by Jeff Shaara
Alpha Bowser had just turned forty, was another of the veterans of the campaigns in the Pacific, and when Smith went to Korea, he was grateful to have Bowser assigned to his staff. Bowser brought a capacity for patience, and as Smith had quickly discovered, when dealing directly with the communications from the Tenth Corps, patience was critical.
“End the mystery, Colonel.”
“Delighted to, sir. If you will all take note of this. General MacArthur made his latest farewell to us from Kimpo this morning. As his last official act on Korean soil, for this week anyway, he presented our illustrious commander with a Silver Star. Allow me to congratulate you, sir.”
Smith was annoyed, knew that Bowser was spilling out a truckload of his own sarcasm.
“Stuff that, Colonel. A commendation like that is for combat, not for standing around looking official.” He looked at the others now, all eyes on him. “Make nothing of this. You understand? General MacArthur seems eager to award anyone at any time the mood strikes him. I will not celebrate such things that are not deserved.” No, no. Keep your mouth shut. He pointed toward Sexton, seated at a small table, said to Bowser, “Give the thing to Captain Sexton. Hide it, Captain. No one mentions this again.”
Sexton was smiling, the staff clearly not taking his anger seriously.
“As you wish, sir. Should I send it home to your wife?”
Smith tried to remove his gloom, to feel their mood, the entire staff enjoying the scene. He nodded, a hint of his own smile breaking through. “Fine. I’ll have a letter for her today as well.”
Sexton reached for a piece of paper on the desk, said, “Oh, and this came for you, sir. I suspect Mrs. Smith might already be aware. Hard to keep this stuff quiet.”
Smith reached for the paper, said, “What is it now?” He read, Sexton not responding. He read again, wondered if there was some prankster at work. “This cannot be. I never thought that photographer was serious.”
Bowser moved up beside him, peering discreetly at the paper, said, “Problem, sir?”
Smith hung his head, the note crumpled in a wad. “I assume all of you know about this?”
There were low mumbles of agreement and Smith looked at Sexton, said, “You may inform Colonel Bowser. I can’t do it.”
Sexton stood, more ceremony than Smith wanted. “Colonel Bowser, it pleases me to report that our commanding officer, General O. P. Smith, has been anointed as our latest national celebrity. His picture will grace the cover of Time magazine for the week of twenty-five September.”
Bowser stared for a moment at Sexton, then at Smith. “Good God, sir, you’re a star. How’d this happen?”
Sexton said, “It seems that General MacArthur’s praise for our commander’s performance during the Inchon invasion was heard in all the right places. The reporter was one of the crew that followed the general here and there. Mainly here.”
Bowser said, “Congratulations indeed, sir. It is certain that your wife will know of this as quickly as the rest of the country. She will be most proud, sir. As are we all.”
Smith tossed the note into a trash can. “Just go back to work. The Inchon invasion has only begun. Lest any of you forget, we are taking casualties this very minute. Men are dying so that I can be on the cover of a magazine. I take no pride in that.” He knew he had drained away their morale, but would not apologize. This is MacArthur, he thought. This is how we fight his war.
Ed Craig emerged from a smaller room, the space that served as Smith’s own office.
“Sir, we have received a communication from Tenth Corps.”
“Fine.”
He followed Craig back into the smaller room, a young corporal at the desk, pen in hand. Craig said, “You may leave.”
The young man stood quickly, made his way past the two officers, and Craig closed the rickety door behind him. Smith said, “What now?”
“Sir, we are receiving reports from the regimental level, particularly from Colonel Murray, that General Almond is issuing orders directly to those commands. Your commands, sir. He has apparently made good use of a small spotter plane and is dropping in on the various positions as he sees fit. I am told that the general has gone so far as to order the positioning of individual machine guns and mortar batteries. Colonel Murray is most unhappy with this, of course. Colonel Puller is…well, he’s Puller. You can imagine his response. Apparently, General Almond feels that by going directly to the front lines, as it were, he can speed things along.”
