by Jeff Shaara
His new plan had been heartily approved in Peking, General Peng suggesting that Sung’s forces offer a display of the raw power behind the Chinese will, a crushing blow that might reverse the American tide completely. To the west, such a blow had resulted in a chaotic withdrawal by several units of the American Eighth Army, a retreat that even now was ongoing. Lin Biao’s campaign had already shown more success than Peking had seemed to expect, and Sung knew that General Peng would expect no less from him.
Sung eyed the teacup, focused on a tiny crack, his eyes blinking with a hint of exhaustion. He was rarely sleeping through these long, chilly days, focused instead on the camps, the supplies so very important to men who stayed on their feet. You should nap more often, he thought. It was the same admonition offered by his staff officers, Colonel Wang tending to him like a nursemaid. Sung appreciated the man’s intentions, but Sung believed that it was never good to demonstrate such a love of luxury as Wang insisted was appropriate for the army’s commander. Meat was provided for at least one meal per day, but nearly always, Sung ordered that away, commanding Wang and the other staff officers to focus their energy more on providing sustenance for the soldiers. But Wang was relentless, and behind Sung’s mask of stoicism he felt enormous affection for this young man, who seemed to have no other ambition than serving his commanding general. The game would play itself out after every march, Wang somehow conjuring up a magnificent roast, a hind quarter of a goat or pig, which Sung would order sent down into the hidden camps of the men. Wang would protest, and Sung would insist. Wang knew not to protest too vigorously, and Sung had to keep hidden that the meat was more tempting each time it was offered. His admonition to Wang’s protests had been that such a feast would be reserved for the future, once the great victory had been achieved. There was little Wang could say to that.
He was growing impatient, looked around the crude camp, motioned to Wang, said, “Is General Gao aware that I am waiting for him?”
Wang moved closer, a short bow, his voice low. “Quite so, sir. We have expected his arrival at any time.”
To one side, Sung saw the Russian, seated at a small fire.
“Major Orlov, you will extinguish that blaze. Have you no regard for our safety?”
Orlov did not hesitate, gathered a handful of dirt, tossed it on the fire, then another, his hand working to wave away the remaining smoke. Orlov stood, uncoiling his long legs, moved closer, said, “My apologies, General Sung. I intended to keep the fire very small, the smoke to a minimum. I have been saving a tin of boiled meat, and it is not a pleasant experience when eaten cold.”
Orlov always seemed cheerful, which annoyed Sung even more. He kept his seat, his legs curled on a thin cushion, said, “Care must be taken, always. I should not have to remind you what the American planes can do to us if our location is discovered. Smoke will draw their bombers like rats to a stinking carcass.”
“Of course, General. I shall be more careful.” Orlov moved closer still, towering over Sung. “I have been curious about one practice I have observed here. Your men ingest a great deal of garlic. In some parts of the Soviet Union, the lands to the east, that is considered a wise precaution against creatures of the night. Specifically, vampires. It is likely you know little of such things. We tend to regard that as superstition, and there is no place for that in our army. I do not wish to insult you, or suggest that you rely on superstition in any form.”
“Major, the garlic is for our health. It is widely accepted that garlic holds a great many medicinal properties. The health of this army is important to me, as it is to Chairman Mao. Mao is an enthusiastic advocate for the benefits of garlic. And so am I.”
Orlov seemed satisfied, rubbed his nose. “I admit, it has taken me some time to become accustomed to the aroma produced by such a practice.”
“You should ingest it yourself. Not only will it be of great benefit, but it might relieve your discomfort. You wish to become a part of this army, that will certainly assist.”
Sung saw Wang down the draw, scanning off into the woods with his binoculars. Sung frowned, folded his arms. Where is Gao?
Orlov said, “Is there some problem today, General?”
Sung looked up, saw the maddening smile, still wondered how much he could reveal to this man. “I am displeased with my subordinate. Surely that has happened to you.”
Orlov chuckled. “Never. There is no displeasure in the Soviet army.”
Sung’s aide turned, others pointing down a sloping hill.
“Sir, there is a horse team approaching. It could be General Gao.”
