—
Bowser was laughing, and Smith held his scowl, was in no mood for it.
“Where were you?”
“I came as soon as they found me. But you appear to have weathered the storm.”
Smith jabbed the pipe into his mouth. “She’ll write this up, you know. Paint a picture of me like some sort of barbarian. We don’t need this kind of nonsense, Alpha. Not one bit!”
Bowser laughed again. “We’re Marines, sir. To most people that makes us barbarians. No harm will come, surely.”
“She wanted to go out with the troops. Can you see that? These men haven’t seen an American woman in ages.”
“She’s a comely lass, too. Oh, there would be fistfights, I’m sure.”
Smith looked at him, still the scowl. “Nothing’s funny about this, Colonel.”
Bowser looked down, stifled the smile. “I apologize, sir. But you have to admit, she added a little spice to your day.”
“I don’t admit any such thing. Make sure she gets on that plane. She’s taking up a wounded man’s space. Somebody down there should have stopped her before now.”
“I don’t think anyone had the guts.”
Smith felt his anger calming, Bowser’s good humor contagious. He tasted the pipe, allowed himself to enjoy the smoke, and Bowser said, “She’s spitting mad, that’s for sure. But she’ll get over it. I heard the other reporters talking about her. None of ’em are as fired up to march out of here as she is. I’m guessing she’ll be waiting for us down the road a ways.”
Smith pulled the pipe from his mouth. “Where?”
“Well, the rest of ’em are mostly going to Koto-ri. I imagine she’ll do the same.” Bowser laughed again, and Smith knew why, the scene forming in his mind. “I’d love to be there to see it, sir. I wonder if she’ll march into Colonel Puller’s HQ with that much vinegar.”
Smith couldn’t help a smile. “I hope so. At least I was polite.”
HAGARU-RI—DECEMBER 5, 2:30 P.M.
He had promised the reporters a news conference. There were few secrets to protect, the operation in front of them straightforward. Litzenberg would lead the way south while Murray’s men did what they could to sweep the enemy away from the east hill, protecting the march from the rear.
Around him now, Colonel Ridge’s perimeter had been enormously strengthened, the Marines in Hagaru-ri numbering nearly ten thousand effectives. The Chinese had seemed completely aware that any assault now would be even more costly than their attacks thus far, and so the enemy was keeping mostly quiet. The one primary sticking point for the position at Hagaru-ri was the east hill, where enemy troops continued to make themselves a dangerous nuisance. It would be Murray’s job to sweep them away, removing eyes as well as guns from the best vantage point the Chinese now had. As long as the Chinese seemed content to hang back, the movement out of Hagaru-ri might not be as dangerous as what the commanders had already dealt with at Yudam-ni. And if the Chinese made an effort to attack the town, Smith had planned on heavy air support, the Corsairs and air force planes poised to blanket the enemy’s positions. Any aggressive assault by the Chinese would have to absorb the kind of firepower the Chinese had seemed increasingly unwilling to chance.
He moved across the frozen ground, his boots cracking the thin sheet of ice that seemed to drape over every surface. The entire convoy from Yudam-ni was now safely in Hagaru-ri, and Smith had ordered them to rest and refit as much as possible, allowing both Murray and Litzenberg forty-eight hours to put their men back into shape. With the refit, including weapons and warm-weather gear, was the matter of distributing the replacements who had been flown up from Hungnam, close to six hundred men now, rebuilding the platoons and companies that had lost so many of their number. The newly healed wounded would of course return to their units, while the new men would be assigned where they were needed most.
The able survivors from Don Faith’s command had been formed into a temporary battalion numbering close to four hundred men. Smith had no idea how effective those men might be in a fight, and already there were rumblings among some of the Marine officers that the army troops should simply be kept out of the way. Smith would entertain none of that, knew that these men had seen the worst a war can be, most all of them losing friends as well as commanders. There had always been the friction between the services, and now Smith began to hear that many of the Marines were unhappy marching alongside the soldiers, many of Faith’s men offering no enthusiasm at all for another stiff fight. But Smith had no patience for squabbles. The soldiers were still capable, had been regrouped and rearmed, and in the campaign Smith had planned, their numbers were certainly needed. If they were unwilling to fight on, that was a mindset Smith couldn’t fathom.
