Smith knew what Hering knew, that when Murray and Litzenberg brought their units into Hagaru-ri, with the enormous load of their own wounded, the medical facilities would be woefully inadequate. But their work was now made easier by the extraordinary labor of Colonel John Partridge and his engineers. The final piece of the puzzle for the medical teams was the unknown that lay out to the northeast. There the army’s beleaguered troops were already confronting a hard crisis of their own, no one at Hagaru-ri knowing yet just how severe that crisis could actually become.
NEAR PUNGNYURI INLET, CHOSIN RESERVOIR—DECEMBER 1, 1950, EARLY AFTERNOON
The withdrawal of the army’s Thirty-first and Thirty-second Regimental Combat Teams had begun close to noon, Lieutenant Colonel Don Faith ordering all army units along the east side of the reservoir to assemble for a forceful drive southward, hoping to push through the enemy that surrounded them. Hagaru-ri was barely ten miles away, though Faith had wanted to believe that either army or Marine units had shortened that gap, pushing out to meet him, at least halfway. What Faith did not know was that General Henry Hodes had given the order that the forces closest to any rescue, the men who had held to the village of Sudong-ni, be withdrawn, Hodes and General Barr believing that their position was too vulnerable and too useless to add any support to Faith’s hemmed-in command.
The order for Faith’s men to withdraw had come from him alone, without any authority received from the base at Hagaru-ri. That would change, the order finally passed through the haphazard communication network of aircraft and tank radios, the signal suddenly clearing just enough so that Faith could understand that General Smith was now in command, and that Smith had ordered Faith to do all he could to withdraw back to Hagaru-ri. By that time, Faith’s men had already been in motion for more than two hours.
They formed a convoy around a lengthy line of thirty six-bys, plus a number of smaller trucks. Most of the smaller vehicles were ordered by Faith to be destroyed, along with most of the remaining supplies, and the excess clothing and gear carried by the men. The trucks were emptied of their cargo, fitted instead to carry the hundreds of wounded men, the casualties of four days of assaults by the Chinese.
As the withdrawal began, the Chinese were clearly aware what Faith was attempting to do, the gathering of men and vehicles plainly visible from the surrounding heights. Almost immediately, mortar and machine gun fire raked the column, and as the trucks began to file out into the road, Chinese infantry moved closer, adding their fire to the assault. Very soon the air support that Smith had promised began to arrive, twenty Marine Corsairs pouring out their fire along the road, holding the Chinese away. But the chaos and confusion of the advance under fire was made worse by one terrible accident, a Corsair dropping a napalm canister that impacted short of its intended target. The fiery blast spread out through the first ranks of the American and South Korean troops, engulfing more than a dozen men, some killed outright, the rest suffering the horror of devastating burns. The sight of the blast produced panic in the men who saw it, halting the advance, as Faith’s men recoiled from the scene. Some of the Americans scrambled to assist the wounded, helping them onto the trucks, adding to the misery of their human cargo. But Faith and his officers pushed their men and the vehicles to resume the advance, no matter the waves of Chinese fire pressing down from all sides.
For the first mile of their breakthrough from their own perimeter, the Americans were continuously supported by the aircraft, but even with the planes overhead, the column continued to dissolve into a chaotic mob. Many of the men attempted to escape the incoming Chinese fire by climbing aboard the trucks, the untrained South Koreans especially unwilling to stand up in the fight. But the Chinese would not ignore the fat, slow-moving targets, the trucks with their wounded men inside, absorbing as much machine gun fire as the infantry making their way along the road on foot.
Some two hours after they began, the convoy reached the first major roadblock, a wrecked bridge, the vehicles forced to halt. Though some of the drivers attempted to push their way across the shallow frozen marsh, for most of the vehicles the terrain was simply too difficult. Finally, with the Chinese pouring fire onto the men who gathered near the bridge, a single tracked vehicle was put to use, towing the trucks across the marsh one at a time, a process that took the better part of two hours. When the column was finally able to get under way, it was nearly dark.