Sung heard the hoofbeats now, pulled himself to his feet. One of the aides nodded fiercely. “Yes, sir. It is General Gao and his staff.”
Sung felt his patience snap, wanted to march that way, held a tight grip on his decorum. He closed his eyes briefly, let out a breath, knew that Orlov was watching him.
Sung saw Gao hand the reins to an aide, adjusting his uniform with the flourish of a man in no hurry at all. One of Sung’s aides was close to Gao now, pointed toward Sung, Gao making a show of removing his gauntlets. Sung pulled himself up, rocked slowly on his heels, forced himself to wait. Gao stopped in front of him, offered a crisp salute, with a pronounced glance toward Orlov.
Gao Shu was nearly as old as Sung, another of Mao Tse-tung’s loyal veterans. He had commanded the 124th Division since the army had been reorganized, a logical choice based on his experience fighting the Nationalists. But his arrogance seemed to hide greater ambition, the always nagging concern that a subordinate considered himself worthy of far greater command, perhaps Sung’s command. Sung knew that, often, that kind of obvious arrogance masked something else: a weakened spirit for the difficult fight. Like many of Mao’s troops, Sung had seen something fall away, that perhaps too much had been left behind in those awful struggles against the Nationalists.
“I expected a thorough report from your command much sooner.”
Gao stood stiffly, a glance at Orlov, who seemed to know when to withdraw.
Orlov said, “If you will permit me, I shall return to my perch. I should like to enjoy this cold meat.”
Sung nodded, looked again at Gao, was surprised to see a hint of tears in the man’s eyes. Gao lowered his head, said, “Sir, might we speak away from the camp?”
There was nothing arrogant in Gao’s demeanor now, his voice soft. Sung said nothing, motioned toward a cluster of brush, farther up the hill. He turned, Gao following, and Sung felt a punch of sadness. So, he thought, it is true.
The first reports of the clash south of Sudong had carried few details of the struggle. Sung had always relied on his teams of observers, planted high above the fight, officers who would creep forward in the quiet times, absorbing as much information as possible. Some of that information concerned Sung’s commanders, carefully weighing just what kind of performance a man could achieve under so much pressure. The responsibility for providing Sung with the more graphic details of the fighting lay with Gao, but now, as they moved farther from the activity of the camp, Sung could feel the kind of emotion from Gao he hoped never to see.
Sung stopped, stared away, said, “I know little of what occurred with your confrontation. You are aware of course that my observation posts can only report now what they see of the American aid stations, their command posts, their ambulances and trucks removing wounded and dead from the field. You are very well aware that I must hear a great deal more from you.”
He moved farther up toward the brush, a glance skyward, soft blue and silence, the sunlight reflecting off snow-covered peaks on the hills in every direction. He waited, and finally Gao responded.
“General, at your request, I am here to report on the losses to my regiments. I regret that my division absorbed heavier losses than I had anticipated. For such a cost, I would have hoped to drive the enemy away.”
Sung knew that his troops far outnumbered the Marines, though American firepower would always be superior to anything he could offer.
Casualties were part of the process, the routine, his officers knowing that, in every fight, sacrifice could mean victory. Sung waited for more, eyed Gao for some signs that this was a show, a performance with some greater meaning. But Gao seemed genuinely moved, stood with his hands behind his back, as though awaiting execution.
Sung said, “You were not ordered to drive the enemy away. You were ordered to strike him with as much energy as your troops could provide. You were ordered to demonstrate to the Americans that we are not to be ignored. You were to provide a message to them that if they continue their outrageous invasion, they shall be destroyed.”
Gao absorbed Sung’s words, lowered his head again. “I did not expect to pay such a price.”
“How much of a price?”
Gao hesitated, and Sung had no patience for another show.
“How much of a price, General?”
Gao kept his head down, retrieved a paper from his coat pocket, handed it to Sung. “I was delayed this morning, as we did not have final accounting. I knew you would want to know in detail.”
Sung took the paper, saw columns of numbers, Gao’s three regiments listed in order. He scanned the figures, his eyes on one column, his eyes widening.
“You are correct, General Gao. I do wish to know these details. You claim that the Three Hundred Seventy-first Regiment lost eight hundred men? Eight hundred?”
