by Jeff Shaara
Morelli leaned low to Riley, said, “Thank you, Pete. ’Night.”
He moved off, and Riley said to Killian, “Where’d you get cards? I’ll play some. You’ll have to tell me what’s on my cards, though. Don’t know what all those pictures mean, all that other stuff, diamonds and whatnot.”
Welch laughed, crawled over closer. “Hey, Irish, you be careful with this one. He cleaned out half the swabbies on the way over here. I think he grew up in a casino or something.”
Riley laughed. “Just like to play a friendly game, Sarge.”
“It was against orders on the ship, you know. Still is.”
Killian said, “Not quite, Sarge. It was forbidden. Not quite the same thing as an order. I took twenty off a lieutenant in Baker Company.”
Goolsby was there now, the small man coming through the darkness with soft steps. “Let’s get some sleep, if we can. Captain Zorn has ordered one quarter watch, and Lieutenant McCarthy assigned Sergeant Welch to pick out the man for first watch. Two-hour shifts.”
Welch said, “Irish will take the first watch. I’ll relieve him in two hours. Riley can be next. I’ll do the fourth. Don’t need much sleep. Kane, Baxter. That’ll get us to dawn.”
Goolsby said, “Very good. See to it, Sergeant.”
He moved away, more instructions to the next squad. Killian pulled himself up, said, “Now those are orders. See you in two hours, Sarge.”
Welch ignored the sarcasm, crawled away, and Riley said, “ ’Night, Sarge.”
He shifted his weight, tried to find any kind of comfortable position, knew Killian would be sharp, wide-eyed. He’s loud and a jerk sometimes, he thought. But he’s a good Marine. Riley closed his eyes, visions of the prisoners, naked bodies and hateful stares, thought of the kid, the shame of it. He’ll learn. I hope. Or maybe not. He goes home with no more of a nightmare than that, I don’t care what his mama says, he’ll be the luckiest son of a bitch in the Corps.
He felt sleep coming, the weariness of the last few days seeping through him. To one side, a voice, jarring, a few yards away, singing.
“Good night, Irene. I’ll see you in my dreams….”
Killian stood up. “Oh, for God’s sake. Who the hell is doing that? I heard that damn song all the way over here, and I ain’t listening to it now!”
There was silence for a moment, then the voice of Lieutenant Goolsby. “Sorry. Just…rather like the song.”
Killian sat again, and Riley fought to quiet his own laughter, leaned toward the Irishman.
“Nice going, Private. He’d bust you, except you’re already as low as you can get. How about you save all that heat for the enemy?”
Killian whispered, “Oh, for Chrissakes. You think he knows it was me?”
Welch called over from his own hole. “Don’t worry, Irish. I’ll tell him in the morning.”
UIJONGBU—OCTOBER 4, 1950
The men of Fox Company were patrolling again, as they had near Inchon, the sounds of the fight replaced by the occasional burst from a distant machine gun, a thump of artillery somewhere to the north. Above, squadrons of Corsairs roared past, searching for targets, their power adding to the morale of the men on the ground. Riley glanced up, six planes in a loose formation high above, moving north. He always wondered about the pilots, the glamour job, thought, Lucky bastards. They don’t ever have to smell this place. He couldn’t get used to the stink from the rice paddies, but Uijongbu offered new smells, even worse. The reasons for that were everywhere, decaying bodies buried beneath blasted homes. Some were North Koreans, left behind, rotting where they had died. But there were others, civilians, caught in the firefights, trapped by the shelling with nowhere else to go.
Up ahead was a row of crude huts, burnt, whether by design or by the chance impact of an artillery round. Smoke rose from smoldering straw, another squad of Marines moving out that way, careful inspection, but there were few places the enemy could hide. McCarthy was pointing, and Sergeant Welch looked back, motioned in front of him, this way. The rest of the squad followed him, stepping off the road, and Riley eyed a flattened fence line, more huts beyond. More of the awful smell washed over him now, a new kind of putrid, his face twisting, a hard exhale, futile effort to keep the stink away. Welch reacted as well, turning his head, and behind him, groans from the others. Welch led them between two huts, one smashed flat, as though punched by a giant fist. He pointed toward the other, a heap of mangled straw.
