Smith moved out through the door, blew through the clouds of dust, more trucks moving past, curious faces watching him. He motioned to the pilot, the man quickly in his seat, firing up the engine, the rotors beginning their slow turn. He slid in beside the young man, pointed with his hand, Go, the engine revving louder, then louder still, the helicopter rising slowly, losing touch with the ground. Smith glanced up, his mind focused on the single steel bar, the only connection between the rotor and the rest of the craft, an uneasy lifeline that kept him airborne. He tried not to think of that, stared ahead, the pilot maneuvering out over the first hills, the parade of trucks spread out along the road beneath him. Smith felt a hard chill, pulled at his jacket, couldn’t avoid a shiver. He glanced at the pilot, knew the man couldn’t hear him, said in a low voice, “Getting colder.”
FIRST MARINE DIVISION COMMAND POST—WONSAN—NOVEMBER 2, 1950
“You certain?”
“Sir, Tenth Corps didn’t have much to say, but our people picked up radio traffic from Eighth Army. General Puller has radioed as well, word reaching him through the ROK units in his area.”
Smith sat slowly, stared at Bowser, the other aides watching him. Bowser wiped at his nose with a handkerchief, still suffering from the cold, said, “General Almond’s HQ says it’s only panic at Eighth Army.”
“Is it?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Me neither. This is pretty specific.” He studied the dispatch again, felt a nagging helplessness. “Eighth Army is supposed to secure our left flank. Well, it’s pretty clear they’re a long way from our flank. And no one seems to be moving this way at all.”
Bowser stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket. “It could be blown out of proportion, sir. Some nervous aide putting out an exaggerated call. The kind of thing that drives Colonel Puller up the wall.”
Smith slid through the papers, retrieved another dispatch. “This one came from Puller. Seems there’s a lot of wall-climbing going on. Everybody’s got something bad to say, except Tenth Corps. They’re pleased as anything this happened to Eighth Army.”
“But do we know what happened, sir?”
Smith tossed the papers to one side, tried to hide a nervous quiver in his hands. He stared past Bowser, the others still silent, watching him.
“All we know, Colonel, is that there’s more going on out there than anyone seems to know. And that is a dangerous way to fight a war.”
—
On November 1, as units of Walton Walker’s Eighth Army advanced on their mission up the western half of North Korea toward the Yalu River, one unit of the American First Cavalry Division, along with several units of ROK infantry, was suddenly struck by a heavy assault from an enemy no one expected to see. The surprise was complete, although numerous reports had been issued by both air and ROK observers that enemy columns were moving in strength toward the UN positions. Near the town of Unsan, far to the north of Pyongyang, the ROK units were quickly routed, while the American Eighth Cavalry Regiment was surrounded on three sides. In fighting that lasted all that night, the Americans were finally forced to flee into the hills, most of the cavalry units cut off from any support. Despite ongoing reports that no enemy was operating in their area, the Eighth Cavalry’s Third Battalion fought a brutal struggle for its very survival, the enemy forces having severed any avenue of escape.
For men too accustomed to pursuing a demoralized and defeated foe, the shock of the assault was absolute. But as quickly as the enemy troops had launched their crushing attack, they withdrew from the fight. The reports flew quickly, the frantic radio calls reaching Walton Walker that one part of his glorious surge toward the Yalu River had been severely crushed. But the reports offered more than casualty counts. The enemy had left their dead and wounded as well, descriptions reaching Eighth Army HQ, passed on back to Tokyo, that the assaulting troops were not North Korean. They were Chinese.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sung
NEAR YUDAM-NI, NORTH KOREA—NOVEMBER 2, 1950
THEY HAD ENDED the march while it was still dark, and there would be no fires allowed, no smoke to betray their presence among the hills. It was routine now, the soldiers digging shallow pits, doing what they could to secure a camouflaged hiding place for the day ahead, slipping out into thickets of brush and low trees.