“Yes, sir. I wish to suggest that the regiment is no longer fit for active service. It was not so bad in the others. But the enemy was well prepared, and though we did create holes in his defenses and drive a sword into their rear encampments, we could not maintain the breakthroughs. The enemy did not retreat from their positions. He instead was quick to counterattack. His tactics were most effective, and his weaponry is not to be underestimated.”
“General Gao, I have never underestimated the weaponry of the Americans. It is why we march at night. It is why we use stealth in every operation we can. It is why we attack him with overwhelming superiority in numbers.”
Gao nodded. “Yes, sir. I understand. I did not expect to lose such a large number of men. They are good men, sir. Perhaps we should employ a different tactic. They made an excellent charge.”
Sung stuffed the paper in his pocket, was more annoyed now. “Of course they made an excellent charge! That is what we must do, in every fight! I am not disappointed in the effort of your men, General. Only in the resolve of their commander. There is no different tactic available to us.” Sung paused, studied the emotion on Gao’s face. “Who is the commanding officer of Three Hundred Seventy-first Regiment?”
Gao looked at him now. “Colonel Feng Bo.”
Sung weighed the name. “I know him. He was wounded sometime ago, a fight I recall well. He is a hero to Chairman Mao.”
“Yes, sir. He was fortunate to survive.”
“He is more than fortunate, General Gao. He is chosen by fate. And now fate will choose him again. Colonel Feng is a man who understands what we must do to defeat this enemy. I believe he should be promoted to command the division. You will hand me your sword.”
Gao’s eyes widened. “Sir?”
“Now.” Gao’s hands were shaking, the tears returning. He struggled with the belt, and Sung said, “Just the sword. I do not require you to relinquish the scabbard.”
Gao said nothing, handed the sword to Sung, a steady flow of tears on the man’s face.
“Your weakness is a disease that cannot be allowed to spread. You can be cured of this if you apply yourself to the counsel of Chairman Mao. You have already shown the first step toward redemption. I am pleased that you did not disgrace yourself further by begging me for your command. You will report to Colonel Liu of my staff. He is down below in that deep ravine. He shall find another position for you, as one becomes available. I regret losing your experience. But experience is not enough. You must be willing to do what is required.”
Gao seemed to accept his punishment, and Sung was relieved, had no need to humiliate the man. The loss of command would be humiliating enough. Gao saluted him, and Sung acknowledged it.
“If you will permit, sir, I shall find Colonel Liu.”
“Go.”
Gao stepped away, straightening himself, a show of dignity that Sung was pleased to see. He shall return, he thought. Not a division, perhaps, but some command.
Sung stretched his back, felt the sunlight on his face, absorbed the pleasing warmth.
“Well, that was difficult, certainly.”
Sung turned abruptly, saw Orlov standing just above him on the slope, pushing his way through the brush. Sung felt a burst of fury, said, “Major, you will not conduct yourself like some kind of spy. You are a guest of this command, and I expect you to behave with appropriate decorum. What transpires between me and my officers is not for your entertainment.”
“I assure you, General, I am not entertained. Forgive me for saying so, but that seemed especially harsh. His troops are, shall I say, massacred? And you would punish him? Just what did he do wrong?”
Sung studied Orlov, who stood close to him now, scanning the sunlit hillside. “Are you so arrogant, Major, that you would ignore my instructions? You are not to listen in on my private meetings with my officers.”
“What can happen? I am not in league with the enemy. We are many miles from anyplace you could abandon me. You would have questions to answer about that. I am here only to offer support, General. But I am not a part of your command. As you say, I am a guest. I am independent, and if you allow me to do the job I was assigned to do, we could all benefit.”
Sung tried to hold his anger. “What is that job?”
Orlov shrugged, the smile again. “Observe. And, if you allow it…advise. We are not adversaries, you and I.” He pulled a small flask from his pocket, sniffed it, took a small drink. Orlov’s face curled, and he shook his head. “Got this from a Korean farmer. Well, no, I will be honest. I got it from one of your soldiers. Not everyone in this army shares your lust for sobriety.” He held the flask out toward Sung. “Are you certain you won’t have some?”
