by Jeff Shaara
Almond turned toward him, a different look, grim anger, but he forced a smile, said, “The orders are as written, Smith. An envelopment would take far too much time. I had hoped the enemy would have recognized the hopelessness of his situation by now, and made good his full retreat. If he remains, he will be crushed. This meeting has concluded. You may all return to your commands.”
MARINE DIVISION COMMAND POST, NEAR THE HAN RIVER—SEPTEMBER 25, 1950
The order came after dark, nearly eight o’clock, while most of the Marines were standing down. All of them knew that the dawn would send them out against the enemy once more, another hard slugging match to push the North Koreans through the streets of the capital. But to Smith’s surprise, his superior had a new plan.
Tenth Corps Tactical Air Commander reports enemy fleeing city of Seoul on road north of Uijongbu. Heavy air attacks are ongoing and will continue. You will push attack now to the limit of your objectives in order to ensure maximum destruction of enemy forces. Signed Almond.
“Is this certain? Who did you speak to? Ruffner?”
Bowser nodded. “I spoke with Colonel Chides first, the G-3. He told me that we are to carry out this order as written. I called back and got General Ruffner, and asked him for a reaffirmation.”
Smith ran a hand over his forehead, had no reason to doubt Bowser. “Did you explain to those people that attacking at night in an unfamiliar city is not advisable? Particularly since there is no indication the enemy is going anywhere across this entire division front?”
“All of that, sir. General Ruffner told me the order had been dictated by General Almond himself, and that it was to be executed without delay.”
“Get Murray on the phone. Puller won’t take as long to get ready. Call him next.”
“Sir, are we to just order the men to march straight into the enemy? In the dark?”
“Those are the orders, Colonel.”
—
As the Fifth and First Marine Regiments scrambled into readiness for the midnight assault, another report came into Smith’s HQ. A Marine forward observer north of the city, positioned along the very road the air command had claimed as the enemy’s line of retreat, observed North Korean tanks and soldiers on the move. But they were not moving north. They were adding to the strength of those forces already inside of Seoul. Instead of a retreat, it was a counterattack.
CHAPTER FOUR
Riley
NEAR THE HAN RIVER—NORTHWEST OF SEOUL—SEPTEMBER 25, 1950
“WHERE’S THAT KID? Captain wants latrines, and he’s the one to do it.”
There was little response, the men mostly hunkered down in shallow foxholes, making good use of the darkness to avoid Sergeant Welch altogether. Riley knew Morelli would speak up, the boy just too eager to please.
“You mean me, Sarge?”
It was just the enthusiasm Riley expected, and he knew Welch was smiling, the darkness hiding their faces. Welch said, “Sounds like you. Eight years old, right? My favorite volunteer.”
Riley laughed to himself, his knees drawn in tight, his sleeping bag beneath him. Killian sat across from him, both men belching their dinner, an odd mix of C-rations and some kind of local meat, courtesy of some South Korean marines. Killian said, “He’ll do it with a smile, too. Don’t know why the young are so stupid. Any dirty job, and those kids still think it’s a good idea to volunteer.”
Riley didn’t answer, had dug his share of latrines. He could hear the movement close by, Morelli pulling out his entrenching tool, the telltale clank of clumsy hands working the metal.
“Where, Sarge?”
Riley shook his head silently, heard Welch, “Down that hill there. You don’t put the damn things next to where you sleep. Jesus. I want a one-two-three trench. You got that?”
Killian called out, “Hey, Sarge, you better show him how.”
Welch was there now, a shadow standing over them. “I got a better idea, Irish. You show him. Right now. Off your ass.”
Killian grumbled, stood slowly, knew there was no arguing with Welch. He climbed up from the small depression, disappeared into the dark, the voice of the kid following him.
“One two three?”
Killian responded, “One foot wide, two feet deep, three long. You ask me again, and I’ll put you in it headfirst….”
The voices trailed away, and Riley leaned back against the rocky dirt, Welch sitting down beside the foxhole.
“He’ll be all right. Just green. Like you on Guam.”