He thought of Almond’s last boasting pledge, as the man moved out toward his small plane. I’ll give you all the B-17s and B-29s you need. We’ll open up a clean path all the way to the ocean. Smith felt a growl inside of him, thought, Almond looked like he was about to break down and cry, as though there was some kind of gooey sentiment attached to such an offer. I suppose that’s how he thinks. It’s all so simple. Bombs and big guns, and the enemy will melt away. Victory, just like that. Have none of them learned what kind of enemy this is? I wonder how many of these newspaper people think the same way.
He was astounded to learn just how much press coverage the plight of the Marines was receiving in the States, that every news report began with the certain doom that was swallowing the First Marine Division. So, he thought, if it’s not MacArthur telling them we’ve won this thing before it even began, it’s MacArthur or someone else telling them that all is lost. Why don’t those people wait until the story ends, one way or the other, before they tell the whole country how bad off we are? I suppose I’ll get my chance to preach about that right now. He stopped, looked at the large tent, saw a team of MPs, eyes watching him, men doing their job. Smith hesitated another moment, thought, God, I hate interviews.
—
“If you have any further questions, I’ll do my best to give you a straight answer. I expect all of you to board the planes by tonight and return to, well, wherever it is you came from. I do not need civilians marching alongside men under fire. And I assure you, we will be under fire. We will begin our advance very early tomorrow morning.”
“Sir, you used the word advance. Shouldn’t we describe your next operation as a retreat, or perhaps simply a withdrawal?”
He detected a British accent, one of a half-dozen reporters that had gathered in the larger tent.
“We’re not doing either one. Where the enemy is blocking our path, we will confront him. As you know, we are surrounded, and so we will have to fight our way out. I have issued attack orders to all my commanders. It just happens that this time, we’re advancing in another direction.”
—
Within twenty-four hours, the reporters had made the best use of the wire services, telephone, and any other communication line that would carry their stories. Very soon after, the word filtered back to Smith’s headquarters, various responses coming to him from the quote now attributed to him, a ringing cry that began to appear in headlines in every newspaper that carried the story. For Smith, the twist to his words was amusing, and unlike so many misquotes attributed to military commanders, he saw this one as positive. The language now was a bit raw for his taste, but the sentiment conveyed his message perfectly, a message that he intended more for his own men.
“Retreat, hell. We’re just attacking in another direction.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Riley
HAGARU-RI, NORTH KOREA—DECEMBER 6, 1950, 4:30 A.M.
THE BONFIRES HAD BEGUN the day before, anything not carried off by the Marines and army troops to be destroyed. The orders were specific and detailed, the order of march, the assignment for Murray’s Fifth to remain behind, long enough to prevent the enemy from striking at Hagaru-ri, until the entire force had cleared the area. To the surprise of Riley and everyone
around him, Fox Company was chosen to move out first, leading the way south, the point of the entire convoy. The trucks would follow, spread out all through the column of marching men, while up the hills to the right, Marines from the Seventh’s Charlie and Baker Companies would clear away any Chinese troops who attempted to interfere. Above the road to the left, the army’s newly formed Seventh Regiment, what remained of Task Force Faith, would tackle the job. If there were doubts about the army’s abilities in a fight, the orders had mentioned nothing about it. Immediately behind Fox Company, four Sherman tanks were fueled up and put into line, though in the deep freeze of the predawn, the crews were struggling to fire up the engines. But the schedule was precise, and so, as the tanks finally coughed to life, the men of Fox Company were already moving out.
The goal was to reach Chesty Puller’s perimeter at Koto-ri, and in between lay elements of five Chinese divisions, with at least nine roadblocks identified by reconnaissance planes.
