by Jeff Shaara
Smith shook his head. “I can’t say, Captain. I won’t say, right now. Someone else will ask that question, somebody with more stars on his shoulder than I have.”
“Sir, we were cut off completely. I did as much as I could with the air boys, and we took out a hell of a lot of Chinese. But there was no chance for us. The troops just sorta fell apart. They were green, sir, way too green to be sent out there like that. I don’t fault the officers. I saw most of ’em go down. Good men, doing all they could to get their men to safety. There were too many Chinese. Everywhere you looked, every bend in the road, the enemy had occupied a ridgeline, a hill. They poured fire on us every yard we moved. I’ll not say any more about the army, sir. I’ve already heard that kind of jabbering, that Marines would have walked out of there with enemy heads stuck on our bayonets. There’s too much of that bull already flying around this tent.” He paused, glanced around. “There was plenty of bull up there, too. General Almond flew up to see Colonel Faith.”
“I know. He flew out of here.”
“Well, sir, the general had a pocketful of medals with him, Silver Stars. He gave one to Faith, wanted to pass ’em out like party favors, give one to anybody who stepped up. When he left, Colonel Faith ripped it off his coat, dropped it in the snow. General Almond acted like he was doing us a favor just by showing up. Don Faith knew better. The general might as well have told those men they were being sacrificed, left to the four winds. Is that what the plan was, sir? ‘You boys stepped in it, now figure out how to fix things yourself’? It wasn’t right, sir.” He paused. “I ought not be saying this to you. When the morphine wears off, I’ll wish like hell I’d have kept my mouth shut. Generals look out for each other, isn’t that how it works?”
“Captain, nobody’s looking out for me. I can’t speak for General Almond, and I won’t speak against him. But nobody’s covering this up, and nobody is going to ignore what happened to Colonel Faith or his men.”
Stamford turned his head, looked away. “If you say so, sir.”
He could see the pain in Stamford’s face, could tell the man was more angry than his wounds could tolerate. There was a pair of corpsmen watching him from across the tent, concern on their faces, and Smith stood slowly, fought the pains in his joints, knew he had taxed Stamford’s energy. Stamford looked at him again, blinked wearily, unable to hide the pain, said, “Are you a religious man, sir?”
It was an odd question, but Smith had no reason to keep anything from this man.
“I follow the Christian Scientists, Captain. Yes, I am.”
“I just want it known, and I’ll put this on the record. I swear to you, sir, Colonel Faith did all he could to save his men. They didn’t have the equipment, the weaponry, and most of the soldiers didn’t have the experience or the training to do the job. And worse…it was like God was looking the other way. That’s what it felt like. We were marching through the worst part of hell, and no one, not even God, paid any attention.”
HAGARU-RI—DECEMBER 3, 1950, 2:00 P.M.
For the better part of the day, the radios had come alive in the command tent, word finally coming down from the main road northward, progress being made by Murray and Litzenberg. The fights were continuous, the Chinese anchored all along the route, but the reports continued to come, the latest that most of the column had pushed through Toktong Pass. Smith had stayed close, heard for himself the struggle of his men who pursued the enemy. By midafternoon the sounds of the fighting could be heard in Hagaru-ri, occasional thunder from artillery, or tank fire, the column halting long enough for the bigger guns to add their power to push away yet another Chinese roadblock. The Corsairs were there as well, formations roaring past, Smith welcoming the power they added to the fight.
—
He had gathered up most of his staff, no great challenge to that task, his headquarters still undermanned. He studied the faces, Bowser cheerful, as usual, Williams, the others waiting for whatever he would tell them to do.
“Have we heard anything more from the enemy north of here?”
Bowser shook his head, said, “No more than usual. Colonel Ridge hasn’t indicated any signs that the Chinese are intending to hit us here. Their focus seems to be on the men coming down the main road.”
Smith couldn’t hide his anxiousness. “I’m not going to sit here and jabber on the radio while those men slug it out. We’re not helpless. I want a force to move out on the main road, shove up as close as possible to the lead of the column, do what we can to eliminate the enemy who we know is standing in their way.”
