by Jeff Shaara
A voice came out to one side, no hesitation. “That was Private Atkinson, sir. One of the heavies.”
Zorn looked that way. “Where is he?”
“I positioned the heavies back on that low ridge. He’s out to the left.”
Zorn stepped away from the tank, stared out to the ridge, called, “Atkinson! You got Spittin’ Sally?”
Riley looked out that way, saw a man standing, one arm in the air, the response, “Raht hyar, yassir!”
There was laughter, Riley not sure what any of this meant. Zorn stood out in the road, said, “Some of you have names for your rifles. Not sure I’ve heard of a name for a heavy machine gun. Gentlemen, our bacon was saved this morning by Spittin’ Sally. You get a chance, pay your respects.”
Riley didn’t know many of the men in the machine gun squad, saw their lieutenant, Hill, a smiling nod toward Zorn.
“Thank you, sir. Atkinson keeps this up, may have to put him in for a citation.”
Zorn said, “Don’t forget Sally.” The laughter came again, the stress of the morning drifting away, relieved by the few moments of humor. Zorn seemed to understand that, called out now, “Move out into that field, take up along the highest ground. Battalion is keeping us along this road, in case the enemy makes another try.” He seemed to search, then said, “We got the enemy body count?”
It was Goolsby, unexpected, the youngest officer in the company stepping forward. “Eighty-one, sir.”
“Prisoners?”
“Twenty, I think.”
Zorn glanced at McCarthy, then stared at Goolsby for a long moment. “Write it down, Lieutenant. I’ll give that to battalion. Those kinds of numbers will make Major Sawyer pretty happy. Good ratio. All right, move out up that hill. Eyes open. Dig in. Not sure how long we’ll be here. Uijongbu is up that road a few miles. My CP will be set up back behind that ridge. I wanna be close to Sally.”
The fight early that morning had been a rapid-fire nightmare, but Riley knew the men had been buoyed by Zorn talking to them, felt that himself. He knew little about the battalion commander, Buzz Sawyer, even less about Litzenberg. But none of them lorded over their commands with that peculiar attitude that seems to tell their men that whatever is happening now is simply an inconvenience, that the senior officers have their eye mainly on a different prize, putting an eagle or even a star on their shoulder. Riley had seen that in the Pacific, officers who ignored everything but the spotlight. Hopefully, he thought, that’s not Zorn.
He stepped along a path, men in front of him, and behind him, Killian.
“Well, what the hell happened to you? You smell worse than Korea.”
The wetness in Riley’s clothes had mostly dried, the odor a part of him now. He looked back, said, “No, you stupid son of a bitch, I smell exactly like Korea. Where the hell were you, anyway? I don’t see any of that damn rice paddy on you.”
Killian was beside him now, gave him a sharp rap on the back. “Brains, skinny boy. Found a good spot on dry ground. Took down a few of those bastards, too. Hell, might give the M-1 a name. How ’bout Deadly Dixie? Maybe the captain’ll give me something, too. Those gunneys get all the attention.”
“They earn it. The captain’s right. That heavy kept us alive. We’d have been trampled by those bastards, no matter how good your cover was.”
Killian said nothing, both men moving with the others farther up the hill. He saw McCarthy now, Welch and the other sergeants around him. Welch saw Riley, called out, “This way. Take position back of this rise. Dig in. Eat something.”
Riley passed Welch now, followed the directions, caught the smell, worse than his own.
“Damn, Sarge, you fall into something nasty?”
“Your mama’s bathrobe. Get moving.”
Riley smiled to himself, knew he’d have to top that one.
They were spread out in a ragged formation, more than two hundred men, other companies positioned beyond. Down the sloping ground toward Seoul, he could hear the clatter of heavy weapons, that fight not slowing, and he thought of those men, no names, no friends that he knew of. They got none of this, he thought. No time for laughter, for a company commander to test the mood of his men. He stared that way, a low haze of smoke rising over distant houses, saw more Marines moving out on another trail, another battalion adding to the force that was to keep the North Koreans from escaping the city, from slipping away. He was suddenly very tired, realized there had been no sleep at all. He thought of the man he had knifed, fought against ever thinking of that at all. But the moment would find its way down into that hole, join the other memories, the other horrors. One more kill, he thought. Him, not me.
