Reckless: The Racehorse Who Became a Marine Corps Hero, Library Edition

Clavin, Tom

ISBN 10 : 1483021165 ISBN 13 : 9781483021164

Editeur : Blackstone Pub, 2014

A propos du livre

Extrait :

NAL Caliber

Title page

Copyright page

Dedication

 

PROLOGUE: August 1952

 

PART I

CHAPTER ONE: Lots of Guts, Little Glory

CHAPTER TWO: “Everyone Is Shook”

CHAPTER THREE: Flame-of-the-Morning

CHAPTER FOUR: Holding the Hook

CHAPTER FIVE: The River Crossing

CHAPTER SIX: Return to Seoul

CHAPTER SEVEN: The Empty Stall

 

PART II

CHAPTER EIGHT: A Four-Legged Female Marine?

CHAPTER NINE: Yak Yak Town

CHAPTER TEN: Baptism by Fire

CHAPTER ELEVEN: A Korean “Clambake”

CHAPTER TWELVE: Guarding the Door

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: “We’ll Give ’Em Hell Anyway”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: “Hold at All Costs”

 

PART III

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: No Marine Left Behind

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Reckless Begins Her Journey

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: An Angel on Her Back

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Wounded in Action

CHAPTER NINETEEN: “A Symphony of Death”

CHAPTER TWENTY: Bravery Beyond Exhaustion

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Taking the Rest of Vegas

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: It Can’t Be Given Back

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: Snake Eyes

 

PART IV

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: Victory at Great Cost

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: Pedersen Sells His Horse

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: Left Behind in Korea

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: Return Reckless, or Destroy Her

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: A Hero Horse Goes Home

EPILOGUE

 

AUTHOR’S NOTE ON SOURCES

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

INDEX

INSERT PHOTO

PROLOGUE

It looked to be a routine operation. The main attack would be on Bunker Hill that night, and to distract the Communist forces, units of the 5th Marine Regiment were to assault a hill named Siberia. The 2nd Battalion would lead it, accompanied by tanks and armored vehicles carrying high-powered flamethrowers. Even though his mission was to create a reasonably convincing diversion, Colonel Thomas A. Culhane Jr., the commanding officer of the 5th Marines, wasn’t taking any chances: He ordered a platoon from the 5th Anti-Tank Company to be part of it. The Chinese hated the recoilless rifles the platoon brought to the fight, and nothing pleased the colonel more than to make life hot and harrowing for the enemy.

Leading the recoilless rifles gun crews was one of the best officers in the regiment. Second Lieutenant Eric Pedersen had assumed command of the platoon in the spring. He was that increasingly rare animal on the front lines in Korea, a Marine who had seen action in World War II. After two years of replacements, most seasoned veterans from that war were back home safe in the States. Pedersen was soon to turn thirty-two, so he was not a gung-ho youngster, and he’d left a wife and two kids back in California. With a string pulled here or there, he could have gotten out of a trip across the Pacific Ocean, or at least have landed a cushy position well back behind the Main Line of Resistance—the series of trenches and defensive works controlled by United Nations forces that spanned the width of Korea near the 38th Parallel—where there were hot showers, hot meals, and movies with Jane Russell and Lauren Bacall.

But here Pedersen was, about to lead his platoon once more into battle. The lanky lieutenant resembled a professor more than a warrior. A slender, beetle-browed man, he had dark, contemplative eyes anchoring a face containing a full-sized, slightly pointed nose and a small mouth that pursed when he was in the midst of contemplation, such as mulling over the best position to place his guns. The way his large ears protruded from his close-cropped dark hair was a bit comical, but none of his men would dare snicker. Pedersen had seen more combat in two wars than all of them combined. They respected him as the finest kind of Marine platoon leader, an officer who wouldn’t let his men take any risks he wouldn’t take himself. After only a few months together with him, his men would follow him anywhere.

At dusk on that hot summer day, when even a flicked cigarette raised a cloud of dust, the gun crews and guys carrying ammunition were following Lieutenant Pedersen across the thousand yards that separated the relative safety of the MLR from the preselected positions on the hills that looked out at Siberia. On United Nations maps it was officially Hill 58A, a sentinel overlooking a long draw running down the east sides of Hills 120 and 122, part of the Bunker Hill ridge. Marines were already lying in the rocks across a short valley from Siberia, waiting for the jump-off signal. If the plan the 1st Marine Division staff had put together worked, the attack would cause such a commotion that the Communists would move men and equipment to Siberia from Bunker Hill, and the true assault would take care of those who had remained.

