Barinelli's War

By Eugene B. Basilici

The Korean War rages in Southeast Asia. Every night the North Koreans hurl themselves against the outnumbered Americans who hold the Pusan Perimeter, and every night the overextended defenders are thinned even more.

Into this maelstrom lands Rick Barinelli, a teenager fresh out of Basic and is thrown immediately onto the front line. A natural leader with an innate understanding of combat, he's able to command and hold the all-important "Bowling Alley" sector. Barinelli's successes on the battlefield earn him quick promotions.

The Inchon landing relieves the pressure on Pusan and Barinelli's platoon takes the point for an American offensive. At Hungnam, they're ordered to the rear and reorganized as a reconnaissance company, while the Army's Tenth Corps and First Marine Division advance to the Chinese border.

But a quarter-million Chinese secretly infiltrate the mountain passes and surround the Americans with orders to annihilate them all. The only escape route is along a narrow road past the Chosin Reservoir through the Funchilin Pass to Hungnam and safety. The Funchilin must be held. But when Barinelli's company commander suddenly disappears, the survival of over twenty thousand men falls on him.

With fewer than two hundred men under his command, Barinelli faces the pressures of leadership in battle. More importantly, he learns of faithlessness and heroism and the inner gauntlet each soldier must pass through to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 18, 2006
• ISBN: 9780595829620

Eugene B. Basilici

Eugene Basilici was born in Dedham, Massachusetts. He enlisted in the Army and arrived in Korea in 1955. He?s now retired and lives in Margate, Florida, with his wife, Tarese. Barinelli?s War is his third novel.

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Barinelli’s War

Eugene B. Basilici

Author of GENIO and LEGACY OF A HERO

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Lincoln Shanghai

Barinelli’s War

Copyright © 2006 by Eugene B. Basilici

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, organizations and events are fictional or used fictitiously for verisimilitude.

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-38582-9 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-82962-0 (ebk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-38582-6 (pbk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-82962-7 (ebk)

CONTENTS

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

EPILOGUE

This novel is dedicated with love and pride to the Little General, my daughter, Cris Basilici Hutton.

Author’s Preface

Long called the forgotten war, the Korean conflict is only now receiving a measure of the recognition it so richly deserves as America’s first military response to Communism’s spreading hegemony in Europe and Asia. It was a war with stunning reversals of fortune, from which the breakout from the Chosin Reservoir stands as one of the great sagas in the annals of American military history. I’ve loosely based the main action of this novel on the incredible heroism of Fox Company holding the Toktong Pass open against a full division of Chinese troops; on the First Marine Division, the Royal Marines, the U.S. Army’s 7th Division, the 31st RCT and the ROK units who participated in the breakout from Chosin to Hungnam and the sea.

Encircled by a quarter-million Chinese, it’s no exaggeration to say that less than a few hundred courageous men saved twenty-five thousand of their comrades from certain annihilation.

Nine Congressional Medals of Honor were awarded for actions during this breakout while many similar feats of heroism were lost in the maelstrom of fourteen days of continuous fighting and thus, went unreported: Hector E. Cafferata, Jr., Fox Co., 7th Marines, 1st Marine Division; William Windrich, 3d Batt., 5th Marines, 1st Marine Division; Reginald Myers, 1st Marine Division, Ray Davis, 1st Marine Division; Carl Sitter, 1st Marine Division, Robert Kennemore, Easy Co., 8th Marines, 1st Marine Division; James Stone, 8th Cav. Reg., 1st US Cav. Division; Don Carlos Faith, Jr., 1st Bn., 32nd Inf., 7th Division and Reginald B. Desiderio, Easy Co., 27th Infantry, 25th Inf. Division were all awarded their nation’s highest honor; three posthumously.

CHAPTER 1

Somewhere close ahead the Korean peninsula loomed like an invisible bogy-man, dominating the thoughts of the combat force aboard the Ewing. Ever since the engines had stopped, a silent menace seemed to hang over the ship, growing and intensifying with each tiny wink of light and faint rumbling of artillery.

Throughout the ship a great tension was rising like a poisonous fog. All around him, conversations were muted as guys shuffled around in the gloom of dim, shaded lights and stared out over the railings or leaned against bulkheads or sat on the deck in clusters, seeking the comfort of close-packed company. Like the last tendrils of hope escaping, smoke curled up past a thousand squinting eyes as the glow of hundreds of cigarettes perforated the darkness.

