On Desperate Ground

by Hampton Sides

  * * *

  Once again, Lee could not believe his luck. The bridge was a short walk from his family’s house. Arbitrary forces of Army management, abstract orders from an unthinking bureaucracy, were directing him straight to his neighborhood, to the place where he wanted to be. He remembered with fondness the many festive times, at New Year’s, he had crossed over the bridge with his brothers and sisters, his mother and father, his cousins and school chums. Mansekyo lay in the heart of the city. It was a place he held dear—and, if true to its name, it was a place of good fortune.

  The next day, Lee was driven by jeep through the city. He could see that Hamhung was in shambles, its neighborhoods choked with rubble, its shops and markets empty, its citizens buffeted, weary, and tense. Many people milled in the streets, their belongings bundled on their backs or piled high on sidewalks. No one seemed to know where to go, or what the future would bring. American soldiers moved through the streets on crisp errands. Machine guns peeked out from behind barricades of sandbags. At a roadblock, MPs waved a truckload of captured Chinese soldiers through—they were bound for X Corps headquarters, to await interrogation.

  Adding to the confusion in the city were the refugees from the countryside. Many tens of thousands of people had streamed down from the mountains—some to elude the violence of the Chosin fighting, some to find food, still others harboring the more ambitious hope of boarding ships bound for another life in the South. He could hear their cries in the streets.

  Lee hardly recognized the city, parts of which the Americans had strafed and bombed several months earlier as the North Korean troops pulled out. Now it was the Americans who would be pulling out, and nearly everyone in Hamhung could feel a riptide of calamity, an awareness that the city would soon be engulfed in sorrows impossible to measure.

  Lee could hear artillery, coming from somewhere off in the reservoir country. The departing Americans had plans to bomb the city, to destroy all factories, to blow all bridges, to leave nothing behind of strategic value. Hungnam and Hamhung were doomed sister cities, and everyone sensed it. Placards would be stapled around town and leaflets dropped from the air, warning civilians in certain areas to begin evacuating their homes. The American exit plan would deny the Chinese their spoils—but it was the civilians who would suffer most.

  In another week or two, the Americans would probably be gone. And when they left, who could say what would happen? As the Chinese and North Korean armies, addled and starved, flooded into what was left of the city, the civilians expected to see spasms of predation, crimes of venality and vengeance. Now, on the streets, the sense of unease was palpable, like a rank fog hanging over every nook of the city, over every person and every house.

  The jeep approached the bridge, and Lee stepped out. A military checkpoint had been set up on the east side—the city side—of the bridge, with a kiosk, a machine gun nest, and a tank parked nearby. This, he was told, would be his post for the next several weeks. He grabbed his rifle and took his place, as a sentry and an interpreter, on the Bridge of Long Life.

  41

  DOWN TO EARTH

  North of the Reservoir

  Lieutenant Tom Hudner circled the crash site, despairing for his friend. The plume of snow had cleared, revealing the full extent of the wreckage. The long nose of Jesse Brown’s Corsair was badly misshapen—it had contorted with such force that it was nearly cracked in half. The plane was a tangle of ruptured hoses, ripped wires, and shorn cowling pieces.

  Though Hudner repeatedly tried to reach Jesse over the radio, he got only static. But when he circled again and came in low, he took heart: Brown was waving up at him.

  At that, Hudner heard voices cheering over the radio. He had momentarily forgotten that, higher up, other Corsairs from the squadron were waiting in a holding pattern. They’d been watching the disaster unfold. “I’m calling for a helicopter,” one of the pilots broke in. “And Tom,” he added, “once Jesse gets clear, destroy the plane.” Hudner understood. Better to ruin your aircraft—blow it to smithereens if you have to—than let all that expensive Cold War technology fall into enemy hands.

  Then the radio waves crackled: “Mayday! Mayday!”

  Brown was still inside his cockpit. Was he hurt? Why didn’t he close his canopy? It was freezing down there.

