Brother Fish (21 page)

Life goes on, even in the cold, and a fortnight or so later the skipper called 12 Platoon together for a briefing. He told us that as a result of patrolling across the entire Korean front little contact had been made with the Chinese.

‘They've scarpered,' he said.

‘Why, skipper?' someone asked. ‘They can't have lost that many men.'

‘I can only hazard a guess,' Lieutenant Hamill replied. ‘They've been at war with each other for damn near twenty years with Mao Zedong finally downing Chiang Kai-shek and with the Japs somewhere in the middle of all that. Perhaps they've had enough. The expeditionary force they sent against us did not go well for them and they've decided to hang up their boots. Who knows, the push to the Yalu is on again right across the front with the Allies meeting very little enemy opposition. If that's the case, as the top brass seem to think, this time General MacArthur may even be right.' He paused as we all laughed – MacArthur's broadcasts were a standing joke. Then he continued, ‘I have a message passed on from company headquarters.' He opened his field notebook. ‘The supreme commander has said, and I quote: “I hope to have the boys home for Christmas.”'

There were cheers all round and the blokes with families in Japan started to look happy again while Catflap Buggins was grinning fit to bust, no doubt thinking of resuming gymnastics with his little Japanese sheila.

That's the trouble with knowing a bit but not enough – it just didn't seem right to me. But what's a baggy arse to know or dare contradict, even in his mind, the opinion of the top brass, who now clearly indicated that they considered the Chinese army a spent force.

I guess I would have made a bad general, because the thought persisted that the Chinese wouldn't give up this easily. That night, taking a break on the reverse slope of our hill, a few of us sat around a forty-four-gallon drum we'd converted into a brazier by knocking holes in the side and lighting a fire within it. We were just rabbiting on when Ernie was foolish enough to ask my opinion of what the skipper had told us. ‘The chinks fought pretty hard, those blokes weren't cowards by a long shot. Why would they suddenly up and disappear on us? What do you reckon, Jacko?'

Usually we'd sit around, and I'd wait until my hands were warm enough to remove my gloves, then I'd play the harmonica in what was known as ‘Jacko's Musical Requests! Brought to the Australian forces in Korea by the one and only maestro of the golden harmonica, Lucky Lips and Paddy Slips McKenzie and his playful organ!' This introduction wasn't of my making, it was the work of ‘poison lips' – Ivan the Terrible. Well, I started talking, not meaning to say much, but my previous thinking must have been backing up in my mind and now my thoughts just seemed to tumble out like a dam wall suddenly breached.

‘Mao Zedong has only recently become what amounts to Emperor of China, though the term the communists use now that everyone is equal is “Chairman”. He has just defeated a modern army bankrolled by the Yanks and is left with five million fighting men at his disposal. He has no reason to love the West, who have humiliated China more than once – the British, the Americans and the Germans, in particular. The Chinese never forget an insult nor a humiliation, and they've built up a fair few whoppers over the last century or so.

‘Now, put yourself in Chairman Mao's place. Here in neighbouring North Korea is yet another case of the West heading for the Chinese border. So what is he going to do? Here is the enemy, not just the Americans, but every Western nation who's ever humiliated you, with the exception of the Germans, gathered in one spot at your doorstep. Your troops are combat ready, hardened, the toughest in the world. Their morale is sky-high having wiped the floor with America's darling, Chiang Kai-shek. What's more, you have absolute control over them – if a million die fighting the West, who gives a shit? You don't need to answer to anyone. If two million die, that's acceptable odds given the circumstances, and your need to avenge the past. So you send 20 000 out to test the enemy, a mere toe in the water. They have a bit of a go, check us out then quickly withdraw.' I paused to catch my breath, afraid to look at the faces around me. ‘Mao Zedong was only briefing himself with that offensive.' Then I foolishly added, ‘I don't think, like the top brass said, he's sitting across the border licking his wounds. You'll see, he'll be back.'

‘What utter bullshit!' John Lazarou shouted out. ‘Home for Christmas, that's what the man said!'