To the east, the first hint of dawn rose in a gray haze over a snowcapped mountain, and he shivered, the sweat of the night’s march chilling his skin. He loved the sunrise, watched intently, waited for the first burst of orange that would reveal just how many mountains there were. He glanced upward, the stars fading, and he thought, There are no clouds. It will be a good day for their planes. And so we shall stay here, wait again for dark, and when their planes go home, we shall resume the march.
The tactics were simple and direct: the army would advance only at night. When mistakes were made, the Americans seemed always to be there, swarms of dive bombers, low-flying fighter planes strafing the narrow roads. Often the targets were the innocent, North Korean peasants seeking escape from Sung’s troops, a wave of refugees who seemed to fear the Chinese army as much as they feared their own. Soon those people had learned just how dangerous the roads could be, and so they too had spread into the wooded hills, or if they brought wagons, they moved only at night.
A dozen yards down the hillside, officers were gathering together, a cloth bag of rice passing between them. Sung felt the hunger himself, fought it, knew that what he carried in his own satchel would have to last. There was privilege of rank, of course, the coolies with their A-frame packs hauling the rare tins of meat and fish. His orders could direct them to his own camp, providing a feast of sorts for his staff, for those higher-ranking officers who stayed close. But he would not enjoy that kind of luxury, not out here, not while the men around him kept up their strength with a small ration of rice and dried beans. It was pride, theirs and his own, that his army could move on such meager supplies. There were a few trucks, most of them old Soviet vehicles from the last war, unreliable, always requiring repairs that few could manage. When a truck broke down, it would remain by the side of the narrow road, its cargo piled onto the backs of the coolies. He marveled at those men, capable of carrying their own weight on their shoulders, few of them ever speaking, certainly not to him. They went about the bone-crushing labor as though it were their only task in life, and for many that was accurate. Some were North Korean, the officers keeping careful watch on them, concerned with just how trustworthy they might be, whether they would slip away in the darkness, carrying off the precious supplies. So far there had been few reports of that. He rarely saw them on the march, the men hidden by the darkness. In the camp, Sung had been surprised to see a kind of gamesmanship evolving, competitions between them. But no one forgot that those men were the bottom rung of his army’s ladder, and there had been brutality, always, low-ranking officers making use of the whip, exercising their own power against men who had no power of their own. Sung put a stop to that when he could, knew just how valuable those men and their A-frames were, the deeper they moved into Korea. For now, the soldiers carried only what they required to fight, their rifles and machine guns, some of them American made. It was the spoils of the victory against the Nationalists, captured weapons from a half-dozen countries. The most common weapon was the burp gun, a stocky machine gun that sacrificed accuracy for sheer firepower. There were American submachine guns as well, the ever reliable Thompson, a close-range weapon for men who understood that when the fight came, it would have to be nearly face-to-face. In every unit came the men who carried the grenades, all shapes, varying degrees of power. Some were merely percussion, a blast that might cripple rather than kill. Others came with a valuable knot of high explosives, and most of those were the potato-masher type, what Sung knew had been a favorite of the Germans in the last war. The elongated handle gave a man leverage, adding distance to his throw, and he had seen to their training, squads of grenade carriers practicing only with the s
trength of their arms, the accuracy of their toss.
Besides the weapons, most of his men were equipped with the kind of clothing meant to combat the coming of winter, thick padded pants and coats, with a hat to match, heavy earflaps to stave off the harsh, icy winds. They did not wear helmets, another point of pride, the officers knowing that a well-placed bullet could easily penetrate the tin hat worn by the Americans.
There were few boots, the lack of tough leather explained away by the need for stealth, that heavy-heeled boots would likely be too clumsy for men accustomed to lengthy marches. Their shoes were soft canvas, rubber soles, and if they did little to ward off freezing temperatures, Sung had convinced himself and his officers that when the men moved, their feet would warm themselves. The simple answer was to keep them moving.
