Annihilation (2)
“Push!” Walker's bellow echoed through the radio across the front lines. The operations room at Daegu headquarters was a miniature recreation of the battlefield din. Reports pouring in from each division crackled over the radios, mingled with the clatter of typewriters and the clicks of staff officers pinning and unpinning markers on the map, creating an endless murmur.
Blue arrows on the situation board were shifting. 1st Cavalry Division successfully crossed at Waegwan, expanding the bridgehead. 24th Division advancing north from Masan, enemy retreat confirmed toward Jinju. ROK 1st Division breakthrough at Tabu-dong success, pushing north. 25th Division launching attacks west of Masan.
Walker stood before the map, twirling a red pencil between his fingers. It was a habit—for thinking, for anxiety, for elation. Right now, all three churned together.
“Get me the 1st Cavalry Division commander.”
The radioman hurriedly tuned the frequency. Hobart Gay's voice cut through the static.
“General Walker, 1st Cavalry Division here. We've advanced to three miles north of Waegwan. Enemy resistance is lighter than expected. Confirmed sightings of white flags from some enemy positions.”
“Surrender?”
“Affirmative. Small units, but platoons surrendering. Looks like they're out of food and ammo.”
The corner of Walker's mouth twitched upward. Surrender. The mad dogs that had charged like fiends for three months were raising their hands. With Incheon breached and supplies severed, their will to fight had crumbled. Especially with friendly forces aggressively pushing south—the enemy supply columns south of the Han River, once limited to nighttime movement due to air power, were now being scooped up wholesale by our forces operating day and night.
“Maintain speed. Don't stop. Hit 'em before they snap out of it.”
“Roger that.”
As the radio cut off, Walker turned to his chief of staff. “Where's the 7th Division now?”
The chief pointed to the other side of the map. The pin for the 7th Infantry Division, descending from Incheon, was placed north of Daejeon, past Cheonan.
“As of this morning, twenty miles north of Daejeon. Should enter the city by tomorrow.”
“Daejeon.” Walker repeated the name. Three months ago, Major General Dean's 24th Division had been shattered there. William Dean himself captured, the division effectively wiped out. Now they were paying it back.
“If the 7th cuts the Okcheon-Yeongdong axis at Daejeon, the enemy's main force on the Nakdong can't escape north.” He jabbed the map with his finger. 8th Army pushing up from the south, 7th blocking from the north. The North Korean main force trapped where the arrows met.
“Timing's the issue. They can't slip out faster than we close in.”
The chief nodded. “At the 1st Cavalry's pace, they'll reach the Kimcheon-Gumi line in three days. ROK 1st Division matching speed.”
“Three days is too long.” Walker cut him off. The red pencil snapped still between his fingers with a click. “Two days. Secure Kimcheon in two. Meanwhile, request air strikes to block the Gyeongbu road so they can't flee toward Daejeon.”
The chief jotted notes and nodded. Walker tore his eyes from the map and gazed out the window. Daegu's September was still sweltering. But the heat wasn't just from the sun. It felt like the frontline inferno was transmitting through the map pins into this very room.
Rrrrring. The phone rattled. Walker snatched the receiver himself.
“Walker.”
“General, ROK 1st Division Major General Paik Sun-yup.”
Clear English. One of the few Korean officers who could communicate directly with Walker. Paik Sun-yup. Lion of Tabu-dong. The man who'd grabbed a rifle and led from the front when his division nearly collapsed here three months ago.
“Paik. Status?”
“Tabu-dong breakthrough success. Pursuing north. Enemy retreating, but some units breaking into the mountains.”
“Ignore the ones fleeing to the hills. Focus on the main force. Grab the ones on the roads first.”
“Understood.”
“And Paik.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You fought well.”
A brief silence, then a low reply from the receiver. “Thank you, General. I'll pass it on to the troops.”
Click. He set it down. Walker turned back to the map. Blue arrows marching north. The defensive line, stagnant for three months, finally unleashing.
Old man MacArthur, you were right. He admitted inwardly. No way he'd say it aloud. Without the 7th pushing south, this counterattack would've been just a shove—pushing the enemy back but not bagging them. But with the 7th sealing Daejeon-Okcheon, it became encirclement annihilation.
Encirclement. Pockets. Memories of six years ago resurfaced.
This time, not one slips away.
Walker buttoned his uniform and grabbed his cap. “Get the jeep ready. I'm heading to the front.”