With most of the column now in complete confusion, the Chinese began to press their advantages, pushing up closer to the flanks and rear of the march. The darkness meant the end of the air support, and with the Corsairs now unable to assist, the increasing pressure from the Chinese pushed Faith’s men into further chaos, most of the column now completely disorganized. Though some of the trucks continued to roll, the Chinese had effectively targeted the truck drivers, the sudden breakdowns requiring some of the Americans to demonstrate an astonishing brand of courage, climbing up into the driver’s seats knowing they would likely be the next casualty. But the greatest obstacle lay still to their front, Hill 1221, which anchored the strongest Chinese position yet alongside the reservoir. As the convoy rolled up, the infantry who could still advance began to scatter, some men pushing their way up the hill itself, leaving the road and the vehicles behind. Some men re-formed into small groups, some were alone, all of them climbing up through the darkness, some confronted by Chinese machine gun fire, others slipping undetected past Chinese positions. Despite the best efforts of several officers who attempted to organize a strike at the roadblock itself, most of the men had absorbed all the horror they could take.
Adding to the pressure from the Chinese closer to the road, Faith’s rearguard troops, assigned to keep the Chinese off the tail of the convoy, completely broke down. Many of those men rushed forward, adding to the chaos around the trucks, many more seeking escape by climbing up away from the road. With nothing to hold them back, the Chinese pressed hard into the rear of the column, swarming around the stalled vehicles.
At the roadblock itself, Colonel Faith and several of his officers, including a number of badly wounded men, succeeded in gathering enough troops to drive the Chinese away. With the road now open, many of the trucks continued on slowly. As they reached yet another destroyed bridge, the Chinese pressed even closer and in greater strength, many Chinese troops continuing to reach the trucks themselves. The casualties continued to mount, some of the wounded in the trucks now helplessly exposed to Chinese grenades and close-range rifle fire. As he continued to lead his men through the relentless gauntlet, Colonel Faith became one more casualty, taking a deadly wound to the heart from a Chinese grenade. He died in the cab of one of his lead trucks.
By full dark, it was over. Some of those who survived crossed over or around Hill 1221, linking up with others, all of them walking or staggering toward the perimeter at Hagaru-ri. Others made a different escape, a desperate gamble as they walked out onto the ice of the frozen reservoir, taking aim at the glimmer of light reflected from the engineers, still working their heavy equipment on the airstrip.
Though many of the wounded men in the stalled trucks were pulled out, most of those could not walk on their own. With no one remaining to help, many of those men had no choice but to remain along the base of Hill 1221, only to succumb to their wounds, the cold, or the Chinese who found them. In the trucks themselves, those still alive were virtually indistinguishable from those who had died along the way, the men often stacked three deep. After rifling through the trucks for anything worth salvaging, the Chinese troops burned the trucks, and the bodies of the men still inside.
Throughout the next day, and for three days after, the survivors of Task Force Faith straggled into the Marine lines at Hagaru-ri. The Americans had left behind every vehicle, every piece of equipment, including every heavy weapon, and most of the small arms carried by the troops themselves. Though approximately two-thirds of Faith’s men eventually reached Hagaru-ri, the majority of those were wounded, many severely. Roughly one thous
and men did not survive, their bodies never recovered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Riley
FOX HILL—DECEMBER 1, 1950, 1:30 P.M.
DAMN, I’M HUNGRY.
He tried not to do that, his exhaustion scattering his thoughts out in every direction. But the hollow cave in his stomach was worse today, the supply of C-rations nonexistent. His hands were clumsy, stiff, the gloves shredding more each day, the biting cold in his fingers making the work all that more difficult. Riley unrolled the wire, Kane and Morelli holding the other end of the spool, Riley trying to keep his footing in the snow as he backed slowly along the face of the hill. He couldn’t keep the thought away, worse with every step, the hollow rumble down low, a twisting ache that now stopped him, the pain in his stomach growing.
Damn, I’m hungry.
Higher up the hill, Lieutenant Goolsby watched them, offering instructions no one really needed.
“That’s it. Spread it along that rise there. Stick it in the snow.”