He sat in the hole, shifted himself, pushed rocks out of the way, tossed one out of the hole. Killian was kneeling at the far end of the hole, digging into his bag, and Riley thought of the captain’s words: something to eat. He put one hand on his stomach, no appetite at all, his own odor engulfing him. He watched Killian pull something from his bag, a small can with no label.
“Hey, Sean. You ask about the mail?”
“Lieutenant Goolsby said tonight, if the Nooks leave us alone. Ammo carriers be coming up, too.”
Riley was surprised. “You talked to Goolsby?”
Killian shrugged. “Well, he’s a platoon officer, right? He’s sorta in charge. Figure he’d know.”
Riley recalled the criticisms of the man from days before, all the talk about ninety-day wonders. “Guess maybe he’ll work out okay, huh?”
Killian focused on the can, stabbed it with his knife. “So far. Ain’t screwed up yet. But Rickman getting hit bugged him too much. He says it’s serious, Rickman’s going back to a hospital. McCarthy’s okay with it, best as I can tell. But I’m guessing Goolsby’s got green guilt.”
Riley knew the phrase, shorthand for a new officer’s inevitable response when he takes his first casualty. “No time for that. Not after today.”
Killian swiped a finger through the open can, which seemed to be fruit cocktail. “Nope. He’ll learn. This thing gets hot, won’t be time to hand-hold every wounded man. Kinda looking forward to it.”
Riley tried to feel an appetite again, couldn’t erase the smell. “Why you say that? You enjoy what we went through last night?”
“Sure. Hardest part was finding a damn target. Ain’t like deer hunting. You hit one of these yellow bastards, he goes down in a heap. If you miss him, he runs for the hills.”
“Sounds like deer hunting to me.”
Killian sat down in the trench now, set his rifle upright beside him. “You ain’t never killed no deer.”
“Once. Well, no, I missed him. He ran like hell. Just like the enemy.”
“Where you from, anyhow? Thought you’d be from the city, like me. I went hunting with my family, upstate New York.”
Riley said, “Pennsylvania. Apple country. Lots of deer.”
“Hmph. Shooting a Nook’s no different. Dead’s dead.”
Riley held his response, thought, You couldn’t be more wrong, Irish. The image of the knifing came again, the cries, the hard grunts, the man’s smell.
They fell silent now, low talk around them from the others. But with the quiet came the sounds from Seoul, never-ending, skirmishes and raw combat, an excruciating reminder to Riley that the heavy lifting was being done by someone else. He avoided looking that way, nothing to see, could hear Morelli talking to the man in his foxhole, lively chatter about New Jersey. I wonder if he had fun, too. I wonder if he put his knife through a man’s chest. He closed his eyes, tried to shut down the voice in his head, but the fighting in Seoul rolled on in the distance, a chorus of rattling machine guns, a song from the kind of hell that boys like Morelli didn’t know existed.
CHAPTER FIVE
Smith
SEOUL—SEPTEMBER 29, 1950
THE JEEP WAS TILTING to one side, making for a nervous ride, made more so by the heavy load on the meager springs. Puller sat in the front seat, Eddie Craig in back, beside Smith. They had come
from Puller’s new command post in the city, the Duk Soo Palace, but Smith had first come into the city across the Han River on a brand-new bridge. The orders weren’t his, the bridge doing nothing for the Marines who were already in the city. The word had come from Tokyo, launching the engineers into a frantic rush. The bridge was to be built specifically for MacArthur, allowing the general to make his entrance into the capital with all the grand spectacle of the conquering hero.
The jeep tottered precariously past a deep crater, the stench of the explosion still rising, Smith holding on tightly to the side. Puller leaned back toward him, said, “Sorry. Busted shock absorber. That’ll be fixed. Wasn’t time this morning, when we got the word. You’d think there’d be more jeeps, but they were all out doing real jobs. Besides, this one’s my favorite.”
Smith kept his eyes down the side streets, could see Marines in clusters, aid stations, low-level command posts. The smoke was there, too, some of it from blasted houses, piles of rubble where men huddled, watching civilians searching for anything they could find.
