by Jeff Shaara
Riley saw a herd of men stampeding toward the tents, plates in hand. There were MPs there now, keeping order, lines forming in front of the tents, the aides filling the plates from an assortment of tubs and trays. Riley watched as the man in front of him speared the turkey, flopping it on his plate, another man ladling out sweet potatoes and gravy, others with fruit salad, pieces of mince pie. He watched with pure lust as his own plate grew heavier, a dish of shrimp cocktail the final prize. He felt himself pushed to one side, didn’t object, slid away from the throng. All around him, men were shouting, cheering the joy of the moment. Morelli was there now, staring at the feast on his plate, said, “This is amazing, Pete! We gotta find the camp, tell the others.”
“They already know. That officer said there were kitchens set up everywhere.”
Riley pinched a slice of turkey in his gloved fingers, dropped it into his mouth. He closed his eyes, savored the astonishing flavor, put his face down, licked at the gravy.
Beside him, Morelli said, “Damn. It’s cold already.”
“Chow down while you can, kid.”
Morelli fingered his plate, said, “My fruit’s already froze up.”
“Eat. Talk later.”
Riley shoveled the food with his fingers, the gloves already stiffening with the wetness. He searched for a place to sit, moved away from the crowd, sat down heavily on the ground. Morelli landed beside him, and Riley stuffed another piece of turkey into his mouth, the gravy a thick glue. He fought through it, felt the cold in a lump pushing down his throat, stared at the plate, picked up the slice of pie, tried to pinch it, the pie already a frozen brick.
—
The entire Marine division had been provided with the luxury of a Thanksgiving dinner, the heavy trucks pushing all the way to Hagaru-ri with instructions to provide a generous feast. As word spread to the various camps, the men responded, gathering dutifully, warmed if only for a few seconds by the great vats of steaming food, pots of scalding coffee. Once loaded down, the men scampered back to their perches, and in nearly every case, the plummeting temperatures won the battle. Before the men could enjoy their Thanksgiving dinner, it had frozen solid.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Smith
TENTH CORPS HQ, HUNGNAM, NORTH KOREA—NOVEMBER 23, 1950
THE TABLECLOTHS WERE white linen, the aides serving the officers clad in white vests, white gloves, the bowls of steaming vegetables set down between the enormous platters of turkey.
“Sir, right this way.” Smith followed the aide to a chair near the end of one of the long tables. “Here you are, sir. Note the placecard.”
Smith saw the small folded card on the table, his name written with script no Marine had ever used. He looked for Bowser, saw him at another table, scanning the name cards. Beside Smith, Chesty Puller was grumbling.
“Thank God I’m next to you. Won’t have to think up something to say to some ground-pounding desk clerk.”
Smith ignored him, watched as the other men began to seat themselves, happy chatter flowing through the room, more than two dozen senior officers from Tenth Corps offering up compliments to their host. The Marine air wing commander, General Field Harris, sat a few seats down from Smith, the only other Marine in the room. Smith caught his eye, saw an uncomfortable frown, Harris silently holding up a silver fork. Smith looked at his own place setting, all of it silver, the plates a fine bone china. The aides were pouring champagne now, and Almond stood at the head of the longest table, a champagne glass in his hand.
“If I may, gentlemen. My mess has prepared a wonderful feast for this occasion, most of it flown in fresh from Tokyo. I’ve always insisted that my command should have only the best, and on this Thanksgiving Day, I have seen to it!”
Officers raised their glasses, happy murmurs from men in dress uniforms, some of them unfamiliar to Smith. Smith held his glass aloft belatedly, the moment past, and he saw Bowser smiling at him. Smith stared at him, the silent message.
I hate parties. And this party, he thought, is utterly ridiculous.
Beside him, Puller leaned in close, said in a whisper just a bit too loud, “I had a pretty fair Thanksgiving mess planned for my HQ. Somebody found a vulture, dressed it up to look like Tom Turkey.”
Smith wasn’t sure if Puller was kidding or not. He said nothing, thought of the turkey that had been provided for his own staff by the navy’s Admiral Doyle, a generous offering, a symbol of the navy’s quiet support for Smith’s efforts. And I’m here. China and silverware. And placecards. We’re in the middle of a war, for crying out loud.