The memories came now, a thousand years ago. Riley said, “No greener than you. Around the gills, too. Didn’t think one man could throw up that many times.”
Welch laughed. “My damn gut’s still sore. Didn’t think I’d ever eat again.”
Riley felt the familiar rumble down low, said, “Hey, maybe you better tell them to hurry it up with that trench. What was that we had for dinner, anyway?”
“Pork. That South Korean officer came through this afternoon, and I guess he hit it off with Old Homer. Sent a flock of pigs our way. I thought we might have an old-fashioned barbecue, but the Koreans showed the cooks what to do. Big mistake, maybe. I always heard Korean pigs weren’t fit to eat.”
Riley was gingerly caressing his stomach. “I’m not convinced either way. Talk to me in the morning.”
“Jarheads! Listen up!” Riley knew the voice of the captain, the low talk all around them falling silent. “Where’s Lieutenant McCarthy?”
Welch stood, moved that way, said, “Aid station, sir. Checking on Rickman.”
“That’s okay. But I want him back quick. Where’s the adjutant, the new man…oh, hell. What’s his name?”
“Lieutenant Goolsby, sir?”
“Yeah. Goolsby.”
“He went with Lieutenant McCarthy.”
“Of course he did. Ten minutes, and you send someone to get both of them. Right?”
“Yes, sir. What’s up, Captain?”
“Orders. There’s a bees’ nest at division. Whole regiment getting ready to move. All I know. Find your lieutenants.”
Zorn moved off quickly, his voice coming again, farther, more instructions for the next platoon. Riley rose up, Welch standing close to him. Riley glanced skyward, a scattering of stars through patches of clouds. He thought of Rickman, the platoon’s first casualty. Riley didn’t know him well, a quiet man, all business, hit by a sniper on the advance that morning. The bullet found Rickman’s gut, the impact dropping the man in a tight curl. They didn’t hear the shot, the sniper far away, and the men responded by flattening out anywhere they happened to be. But McCarthy had pulled them back up, a sharp order to keep them moving. Goolsby had scampered all through the platoon, hauling the men back into line, McCarthy watching him with a hard stare. Riley had been impressed by that, the new lieutenant doing the right thing, not allowing the men to slow their own advance by reacting to an enemy that was so far away.
He could feel the men rising up, the fresh foxholes emptying, sleeping bags rolled tight, gear pulled together. Riley did as they all did, responding to the captain’s orders.
Killian was back, hard breathing, tossed the small shovel into the hole. Welch was moving through the men, came close now, said, “Well, Irish, I guess you owe me a latrine.”
“Yeah, I heard. What’s up, Sarge?”
“Orders to move.” Welch raised his voice. “Check your weapons. Make sure you got plenty of ammo.”
Riley pulled himself up, said, “Captain didn’t say anything about fighting. We just advancing?”
“I didn’t ask him, Pete. Somebody shoots at your ass, I expect you to shoot back.”
Killian grabbed for his gear, cursed, said, “There’s mail. Truck just pulled up back by the captain’s CP. Damn it all. I’m expecting a pile of stuff from my wife, and my kid’s just learning to draw pictures.”
Welch said, “It can wait. We figure out where we’ll be tomorrow night, that truck will still be there. Why the hell were you at the CP? You planning
to dig your hole next to the captain’s bedroll?”
Killian didn’t respond, and Riley glanced around, said, “Where’s the kid?”
Killian kept working, said, “Hell if I know. He followed me back here, I think. I’m not his damn nursemaid.”
Riley searched the darkness, shadows and motion, low talk, the muffled sounds of equipment. Beside him, Welch said, “Let it go, Pete. He won’t get lost. Scared of the dark, so he’ll head for the noise.”
Killian made a nervous laugh. “Yeah. Great for a Marine. Run to Mommy when the sun goes down.”
Welch moved away, and Riley picked up the M-1, rubbed his hands down the stock, wiping away any dirt, felt the bandolier of magazines around his waist, a quick touch to the four grenades on his chest. He searched the dark again, said to Killian, “You shoulda kept an eye on him. He’s too green.”
Through the darkness, a stumble, heavy breathing. The voice came now, high-pitched, excited.
