by Adam Makos
“Fire!” the gunny bellowed.
Flames leapt from the Marine line. Red lowered his face to his rifle and took aim but couldn’t pull the trigger. His eyes welled with alarm. He lifted his face from the stock and glanced at his trigger finger. His finger wouldn’t curl. It’s frozen stiff! he thought. Beside him, Charlie flexed his hand, stricken with the same problem. Red figured out another way. He took aim and jerked the trigger back with an outstretched finger. The M1 cracked and spit flame. Red jerked the trigger again and again.
The two Marine machine guns raked the encampment. White Jackets fired blindly, then fell, dropping their weapons. Bullets punched enemy troops backward over lean-tos. Tracers thudded dead bodies and sizzled. Red and others slowed their firing to watch. A group of White Jackets dived for cover behind lean-tos, but tracers followed them and zipped through the fabric, leaving smoking holes.
Charlie elbowed Red and glanced to the right. Up the line, a machine gunner was singing between bursts—“If I knew you were coming I’d’ve baked a cake!” He stopped to fire a burst. “Baked a cake!” He fired again. “Baked a cake!” Red grinned—he knew the tune, singer Eileen Barton’s Billboard hit.
“Cease fire!” the gunny shouted. After a few long seconds, the Marine line turned black and silent. Red shook the ringing from his ears.
Star shells swayed and revealed mounds of dead Chinese soldiers. Rifle barrels jutted haphazardly from the mounds, like garden stakes after a storm. Moans arose from the withering wounded. Some chanted prayers. One by one, they went silent.
Red and the others listened and stared as the last light fizzled.
—
A half-hour later, the moon was gone and the snow blew thicker as Red placed clips of bullets on the lip of the bank. Other Marines stacked grenades and checked their weapons.
Beside the creek, several young Marines tugged bullets from rifle clips and reinserted the bullets in machine gun belts. The gunny had pulled the youngest men from the line to help the machine gunners, who were running low on ammo.
Down the line to the left, Devans moved between Marines, collecting spare grenades and placing them in a bag. Hill 1403 had gone quiet. Word had come that How Company had been ordered off. Everyone in the creek bed knew it—the White Jackets could now turn their full fury against them.
Devans handed the bag of grenades to Charlie. “I need you to open up the ice on both ends of the creek,” Devans said. “It’ll slow them down if they try to flank us.”
“Sure, Sarge,” Charlie replied. “But what about noise discipline?”
“I think they know we’re here,” Devans said.
Charlie hustled away. Down the line he pulled a grenade and shouted, “Fire in the hole!”
Red heard the grenade clatter across the ice. An explosion followed and water splashed down. The explosions crept closer as Charlie punched more holes in the creek. He then jogged to the other end.
From up the line to the right, Gunny Sawyer snapped a command: “Fix bayonets!”
The Marines passed the order, the younger voices pitched with nerves. The sound of so many bayonets sliding and locking sent a chill down Red’s spine. He slinked his bayonet from its steel sheath and clicked the cold sharp metal down onto the barrel of his rifle.
—
Minutes passed without a hint of the enemy. The snow kept filtering down to the creek bed like sand in an hourglass. Mesmerized, Red, Charlie, and Devans watched the diamond dust swirling in the field ahead. The encampment had long vanished in the dark.
Gunny Sawyer moved down the line, keeping low. He stopped at Devans. “Bob, I need you to send a few men out to reconnoiter.” His beady eyes blinked with impatience. “Tell ’em to go far enough to catch a whiff of the enemy, then get on back there.”
Devans nodded dutifully.
Once the gunny had stepped out of earshot, Red spoke up: “That’s a terrible damned idea!”
Devans hesitated, almost as if he was going to nod in agreement, but instead he grabbed his carbine from the lip and brushed away the snow. He flicked the safety off.
Red raised an eyebrow. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m not about to order someone else out there,” Devans said, shouldering his carbine. He turned to Charlie and asked, “Want to come with me—maybe find that rocket launcher of yours?”
A grin cracked Charlie’s face. “Would I!”
Charlie slapped Red on the shoulder and followed Devans out into the field.