Sung watched a gathering of coolies farther down the hill, the A-frames standing together, silent men digging into whatever rations they might be carrying. I should order the younger officers to carry those A-frames themselves, maybe just a single night. That should keep those whips silenced. He shook his head. No, you do not do such a thing to officers. You destroy a man’s honor by unwise punishment. There is no shame in this army. We shall teach the Americans about shame.
“Hello, General Sung!”
The voice was too loud, drawing stares from the other officers. Sung saw the larger man moving toward him, open coat, a small bottle in his hand.
“Major Orlov. Have you found a suitable place to sleep?”
The Russian glanced toward the sunrise, said, “No. Not yet. In time. It will be a long day. I do not require so much sleep.”
Sung wasn’t sure just how he felt about the presence of the Russian, assigned to his camp from above, perhaps higher than General Peng. He had tried to read the man, the Russian tall, lanky, too eager to laugh. He spoke fair Mandarin, with a heavy accent that made him difficult to understand. But Sung had spent a great deal of time in Manchuria, had heard enough Russian blended with Chinese dialects to understand most of what Orlov was trying to say.
Sung knew his orders, that the observer was to be regarded as a guest in Sung’s camp. So far the Russian had kept mostly out of the way, no questions, the man with little curiosity about just where this army was marching. Sung watched Orlov take a long drink from his bottle, guessed it was alcohol, something Sung and most of his officers never touched. The Russian slipped the bottle into his coat, seemed to follow Sung’s gaze at the new dawn.
“A few more days…it will get cold, yes?”
Sung nodded, pulled his coat more tightly around him. “We are prepared.”
“I see that. Your men wear a double coat. One side brown, the other white. Either way, very useful. If there is snow, they can be well camouflaged.”
“There will be snow.”
“Yes. I can smell it. Many mornings. At Leningrad, I learned to smell many things, including the Germans. Did you know there is a different smell between German tanks and our own? I should think your enemy here must carry his own odor. If you continue to maneuver in the darkness, your men will learn.”
“We will continue to move in the darkness. Likely we shall fight in the darkness. It is the one advantage we have. The Americans are too much in love with their plush sleeping bags, their soft blankets. How is that in your army, Major? Are there luxuries? How badly do you miss your supplies of vodka?”
He stopped, knew he had gone too far. No, you must not insult this man. To his surprise, Orlov laughed.
“I do miss my vodka, yes.” He tapped his pocket. “This will not last long, I regret.” Orlov paused. “You do not care for my presence, eh, Comrade?”
“I would prefer you address me by my rank. My soldiers are not accustomed to such informality.”
“My apologies. My orders were to show you every respect. I am privileged to be in your camp, General.”
Sung looked at him, thought, What else were you ordered to do? He looked again toward the rising sun, a harsh glow now bathing the hills with sprays of light.
“I am privileged to have you as my guest.” It was the same polite formality that had passed between them since Orlov arrived, just as the army had crossed the Yalu River. Orlov’s comment reached him now. “I did not know you were at Leningrad. I assume you were a soldier then?”
Orlov seemed to shrink, more serious now, his voice lowering. “I was a very young lieutenant. I knew nothing of war or Germans or what artillery shells can do to other young men. I learned very quickly.”
Sung said nothing, kept those kinds of memories far away. “We all must learn. Perhaps one day there will be no need.”
Orlov moved closer to him. “There will always be need. I know your combat record, General Sung. I know of your great struggle against the Nationalists. Your army, even these men here, they march with the pride that comes from victory.”
Sung held himself back, felt a pang of caution. “The officers here are veterans, many of them. The soldiers are young. They must still learn.”
Orlov nodded. “Yes, I heard one of your commanders saying that the soldiers consider your army to be like a great university. It is all they know, all they are meant to do. You teach them to read, you educate them in the ways of the world. They are better for it.”
