Spearhead

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Text originally published in 1958 under the same title.

© Borodino Books 2017, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

SPEARHEAD

by

HARRY SANFORD

Based on an idea by

Harry Sanford and Wyatt Ordung

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 3

DEDICATION 4

FOREWORD 5

CHAPTER ONE 6

CHAPTER TWO 9

CHAPTER THREE 12

CHAPTER FOUR 15

CHAPTER FIVE 19

CHAPTER SIX 21

CHAPTER SEVEN 23

CHAPTER EIGHT 25

CHAPTER NINE 28

CHAPTER TEN 33

CHAPTER ELEVEN 36

CHAPTER TWELVE 39

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 47

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 51

CHAPTER FIFTEEN 55

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 61

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 63

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 67

CHAPTER NINETEEN 70

CHAPTER TWENTY 73

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 76

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 78

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 82

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 84

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 89

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 91

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 96

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 99

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 102

CHAPTER THIRTY 103

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 109

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 118

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 123

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR 128

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE 131

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX 134

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN 136

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT 138

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE 141

CHAPTER FORTY 146

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE 149

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO 151

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE 155

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR 158

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE 161

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX 165

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN 167

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT 169

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE 172

CHAPTER FIFTY 174

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE 176

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO 181

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE 183

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR 187

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE 188

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX 192

ABOUT THE AUTHOR OF THIS BOOK 194

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 195

DEDICATION

To the guys who fought at Chipyong:

those who made it;

those who didn’t.

I wish to extend my thanks and deepest appreciation to Captain Sanford M. Ullman, Public Information Officer of the Second Infantry Division, for all the help and assistance given me. Without it, this story could not have been written.

H. S.

FOREWORD

THIS is a story without end...

This is the true story of the 23rd Regiment of the United States Second Infantry Division.

At the little village of Chipyong-Ni these troops, aided by a battalion of French and supporting arms, arrested the last major Chinese offensive in South Korea and saved the entire Eighth Army from certain defeat.

For years to come, historians and military tacticians will study the Chipyong siege—pointing out the titanic emphasis on perimeter warfare. But they will fail to consider of primary importance the characters of the men who fought. For these are components of profit and loss which can never be reconciled by accounting principles.

Korea was unlike any conflict men have ever endured. A war that was not a war! Not a war, though men died fighting it—and those who perished were slow to receive the acknowledged merits of the brave.

Wars are planned and fought on a large scale, from the top brass down to the lone GI who slugs it out at close quarters. But somewhere along the line, passing from Command to Army, to Corps, to Division, the vast scope of the operation loses its overall meaning and as it reaches the Company, Platoon or Squad, it atrophies to but one single meaning—the guy on the line is going to catch it again!

Every ex-serviceman has at one time or another had the desire to write the story of the war in which he fought. This is a sincere effort to produce a true and graphic picture of men at war. There is no attempt to psycho-analyse them, though to analyse the situations men faced in this holocaust.

I offer no apology for the tough crudeness and sometimes vile abuse of decency. For if it were such, it is because the conditions were the same.

CHAPTER ONE

TWO long rows of tiny ants slowly wound around the bleak, snow-covered mountains. Until the ants began to take shape, this was exactly what it appeared to be to the naked eye.

Men. Tired, beaten men. The remains of an Infantry Regiment trudged along the frozen Korean road. These men had no feeling on this December morning in South Korea. They simply planted one foot ahead of the other, over and over again, until they had covered twenty gruelling miles since dawn.

The line stretched deep into the frozen, barren hills. Vehicles clamoured by—ambulances, Jeeps, quarter-tons, tanks and the mobile flak wagons—all scarred by flying chunks of steel.

Officers and men. They all had one thing in common. Combat weariness. The kind of weariness that defies imagination. So tired you can’t sleep. So hungry you can’t eat. Eyes red from lack of sleep. Blank, expressionless faces. Mud caked on beard stubbles. Blood coagulated on dirty, unchanged bandages.

The line on both sides of the road kept moving forward. Each man knew and did only one thing. He followed the one ahead of him.