“Check it out.”
Riley peered through a gap, what remained of someone’s home.
“Nothing, Sarge.”
Welch didn’t answer, kept his eyes on whatever lay ahead, and behind Riley, a voice, Killian.
“Oh, good Christ.”
Riley turned quickly, saw the big Irishman staring out to one side, toward a heap of freshly churned earth. Welch moved that way, and beside Riley, another man, Harper, nearly as green as Morelli.
“It’s a cow. Ox, I guess.”
The Southern drawl was unmistakable, and Killian stepped closer, stared at the decaying mass, swarms of flies, said, “You sure? How the hell you know that? You a farm boy?”
“Yep. Seen plenty of dead cows. This one’s poor, though. Sack of bones.”
Riley avoided looking at the carnage, said, “It’s no use to anybody now. Hey, Sarge. Over that way. People by those huts.”
Welch said, “Let’s see what’s up.”
Riley followed the sergeant, stepped over debris, all of them still cautious. The stink was even worse now, and Riley shook his head, thought, How much of this can these people stand?
The civilians stood in a cluster, a dozen of them, watching the Marines move closer. It was the usual scene, old men in ragged white clothes, old women standing back behind them. There were children, dead stares, hints of fear, tears on dirty faces. Behind him, Killian said, “What the hell’s over there?”
Welch turned, motioned them forward, said, “For the love of God.”
It spread out before all of them now, the sight every man dreaded, a mass grave. Riley glimpsed the half-decayed bodies, pieces of flesh, black blood and grotesque faces, dark bones covered with swarms of flies. He felt his stomach pull up into a tight curl, one man grunting behind him, dropping to his knees, vomiting.
Riley closed his eyes for a brief moment, another sight he didn’t need to absorb. He backed away, the rest of the squad doing the same, looked again to the civilians standing off to one side, mostly silent, the soft whimper of a single child. Welch said, “We’ve got to report this. Get a good look. Look for uniforms, South or North.”
Riley let out a breath, tried to detach himself from the scene. It’s just death, he thought. Do your damn job.
The grave was shallow, not much of a grave at all, most of the bodies protruding, blackened limbs, hands with crooked fingers. Rain had drained away much of their cover, grim evidence that most of the bodies were without clothes. Killian said, “No uniforms, Sarge. These folks were executed. Bullet holes in the heads.”
Riley saw the same, then more, tiny forms, hard against adult bodies. Welch said, “Oh, Christ. Babies. They’ve been killed with their mothers. Looks like bayonet wounds. Enough of this.” He looked toward the civilians, Riley backing away, doing the same. There was no emotion from the old men, a strange calm. Welch said, “These people were butchered. Bullet holes in the heads. Who did this? You speak English? Who did this?”
One old man raised his arm slowly, pointed up the road, to the north.
Killian said, “Nooks. I knew it.”
Welch glanced at him, disgust on his face. “Yeah, genius. You figured it out. I’m getting damn sick of this stuff. This isn’t war. It’s a horror show. I seen too much of this from the Japs.”
Welch started to move again, past the civilians, back toward the road. Riley stepped up, closed the gap between them, said, “You oughta tell the captain, I guess. Somebody’s gotta make a report. The lieutenant, at least.”
Welch didn’t look
at him. “Another genius. You think this is one time? Something special? These damn savages can’t whip our asses so they take it out on the innocent. Somebody explain to me why. What the hell are these damn Koreans so hot for, that they slaughter civilians?”
Riley had rarely seen Welch this emotional, had no response. He followed the sergeant back toward the road, the others falling into line, keeping their distance, their good training, all of them sharing the same hope, that the North Koreans had truly gone, that the misery of these people could finally end.
UIJONGBU—OCTOBER 7, 1950
The army troops marched past, the usual catcalls, the Marines answering. But these soldiers were veterans, too, most of them from units of the Eighth Army, the men who had advanced from the Pusan Perimeter, now marching northward. For three days since Uijongbu had been cleared of the enemy, the Marines had strengthened their position in the town, more an army of occupation than anything resembling a combat mission. Now the army was moving into position to take their place. The rumors were hot that orders had come for the Marines to pull back, speculation that with the fighting concluded, the enemy had surrendered.