There was enough light left for Lieutenant Pedersen to have a good view of Siberia through his binoculars. He spaced his three gun crews well enough apart from each other that one hit from a mortar or artillery shell wouldn’t knock them all out. His gunnery sergeant, Joe Latham, another World War II combat veteran, went from one recoilless rifle to the next and back again, making sure they were secure on their tripods and that the tripods were dug solidly in the hard earth between the rocks of the hill. He wouldn’t allow any cowboys firing the gun while standing. It could be done, but the force of the back blast would send any normal Marine flying off the cliff. Well, there was Corporal Monroe Coleman, the strongest man in the outfit—he could possibly fire a recoilless rifle held in both arms, but having the weapon locked tight into a tripod best ensured accuracy.

Beside each gun was a pile of 75-mm shells, each one in a cardboard sleeve. Each recoilless rifle, at more than 100 pounds and almost seven feet long, was tough enough to haul up the hills on every mission the platoon undertook, but those shells weighed 24 pounds each and were an unwieldy two feet long—meaning that a Marine could carry just two of them, one on each shoulder. Coleman, a tall and sturdy young man from Utah, was the only one who could do three, the third shell resting on the back of his neck, wedged between the other two shells. Lieutenant Pedersen had already sent men, including Coleman, back down to the forward ammunition depot for more shells. Getting caught short at the wrong time could mean dead Marines in the valley below.

Pedersen, his lips pursed, watched as the tanks and armored vehicles rolled out, the units of the 5th Regiment in their wake. Seconds later he heard the shrieks of artillery shells streaking overhead, and moments after that clouds of smoke and dirt mushroomed out of the sides of Siberia where the shells struck. The tiny figures of Marines closed in, firing their carbines and BARs as they ran toward the target. Pedersen gave the command and his gun crews joined in, the thrusting back blasts of the recoilless rifles spewing smoke and stones across the flat table of their position. It may have been only a diversionary assault, but it was a damn good show.

Too good, as it turned out. The Chinese forces overreacted. The Marines had sold the distraction so well that the enemy believed it was the real thing. Reinforcements rushed off the Bunker Hill ridge positions toward Siberia. That was the good news. The bad news was that more reinforcements were streaming in from other enemy positions. Within minutes, the Marines on the ground were badly outnumbered and at risk of being surrounded and cut off.

Instead of being able to provide support, the flamethrower vehicles had to pull back lest they fall to the onrushing enemy. Same for the tanks, though they could still provide covering fire. The artillery barrage by the 11th Regiment batteries behind the MLR had to be halted lest the shells fall on friend as well as foe. Pedersen held his breath, watching through binoculars as desperate officers rallied their men to fight a rearguard action while hustling back across the valley. Every few seconds the ground erupted when an exploding mortar shell tossed gritty soil and even bodies into the air. He could hear screaming—or maybe he just thought he did, having heard the agonized cries too many times before.

“We gotta light it up, boys!” Pedersen shouted to his gun crews.

He himself had the best vantage point, being able to see the Chinese positions and attackers as well as the pockets of retreating Marines. Calmly, but loud enough to be heard, the lieutenant gave coordinates, and each recoilless rifle in turn fired, sending off the 24-pound shells. The nickname for the rifles was “reckless” because one had to be reckless to be firing a gun from exposed positions on hillsides. But the guns were often very effective, and now they were firing purposefully, with pinpoint accuracy. They struck enemy troops on the ground, killing clusters of them, and turned mortars and their crews into broken shards of metal and flesh. The devastating fire from Pedersen’s platoon passed right over the heads of the Marines, whose chances of survival had just dramatically improved.

As long as the supply of shells held out. Coleman and the other men he had sent for more had already returned, dropped off their loads, and, despite breathing heavily and sweating profusely, immediately set off again. Sergeant Latham estimated that they would not make it to the depot and back in time, no matter how fast they ran. Even the best-conditioned of them would be too slow and carry too few of the precious shells.

But the platoon couldn’t quit firing. The destruction issuing from the recoilless rifles kept on, the barrels smoking hot in the cooling air of the evening. Darkness was their enemy too. The lieutenant could direct fire only as long as he could see enemy troops and positions.

Suddenly Pedersen was on his back. Probably a mortar shell had landed nearby. If it had been an artillery shell, he’d already be strumming a harp. He sat up and shook the dirt out of his eyes. A quick glance told him no one else was hurt. It could’ve been a lucky shot, or a Chinese gun crew had spotted the large back blasts of the recoilless rifles and was targeting them. No matter, the platoon couldn’t spare the time to find another position. They had to duke it out until one side won.

The lieutenant staggered to his feet. For a few moments he felt so sick and weak he almost pitched forward onto his face. He was bleeding. He could feel warm blood on his cheek, and he could see that pieces of hot shrapnel had pierced his hip and left leg. Large, strong hands grabbed his shoulders.

“Sir, you need a corpsman.”

“Not yet, Joe.” Pedersen’s vision sharpened and he felt more energy leaking back in than blood leaking out. He told Latham, “Let’s give ’em everything we’ve got left.”