“Bypassing my command.”
Craig nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Smith felt lava boiling in his brain, clamped it down. “You said you had a communication?”
Craig leaned out over the desk, searched, grabbed a piece of paper, handed it to Smith.
“From General Almond, this morning.”
You are instructed to advance with all deliberate speed, capture the city of Seoul as ordered, with a minimum of destruction to the buildings in the city, and hasten the ongoing withdrawal of the enemy. This command anticipates that by your stout show of force, the enemy will make haste to avoid a significant confrontation. There must be no delay.
Smith said, “He said this three days ago.”
“And two days ago, and yesterday.”
Smith tossed the paper on the desk. “There is apparently some displeasure at Corps HQ that the enemy is putting up a fight.”
“I would disagree, sir. There is displeasure that this division is behaving as though there is an enemy in the first place. Intelligence continues to insist that the bulk of the North Korean forces have vacated Seoul and are retreating up through Uijongbu, near the border.”
“And yet, General Almond is issuing orders to men in the field engaged in a fight that his own people are telling him doesn’t exist?”
“That sounds accurate, sir.”
There was a soft knock and Smith turned, pulled the door open: Bowser, no smile now.
“What is it, Colonel?”
“Sir, General Lowe has returned. Wishes to speak with you. Sorry.”
Smith looked at Craig, cocked a finger over his shoulder, the silent order to leave. Craig moved past him, tapped him on the back.
“We’re with you, sir. Every damn one of us.”
Smith stood alone for a long moment, the air thick in the small room, the smell of smoke and paperwork. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a pipe, sniffed the bowl, the tobacco still fresh. He would rarely smoke around any other brass, certainly not MacArthur, and never in any kind of high-level meeting. But there were times…
“Ah, General, pleasure to see you again.”
“General Lowe. Do come in. Sorry there isn’t more, um, luxury.”
“Nonsense. Mind if I sit? An hour bouncing in a jeep is a different kind of luxury.”
Smith motioned to a small folding chair, Lowe easing down, a slight grimace on his face. Smith moved behind the small desk, sat as well, waited for whatever the man had to say.
Major General Frank Lowe had arrived a few days before, carrying the only authorization required for him to be anyplace he wanted to be. He was there specifically as an observer for President Harry Truman, and carried no authority to lead troops, had no command status, and from what Smith could tell, was perfectly content just watching anything worth watching. Lowe was older than Smith, mid-sixties, but his bearing was similar to Smith’s, a tall, thin, straight-backed man. His qualifications came more from his friendship with Truman than from any particular military expertise, even the rank something of a mystery. Lowe had planted himself into Smith’s command, had even brought a cot to share Smith’s meager quarters. Smith had been anything but happy with Lowe’s arrival, but warmed to the man quickly. Lowe had no caginess about him, had freely admitted his reasons for being there, to communicate his personal observations to the president on a nearly daily basis.
“I’ve been with Colonel Puller today. Quite a scamp, that one. Most accommodating, though. Rather in a mess up there. Making progress despite so
me rough going. He’s inflicting enormous casualties among the enemy, no doubt about that.”
“You tell the president all of that?”
“Indeed. As I’ve said, General, I’m happy to share those dispatches with you.”
Smith shook his head. “No. Your position here is clear. I prefer you keep your correspondence private. If I read what you’re saying, you might feel you should edit something, some observation about me. That wouldn’t be…appropriate.”
“If you say so, General. But I must say, everything I have observed here will be most satisfactory to the president. He has concerns, of course, and he hopes I can cut through some of the official blather.”
The name burst into Smith’s head. MacArthur. Of course, that’s the whole point. Mac will tell Washington what he wants them to hear. At least Truman is trying to go a little deeper than the headlines.
“How long do you expect to be here, General?”
“Please, I do wish you would call me Frank. We may share rank, but mine comes from the discretion of the president. Yours is well earned.”
“Thank you. But that’s difficult for me. My staff knows I don’t usually get terribly familiar, even with them.”