The chief's face hardened. “Sir, the front's still hot. The commander himself—”
“You think wars are won pinning flags from an office?” Walker jammed the cap low on his head and turned his stocky frame toward the door. Bulldog. That nickname wasn't earned behind a desk. Like Patton, Walker needed to bellow from the front and shove soldiers' backs himself to feel satisfied.
“To 1st Cavalry forward CP. Chief, manage from here.”
Bang. The door slammed. The chief sighed and stepped back to the map. When the boss hit the front, comms got shaky and real-time coordination suffered. But no one on this battlefield could rein in Walker. Not even MacArthur.
Matthew B. Ridgway sat in his study reading the paper. Afternoon sun slanted through the window, casting long shadows across the oak desk. The Washington Post morning edition lay open, its front-page headline in bold type.
Ridgway read the headline, read it again, and again. The article was pure jubilation: Incheon Landing Operation success, Seoul liberation imminent, UN forces launching counteroffensive. But Ridgway's eyes scanned between the lines.
The landing succeeded. What next?
He lifted his coffee mug. Black. No sugar, no cream—habit. The bitterness sharpened his tongue.
Ridgway was a fifty-five-year-old lieutenant general. Tall and lean, with hawk-like eyes. On the battlefield, what stood out in uniform was the pair of grenades and first-aid kit on his chest. A general packing grenades was odd, but it was Ridgway's creed: I share the same risks as my soldiers. Leadership shown in deeds, not words.
Normandy. June 6, 1944. As 82nd Airborne commander, he'd jumped from a C-47 into the French night sky. Ankle twisted on landing, stumbling through darkness under enemy fire to the rally point. He'd even led rifle attacks as a division commander. While other generals waged war from maps in the rear, Ridgway fought in the frontline mud.
Now he sat at a Washington desk. Army Deputy Chief of Staff. Important, but bureaucratic: reading papers, attending meetings, juggling budgets. Far from the battlefield stench.
Trrr. A sound at the front door. His aide rushed in, breathless.
“Sir, urgent from the Pentagon.”
He tore open the envelope. Personnel order in Chief of Staff Bradley's name. Ridgway's eyes flew over the text.
Lieutenant General Matthew B. Ridgway is hereby assigned as Chief of Staff, United Nations Command.
Report immediately to Far East Command Headquarters, Tokyo.
Effective Date: September 22, 1950.
By order of General of the Army Omar N. Bradley, Chief of Staff, U.S. Army.
The coffee mug trembled slightly on the table. Whether from Ridgway setting it down or a shaky hand, even he couldn't tell.
UN Command Chief of Staff. MacArthur's chief of staff. Right-hand man to Douglas MacArthur.
He read the order again. Checking for misreading. No mistake. Leaning back, he stared at the ceiling. Plain white plaster, one faint crack. His gaze traced it as questions exploded in his mind.
Why me?
MacArthur's circle was infamous. The old man kept only his own around him. Almond, Willoughby, Whitney, Marsh—all courtiers in MacArthur's palace. Ridgway was never one of them. European theater alum, closer to Eisenhower and Bradley's line.
Why request an outsider as chief of staff?
Two possibilities. Ridgway had the habit of listing options for any problem—military or personal—weighing probabilities and implications.
First: MacArthur genuinely wanted a capable chief. Foreseeing post-Incheon complexity beyond his yes-men. If true, MacArthur had changed drastically. At seventy.
Second: A gesture to soothe Washington. Appointing Ridgway to signal, “I'm not a lone wolf,” to the Joint Chiefs. Political calculus. More MacArthur-like.
But another tidbit from Collins nagged him. MacArthur's post-Incheon calls: Sending the 7th south instead of Seoul. Ceding Seoul vanguard to ROK forces. Ordering stepped-up CPV surveillance. None “MacArthur-esque.”
Ridgway folded the order back into its envelope and scanned his bookshelves. Clausewitz's On War, Sun Tzu's The Art of War, Liddell Hart's works. And in one corner, Far East files: Korean terrain, Chinese order of battle, Manchurian rail nets.
Chinese People's Volunteer Army. His hand unconsciously reached for them. With Incheon success and UN counteroffensive, next steps were obvious. Push to the 38th Parallel. Then? Cross it. Yalu River. Beyond: China.
Would China sit idle? Ridgway had raised this in Washington many times—JCS meetings, informally. Responses lukewarm: “China's exhausted from civil war,” “Mao lacks bandwidth for Korea,” “Soviets won't risk nukes to prod China.”
But MacArthur ordered enhanced CPV surveillance? That piqued Ridgway's interest.