  Now Hudner spotted something more alarming: Smoke was curling from Brown’s plane. The wreck had caught fire—it was probably a magnesium blaze, coming from the engine itself. Hudner knew that just in front of Brown, inside the aircraft’s twisted nose, was a two-hundred-gallon gas tank. If it ignited, there’d be no hope.

  Brown kept waving.

  Hudner orbited again, then once more. He knew what he was supposed to do in this situation. He’d studied it in the manuals. He was supposed to steel himself and turn away. But a worm was turning in his conscience. He was thinking of taking another course, something that went against Navy rules and might get him court-martialed.

  He banked his Corsair and dove toward the pasture. “I’m going in” was all he said over the radio to his squadron mates. He wasn’t asking for permission or advice. It was a statement. Up above, no one uttered a word.

  * * *

  Tom Hudner aimed straight for the hillside, toward a promising spot near the downed plane. Facing none of Brown’s mechanical challenges, Hudner was better able to control his descent and feather his landing. Even so, he crashed with terrific force, in a tumult of wrenched metal and snapped propeller blades. His windshield shattered. Once he’d skidded to a halt, Hudner slid back the canopy and tried to crawl from the cockpit, only to find himself wincing in pain. He thought he might have cracked a vertebra. His engine steamed in the cold air. He turned and saw that Brown’s plane was still smoldering.

  Hudner knew he had to act quickly. Somehow he lifted himself out of the cockpit and hopped off the wing into the snow. Grimacing through the pain, he moved up the slope toward Brown’s Corsair. But then his heart skipped a beat: Tracks, apparently fresh ones, were stitched across the snow. Were they Chinese? North Korean? The shack at the edge of the field appeared to be abandoned, but maybe someone was hiding inside? The mountain winds roared in his helmet. He thought he heard voices. He pulled out his .38 revolver and fired a shot into the air. Then another. He waited a few moments, but no one stirred from the shack.

  Encouraged, Hudner resumed his painful climb across the hill. He approached the right side of Brown’s plane and clambered up onto the wing. As he looked down at Brown, Hudner’s spirits sank. According to biographer Adam Makos, Brown’s lips “were blue and his ears looked frozen and brittle. He was shivering wildly, his arms folded, his breath puffing. The cold had curled his fingers into claws.”

  “Jesse.”

  “Tom,” Brown said through chattering teeth. “I’m pinned in here.”

  “Helicopter’s on the way,” Hudner said. He looked at his friend. Brown’s lower body had twisted in the rending metal. One wall of the cockpit was stove in. Hudner feared that Brown might have broken his back. He might have had internal injuries, too, and he could be in shock. His face was waxy. Brown’s ears ached, and his fingers were so stiff he could hardly move them. Hudner pulled a knit hat over Brown’s head and wrapped his benumbed hands in a scarf.

  Appraising the cockpit, Hudner was able to piece together what had happened in the moments immediately after the crash. Brown, in his scramble to get out of his parachute and escape the smoking plane, had hastily removed his gloves and helmet and dropped them, just out of reach, on the floor of the cockpit—only to realize that he was trapped. (The helmet contained the microphone and headset, which explained why he’d been unable to communicate with Hudner by radio after the crash.)

  The smoke was growing thicker, and Hudner was worried that the plane might explode. Brown was, too. “We gotta do something to get out of here,” Brown said.

  “Let’s see what’s got you pinned
,” Hudner said. He leaned into the cockpit and batted away the smoke long enough to determine the problem: An extension of the instrument panel was crushing Brown’s right knee. He was jammed in tight, but Hudner had to try to pull him out. He found a good foothold, then grasped Brown under his arms. On the count of three, he yanked with all his might, but nothing budged. Hudner revised his hold and heaved again. It was no use: His friend was truly stuck. It was going to take a crowbar and an ax, Hudner thought—maybe even a cutting torch—to extricate him.

  Brown remained stoic, but he was suffering, his energy ebbing, his breathing strained. Hudner eyed the billowing smoke with alarm. He hopped off the wing and scooped some snow, shoving it into the engine compartment, where the smoke was thickest. He packed in more and more. The fire smothered a bit but then roused again.