Everyone had heard about the poor bastards in the 24th. For days, that’s all they’d been talking about; how the advance units sent in from Japan had been wiped out and how the ones who’d tried to surrender had been found with their hands wired behind their backs—shot in the head. Now they were the ones going in and a smothering, overpowering fear made for round-the-clock nightmares.

Pfc. Rick Barinelli, fresh from Basic and newly assigned to the 305th Regimental Combat Team, flicked his cigarette over the rail and watched its faint glow disappear into the inky waters below.

He tried to keep from thinking about the massacre and about the Eighth Army guys out there; poor pricks being squeezed to death in an ever-shrinking perimeter. Still irritable, he thought, Come on, come on, think about something else. And the jingle formed and began to sing in his mind:

Oh, I gave her number one. She said, Johnny this is fun, roll me over, lay me down and do it again. Roll me over, in the clover, roll me over, lay me down and do it again. Oh, I gave her number two. She said, Johnny this’s for you, roll—

He felt a heavy tap on his shoulder and turned around. It was Garrity, Head and Head Company’s First Sergeant. Now how the hell had he found him in the dark? Garrity was a hillbilly from West-by-God Virginia and he was lean and ropy and had those dull, gray eyes that were unreadable, but told you right off you didn’t want to screw with him. Rick grunted and shifted over.

How come you’re not below, catching some zzzs the First Sergeant asked.

Yeah, sure, like I could sleep, Rick retorted.

Why not? Garrity asked. You doing something better right now?

Ah, goddamned scuttlebutt’s got everybody nervous. He answered, keeping his eyes averted. No sense letting Old Sarge know it was getting to him, too. Everyone’s talking fifty percent casualties or more on that perimeter; a hundred thousand Gooks charging against the line every night and MacArthur saying, ‘Stand or die!’ He peered at Garrity through the gloom, before looking away. Just the kind of lullaby you need to rock you to sleep.

Garrity nodded and smiled and pulled out a pack of Luckies. He pushed one up between his lips and shook another out to Rick. Cupping his hands around a match and protecting the flame, he lit both, his pale eyes studying the Pfc.

Loose fitting fatigues couldn’t hide Barinelli’s solid shape. He had a shock of light, almost platinum blonde hair, now close-cropped, and ice-blue eyes that were probably his dominant feature. Standing an even six feet, he was broad-shouldered, deceptively strong, and quick as a striking rattler. But what truly impressed Garrity was that his newest Pfc. could think even more quickly than he moved and wasn’t afraid to ask questions when something didn’t feel right. Damned good instincts for a kid just out ofBasic, Garrity thought, a born leader. Sure looks more like a Kraut than an Eye-talian, though. He remembered Doyen having strong objections when he’d pushed Barinelli’s pay-grade up to E-2, then at the end of Advanced Basic, to Pfc. But he knew what he was doing. This kid was a natural warrior.

The top sergeant’s shrewd glance hit and slid off. This close through the gloom, he could read the troubled expression on Rick’s face. Shoot, boy, you know scuttlebutt, he said. Wouldn’t be worth repeatin’ ifn it didn’t include a lotta’ bullcrap. The sergeant turned his face towards the hidden coast. You got a girl?

Yeah, Rick admitted.

What’s her name?

Kathy, Kathy McBride.

McBride? An Irish girl? Garrity swung his gaze back, Maybe there’s some hope for you after all, boy. He smiled and paused and looked away. A reflective quietness now settled between them and Garrity changed the subject. Where’s the other Dago?

Who, Patsy? Down below, I guess, with Heavy Weapons Platoon. It took Rick a second to shift his mental gears, but he didn’t react to the slur; wouldn’t have, anyway. He knew Sarge didn’t mean anything by it. Hey, speaking of him, though, he continued, why not transfer him to Recon, so I can keep an eye on him?

Garrity shook his head. Too tricky. Your buddy’s a good kid, but he couldn’t hack I and R; not in combat, not right now. Course, fresh out of Basic, not many could. He leaned back. One thing, B., Garrity said, I never served under MacArthur, but I read up on all his campaigns. He don’t cotton to holding defensive positions and he don’t cotton to sluggin’ matches. When we get up on that line, you do everything Doyen tells you, O.K.? I got a strong feeling something big is gonna pop real quick and then it’ll be too wet to plow. No time for lectures, O.K.?

