Riley stood in the foxhole, laid the Thompson down, stared with Welch, neither man speaking. All along the line, cheers began to flow out, shouts and greetings, the Marines moving up toward them responding with calls of their own. Welch climbed up without speaking, moved out past the muzzle of the machine gun, Riley struggling to follow. He stepped once more past the walls of bodies, stood alongside Welch, watched the Marines as they made contact with the others along the ridge. Hands went out, more loud talk, and Riley felt a shiver, raw emotion, tried to blink through the frosty tears in his eyes. Two men made their way up the hill straight below them, filthy bearded faces, ragged coats over dirty pants, one man calling out, pulling a can from his pocket.
“Howdy, Marine. They told us you might be hungry. Got some beef stew here, if you want it.”
Welch took the can, mumbled something, his voice low, his head down. The man pulled out another can, offered it to Riley, who stared at the man’s outstretched hand, the dull green tin. Riley felt the strength go out of his legs, and he dropped down to his knees, sat back on his heels, too weak to raise his arm. The man stepped closer, stuffed the can into Riley’s coat pocket.
“Maybe later, then.”
The other Marine pulled more rations from his coat, tossed them into the foxhole behind Riley, and after a quiet moment Welch offered the man his hand, said, “What took you so damn long?”
The first man smiled, said, “It’s kind of a hike, and there’s about five million Chinese tried to stop us. The colonel wasn’t sure just what we’d find. It’s good to see you boys are still up here. But I gotta say. You look like hell.”
—
Throughout the day on December 2, Captain Barber ordered the preparation for his men to evacuate their position on Fox Hill. The wounded were of course the first priority, their number increasing by two dozen more, the casualties Davis’s battalion had taken on their extraordinary journey.
While Fox Company gathered up their own gear, anything worth retrieving, Davis’s men continued their mission. The hills around Toktong Pass were still infested with Chinese, men who had kept their distance as they observed this fresh influx of strength. Davis’s men were now the aggressors, driving the Chinese away from anyplace around Toktong Pass where they might still pose a threat. Aided by raids from the Corsairs, and blistering fire from the artillery at Hagaru-ri, by nightfall most of the enemy concentrations had been either driven away or destroyed.
With darkness settling over them one more time, the men of Barber’s command were poised for the march down off Fox Hill. Of the 240 men who had begun the fight, barely eighty had survived without wounds.
As Davis’s men continued to sweep the surrounding heights, Barber’s Marines kept watch on what had been the enemy positions, the rocky knolls and deep draws where so many assaults had come before. Instead of the bugles and whistles that had become a terrifying part of their nightly routine, the Marines were startled by an entirely new sound, the familiar clanking grind of a lone tank as it wound through the narrow pass below them. With the tank came the vanguard of Murray’s Fifth, followed by Litzenberg’s Seventh, and back behind them, scattered formations of the Chinese still willing to pursue them. But Barber’s men understood that the men coming down the main road were more than just their own salvation. Word passed quickly that the evacuation from Yudam-ni was complete, the Marines pushing their convoy of heavy equipment and wounded men southward, with only a few miles to go before they reached Hagaru-ri.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Smith
HAGARU-RI—DECEMBER 3, 1950, 10:00 A.M.
THE SURVIVORS OF Task Force Faith had continued to straggle into Hagaru-ri, men alone, others in groups of a dozen or more. The greatest surprise had come out on the ice of the frozen reservoir, hundreds of soldiers fleeing the Chinese by drifting out onto the wide-open, coverless terrain, shuffling through several inches of fresh snow, some carrying the men who could not walk by themselves. As they came into view of the forward observation posts, one Marine officer had reacted by commandeering one of his jeeps, and accompanied by a convoy of vehicles and a team of his own subordinates, he had driven onto the ice, pushing out as far as he dared. Unsure of the thickness of the ice beneath him, and coming under fire from Chinese troops along the shoreline, the Marines had moved in closer on foot, corralling as many of the soldiers as they could, leading them or in some cases carrying them back to the safety of the lines at Hagaru-ri.