He was surprised to see Colonel Drysdale entering the tent, the usual spit and polish, clean-shaven, his uniform pressed.
“Oh, very sorry, sir. I did not mean to intrude. Just wanted to check on some extra rations for my wounded.”
Smith didn’t respond, the thought forming in his head. To one side, Colonel Williams said, “No matter. General, if you’ll allow, I can see to Colonel Drysdale’s request.”
Smith shook his head. “I have a better idea. Colonel, are your men in position to embark on an assignment?”
Drysdale did not hesitate. “By all means, sir. My men are ready for any task you wish them to undertake.”
“Then undertake this. Put them to the road, northward. I want them to get rid of the enemy troops who are on those closest hills. We’ve got a heavy column coming this way, and they’ve taken enough casualties.”
Drysdale seemed to light up. “If you mean, sir, that we should open the path for those boys, I’m happy to oblige. Would it be possible to add some of your tanks to our efforts? Casualties are a certainty, as you know. That could help.”
Smith looked at Bowser. “Colonel, order the Thirty-first Tank Company to roll out immediately, in support of the Royal Marines. Open that damn road.”
HAGARU-RI—DECEMBER 3, 7:30 P.M.
With the darkness came the brutal cold, but Smith wouldn’t keep to the command post. He had taken the jeep, others in line with him, moved out toward the limits of the perimeter to the north. The sounds of fighting had mostly stopped, scattered sounds coming from farther up the road, what remained of the struggle for the rear guard to hold the Chinese off the tail of the column. With the darkness, he had ordered Drysdale’s men to withdraw, that if the Chinese were to make another assault, it was better if the perimeter was strong, avoiding confusion for the gunners who would target the high places along the road.
He put a hand out, the silent order for the driver to halt the jeep. Smith’s eyes had adjusted to the gloomy night, his ears sheltered by the hooded coat, and he slipped the coat back, strained to hear. Around him, the others were doing the same, the men along the perimeter very aware why he was out there in the cold night. Within minutes he heard it, the rumble of trucks, the lone tank, and he stood tall in the jeep, absorbing the sounds. It was one moment of success in a campaign ripe with disasters, one mission fulfilled, by men he knew he could depend on. Their mission was not yet complete, the danger far from eliminated. But now, on this one night, for a long few minutes, he allowed himself to feel their pride, their relief.
They came in column, Ray Davis’s men, the First Battalion, Seventh, led by Davis himself. Behind them came the first vehicles, trucks filled with wounded men, jeeps with corpses strapped to the hoods, more bodies lashed to any piece of equipment that could hold them, including the long barrels of the artillery pieces.
They approached the checkpoint, Colonel Ridge’s roadblock, one foolish officer insisting that no one pass without offering up the current password. Davis responded as appropriately as he could, that no one in this column had any idea what the password was, and that the best idea for anyone manning the checkpoint was to move out of the way. The officer complied.
Just outside the checkpoint, the Royal Marines had performed one last dangerous task, eliminating an advance by a small body of enemy troops, what might have been a last costly firefight for the men down on the road. Their job complete, Drysdale’s men positioned
themselves along the line of march, welcoming the Americans with calls of good cheer, as well as cigarettes and chocolate bars.
With barely a quarter mile to go before entering the perimeter, Colonel Davis ordered a halt, passing the word that any man who could march would now do so. Obeying the call, the trucks held back, the Marines, including dozens of walking wounded, forming up in column. At Davis’s command, they began to march once more, moving past the respectful salutes of the Royal Marines.
In his jeep, watching them come, Oliver Smith gave himself up to the moment, his own emotions wrapped around those of his men, as Davis’s Marines, ragged and filthy and unshaven, made their way into Hagaru-ri, singing the words every Marine knew so well.
“From the halls of Montezuma, to the shores of Tripoli…”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Riley
HAGARU-RI, NORTH KOREA—DECEMBER 4, 1950, 3:00 A.M.
