Читать книгу Seize the Day - A M (Jack) Harris - Страница 7

The Korea I returned to at the end of winter in 1953, appeared different to the place I had left, after being wounded in action at the beginning of another winter, in 1950. Then the land had been noisy with the pandemonium of our victorious army racing northwards in pursuit of a shattered North Korean Army following the success of General Macarthur’s Inchon landing which had cut Korea in half just above Seoul, the capital of the south. Now, the snow which had been so bitter and heavy in 1950 was melting away from the rugged Korean hills. The rivers were ice-green torrents and the trees were shooting out new buds to search for the sun. In the valleys and on the mountain slopes azalea flowers could be seen and many birds were singing. The land was alive with beauty, a place of peace and harmony.

After three years of bitter war a strange peace had settled over the wide valley holding the Samichon River for the armies facing each other across the Thirty-Eighth Parallel had reached a stalemate. The time of massive offences, of the movement of vast numbers of men and fleets of heavy tanks, had passed. Great armies no longer hurled each other back and forth across the narrow strip of land that was Korea. Instead they had settled down to a war of ambush, of wait-and-see, and the land, torn by conflict and stained by the blood of men of a score of nations, and the soldiers of North and South Korea, brooded with a curious acquiescence on the outcome.

Korea is a land of many rivers. Some are big and brawling, some quiet backwaters, many heavy with the yellow clay of the hills, others swift and green, a few so shallow, clear and cold above gravelly sand-bars that a man might walk across them without wetting his knees. Among them is the Samichon with its source high in the mountains of the north. In places it flows placidly, the water inching along over a sand-and rock encrusted bottom but when the convolutions of the land dip and sway erratically, the quiet stream becomes a white-crested torrent ripping and scouring its ancient bed. It winds a searching course between broken drifts of forest with bold sweeps and curves to where, somewhere close to the 38th Parallel, it slows and widens. In deep pools and shelving banks it runs through a flat plain under the shadow of the mountains; here from time unrecorded fertile paddy fields have lain a patchwork over the undulating ground on either side and supported the hard-working populations of small, scattered villages snug in their groves of old, green trees.

In the spring of 1953 after a winding stream of circumstance, I was attached to the headquarters of the Commonwealth Division to command the divisional agent detachment whose task was to infiltrate behind the enemy lines and gather intelligence. The officer in charge of the detachment was a Major Hurgaard, a sensible man who had briefed me well, so that I now knew the bowl of land and the hills about it, which looked barren and uninhabitable, was not. It was peopled, and if not by toiling farmers as it had been for centuries, then by hard men who spent their days in holes and tunnels and their nights in dangerous patrolling, for at this time whoever dominated the valley dictated also the pattern and conduct of a war which had blasted it through three bitter and unrewarding years of conflict. From what I could discern, the uncultivated paddy fields still retained their ancient symmetry but I knew they were crossed and recrossed by clinging strands of barbed wire, deadly webs spun over the holes and approaches of the men who lived in them. The valley floor was also set with land mines and an uneasy hush hung over it all, yet in the night, and sometimes during the day, it pulsed and stirred with the sounds of gunfire and the rumble of tanks. But usually the war fought in this place was the silent battle of night contact, of horror and sudden confusion, of cowardice and bravery, and seldom was there anything but the night to watch and pass judgment.

In the dusk four of us were huddled close, just outside the communication trench of a forward company. A tank on the reverse slope of a hill behind us, with only the muzzle of its gun visible, intermittently fired its cannon directly across the valley. The big gun smashed heavily, its tracer floating lazily along the trajectory of the shell; a red ball which blazed fiercely lessened gradually to a spark and was suddenly snuffed out. The tank, which was firing on fixed lines, also banged regular bursts of its heavy machine-gun, every few shots being interspersed with tracer. These too arched across the valley and died in the distance. Another tank, in support from a knoll on the right flank, took up the fire task when the first grew silent. Several mortars were firing, the spluttering whistle of their shells murmuring through the air. After dark the cacophony of war never really ceased.