Smith had heard about the rescue, was as curious about this new hero as he was the condition of the soldiers who had made it back. The jeep rolled slowly, the driver with a keen eye on the limits of the land, the snow disguising the water’s edge. As they passed the last of the low huts, Smith saw smoke, a fat fire roaring near the edge of the ice, men standing close, hands out, bearded faces fixed on the flames that warmed them. Beside Smith, the driver sat hunched over in the jeep, his face wrapped as usual, a swath of green fabric engulfing most of the man’s face. Smith glanced behind him, saw the red-faced Captain Sexton, who said, “That’s him in the jeep, sir. Colonel Beall.”
“I know who it is.”
Beside Smith, his driver said, “I heard all kinds of stories, sir. Hard to believe it.”
It was an odd comment to hear from the young man, who rarely offered any kind of sound but the occasional groan from the blustery winds that ripped through the jeep.
Smith was curious, looked again toward the fire, the officer paying no attention to his visitors. “Why do you say that, Corporal?”
“Well, begging your pardon, sir, but Colonel Beall is not a man prone to good deeds. I mean, he’s rather a tough nut. Every time I have your vehicles serviced, or even cleaned up, I catch all kinds of grief for it. The colonel seems to be unhappy most all the time.” The young man paused. “Oh, gee, sir, I didn’t mean nothing. Shouldn’t have spoke up.”
Smith glanced back at Sexton, saw a smile through cracked lips. He was still curious, said to the driver, “I know Colonel Beall, son. Heads up the First Motor Battalion, and there’s nobody better for the job. Most of those motor pool fellows aren’t happy unless they’ve got a wrench in their hands and grease on their uniforms.”
Sexton said, “I think the corporal here has learned that those motor boys love their steel hardware as much as the artillery or the tank drivers do. I dented up a jeep once, and Beall…Colonel Beall threw enough cussing at me to start a forest fire.”
Smith heard the humor in Sexton’s voice, ignored it. “Both of you need to pay a little more attention to a man’s deeds instead of his mouth. Colonel Ridge has made it pretty clear to me that Colonel Beall has saved some lives, and maybe a whole lot of them. I want to hear more about it from him.”
Beside him, the driver kept his head down, said, “Well, yes, sir. That’s what I’ll say from now on, I promise, sir.”
Smith looked again at the young man, thought, Not everybody here has to be buddies. And not every officer is a nice guy. I’m not sure what this particular bug is about. Maybe I should keep it that way.
“Stay here, son. Keep the jeep running. Captain, follow me.”
Smith stepped out of the jeep, eyed the gathering of men around the fire. There were two dozen or more, ragged and filthy, no weapons, Beall now speaking to the men as though they were there for inspection.
“Pay attention. Warming tents are over that way, and there’s rations just past, in the mess tents. Lieutenant Hunt here will show you the way. I’m heading back out, seeing if I can round up any more of you characters.”
Smith saw Hunt now, the young officer buried in his coat, responding to Beall’s command, herding the troops into a makeshift parade, leading them to a waiting truck. Smith focused more on the soldiers now, some men barely able to walk, assisted by others in no better condition. He let them pass, the lieutenant eyeing him, a sudden salute.
“Sir.”
Smith returned it with a gloved hand, said nothing, the soldiers moving past him at a shuffle, mo
st ignoring him. There was no talk, no smiles, and Smith had a sudden thought, the image of prisoners of war, marching off to their camps.
Sexton was beside him now, cold legs marching in place, the futile routine of every one of his staff when he brought them out into the chill. He felt it himself, the usual tremors in his hands, clamped them under his arms, moved closer to the fire, and Beall’s jeep. Beall jumped down, seemed to notice the two officers for the first time, and Smith saw annoyance on the man’s face, a snarl of impatience.
“What can I do for you two?” Smith said nothing, stood straight, gave Beall the time to study him. He saw it now, the burst of recognition in the colonel’s eyes, but Beall was unrepentant, said, “Didn’t expect to see you, General. I’ve got to get back out on the ice. My boys are out there still, hauling in whatever catch we can find.”