  At about 3:40 p.m., Hudner hurried over to his own plane and got on the radio. Several Corsairs from the squadron were still circling overhead, their pilots scouring the surrounding country for any Chinese who might be drawn to the crashed plane. “Jesse’s pinned inside,” Hudner transmitted. “His back may be broken. But he’s got all the heart in the world.”

  Hudner peered into the skies and noticed that the Corsairs were circling in a clockwise pattern—a Navy signal that meant that a rescue helicopter was en route. This was especially welcome news: With daylight starting to drain from the sky, Hudner knew the planes would have to make their exit soon and return to the deck of the Leyte.

  Around four o’clock, the Corsairs dove and, one by one, buzzed the pasture. It was their way of saying farewell. Brown raised an arm in reply. They wagged their wings as they passed over the two downed planes, then headed east over the reservoir.

  They were alone now, two injured aviators in enemy territory, surrounded by frozen wasteland. Although, Hudner feared, maybe they weren’t alone. He knew it would be only a matter of time before the Chinese found them. The trail of smoke from Brown’s plane had announced their presence. Hudner’s thoughts spun. Would the Chinese kill them on the spot? Or take them prisoner? What would captivity be like in such a severe country? Shivering in the slanting light, he fumbled for his .38, but he recognized what feeble protection it afforded.

  Hudner turned to his friend again. He could see that Brown was fading. His breathing was shallow and labored. His head drooped. His eyes had become vacant and lusterless. After a few minutes, Brown broke the silence: “Tell Daisy how much I love her.”

  “I will, Jesse,” Hudner said.

  * * *

  The Sikorsky looked like a dragonfly, buzzing awkwardly over the mountains, the throb of its rotors echoing off the rocks. Its pilot, First Lieutenant Charlie Ward, fought the winds as he tried to land the bulbous-snouted creature. Hudner activated a red smoke flare to help guide the pilot in. Ward plopped the chopper down, its three tires sagging in the snow. He kept the Sikorsky running; he feared that if he killed the engine, he might not get it started again.

  Ward hopped out into the snowy tempest stirred up by the blades and greeted Hudner in astonishment. The two men were friends. Hudner tried to explain the situation, shouting over the whir of the chopper. Ward squinted and said, “That Jesse over there? Aww, shit.”

  Ward produced an ax and a fire extinguisher from the Sikorsky, and he and Hudner hastened to Brown’s plane. Hopping onto the wing, Hudner gripped the ax first and smashed it into the buckled instrument panel that was pinning Brown in place. But the blade only bounced off. He tried again and again, adjusting the angle. He used the handle as a lever to pry back the encumbering bulge of metal, but to no avail.

  Then Ward, who’d been working over the engine with the fire extinguisher, took a turn with the ax. “Hey Mississippi,” Ward said. “Hang in there.” With all his strength, Ward wailed away. Searching for leverage anywhere he could, he tried to pry his friend loose. Brown, according to one account, “half smiled as he watched, glassy-eyed, the feverish efforts.” But nothing was working. He was still trapped.

  And he was slipping fast. The cold was taking him. Ward and Hudner both could see it. They considered the possibility of amputating Brown’s leg to free him. Hudner had a sharp knife strapped at his hip, but he couldn’t go through with the abhorrent task.

  Brown lost consciousness. His breathing was barely detectable, just thin wisps of air. Then he stopped breathing altogether. Ward laid down the ax. “He ain’t moving,” he said.

  Hudner was distraught, pacing beside the plane, his mind in a fugue state. “They must have a cutting torch at Hagaru!” he shouted.

  Ward inspected Brown more closely and shook his head. “Think he’s gone, Tom.” They both examined him, and there was little doubt: Ensign Jesse Brown was unresponsive.

  Hudner couldn’t bring himself to accept this uncomfortable truth, nor to confront the one that immediately followed: They had to leave now, and abandon Brown here on the hillside, perhaps to be stripped and desecrated by the enemy. The Sikorsky wasn’t equipped with night navigation, and they had only a few minutes before darkness would descend. They thought about hacking off Brown’s pinned leg so they could at least remove the body. But in the end, they thought better of it. The magnesium fire continued to smolder and could ignite at any moment. They would try to retrieve Brown’s remains in the morning.

