by Jeff Shaara
—
“I’ll be leaving for Tokyo in an hour. I’ve heard some uncomfortable reports, that things are dragging a bit. Let’s clean this up, shall we?”
MacArthur seemed distracted, scanned the departing crowd, a brief nod to a cluster of reporters waiting nearby.
Smith said, “We’re doing the best we can under the circumstances, sir. The enemy has a talent for defense, and my men are pushing through the city one house at a time.”
MacArthur seemed not to hear him, said, “Just get the job done. What did you think of our presentation? Quite a show.”
MacArthur had answered his own question, but Almond broke in, “Wonderful, sir. President Rhee is a wonderful man, most grateful to you for what we have accomplished here. Quite spry for such an old man.”
Almond’s words flowed like syrup, but Smith kept his eyes on MacArthur, tried not to show any reaction. MacArthur nodded slowly, seemed lost in thought for a moment, then said, “Seventy-five, he says. They nearly beat him to death in the war. Japanese tortured him. His hands are a mess. He loves us, of course, so we love him back. That’s how they think in Washington, you know. He hates Russians as much as we do, so we love him for it. We offer him bouquets and handshakes, those things that make congressmen and newspapermen so very happy.” He paused. “They know nothing of what I must do here. Nothing at all. And how they have doubted me!” MacArthur seemed to animate now, brought back to the moment. He looked hard at Smith. “They thought I was a fool. They thought we’d fall on our faces at Inchon.” He gestured toward the reporters waiting at the far end of the hall. “Now, look at them. Like schoolchildren, eager for today’s lesson. I shall give them one. They will listen, too. Write down every word. Not so those people in Washington. They do not understand what a war is, you know. To them, it’s budgeting and arguments over treaties. It’s why this country needs men in the field who know how to take command, who can make the decisions, all of the decisions.”
Smith didn’t know what to say, felt as though he wasn’t a part of MacArthur’s conversation at all. Almond seemed anxious to respond.
“Yes, sir. Certainly.”
MacArthur looked at Almond, as though for the first time, said, “There is much to do still. Orders will be issued. Make ready for the next phase of this operation, General.”
Almond seemed to snap upright. “We are quite ready, sir.”
“I’ll be leaving now. A word to the newspapers first. But I must return to Tokyo.” He looked at Smith now, saw Puller behind him with the others.
“Fine work. Truly outstanding. You have earned the gratitude of your nation. I will see to that.”
MacArthur moved away, and Smith watched the man’s gait, a hint of unsteadiness, a slight shake in MacArthur’s hand. Almond moved closer to Smith, spoke in quick, hushed words.
“Clean this place up, Smith. We’re going north, and I want no laces left untied. Your orders will come very soon. I expect them to be carried out with all speed.”
Smith nodded, thought, That word again. “We will continue to do our best, sir.”
Almond moved away, chasing MacArthur, who stood tall, the reporters gathering close. Smith had desperate need of a deep breath, backed away, watching the scene, making certain MacArthur didn’t suddenly want him by his side. Don’t be foolish, he thought. We’re not even a sideshow in this place.
—
As the fighting continued around Seoul, the enemy seemed finally to give way, and another blow to North Korean hopes emerged from farther south. For weeks the North Koreans had waged a vicious war against Walton Walker’s Eighth Army, a combination of American and United Nations troops. Walker’s forces had taken the first great shock from the North’s invasion, had been mostly overwhelmed, shoved backward into a tight squeeze around the southeastern corner of the peninsula, what was now called the Pusan Perimeter. But the amphibious landing at Inchon had accomplished MacArthur’s objective, had driven a sharp wedge behind the enemy besieging Walker. As part of MacArthur’s overall strategy, Walker’s forces were to launch a well-coordinated breakout of their own, coinciding with the amphibious landing of the Marines at Inchon. To the surprise of most of the American military planners, who had been taught by MacArthur to have little confidence in Walker, the Eighth Army breakout of Pusan was successful. Whether or not MacArthur would give credit to Walker, a man he deeply disliked, the breakout seemed to show that the North Koreans, with their supply lines cut, their ammunition running low, their rations disappearing, were mostly used up.