They had gathered at another of the kitchen trucks, enormous buckets of stew, bread, apple pies in stacks, generous slices to each man. Riley did what the others did, heaped his tin plate, seeking out a comfortable place on the rocky ground, another feast he knew not to take for granted.
“Hey, jarheads! Listen up!”
He forced the pie down his throat, the delicious moment interrupted by the cluster of officers standing nearby. He focused first on the familiar face, Captain Zorn, his hands on his hips.
“All right, listen up. Get your gear together. Orders from Division. The whole lot of us are being trucked back down to Inchon, the port.”
The cheering erupted, but Riley saw a frown on Zorn’s face, knew there was more. Beside Zorn, another officer, familiar, from battalion, one of Major Sawyer’s men, who said, “You men have done exemplary work. You should be proud. We’ve all had a job to do, and that job has been accomplished.”
“We going home?”
The call came from behind Riley, more joining in, the cheering again, but Riley kept his eyes on Zorn’s face, saw the man slowly shake his head. Zorn waited for quiet again, then said, “No. Get that straight, all of you. This job’s not done. We’re to wait at Inchon for new orders, telling us where they want us to be. I wish I could tell you we’re done here, that our next port of call is San Diego. But the orders only said Inchon. Sounds to me like they’re not done with us. That’s all I know.”
Zorn said something to the officer, who moved away with a sharp nod, and Riley watched him go, thought, He’s telling the other companies the same thing. Zorn stood alone now, his arms crossed, watching them, his eye catching Riley. The talk flowed through them all now, rumors springing up from fertile minds, the raw hope that the gloom from Zorn was just part of the job, keeping his company’s feet on the ground. Zorn seemed to recognize him, the acknowledgment of a veteran, but Riley did not smile, saw no reason to. He doesn’t know what’s up, Riley thought. They haven’t told him. But I bet he’s right. This job isn’t done. He glanced around, saw Welch, his hands in his knapsack, organizing.
“What do you think, Hamp?”
Welch kept his stare downward, said, “Nobody surrendered, Pete. We let those bastards get away. We shoulda clamped ’em down in Seoul, wiped ’em off the earth, every damn one of ’em. But we let ’em slip off. Now we gotta go find ’em again.”
“But if they went home, back into North Korea…”
Welch looked at him, hard, cold eyes. “So what? We took casualties, Pete. Men died, Marines, soldiers. The people back home will want to know what the hell for. Somebody’s gotta tell them something good, whether it’s newspapers or the government. Just saying, Hey, everything’s fine now. The North Koreans, they all went back home…that ain’t gonna do it, Pete. We gotta kill some more people, plain and simple.”
Riley looked toward Zorn again, saw the captain standing quietly, arms still crossed, his stare outward, to some other place, whatever might lie ahead.
PART TWO
“I hope we do not have to operate in this country in the winter.”
—MAJOR GENERAL OLIVER P. SMITH (TO HIS WIFE), OCTOBER 1, 1950
CHAPTER SEVEN
Smith
ON BOARD THE USS MOUNT MCKINLEY—OCTOBER 11, 1950
THE STEAM ROLLED UP around him, wet, glorious heat, the soapy lather sweeping away days of grime. He inhaled deeply, pulling the delicious steam inside of him, breathed it out slowly. His arms hung now by his sides and he leaned his head forward under the shower, blinded by the waterfall that flowed down his face, rinsing away the soap. He opened his eyes, saw a pool of sudsy water at his feet, a slow drift downward through the drain. He allowed himself another few seconds of the watery massage but could not avoid his mind snapping to attention, the harsh reality slapping him that this was only a temporary luxury, a gift from the ship’s captain, the privilege of rank. He reluctantly turned the shower off, blinked water from his eyes, paused, took in another long breath, the last of the warm steam, memories of home, more luxuries, all those pieces of life with Esther. He stepped clear of the shower, his brain waging war with itself, one part of him knowing he could slide once more into the torrent of hot water, that no one would question, no one would find fault. But none of this steamy escape could remove the reality of what was happening beyond the bulkheads, the curiosity of his men, the entire division still waiting at Inchon for the order that would put them aboard the ships, following their general to their next port of call. And for them there would be no hot showers.