Yeah, O.K. Rick paused, Hey, Sarge, what’s this all about, this whole Korea thing?

Garrity glanced at him before looking back out over the rail. Who knows? He’d already decided; no bull-crap for this one. Sometimes, he said, it’s like a chess game, where one side makes a move just to see what kind of counter-move there’ll be. He stared out into the darkness for a long moment before continuing in a quieter tone, And then sometimes it can all spin out of control.

Yeah?

Garrity turned and leaned his back against the rail. Yeah, he answered, Course, in this case it’s got an added benefit for Uncle Joe; keeps his home folks from questioning their workers’ paradise. Why you askin’?

I don’t know, but this damn war was a big surprise you know, and Kathy’s gonna’ be worried sick. I figure you’d know what I should write her when she asks.

Tell her you’re here doin’ your duty, boy, just doin’ your duty. This one ain’t going to spin out of control. It won’t take long.

Rick nodded, Yeah, maybe she’ll buy that. Thanks.

O.K. then, better get below. Check everything and make sure you’re good to go. He paused and nodded towards him, Hey, about the 24th, the Task Force Smith bunch; they were thrown in without preparation, without training and without the proper weapons. That’s why they had to cut and run and that’s why so many surrendered. Garrity regarded the young PFC for a moment. That ain’t going to happen again, so you just stay careful. Make sure you go home to that girl, hear?

Just then the great engines whined and pulsed to life, forestalling any response and sending vibrations through the decks and into the bones of the soldiers. Rick shouldered past the silent knots of men, as the jingle came back.

Oh, I gave her number three. She said, Johnny this’s for me, roll me over, lay me down and do it again.

He shook his head in exasperation—stupid song!

In the dim light the berthing area was a jumbled mass of black shadows, the only illumination coming from deck-level, low-wattage bulbs jutting out from the bulkheads and encased in individual mesh cages. Feeling his way between the tiers of bunks, he grabbed the piping of the berth above his and slid in, contorting his body around his equipment.

Staring up at the dark mass of the overhead berth, he suddenly felt homesick and depressed. He missed everyone; his older brother and sister, mother—even Angelo, his, tough as a two-bit steak, old man—but especially, he missed Kathy.

Wonder what she’s doing right this second, he thought, and immediately a vision of her inundated his senses; her scent, her white, graceful limbs, the rumpled bed.. Damn it! he hissed aloud, instantly furious with himself, Get off that. He scrubbed the image from his mind.

The stale air, the odors of men living belly to butt, the hum of vibrating metal all began to fade and his eyelids grew heavy. As he began to doze off on his rack, the jingle popped back into his mind.

So I gave her number four, she said Johnnie, do it some more, roll me over, lay me down

WHACK! A sudden, stinging slap to his head shocked and hurt and rang in his ears. Disoriented, the blow almost knocking him from the bunk, he came immediately awake. Hey! he protested, snapping his head toward the attack, What the—, he said and stopped short as he recognized the face of Sergeant Doyen, barely visible in the half-light, leering down at him from the aisle.

What’s the matter, Bakalienakof, he taunted, did I interrupt a wet dream?

Rick propped himself on an elbow and glared up at him. That shot was a hell of a lot harder than it needed to be. It’s Barinelli, Doyen, he said slowly, exaggerating the syllables and rolling the r. Matter of fact, you probably saved my ass. I was just about to hump your sister and that strong a stomach I’m not sure I’ve got.

At the remark, a few quick mutters and muffled exclamations rose around them as some of the men in nearby racks began paying attention. Who’s Bakalienakof? asked one.

Some jerk-off movie director, I think, answered another.

A guy in a bottom bunk chimed in, Nah, I’ve seen that name in the credits. He does the music.

Doyen glared and jerked back at the insult, his face flaming red as he shuddered with the effort to contain himself. Goddamn you, he hissed. Your time’s coming. I’m going to fix your ass, one way or the other.