  Still, Hudner was in a muddle. “You coming or staying?” Ward asked. He reminded Hudner that if he remained here on this mountain, he would surely die.

  Coming to his senses, Hudner followed Ward back to the idling Sikorsky, and they crawled inside. As the helicopter rose above the wreckage, Hudner pressed his face against the glass nose and stared. He had destroyed an expensive plane. He had violated Navy rules. His friend was dead and left to be scavenged. He himself was injured. And in a few days, he felt sure he would face a court-martial.

  The chopper bobbled over the darkening peaks and then, gathering momentum, sped south toward Koto-ri.

  If only my heart could talk—if only my hungry arms could enfold you….Often at nite all the loneliness of the day seems to descend upon me. Then all the tears that I’ve been holding back refuse to be held any longer, and I just lay there in loneliness and misery and cry my heart out.

  Darling, I’m going to close now and climb in the rack. I have to fly tomorrow. But so far as that goes my heart hasn’t been down to earth since the first time you kissed me, and when you love me you send it clear clear-out-of-this-world. I’ll write again as soon as I can.

  Your devoted husband, lovingly and completely yours forever,

  Jesse

  42

  THE MOST HARROWING HOUR

  Koto-ri

  At nine thirty on the morning of December 7, the sound of propellers cut through the air. Three Flying Boxcars thrummed across the sky and circled over the Marine encampment at Koto-ri. The twin-tailed, fat-bellied transports seemed to strain under the weight of their loads. Ground signalers scattered across a frozen field just outside the hamlet and began to unfurl bright orange panels to mark the borders of the drop zone. Lieutenant Colonel Partridge watched through a pair of binoculars; General Smith, who had moved his headquarters here from Hagaru, stood at his side. Hundreds, possibly thousands, of Marines watched as well, knowing their fate hinged on what the skies today might yield.

  One of the Boxcars dropped to about a thousand feet over the ground. From the surrounding hills, enemy fire crackled at the slow aircraft. The plane’s rear bay doors cranked open. In its belly, crewmen untethered all but one of the ropes that cinched the treadway piece to the ribs of the plane. The pilot, spotting the orange panels below, descended to eight hundred feet, feathered back on the throttle, then gave his command to the cargo master: Drop!

  The procedure that had been improvised for discharging the 2,900-pound bridge section was elaborate, a Rube Goldberg progression of interconnected tasks that had to be flawlessly executed in a few seconds. On the pilot�
�s cue, a crewman standing deep in the bay would chop the last remaining rope with an ax while another man stood by to smack the bridge section with a sledgehammer—a final nudge to eject the big piece of steel from the plane’s abdomen. Simultaneously, a third crewman was supposed to trip a spring-loaded drag parachute designed to guide the piece safely out into the slipstream as the plane pulled away. This smaller chute, in turn, would activate the two larger chutes, hopefully breaking the treadway piece’s fall.

  All of these maneuvers had to happen with clockwork precision, but the pilot also had to be flying at just the right altitude, and at just the right speed, if he hoped to hit the drop zone with any accuracy. The target was a confined area, a few hundred square yards, in the flats hugging the town. If the treadway piece landed directly on Koto-ri, crowded as it was with installations, warming tents, and medical wards, it could cause a great deal of damage, maybe even kill someone. If the bridge section drifted outside the perimeter, the Chinese would claim it. And if it glided off into the surrounding mountains, it would be impossible to retrieve.

  Now the first plane exhaled its cargo. The Boxcar bumbled in the air, in sudden reaction to its lightened load, but then stabilized. In rapid succession, the freight’s parachutes opened as they were supposed to, and it slowly sailed toward earth. The girder landed, unharmed, in the field, not far from one of the Brockway utility trucks. The Marines, watching from their stations in Koto-ri, erupted in war whoops and clapped their mittened hands.