by Jeff Shaara
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sung
NORTH OF YUDAM-NI—NOVEMBER 30, 1950, 9:00 A.M.
THE HOSPITAL WAS SET among a thick grove of trees, a small run-down house, the occupant abandoning it to the Chinese. He came to inspire the men, one of those duties a commander should exercise, whether or not he hated the task.
There was no heat, the risk of a smoky fire too great, the American fighters patrolling the area all through the day. He stood just inside, grateful the cold kept the smells away, watched the doctor working on a soldier, a bloodless operation, removing the man’s fingers. Sung didn’t really want to know why, but there were others, hands wrapped in fat bandages, sitting on the floor of the house, huddled together beneath a number of white blankets.
The doctor completed the task, an aide handling the bandages, the patient seemingly unconscious. Sung was grateful for that, had heard too much screaming from these places. It was one advantage of the cold, that many of the soldiers were brought here nearly frozen, halting the flow of blood from so many wounds. The doctor wiped at his hands, red and raw, stuffing them into his shirt now, a feeble effort to bring warmth to his fingers. Sung waited, had no reason to hurry the doctor, did not require that mindless salute that so many of the officers seemed to enjoy, an exercise of their own power. The doctor turned toward him now, seemed surprised, but his reaction was dampened by his own shivering.
“General, welcome. I would offer you tea, but there is none.”
The man was young, Sung guessed twenty-five, too young for what he was experiencing now. Sung had no idea what his medical qualifications were, knew only that he had come attached to the 124th Division, along with a handful of others. The hospitals were scattered, as close to the fighting as the commanders dared. Unlike the Americans, the Chinese ignored the Red Cross insignias, assuming that the Americans in their planes would ignore them as well. Sung agreed with his officers that it was far better to camouflage the makeshift hospitals just as they hid any kind of supply dump.
“I do not require tea, Doctor.” He looked past the man, the patient being moved carefully toward the gathering of men, all with the same bandages. “Tell me, Doctor, are those men all carrying the same wounds? They are bandaged alike.”
The doctor rubbed his hands against his sides, still inside his coat. “They are not wounds, precisely, sir. These men are like so many others. They were found nearly unconscious, their hands frozen to the steel of their weapons. There is no remedy but to sever their fingers. I suppose the military prefers men to remain loyal to their rifles, no matter the conditions. Their digits are still attached to their weapons, if that pleases you.”
Sung looked again at the men seated beneath the blankets, the newest patient set down among them. He would forgive the doctor for his impudence, had no reason to find fault with any man who did this kind of work.
“I am not pleased at all, Doctor. Is this a common problem?”
The doctor shrugged. “It is common enough. The men are suffering more from the cold than they are from wounds. A great many have lost use of their feet. Fortunately, most of those men have died as a result.”
Sung looked at the man now, trying to read him. “Why is that fortunate? Bitterness is not a virtue here, Doctor. You will not speak to me in such a tone.” The threat was empty, both men aware that Sung would do nothing to remove any doctor from his work.
“I mean no disrespect, General. I do not enjoy my work, no matter that this is a duty I must perform. Perhaps it will please you that these men are ready to begin their journey. I can do no more for them here. They have feet. They can walk.”
There was a hint of anger in the man’s words, and Sung tried to ignore that as well, his eyes on the men.
“Good. We must wait until dark, and send them north. Do they understand?”
“They have surrendered to the inevitable, sir. Is that not what good soldiers must do? They have not died today, and so they will likely die tomorrow.”
Sung pulled the coat more tightly around him, his hands stuffed in the fur-lined pockets. “Doctor, there is no argument. And there is no alternative. They will die here because we cannot feed them, we cannot warm them. If they march north, they have a chance of reaching the Yalu, and assistance. I have ordered that patrols advance south of the river, to rendezvous with these men. There are many others in the same situation, Doctor. It is the only course we have. I need every man here to be fit and capable of fighting. Any man who cannot fight only consumes supplies.”
The doctor would not look at him, stared downward. “I understand, sir. It is mathematics.”
Sung was impatient now. “Call it what you wish, Doctor. I admire you for doing your duty here, in these conditions. I do not ask that you admire me for doing mine. But I will do what I must. I do not have the luxury of a conscience.”
NORTH OF YUDAM-NI—NOVEMBER 30, 11:00 A.M.
In view of our many advantages thus far, I am confident that our mission will be gloriously successful. We enjoy a significant superiority in manpower, which we are using to counter the enemy’s air forces and long-range artillery. It would be premature to offer the Central Committee a specific timetable for our victory. However, we are engaging the enemy on several fronts, and we hold the advantage in every position. We offer our most sincere congratulations to General Lin Biao, for the victories he has enjoyed.
He stopped, thought, Yes, offering that kind of praise is a wise move. Lin is continuing to drive the enemy southward, and I must not show envy for his success. His enemy no doubt is a weaker foe than what we are facing here.
The aide waited, paper in hand, and Sung stood now, said, “I believe that will be adequate. Chairman Mao has not expressed disappointment with our efforts here. There is no need to thicken my report with empty promises. Put my words to ink, and bring it to me for my signature. You may leave.”
