Brother Fish (17 page)

Though surprise was on our side we were far from being in the clear. There were only a handful of us and several hundred North Koreans. The major was onto the radio frantically calling for help and was clearly becoming more and more agitated. ‘Yes, North Koreans, at least a company!' he kept repeating.

Whoever was on the other end must not have believed him, which was reasonable. Technically speaking the enemy simply couldn't be where we were unless they'd found a way to become invisible when first the Argylls and then 3RAR had come through Sariwon earlier.

While all this was going on the North Koreans seemed as confused as we were and held their fire. The major's call for reinforcements must have finally sunk in because in a short while we could hear the comforting rumble of a tank.

‘Wait on,' Major Nicholson said, ‘I'm going to meet that tank.' He jumped from the jeep leaving the radio operator behind and telling one of our Korean interpreters to follow him. We watched as he disappeared into the night.

‘Good one! What now? What happens if the noggies come for us?' John Lazarou said, his voice just a tad panicky.

‘You're in control, Lazy,' Johnny said, smiling. ‘You the lance corporal, mate.'

‘No I fuckin' ain't!' Lazy protested, ‘I lost me stripe when we deserted to the Yanks!'

‘If they come at us now we can say our prayers – must be a thousand nogs,' I exaggerated, ‘and only a handful of us blokes.' I knew it wouldn't be too long before the nogs caught on that there were very few of us. I wondered how many I might be able to take out with my rifle before I died, as I most certainly would. This wasn't in the script I'd written for my second army career. Even with the extra men the tank might bring, the situation would remain pretty hairy. The North Koreans couldn't retreat and were hell bent on joining up with their comrades – their only chance was to go straight through us and to keep moving north. They were desperate, and we'd been caught with our pants down. I was about to face my maker.

We waited a further five minutes and still the North Koreans hadn't come back at us, and then I witnessed one of the strangest incidents I was to experience in the war. The tank appeared rumbling out of the darkness, moving right past us towards the enemy, its nine-pounder cannon completely silent. On its turret stood Major Nicholson and the Korean interpreter who was yelling out in the local lingo using a loudhailer.

‘What's going on?' I asked the radio operator, pointing to our second interpreter beside him.

‘He says, the major's telling the nogs they're surrounded and is giving them two minutes to surrender.'

Johnny Gordon was standing listening beside me. I guess there wasn't too much that surprised him, but now he stood open-mouthed watching. ‘Well, I'll be buggered,' he said slowly, which were my sentiments exactly.

Inside the required two minutes the North Koreans had surrendered. I'd underexaggerated the enemy force at 1000 men – there were in fact 2000! They turned out to be exhausted, short of food and ammunition and weary of being chased by swooping fighter jets. They'd become accustomed to being the aggressor and winning easy battles against their southern brothers and when they'd come against the initial contingent of Americans and had sent them packing, their egos had become inflated and they'd thought themselves invincible. Now they were taking a hiding and they weren't psychologically prepared for this reversal of fortune.

Major Nicholson received no award for this action, which was bloody pathetic. He should've got at least the Military Cross. Immediately after the surrender, he came over to Johnny Gordon and thanked him.

‘Whaffor, boss?' Johnny asked, clearly surprised at being singled out.

‘When you made the comment about their marching, saying they were dog-tired, when they revealed themselves as the enemy, that was when I got the idea they might be ready to throw in the towel.' Nicholson gave a short laugh and added, ‘Mind you, if I'd known there were 2000 of the buggers I might have had second thoughts.'

It was all very dramatic and we got heaps of kudos for being there, but the fact remained that I hadn't yet fired a shot at the enemy. I was still the virgin soldier and it would be several days before I would finally lose my virginity.

