken by a company strength surprise attack before our barrage began, but there was some sort of delay as they moved through our forward lines. Consequently, the attack failed. The platoon leader is now requesting artillery support and reinforcements.”
“Casualties?”
“Extremely heavy, sir.”
“Hmmm.” The general rubbed his chin absentmindedly. He hated the idea of diverting resources from the main attack to reinforce failure. Doctrine spoke against that. But on the other hand, the American outpost sat squarely on his flank. From there its defenders could call down artillery onto his resupply units and lines of communication — and that might cause delays he couldn’t risk. He made up his mind.
“Very well.” He studied the map. “Order the Twentieth Rifles forward to attack this hill. The Americans there have defeated a company. Now let’s see how they fare against a full battalion. And tell the artillery that I want a hurricane preparatory barrage on the imperialist position. I want their fortifications pulverized. Understand?”
His deputy nodded sharply and hurried away to issue orders for the second attack on Malibu West.
Kevin Little was beginning to wish that he hadn’t been so quick to pull his men back inside their bunkers. He could still hear the artillery landing to the south, but everything around Malibu West was quiet. What if the NKs were sneaking back up the hill while they just sat here? Kevin knew that Pierce had put an OP — an observation post — out on the forward slope to give the platoon advance warning. But what if the two men in it had been surprised? Or what if they were looking the wrong direction? It had been over an hour since the last attack. What the hell was going on?
He could hear Jones muttering into the radio. “You got anything, Corporal?”
The radioman twisted round with his earphones still on. “Not a damned thing, sir. Every time I find a clear frequency and start talking, the frigging gooks come in and mess it up.”
Kevin swore under his breath. What a clusterfuck. Here he was sitting blind in this little hole on a hill, and he couldn’t get through to anyone to get some help or to find out what was going on. None of his ROTC lecturers had ever warned him that it would be so hard to communicate on the battlefield.
He jumped up. Enough of this waiting shit. “Tell Pierce I’m going to check the OP personally.” He’d just make sure his observers were on the job and come right back.
“But sir!” Jones started to yell something as Kevin pulled the bunker door open. Then he heard it.
An enormous howling arcing down out of the sky. Falling right on him. Kevin froze, one hand on the door, the other holding his M16.
Jones knocked him flat onto the CP floor just as the 152-millimeter shell exploded outside.
The shock wave tore the air out of Kevin’s lungs and throat and buried him in a tidal wave of dirt and smoke. He blacked out.
He came to seconds later, aware first of the dirt caking his face and then of a heavy weight holding him down. The ground bucked up and down as other shells landed around the hill, but he couldn’t hear the explosions. He’d been deafened by the first burst.
He shifted uncomfortably beneath the corporal’s weight. Why didn’t Jones get off him? Then he felt something warm and sticky pouring onto his neck. And there was a hot, coppery smell mixed in with the sharp, acetone odor left by the shell burst.
Kevin wriggled frantically out from under his signalman and rolled him over. Jones was dead.
A fragment thrown by the North Korean shell had spiraled out at several hundred meters a second, catching the corporal just below the eye and tearing through into his brain. Kevin stared for a moment at the ragged mess left of the man who’d saved his life, then he spun away on his knees, retching. In all his worst dreams he’d never imagined it would be this bad. Jones was dead because he’d done something stupid.
After a moment Kevin crawled over and pushed the door shut with shaking hands. He leaded against it for a second, feeling the bone-rattling vibrations thrown by the artillery pounding his hill. Then he scuttled over to the radio, carefully keeping his eyes off Jones’s body. The bunker rocked under a near miss, spilling dirt through cracks in the reinforced log roof. He had to get help. The platoon needed support.
His hearing was coming back. Kevin could make out muffled explosions now as North Korean salvos landed on Malibu West. He fumbled with the radio, setting it back to the main tactical frequency.