Rick slid out from the bunk. Ever since Basic, this son-of-a-bitch had been on his case and he was tired of it. He stood slowly, his eyes hooded, but never leaving Doyen’s face. That so? he asked, And I suppose you think you got the balls to do it.

Doyen was a solid guy, like a block of granite, and he edged closer until their faces were inches apart. Oh, yeah, he retorted through clenched teeth. You can count on it. You’ve been a goof-off from the first fucking minute you hit Fort Dix, and you’re a goddamned liar to boot. I don’t know how you conned Garrity and I don’t care, but sooner or later—

Hey, why wait? Rick snapped back. Son-of-a-bitch was really cruisin’for it. He leaned warily to the side until his shoulder rested against a rack support and waited, careful to stay balanced. There was less than a foot separating them. You’ve wanted a piece of me ever since Fort Dix. Fuck it, let’s go!

On the edge of losing it, a faint, growling moan escaped the white-lipped Doyen. His eyes glittered with fury, but when he finally responded his voice was tight and controlled. First Sergeant wants all platoon and squad leaders on deck; now! Bring your gear. He spun on his heel and stalked out.

Rick’s shoulders slumped. There had been a lot of truth in what the platoon sergeant had charged and Rick had no idea how to make it right. Damn buddy of mine; Goddamn that Tarz, he muttered, son-of-a-bitch’s cost me the respect of the best NCO in the company! Suddenly furious with himself he turned back to the bunk, grabbed all his gear and, pushing past the racks and the few guys in the aisles, went topside.

Head and Head, over here! Lieutenant Janowski yelled, herding the arriving company leaders to a space near the bulkhead. Even with the non-ranked guys ordered to their bunks it was crowded as other groups jostled in the near-darkness to find their C.O.s. Captain Sutherland has a few remarks before we get with our units. Captain?

Thank you, Lieutenant. Be at ease men and light ‘em if you got ‘em. Snapping his finger against the wheel of his Zippo, he lit up and paused, waiting while most of the men before him followed suit. Well, we’re in a bit better shape in Pusan than we have a right to be. He motioned the lieutenant to hold a lantern closer to the easel upon which a large map of southernmost Korea was taped. Grabbing a pointer he jabbed at it. General Walker has been able to adjust the perimeter line to a strong defensive position behind the Naktong River and, beginning in the next few days, ships like this one will be ferrying men and materials in to add to its strength. Right now that line runs about 160 miles from a town called Chindong-ni here, to just above a city called Taegu and then east to the coast.

He paused and took a deep drag, glancing through the pre-dawn gloom at the impassive, attentive group of officers and men. We and the other units will not be fighting together as a company—at least not in the next few days— He stopped as the men stirred and whispered to each other. Gentlemen, please! He held up a hand. We’re the first ship in. Every one of us will be reinforcing under-strength units on the Main Line of Resistance or be temporarily attached to flying squads that are run up against attacking forces as needed, anywhere on the line.

An NCO spoke up, Like Bastogne again, Sir?

The captain gave a short laugh. Hardly, Sergeant; for one thing, it’s a hell of a lot warmer here. He peered at the man. Grover?

Yessir.

Well, you retreads and the rest of you men can thank your lucky stars the North Koreans don’t have commanders like the Germans. The Krauts would have massed their forces at a single spot in the line and blitzed through and there’d be no Pusan Perimeter left for us to join. As it is, the Gooks are stretched out, launching continuous nighttime attacks against the whole line. He shook his head. They’re not Japs, but they do seem to fight and die pretty well.

Again he paused, momentarily lost in thought. Duffel bags will be unloaded after we’re gone and held by Quartermaster Company. That’s where your incoming mail will be and where you can drop off letters for home. ‘Course, he added dryly, that’s going to be about 60 miles to the rear, just inside the harbor. Questions?

Shifting from foot to foot, heads down, no one responded.

O.K., that’s it then. Good luck. Keep your ass to the grass and your balls to the wall. First Sergeant!

Sir! Garrity responded, saluting. Thank you, Captain. O.K., ladies, here are your assignments by platoon. He handed out a sheet of paper to each platoon sergeant. Read ‘em. No goldurn errors in assignments, now. Anyone not at the proper location on the dock can be shot on the spot! He grinned, a wolfish grin that reassured no one and glanced at his watch, the phosphorescent numerals glowing in the darkness. We’ll be docking in twenty minutes. Now, get below and keep everyone together. He raised his voice a bit, And remember; follow orders. Our job ain’t to die for our country. It’s to make those Koe-reans die in theirs. Good luck, dismissed!