The aide rose, a quick bow, left the small house. Sung continued to stand, staring out through a cracked windowpane. To one side, his two primary aides kept to their chairs, no one speaking. He turned now, said, “I do not anticipate remaining in this place beyond today. We must move closer to our front lines. The troops require inspiration. Colonel Liu, bring me the map of the reservoir, the entire area.”
“Right away, sir.”
Liu rose, left quickly, and Sung turned to the window again.
“What do you think of my report, Colonel Wang?”
Wang stood, always too formal, said stiffly, “Your message to the Central Committee is excellent, sir. Chairman Mao can only be pleased with our campaign. I see great advancement for you, sir, when our victory is secure.”
Sung looked at the young man, said, “Did you rehearse your words again?”
Wang showed surprise, shook his head, and Sung raised a hand.
“No matter. I should appreciate that everyone around here agrees with me. The fact is, Colonel, our progress against the enemy is not adequate. Across the mountains, Lin Biao has driven the Americans and their allies far to the south, and I am quite confident that, if they have not yet done so, they will soon liberate Pyongyang. We have failed to drive the Americans back more than a mile. Our strategy has been sound, and by our maneuvers, we created excellent opportunity. And yet the victory Peking expects of us has been slow in coming.”
“Sir, we are in control of the field in every quarter. Your tactics have prevailed. The enemy is entrapped and cannot survive as he stands now.”
Sung stared at the young man. “How do you know that? How does he stand now?”
Wang seemed uncertain, said, “You have said yourself, sir, we have encircled the Americans in every place they fight us. If they do not die from our guns, they will starve or freeze.”
Sung turned to the window again. “You are quoting me again, Colonel. I said those very words two days ago, and probably the day before that.”
“I believed you then, sir. I believe you now. As you said to Peking, our advantages will bring us victory, i
n short order.”
Sung kept his gaze outside, the flurries of snow brushing silently against the window. “How many men have we lost to the cold?”
“I am not completely certain, sir. If you wish, I shall order Captain Jin to prepare a report.”
“I don’t need a report, Colonel. I visited the hospitals myself. My orders are being carried out even now. Any man who cannot fight, but who can walk, will march northward. We cannot continue to feed men who cannot fight.”
Wang lowered his voice, as though the small house had an audience. “I had not thought it would become necessary. Is there no transportation for them?”
Sung turned to him, angrier now. “No, Colonel, there is not. How would you handle this? We are unable to bring supply convoys south. The enemy has destroyed the bridges over the Yalu and continues to intercept any vehicles that show themselves on the roads. So, yes, we can move at night. But now there are no adequate supplies of gasoline and spare parts for the few trucks that still operate. Even if we had gasoline, we cannot overcome the cold. Batteries and lubricants do not function in this weather, Colonel. In this part of Korea, there are no supplies of rice or meat for this army to gather, no bounty to be found on farms in these hills. The North Koreans are useless. They despise us as deeply as they despise the Americans.” He paused, tried not to be angry at his aide. “Our weapons are no match for what the Americans bring to the fight. Every soldier knows the challenges of fighting an offensive campaign. The Americans fight on the defensive, from holes in the ground, and we have no artillery to drive them out. How many more men must we send into their guns before we exhaust him? I have seen his cargo planes, Colonel. They drop endless supplies of everything he needs to continue the fight. Here, we are running out of every kind of supply.”
He stopped, angry at himself, his heart pounding, short, heavy breaths. I do not need to speak this way, he thought. My superiors would not approve.
Wang seemed to wait for an opening, said, “We still have great advantage in numbers, sir. As you said to Peking—”
“What I said to Peking is what Peking requires me to say. They do not entertain reports of our discomfort. They will not hear of our problems. There is no counsel for me, Colonel. No one can offer me advice. I have been granted this position, and I will succeed, or I will be…removed. I am not yet willing to accept that outcome.”
Colonel Liu returned now, a gust of icy wind chasing him through the door. He moved quickly, shivering, spread the map out on the lone table. Sung stepped that way, heard a light rap from outside the door. Liu said, “My apologies, General. Major Orlov requested to know what I was bringing you. I was told not to keep any information from him.”
Sung looked toward the door, the anger draining away his energy. “Bring the major inside. I do not need him suffering in this cold any more than the rest of us. Our situation is plain for all to see, even the Soviets.”
Liu moved to the door, Orlov moving inside quickly, his fur coat dusted with snow.
“Ah, General. Fine morning. No colder than usual, if you are camped at the South Pole. I understand you are in need of some counsel. Advice, perhaps. I am always at your service.”
Sung had long accepted that Orlov seemed capable of reading minds.
“Major, what I require is wisdom. I am confronting an enemy who has proven far more stubborn than I expected. What, may I ask, did you expect?”
Orlov shed the fur coat, laid it on one of the small chairs. He rubbed his hands together, moved to the map, scanned the details. Sung was used to the man’s theatrics, could feel the drama playing out. After a long moment, Orlov said, “I read over your report to Peking. You are most optimistic. I applaud you.”