Puller leaned in again, said, “I forgot to polish my boots for this shindig. I’m not certain, but I think yours are even dirtier. Where’d these fellows get all these class A uniforms?”
“Can it, Lewie.”
Smith knew Puller was just as miserable as he was and he glanced at his watch, thought, Just get this over with.
Almond stood again, said, “I understand protocol, of course, and I am eagerly awaiting Chaplain Bryan’s blessing for this wonderful bounty. But I cannot help but offer a toast toward the man responsible for all of us being assembled here today.”
Smith stirred in his chair, looked at Bryan, the chaplain expressionless, staring down at his plate. This should be your time, Chaplain. Almond should know better, and I’m certain you do. Prayer before toasts.
Almond seemed oblivious to the odd breach of custom, said, “If you will all be seated. There, fine, yes. We are privileged to enjoy the glorious responsibility that comes with this command, and I feel we should give thanks to the man to whom we all owe so much. I offer a salute to our supreme commander, General Douglas MacArthur….”
—
“I didn’t hear you say anything for our supreme commander.”
Smith looked at Bowser. “What?”
“Almond’s toast.”
“I toasted. Just kept it to myself. He breached protocol, you know.”
“How?”
“The blessing. The chaplain always goes first. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”
“Sorry, sir. You’re right, of course. Maybe I was too dazzled by General Almond’s eloquence.”
Smith ignored Bowser’s sarcasm, braced himself as the car jumped, another pothole the driver could not avoid. Smith rode now in a heated station wagon, had succumbed to the need to prevent freezing to death on his many journeys to the regimental command posts. It was a luxury he did not take for granted, passing camps of men engulfed in their coats, performing duties difficult enough for men in summertime.
Bowser sniffed, said, “Why’s he do all of that, anyway? He trying to prove he can outdo every supply officer in Korea? Silver and china?”
Smith shook his head. “He did it because he can. That toast was just a reminder that it’s MacArthur who says he can.”
“Food was good. I’ll give him that.”
“Can’t say. Forgot what I ate. Kept thinking about that plain old turkey the navy sent us. I hope the staff had a good meal. They’ve earned it.”
Bowser laughed. “I’m sure they did. With you and me gone, that was two more servings for the rest of them.”
Smith tried to wash the experience at Almond’s HQ out of his mind, thought, Thanksgiving should be about family. The only family I have out here are those staff officers.
“That’s where we should have been. I should have told Almond no, that we were too busy, what with the war and all.” He regretted his own sarcasm, thought of the turkey from the admiral, the far more pleasant feast he had to leave behind. “They know we’re headed back. Maybe they saved us some of the admiral’s gift.”
Bowser looked at him again, laughed, and Smith couldn’t help a smile. Bowser shook his head, said, “No chance.”
HAGARU-RI, NORTH KOREA—NOVEMBER 24, 1950
The skirmishes were becoming more intense, daily confrontations with Chinese patrols, small-scale fights that seemed to show that the enemy was becoming more aggressive. Smith continued to vis
it his commanders, grateful that Puller’s men had finally caught up with the northern push from the others, most of First Regiment now centered around Koto-ri.
He watched the great machines at work on the airstrip, the engineers keeping them in motion twenty-four hours a day. Beside him, Craig spoke into a radio, the radioman and a squad of guards keeping careful watch on the surroundings. To the east, a massive hill rose up, what Smith had already suspected was a prime overlook for any Chinese observers monitoring progress on the construction. So far there had been little interference, but Smith knew that could change at any time.
Craig handed the radio receiver to the young man beside him, said, “Harris says his pilots are starting to see a great deal more activity to the west. The reports from the Chinese prisoners seem to be accurate. They’re out there, for sure.”
Smith kept his eyes on a huge bulldozer, scraping the hard ground with a massive steel blade. “They’ve always been out there. They wanted us here.”
Craig pulled at the hood of his coat, covered his head. “What do you mean?”
“That bridge, back down the road. I think of this every time I cross the thing.”
“You mean, Funchilin Pass?”
