Crossing the 38th Parallel (2)
“What is it?”
“The ROK 3rd Division and Capital Division under the 1st Corps, responsible for the east coast axis... they've begun advancing north in the Yangyang and Jumunjin areas.”
Willoughby swallowed dryly. His voice trembled.
“They just crossed the 38th Parallel moments ago.”
Every staff officer in the situation room held their breath in unison. The typist's fingers froze mid-air over the typewriter keys. Only the ticking of the wall clock echoed eerily through the silence.
So you've made the first move after all, Syngman Rhee.
I closed my eyes. Resignation that the inevitable had arrived mingled with the crushing weight of history's inertia.
No official approval from UN Command, no directives from Washington. Had my caution sparked their impatience? Or did they believe the North Korean forces utterly annihilated? Before Seoul was even fully liberated, Rhee had pushed his east coast troops north, turning the advance into a fait accompli.
“General, this is a clear violation of the chain of command!” Almond flushed red, raising his voice. “The ROK forces are under UN Command's operational control right now. Crossing the 38th Parallel without the supreme commander's orders? We need to issue a halt order and pull them back immediately!”
Almond was right on military principles. Political reality was another matter.
“Almond.” My voice came low and heavy. “Operational control is one thing... but in practice, the ROKs will prioritize their own president's word. Are we going to brand them traitors and have our troops fire on them?”
Almond's mouth gaped open. He fumbled for a retort, lips flapping silently.
Rhee's gamble had paid off. If ROK forces crossed first, the Americans faced a stark choice: abandon an ally to slaughter north of the line while hunkering south, or grudgingly follow in their wake. Washington—Truman—couldn't pick the former. Public opinion wouldn't stand for retreating from victory, and his pride wouldn't allow it.
Butterfly effect. By accelerating the decisive victory at the Nakdong River, I'd fast-forwarded Rhee's northward clock as well. With no reserves left, North Korea lacked the strength to stop a solo ROK push.
“Willoughby.” I clamped the pipe back between my teeth. “What's the activity on the Manchurian front? Still just 'routine repositioning'?”
Willoughby flinched, bowing his head. “No, sir... Last night's IR reconnaissance over Andong spotted multiple heat signatures indicating large-scale unit movements. Far beyond normal border guard levels. At least several corps assembling...”
Mao Zedong's lit the fuse too.
The massive gears of two titans began to mesh. Rhee had sliced the 38th Parallel; Mao was sharpening his blade at the Yalu. Caught in the middle, I had to steer this collision.
I couldn't charge arrogantly like the original MacArthur, feeding tens of thousands into Chinese human-wave tactics.
“Send a wire to Washington. Report the ROK crossing and notify them that UN forces' operational objectives need revision from now. Limited northward advance and front-line consolidation. Of course, mention the option of no advance at all.”
The staff exchanged puzzled glances. “Limited advance” and “front consolidation,” plus “abandoning the push”—contradictory notions to victory-drunk minds. It was like dousing their high.
At that moment, the heavy oak door to the situation room swung open.
“To flesh that out, we'd start by calculating supply limits, Commander MacArthur.”
A voice rough as sandpaper yet crystal clear. The man at the threshold wore field khaki battle dress instead of Pentagon blues: Lieutenant General Matthew B. Ridgway.
The partner I'd awaited to steady this mad war had arrived. I rose slowly from my chair. MacArthur's ancient knees creaked.
“I've been expecting you, Matthew.”
Ridgway strode in, halting at my table. He snapped a salute at perfect attention.
“Reporting for duty as ordered, sir.”
Lowering it, he eyed my face, then the situation map, alternating. Analyzing the gap between Washington's “arrogant MacArthur” and the weary, defense-minded one before him.
I glared at the new blue pin stabbed into the map: the ROK 3rd Division's crossing point north of Yangyang along the east coast axis.
“Rhee's gone and done it.”
A bitter mutter escaped me. Behind me, Ridgway—arms crossed—rumbled low agreement.
“Classic case of the army dragged into a politician's gamble. Washington must be in an uproar by now.”
“Truman'll be furious, but the odds are he won't order the ROKs pulled back. Public opinion won't let him. In the end, we Yanks might get dragged north of the line just like Rhee planned.”
Ridgway stepped to the map, tracing the rugged mountains beyond the 38th with a finger.
“1st Corps' advance speed is beyond imagination. Ignoring supply lines entirely, marching on foot with light gear only. Punching through collapsed defenses into the voids is smart, but their flanks are wide open.”
Sharp insight, field-commander style. I set the pipe down.
“If the Chinese intervene, they'll target the ROKs first.”
Ridgway's eyes met mine. “You seem convinced of CPV intervention too, sir. General Willoughby still calls it border maneuvers.”
“Willoughby's a paper-and-stats warrior. You and I? We've wallowed in the mud. Over 200,000 massing at the Manchurian border? Call that a bluff, and it's time to hang up the uniform.”
I clapped his shoulder lightly. “Rhee pulled the trigger. Now we choose: advance or not. Or rather, President Truman does...”
I sketched the western and central fronts on the map with pencil.
“If we push north, pull 8th Army main strength north of Seoul—but control the advance strictly on 'defend first, advance second.' Divisions hit daily objectives, then dig in for night defense. No lone advances without flank confirmation. We creep north slow, bloodless, behind solid firepower nets.”
A faint smile tugged Ridgway's lips. He grasped the genius of this defensive offense.
“Supply becomes the lifeline. Max out unloading at Incheon and Pusan ports. Concentrate artillery per division. CPV'll infiltrate mountains at night—we build on flat ground, prep crossfires.”
“Exactly. I delegate ops planning and reallocations to you fully. Almond'll gripe, but as chief of staff, lock down X Corps tight too.”
“Understood, sir.”
Ridgway saluted crisply and exited. Watching his broad back vanish, I finally exhaled long-held breath.
It's changing. History's veering from that horrific track I knew.
The original MacArthur had vowed war's end by Christmas, shattering units in a Yalu dash. Flanks exposed, US and ROK troops crawled into mountains—ripe for night-piping Chinese hordes to smash them piecemeal. Chosin Reservoir horrors, Ceksan River tragedy.
Now Ridgway stood with me. Rhee's solo push started the northbound train, but we wouldn't stroll unarmed into the CPV maw.
Riiiing! The direct line in the situation room corner shrilled.
The duty soldier grabbed it, face hardening as he turned to me.
“General! Report from 1st Marine Division.”
I knew instinctively.
“Seoul liberated?”
“Yes, sir! Moments ago, US 1st Marines 5th Regiment and ROK Marines fully seized the Central Government Complex, raised the Taegukgi! Enemy remnants fleeing north through the city!”
Cheers erupted. Almond pumped fists; signalmen hugged. Thirteen days since Incheon.
I stood wooden amid the roar, staring into the thick darkness outside.
Act one ended. Rhee would jet from Pusan to Seoul, trumpet victory, cement the north push. Washington would pop victory champagne, grant Yalu discretion. And Mao would cross the Yalu.
I stuffed the corncob pipe in my pocket, yanked the cap low.
“Almond.”
“Yes, General!”
“Prep for tomorrow morning. We're going to Seoul.”
Capital liberation ceremony. Seat to nail down ops control north of the 38th. If Rhee didn't commit in writing...
No US advance. The man who'd shrugged off releasing anti-communist POWs? He'd bend—but on my terms.
The real war started now.