Colonel James Farrow, Regimental Commander of the 23rd RCT, stood on a nob of a small hill looking down at his men as they filed silently past him. He was flanked by staff officers of the regiment, none of whom wanted to be the first to make any comment as they watched the grim face of their Colonel. They knew what was on his mind.

Farrow was thinking of the rearguard action at Kuna-Ri. While the rest of the Eighth Army crumbled before the crushing Chinese tide, he had escaped with the bulk of his forces still intact, fighting the onrushing Reds in a series of delaying actions calculated to enable the remainder of the U.N. forces to withdraw safely.

The men continued to file by silently. Intermittently, a voice was heard to crack a joke, but for the most part, there was little to joke about. To every GI the facts were simple. The Gooks had kicked them out and they didn’t like it. Many had not made it. This, they liked even less.

Farrow continued to watch his men go by. He was proud of his regiment. They had proved time and time again they could take everything the Reds could throw at them and still fight. Troubled because he knew they faced more of the same, he shook his head, wondering just how much flesh and blood could be expected to endure. He heard one man shout to him.

Now are we going home for Christmas, Colonel?

As the first column of men passed by, Farrow signalled for a break. Instantly, down the line, the cry went up TAKE TEN!

The reprieve passed down from battalion to company, to platoon to squad, until the whole regiment heard it. They fell out on both sides of the road to make more room for the vehicles that continued on. Some fell asleep instantly, some lit cigarettes. Others opened up cans of C rations and ate the frozen contents. One man pulled out a tattered comic book he had read a hundred times and again started to read the dog-eared pages of The Adventures of Captain Marvel.

You know, this Captain Marvel is one ichiban guy.

Yeah, his buddy spat out, if he’s so good, why don’t he come over here?

Killjoy, was the sardonic reply as the GI continued his reading.

Another looked back to the tortuous mountains they had come over. He wearily shook his head, not believing he had actually made it. He had told himself he couldn’t walk another foot, that the meat wagon would have to cart him away.

During the break, a lone figure kept moving about in George Company’s sector. A voice called to him, Hi, Doc Dennis! The medic smiled. Another voice said, Hey, medic, don’t you ever take a break?

Jerry smiled again. Sure, that’s all I ever do.

Jerry Dennis, Platoon Medic of Company G, was now doing the whole job of tending for the company, the other medics having been killed a long time back. The men watched the little guy, slightly over five feet tall, move along. With his .45 and large medical aid bag, he looked more like a Cub Scout than a hardened trooper of several months’ fierce, bitter fighting. He passed from man to man, finally pausing in front of one.

How’s the hand, Geldon?

Geldon looked at the little man and smiled painfully. Fine, medic. Just great.

Let’s see it.

It’s fine, I tell you!

Jerry wasted no time in unwrapping the blood-soaked sulpha bandage and began to press the rifleman’s hand. Feel anything? Geldon shook his head. Jerry pinched higher up, above the wrist. How about this? Geldon moved his head negatively as Jerry worked his hands over the swollen, discoloured flesh on the man’s arm.

Jerry, aware of the approaching ambulance, walked out and waved it down. Returning to Geldon, he led him to the waiting ambulance and opened the rear door of the vehicle. Geldon looked at his hand and surmised what was happening. Looking at Jerry, he nodded.

You’ll make it to the States, Geldon, Jerry smiled.

Geldon appraised Jerry for a moment. Bad, eh?

Sparing the man’s feelings, and yet pulling no punches, Jerry phrased his words carefully. Well, you won’t ever worry about this place again. He helped Geldon into the ambulance and stood silently as it rumbled away down the road.

Walking back, Jerry noticed a pair of eyes following him. They belonged to the CO of George Company, Captain Lee Corwin. He towered a full foot over Jerry. Corwin showed the strain of hard, gruelling battle. His eyes were red, his face fixed and drawn with fatigue and badly in need of a shave. Jerry walked slowly up to Corwin. Knowing what Corwin was going to say, he felt uneasy.

Medic, Corwin calmly started, you know the orders from Division about sending back frozen-limb cases. We’re down to a skeleton company now.