Sung closed his eyes for a brief moment, thought, No secrets indeed. “I spoke the truth. Chairman Mao expects nothing less.”
Orlov looked at him, winked. “He demands nothing less. I am quite certain that General Lin’s reports are magnificent. Victory upon victory. An enemy who flees before his sword. All very romantic stuff, yes? He is fortunate to have drawn the card he has.”
“What card? What do you mean?”
“I mean that the Eighth Army Lin Biao has been successful against is a United Nations force, a combination of commands, a mongrel army, if you will. You, however, are fighting a monolith. Every general in the last war, and the one before that, preferred to fight an enemy of many nations, many cultures. Napoleon said he always preferred fighting allies.”
“Are you suggesting that because we are engaged with only the Americans, we are at a disadvantage?”
“Aren’t you? Look at these Marines who are giving you such trouble. They are trained as a single force. They fight for a single commanding general. They are supported by their own artillery units, and most often, they are supported by their own fighter planes. Is there any place on this map where you have driven the Marines off the ground they have chosen to defend?”
Sung felt himself sagging, looked at the two staff officers, said, “Leave us.”
Both men hesitated, but Sung gave each a hard stare, the message understood. They moved out, the door clattering behind them. Orlov moved to a chair, sat heavily.
“General Sung, I am telling you what you already know. Your staff knows it as well. Your army knows it. It is your choice of course, to keep Peking from knowing it. A wise precaution, to be sure.”
“What is it that I know so well, that is so obvious to everyone here?”
“You will not defeat these Marines with the tactics you are now using. There is a better way. There is always a better way when one is being defeated.”
Sung felt the anger returning. “Defeated? You will not insult me, Major, with your speculations. We control every piece of ground, we have the enemy trapped, encircled, and in short order he will either die or surrender. It is only a matter of time. I thought you were here to observe, so that you might convince your superiors to give us more weapons. Instead I hear meaningless lectures. Rather than offer such pessimism, perhaps you can find me a battery of antiaircraft guns, yes? Would your Chairman Stalin be so generous?”
Orlov raised both arms out to the side. “No antiaircraft guns with me today. Sorry. Perhaps next week.” He smiled now. “General, I am not your enemy. Yes, I observe. I see difficulties for you. You are losing men at a drastic rate, either to bullets or frostbite. Or is that merely speculation?”
“No one in this army dares speak to me as you do. I tolerate it because I must.”
“Are you better off by surrounding yourself with those so eager to please that they would only bow down to you, or speak soft compliments for all you do here? Are you helped by having officers who believe what you tell Peking even as their men die by the score?”
“You offer the obvious, Major. I am doing what I can to inflict greater damage on the enemy. He cannot survive this much longer.”
“Can you?”
Sung felt his hands curl into tight fists, closed his eyes. He tried to calm himself, said, “If there is nothing else you wish to say, I must end this conversation. I must communicate with my commanders. We must make ready to continue our assaults against Hagaru-ri. Even now, we are pushing the enemy inward.”
“Again.”
“Yes. Again. The Marines there are weak, undermanned. It is the most important target.”
“Yes, yes. So, why would this assault be different than any before? You left a considerable number of casualties there. Do you anticipate a change from that?” Orlov stood, moved closer to the map. “General, you have not even been able to drive a single company of Marines from Toktong Pass. How many casualties have you left out there? How many more are spread over the ground around Yudam-ni?”
“It is war, Major. Can you advise me where there might be an enemy who is unarmed?”
Orlov looked at the map, a finger pointing down. “East of the reservoir. One battalion of the American Seventh Infantry Division. They are surrounded, except for their one flank that rests on the rese
rvoir itself.”
“I am aware of that. Am I to be impressed you can read a map? We have already engaged those troops. It would seem your analysis of the enemy here is not correct after all. Those troops are very different from the Marines, an entirely different command.”
Orlov kept the smile. “Yes, they are. At least for now. General MacArthur’s people in Tokyo are extremely concerned about those troops. It seems they climbed out a bit far on their limb. No fault of their field officers. It was orders, you know. Just like the American Eighth Army, those people who now flee from General Lin, this lone battalion was terribly excited about participating in a race to reach the Yalu River. The Americans do like their competitions. Now they are in something of a bind, wouldn’t you say?”
Sung wanted to ask yet again: How do you know these things? But he knew that Orlov would evade him again, as he had so many times before.
“If you wish me to be impressed, Major, very well. I am. One day we shall have to discuss Soviet intelligence, and your skill at communications.”
“One day.” Orlov focused again on the map. “General, I understand your frustration. You may treat me with disrespect, if it helps you. But I am not your problem. I am here to observe, as you said.”
Sung felt a helplessness, could not deny that Orlov had a firm grasp on the entire campaign. “Major, are you suggesting it is a mistake to attempt another assault on Hagaru-ri?”
“I am suggesting that you not make the same assault. You have faced supreme stubbornness at Yudam-ni, at Toktong Pass, at Koto-ri, and at Hagaru-ri. Your primary mission is to destroy the enemy. Why not give your army some red meat?”