ALL ALONG THE MARCH, Riley had stayed close to the truck that carried so many of the wounded men, including Killian, who rode in the same truck as Lieutenant McCarthy. Around the truck were more wounded, men who could walk, no one trying to hitch a ride if it meant crowding those men who were so worse off.
They had come into Hagaru-ri several hours behind Davis’s First Battalion, but the greeting they received was no less emotional, and no less enthusiastic. The British were there still, passing out hot coffee, which very quickly lost its burn. For men who had not tasted coffee in days, the cooling off was welcome. Tender faces also meant tender mouths, bleeding gums, and cracked lips. For some, including Riley, the lack of real food had drained their appetites, digestive systems impacted or shut down completely, most of the men unable to make use of a latrine since the assaults had begun. The medical staffs seemed to understand just how poor these men had become, that beneath the layers of frozen crust on their uniforms and faces, malnutrition and dehydration could create one more kind of bedridden casualty. But if a man was fit enough to avoid a visit to the aid station, the staffs guided them in another direction, where the hot food waited.
Riley followed the scent, not even his chapped and burnt nostrils able to disguise what was emerging from the mess tents. He followed Welch through the flaps of the big tent, the smells overwhelming now. Besides the amazing odors was the heat, and Riley felt swallowed by warmth, stopped, stared with tired eyes at the men who had already swarmed around the mess tables. They sat in long rows, some of the men barely holding themselves upright. Around them, the mess orderlies slid mounds of food in a steady procession in front of anyone who had the strength to empty his plate. Riley stepped closer, one hand on Welch’s shoulder, trying to keep upright, staggering unsteadiness in his knees.
“Hey, you boys. There’s seats over here.”
Riley followed the voice, a smiling orderly with his hands on the backs of a pair of metal chairs. Welch stepped that way, Riley following numbly. They reached the chairs, and Welch sat heavily, Riley sliding in beside him. Across from him, a familiar face, one of Barber’s aides, the man shoveling something thick and gooey into his mouth, a drool flowing down through the thick stubble on the man’s chin. There was a plate put down in front of Riley now, and he absorbed the sight, had a sudden sense that this wasn’t real, one more illusion after days of nightmares. No one was speaking, and Welch stuffed a fork into the pile on his plate, Riley fumbling for the fork with the fingers of his rotten gloves. He looked at his hands, tugged at the gloves, pulled them free from his swollen red fingers, tried to pick up the fork, dropped it, and across from him the man said, “Just use your hands, if you have to. Worth it. Best damn pancakes I ever ate.”
Riley put his fingers on the soft mass on his plate, probed, the man smiling, then stuffing a blob of food into his mouth. Beside him, Welch mumbled something, slid a large can toward him, and Riley saw now it was syrup. His mind seemed to wake just a bit more, the smells drilling into his hunger, the juices in his mouth beginning to flow, uncontrollable, his tongue pushing through the dry crust on his lips. He reached out, took the can, poured the syrup clumsily across his plate, the thick liquid pouring out onto the table, an instant mess. He set the can down, wiped at the spill with his fingers, glanced around, embarrassed, heard the orderly behind him.
“Don’t worry, sport. There’s plenty more. Just eat up. More coffee here?”
The orderly put two coffeepots on the table, some of the men reaching out, pouring a steaming brew into tin cups. Beside him, Welch said, “You gonna eat those things, or do I have to show you how?”
Riley grabbed the fork again, stabbed a thick wad of pancakes, now a soft, gooey blob, stuffed it into his mouth. Across from him, more smiles.
“See? Told you so. Cures what’s wrong. I’m stuffed to the gills. There’s more of us coming in. I’ll make room. Enjoy that, while you can.”
The man slid back, moved away, happy talk toward some of the others. More men were coming into the tent, like Riley, moving toward the table with wide, puzzled eyes.
—
He was more energized than he had been in days, the rich sugar from the syrup rolling through his veins like gasoline. The darkness was complete, no stars, just the usual wind, and he felt like returning to the mess tent, his mind embracing the astonishing luxury of the pancakes. But the corpsmen had cautioned them all, especially any man whose bowels had shut down, don’t overdo it. What goes in had to come out eventually, and already some of the men were suffering the agony of diarrhea.