“Yep. The Chinese should have blown it to bits. It would have delayed us for days. But they left it intact. We thought they did us a favor. It was for them, not us. They wanted us up here, doing exactly what we’re doing. We’re turning cartwheels doing everything we can to prepare for whatever fight we’re going to have. We’re scrambling to haul supplies up to every depot we’ve created. We’re scrambling to bring the men together.”
“At least that’s working out.”
Smith glanced up, a squad of Corsairs passing high above. “It’s better than it was. But don’t be surprised if the enemy doesn’t figure a way to blow that bridge anyway, now that we’re up here. It’ll cut us off from supply, from reinforcement. And Tenth Corps has no idea what’s going on out here. Almond’s too busy waging war with Walton Walker, trying to make points with MacArthur and the newspapers. Who’s gonna get to the Yalu first, who’s gonna get to brag about victory.”
“We got a report from Seventh Division that some of their boys closer to the shore shot up there a few days ago, alongside some ROK. But they didn’t have any support, so they pissed in the river and hightailed it back down.”
“I guess they’re pretty proud of that major accomplishment.”
“Probably. It’ll look good back home.”
Behind them, an aide said, “Sirs, there’s a jeep coming up.”
Smith turned, was surprised to see Bowser and Sexton, a driver with his face wrapped in a green scarf. Bowser climbed from the jeep, slapping himself with his arms, the customary shiver.
“What are you doing up here, Colonel?”
“Had to see Murray, unscrew some snafu with his supplies. It’s taken care of. Captain Sexton caught up with me. Told me we had to find you.”
Sexton pulled a paper from his coat, said, “Sir, we got a wire from stateside, passed through Tokyo and God knows where else.”
Smith saw concern on both men’s faces, felt a sudden tug of alarm. “From my family?”
Sexton seemed surprised at the question. “Oh, no, sir. It’s for General Craig.”
He handed Craig the note, and Craig read silently, then folded the paper, slid it inside his coat. Smith waited, wouldn’t ask, and Craig looked at him, dark worry on the man’s face.
“It’s my father, sir.” He paused, and Smith could feel his emotion. “Forgive me. He has been ill for some time. But this says he suffered a cerebral thrombosis. He’s not expected to live more than a few days.”
“My Lord, Eddie, I’m sorry. I know you and your father are very close.”
Craig seemed to gather himself, faced Smith, seemed more formal now.
“Sir, I would not ask…” He stopped, looked down.
Smith said, “We will send a wire to Hawaii. If General Shepherd has no objection, and he won’t, I’m granting you emergency leave. Take as long as you need. You need to be with your dad.”
Craig kept his eyes down, nodded. “Thank you, sir. This is most important to me.”
“No need, Eddie. It’s done.” He looked at Sexton. “Captain, take General Craig back to HQ, prepare a note for General Shepherd. I’ll return as quickly as we can wrap things up here. Colonel Bowser can remain with me for now.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Craig looked hard at Smith. “Are you sure about this, sir?”
“Get in the jeep.”
Craig held out his gloved hand, and Smith took it, a brief stiff shake. Then Craig moved to the jeep, Sexton following, the blanket held up by the driver, Craig climbing into the front seat. The jeep roared away and Bowser said, “That’s really good of you, sir. Eddie and his dad…”
“I know.”
“The staff can handle the load, sir. I can help as your assistant CO if you need me to.”
“I know.”
“You okay, sir? Don’t mean to stick my nose in.”
“Alpha, we’ve got some serious work in front of us. Get on that radio, see if you can raise Litzenberg. I want to know exactly when the Seventh pulls into Yudam-ni. They’re supposed to keep going, but I want them to hold up until we can push more supplies their way, same as we’ve done all the way up here. Tell the staff to make ready to move out of their quarters in Hungnam. I want to know how quickly we can establish my new HQ here in Hagaru-ri. I want the engineers to tell me how much longer it will be before planes can land out there. Tell Puller I want some of his people up here to help secure this perimeter, on the double.”
“How many people, sir?”
“That’s up to him, for now. He needs to keep a strong perimeter at Koto-ri. He knows how to follow my orders. I tell him what I want done, I don’t tell him how to do it. Get on that radio. And tell Litzenberg that once I know he’s up there, I’ll ride up and have a look.”