—
Riley was shivering, nervous energy, the cold filling his lungs as energizing as it was painful. He had never thought about going into combat again, the next time, but like most of Fox Company, he accepted that their job was not yet complete. No matter how many they had killed, no one believed the Chinese would simply turn around and go home. Within an hour of leaving the southern perimeter of Hagaru-ri, the Chinese made it very clear that they were still on the heights, and still intended to make a fight of it.
Riley’s arms were clamped tight against him, his breathing in hard bursts, no one talking. He kept behind Welch, his usual place in line, Morelli across from him. He had missed Killian immediately, the idiotic chatter that livened up any march. But the men close to him now were silent, some of those the replacements, nervous and excited men, who had welcomed the order to lead the way. He had met most of them, brief exchanges, and like the other veterans, Riley made very little effort to buddy up to anyone. Some of the new men were older, leftovers from World War II, many of those volunteering in response to the awful news that flowed across the pages of stateside newspapers. Their arrival at Hagaru-ri was mostly without fanfare, the grim acceptance of veterans that they were needed, warm bodies to fill the gaps left by so many casualties. The new recruits were wholly different, and Riley had seen too much of that already, boisterous backslapping introductions from boys who thought they were men. But the weather offered a rude slap that the adventure for these new Marines was not what they expected. Very quickly, the new men appreciated the value of the heavy coats, and many did what Riley had done long before he reached Fox Hill, tossing away the helmet, relying instead on the wool hat and the hood of the parka to prevent frozen ears.
It was mostly dark, the hint of dawn showing a gloomy blanket of fog over the hills around him. He kept his gaze downward, shielding his face from a steady spray of windblown snow. Another glorious day, he thought. Maybe it’ll keep the Chinese in their caves. He had a new thought, sweeping away his optimism. Or maybe it will keep the Corsairs from seeing anything on the ground. Christ, nothing glorious about that.
There was scattered firing up the hill to the right, a brief exchange, silence now. He felt the jump in his chest, one hand gripping the rifle close beside him. Already? Maybe we woke ’em up. Surprise, Chinamen, now get the hell out of our way. We got someplace better to be. He felt the weight of the excess ammo on his belt, in his pockets, thought, Hope I ain’t gotta use it all up. The Thompson was gone, Riley relying again on the M-1, much more useful at long range. He felt the tug of the fully loaded backpack, thought, It’s only a few miles away, so why’d they tell us to load up with so much stuff? He thought of the fires again, understood why the supply officers had opened up the PX, offering the men as much as they could carry, free of charge. From bitter experience, the veterans grabbed up things they could eat, and not the canned goods that turned quickly to blocks of ice. They had learned by now that candy was far more useful, thawing out in your mouth, and so they grabbed up enormous amounts of caramel and chocolate bars, and of course, Tootsie Rolls. He had scooped up as much of that as the others around him, encouraged by the supply officers. Like a Christmas sale at Sears, he thought. Half off, one hour only. Ruthie goes nuts for that. Not sure I’ll ever want to look at another candy bar, even free ones.
He could see glimpses of the hill to the right, like so many others, tall and wide, little cover but scrub brush and snowdrifts. He heard more firing up to the right, thought, That’s supposed to be Charlie Company. He looked ahead, past Welch, Lieutenant Dunne’s First Platoon already up past a curve in the road. He glanced up the hill again, still nothing to see, thought of the Chinese. They had to know we were doing this, he thought. They saw the bonfires, surely. We either burn that stuff or let them have it all, and that’s probably not a good idea. I wonder if they know what a Tootsie Roll is?