Smith knew the rumors, the wishful thinking that rippled through the camps at Inchon, that their job was complete. He had ordered his staff to stop that kind of talk, that this war was still theirs to fight. But he could do nothing to stop the euphoria that came from above, the backslapping congratulations flowing out from MacArthur’s headquarters, so many untested officers in Tokyo completely convinced that they had won a war. The celebration had spread through the upper levels of the Tenth Corps, a message coming to Smith from Ned Almond that offered effusive praise for a job well done. He had tried to imagine Almond’s expression as he wrote the note, whether the man believed his own kindness, or whether Almond wrote with a hard grip on his pen, scowling acceptance that the Marines had earned the praise. Smith tried to avoid meeting with Almond at all, a foolish hope, the Marines still firmly anchored as a part of Almond’s command.
Smith dressed quickly, the dread returning. He buttoned up with jerking fingers, tugged the trousers up, the loose waistband revealing his loss of weight. He thought of writing that to Esther but he knew it would inspire concern, worry that he was not eating well, or worse, that he had picked up some Asian malady. No, he thought, she does not deserve worry. But I will write. After all, it is good news, all of it. Success. But I must be honest with her, clear away the junk. She knows full well not to believe what she reads in the newspapers. And Time magazine. Good Lord. What is the matter with those people? I’m no hero. Not even close. The Marines were the best-prepared men we could put into the field, and I happen to be at the top. It’s no different now than the First World War. Marines called upon to serve as infantry. The Fifth led the way at Belleau Wood. I need to make sure Murray knows that. Make sure he tells his men their own history. It’s important. Though, right now, their morale is about as high as it can be. And it’s my job to stick a pin in that balloon.
He was fully dressed now, checked himself in the captain’s small mirror, satisfactory. I must thank him for this, he thought. For the first time in many days, I don’t smell like Korea.
He moved into the passageway, sailors standing aside, crisp salutes, which he returned. He climbed to the next deck, saw officers, Marines in a small cluster, cigarettes and coffee cups. They noticed him immediately, faces smiling, Eddie Craig.
“Well, General, you look a goo
d bit more presentable. Fit even by MacArthur’s standards.”
He acknowledged the smiles with a brief nod, said, “The staff will meet in the wardroom in ten minutes, if you please. I’d like to know our status. I’ll request the captain be there as well.” He caught a whiff of something pungent, saw Sexton backing away slightly, self-conscious. “Make that thirty minutes. I would appreciate it if you gentlemen would see to your personal hygiene. Even a damp rag will do.”
It was his attempt at a joke, but there was no laughter, the men responding with brief sniffs at their clothing. He could rarely tell a joke, found it difficult to break that pane of glass between them. Craig and Bowser seemed to be the exceptions, but here, even Bowser kept his seriousness.
“Aye, sir. If I can find my clean uniform, I’ll change. We’ll make ourselves more presentable. Sorry.”
Craig said, “There wasn’t much time. But you’re certainly correct, sir. We could all use a scrub-down.”
Smith regretted the comment now, didn’t want them to think he was scolding them for anything at all. But he had no use for excuses.
“Any effort will be fine. Thirty minutes, then.”
He reached another ladder, climbed up to the open deck, a breeze of fresh salt air. He stepped carefully to the port-side rail, the ship rolling over heavy swells, and he saw the land spread out along the horizon, the coastline of South Korea. It can’t take us too long, he thought. The captain will tell me when we pass the boundary. I wonder how the men will react. Word will spread on the transports, some sailor making sure the Marines find out when they cross the line. No need for secrets here. The 38th parallel might not mean much to them, the land won’t look any different from out here. Likely no one will be shooting at them, either. If the South Koreans have done their job, the landing will go smoothly, no enemy anywhere around. There will be one thing very different from Inchon, though, something even the new men will understand. This time we’re not liberators. We’re invaders.