Sorry, sir, Jerry answered, but he’s gonna lose his arm!

BREAK OVER!

The order came down the line. Platoons moved out followed by companies, then battalions and, finally, the entire regiment was on its feet again, each man trudging along as before...following the man ahead of him.

CHAPTER TWO

JIM FARROW turned to Major Lynden Henley, his S-3. I know how Joe Stillwell felt when he got run out of Burma.

We’re in better shape than the Ninth and Thirty-eighth, sir. They really got it bad, along with Division HQ.

Sure they got it bad, he murmured. The way they went! Damn, if this mess teaches us one thing it’s not to underestimate the other fellow! Lynden, I’m going to overhaul this whole outfit. When we get back, I want a staff meeting with every battalion and company commander. I want the Artillery, Engineers, the whole works in on this. We paid an awful price and I don’t propose to go through it again.

Finally, at 1400 that afternoon, the weary remains of the 23rd moved into the rest area some miles south of Wonju. As the vehicles and men filed by, Farrow, who had come ahead into the area seeing to the various sectors up for the regiment, watched as the men trudged indifferently by. Suddenly he called out in a crisp, sharp tone that echoed through the cold air.

DAMN IT! WHAT IS THIS? He waited. Pick up those feet! Straighten out! You’re soldiers, not a stupid bunch of Gook refugees! I mean it! Look like soldiers and act like it!

The shock of this blast hit the first group of men who were filing by. They were bewildered. The officers and non-coms were caught short by this sudden turn of events. However, those who could see the commanding form of Big Jim Farrow knew he was not a man prone to idle conversation and quickly passed the word along down the lines. The meaning of this order shocked the men and somehow they became erect and found some semblance of order. Down the line the cry passed along to pick it up...come in like soldiers.

My God, Melvin Leiber wheezed, it ain’t so. What the hell does he think this is, retreat at Fort Lewis?

Corwin, hearing the command, moved in and about his men. You heard it! Can the chatter. You’re marching at attention now. Come on, pick it up!

As the regiment came in, Farrow stood beside his Jeep with the staff officers. He smiled as the main body, led by George Company of the 2nd Battalion, marched by. He returned Lee Corwin’s salute and watched these tired men, worn from the devastating hell they had been through.

He stood until the remaining companies and attached elements had moved into their respective sectors. When the last of them had gone, Major Henley, shivering in the cold, asked, Colonel, I don’t get it. Maybe I’ve been up and down this blasted country too often, but why all this? You’d think we won instead of having to retreat and keep those people off us.

Farrow turned and snapped. That’s just why I did it. They got licked and now they’re ready to fold up and quit. How can they be expected to regroup and go back into action if they’ve got bug-out fever? The quickest and best way to snap that out of them is to hit their pride—guts, or whatever you want to call it.

Meaning? Henley quizzed.

Meaning, Farrow snapped, his patience wearing because of his S-3’s inability to understand, "just what a cowboy does when he gets bucked off a bronc. He gets right back on and continues until he gets his fool neck broken or tames the horse. Same goes here. We’ve got to turn this licking into victory and get these men back into combat efficiency. The only way to do that is to let them know they’re soldiers who aren’t going to run from a bunch of yellow Chinamen. There isn’t going to be any more retreat!"

The area the 23rd moved into was the remains of a small Korean farm community, long since gutted by the raging tide of conflict that ebbed and flowed up and down the jutting peninsula. The ground was frozen solid. Snow stretched endlessly into the bleak, barren mountains in the distance. The bitter, icy wind cut through all of them as the regiment finally came to rest.

The ice-covered rice paddies suddenly came to life as men, trucks and equipment tore across them and tents were erected. In the distance, against the remains of a warehouse, the regimental clearing station was situated and the ambulances drove in and unloaded their cargoes of human misery.