He heard the rumble of the tanks coming up from behind, saw a man moving back toward him, breathing a thick fog. It was the new CO, Lieutenant Abell, halting in the road, waving toward the lead tank. The tank slowed, and Abell climbed up onto the rear of the machine, dug out the intercom telephone, shouted something, still shouting as the tank rolled past Riley. Abell climbed up on the tank’s turret, pounding angrily on the hatch, and Riley heard the words now, “Open the damn hatch, you jackass!” The tank stopped now, the hatch opening slightly, Abell’s face down low, hot talk Riley couldn’t hear. The lieutenant backed away, jumped down, and the turret began to turn, the big gun pointing out to one side of the road. Riley was curious, followed the aim, saw a small cabin barely visible against the hillside, a hint of movement there, and the tank’s gun erupted, a loud thump, the cabin shattered in a fiery blast. Abell shouted out toward Welch, “Take your squad up there. Check it out. Eyes open!”
Welch called out, “First squad, up the hill! Let’s go!”
Riley followed, questions in his mind, a half-dozen men moving with him. They ran as quickly as the shoe pacs would allow, Riley already gasping for air, the usual burn in his throat and lungs. They were there quickly, and he kept his eyes on Welch, saw him pointing the Thompson toward the wreckage of the cabin. Riley saw the small fires, the remnants of the blast, and scattered through the wreckage, bodies of the enemy.
“You heard the LT. Keep your damn eyes open!”
Riley studied the Chinese soldiers, some of them in mangled pieces, was surprised to see two of them cloaked in American coats. “Hey, Sarge! You sure they’re Chinese?”
Welch pushed into the shattered timbers, reached down, rolled one man over, said, “They’re Chinks. I guess they been souvenir hunting, too.” He called out, “Now listen up! You didn’t even know these bastards were up here! Lieutenant Abell spotted them. They’re just letting us pass by for now. Seen this before. They just watch us, then when we think we’re safe, they smack us from behind. Or the men behind us, the trucks, think we’ve cleared the way, and they get slammed from the flanks. Keep your eyes alert. It’s full daylight soon.”
Riley knew most of that was aimed at the new men, and he moved closer to Welch, a low voice, “Did you spot them?”
Welch slung the Thompson on his shoulder. “Hell no. I was kinda enjoying the peace and quiet. I guess we gotta figure they’re out here on every damn hill.”
“I suppose we owe the lieutenant for this one. They coulda hit us hard.”
Welch moved to another body, kicked it lightly. “That’s why he wears the silver bar. Let’s get back to the road. We’re holding up the whole works.”
—
The Chinese were firing from behind a burnt-out jeep, other wreckage blocking the road. Riley had rolled down low in the snowy grass, close beside the road, more firing coming down from the hill to the left. He pulled himself small, no cover at all, the chatter of machine gun fire raking the road beside him. The men around him were returning fire, and Riley slid the M-1 up to his shoulder, peered up carefully, then down flat again. The roadblock was just past a curve in the road, two hundred yards away.
In front of him, a loud shout, “Where’s that damn tank?”
More men were calling out, and Riley heard a loud grunt, too familiar. He turned that way, saw blood on the hood of the man’s coat, a large rip across the back of the man’s head. He felt a jolt, shouted out, “Corpsman!”
“Not now! He’s had it!” He knew the voice, Welch, sliding up close. “I saw him hit. He raised up his head, and I was just about to give him hell. The bullet went through him, hit me in the arm.”
“Who…?”
“New guy. That Georgia cracker. Christ, this hurts.”
Riley felt a burst of alarm, scanned Welch’s coat. “Where? You hit bad? You need a corpsman?”
“Don’t think so. His brains slowed it down. My coat did the rest. Mighta busted a bone.”
“Let me see it.”
“Go to hell. We got an enemy up there. Find somebody to shoot at.”
A machine gun opened up on the heights above them, the icy road peppered again. Riley pulled himself in tight, felt Welch beside him, rolling over. The Thompson fired now, then stopped, Welch shouting, “He’s right above us! That clump of brush. Take him out!”
The men on both sides of the road responded, a chorus of firing, and Riley saw the muzzle of the machine gun protruding from a brushy thicket. He slid the M-1 up, aimed, fired, then again. The machine gun went silent, but he saw the grenade now, a high arc, tumbling down, bouncing on the hard road. Others saw it as well, shouts, “Grenade!”