Bowser moved to the radioman, who handed Bowser the receiver. Smith felt his mind spinning, all the details that swirled around him now. He thought of Craig, wouldn’t dig too deeply into the man’s emotions. Craig was invaluable, but Smith knew that if Craig’s focus was back home, he would be nearly useless here.
Bowser slapped his arms against his sides again, the late afternoon cold settling hard around them. Smith turned again to the heavy equipment, saw trucks with the huge spotlights moving into position, preparing for another night’s work. To the side, he heard the radioman, “They’re trying to find Colonel Litzenberg, sir. The enemy threw some mortar rounds at the lead of the column. He’s coming, sir.”
Smith tried to ignore that, thought, Let Bowser do the job. He can handle it. He heard Bowser now, a soft murmur, speaking to himself.
“At least I get to ride in the station wagon.”
YUDAM-NI, NORTH KOREA—NOVEMBER 24, 1950
The United Nations’ massive compression envelopment in North Korea against the new Red Armies operating there is now approaching its decisive effort. The isolating component of our pincer…has for the past three weeks, in a sustained effort of model coordination and effectiveness, successfully interdicted enemy lines of support from the north, so that further reinforcement therefrom has been sharply curtailed and essential supplies markedly limited. The eastern sector of the pincer, with noteworthy and effective naval support, has now reached commanding enveloping position, cutting in two the northern reaches of the enemy’s geographical potential. This morning the western sector of the pincer moves forward in general assault in an effort to complete the compression and close the vise. If successful, this should for all practical purposes, end the war….
“So, we’re now part of a pincer?”
Smith read the communiqué again, didn’t look at Litzenberg. After a silent moment, Smith said, “We’re in a ‘commanding and enveloping position.’ ”
Litzenberg paced the cramped space in the tent, said, “According to General MacArthur.
Or is that the word of God?”
Smith wouldn’t respond to that, put down the paper. “Murray received this as well. Puller, too. Almond is screaming for a briefing tomorrow morning. I don’t think he knew what MacArthur was intending us to do. It’s one thing to scamper lickety-split toward an objective. It’s quite another thing to work in tandem with another command, to coordinate the assault as one part of a pincer.”
Litzenberg still paced. “We’re spread out across the main road here, positions up in each of the surrounding hills. But it’s unnerving. The Chinese are out there in at least two directions and every report tells me they’re in force. I’m the left flank of the entire Tenth Corps, and I’m out on a very frozen limb here, sir. Yudam-ni is not a defensible position. I don’t have the manpower to cover all the approaches while I’m occupying all that high ground.”
He had rarely heard Litzenberg so nervous. More often, Litzenberg was feisty, stubborn, rejecting orders he didn’t agree with.
“Colonel, I’m out on a limb of my own. I’ve been shouted at for weeks now, harangued for moving too slowly. There has been some talk at Tenth Corps that I should be relieved. If I was army, that would have happened already. If Almond convinces MacArthur that we’re the reason his marvelous little operation is floundering, it won’t much matter anyway.”
“Fine! Then have them send the army up here. Let those boys have a crack at the Chinese.”
“Can that, Colonel. We’re out here because we’re the toughest command Tenth Corps has. They won’t admit that, but every officer from Hungnam to Tokyo is mighty happy it’s us up here and not them. General Ruffner, Almond’s exec, he keeps whispering how we need to be cautious of running into a Chinese trap. There’s no trap, Colonel. I know, you know, Murray and Puller, every company commander, every platoon commander knows that the Chinese are in these hills, waiting for whatever it is they’re waiting for. All I’ve been able to do about that is what I’ve already done, draw us up as close together as possible. We dodged a huge freight train two weeks ago when we were scattered out for a hundred miles. I don’t know why the Chinese let us get away with that, except maybe they weren’t ready for us. But every day that passes, there are more reports, sightings of troop movements, columns of Chinese infantry. The air teams are doing all they can to smother that, but it hasn’t stopped the reports. MacArthur says we’ve cut their supply lines. I’m wondering if that even matters. Maybe they brought everything they need on their backs. Maybe they figure on taking it from us. Maybe, Colonel, this is a one-way street for those people. No one figures on going home. The Japanese were masters of the suicide attack. Maybe, just maybe, the Chinese are planning to give that a try.”