It happened like this. We'd moved all the way to Pyongyang, which had been secured, and were due for rest, which wasn't to be. We were sent off to rescue the 187th Airborne Regiment who had landed twenty-five miles to our north, the idea being to cut off the North Koreans fleeing from Pyongyang. This regiment had been unsuccessful, the enemy having slipped through the net, and so they'd headed south to return to Pyongyang when one of their battalions hit the enemy at the town of Yongju. The fighting was fierce, and the Americans were taking a beating and called for help. The help was us, with the Middlesex battalion leading off the brigade advance. By late afternoon we'd reached Yongju and the Middlesex went into battle, and by the following morning they'd driven the enemy out of the town. As far as I was concerned it was another futile exercise with us sitting on our hands at the rear waiting for a chance to enter the battle. It looked as though the Poms were going to get all the glory.

However, what the Middlesex battalion had effectively done was to drive the enemy back hard against the 187th Airborne, who'd already had more than a gutful. Now the Americans found themselves under a renewed and even more frenzied attack. Again they called for help and our time had come, 3RAR was going into battle at last. What's more, it was our company's turn to lead the battalion. We advanced mounted on Sherman tanks and trucks. This was the real thing, and my mind tried to take in every detail. The road headed north along a valley floor divided into paddy fields, the usual Asian scene. The harvest had been completed and the fields were now covered with a yellow stubble with rice hay stooks dotted over them, some standing as high as a man. About a mile out of town a rounded spur line came sweeping down from the distant high ground and approached the road. The spur line was covered with apple trees. Funny that, rice paddies are Asian but apple trees are us – you don't think of apples being something Asians go for. Which is silly, of course, but that's what I was thinking when suddenly all hell broke loose from the direction of the apple orchard. We'd almost driven past it when they sprang the ambush.
Jesus, this is
it!
I thought.
We're under attack!
I remember landing with a thump as I jumped from the tank, propelled forwards, almost losing my balance as my haversack jerked up to hit me behind the head. I took cover and started to return their fire. It took only a couple of shots for me to think,
This is it, mate! This is what's taken five, nearly six years to bring about
. I was much too excited to be afraid.

I could hear in the background our company commander yelling to Lieutenant Hamill, our platoon commander. Immediately after he began yelling orders to the section commanders. It seems we're going to take them on. It's a company attack with our mob, 7 Platoon, on the left and 8 Platoon on the right, with 9 Platoon pressing on up the road to protect our flank. I find myself thinking,
I'm in a platoon of young regulars, will
they be up to what's ahead?
Which, in retrospect, was pretty arrogant – I should have been asking the same question of myself. We're in a heap of trouble as we have no supporting artillery or mortar fire because we're not sure where the 187th Airborne is exactly. Some smart-arse yells out, ‘Why doesn't someone get on the radio and ask the Yanks their position?'

Back comes the answer, ‘We bloody have, the buggers don't know!'

I'm comfortable enough, well concealed behind a paddy bund with a good sighting of the orchard, the familiar feel of my rifle butt hard into my shoulder giving me confidence. If I see any movement in the orchard he's mine, sharpshooter McKenzie is in his element at last.

But then the order comes to line up behind the paddy bund. ‘Shake out, five yards apart!' our platoon sergeant yells and then unnecessarily, ‘One up the spout!'

Then the order echoes along the line, ‘Fix bayonets!'

There's a series of loud clicks as we comply. I look to the left and right. It's quite a sight, there's a line of us about 200 yards long, our long greatcoats flapping as we begin to walk steadily towards the enemy, our rifles held in front of us, bayonets pointing to the sky.

The nogs aren't stupid – they see what's coming and the mortar shells are starting to explode around us. Only a few moments and they'll adjust onto us and then the shit will
really
hit the fan. Then we're off. No matter how much you practise assaulting in line, nothing prepares you for the actual moment when you're out in the open moving towards the enemy. You're quite certain that you've just grown to the size of a truck, a can't-miss target for the waiting enemy. Funny, I'm not scared but I can feel my heart pumping overtime. Bullets are buzzing around us,
Just like bees in an apple orchard
, I think to myself. It's a feeble private joke. A bullet hits the dirt beside me and sends a splash of mud against my arm. I can see the nogs in the apple orchard jumping out of their weapon pits, which is an absolute no-no when repulsing an attack and can only mean they're green, inexperienced. They've become overexcited and feel trapped just sitting waiting for us. I can't believe our luck – now they're no better protected than we are. ‘We're coming, you bastards!' I hear myself yelling. They're firing from the hip and any way they can instead of calmly lining us up and picking us off, one at a time.