It was a point of pride for Sung, for many of the senior commanders in the Chinese army, that even the lowest troops learned much about Chinese history, particularly the great struggles of the recent past. Sung said, “They learn of the revolution. They are proud to march under our flag, the flag that reminds them always of their dedication to Chairman Mao.”
“Certainly. Well spoken. You have learned as well. I trust such knowledge will give you confidence against the guns of the Americans.”
There was sarcasm in Orlov’s words, Sung more uncomfortable now. He didn’t want this, felt the hard weariness of the long night’s march. He began to ease away, but Orlov followed, and Sung stopped, said, “Major, I must speak with my commanders. They will have reports about this march. I must know the condition of my men before we begin again tonight.”
“Of course. I would very much enjoy hearing of this. It is one reason I am here, as you know.”
Sung looked at him, studied the man, tried to see past the friendliness of his eyes. “Are there other reasons? Or am I not to ask?”
Orlov held out his hands, open palms. “I am in your service, General Sung. This is your command. My task is to observe for Chairman Stalin, to report what I see, and possibly to offer suggestions to my superiors what the Soviet army might do to assist you.”
It was the first time Orlov had used Stalin’s name. He studied the man again, Orlov slowly crossing his arms, the grin returning. Sung said, “We are hopeful for such assistance as you can provide. There is a great deal of concern that we engage with an enemy far superior to what our officers have experienced. I make every effort to eliminate such fears. I believe the Americans possess superior weaponry, but I am not afraid of the American heart. They are soft, arrogant.” He paused. “I have heard that your officers have concerns as well. There is talk in Peking that you will not help us because you are afraid of what the Americans can do.” He hesitated, knew it was a dangerous subject. “My apologies. It is not my place to question the heart of your soldiers.”
Orlov seemed unaffected, shrugged. “There is nothing to apologize for. You are likely correct. There is concern in Moscow, as there is surely concern in Peking, that a war with the Americans could destroy us all, the Americans included. It is not about the hearts of men, General. It is about guns. Big guns. Power versus power. Are we willing to assist your government in a fight that might destroy your precious revolution, everything you hold dear? And to what reward? Chairman Stalin has his eyes focused on Europe, on the threat to our sovereignty that still exists on battlefields soaked with Russian blood. The people of the Soviet Union have a great deal of experience with bloody sacrifice. The wounds from the last war are very fresh in our minds. Chairman Stalin is in no
hurry to repeat such slaughter, no matter who suffers the most. Your revolution might be centered in this part of the world, but Chairman Stalin is aware that our enemies have great armies of occupation throughout Europe. It is there we must give our greater attention. As much as we would enjoy aiding your efforts, Chairman Stalin must keep mindful of other priorities. He loves his people and does not wish to see them bloodied for no useful cause. Is this war, right here, a useful cause?” Orlov shrugged again. “That decision lies with others, of course. I am but a major. You should understand our concerns, General.”
“You know a great deal about Chairman Stalin. It must be an honor to have the privilege of such information.”
Orlov said nothing for a long moment, his eyes locked on Sung. “Tell me, General Sung, I have wondered. Your crossing of the Yalu River was most impressive. It was an ambitious operation, and yet the Americans made almost no effort to interfere. Of course, I understood completely why you chose to cross at night. But surely, you expected all of those bridges to have been destroyed by American bombs. It is reasonable to expect the enemy to put obstacles in your path, slow down every move you make.”
Sung thought of the crossings, more than a hundred thousand of his men advancing into North Korea without a shot being heard. But he shared Orlov’s curiosity about the intact bridges, had expected at least a token of resistance.
“I have no doubt that if we had made our crossing in the daylight hours, the American air forces would have done all they could to impede us. My greater concern was the discipline of the Ninth Field Army Group. I am most proud that my men performed as expected.”
Orlov still had the smile. “Perhaps the Americans left the bridges intact because they do not wish to antagonize your Soviet neighbors? I will admit to you that there has been concern in my government that the Americans intend to build bases along the Yalu, to threaten Manchuria and beyond.”