“As you wish, General. I’m not certain how long I will be here. Are you willing to offer some prediction just how long this effort will take?”
“As long as it takes.”
Lowe smiled. “Of course. Well, then, I might be here for the duration, unless the president changes his mind.”
“You’ll keep us on our toes, then. Can’t hurt.”
“I’d rather not have it that way. I’m not here to grade your performance. This is much more about the progress of the campaigns, the effectiveness of our strategy against the communists. What happens in Korea might well presage what happens everywhere else in the world. This is not a vacuum. The Russians are testing our resolve.”
“I don’t know much about the Russians, General Lowe. I’m concerned with those people out there killing my Marines. My job, unless someone tells me different, is to eliminate the North Korean army. That would be the most effective way to end this war.”
Lowe seemed to appraise Smith, said nothing. That will end up in one of his blooming letters, Smith thought. He stood abruptly, felt the need for air.
“Remain here, if you wish. Speak to any of my staff, as you require it.”
Lowe laughed. “But stay the hell out of your way, right?”
“Never said that, General Lowe. You are, apparently, my guest. Anything you need, or need to see, just ask. General Craig will see to it.”
He moved out the door, eased past his staff, the larger door that led outside. Behind him, Sexton scrambled to catch up, said, “Sir, might I know where you’re going?”
“Come with me if you like. Just going outside.”
Sexton followed him, and Smith realized the pipe was still in his hand. He lit it now, drew in the luscious smoke, and Sexton said, “How is it, sir? To your liking?”
Smith focused on the scent of the tobacco.
“Yes, quite so.” He recalled now, it was Sexton who had secured the pipe tobacco, the one brand Smith preferred, Sir Walter Raleigh. “Thank you, Captain.”
Sexton smiled, a short bow. “I put aside a good haul for you, sir. I keep it with my personal equipment. Ought not run out anytime soon.”
Smith thought of Lowe’s question, How long?
“What do you think, Captain? We in for a long haul here? Or you think Tokyo’s right, that this thing won’t last but a few weeks?”
“No idea, sir. I kinda hoped you could tell me. Maybe General Lowe might have some notion. He’s army, right, sir? Does he know what MacArthur’s planning?”
Smith enjoyed the pipe for a long moment, said, “He’s not about to go any closer to MacArthur than he has to. Right now, he’s Mr. Truman’s one-man army. The president believes he has to send a spy of sorts out here to find out what’s happening.”
“A spy? Really?”
“Don’t get excited, Captain. Real spies don’t go around telling everyone what they’re doing. He’s just the president’s eyes and ears. It’s a mystery to me why Mr. Truman needs such a thing. That’s what official communications are supposed to do. But apparently, Mr. Truman doesn’t believe everything he hears.”
“Do you, sir?”
Smith thought of the intelligence reports, G-2 section in Tokyo insisting the North Koreans were just fading away.
“Not a question you should be asking, Captain.”
TENTH CORPS HEADQUARTERS—YONGDUNG-PO, SOUTH KOREA—SEPTEMBER 24, 1950
No one seemed particularly happy to see him, something Smith was getting used to. Almond was leaning low over large maps, spread out across a long table. Various staff moved about, and Smith wondered how many of them actually had something to do. It was never far from Smith’s mind that Almond was still wearing the crown of MacArthur’s chief of staff. For reasons known only to MacArthur, Almond was continuing to hold two crucial jobs.
At one end of the table stood General David Barr, the commander of the army’s Seventh Division. Barr was nearly Smith’s age, had enjoyed a lengthy if not terribly distinguished career that went back to World War I. He seemed a pleasant enough man, had shown Smith a willingness to cooperate alongside the Marines as much as Smith required him to. It had not escaped Smith that Barr seemed as unimpressed with Almond as Smith had been.
“General Barr, hello.”