‘Charge!' The order comes. Now there's a screaming chorus of ‘charge!' and a heap of other choice epithets as well and we're all running, not thinking. My .303 rifle feels about ten feet long with its bloody great steel bayonet catching the light. I see a nog jump out of a trench not far in front of me and I drop to the ground not even feeling the impact. I don't know if he's coming for me or is about to bolt. All the hours on the range are about to pay off. I line him up, the foresight drops neatly into the ‘U' of the backsight, and I squeeze the trigger. The nog drops like a bunny rabbit. I'm up, feeling weightless, excited, yet in control. It's a combination I've never before experienced – frenzy and calm, a contradiction in terms that somehow works in this situation.

I leap to my feet. Everything seems effortless, almost as though I'm being carried along. A bunker appears immediately ahead and Johnny starts pouring Owen fire down it.
Rrrit-rrrit-rrrit-rrrit
! I pull the pin out of a grenade and lob it in and we go to ground.
Boom!
I hardly hear either sound as we jump to our feet and run on. My section leader is yelling, ‘Give covering fire! Give covering fire!' I see him firing alone at two nogs in a trench who are firing back, bullets kicking up soil around him. We drop down and take the two North Koreans on and, with us coming at them from a different direction, the two nogs duck for cover just long enough for Jason Matthews and John Lazarou to charge in and take them out with their bayonets and move on sticking another three with the big blade.

The fire is becoming heavier now, coming from the enemy further up the hill. Bullets are smacking around us like a hailstorm and we're having trouble moving forward. Over to our right I see gunner Angus McGregor, who doesn't appear to give a stuff about the machine-gun fire. He's firing from the hip and charging into a pit where he digs out a couple of nogs on the point of his bayonet. As I watch, not yet game to follow, he heads for an apple-picker's hut and bursts through the door firing like you see in the movies, only this is for real. Angus is out there in front of us taking the enemy on by himself. His foolhardy courage is just what we need, and we're up and into them again. We fight on, pit by pit. The front lot of nogs may have been green, but further in they're seasoned fighters and we're facing strong resistance. Then suddenly, as sometimes happens in battle, there's enemy running everywhere. They've had enough, and it's every man for himself – the bayonets have panicked them big time.

We continue to fight our way to the top of the spur line against token resistance and just as we think the nogs are done for, the skipper hails into view shouting for us to regroup. On the road 9 Platoon is copping it from nogs concealed in the dry paddy fields below. The section commanders are calling us into line and we head down the hill. We hit the paddy fields and straighten our line. I recall I stepped into a still-muddy patch in the dry paddy and slipped, landing on my arse. I got up and lined up with the rest and thought no more about it. The enemy hidden behind the stooks must have seen our bayonets flashing in the sun and as we prepare to charge they panic, blow their cover and begin to run. We pick them off with rifle fire and soon they've got their hands up by the score and we begin to round them up.

Or more precisely, some of the other blokes do the rounding-up. I've suddenly gone flat, like someone has punched me hard in the gut, taken the wind out of me. I can't see too clearly and then I just sort of collapse, sink to my knees and throw up. Johnny comes over. ‘You done good, Jacko,' he says, squatting down and placing his hand on my shoulder. ‘Never mind about shittin' your pants, mate, it happens to all of us.' He's mistaken the wet patch where I'd slipped in the rice paddy for you know what. ‘Anyway,' he says, ‘welcome to the club.'

Then the skipper comes up, grinning. ‘Well done, Jacko,' he says.