—
Fifteen minutes passed, maybe more. Far away in the darkness came the patter of feet, the soft sounds of two men running on the fresh snow. Devans’s shout pierced the darkness: “Here they come!” Red grabbed his rifle and tugged his T-shirt down from his mouth. Up and down the line, Marines raised their rifles and double-cocked their machine guns.
In the field ahead, two forms took shape against the blowing snow. Red recognized the husky silhouette of Charlie sprinting toward the line, followed by the diminutive shape of Devans farther behind. “They’re hot on our heels!” Charlie screamed.
Bugles blared in the distance. Cymbals clanged. Voices wailed, “Sha! Sha! Sha!” and the sounds arose of hundreds of feet pounding the frozen earth. The enemy stampede seemed to shake the icy stream behind Red.
Charlie reached the Marine line and dove forward. He rolled over the lip and down into the creek bed. His helmet rattled away, but he quickly grabbed it. Red helped him to his feet, then spun back to his position.
Red’s jaw sank at the sight before him. About thirty yards from the line, Devans was running sloppily, obviously winded. He glanced over his shoulder. “They’re a hundred yards out!” Devans shouted forward. “Call for illumination!” The snow spun around him.
“Okay, get back here!” Red shouted.
A Marine bellowed for illumination rounds. Charlie took his place at Red’s side, panting. “Come on, Sarge!” Charlie said, his voice shaking. A chorus of Marines’ voices urged Devans onward. Devans was slipping and stumbling between glances at the enemy behind him. “They’re nearing the bivouac!” he shouted. “Hold your fire! Let them come in closer!”
“Get out of there, Bob!” Red screamed.
Devans stopped looking back and bolted for the line.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Star shells arced through the darkness and burst above the encampment, causing Red to squint. The bluish light spotlighted Devans in midstride, his carbine in one hand, the other holding down his helmet. Behind him charged a horde of White Jackets in an arrow formation, their feet stirring a cloud of snow.
Devans was fifteen yards out, then ten yards, then five. Behind him, gunfire burst from the enemy ranks. Bullets zipped through the air. Devans leaned back like a baseball player to slide into the creek bed and Red rose up to catch him.
Crack!
Devans’s head snapped forward in a spray of blood. His helmet flew off, his arms fell limp, and the young sergeant tumbled over the lip and into Red’s arms.
Red sank to the ground under his sergeant’s weight. “No! No!” Red shouted as he cradled Devans’s body. The Marine line around them came alive with fire. “Bob?” Red shook his friend. “Come on, Bob!” But Devans’s eyes remained fixed. Blood poured down Red’s sleeves and over his parka. “No, God, no!” Red cradled his friend tighter.
Charlie glanced with terror between Devans and the onrushing enemy. Two Marines broke from the line and pried Devans from Red’s grip. Red stood and tried to resist, but Charlie held him back. Blood covered Red’s parka from chest to waist. Red’s eyes bulged with horror as the Marines laid the young sergeant beside the creek. Charlie turned Red back toward the bank—the cloud of enemy troops was nearly upon them.
“There’s nothing you can do!” Charlie stammered. “He’s with the Lord.”
Red’s eyes narrowed with rage at the mention of God. He grabbed Charlie and hurled him to the ground. Charlie looked up in shock, his lip quivering. Red glared at him, then turned back to his
rifle. Fifty yards away, White Jackets were emerging from the cloud and falling like dominos, dropped by Marine bullets. Charlie returned to his firing position without a word.
Red lowered his sights on a White Jacket and fired. The stock slammed his shoulder. A clump of padding burst from a White Jacket’s coat, and the man crumpled. Red snapped off round after round, and brass shell casings pelted the Marine next to him. Red cursed, and spit dribbled from his lips. Charlie glanced over with fearful eyes. With a ping, Red’s rifle kicked an empty clip into the air. He quickly stuffed a fresh clip into the chamber, let the bolt slam forward, and fired again.
Dead White Jackets began overlapping in the field. Fifty yards away, other enemy soldiers stopped charging forward and took cover behind their dead. Then, over the gunfire, a Marine shouted, “They’re moving left! They’re flanking us!” Another Marine screamed, “Watch right, watch right!” Red glanced from side to side. Like both horns of a bull, packs of White Jackets were wrapping around the Marine line.