Farrow winced as he watched the men being carried inside and vowed that the cruel, unrelenting hand of Nature, which had hurt his men more severely than the Chinese, would be checked. He watched as the  S-1 , 2, 3 and 4 Sectors were set up in the surrounding area. The whole regiment was taking root. A short time before, when he had been handed the dubious honour of covering for the entire Eighth Army in the West, he would not have banked a can of Spam on their chances. Yet they had done it. Done the impossible. They had held off the entire Chinese and North Korean armies who were hell-bent to crush, once and for all, the Yankee invaders. He had leap-frogged his battalions, two on the front and one behind, all the way down, using the fire power of his artillery and armour as the buffer.

The Ninth and Thirty-eighth, who had gone back to the Division, tried to go through the valley roads, confronting one roadblock after another where the Chinese peppered them from the commanding ridges. Farrow, however, had taken the flatlands to the west where the enemy enjoyed no such superiority. His plan to make the enemy follow him and be mowed down by his fire power had worked and the Eighth Army was saved from complete annihilation. This had not been done without losses. Many of his best friends, most capable officers and men, had been lost. This grieved him deeply, but he knew that this was only the beginning of what was no longer a police action.

G Company’s trucks and Jeeps rolled into their assigned area amid several Korean farmhouses that were still standing. Soon after, the men marched up and over into a large compound which had been a village schoolhouse. The building, such as it had been, had stood in the wake of the invading North Korean onslaught, as well as the drive to the north by the U.N. forces, and it had suffered on both occasions. Corwin, Lt. Mike Gomez, Mr. Norman and Sam Mulvey, the First Sergeant, directed operations.

All right, Williams, you and your crew set the mess section down the road. Hansen, you and the supply use one of these farmhouses for your setup. Mulvey, set up the pyramidal tent in this area. There’s not enough left of these shacks to house all the men so we’ll put most of ‘em here. He looked around, then put his hand on the Warrant Officer standing beside him.

Norm, we’ll use this house for the C.P. We’ll fix up the stable area for the company section and the drivers and make it less crowded in the tent. Williams and the mess section can sleep in their tents.

Yes, sir, Norman replied. Say, even though there aren’t any roofs on these buildings, we can clear the rubble out and patch things up enough to make a shed for the vehicles.

Good idea. Okay, Mulvey, take over. See that everything is set. Make out a guard roster. Also see that Williams has plenty of coffee and hot chow for the men. I don’t care how he does it, but see that he does. I’m going down to Battalion.

Jim Farrow stood in the operations tent while the maps and equipment were being sent in. He leaned over the table where the map was spread out in front of him and traced his finger up and down. Henley walked over.

Colonel, what about that staff meeting? Shall I set it up for tomorrow morning?

Meeting....No, never mind. I’m going to do this a little differently. I’m going to have the entire regiment assembled and address them personally.

Henley leaned over the table and looked at him. Did I hear you right, sir? The whole regiment?

Don’t be so startled. There aren’t as many of them as we had at Lewis. I guess these men have a right to hear it from me. I brought them into this and I’m going to get them out, after we kill a few thousand or so of those people. He turned abruptly. HAYES! Sergeant Hayes, where the blazes are those wiremen? I want phones up here in twenty minutes, do you hear? Come on, Henley, we’re going to look things over.

CHAPTER THREE

LEIBER, you eat hog slop, was Sullivan’s caustic I remark.

You eat the same chow, was Leiber’s dauntless reply.

"Here we go with Abie’s Irish Rose again, or is it The Cohens and the Kellys?" asked Spazarias, the Greek from Philly.

You’re an ugly Greek snark and don’t deserve to be in with gentlemen. He searched his pockets, saying, Give me a butt, will you? I’m all out.

Even when they’re free, Nose don’t ever have any

Where’s Jerry? I need a medic bad. I’m dying!

In the ass and head, Soo. That’s where the hell you’re dead.

Soo, the big Hawaiian-Chinese, laughed and looked around. Where the hell is the juvenile? Anyone seen him?

Maybe, Reynolds said, he got lost with Bates. By the way, Soo, you was the last one to see Bates. That simple stoop. Think he got out?

Yeah, Sullivan said, spreading straw and grass taken from the remains of the Korean house in the compound. "What about Bates? He was with Burnside and Gil. Gil got hit and he’s in Japan or Stateside. Burnside, Lord