With every whistle and smash of the shells each of us on the exposed ground near the trench instinctively hunched our bodies into a tight ball, then relaxed cautiously to watch the fight of the missiles. A slight mist was just then creeping sluggishly across the valley; the soldiers’ last light was at hand. At a word from me, the tallest in that group, the others stood erect and followed me down a designated and mine-cleared small track and through a disordered pattern of barbed wire entanglements. In a small pit at the base of the hill we had just descended, we squatted down. One man in our group began to whisper to another, but he ceased at a caution from me as I pointed back up the hill as I could hear the sound of approaching men.

We waited and in the dim light we could see an armed party of soldiers moving towards our position. I stood up and softly called a password. The lead man of the approaching file stopped momentarily, answered, then advanced again. An English soldier serving with the Durham Light Infantry, he came up close to me and peered into my face.

“Huh. It’s you, Sergeant,” he said. “They told me you might still be down here. Rather you than me, I reckon!”

“Yeah.” I responded as I squinted back into the gloom. “But I’m not going out this time. But we will be heading down to the river in a few moments. What are you blokes ambush or standing patrol?”

“Standing patrol. We’re just going beyond the mine-gap.”

“Good. Two of us will be returning later. We expect to be here at first light but if things go wrong we may have to beat it back. You be careful, will you?”

“Sure. We’ve been well briefed. We know pretty well what you’re doing.”

“Good.” Quietly cursing my nervousness, for I knew the soldier was correct, I turned to my three companions. “Let’s go.”

The four of us went forward and out through the mine gap, going into the deepening mist. Once beyond the gap we took up single file, about three feet apart. Keeping to the edges of the fields we made rapid progress directly across the valley. The shells and machine gun bullets continued to plough the night over our heads as our footsteps rustled and whispered among the brittle grass along the way. After about twenty minutes I halted and the others dispersed until one, a thick-set man moved forward from the rear, his face glistening wetly in the pale gloom.

“We’ll wait here for a while, Lim,” I told him.

Lim nodded his shaggy head before turning back for a whispered consultation with the other members of the patrol. We were motionless, except for the slightest movement of our hands as we brushed away the hordes of mosquitoes buzzing and circling about our heads. But for the sounds of shells thudding into the presumed enemy positions, and the incessant whirr of insects, quiet possessed the still, hot air. The deepening night slowly covered all of us waiting in its soft embrace and when I stood erect and gazed back in the direction of our friendly lines I felt partly ashamed as I allowed my thoughts to dwell on the security I knew lay there, in the comparative safety of my small headquarters, and in contrast with my present situation. It was something that some small part of my mind did of its own volition, when the main forces of my thoughts were engaged on a problem such as the one now facing me; it was something, some nagging shred of an old memory which made me prefer the warmth of the cave to the monster-peopled dark, and was now trying to enforce its preference on me. But of a sudden I focused all my thoughts on the present. I swung my head sharply about and stared hard at a large hill which loomed to my immediate front. I then gestured with my hands and the others got to their feet. We gathered together momentarily, not speaking, but each feeling the comfort of the others’ nearness, then once more we pressed forward.

Our advance was much more cautious now; we stopped frequently to listen intently to the noises of the darkness. Once, as large rushes loomed in the night, we went on hands and knees and pressed slowly through the dry, crackling undergrowth. Swarms of insects arose from our path, and once, with shocking suddenness, a pheasant flew up from a position directly under my hand, its wings whirring madly. The four of us halted and crouched down. I reckoned I could hear the heartbeats of all of us thumping like small drums.

“You bastard!” I whispered, while wiping an uncertain hand across my damp face.

I uncoiled myself, the cloth of my trousers whispering against my flanks, and the others stood with me. Our advance was continued and soon we came to an open sand patch that glistened whitely in the night. Here I expelled my breath in a gusty exclamation. The white sand indicated the first boundary of our patrol: the bank of the Samichon River. We moved forward over pebble-strewn sand until a large tree brandishing leafless limbs stood before us. Once under its gaunt limbs our patrol gathered closely together, seeking human companionship and nearness in the hope that it might afford protection and safety when we were so surrounded by danger.