A cry came from the right: “They’re in the line!”
Red and Charlie lifted from their sights and turned. White Jackets were splashing down the creek, slowed only by the freezing water. The enemy began stumbling to shore, their padded pants and canvas shoes drenched. Behind the line, the young Marines stopped threading ammo belts, took up their rifles, and sprinted into the soaking enemy soldiers. Charlie peeled from the bank after them. “Get back here, Charlie!” Red shouted.
A Marine bayoneted a White Jacket against the creek bed. Another jabbed his rifle butt and sent a White Jacket tumbling into the icy water. Charlie and others waded into the fracas, firing from the hip. A large black Marine named “Big Daddy” Wiggins swung his rifle like a bat, knocking White Jackets into the creek and against the bank.
A crack rang out to Red’s left—a Marine snapped from the bank and fell in a spray of blood. Red looked and saw that the man’s face had been partially shot off. To the right, a machine gun stopped barking. Its crew had lowered the gun to the creek bed and were pouring canteens of water into the cooling jacket—the antifreeze had evaporated. A Marine darted to the creek to refill a canteen.
The Chinese spotted the break in the Marine line. A pack of White Jackets rose up from a pile of bodies and charged. Red fired until his rifle went empty, but the enemies were too many. The White Jackets dived onto the machine gun crew and knocked their gun aside. The Marines and the enemy grunted as they grappled on the stony ground.
Red tossed his rifle aside, drew his .45 pistol, and dashed toward a White Jacket who had wrapped his hands around a Marine’s neck. Red blasted the enemy soldier off the Marine. More White Jackets leapt from the bank. Red fired as they landed and sent several sprawling. He ejected an empty clip and reached to his cartridge belt for a full one.
Atop the bank, a White Jacket officer appeared, an empty burp gun hanging from his neck. He jumped onto Red’s back and wrapped his arms around Red’s face, clawing at his eyes. Red’s helmet went flying, and he dropped his pistol. The officer bit down on Red’s right ear, straight through the cartilage. Red howled and flipped the officer from his back. The officer’s burp gun was flung aside and clattered on the stones.
Clutching his bleeding ear, Red staggered to face the officer. The officer leapt to his feet and drew a short sword. His earflaps framed a dark face. Red slid his knife from its sheath. The officer snarled and thrust his sword. Red sidestepped as the blade darted past his chest, then swung his knife wildly and sliced the officer at the waist, cutting across the man’s stomach through his jacket and belt. The officer’s pants fell to his knees. He pedaled back, entangled.
Red lowered his knife and prepared to stab when a shot rang out from behind. A bullet zipped over Red’s shoulder and knocked the officer backward into the creek. The officer floated, motionless. Red wheeled and glanced up. Against the bank, a helmetless Marine held a smoking carbine. Red nodded in thanks. The helmetless Marine turned back toward the field. Beside him, the machine gun crew lifted their weapon up the bank and swung it forward.
The gunner pulled the bolt and hammered away.
—
Red lowered his rifle to the snow. The hot barrel sizzled and steamed. His piercing eyes scanned the field for any enemy still moving. Beneath the star shells’ flickering light, dead White Jackets lay scattered before him like stepping stones into the field. After thirty furious minutes of fighting, the surviving White Jackets had slipped away from the light and into the dark. Sporadic bullets snapped the trees overhead, but the attack was over, for now.
Red turned away from the bank, his chest heaving from exertion. Horrific sights greeted him. A gut-shot Marine wailed and thrashed while a corpsman tore through layers of winter clothing trying to inject morphine. Another boy moaned against the bank, dying from a sucking chest wound. Beside the creek, a Marine shouted and struggled with his buddies. He wanted to execute the White Jacket prisoners who squatted by the water, but his buddies stood in his way.
Red couldn’t see Charlie anywhere. The wounded and dead were being collected over by the road juncture, but Red couldn’t leave his post to look.
Two Marines dragged a wounded man, his arms draped over their shoulders. Red stepped toward them and glanced under the wounded man’s helmet and hood.
“Charlie?”
Teeth clenched in pain, a young face shook his head: “No.” His buddies carried him away.