For Oliver Smith, the mopping up soon cleared Seoul of any significant pockets of the enemy, the Marines finally able to stand down, reorganize the smaller units, deal with their casualties. From the time Douglas MacArthur had claimed the liberation of Seoul until the city was actually cleared of fighting, the Marines suffered more than seven hundred additional casualties. Whether anyone in Tokyo wanted to hear that, Smith knew the war in Korea had already become a nasty, bloody affair. In Smith’s headquarters, and all through the First Marine Division, optimism followed the victory. At higher levels, many in Korea, Tokyo, and Washington allowed themselves to believe that the retreat of the North Koreans from both Pusan and Seoul meant the end, that diplomats would now take charge, that the two sides would return to some kind of agreement that kept Korea divided along the 38th parallel. But Douglas MacArthur had a very different notion of how this war should end.
CHAPTER SIX
Riley
NEAR UIJONGBU, SOUTH KOREA—OCTOBER 3, 1950
THE PRISONERS CLIMBED UP from the holes, their hands high, Riley keeping the M-1 aimed at the lead man. He saw the face clearly, hard eyes, something about the North Korean that said nasty. The prisoner was older than the others, but there was nothing in his clothing that showed rank. To one side, Lieutenant Goolsby made a verbal count, the line lengthening as the prisoners continued to emerge from the blasted hole.
“Twelve…thirteen…fourteen. God, they smell.”
An MP stood close by, another lieutenant, a squad of his men waiting expectantly. Riley saw the youth on their faces, no older than Morelli.
From the deep hole came a woman now, then another, both young, very pretty. The Marines were caught by surprise, the inevitable comments coming.
“Hey! She’s a cutie!”
“Whoa, sister. I got your bayonet right here!”
Behind Goolsby, Welch called out, “Knock it off.” The sergeant moved forward, closer to the MP officer, said, “Sir, I’d be careful with these. They’re more dangerous than the men. They’re not soldiers, but I bet they’re armed.”
The MP seemed annoyed that a noncom could tell him anything he didn’t know.
“We’ll handle this, Sergeant.”
The lieutenant pointed at the first woman, an MP approaching her, his carbine dropped low, a hand out: “Hey there, Missy, you let me check you out, okay?”
The woman spun around, one hand flashing through her filthy dress, the grenade there, the MP lunging forward, tackling the woman, a flurry of dust and shouting. Riley moved forward quickly, but the MPs were there first, the grenade pulled away, a hard punch to the woman’s face. The second woman stayed still, watching stoically, and Riley could see the anger, the raw viciousness of her expression.
The MPs spread out now, moving to the male prisoners, no talk at all, no need for words. One was punched hard in the stomach, the Korean curling over with a grunt, collapsing to his knees, twisted pain on his face. An MP pulled the man up by the shirt, ripped it from the man’s back, tossed it aside. He glanced at his lieutenant, who said, “Go on. All of them. Strip ’em down.”
The MP jerked at the man’s pants, sliding them to the ground, another quick jerk, stripping away his underclothes. The Korean stood naked, the MP motioning to the other prisoners with the muzzle of his carbine. They seemed to understand, pulling off their clothes, resigned to their captivity. Around Riley there were low comments, Riley sharing a nagging discomfort. But the MPs were
firmly in charge, the clothing tossed aside, the Koreans now completely stripped.
The lieutenant moved to the silent woman, held his pistol in his hand, aimed it at her face, then slowly pointed downward, touching her chest.
“Off.”
Riley felt a twinge of sickness, thought, Good God, what’s he doing?
The woman glanced at the other prisoners, the men cupping their hands at their groins, and said something in Korean, then pulled at her blouse. In seconds she was as naked as the men, and she turned to the injured woman, a hard shout, short words, the woman undressing as well. No one spoke, the Koreans staring at the men who stared at them, the women seeming more defiant than the men.
The other MPs moved up, poking at the clothing with the carbines, one man bending low.
“Right here, sir. Another grenade. Hell of a knife, too. You were right.”
Riley noticed Goolsby, white as a sheet, the MP officer seeing that as well.
