by Adam Makos
Tired eyes looked blankly back, but none belonged to Charlie Kline.
At the tail of the column, two Marines backpedaled between nervous glances at the creek. Behind the column, an eerie fog had slipped through the creek bed and over the encampment. The fog was Marine vehicle exhaust, trapped at ground level by the frigid air.
Red kept pace with the rearguard Marines and asked if they had seen Charlie.
“Yup, he stayed back.” One nodded toward the creek. “Said he needed to get his rocket launcher, then he’d catch up.”
Red shook his head in exasperation. “He lost it at our bivouac, not the creek. That’s where he’s headed!”
Red unslung his rifle and set off toward the creek. Time was of the essence—in the fog, the White Jackets would surely swoop into the abandoned positions.
Red hadn’t gone far when one of the rearguard Marines grabbed him by the shoulder. “No way, Red, you’re not going back there.”
Red shook the man’s hand away. “Charlie’s going to get himself killed!”
“Should we send someone looking for you next?” the Marine said. “Then someone else after that?”
Red glanced at the thin column of Marines that was slowly leaving them behind. His face twisted. If the White Jackets attacked now, his buddies wouldn’t stand a chance.
Red shouldered his rifle and followed the rearguard Marine back to the column.
—
Exhausted and numb, the bazooka men struggled to carry Devans. Red grabbed a fistful of the bag and relieved one of the men. With every step forward, Red felt his sergeant’s 120-pound body sliding. The turn of events seemed unreal to Red. The watermelons on Crete, meeting Liz Taylor on the beach—any good memory seemed to belong to another lifetime.
Ahead of Red, a Marine glanced at Hill 1403. “Oh, Lord,” he muttered, his eyes locked. More Marine helmets turned toward the hill, and the column slowed in step. Red turned, too. His eyes went wide, his jaw dropped. Of all the hills in the Marine defensive ring, only 1403 had fallen, and now the morning glow revealed its conquerors.
White Jackets filled the hilltop. They stood on the crest, visible against the dark clouds. Others squatted on the slope and gazed like wolves down on the Marine column. The column slowed to nearly a halt, and the Marines stared back, entranced. The Chinese numbered in the hundreds, maybe the thousands. Red tightened his grip on the sleeping bag and felt a surge of defiance.
Why don’t you come down and finish this? he wanted to shout at the Chinese.
What are you waiting for?
* * *
* Marine John Margee was Bob Devans’s close friend from his hometown. At Wonsan, Margee was detached from Weapons Company to remain behind and guard supplies. He is certain: “If Sgt. Devans had survived Chosin, he would have become one of the subsequent heroes in the Corps.”
CHAPTER 34
A SMOKE IN THE COLD
Meanwhile, on Hill 1403
FACE DOWN, ED CODERRE LAY MOTIONLESS at the entrance of the gun pit. From down the line came rummaging sounds. He carefully opened one crusty eye.
Where he had last seen Tex, bodies lay scattered, and White Jackets squatted around the bodies, scavenging through the pockets. Enemy soldiers shook the contents from backpacks and pried boots from dead Marines, sliding socks off of stiff blue feet. Dirty vultures! Coderre thought, his teeth grinding.
To his right, Coderre heard mumbling. His nose sniffed the odor of garlic. Slowly, he turned his head and saw four White Jackets squatting beside him in the gun pit.
The nearest soldier ate a ball of rice with his bare hands in the subzero cold. His face was round, brown, and weather-beaten, although he probably was in his early thirties. Ragged black sideburns poked out from the side flaps of his padded cap. The soldier stopped in mid-bite. His eyes shifted in Coderre’s direction.
Coderre lifted his head. There was no point in playing dead now. With a grunt, he rose to his elbows. The other White Jackets lowered their rice balls and looked at him. There goes the Red Sox, he thought.
Coderre began to rise to his knees but stopped with a grimace. Countless needles of pain coursed through his legs. He slumped onto his right side and ran a gloved hand down the backs of his thighs. His pants were ripped and crusty with blood, his flesh studded with shrapnel. Coderre could see a bloody black hole in his left calf. Then his eyes settled on his boots. Still unlaced, they had flapped open and taken in snow. He tried to wiggle his toes but couldn’t—each foot felt like a block of ice.