The spool emptied, and Riley dropped to one knee, jabbed the steel stake into the ground, no penetration. He tried again, no strength in his arms, the stake ripping a fresh tear in his glove. He looked at his hands, dark red fingers poking through, and he tried to curl them, too numb to feel the pain. He sagged, the weakness overwhelming him now, heard Welch, just behind him.
“Hey! Wake up. No time for taking a nap. That sniper jackass might decide to try again.”
Riley tried to stand, his knees stiff, no feeling in his feet, and he stumbled, fell forward on his hands. Welch was there now, his voice hollow, distant, “Hey, L.T., I’m hauling him back to the hole.”
Riley felt Welch’s hands under his arms, tried to stand, his feet floundering, trying to find the ground. The harder pain came now, a cramp in his gut, and he moaned, the cramp pulling him into a curl. Welch kept his grip, Riley’s coat slipping upward, and Welch bent low, shouted into his ear, “Stand up, dammit! Do it!”
Riley tried to see through the fog in his brain, his eyes nearly frozen shut, the numbness spreading, a sharp punch striking him from behind.
“Wake up! Jesus. Let’s get him to the hole. There’s a can of Sterno, we can make some kind of fire. Maybe melt some snow.”
Riley found his feet, a beehive of stinging pain spreading up through his legs. He blinked hard, the ice stuck painfully to his face, tried to speak, his knees curling again, the cramp still pulling him down. He fell from Welch’s grip, dropped hard to his knees, the cramp churning harder, and he vomited, grunted a hard cry, gasping for air, nothing at all coming out of his stomach. He cramped up again, another dry heave, felt the sobs overtaking him, and rolled to one side, tried to wipe at his eyes. He was lifted again, more men, his arms stretched over shoulders, his feet dragging the ground, the hillside a blur of white. He heard a voice, Goolsby.
“Take him down the hill, Sergeant. We’ll finish here. Sterno’s not gonna fix him. If you see a corpsman, drop him there. We need hands up here if we’re gonna get all this wire strung.”
Welch was close to one side, and Riley started to protest, no, no. But the grips were firm, his weakness complete, agonizing helplessness, the worst pain still in his gut. They carried him for what seemed like miles, his mind drifting away, a flash of awareness, the cold, the stinging pains, the churning sickness inside, and gone again, soft sounds, blindness, his eyes frozen shut.
—
“He’s okay. He needs food and water, more than anything else. Body can’t function without fuel.”
Riley was awake now, blinked, a warm cloth covering his eyes. “What happened? I can’t see!”
The cloth was removed, and he fought for his vision, figures above him. He tried to rub his eyes, felt a hand on his wrist, stopping him.
“Nope, don’t do that. Skin’s raw. It’ll only hurt worse.”
Riley strained to see the faces, caught the smell, familiar now, the same he had smelled for days. “What the hell is that stink?”
He heard a chuckle, his eyes clearing, realized it was Welch.
“It’s you, you moron.”
Riley recognized the doctor now, another corpsman standing beside him, and the doctor said, “Actually, it’s all of you. This is what happens when you warm up a little. First order I’m giving when we get out of this mess is every man in the company takes a shower. Scrub brushes. Maybe with bleach. Every man who comes in here brings his own smell with him.”
Riley tried to see the faces, next to Welch, the kid, Morelli. He had a burst of panic now, said, “Am I hit? Oh, God, my feet!”
He tried to rise, Welch leaning down, a heavy hand pressing him back to the cot.
“Knock it off, bozo. You’re not hit. Just loony. And you still got your feet. That’s the only part of you that’s not screwed up. The kid and I dragged you down here, and you were dead to the world. Thought maybe you took the easy way out.”
The doctor said, “It’s not all that bad, son. I’m seeing a fair amount of this. You just need something inside of you. Be grateful that’s all it is. Plasma’s gone, you don’t need morphine. I can’t explain why we haven’t received any rations from all those ammo drops. We’ve got a few cans left, for emergencies. Here, eat this. Slowly. No gulping.”