Barr offered a weak smile, said, “Is our boundary to your satisfaction, General? On General Almond’s order, we have moved our Thirty-second regiment in place even now, covering your right flank. There seems to be some stubbornness on the part of the North Koreans about our liberation of Seoul. I wish your people the best of success.”
It was a pleasant surprise, Barr acknowledging that, for now anyway, the job of pushing into the city belonged to the Marines, the army troops acting as protection to the south, along Chesty Puller’s vulnerable right flank.
“Thank you, General. We’re making progress, but it’s a little tougher than predicted.”
Both men looked directly at Almond, who seemed oblivious to the conversation. Almond straightened, seemed to notice Smith for the first time.
“Ah, welcome. Good, the party’s all here. I had hoped to go over troop dispositions and offer you both some ideas of my own. Tokyo is rather insistent that we pick up the pace a bit. I’ve instructed both of you to make haste, and there is some concern that things are, um, dragging. There are many eyes on us, gentlemen. The world is watching. We must live up to the reputation that brought us here in the first place. Our gallant troops deserve no less.”
Smith nodded along with Barr, thought, Perfect politics. The most important eyes watching you are in Tokyo. To one end of the room sat a small cluster of civilians, silent, observant, whom Smith assumed to be reporters. Of course, he thought. Those eyes, too.
Almond spread his arms apart, hands out, as though gathering in the room. “Gentlemen, particularly you, General Smith, I am confident that we will triumph in a timely way, satisfying our assignment as prescribed by General MacArthur. General Barr, you will move the Thirty-second Infantry across the Han River at oh–six hundred tomorrow. Smith, you get your amtracs on the road right now. There is no time for delay. I have taken steps to light a bit more of a fire under the backsides of a few of your officers. Colonel Puller and Colonel Murray are aware of my orders and have agreed to my plans for the envelopment of Seoul.”
Smith felt something snap inside him, ignored the others, said in a low hiss, “General Almond, might I have a word with you?”
Almond seemed surprised, said, “You may speak freely here.”
“I prefer a private moment.”
Almond held on to his blanket of smugness, moved to the far end of the room, the staff making way, the men shifting position to the opposite end. Smith knew it was all he was going to get, and he followed Almond, kept his back to the others. The fury was
complete, Smith’s hands clenched, his heart beating rapidly, and he hesitated, thought, He wants witnesses.
Smith took in a long breath, tried to calm himself. The words came in a low growl. “General Almond, I am aware you have issued orders directly to my regimental commanders in the field. In the future, I would appreciate it if you give those orders to me, and I will relay them to my subordinates. It is chain of command, General.”
He paused, waited for some reaction from Almond. But the maddening smugness remained and Almond said, “I never gave direct orders to any of your command, General Smith. I offered my suggestions as to their deployment, based on my knowledge of events as they are. I assure you, I am not handling your regiments. I am just seeing how they do after you handle them.”
The wall of arrogance was a mile thick, Smith realizing Almond had the upper hand. He stared hard at the man, tried to find the weak point, the place to dig in, but Almond was too good at this game. He moved past Smith, said to the rest of the men, “If we have no further discussion, my orders are plain, and have been given to your staffs. My goal here is to capture the capital with a minimum of energy expended, by squeezing the enemy until he is forced to retreat wholesale.”
Around the room, the others were staring intently at both men, and Smith knew his words to Almond had been heard by all of them.
Almond continued, his voice rising. “If the enemy chooses to continue his futile efforts against us, we must crush him where he sits, and do it with all speed.”
Smith moved up beside Almond, said, “And you would have us destroy the city. That is unnecessary. Your orders already issued have called for us to preserve the buildings, not to obliterate the place. I am certain that we can surround Seoul with the troops we now have available, and by cutting the enemy off from escape and resupply, he will have no alternative but to surrender. This enemy will not respect maneuver, a pincer movement, or any other kind of dance. He will only respond in our favor if he has no other choice. The city of Seoul has a million inhabitants. It does not have to be a casualty of this war. Would not General MacArthur prefer we return Syngman Rhee his capital in one piece?”