Coderre’s eyes filled with alarm. He needed medical care, urgently. He glanced out across the valley. At Yudam-ni, the peaks of Marine tents were visible above the fog, and black smoke rose from them. In the dim light, Coderre couldn’t tell if the tents’ stovepipes were billowing or if the tents were on fire. Did the Chinese take the whole valley? he wondered.*1
Coderre turned back to face the gun pit. Having finished their breakfast, the White Jackets shivered with their hands tucked inside their sleeves. Ice encrusted their shoulders and canvas shoes.
They looked to be suffering as well and there wasn’t a Chinese medic in sight. Coderre was certain: Once the Chinese realized that he couldn’t walk, they’d put a bullet in his head. His eyes drifted to their weapons. He noticed several Tommy guns leaning against the pit, the same type that had fired at him on Hill 891 and shot him on 1403. How the enemy had come by American guns, he had no clue.
Coderre patted his parka and blinked with surprise. Both pistols were still in their holsters. One was loaded, but he didn’t reach for it. He patted lower and found what he was looking for. Coderre reached into his pocket and removed his cigarettes and lighter.
The Chinese soldiers’ eyes lifted. The others looked older than the first. Deep lines ran across their faces. One motioned for the Marine to toss him the pack. Coderre scowled and pulled his cigarettes closer. The soldier looked to his comrades in disbelief.
“Don’t like it? Shoot me,” Coderre said. “What do I care?”
The round-faced soldier chattered to his friends, as if translating, then crept toward Coderre. He thrust his head outside the pit and glanced side to side, then looked down at Coderre and whispered, “We no shoot you.”
Coderre’s eyes opened wide.
“You 4th Marines?” the soldier asked.
Coderre couldn’t believe his ears. “No, but I know of them,” Coderre replied. The 4th Marine Regiment were the legendary “China Marines” who had guarded America’s installations in China before Pearl Harbor.
“We and 4th Marines—together,” the round-faced soldier said. He intertwined his fingers: “Shanghai, 1937.”
Coderre forced a grin and joked, “Sorry pal, I wasn’t even born then.”
The round-faced soldier smiled and translated for his buddies. The others nodded.
These guys are Nationalists, Coderre concluded. Suddenly, it made sense that they had Tommy guns. The Nationalists were America’s allies, the troops of the Chinese government during World War II. America had armed and fought beside them. In fall 1937, they had defended Shanghai from the Japanese while the 4th Marines—a thousand men strong—guarded the international settlement inside the city.
Another Chinese soldier entered the pit. His neck slumped forward as if his head were too heavy. He squatted between the others. “You 4th Marines?” he asked Coderre.
Coderre shook his head. “Like I told your buddy—that was before my time.”
The heavy-headed soldier nodded blankly. “USMC very good,” he added. His smile was big and toothy.
The round-faced soldier nodded too. The men had all probably come from the same farming village.
During his days as a grocery clerk, Coderre had followed the Chinese Civil War in the papers. The war had ended in 1949 and the Nationalists had narrowly lost to the Communists, despite receiving $2 billion in American aid. What the papers didn’t report was that the Communists gave the captured Nationalists a choice: Join their army or die.*2
/> With his teeth, Coderre pulled his glove off his right hand. The round-faced soldier watched with curiosity. Coderre shook his pack of Lucky Strikes until one cigarette jutted from the others. He held the pack out to the round-faced soldier. The soldier smiled and drew the cigarette, half-nodding, half-bowing. Coderre flicked his lighter and lit the soldier’s cigarette for him. Coderre then tossed the pack and the lighter to the others.
The other soldiers hesitated. They glanced over their shoulders, in obvious fear of their officers. After all, it was the Communists who had sent them to the Chosin without cold-weather gear, air support, artillery support, or medical support. Beneath their shoes, many Chinese soldiers went barefoot; each had been issued one pair of socks, and when a man wore through them there were no replacements.
One by one, the soldiers each drew and lit a cigarette. The last soldier nodded his appreciation and tossed the pack and the lighter back to Coderre. With numb fingers, Coderre struggled to flick the lighter. Finally the flame stood. He lit a cigarette for himself and took a warm drag.
