by Jeff Shaara
With Smith now able to bring his troops closer together, the first priority was just how the advance Almond still insisted upon could be made more efficient. The road northward was as dismal as reports had indicated, and immediately Smith ordered engineering teams to put their heavy equipment to work, widening the road as it wound through the steeper mountains. Moving the men also meant moving the artillery, tanks, and larger trucks, vast convoys of weaponry and supplies that Smith intended to keep close to his camps. With the supplies now catching up to his troops, Smith ordered vast supply dumps to be constructed along the routes the men had already marched, from Chinhung-ni, through Koto-ri, and finally, as far north as Hagaru-ri. But Smith was not satisfied with the supplies coming from the naval ships at the ports. At Koto-ri he ordered an existing airstrip to be enlarged and improved, suitable for the air force’s C-47s, the twin-engine workhorses that could deliver additional supplies as needed, as well as transporting casualties to the hospital ships and medical facilities farther south.
FIRST MARINE DIVISION HQ—HAMHUNG, NORTH KOREA—NOVEMBER 10, 1950
He felt better than he had in days, the staff feeling that as well, the labor of the headquarters performed without complaint, a smooth flow of paperwork and logistical instructions for the movement of the vast new inflow of supplies. The mood of his staff was buoyant for another reason as well. November 10 was the 175th anniversary of the United States Marine Corps, a date every Marine embraced.
He watched the men move toward him with careful steps, the cake carried between them, placed lovingly on the desk cleared for the occasion. The staff gathered close, and Smith absorbed their mood, the smiles. He slid the pipe into his mouth, tasted the delicious smoke, watched as Sexton hovered close to the cake, now producing a lighter. Sexton looked at him, waiting for approval, and Smith nodded toward the cake, the lighter clicking on, the first two candles lit. Sexton abruptly cut off the flames, lit the lighter again, two more candles, the lighter going off once more. To one side, a young aide laughed, said, “Hey, Captain. You need a stronger thumb to keep that thing lit?”
Sexton straightened, a look of seriousness, said to the gathering, “They don’t teach you boys a damn thing, do they? You ever heard the expression, three on a match?”
The officers nodded silently, some of the enlisted men as well. But others, mostly the younger men, seemed perplexed, heads shaking. Sexton looked at Smith, mock disgust.
“What’s the world come to, sir?”
Smith held the pipe in his mouth with one hand. “Go on. Tell them.”
Sexton assumed an air of authority now, hands behind his back. “In the First World War, the men in the trenches found out very quickly that in the time it takes a man to light three cigarettes with a single match, a sniper across the way could find the range, and make his aim. More than one doughboy died because he was being a nice guy for his buddies, whether it was cigarettes, or, maybe, like right now, three candles. That’s a lesson you should learn this way, by me telling you, than some commie sniper showing you.”
The mood suddenly changed, the visual of Sexton’s description sinking into the younger men. Smith knew Sexton had gone too far, said, “Just cut the cake, Captain. No snipers here.”
Sexton obliged with his Ka-bar, the cake quickly disappearing onto mess plates, paper napkins, most of the men not bothering with a fork. Beside him, Craig took a piece, handed another to Smith, and Craig said, “Should I read the note from Admiral Joy?”
Smith put a forkful of the cake into his mouth, nodded, and Craig smiled, said, “Gentlemen, we have received a most kind letter from Admiral C. Turner Joy, the man most responsible for the navy hauling us into Inchon. We may not have the closest of friends among the ground pounders, but you can be assured that the squids know just who has their back.”
Smith finished the square of cake, said, “Just read the note.”
Craig held up a paper, read, “On the occasion of your one hundred seventy-fifth anniversary I consider it indeed an honor and a privilege to salute our courageous comrades in arms, the United States Marines, wherever you may be. You can justly be proud of your past record, of your present gallant and heroic exploits in the Korean campaign, and God willing, you will face the future with the knowledge that you have done much toward restoring a happy and peaceful world.”
Smith raised the pipe, all eyes on him now. “To a peaceful world.”