“Done this before, Lieutenant. Any dame with a bunch of men, she’s either a sex slave or…well, one of these. Seen an officer’s wife once, traveling with her man, handling a machine gun like a pro. These two…they’d kill you quicker’n any man. They can’t do much now. There’s a truck down the road, we’ll load ’em up.”
Goolsby nodded dumbly, and Welch said to the MP, “Appreciate it, sir. I’ll make sure Lieutenant McCarthy knows about you helping us out. There’ll probably be a few more of these folks to handle up ahead.”
The MP made a quick nod, moved away, the other MPs motioning the prisoners into line, marching them into captivity.
Riley watched Goolsby again, the young lieutenant trying to gather himself. On the road, more Marines were moving up, the rest of the platoon, another platoon behind them. The prisoners had their full attention, the men offering a chorus of catcalls and hoots. Lieutenant McCarthy was there, and with him Captain Zorn. Zorn moved up closer to Goolsby, said in a low voice, “Let’s move out, Lieutenant. This is protocol. No atrocities here.”
Goolsby lowered his head, said, “Yes, sir. Absolutely.”
Zorn called out, “Fox, Third Platoon will lead the way. Keep it close. Dark in an hour, and we’re moving up in support of First Battalion. We’ll make camp in a field up ahead. Good work with the prisoners. Move out.”
The men were all in motion now, two parallel lines, spread out to either side of the narrow road. The talk started again, laughter, and Riley knew the jokes would come next, the big talkers talking big. He picked up the rhythm of the footsteps in front of him, kept his distance behind Welch, Killian falling in across the road, the routine of the march.
SOUTH OF UIJONGBU—OCTOBER 3, 1950
The foxholes were dug, but this time the men didn’t have to rely on C-rations. With Seoul secure, the trucks had come up in support, bringing all manner of supplies, including one of those marvelous luxuries every Marine hoped for: hot food.
Uijongbu had been quiet for a while now, darkness offering what seemed to be a peaceful night, the Marines closer to the town making more efficient progress than had been made in Seoul. The men of Zorn’s company were spread out alongside other companies of the Seventh, McCarthy’s Third Platoon grateful for the order to enjoy the meal provided by someone higher up the chain of command.
Men were moving about in the darkness, some dropping down into their holes, the click of weapon checks, canteens, low chatty talk. A few yards from Riley, Welch sat against an old tree stump, his knees bent, seemed to be writing, and to one side of him, Killian was doing the same. Riley thought of the mail call late that afternoon, Killian finally getting his wife’s package. Riley watched them both for a long, quiet moment, said, “Hey. How can you two see what you’re writing? It’s dark, for Chrissakes.”
Welch ignored him, but the big Irishman took the bait.
“You got something to say, you don’t need to see the paper. It just comes out. Poetic, too, some of it. She’ll appreciate it, for sure.”
“If you say so. Didn’t know we had a poet in the outfit. How ’bout you, Sarge?”
“Shut up. I’m thinking.”
Riley thought of Killian’s package. “Hey, Sean. You inclined to share any of that stuff from home?”
Killian looked up. “Yeah, sure. Cookies. Want one? All I got left is oatmeal. Hammered the sugar cookies soon as I got ’em. Do that every damn time. Brain tells me, Hey, stupid, save some, but my mouth says, Just give me the whole batch.”
He shuffled through his backpack, pulled out a small box, leaned out, Riley meeting him halfway.
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
“Yep, you do. When these are gone, no telling when she’ll send more. Took her a month to send these, and I been begging in every damn letter I write.”
“Maybe the poetry will help.”
“Can’t hurt.”
Welch looked up from his own letter, said, “Both of you are gonna end up squatting over that stinking latrine. I seen more jarheads get the trots from home packages than from C-rations. Your gut’s not used to soft living.”
Killian said, “Cookie, Sarge?”
Welch didn’t hesitate. “Sure. Thanks.”
Morelli came up through the darkness, always in a hurry. “Hey, Sarge, where’s my foxhole? This one?”
To one side, the BAR man, Kane. “Over here, kid. Jeez, somebody get him a map.”
