From Keyboard Fury to Incheon's Shores
Only the glow from my dual monitors flickered in the cramped studio apartment, the clock already pointing to 3 a.m. The muggy heat of a summer night seeped through the window cracks, soaking the back of my shirt with sweat. The desk was littered with half-cold canned coffee and crumpled receipts, but my eyes were glued to the 24-inch screen. Tap, tap. The mechanical keyboard clacks filled the silent room.
My fingers trembled with rage. That idiot 211.36. He'd been spouting nonsense since yesterday, and now he'd finally crossed the line. MacArthur as the savior of the Korean War? Brushing off all his mistakes with just the Incheon Landing Operation? What a joke. I took a deep breath and started typing my rebuttal comment in earnest.
The comment posted the moment I hit enter. Before I could even refresh, a reply notification popped up.
My blood pressure spiked. Draft dodger? When did I get discharged as a sergeant from a frontline recon battalion? And 1 in 5,000? That's the number the Navy and Marines tacked on to oppose it—I've said it a million times, with tide differences and securing the channels, it was totally doable. I hammered the keys again.
Tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap. My fingers flew so fast they blurred. The neighbors pounded the wall, but I had no time for that. This was about pride. No, historical truth.
Now personal attacks. I let out a hollow laugh and grabbed some lukewarm water from the fridge. It burned going down my throat. Fine, words won't cut it. Time to hit him with facts. I opened my folder.
[C:\Users\User\Documents\History\KoreanWar]
PDFs and papers packed in—Ridgway's memoirs, Peng Dehuai's autobiography, declassified CIA docs. Stuff this guy couldn't even dream of.
I got lost in it as I typed. This was beyond a single comment. I fired up Word, outlined the table of contents.
Introduction: The Myths and Realities of the MacArthur Legend
Reassessing the Strategic Value of the Incheon Landing Operation
Intel Judgment Errors and Command Confusion During the Advance North
Chinese Intervention and MacArthur's Miscalculations
Conclusion: War Hero or Reckless Gambler?
My fingers wouldn't stop. Citations, footnotes, maps attached. Night deepened, dawn broke. By the time bluish light filtered through the window, the Word doc was over 50 pages. 50,000 characters. A full paper. I smirked, saved it as The_Truth_About_MacArthur.docx. Hit the DCInside compose button. Attached file. Upload.
Finally, a reply to that 211.36 punk.
Hitting enter drained the strength from my body. I leaned back, stared at the ceiling. Pulled an all-nighter. Gotta go to work. But a strange euphoria filled my chest. I won. Crushed that ignorant fool with logic and facts. Eyelids grew heavy as lead. Just a quick nap. Set an alarm—phone slipped from my hand, clattered to the floor. Too lazy to pick up. Ten minutes. Just ten... As consciousness faded, a buzzing hummed in my ears. PC fan? Tinnitus?
"Oh? That confident, huh?"
A low, gravelly voice. Familiar yet strange. I tried to open my eyes, but my body wouldn't respond. Sleep paralysis?
"Quite the silver tongue. 50,000 characters... Touching dedication."
The tone dripped with sarcasm—or was it praise?
"Won despite MacArthur? Would've done better without him?"
Who? 211.36? Nah, comments don't speak. Hallucination. Exhaustion playing tricks.
"Fine. I'll give you a shot."
The voice drew closer, whispering right in my ear, crystal clear.
"You try it."
What? Try what?
"That battlefield you boasted about so confidently. That situation. That commander's seat."
A flash exploded before my eyes. Monitor light detonating, blinding white. Hot wind slapped my face. No more coffee smell—acrid gunpowder and salty earth assaulted my nose.
"Prove it. That your 50,000-character paper isn't bullshit."
My body floated, sucked into a deep, dark abyss. Last thing I saw: my haggard reflection in the blacked-out monitor, overlaid with a silhouette. Pith helmet, sunglasses, corncob pipe clenched in an old man's teeth.
"Damn it..."
I cursed as consciousness slipped away.
Briny water flooded my lungs. Seawater gushed into nose and mouth, choking me awake. Flailing hands hit not slimy seaweed, but cold, hard metal.
"Gah, cough! Hack!"
Head broke the surface, coughs erupting. Vision blurry. Salt stung my eyes, ears rang with trapped water. I rubbed them instinctively, scanning around. Gray sky over endless dark blue sea. Waves crashed white foam across my face. But the sound overwhelmed everything.
BOOM!Rumble! Earth-shaking roars. Not thunder—sharp cracks ripping air, dull vibrations through my soles. Gunpowder mixed with sea brine.
"General! Are you alright, sir?"
A frantic shout, strong hands yanking my arm. Waterlogged uniform sleeve scraped rough.
"General MacArthur! Sir!"
English. Pure English. Yet it hit my brain in Korean: 'General! You okay?' Like an auto-translator implanted in my skull. Shaking off daze, I looked at my helper. Young white soldier, helmet low, face smudged with soot, eyes wide with fear. Dozens more waded toward shore behind him. Their gear—M1 Garands, carbines, packs. Familiar from movies, docs, black-and-white photos.
"General!"
His gaze fixed on my chest, not face. I looked down slowly. Soaked khaki uniform. Ribbons glittering on chest. Five stars gleaming on shoulders. General of the Army.
My heart plummeted. Hand to face—wrinkled skin, sunken eyes, sunglasses on nose. Something hard in mouth despite the water. Corncob pipe, soaked and extinguished. The famous one.
"What the..."
Not my voice. Gravelly rasp.
Before I could process, another boom. Black smoke rose far on shore. Destroyers hammered with naval guns. Shells erupted in dirt geysers; Corsairs screamed overhead.
"We need to move, sir! Second wave landing soon!"
An officer—my aide?—rushed up, major's insignia on helmet. Yanked my arm, pointed shoreward.
"Move! Move!"
Troops yelled, charging the beach. Landing craft ramps dropped, trucks and tanks pouring out. Exhaust and sand blinded. Dazed, I let them drag me along. Heavy boots sank in sand. Water lapped knees, receded.
Incheon? Wolmido? Red Beach?
Chaos in my head. Minutes ago, pounding keys in my room, high on MacArthur critique. Now...
'You try it.'
'Prove it.'