The Courage Tree

About the Book

The company commander’s station, with the forward air controller at his elbow, was in his observation post on the forward slope. Red, the forward air controller, and his radioman had rigged a remote-wired set from the observation post to the tactical air radio and antenna higher up the hill. This would permit direct communication with aircraft from the point of command on the ground. The artillery forward observer was also in the OP with his communications working. Wire for the sound powered phones had been strung to all platoon commanders as well as the morter pit, machineguns and the helicopter landing zone on the reverse slope. The company commander’s greatest concern now was getting his wounded out safely. He knew it was viewed both selflessly and selfishly by the rest of his Marines. They wanted their wounded comrades out, but each man still whole knew his chances of taking a hit were high and would be comforted to know the system worked. At 1420 (2:20 p.m.) with the sun still high, all was ready on hill Nellie. The Corpsmen and supply working party stood by in the landing zone; each Marine on the perimeter who had one, clutched his air panel ready to blossom an orange ring around the hill; and the air remote radio setup was working well. His radio squawked alive with monotone aviator talk. The forward air controller told Ray Castle the operation would be slightly delayed. Nothing wrong, just a little late. Not to worry. The Chinese were late too. They were an hour late. But they were ready now. At exactly 1530 Chinese time and 1430 on Nellie, a string of 120mm mortar rounds fell on Nellie’s reverse slope, and a volley of 76mm howitzer shells plowed viciously into the forward slope. Everyone went to ground except the Corpsmen who started hauling the wounded Marines and Chinese prisoners back into the old bunkers. Ray thought it was the air strike somehow gone wrong in timing and target. He yelled at Red to pull them off. The FAC, hunched down face to face with the company commander yelled, “they’re Chinese!” “Bullshit!” the company commander yelled back. “The Chinese don’t have any godamned airplanes!” The artillery FO finally got through to Ray that the explosions were not air delivered, but Chinese mortar and artillery fire. Ray stuck his head up so that only his eyes peered over the sandbagged parapet. Even though the dust and smoke were thick he could see a long Chinese line of battle formed and advancing on Nellie. He had never seen so many Chinese. He thought he could hear bugles cutting thinly through the noise of the artillery and mortar fire. Holy shit! he thought. What next? Ray reached down and pulled the artillery FO up next to him. “Do you see them?” he yelled. “Get something on them immediately! I mean right godamned now!” “I can’t!” the FO yelled back. “Everything’s in check fire for the air strike.” He was right. Artillery and mortar barrels are as good as plugged whenever Marine aircraft are in an operational area. Nothing can uncork them. Pilots have an aversion to sharing air space with high explosive projectiles. It took the company commander a second to comprehend that the FAC was pounding his shoulder, trying to make him understand something. “What?” he screamed at the aviator. “We have fixed wing on station!” screamed back the forward air controller. “They can see the muzzle blasts of the Chinese artillery and mortars! They can see Chinese infantry headed for the hill! Which do you want them to hit first?” Thank you, God, prayed Ray Castle. “Go for the guns! We’ll handle the infantry!” He turned to his runner manning the sound powered telephone looped to the platoons. “Phone!” he said. The Marine handed him the handset. He tried to raise the platoons but the wire had been cut by enemy fires. He dropped the phone and grabbed the radio already held extended by its operator. “All stations this net,” he spoke, “get your air panels out.”

About the Author

In 1947 Lt. Cody enlisted as a Marine, liked it, and stayed for three decades, for wars in Korea and Vietnam. He was raised by junior N.C.O’.s telling rousing stories of World War II, but he became more interested in the tales of the senior sergeants and warrant officers, veterans of the Banana Wars. They were icons of professional sea soldiers as it came. They were hard men, not nasty, and their words came out like well-aimed shots from M1903 rifles. Cody never forgot them or their stories. He now lives with his wife Carol on a forested acre in the foothills of North Carolina’s Blue Ridge Mountains