Another hour of darkness remained, time for the enemy to attack again. Up and down the line, battered Marines returned to their positions. Red’s hands shook as he placed his last clips on the bank. From what he could see, about two-thirds of the detachment—forty men—remained standing. Behind the line, a Marine drifted between motionless White Jackets and bayoneted each body to ensure that each was truly dead. A slicing sound escaped as he thrust and withdrew his bayonet, again and again.
The gunny moved down the line. At each cluster of men he exhorted, “Go down fightin’—don’t let ’em take you alive.” During WWII, the gunny had been a “China Marine” at the American consulate in Tientsin, where the Japanese had taken him prisoner. For four years he endured the horrors of a POW camp. The gunny paused at Red. “No surrender, son,” he added. “Save the last bullet for yourself.” Red nodded, his throat tightening.
Alone in the shadows, Red traced his gloved fingers over his bloody right ear. He grimaced and began to remove a glove but then stopped and reeled back in horror. He held up his gloves. Devans’s blood encrusted them. Red glanced down and realized that his arms and chest were crimson, too. Furiously, he pawed at his chest to scrape away the bloody crust. He turned to the bank, scooped up handfuls of soil, and rubbed the earth along his arms like sandpaper. He scrubbed harder and harder, but the crimson remained. Mere hours before it had been his birthday, his friends by his side. Now Charlie was missing, and Devans lay with his head on the creek stones, his eyes unblinking, his future with Audrey Johns vanished with his final breath.
Tears welled in Red’s eyes. His lip quivered. He covered his ears, but the wailing of the wounded and the gunfire’s snapping still reached him. He felt cold; his shoulders began shaking. Tears began leaking. Red sank to his knees. He gripped the sides of his face and began to choke up. He had never prayed before, but now he tried. “God, don’t let me die, not here.” He glanced upward, his cheeks streaked with tears. “I just want to see the sun come up one more time, just give me another day!” Red slumped against the bank and buried his face in his arms.
The wailing, the slicing, the snapping—all sounds seemed to fade. In a blur, Marines drifted by through the shadows.
—
A blue glow slowly stretched across the frozen creek. The glow crept over Red, from his feet to his arms to his face. Sounds vibrated across the ice, too, mechanical coughing, gears grinding, engines surging. In the distance, at Yudam-ni, Marines were starting trucks, jeeps, and tractors to warm the engines. Hushed voices muttered. It was 6 A.M., and the sky over the rese
rvoir was turning pink beneath dark clouds.
A hand shook Red and he opened his eyes. The dim face of a young bazooka ammo bearer came into view. “Red, we’re moving out on the double,” he said. Red lifted his head and blinked the sleep from his eyes. Around him, Marines were stirring. How’s this possible? Red thought. The White Jackets should have attacked by now.
Red stood shakily. In the dim light he gazed toward the encampment. Two hundred, maybe three hundred dead White Jackets stretched like a human roadway through the fields. The cold had contorted their arms and legs.
Marines broke from the bank and fell into a column behind Gunny Sawyer. The detachment had been ordered to reinforce a unit on the west side of the valley.
One by one, the surviving bazooka men gathered around Devans’s body. One spread a sleeping bag on the ground. Together, several hands lifted their sergeant onto the bag and tucked him in. Red stumbled closer to see his friend’s face for the last time. Why him? Red thought. Bob was a better guy than me. A Marine slowly zippered up the bag until Devans’s cleft chin, upturned nose, and shy eyes vanished.*
Red grabbed his rifle and sleeping bag and took a place flanking Devans’s body. He asked the others if they’d seen Charlie. “Yup,” one replied. “He was helping the wounded.” The man gestured back toward the road. Red sighed with relief.
The column began moving down the creek bed, away from the road. At the end, the creek bed opened into a field.
Four of Devans’s men seized the corners of the sleeping bag and stood in unison. The bag sank in the middle from Devans’s weight. They had been told their dead would be retrieved later, but the bazooka men weren’t about to take a chance.
In step, with weapons jostling, the Marines carried their sergeant toward the light.
—
The detachment double-timed their march through the open field opposite Hill 1403. As dawn stretched across the valley, the gunfire popped more slowly.
With his now-bloody T-shirt raised over his face, Red moved rearward along the procession, looking for Charlie.