He saw a spoon coming closer, smelled the sugar sweetness of the fruit cocktail, opened his mouth, the syrup overwhelming him. He choked, sat up, coughed the fruit out, and the doctor said, “All right. Too much. Sergeant, can you or your buddy keep at it? He needs to eat something, and this is the best we’ve got. I’ve got people who need me.”
The doctor moved away now, and Riley lay back heavily, felt the softness beneath him, glanced to one side.
“Christ, I’m in the aid station.”
Welch knelt beside the cot. “It ain’t Honolulu. Here. Eat this crap. It’s better than the rest of us are getting. We ran out of anything but Tootsie Rolls this morning. And they’re being pretty stingy with those.”
Welch pushed the spoon to his mouth, and Riley took a long breath, tried to relax, opened his mouth. The fruit was intensely sweet, but he held it in his mouth, warming it, then swallowed carefully.
“Not bad, Sarge. More?”
Welch offered another spoonful, Riley taking the fruit easier now. Above him, Morelli said, “Holy cow, Pete. We thought maybe you’d gone around the corner or something. You was puking and nothing was coming out. You scared hell out of me, that’s for sure.”
Welch fed Riley another spoonful, said, “It’s around the bend, you idiot. And he’s been out there for a while now.” He fed Riley again, said, “You’ll be fine. We’re all in the same fix, just you had to be the first to get waited on. You ever tell anybody I did this for you, and I’ll stick my boots where the sun don’t shine. That’s it. No more. One can is all they could give you.”
Riley savored the last of the fruit cocktail, wiped his tongue all across his teeth. He flexed his toes now, realized he had nothing but socks on his feet.
“Where’s my boots? You sure I’m not hit? I remember puking.”
Welch held up his boots. “Right here. They got you fresh linings, some dry socks. We were stringing the wire we got in that last airdrop. Captain thinks it’ll slow down the Chinks next time they come at us.”
“And I just passed out?”
“Hell if I know. I thought you’d curled up and died.”
“How long I been here?”
“An hour. Doc cleaned up your face. You’re gonna lose maybe a piece of your nose, tops of your ears. He says we might all get that way. Frostbite’s not particular, kinda like bullets. But your feet work just fine. As soon as you feel like getting out of this lap of luxury, I need you back on the hill. So, how about right now?”
Beside Riley, a voice, heavy New Jersey accent. “I’d kinda like some of that fruit cocktail. Maybe some beef stew? I’m starved.”
Riley tried to recognize the voice, saw Welch looking over toward the next cot. He pushed himself up on his elbows, the m
an wrapped in his sleeping bag up to his neck.
“You’re Cafferoni….”
“Cafferata. Hector. Hey, I remember you. We shared a hole up there, couple nights ago. So, all you did was puke, and they hauled you to a damn bed?”
Riley began to feel creeping embarrassment now, said, “I guess so. Ran out of gas, maybe. This here’s my sarge, Hamp Welch. The goofy-looking kid is Morelli. From your part of the world.”
Welch said, “Hey, I heard about you. Your buddy Benson came back up on the line. Said you put up a hell of a fight, the first night out, took out maybe half a company. The lieutenant said you played baseball with a dozen Chink grenades.”
Cafferata held up a heavily bandaged hand. “Strike one. Son of a bitch blew up too quick. Cost me a finger or two maybe. That ain’t the worst of it. Didn’t have time to get my boots on, so I fought off those bastards in my bare feet. Not good. They don’t know how bad that’ll be yet. They found shoes for me, but they’re too small. Had to cut off the toes. I’m kind of an extra large.”
Riley sat up, tried to ignore the spinning in his head. He saw Cafferata’s face now, the large man wrapped like a green mummy. He felt a chill, the tent not quite warm, put a hand on Cafferata’s shoulder.
“Hey, you take care, right? I gotta get back out there.”
“I’d like to go with you, but they ain’t letting me do squat.”
Riley stood, unsteady, the doctor moving toward him.
“You all right, son? You can stay here for a while yet, if you’re too weak. Not many wounded coming down during the day. Might need the bed by tonight. Most everybody who’s staying down here is in the warming tents.”