“Pak!” I spoke softly, almost a whisper, and a small figure detached itself from near the tree. “You all right, son?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You must get through, you understand?” I knew the others were listening. “Our friend should have some good news for us this time.”

“Yes sir. I do understand.”

I reached out, pressed Pak’s shoulder, and then called softly, “Chet.” Another figure, more thickset than the first, came up to me. “Chet, you do what Pak tells you and there will be no trouble.” Chet had pressed close to me for I understood that my voice could hardly be heard above the monotonous drone of the many insects. “Come. We’ll cross over now.”

Chet grinned at me, his teeth a white flash in the blacking on his face. I looked closely at him for a moment, then I too smiled and soundlessly began to unravel a piece of nylon rope from about my waist. I worked swiftly, adjusting the rope then handing one end to Lim before stepping down the bank and into the river. I shivered as I stepped into the cold water and a sudden panic skittered through me as my feet slipped from under me. It dispersed in a moment, melting from my nerves as my common sense, bred from a number of previous missions and their remembered shocks and problems, took its place. I went forward but the tug of the current swept my footing away and I had to breast-stroke clumsily forward, my body being carried downstream by the force of the water I was battling against. Then, without warning, my hands met a big, rough boulder and I knew I had reached the river’s centre point. I lay there, tensed and waiting as the water swamped about me while the rope, much of its length buffeted by the water, tugged at my waist. Everything appeared to be still on the bank ahead of me which I had to move to. I could not see much and I could hear nothing but the sound of the water about me. Beyond the boulder which I was clinging to the water moved slowly, a silent strip of darkness with none of the noisy verve of the stream which I had just battled to cross. But in a way it was more menacing in its quietness, as the quiet man can be more deadly, or a hidden snake, or the sensed presence of an intruder. Also, its farther side lipped the enemy’s shore, knew the touch of his feet, was fouled by his excrement. It was defiled territory and as I slid forward I felt my lips draw back in a grimace of distaste.

The bottom beyond the boulder was sandy, the water shallow, and I went easily across it, the white ruffles foaming around my tensed knees. I stopped for a few moments, stripped a waterproof cover from my Chinese Burp gun and eased the safety-catch forward. I moved, the drag of the water lessening as it edged down around my calves, then my ankles until suddenly it was gone. When I stepped onto the bank the gravel beneath my feet crunched softly but to my anxious ears the sound filled the night with dissonance. I cursed softly in an agony of apprehension and annoyance. But nothing moved and I was where I was supposed to be, in enemy territory. The valley I had crossed to get to the Samichon River was no-man’s land, and while there was always the danger of meeting an enemy patrol, one never knew when or where. Here, it was different. On this strip of land men sat cunningly concealed, never betrayed by movement, or noise and they closely watched their front to see that none passed by. If any attempted they could die.

I stood there on that shelving bank, my body tensed, watching and listening for any danger; but no challenges came to me, no sound other than that of the flowing river. I was facing the opposite bank, waiting, my mind racing in many directions, frantically seeking some reason why I might refuse the last small act which would commit Pak and Chet to the mission before them. But even as my mind hunted about, my hands mechanically gave a sudden jerk to the rope to let my companions know that, for the time being at least, all was well. Now they too could use the rope attached to the tree and, steadied by Lim, cross the river.

When Pak and Chet were beside me on the bank, panting with the exertion of their crossing, only their dark-painted faces partly visible in the night, I watched as they sat and squeezed water out of their socks and replaced them, tied up their shoes, checked their weapons and stood before me. I shook hands with both of them and they went off, all without uttering a word. Lim had done his work with the rope, feeling the weight, gauging the passage of each of us as we crossed. Now he waited until he felt vibration on the rope again as I crossed back to him, and stood, dripping wet before him. Then he coiled the rope in and we turned silently on our way back along the outgoing route. After a while we stopped and squatted down close together.

“All right, sir?”

“Yep. They are good lads, Lim. They’ll make it back.”

We both fell silent. The undertone of night with its threat of danger and its promise of concealment encompassed both of us. I felt good. Things were off to a promising start.