“This is madness.”
The words came from Craig, and Puller turned his head slightly.
“Oh, you got that right, Eddie. They made me wear this idiotic helmet, you know. Hate this tin cap, but General Almond insisted, said it’ll make me look like I did the fighting. Jackass.”
The jeep wound along more potholed streets, a sudden high bounce, the driver grappling with the steering wheel, Puller offering the man a heavy dose of swearing, but Smith ignored that, too, knew the driver was probably used to it. They turned down a wider avenue, rubble to one side, and Puller pointed, said, “Russian tanks rolled through that place there. Half-dozen T-34s. Artillery took care of them, or we did. Surprised me, though. Cost me some good men.” Puller paused. “They’re veterans, you know. The North Koreans. All that talk about them running away was crap. The prisoners we picked up said they had fought the Japs, some of ’em fought in China. Their weapons weren’t new, but they worked just fine. Russian guns, some of ours, too. Didn’t think it would be this tough, but I think we’ll have this place secure in another couple of days.”
“One hour’s worth, Lewie. We need secure for one hour. By tonight you can do whatever you need to do.”
There was a thump of artillery, a hard shriek overhead, then another. To one side, a distant burst of machine gun fire. Craig’s word rolled through Smith’s brain. Madness.
Puller didn’t respond to Smith’s request, didn’t have to. Puller knew as much as any of his officers what still needed to be accomplished. They were only taking this jeep ride now because of orders that could only have come from Douglas MacArthur.
It had been announced on September 27 that two days prior, squarely on the twenty-fifth, just as MacArthur had demanded, the capital city of Seoul had been swept clean of enemy soldiers, liberated as promised, the city now to be handed back in a grand and formal ceremony to South Korean president Syngman Rhee. Around MacArthur’s headquarters in Tokyo, the newspapermen had scribbled furiously on their pads as the announcement was made, magnificent news that went out quickly on the wires or by phone, reaching anxious newspapers in the States, to be swallowed whole by Americans who still weren’t sure just what this war was about. But pride ran deep, some of that left over from World War II, the certain expectation that our boys would always win, no matter the enemy. MacArthur understood that more than anyone, the power of the positive story, the power of victory. To the reporters, the general had offered praise for the Marines, the army, his staff officers, anyone who had contributed to the liberation of Seoul. That the city was still engulfed in fighting seemed not to matter to MacArthur at all.
Madness.
Smith tried to erase the word, saw the government palace looming large in front of them. He rose up in the seat, could see a fleet of staff cars parked in a wide space, great black-and-green limousines transported from Tokyo. Around the parked cars stood guards in white gloves, crisp, clean army uniforms, also from Tokyo. The cars were a surprise, but the soldiers were there because Smith had not agreed with MacArthur’s request that the Marines furnish the manpower. It was one more instance of Smith standing up to Ned Almond, each time scraping a raw wound between them, what Smith knew could become a dangerous, career-ending feud. As the jeep drew closer to the wide compound, he could see the uniforms, starched and perfect, thought, Of course he’d dress them up for the occasion. I couldn’t have given him that, anyway. Where am I going to get white gloves out here?
There was a guard post at the entrance of the compound, a white-gloved MP stepping out with his hand raised, Puller’s driver braking the jeep to a halt. Smith could see that the man was a major, perfect uniform, shined black shoes. Puller rose up in his seat, said, “What the hell is this, Major?”
“Sorry, Colonel. Only official staff cars are allowed to enter the compound.”
“Major, my staff car’s in Japan. This is a combat zone. We don’t ride around on soft seats.”
“Sorry, sir. My orders said only staff cars. I can’t allow you to pass.”
Smith could feel Puller’s heat, said nothing, was wondering just what Puller would do. Puller said, “Listen, you oak tree. My boys captured this damn place. I don’t give a good goddamn what your orders are. Get the hell out of my way.”
“Sorry, Colonel. No entry today. My orders.”
Puller shouted to his driver, “Run him over!”
The jeep lurched ahead, Puller flopping down heavily on the seat, Smith pushed backward, nearly tumbling out of the jeep. The MP danced quickly aside, wide eyes, then began to follow, loud shouts. Smith watched the man until he gave up the chase, but Puller was still angry, looked back at Smith.