As the men filtered out into the darkness, Sutherland clapped his First Sergeant on the shoulder, Let’s hope we get that chance, Mike, he said, before some savvy commander of theirs slices through the perimeter and rolls up both wings.

Don’t worry, Captain. These ain’t fat and untrained garrison troops. We get these boys on line in time, they’ll hold.

Within the hour, troopship Edgar P. Ewing, reversing her screws, bumped up against the quay in Pusan Harbor.

CHAPTER 2

Hey, guys, fresh meat!" The raucous cry greeted First Squad as they jumped, lemming-like, into the trench on the Main Line of Resistance. They were stiff from the hours-long, bone-jarring ride out and their nerves were wound tight.

Shit; hooted another, buncha’ sister-school girls!

Rick squinted up at the sun, just beginning its long dive to the western horizon, then glanced around and grinned. You assholes like being here so much, we’ll just go on back to the repo depot and get assigned elsewhere.

A grimy, unshaven soldier elbowed past a couple of equally grimy G.I.s and stuck out his hand. Caldwell, He said, shaking Rick’s hand. Welcome to the Bowling Alley. Where’s the rest of your platoon?

Barinelli. We’re it. The other squads are west; spaced about a hundred yards apart from us and each other. That a problem?

For a long moment, Caldwell just stared, expressionless. Then he blinked and shrugged before grabbing a handful of Rick’s jacket and turning him towards the north. Propping his weapon against the dry clods of earth at the top of the trench, Rick followed the corporal’s pointing finger as it swept out and down across the valley.

There were no trees, just scrub and a few clusters of thick bushes that broke up the monotony of scarred and pitted ground. Atop the bordering hills, dry gullies and washes brooded, waiting in the oppressive heat for the fall rains to come. Like knife cuts slicing to the valley floor, they chopped up the slopes, lending a sense of other-worldly desolation to the broad, barren sweep before them.

It was the middle of summer but there was no greenery out there, no flowers and no color except for differing shades of brown and gray. Why the fuck would anyone want to fight over such God-awful real estate, he wondered?

Keeping his gaze straight ahead, the corporal fumbled a pack of cigarettes from his field jacket and held it out. His hand trembled; not much, but constantly. Deuce-and-a-halfs’ll be back for us pretty quick, he said, so let me tell you what you’re up against.

I’m supposed to report to the platoon sergeant.

Caldwell snuffed back a lunger and hocked it out over the trench. That was before last night. He answered, still looking forward and wiping his mouth. We lost a total of five KIA and WIA, including Tillman, so now there’s twenty-one of us left and just me to give you your briefing. He swiveled his head around and stared expectantly at his replacement.

And?

And? What the fuck you think—and? He spat out in disgust. Again, he grabbed Rick’s jacket and pulled him away from the others.

Hey, come on. Rick protested, calmly, This is my best jacket.

Lowering his voice, Caldwell dropped his head and spoke swiftly. Ah, sorry. Look, Barin, ah,—hey, I’m gonna’ call you, B., O.K.? Listen, B., five days ago we had a reinforced platoon of thirty-eight guys to hold this line. Four nights later, four attacks, we got twenty-one left and now you’re expected to hold the same line with—whattaya got, nine?

Eleven, counting me. Rick answered. I’ve got an extra BAR guy and another guy carrying a light machine gun.

Eleven! He gave a disgusted grimace and turned away. But most of the men had heard and a silence dropped down between them like an invisible barrier, separating all those leaving from the replacements. No one wanted to look anyone in the eye and the silence was thick and scary, depressing everybody. Finally, grating out the words, his back still turned, Caldwell said, We can’t stay, you know.

You guys did your four nights on the line, now it’s our turn. Rick replied, his heart beginning to pound, but taking pains to keep his voice cheerful. Give me the standing orders and whatever scuttlebutt you think’ll be helpful and then haul your asses out of here—oh, and leave all the spare ammo you got. A scurrying movement down in the bottom of the MLR trench caught his attention.