Sung shook his head, felt defeated, knew that everything Orlov had said was accurate, that the Russians might be far more important to this fight than anyone in Peking desired. And Sung couldn’t fight the feeling that in some remote place inside himself, he actually liked the man.
“General Gao did not do anything wrong in the field. Nor did his men. They attacked the enemy and many men died. It is what happens in war. I do not have to explain that to you. General Gao’s failure was his sorrow. His regret. He mourns the loss of his casualties. That is a dangerous mistake. It might produce hesitation, uncertainty. His will to make the next attack might be weakened. That is unacceptable.”
Orlov slid the flask into his pocket, the smile fading. “It is not wrong for a leader to care for the lives of his men.”
“Perhaps not in your army. Perhaps not for the Americans. You are accustomed to grand and powerful weapons. You strike your enemy with massive artillery rounds, with bombs from high above. Since your government has not offered us such assistance, I am forced to use the only weapon I have. My soldiers understand this; my officers must understand this. We must rely on stealth and darkness. And most important, we must rely on the power of our numbers. There are eight thousand men in each division, and when we attack, we must engage every man. Every man must carry the fight, from the bugler to the commanding general, and every man must understand the sacrifice and the cost in lives that we must expend in every fight. And we must be willing to give every piece of ourselves to the cause. Such dedication…it is the only advantage this army has, perhaps the only advantage China has.” He stopped, reached into a pocket. “You are aware of this, of course?”
Orlov nodded, the smile returning. “I have seen a great many field manuals for troops, General. I must say, this one is…unique.”
“It is written by one of yours, Major. A Russian naval captain, I believe. We have embraced its message, and only made
alterations where needed. It is merely a history lesson, a recounting of just why we are fighting this war, what is at stake.”
Orlov rubbed his chin. “As I recall, you refer to General MacArthur as a Wall Street house dog, a professional murderer, a war criminal. It says that he has urged his troops to capture whatever spoils they might steal from the kindly people of Korea, including, of course, all the young girls. It is, I would say, delicious reading. I never realized the Americans were such barbarians. I had rather thought my navy’s captain had someone else in mind when he authored this, perhaps someone in Berlin.”
“You may dismiss this if you wish, Major. But we have adopted this manual for its intended effects on the dedication of our soldiers. I added my own orders, more specific to this fight before us. The American Marine is a rapacious beast, whose lust grows ever stronger as he embraces the pleasure from the punishment and torture he inflicts on the innocent citizen of Korea. I have instructed my soldiers to kill every Marine as he would a snake in his home. Every soldier has read this pamphlet, and if they did not believe it the first time, they will have read it again. And again. If he cannot read, his officers will read it to him.”
“I applaud you, General. It is a most effective piece of propaganda. We do what we must, eh?”
Sung thought a moment, said, “Am I accurate in observing that your Chairman Stalin distrusts his military officers?”
Orlov seemed caught off guard, his eyes wide, the smile returning. “In the past, there have been some problems that the Chairman has eliminated by removing certain negative elements.”
“Chairman Mao trusts his generals, Major. We are given the task of carrying out the Chairman’s vision, serving him with every means he has granted us. In this army, that requires us to use our soldiers as you would use bullets. It is the most effective way, perhaps the only way, we can crush the enemies of China. Right now, the enemy is offering us the enormous gift of his arrogance. He believes he has defeated us in battle. He will celebrate. He will become confident. And so he will become careless. Even now, the American Marines continue their march northward, on a single avenue, extending themselves farther into this difficult land. On either side of their march, my observers are watching, reporting to me exactly what I expect to hear. The strategy we shall employ is one that Chairman Mao perfected during our great struggle. Since you wish to observe us, then you may observe just what we shall do to win this war. I am positioning this army in the shape of a great wedge. It is not as a spear point, but just the opposite. It is a great open mouth, jaws wide, inviting the Americans to continue their march northward as though we are nowhere close. And when the time is right, the jaws shall close. Chairman Mao will celebrate another magnificent military victory, one that will carry China into a new age, where we do not kneel to anyone, not even your Chairman Stalin. My duty is clear, and my superiors are confident that my strategy will succeed. My army shall very soon destroy an entire division of American Marines.”