“Fox Company? Third Platoon?”
Riley felt a hint of relief, said, “Yeah, kid, you’re in the right place.”
“We’re moving, huh? In the dark? Won’t be light for a while.”
Killian sniffed. “Hell, kid, it’s not even midnight. Just don’t fall asleep and run up my ass.”
Riley ignored Killian’s disdain, said, “Get your gear together. Don’t leave anything behind.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Okay.”
Morelli moved off to his own foxhole and Riley slung the M-1 onto his shoulder, heard Zorn again, with another officer, pulling the men together, hushed orders, the urgency rolling through all of them. There was rifle fire, a heavy machine gun, then more, out to one side. He caught a glimpse of tracers, red, comforting, their own fire, but now the North Koreans were answering, blue tracers, something new. He stared for a long moment, the kid again, close beside him.
“What’s all that? We going that way?”
Riley had no time for a lesson, the tension rising inside him.
“We’re going where they tell us. You got your rifle?”
“Right here. I’m ready. I’m ready.”
The tension in the boy’s voice bordered on panic, and Riley grabbed Morelli’s bony shoulder.
“Calm down, kid. We start moving, there might be enemy, or maybe not. We might just be moving to fill in empty ground. Stay low, don’t shoot at anything unless you’re sure. The captain will tell us what’s up.”
He could feel a shiver in the boy’s arm, tried to avoid that himself.
“It’s dark, Pete.”
“Yeah, kid, it’s dark.”
—
The sounds came first, the hard rumble of a tank, the harsh whisper from in front, the men responding by sliding off the road, lying low, blind. Riley felt soft, wet grass beneath him, lay on a slope, his feet in something wet. The roar from the tank was closer, the ground vibrating, voices, strange, foreign. He rose up slightly, strained to see, the great hulk in the road coming closer, and now a heavy foot in the middle of his back. He grunted, rolled, the man tripping, a cry, surprise. Riley pulled the M-1 up, tried to catch details, anything, the man jogging up into the road, more men, the voices growing, and now a bright light, blinding, from the tank.
The firing began, all sides of him, the others in the ditch spraying the tank, the men who kept close to it. Riley felt the desperate agony of fear, searched still for the man who had stepped on him, the spotlight now moving past him, fire on both sides. He fought to see, kept flat, cold screams in his head, the terror of the darkness, held himself low, still, the sounds of a growing fight all around him. The light was out now, the tank peppered by fire from the Marines on both sides of the road, the great beast answering with machine gun fire of its own. The Koreans were shouting, orders, noise, a bugle, the chaos swallowing Riley, swallowing all of them. The road was alive with men, most of them jogging toward the Marines, some stopping to fire, flashes of light, heavy footsteps moving past him in the ditch. He watched them come, searched for the good target, but there were too many, the fire whistling past him from both sides. One man moved up slowly, close, and Riley reached out, grabbed the man’s leg, pulling him down in a heap, the man rolling over Riley’s body. He pulled the knife, a quick lunge, the Korean crying out, another lunge, soft flesh, the Korean down, beneath Riley, still no sounds, the man’s stink engulfing him. Riley’s breaths were hard and heavy, thunder in his chest, and he rolled himself upright, to his knees, the knife in one hand, the fury, the hate preparing him to do it again. And now a machine gun opened up, far down the road behind the Marines, the spray of lead ripping above him. He flattened, a silent curse, could hear men hit, falling, hard cries, more Koreans crawling close to him. He let them go, the machine gun fire too close, nothing to do but stay low. There was a massive blast, burst of fire, the tank erupting thirty yards away, the fire illuminating the roadway. Another machine gun chimed in, tearing up the road, slicing through the Koreans who scrambled for cover. He stared at the tank, flames erupting from inside, enemy troops scrambling away, leaving their steel protection. He pulled the M-1 up, no aim, jabbed it into a man’s groin as he passed, fired, then rolled over, found another target, easy now, the flames on the tank lighting the scene. He pulled the M-1 to his shoulder, fired again, the Korean a few feet away, falling forward. There were more, coming back along the road, some cut down quickly by the machine gun, most in a full run. He searched for another target, fired again without aim, then again. Now the voices changed, Marines, moving up closer, calling out, rapid fire from carbines and rifles, the machine gun silent. The tank continued to burn, the bodies in the road bathed in orange light, and he stayed on his knees, eyes on the tank, men beneath it, burning bodies.