—
It was late, the party concluded, the cake long gone. Smith sat on his sleeping bag, stared at the paper, held the pen poised above. He smiled, tried to picture his granddaughter, couldn’t avoid a flicker of sadness. She’ll be grown the next time I see her. It happens so fast.
He looked up, saw Bowser in the doorway.
“Sorry, sir, didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Come in, Al. Just working on a letter to Esther. Thinking about my granddaughter, Gail.”
“How old is she now, sir?”
“Six. But she’ll be sixteen before you know it. Seems it’s always been like this. I’m off in who-knows-where, and their lives just march on.” He stopped, was never comfortable talking about these kinds of feelings. “Sorry. What’s up?”
“Nothing, really. The staff is mostly in their quarters. No reports of any major action. Seems the Chinese are respecting our celebration.” Bowser paused. “You haven’t been outside, have you, sir?”
“Why?”
“Pretty impressive. Temperature dropped about thirty degrees since sundown. I guess winter’s finally here. Just didn’t expect it to come in all at once.”
Smith heard a rattle, looked at the lone window, could hear the wind now. “How cold?”
“Not sure. If it’s this cold here, though, pretty sure it’s getting a little rough up in the hills. I’m guessing the men will be a little happier with those heavy coats.”
—
The assault against the Marines at Sudong had only deepened what seemed to be a complete shift in strategy, the concern much more now for consolidation and a posture of defense. Smith had used that shift to the advantage of his division, Ned Almond allowing him far more leeway than Smith had enjoyed before.
But the Chinese had seemed to offer MacArthur a new gift. By pulling away from any confrontation with the bruised American units, embarrassed intelligence officers in Tokyo could now point to their original estimates, that the Chinese were in fact a minor force of no real significance. With the disappearance of the Chinese across the entire front, and the reconnaissance teams failing to learn just where they had gone, a buoyant confidence once again blossomed in Tokyo. Urgent discussions about the possible evacuation of American forces from Korean ports were suddenly silenced, replaced by MacArthur’s renewed enthusiasm for ending this war as he had always planned.
On November 11, new orders were passed down to both Eighth Army and Smith’s Marines. The march would once more be resumed, and there would be no hesitation, no cautious halt for winter. Once more MacArthur was insisting that they drive hard and fast to the Yalu River.
Smith received the order with annoyed frustration. Nowhere in Almond’s renewed sense of glee was there any explanation for just how the yawning gap between Eighth Army and Tenth Corps was to be resolved. Despite claims from Tokyo that each force was protecting the flank of the other, Smith knew that as his Marines advanced closer to the Chosin Reservoir, Walton Walker’s army units were on the far side of a vast and rugged mountain range, still nearly seventy miles away.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Riley
KOTO-RI, NORTH KOREA—NOVEMBER 10, 1950
THEY AWOKE TO a fresh blanket of snow that painted the mountains around them with the kind of beauty the Marines had forgotten. Once more, the orders were to march north, the road now as steep as the hills they passed, the climb up through what the maps called the Funchilin Pass. The march was slow and methodical, Colonel Litzenberg obeying the spirit of General Smith’s order that the advance be deliberate, cautious. With the Seven
th still in the lead, Litzenberg had pushed small reconnaissance patrols up into the hills along both sides of the road, discreetly probing the hollows and narrows, seeking out any hidden enemy. There had been confrontations, but they were brief and very limited, mostly scattered posts of Chinese lookouts, sent scurrying away. The men were as nervous as their commander, anticipating another sudden assault from every hidden place. But the Chinese had indeed backed away, allowing the Marines to climb ever higher through the pass. Litzenberg had no interest in the intelligence reports still pouring toward them from Tokyo that whatever enemy they had collided with had most certainly scurried back toward the Yalu River. From Litzenberg down to the privates who trudged their way up muddy ruts in a soggy road, no one paid any attention now to MacArthur’s amazing optimism, Tokyo still trumpeting that these men would leave this miserable land in time to celebrate Christmas with their families. Each day’s march put them farther from the seaports to the south, and closer to what they all believed would be another fight.