Caldwell noticed. Ah, just the rats. He offered. We made them honorary members of the 24th. They don’t take up much room. He grinned, flashing crooked, yellowish teeth.

Rick wanted to get it over with. These guys all smelled like a garbage dump. They were scratching their asses and looking like hoboes and he damned sure didn’t want them telling more war stories. His boys were already getting fidgety. Better to just get them out and back to the pick-up spot. O.K., he said, that the C.P. up there?

Yeah, if you can call it that. Come on.

A fifteen-foot section of the line was roofed with railroad ties, 2X4s and tin sheeting. It was deeper there also, with shooter’s stands on either side. There was a rickety table covered by a large map, a field telephone and a couple of flashlights. Across a stack of ammo and grenade boxes lay a light mortar’s flat base, binoculars and a B.A.R. Caldwell turned the map for proper orientation. It’s this way, O.K.? Here are your coordinates for calling in airbursts and other supporting fire. We’re on the MLR right about here and back here, directly to our rear is the 23d, guarding an artillery battalion.

Following the dirt-encrusted, nail-bitten finger as it pointed out landmarks, Rick looked up and smiled, though it never reached his eyes, Looks like they don’t have much faith in this line.

Caldwell grinned back, immediately upgrading his opinion of the seemingly unflappable Pfc. Shit, who knows? He responded, But just on the off-chance you and your ten guys can’t halt a hundred, screaming Gooks; toss a grenade in here before you bug out. It’ll go up like Fourth of July at Coney Island. He patted Rick on the shoulder. Hey, it ain’t all bad. Least there ain’t no officers to screw things up.

O.K., he continued, getting serious, you’ve got a working B.A.R. here, a couple of bazookas and a 61MM mortar. On the line, we’re leaving a heavy machine gun on the left flank and a light one on the right. You can change the disposition if you want, but when we go back out I’ll show you why they’re where they are.

Rick grunted an assent.

Been no rain since we got here and that’s a blessing, but there’s been heavy rains for weeks past those mountains east and west of us. Pray your luck holds and they don’t get here.

They walked back out and stood, peering over the parapet in the late afternoon, focusing their eyes on a sudden swirl of gray dust kicked up by a gusting wind.

Why? Rick asked. Maybe a little rain might hold down this friggin’ dust.

No such thing as a little rain. Everything in this fucked-up country goes from one extreme to the other. Listen, B. The corporal’s tone got very serious. I wouldn’t want your squad to hear this, but you should know. Last night, we’d a’ been overrun if the moon hadn’t finally broken past the cloud cover around 0200 and let the flyboys in. Artillery alone couldn’t have saved us and we’re a platoon. I don’t know what the Christ headquarters is thinking of, putting just a squad right in the middle of the Bowling Alley.

That’s twice you said, ‘Bowling Alley’.

Yeah, take a look. It’s a big, broad valley and a natural avenue for attacking forces. Your sector, near where you join up with the next squad over, is smack-dab in the middle and that’s why the .30 caliber was placed there. Now, the Naktong River prevents tank attacks farther west where the 25t Division is, but here the Gooks come down every night right after midnight, like bowling balls heading for the pins. Hey! He interrupted himself with a short, barking laugh, You hear about Taegu?

Rick shook his head.

"This’ll kill you. Seems the river is only three, three and a half feet high there, and last week the Gooks decided on a daylight attack. When they got to the river they stripped off all their clothes and bundled them up and started across with both hands in the air, one holding their clothes and the other, their weapon. A forward observer sees them and thinks they’re all surrendering so he has his R.O.K. counterpart get on the bullhorn and tell them to dump their weapons in the river and continue forward to give up. Well, shit, they ain’t surrendering and a bunch of them crank a few rounds at his post and keep coming. Now, the F.O. gets pissed and, instead of falling back, alerts all the firepower he can muster to zero in on the near bank and wait his command. Get this, the Gooks climb up and over the bank and then come to a dead stop; the whole goddamn battalion! They sit down, no cover, no nothin’ and drop their weapons and proceed to put on their clothes and shoes. No shit, it’s like they’re having a fucking day at the beach! The F.O. can’t believe his eyes. He starts screaming, ‘Fire, fire!’ and that whole area disintegrates into a solid mass of flame and bullets and explosions and the Gooks are just sitting there in the middle of flaming hell,