‘Yeah, mate, better stick to the mouth organ,' Jason Matthews advised, receiving a gratuitous laugh.

I could see they all thought I'd suddenly gone bonkers – stark, staring mad. So, to hide my acute embarrassment, I brought the harmonica to my lips and played through the whole of the ‘Colonel Bogey March'. In the meanwhile thinking,
Why the fuck did Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan have to pick me out on the library floor all those years ago? ‘My goodness! Could it be possible that we've spawned an intelligent McKenzie at long last?'
I wasn't even able to console myself with the knowledge that, when it came to world politics, the rest of the blokes sitting around the brazier were a pretty ignorant lot. Even so, the big brass wasn't, and I'd effectively told the blokes around me that the Allied high command were a bunch of wankers. I mean, c'mon, how arrogant is that? It was going to take a fair bit of time to live this one down – good thing we'd be home for Christmas.

Now that the Chinese, faced with a Western army, had shown their true colours, we could happily go ahead and win the war as quickly as possible. The 8th Army was to start its push for the Yalu River, the wide flowing stream that, together with the Tumen River, slices across the top of the Korean peninsula and divides China from North Korea.

The Allied advance got away with every division taking up more or less where they'd left off. The Commonwealth Brigade was sent into reserve and this time I don't think we were too indignant – the further north you went, the colder it got. Going into reserve meant moving to the outskirts of Pakchon and finding buildings to occupy where we would be warm and able to set up kitchens where hot food was served and, perhaps most glorious of all, where we would have access to hot water and bush showers. The blokes called it Operation Defrost, and I can still clearly recall the feeling of standing under a sprinkle of hot water and lathering myself with actual soap all over my body. The shower head was made from a jam tin with holes hammered in using a six-inch nail, but there never was a trickle from above more luxurious. Some enterprising photographer took a picture of me standing under the shower and also a close-up of the jam-tin shower head. Gloria was over the moon and the pic had pride of place in her by now burgeoning war journal. Fortunately she also pasted in the photo of the shower head. Many years later, when I built the big house on the island, I had it copied, using an IXL jam tin that I had chrome-plated and placed in the shower recess in my bathroom. Hardly a morning goes by when I don't look up, as the hot water splashes over my face, and remember.

The day after we went into reserve happened to be Thanksgiving Day and the Americans, always generous, saw to it that their allies had rations that featured turkey and ham, and Christmas pudding for good measure. They also included several truckloads of American beer. But the new Budweiser plant in Newark, New Jersey, hadn't calculated on the Korean winter, and a large part of the load arrived in frozen and broken bottles. Australians abhor in particular wasting the amber liquid and we soon found a way of gently removing the glass, which broke clean, to be left with a giant beer ice block. It was a very strange way to get pissed – nevertheless, a great many blokes managed to do so very effectively and the chilblains could be seen on our lips for several days afterwards.

We expected to be held in reserve for a week or so – you know, sit around an open fire, eat hot food, suck on a beer ice block or two, wake up in warm sleeping bags with dry boots and feel clean all over. All this while sitting on our arses doing next to bugger-all.

Alas, the Chinese had other ideas and we were up off our bums and reaching for our guns before we knew it.

CHAPTER FIVE

Running Away

So here we were again, gathered around one of Lieutenant Hamill's notorious three-dimensional maps. It was formed this time from clumps of packing sawdust for the hills, higher piles for the central mountain range, wire for the rivers, sticks for the bridges and ice-crusted lines drawn into the frozen dirt for roads and tracks. Scattered in various positions were beer bottles meant to indicate the positions of the various armies and divisions. He'd traced the Yalu River that forms the Chinese border with a piece of bright-blue electric tape.

‘Righto, pay attention,' the skipper instructed. ‘The blue tape, that's the Chinese border almost a hundred kilometres from where we stand – that's sixty miles in our measurements.' He then traced the routes of three 8th Army divisions that had passed through the choke point and were heading off towards the blue electric tape. Four more divisions in the form of bottles covered the remaining ground from the coast to the central mountain range so that the whole of the 8th Army front stretched for about sixty miles across. This was the final advance that was to take us to the Yalu River – what they were calling the ‘Home-by-Christmas Offensive'.