Olin Beall was nearly as old as Smith, the Hollywood image of the crusty old veteran, with more than thirty years in the Corps. He was one of the very few men Smith had in his command who had actually served in World War I.
“Colonel, I’ve been told you’re doing some fine work out here. How many men have you found?”
He knew Beall would appreciate a minimum of conversation, Beall nodding briefly, the only show of formality he offered.
“Dozens. Lost count, but I’ll have a report for you when we’re done. They’re a mess, General. No fight left in ’em at all. Found a pile of ’em hiding along the shoreline, anyplace they could keep away from the enemy. Some of ’em couldn’t walk, frostbite, whatnot. Took some of my trucks out there the last run and hauled a bunch straight to the tents. They’re mostly frozen stiff, some bad wounds. Some of ’em are worth a salute, helping the worst of the wounded. Brave damn men. Others. Well, less so. Damn Chinese tried to slow us down, we took out a pile of snipers along the shore. Sir, I need to get back out there. No idea how many more we’ll find.”
Smith nodded, Beall responding without speaking, jumping into the jeep, driving it himself, spinning around in the snow, a quick surge toward the edge of the reservoir. Smith watched the jeep rolling out onto the snow-covered ice, could see a small truck coming in toward him, had a sudden fear, wondered about the strength of the ice. But the two vehicles passed each other, Beall waving the truck’s driver back toward the shore. Smith said to Sexton, “Only advantage to this cold. If that ice wasn’t solid, there’d be an even bigger mess.”
Sexton shivered, said, “He’s not about to lose a single jeep by drowning it. He’d rather drown you.”
Smith ignored the comment, said, “He deserves a medal for this.” Smith blinked, the ice already crusting around his eyes. He was tempted to move closer to the fire, two of Beall’s men stoking it with scrap timbers. But there was a better way to warm himself, where a coffeepot could be found. “Let’s get over to the aid tent. I want a better look at some of these soldiers. If there’s some officers to be found, I want to know just what happened out there.”
—
“How many more flights are we expecting today, General?”
Smith removed his coat, saw the anxiety in the doctor’s face. “As many as they’ll send us. There’s still plenty of daylight, and the enemy seems to ignore most of the planes.”
Hering wiped his hands on his white smock, said, “I’d like to see another couple hundred men out of here as soon as possible. I’m hoping you will allow the lot of the wounded to leave before the rest of the men. That will require a good many of those small transports.”
Smith tossed the coat to Sexton behind him, realized the doctor was making an assumption he had already heard from some of the other officers. “Doctor, the men who can fight are not flying out of here at all. Quite the opposite. I’ve ordered replacements to be flown in on the planes you’re using for transport. No point in flying empty boxes up here. We’ve got new recruits down at the ports, plus there are a good many of the wounded who’ve recovered well enough to fight. I’ve ordered as many as possible to be transported up here.”
Hering seemed surprised. “Good Lord, why?”
“Doctor, our next mission is to make the move southward, pulling this entire force back to the seaports. We’ve got far too many vehicles and far too much ordnance here just to leave it all to the enemy. If the Chinese observe us loading up plane after plane with fighting men, all hell will break out. They’ll push as hard as they can, disrupt the entire operation, probably with a general assault, and I’m certain they’ll do everything they can to knock those planes out of the air. We’re fighting our way out of here, Doctor. There’s no other way. The replacements will add considerably to our strength.”
Hering seemed distressed, said, “Well, in that case, I have a problem to report. I have kept a very accurate count of the wounded men whom we’ve prepared for evacuation. But we’re shipping far more men out of here than I have on my lists. It seems, sir, that there are able-bodied men, including a good many of the newly arrived army personnel, who are doing all they can to hitch a ride out of here, wounded or not.”
Now Smith was surprised, said, “That’s unacceptable, Doctor. Put a stop to it.”
“Well, yes, sir. I’m assuming that some of the men are burying themselves under blankets, and…God I hate using the word. They’re simply faking it. I came across one man, moans and groans, calling for his mama. I didn’t have him on my list, so I had my aide take a look under the cover. No injury, no wound. He admitted as much, begged me to let him go. I didn’t have orders not to, so we stuck him on the plane.”