Killian looked up at Morelli, said, “Hey, kid, you play poker?”
“Um, no, not really. Played a little on the ship over here. Lost a week’s pay.”
The Irishman laughed. “That’s how it’s supposed to work. You pay for the privilege of a good time, getting to know your comrades. Beats doing nothing.”
“Maybe. Coulda used that pay. My mama’s expecting it, says she’s counting on it every month.”
Riley wanted to ask, let it go. But Killian wasn’t so discreet. “So, you live with your mama? Bet you got a house full of bambinos, and a hot little sister, too, I bet. She like Irishmen?”
Killian laughed, and Riley couldn’t help a smile, Welch chuckling as well. The others were offering up comments of their own, and Riley began to feel sorry for Morelli, standing still in the dark, thought, I can see how red his face is from here. He slipped down into the foxhole, said, “It’s okay, kid, they need somebody to rag. For now, you’re it. We get more replacements, it’ll be your turn to dish it out. You’ll be the veteran.”
Morelli knelt down close to Riley, said in a low voice, “It’s okay. I like it, sorta. He’s right, though. I live with my folks back in Jersey. No sister, though. Just four brothers, one older. He’s in politics.”
Riley looked at Morelli through the darkness. “What’s that mean?”
“He figured out how to keep from coming over here. Knows people. I told him I signed up on purpose, he went nuts. Said he coulda had me put into any job I wanted. He thinks he’s gonna be mayor of Jersey City someday.”
“Yeah, great. I’m with you. I’d rather be a jarhead.”
Morelli sat close beside him now, keeping his voice low. “You married, Pete?”
“Yep. Christmas makes five years. Little Ruthie.” He smiled, let the image flow into him. “Tiny thing. Five feet nothing. Miss her like hell. My boy, too.”
“You got a son?”
“Peter Junior. He’ll turn four soon. She won’t let me call him Pete. Says he’s gonna be more respectable than his old man. Get a good education, not like me. She says there’s no way he’s gonna grow up a Marine. Only one man in the family allowed to spend his days getting shot at. We had a few rounds about that one. I say let the boy make up his own mind.” He smiled, shook his head. “Here’s some advice for you, kid. Choose carefully what you wanna argue about. Best to let ’em have their way more often than not. When it matters to you, really matters, well, then okay, stand up. Keeps the peace. Peace is good, I promise you. Grew up with war, every damn day. Pop and Mama raising hell about nothing at all. Bad stuff, there.”
“What they fig
ht about?”
Riley brought himself back to the moment, the darkness, low sounds around him. “None of your damn business. What you wanna know this stuff for, anyway?”
The boy lowered his head, leaned closer still, a quiet voice. “I gotta tell you, Pete, those MPs today. I never seen that before. None of it.”
Riley wasn’t sure what he meant, said, “Not likely any of us have seen too much of that. The enemy is bad people.”
“No, I mean…I never seen that. Naked women and all. I couldn’t look too long. That musta felt awful embarrassing. All us men watching them. I was raised Catholic. My mama…”
Killian was there now, easing into the foxhole. There was no whisper in the man, his voice booming, “How embarrassed would you be if one of those bitches stuck a grenade in your ear? It’s the enemy, kid. Get used to it. Any Nooks capture you, they’ll stick your rosary beads up your ass. You been paying attention? You see what kind of things they done to their own kind? What’s your Bible say about heathens?”
Welch called over, “Enough. You’re waking up the whole battalion. Can’t concentrate on my letter.”
Riley said, “Who’s that one to? Doreen or Janice?”
“Not sure yet. Maybe Ellen. I put the name on last, depending on my mood.”
Riley leaned back against the side of the hole, said to Morelli, “Let go of it, kid. If that’s the worst thing you see over here, you’ll be lucky. Besides, I bet God forgives you for looking. Hell, he made those women, right? He made your eyeballs, right?”
Morelli seemed to absorb that, thought a moment. “Yeah, maybe so. I mean, well, yeah.”
Killian shifted his weight in the hole, his rifle up beside him. “Unless you’re here to play poker, go to bed, kid. You’re getting on my nerves.”