At the top of the pass, the ground flattened, a plateau some three thousand feet higher than the hills they had left behind at Sudong. Bone-chilling blasts of wind now that staggered the men as they marched, slicing through their clothing. The careless quickly learned to fasten their overcoats, the hoods yanked down hard over the wool hats, watery eyes staring down, feet moving in the steady rhythm that matched the man to your front. The march warmed them a little, sweat soaking their undershirts, the columns stopping periodically, orders to the men to change their socks.
A few miles below their goal of Koto-ri, they had marched past a power station, a concrete bridge that carried them over four enormous pipes, man-made waterways that funneled the flow from the Changjin River northward, down through the plateau and valley that eventually led to the great reservoir that the Japanese maps labeled Chosin. But the power plant was merely a break in the scenery, the men paying little heed, even if the engineers among them were quietly impressed. Most of the men strained to hear any sounds of an ambush, hesitating at each sharp bend in the road, the recon patrols still fanning out over the hills above them. By late afternoon they reached the outskirts of Koto-ri, and once more the lieutenants passed the word: Prepare to dig in.
—
The first two battalions had already spread out through Koto-ri, some of those men patrolling the outlying villages. Like Koto-ri itself, the smaller settlements showed the effect of American air strikes, each village no more than a pothole of ruin along narrow trails.
The town had already taken a new shape, camps set up, tents erected, aid stations and command posts. Trucks were rolling in, a slow procession, one tank moving past, clanking its way farther north. Riley loved the tanks, no one disagreeing with him, the men around him staring as he was, grateful for the power in the steel beast.
They passed men working, shovels chopping into hard ground, a handful of men erecting a larger tent. There were jeeps there, wheels thick with mud, Welch mumbling beside him, “Brass. Maybe Old Homer wants a nap.”
McCarthy led them farther into the wreckage, all that remained of the town, more Marines in every open place, familiar officers, the other companies of Litzenberg’s Seventh establishing their base. The men mostly ignored one another, but Riley heard the calls from the column, friends seeking friends, and behind him Killian said, “Hey! There’s Hooperman!” He was louder now, “Hey, Dog Breath! Your mama let you run loose?”
The man stood knee-deep in a foxhole, shovel now resting on his shoulder. He stared toward Killian for a long moment, then broke into a smile, climbed up, walked toward the road.
“I told you if you ever mention my mama again, I’d polish my bayonet on your nut sack.”
“Give it a try, Hoop. I could use the attention.”
Up ahead, McCarthy had stopped, was speaking to an officer Riley didn’t know, Lieutenant Goolsby leading the rest of the platoon into a small blasted field. Riley hung back with Killian, said, “Didn’t know you had any friends.”
“Hell, yes! Known this ugly son of a bitch since basic. Corporal Wayne Hooperman, this here is Pete Riley. He’d have made corporal, but he’s too stupid.”
Hooperman nodded toward Riley. “Pleased to meet you. I don’t see any stripes on your arm, Sean. I guess the Corps ain’t so hard up they gotta promote big dumb Irishmen.”
Riley could feel the man’s good cheer, smiled, said, “We passed a goat a ways back. Sean saluted it. Guess he knows his place.”
Hooperman laughed, said to Killian, “Hey, I like your friend. Knows you as well as I do.”
Killian made a mock scowl. “No friend. Just a rifleman lucky enough to share my hole. I gotta teach him to throw a grenade, not just drop it on his toes.” Killian pulled out his canteen. “Glad you’re okay, even if you’re still the ugliest Marine in Korea.”
There was a softness to the Irishman’s words, a hint of sentiment that Riley rarely saw. Hooperman nodded, said, “Yeah. We lost a couple men in that last scrap. No fun at all. Hey, you guys are Fox. I knew your captain back in Pendleton. Damn shame he’s gone, huh?”
Riley waited for more, glanced at Killian. “What do you mean?”
Hooperman seemed surprised. “The word passed along this afternoon. Zorn’s been pulled out, transferred to headquarters or something. He always wanted to be with the big boys. I guess somebody noticed him. You meet your new CO yet?”