He watched more men coming out of the mess tent, a stark contrast to those still going in, men groaning in the darkness with hands on their bellies. He couldn’t help smiling, thought, Whoever thought of making up those pancakes gets a Medal of Honor. If they’d have told us that’s what was waiting for us, we mighta beat hell out of the Chinese a whole lot sooner.
He stood alone in the cold dark, wasn’t sure just where to go, Welch off searching for officers, someone to tell them where they were supposed to be. All around the compound, men were standing in groups, huddling together against the windy cold. There were walking wounded as well, corpsmen guiding those men to the aid tents or the larger hospital, what seemed to resemble a ramshackle schoolhouse. Riley felt the cold again, leaking into his coat, his toes numb, his hands stuffed into his coat pocket. He looked toward the aid tents, trucks parked nearby, one more being unloaded, the stretcher bearers moving quickly, a doctor pointing the way. He had no idea what Killian’s truck had looked like, just one more out of dozens, but the guilt came now, a full belly, the stickiness still on his fingers. They must feed the wounded, he thought. Got to. His mind was racing now, thoughts of Captain Barber, the lieutenant, and all those men who had been carried off the hill in closed-up sleeping bags. Already, the Graves Registration people had gone to work, logging the names, checking them against the rosters from Fox Company, other companies, so many men hauled down from Yudam-ni. There were the missing, too, two men from Third Platoon simply gone, no sign of them, whether they had been captured, or simply buried in some snowy hole under a mass of Chinese bodies. Riley had been a part of the search, the team discovering one other corpse, a Marine from First Platoon who had moved out too far, cut down by the enemy, freezing stiff before anyone knew he was gone. All along the march down from the pass, he had thought of what they had left up on the hill, the amazing scene, so many Chinese bodies spread out across every stretch of open ground. Someone had made a count, Barber’s aides maybe, estimating a thousand enemy soldiers scattered in front of the guns on Fox Hill. Davis’s First Battalion had been the first to see that, their approach bringing them over the mass of enemy dead. Those Marines had offered salutes for that, raucous congratulations to the men of Fox Company for a job well done. They’re still up there, he thought. Nobody buried them, nobody hauled ’em off. And one day it’s gonna be spring. Then what? Somebody goes out there and finds ’em? Not a job I’d want.
“Hey, Pete. You get some pancakes?”
He knew the voice of Morelli, saw the kid b
ounding toward him, more energy than usual.
“Yeah. I won’t eat for a week.”
“I know. Me, too. Haven’t had coffee that good since I left home. You might wanna go back inside. Just as I was getting up, they starting putting out beef stew, noodles, and God knows what else. It’s like Christmas dinner and Easter Sunday rolled into one.”
“Not me, kid. Had all I could handle. What the hell time is it?”
Morelli shrugged. “Maybe three. I’m gonna wait for dawn, then have breakfast.”
Riley wasn’t in the mood for cheeriness, but he couldn’t escape Morelli, the kid beside him now, an overeager puppy. Riley said, “The sarge is off finding out what’s up. You oughta go look for him.”
Morelli didn’t get the hint, said, “They say we’re leaving this place pretty quick. I also heard we’re supposed to stay here until spring, holding the fort and all. The enemy’s getting ready to hit us hard. Someone said that, too. Someone else said the war’s over, the enemy’s done quit. There’s an army unit got busted up out east of the reservoir. I heard they might want us to go up thataway. Someone else—”
“And someone else said there’s a truck full of gorgeous Hollywood stars on their way here, just to lay a wet kiss on you. Jesus, kid, you oughta know better than to listen to all this crap. When they want us to move, or fight, or eat more pancakes, they’ll let us know.”
“I know. I just…I wasn’t sure I’d ever see any of this again. Look how many we are. Two whole regiments made it back here. Or what’s left of ’em. You see all those British guys, all spiffed up, like right out of a picture book? One of ’em slapped me on the back, handed me a pack of cigarettes. Guess I’ll start smoking. Don’t wanna hurt anybody’s feelings.”