Silently, in the cold, the soldiers and the lone Marine smoked and gazed upon the valley. Coderre knew the cigarette break was only a reprieve. His new friends weren’t going to kill him, but they couldn’t help him either.
—
A soft drone arose from the southeast, above the reservoir. Coderre’s eyes rose with hope—he recognized the sound from his two months in combat.
Then his face sank as he remembered on which side of the lines he was.
The drone grew louder and clearer into a mechanical buzz. The Chinese heard it too. They stood and faced the sunrise, scanning the snowy hills.
His eyes full of alarm, Coderre glanced over his shoulder at the round-faced soldier and muttered one word: “Corsairs!”
The soldier’s eyes widened. He turned to his buddies and shouted. The soldiers reached for their Tommy guns, then stumbled from the pit and peeled toward no man’s land. The round-faced soldier glanced back at Coderre, just once, then disappeared behind the pit. Up and down the crest, Chinese soldiers fled.
Coderre rolled over to face the valley.
A black W shape had appeared against the clouds, its wings leveled toward him. Coderre knew the silhouette by heart. He had seen a Corsair up close while playing catch in the Leyte’s hangar deck.
The formation spread to reveal four Corsairs flying one after the other. Their propellers whirled and rockets dangled from beneath their wings. The cigarette shook in Coderre’s hand. The Corsairs were racing toward him, almost level with the hilltop.
Coderre watched the lead Corsair’s wings stretch wider and wider before him. He took a deep drag and braced for the burst of gunfire.
In a flash of navy blue, the Corsair roared overhead so close Coderre could almost touch it. He saw oil stains on its belly and could have sworn that he could feel the engine’s heat. Another snarling Corsair ripped overhead. Then came another and another. The snow swirled and Coderre’s clothes flapped. A deep purr trailed the planes.
Over no man’s land, rockets ignited from the Corsairs’ wings and swooshed to earth. Behind the gun pit, explosions cracked and plumes of fire billowed. Coderre glanced around with surprise—he was alone. His eyes lowered on the left end of the line, where he had last seen How Company. His mind screamed one word: Go!
Coderre clawed at the earth with his gloves and crawled on his elbows, dragging his feet behind him. Rocks edged through his parka and dug into his knees. He winced but kept clawing at the snow. At any second, he expected to feel the punch of a bullet in the back from a Chinese soldier who hadn’t fled.
The Corsairs were looping around—Coderre heard them coming and flattened against the cold ground. As the planes roared overhead he glanced over his shoulder and saw the pilots’ helmets and white stars on the planes’ flanks. He heard their guns popping—the Corsairs were now strafing no man’s land.
Coderre kept crawling, past the stripped Marines’ bodies. Beneath his gloves, brass bullet casings appeared and cloth bandoliers and bloody bandages. Coderre could see the edge of the hill ahead, where 1403 fell into a ravine. There’s home plate! Fueled by hope, he clawed harder. Coderre reached the edge, pulled himself over, and dropped out of sight.
Coderre tumbled down the ravine. His helmet bounced away. His arms and legs flailed at the snow. His body flattened scrub brush. With a thud, he smacked against level ground, his heavy clothes softening the impact. Around him, a series of folds led to some open space between 1403 and the neighboring hill.
Coderre lay crumpled in the shadows. He could hear the Corsairs behind the hill, bleeding their guns dry. He didn’t know if they were navy or Marines, the Ks from the Leyte, or someone else. It didn’t matter. Whoever they were, they were beautiful.
Snow clouds were gathering overhead, but all Coderre could do was watch. His legs felt frozen, and his head felt heavy and sleepy. He wrapped his arms around his shivering chest.
Behind a fold in the earth, muffled voices arose.
Coderre cupped an ear. The voices came from the north—Chinese territory. They grew louder. Men were moving between the hills. Coderre unzipped his parka, slid his left hand inside, and gripped the loaded pistol.
The voices became clearer. The language was vulgar, salted with four-letter words. Coderre grinned and relaxed—They’re Americans! Four soldiers came into view. They carried carbines and wore green hip-length parkas.