Just as we'd grasped the plan the skipper stretched out his foot and kicked a bottle, sending it flying, and then let go at a second, which also took a tumble off the map. ‘That's the two ROK divisions on our right flank. They're history – the Chinese have completely destroyed them.'

Normally we'd be somewhat taken aback by such a huge defeat – 20 000 men taken out of the battle plan is a loss few armies can afford. But we told ourselves they were South Korean divisions and not worth a pinch of the proverbial. They'd just turned up to make up the numbers, knowing they could hardly be bystanders while we were ostensibly fighting for their freedom. They'd been running away since day one, so what more could we expect?

Now the skipper put the sole of his boot on the top of the next bottle, wobbling it. ‘The disintegration of the South Korean divisions has exposed the flank of the US 2nd Division, which is pulling back to avoid encirclement and to protect the 8th Army's right flank. The division next to it, the 25th, is also under pressure. And here's the really bad bit. The Chinese have the Turkish Brigade in trouble. The point is the Turkish Brigade was sitting quietly in reserve not far from Kunu-ri some sixty-five miles behind the forward troops.'

He looked around, his face serious. ‘Men, the Chinese are threatening to crash through on the right flank and take not only the river crossings but also the vital road junction at Kunu-ri. As you all realise, that would trap a large portion of the 8th Army on the wrong side of the river crossings and lay it open to destruction.'

‘Excuse me, skipper,' I said.

‘Yes, Jacko, what is it?' he said, somewhat impatiently.

‘Skipper, at our last briefing you said China had committed only 20 000 men to the war. Are you saying 20 000 Chinese have all but defeated four of our divisions?'

The skipper grinned a little sheepishly. ‘Good question, Jacko. Well no, things have changed a fair bit – the Chinese numbers are now estimated at 200 000 and still counting.' He stopped talking and looked directly at me. ‘I believe you delivered a bit of a lecture to the platoon after my last briefing. Something about the top brass being a bunch of wankers, wasn't it?' The group broke into sudden laughter and all eyes turned to me, and I wondered who among our platoon had the big mouth.

‘Well no, sir, I didn't exactly say that. I said . . .'

‘Well, whatever you said,' he interrupted, ‘it seems you were right.' More laughter – the skipper was a good sport.

‘The little general strikes again!' Ivan the Terrible quipped, encouraging still further hilarity.

It seemed pretty obvious Ivan the Terrible had told the skipper about my sounding off. No one else in the platoon would have done so. It was typical of him: his way of maintaining discipline was to put you down. He had a big mouth and an acerbic tongue and if he could say something unpleasant it seemed to come far more naturally to him than a compliment. He was always kicking someone's arse whether they deserved it or not, and the blokes regarded him as a bit of a bastard. Catflap and John Lazarou were his favourite marks and bore the major brunt. When he was out of earshot Lazy often threatened to put a bullet through his head, accidentally on purpose, the next time we went into battle. And Catflap frequently used a particularly uncomplimentary name for his favourite part of the female anatomy to describe him.

Despite Ivan the Terrible's attempt to send me up, I was stoked that I'd been vindicated. Just as I'd predicted, Chairman Mao's little soldiers had been given the message that they were volunteers and had been pouring across the border like army ants. I now thought to ask Lieutenant Hamill how 200 000 Chinese had managed to slip across the border and travel over sixty miles into Korea and through the United Nations Command front-line without being detected, but then I thought better of it – coming so soon after I'd been vindicated, it might have been seen as an attempt to bung it on a bit. I couldn't help turning to look at Lazy, hoping he had the decency to look contrite about the way he'd poured shit on me after I'd doubted that the Chinese had exited the war and returned home licking their wounds. But, of course, Lazy had long since forgotten the incident.