“That was a mistake, Doctor. How often has this happened? How many men have you let slip?”
Hering folded his arms across his chest, resigned to Smith’s anger. “This morning, I had four hundred fifty men awaiting evacuation. So far we’ve loaded up better than nine hundred men. I’ve no idea where they all came from. My tents couldn’t hold that many if I wedged ’em in with a crowbar. And I still have two hundred seriously wounded here waiting for a spot.”
Smith felt his anger boiling, his jaw clamped tight. “How many of those men have been Marines?”
“You mean, compared to army troops? I can’t be sure. It seemed to us this morning that a majority of the men boarding the C-47s were army.”
Smith closed his eyes for a brief moment, thought of Almond. You’ll love it if I raise Cain about this. One more reason to slam the door on anything the Marines might need down the road. I can hear you bitching now. All we do is find reasons to fault the army.
“Put a stop to this nonsense, Doctor.” He turned to Sexton. “Captain, have a squad of MPs sent over here on the double. I want an MP on each plane, keeping a tight watch on the boarding. Nobody leaves here who isn’t worthy, who doesn’t have a pass signed by Dr. Hering. You understand that?”
Sexton stiffened, no sign of his usual good humor. “Completely, sir.”
Sexton withdrew, and Smith glared at Hering, the doctor offering none of his usual arguments to Smith’s orders. Smith said, “I want the evac area tightened up so much, they won’t let me on a plane. Check every man.”
“It will be done, sir.”
Smith tried to calm down, looked across the tent, faces watching him from every cot. He suddenly recalled why he was here, lowered his voice. “Doctor, there’s a Marine officer brought in this morning. Captain Stamford. I want to see him, if he’s able. That is, if he’s still here.”
The doctor seemed relieved to change the subject, said, “He’s still here, and he’s able.” Hering checked the clipboard in his hand. “I’ve got him scheduled to evacuate tomorrow. That last row, second cot from the end.”
Smith moved that way, tried to avoid the odors, the soft sounds from those men not quite conscious. He reached Stamford’s cot, saw the captain’s eyes closed, had a brief argument with himself. Don’t disturb him. Well, yes, disturb him. I’ve got things to do.
“Captain, you awake?”
Stamford’s eyes opened, wider now, surprise on the man’s face. “General Smith.”
r /> Stamford tried to raise his right arm, the instinct for saluting, thick bandages holding him back.
“Leave it be, Captain. How bad are you hit?”
“Doc says I’ll live. Guess that’s the best news there is. They chewed me up pretty good. The enemy captured me twice, but they’re a little sloppy. I got away from ’em both times. Not so some of the others. I lost two of my men, Corporal Myron Smith, Private Billy Johnson. It was pretty bad up there, sir.”
“I’m sorry. But I want to hear your take on what happened up there. Is it true that Colonel Faith didn’t make it? Or do we list him as missing?”
Stamford shook his head slowly. “He didn’t make it, sir. I saw him after he was wounded. It was pretty bad. He caught a grenade. One of his people, a driver, said he died in the cab of a truck.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“More sorry than you know, sir. It’s not just about being a good soldier. Colonel Faith did everything in a man’s power to get his people out of that jam. Somebody let him down, sir. It’s not for me to say.”
“Say it anyway, Captain.”
Stamford seemed to study him for a long moment. “I’ll not go on the record with this, sir. There’s no future in it.”
Smith let out a breath, sat down slowly beside the cot, a glance to the man beside Stamford, heavily bandaged around his face and head. “Captain, there’s going to be hell to pay no matter what the facts are. Colonel Faith was part of my command, a choice I didn’t make. But the responsibility for what happened up there is on my shoulders. Part of the job.” He paused. “And, if nothing else, I would think Colonel Faith’s family ought to know if he did something worth mentioning. Now, who let him down?”
Stamford glanced past Smith, no other ears close enough to hear. “They left us out in the cold, sir. Whoever made the decision to pull the tanks away. We made it down to where the armor had been based. I saw a busted-up tank myself at Hudong-ni. If those boys had been there, had they come up to help us out, it might have been different. Who gave that order, sir?”