The god of war had a sense of humor, all right: It was immediately after one of the recoilless rifles spewed the last shell and just before darkness obscured everything in the valley that Pedersen saw the Marines below reach the safety of the rocks, where a fresh platoon waited, now free to lay down a murderous fire of small arms and mortars, accompanied by the tanks that finally had an open field to fire into. Chinese troops fell like bowling pins. The slaughter became so senseless that even their usually merciless Communist commissars allowed them to retreat.

Lieutenant Pedersen couldn’t walk too well on the way back down to the 5th Marines position, so he allowed Coleman to wrap a thick arm around his waist and half carry him. The corporal deposited him in a regimental medical tent. There was nothing to do but wait, as the corpsmen first had to tend to the men who were wounded a lot worse than he was. While Pedersen was waiting, he felt lucky. It wasn’t about not being hurt more seriously; it was that the supply of shells had lasted just long enough. Next time, if he and his men weren’t so lucky, Marines would die—maybe a lot of them.

It was that hot August night, as he idly heard the sounds of the fight still going on at Bunker Hill, that Pedersen first had the idea of finding a horse.

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

If that Chinese mortar shell had landed a couple of feet closer, not only would the Marine Corps have had one less lieutenant, but no one would have ended up hearing about Sergeant Reckless. Two months after the diversionary attack on Siberia, Lieutenant Eric Pedersen prepared to see Colonel Eustace P. Smoak, the new commanding officer of the 5th Marines. That visit and its outcome would begin the journey that would result in Reckless becoming America’s own true warhorse.

But the story of that heroic horse could not have become known without her fellow Marines. Pedersen, sure, but there were others too, especially those who fought for their country and their Corps, for whom Semper Fidelis was not just a motto but a way of life. This is their story too, and Reckless, who became the four-legged symbol of “always faithful,” would not want it any other way. As much as she was their horse, these Marines of the 5th Regiment were her brothers.

Pedersen was known for caring about his men, and his sergeants—Ralph Sherman, Elmer Lively, John Lisenby, Willard Berry, and the affable Joe Latham, who at thirty-five was the “grandpa” of the platoon—as well as his corporals and privates thought he was as fine a platoon commanding officer as there was in the 1st Marine Division. That was most of what they knew about their lieutenant. But Pedersen actually had a pretty remarkable lineage, and it was no surprise he was a military man.

His father, John Pedersen, had been hailed as “the greatest gun designer in the world” by another famed gun designer, John Moses Browning. The Pedersens owned ranches in several Plains states and John had been born on the one in Grand Island, Nebraska, in May 1881. Little is known about his early life.

That is not true of the woman he married, Reata Canady, in 1918. She was born in Texas to a Scotsman who built railroads in China. He disappeared there, most likely the victim of a robbery of his crew’s payroll. Reata became a violinist, a protégé of Sir Thomas Lipton in England, then a registered nurse at Victoria Hospital. She worked in a field hospital in Belgium during World War I. A German shell hit it as surgery on a wounded soldier was being performed, and Reata covered him with her body to protect his wounds. Both had to be pulled from the rubble. She received a decoration from the British government, and this brought her to the attention of the magazine illustrator P. G. Morgan, who used Reata as a model for now-famous oil paintings of a Red Cross nurse in battlefield conditions.

After the war she became a writer, using the pen name Reata Van Houten. She wrote short stories and articles published by various magazines. She would go on to write pieces on fly-fishing for Field & Stream and she had her own program, The Hostess of the Air, on NBC Radio. Somehow Reata found time to marry John Pedersen and give birth to two children, Eric and Kristi-Ray, who grew up in homes in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and Southern California....

Présentation de l'éditeur :

From the New York Times bestselling coauthor of The Heart of Everything That Is, comes the unlikely story of a racehorse who truly became a war hero, beloved by the Marine Corps and decorated for bravery.
 
Her Korean name was Ah-Chim-Hai—Flame-of-the-Morning. A four-year-old chestnut-colored Mongolian racehorse, she once amazed the crowds in Seoul with her remarkable speed. But when war shut down the tracks, the star racer was sold to an American Marine and trained to carry heavy loads of artillery shells across steep hills under a barrage of bullets and bombs. The Marines renamed her Reckless.
 
Reckless soon proved fearless under fire, boldly marching alone through the fiery gauntlet, exposed to explosions and shrapnel. On some of her uphill treks, Reckless shielded human reinforcements. The Chinese, soon discovering the bravery of this magnificent animal, made a special effort to kill her. But Reckless never slowed. As months passed, the men came to appreciate her not just as a horse but as a fellow Marine.

À propos de cette édition

• Éditeur: Blackstone Pub
• Date d'édition: 2014
• ISBN 10: 1483021165
• ISBN 13: 9781483021164
• Reliure: CD