“We’ll stop on our way out, apologize to him, if you tell me to.”
Smith shook his head. “Nope. I’d have done the same thing you did.”
He knew that wasn’t true, saw the look on Puller’s face, that Puller knew better as well. Puller stabbed his pipe into his mouth, said to the driver, “Pull over there, Jones, behind that Cadillac. Maybe they’ll give you a parking ticket. That’ll be fun. You stay here, though. We might be in enough hot water already, and Private, you’re not dressed properly.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The man was clearly relieved to be left behind, and Smith thought, I wish I could join you. Puller slid out of the jeep, Smith and Craig behind him, and Craig said, “Colonel, maybe next time? Put your rank on the jeep.”
“Why? They make me wear this damn tin cap, they can see my bird quick enough.”
They walked past the grand cars, every one polished, some with whitewall tires, the guards seeming protective of their temporary posts. Puller said to Smith, “They have no idea what Marines look like. I’ll bet you don’t draw a single damn salute.”
They were inside quickly, and Smith felt very much out of place, Korean men in suits, a sea of perfect uniforms, nearly all of them army. He scanned the crowd, saw Almond, others, almost none of the army officers familiar. Except MacArthur.
He saw Murray now, with an aide, both men gravitating quickly toward Smith.
“Sir! Glad you made it. We seem to be the only Marines in attendance.”
Behind him, Smith heard a grunt from Puller, thought, Keep your head, Lewie.
At thirty-seven, Ray Murray was the youngest of Smith’s commanders, and as a lieutenant colonel, was outranked by both Puller and Litzenberg. But no one seemed concerned with the insignia on Murray’s shoulder. In World War II, he had earned a pair of Silver Stars and a Navy Cross, had as much combat experience as nearly any officer in Smith’s command. There were certainly no complaints how Murray had handled the Fifth Marines since they had come ashore at Inchon.
Smith scanned the crowd again, said, “We have seats for this thing, Ray?”
“Yes, sir. They’re starting to file into the assembly hall. I suppose we just follow the flow.” He acknowledged both Craig and Puller now, said, “Lewie, it’s been a tough
couple of days.”
Puller grunted again.
“Your boys took Kimpo airfield in a blink. Damn fine work.” They followed the crowd into the hall, Smith in the lead. Behind him, he heard Puller again, a low voice to Murray. “I’ll be glad when we get this thing over with.”
Smith wasn’t sure what Puller meant, if he was more concerned with the liberation of Seoul, or what was about to happen right now.
“Gentlemen, if I may have your attention!” It was one of MacArthur’s aides, a booming voice from the stage. “Please be seated.”
They sat, the room growing quiet, and Craig leaned in close to him, said, “You don’t suppose he’s gonna start tossing out medals?”
“Shut up, Eddie.”
MacArthur rose to the stage now, and across from him, an old Korean, a slight curl to his back, the ravages of age. It was Syngman Rhee.
—
MacArthur spoke for a half hour, calling for prayer for the success of his men, for the liberation of the Korean capital, for the lives and well-being of every man in his command. During it all, Smith had detected what appeared to be tears streaming down MacArthur’s cheeks, a show of emotion that seemed oddly out of place. More than once he thought, This isn’t over yet. The city is still a very dangerous place. But still, the ceremony went on, MacArthur ending his remarks with the Lord’s Prayer, only to be followed by the United Nations representative, and a brief speech by the American ambassador, John Muccio. At last, Syngman Rhee took the stage, generous remarks of his own, concluding with the presentation of some kind of document for MacArthur, a gesture of gratitude that inspired another show of emotion.
Throughout the entire ceremony, the thumps of artillery fire punctuated the remarks, some of the impacts on buildings close enough that Smith could hear tumbling concrete. Many of the men in front of Smith reacted with nervous glances, quiet urgency in their hushed voices, Smith knowing that many of these men had never been under fire. By the end of the program, Smith was as eager as Puller and the others to leave, perhaps the only men in the room who understood that the job was still to be completed. It did not escape any of them that through all the talk, the official congratulations, the carefully orchestrated pomp, none of the speakers mentioned the Marines at all.