“Help,” Coderre called weakly, his throat cold and dry. The soldiers stopped and raised their weapons. “I’m a Marine.” Coderre’s voice cracked. “I’m a Marine!”
The soldiers kept their distance. “What unit?” one asked.
“How Company,” Coderre replied. “7th Marines.”
The soldiers lowered their rifles. Cautiously, one approached while the others stood guard. He was young and wore a battered helmet without a cover and his parka was short, unlike a Marine’s. They’re army! Coderre concluded.
The soldier glanced down at Coderre with pity. “You look like hell, pal.” He waved the other soldiers over.
“Yeah, can’t walk, either,” Coderre replied.
The other soldiers crouched around Coderre. They were tired young men of the 7th Infantry Division. One had lost his helmet and wore a small-brimmed knit cap with the flaps pulled down over his ears.
Coderre told the men to keep quiet because the Chinese were holding the hill above. “Did you fellas come to our relief?” he whispered. He had heard that a three-thousand-man army task force had been moving up the east side of the reservoir.
The soldier shook his head; his buddies’ faces went grim. The soldier said their unit had been cut off and overrun. With their backs to the reservoir, the four of them had escaped across the ice to try to reach Marine lines. They’d been behind the Chinese lines all night.
“So where are we?” a soldier asked.
Coderre told them that they were still north of the Marine lines. He explained that the Marine headquarters lay two miles away at Yudam-ni, unless the Chinese had taken the village. “They may hold the entire valley for all I know,” Coderre added.
“One way to find out,” the soldier replied. He and a buddy lifted Coderre to his feet. Coderre winced in pain, then looped his arms over their shoulders. The men started forward and Coderre did his best to hobble.
With a soldier on point and another watching the rear, the small band crept across the valley, toward the rising smoke.
Several hours later, that afternoon
Thick belts crisscrossed Coderre’s chest and lashed his arms and torso to a stretcher as hands carried him from a tent. The cold stung his neck but he couldn’t reach out to adjust the blanket. Coderre squirmed and raised his head, trying to glance backward. “Get these things off me!” he shouted.
“Wish we could,” a Marine stretcher bearer replied. “Doc’s orders. We can’t have you thrashing around.”*3
One Marine carried the front of the stretcher and another carried
the back. Behind them, another duo of stretcher bearers carried another wounded man. Marine tents slipped past on the right and stovepipes belched black smoke from each tent. The Marines still held Yudam-ni—only Hill 1403 had been lost—but now everyone in the encampment was counting the hours till darkness and wondering: Can we hold out another night?
Coderre glanced down at the green blanket that draped his legs and feet. The army soldiers had delivered him to safety, and when the Marine docs had cut his boots away, he had seen his toes, black and swollen. The wind fluttered a white tag pinned to Coderre’s chest. A doc had scribbled something on the tag. Coderre had heard him mutter “amputation.”
A helicopter descended into the valley, its blades thumping and echoing. The craft was an HO3S, dark blue with a bulbous Plexiglas nose and tricycle landing gear. The spindly craft aimed for a clearing between Yudam-ni and the reservoir, where the stretcher bearers were taking Coderre.
“You’re lucky, not many fellas are getting a lift outta here,” one of the stretcher bearers said.
Coderre grunted. He’d never flown before and wasn’t eager to start.
Screams drew Coderre’s eyes leftward. On the edge of Yudam-ni, a whitewashed pagoda had become a field hospital and a man bellowed from within. Another emergency surgery was under way, maybe a young American with a bayonet wound through his gut. In the pagoda’s front yard, rows of dead Marines lay on straw, and the wounded jammed the porch, their hoods raised. Behind the building, medical orderlies dumped rifles into a pile. Coderre looked away, his eyes heavy with remorse. He was done complaining.*4
The stretcher bearers stopped on the fringe of the clearing and waited. The helicopter lowered its tail and hovered downward. Coderre had no clue where the chopper would be taking him, but he knew he’d be flying over hostile territory. He hadn’t forgotten the Christmas light show he had seen the night before.
“So we’re still surrounded?” Coderre asked the stretcher bearer.