“Up! Let’s go! Spread out into the field! They’ll be back!”
He knew Zorn’s voice, pulled himself up, stepped down through the muddy ditch, a deep puddle. He struggled to stay upright, keeping his balance, his knees soft rubber. The flames lit the field, taller grass, voices around him, orders, other men moving with him. He felt the water, the splashes high, more orders, men put into position, a line, the men settling down, good cover. He flattened out, water soaking through his clothes, the smells engulfing him, sickening, the sudden clarity, the turn of his stomach. It was a rice paddy.
—
The North Koreans kept up their advance for several hours, every road or trail alive with troops, more tanks offering them cover and added firepower. The fights were mostly confused and meaningless, but the Marines had the advantage of greater firepower, machine guns moving up quickly, mortars put into place. The surge by the North Koreans began to run dry, exhausted by their casualties, by the tenacity of the men who fought them.
For most of the night, the Marines pushing their way into Seoul itself advanced along dark streets, confronting blockades of rice bags, heavy machine guns seeking targets in a confused melee, casualties mounting on both sides. By early morning the North Korean resistance had seemed to weaken, but the advance was slow, many of the Marines holding tight to the ground they had already earned. Despite the attack orders the Marines had received from Tenth Corps HQ, their own commander understood that a full-blown frontal assault down a hundred narrow streets was suicide. With the Marines digging in, preparing to hold off any new push by their enemy, orders were given for a new tactic. As the sunrise spread slowly over the smoking ruins of Seoul’s outskirts, the Eleventh Marine artillery regiment went to work. Pressured to capture the capital by MacArthur’s deadline, Oliver Smith used the most effective weapon he had against a stubborn, well-fortified enemy. If the fight between men was mostly equal, the Americans’ heavy artillery tipped the scale. Throughout the bombardment, the Fifth and First Marines could only wait, hoping the artillery would do the job. Flanked by the Seventh to the north and the army’s Thirty-second to the south, the Americans closer to the city pulled into a tighter arc, pressing the North Koreans on three sides. With daylight, once again, the push would begin through the streets of Seoul.
The artillery had weakened the enemy, but the fight would continue, slow yet steady progress by the Marines, whose training had rarely included house-to-house searches.
The Marines facing the enemy did not know of the orders first given to Oliver Smith, that the ancient architecture of the historical city be saved, a gesture of ignorant futility from Ned Almond. Almond’s orders had now become a contradiction, his need to satisfy MacArthur forcing him to rush the entire operation. Despite Tenth Corps’ fairy-tale hopes that the enemy would simply vanish, Smith and the Marines understood that the city would not be taken without a serious struggle. And so, when Smith called on his artillery, the results were inevitable. The big guns punished not only the enemy, but the historic capital itself. With the Marines renewing their hard push against the battered enemy, they drove down the narrow streets of a city that lay mostly in ruins.
NORTHWEST OF SEOUL—SEPTEMBER 26
With the daylight came a closer examination of the tank, the hole blasted through the turret with perfect aim. Captain Zorn leaned in close, said aloud, “Who did it?”
One of the other lieutenants, the Second Platoon’s commander, Peterson, moved up, said, “Speak up. Who did this?”
The men gathered, all eyes on the hole in the tank. Behind Riley, one of the sergeants.
“Sir, my man won’t claim it. But I’m pretty sure it was Brubaker. Front and center, Corporal.”
Brubaker obeyed, a sheepish grin on his face, said to Zorn, “It was the M-20, sir. Bazooka. Hell of a gun, that one. I musta got lucky.”
Zorn stood with his hands on his hips, glanced at Brubaker, then back to the tank.
“We all got lucky, son. You keep that M-20 close at hand. I’m asking battalion for a dozen more. Who was on the machine gun?”
