Free The Captains by W. E. B. Griffin Page A

25th Infantry’s Headquarters and Service Company. The bumpers were spread with track grease and then covered with dirt from the pier so the markings could not be read. When the platoon moved out, both trucks, loaded as heavily as possible with 76 mm ammunition, were placed in the column after the first two tanks.
    Five hours later, coming around a bend in a narrow, tar-covered road, Lieutenant Parker came on the regimental headquarters. It consisted of a tent fly erected by the side of the road to shade the headquarters staff from the hot sun, and the regimental headquarters’ vehicles, halfheartedly camouflaged across the road.
    There was also one M24 tank. When Parker saw it, he thought he might be in luck; it was possible the company commander was at the command post.
    He was not. And the M24 was all that was left of the first and second platoons of the tank company.
    â€œMy report to division said that Captain Meadows and the others are missing and presumed dead or captured,” the regimental commander said bitterly. “I have, however, been reliably informed that the captain, was seen together with several of his officers and approximately seventy men, on foot headed in the general direction of Pusan.”
    â€œI don’t quite follow you, sir.”
    â€œI mean they bugged out, Lieutenant. They turned tail and ran. Is that clear enough for you?”
    â€œWhat are my orders, sir?”
    â€œRender what assistance you can to the 3rd Battalion,” the colonel said, pointing out their location on a map laid on the hood of a jeep. “The last time I heard, they were in this general area.”
    The colonel was obviously distraught. And it was equally obvious that the colonel, if he did not expect Parker and his men to run like the others, at least would not be shocked or surprised if they did.
    â€œI presume, sir, the orders are to hold that line?”
    â€œThose are my orders, Lieutenant,” the colonel said.
    Parker went back to the road and climbed in the turret of his M4A3. He put on his helmet and adjusted the radio microphone in front of his lips.
    He looked around at his force: a few tanks, manned by frightened, inexperienced, inadequately trained black men. And they were supposed to take on the whole North Korean Army? It was absurd on its face. What was going to happen was that they were all going to get killed. Unless they ran.
    But then he had another thought. This was not the first time a few black men had faced an enemy superior in numbers—and probably in skill. Master Sergeant Parker of the 9th Cavalry had fought and beaten Chiricahua Apache, and had lived to run up Kettle and San Juan hills with the Rough Riders.
    The cold fact was that if he didn’t do this right, if he didn’t come through now as his heritage and his training required, the men with him would die.
    It was clearly better to die fighting than die running.
    He pressed the mike button.
    â€œWind ’em up,” he heard himself say. “Charge the machine guns. Load the tubes with a HEAT round. The bad guys are about a mile from here.”
    He was frightened. He laid his hand on the wooden grips of the 1917 Colt revolver. So this was what it was all about. Not knowing what the fuck you were supposed to do, or how the fuck to do it.
    Had his father and his grandfather gone through something like this?
    â€œMove out,” he said to the microphone. The M4A3 jerked under him.
    Around the next bend, he could see men on foot coming down both sides of the road. When he got close to them, he told the driver to slow. He put binoculars to his eyes. He could see nothing, except a haze that might be smoke residue from incoming rounds—or which might be haze, period.
    A lieutenant flagged him down. Parker ordered the tank driver to stop. The lieutenant climbed with difficulty over the tied-on cases of 76 mm ammo.
    â€œTurn around,” he said. “They’re right behind me.”