Riley was confused, thought, Zorn’s gone? He looked toward McCarthy, saw the lieutenant with the other two platoon leaders, and still the unfamiliar officer. Riley saw Welch moving closer, the sergeant hearing the talk. Welch said to Hooperman, “They don’t tell us a damn thing till it’s over with. There’s some fresh-faced captain up ahead, talking to the lieutenants. Guess we’ll meet him soon enough.”
McCarthy stepped away from the meeting, looked out toward his men, called out, “Third Platoon, fall in here! Take a seat.”
The men responded, other lieutenants calling to their platoons, the entire company coming together. Welch kept his voice low, said to Riley, “That’s gotta be him. Captain Freshface. They can’t leave anything be. I guess officers gotta move around or they get moldy.”
Riley kept his eyes on the new captain, a tall, lean man, older, hands on his hips. Riley noticed now, the man’s clothing was perfect, dungarees pressed, the jacket seeming to be new. The captain watched as the men sat, appraising them with a hard frown. The chatter grew silent, and the captain moved into the middle of the formation, the company on three sides of him.
“Listen up! I’m Captain William Barber, your new CO. Captain Zorn has transferred. I want you to know, I’m no ninety-day wonder. I started as an enlisted man in World War II. I received my commission in 1943, and like some of you, I ate gravel at Iwo Jima. I took two wounds there, two Purple Hearts. They thought I needed a Silver Star, too. I ended that war as a company commander, and somebody thought I did a good job of it. So my job is to lead you men into whatever scrap the enemy has planned for us. You pay attention, and you’ll likely survive. You don’t, and you’ll end up in a bag. I may not know beans about strategy, but I know a hell of a lot about tactics. Frankly, I’m a hell of a good infantry officer!” He paused. “Who’s here from Kentucky?” Several hands went up, and Barber said, “Me, too. Dehart. East of Lexington. Don’t worry, you never heard of it. I also need to inform you that effective immediately, we have a new battalion commander. Major Sawyer has been replaced by Colonel Randolph Lockwood. If Colonel Lockwood feels the need to talk to you, he’ll let me know.” Barber scanned the men closely. “You are a motley group. Pancho Villa’s bandits looked more fit than you. That will change. By tonight I want every man cleaned up and shaved. I want weapons cleaned, and you will fall out for a conditioning hike at oh–six hundred tomorrow. This company has too few veterans and too many children. You will shape up, or I’ll find you a kindergarten to fit you. You are dismissed.”
Riley stared, his mouth hanging open. Beside him, Killian said, “What t
he hell is this war coming to? You see his dungarees? They’re creased, for God’s sake.”
Riley watched Barber walk away, had nothing to say. Behind him, Welch said, “That’s just great. We got us a pantywaist captain who thinks we need basic training.”
McCarthy was there now, no smile, said, “Maybe we do, Sergeant. You want to bitch, you go right ahead. But if Captain Barber gives you an order, you will damn well obey it. You got a problem with that, you take it out on the Chinese.”
—
The foxholes were mostly completed, darkness beginning to spread over the field. Riley cleaned his hands in a softening pile of muddy snow, thought of the C-rations in his backpack. I’m so damn hungry, he thought, I might actually enjoy that slop. In the distance came the rhythmic thump of a helicopter, and he stared up, stretching his back. He folded the small shovel, watched the chopper ease down in a wide clearing near the larger tents. One man was signaling, guiding the chopper to rest, and now another chopper appeared, and from a narrow gap in the hills, two more. Riley said, “What the hell?”
Killian was watching as well, others around them turning that way. The choppers set down, a lengthening row in the field, another pair now coming over the closest hill, dropping low near the rest. Killian said, “I bet they’re gonna tell us that’s how we’re moving north. Our new spic-and-span captain thinks we oughta keep our uniforms clean. Hell, no. I ain’t riding in those damn things.”
Around them, men were laughing at Killian, and Welch called over, “Hey, Irish. I volunteered you for test pilot. Your buddy Hooperman said you were the perfect man for the job.”
More laughs, and Riley moved out away from the hole, watched men unloading small crates from each chopper, piling them near the largest tent. Officers were gathering now, the other company commanders, and Captain Barber, the only man with no mud on his uniform. He saw McCarthy speaking to Barber, and McCarthy saluted him, then moved toward Riley at a jog.
