Bluster
“Buying time?” Kim Ung jerked his chin toward the boy soldiers digging trenches. “How many hours do you think those lumps of flesh can hold up American tank treads? The brass in Pyongyang haven't even glimpsed the number of napalm bombs our machine-gun nests will draw down on them.”
Ri Yong-ho silently picked up the papers scattered on the ground. He rubbed the mud-caked sheets against his sleeve. Dull gray clouds hung low over their heads. Even in autumn, the humid air clung stickily to their throats.
Crack! A sharp gunshot tore through the air from below the ridgeline, shredding their eardrums. Kim Ung's hand instinctively went to the Tokarev pistol at his waist as he whipped his head around. A political security officer overseeing the trench work was blowing the acrid gunsmoke from his pistol barrel. At his feet lay a middle-aged soldier in ragged uniform, sprawled face-down, spewing dark red blood from the back of his shattered skull.
A convulsive twitch. Sticky brain matter oozed from the caved-in wound, mingling with the mud.
The security officer kicked the corpse's flank roughly with his boot heel. “Cowardly reactionary bastard.” His voice echoed along the ridge. “Anyone abandoning formation to flee will be summarily executed for treason against the homeland. Let that sink in!”
The soldiers pickaxing nearby froze, huddling deeper into themselves, their terror-stricken eyes trembling.
Kim Ung gazed down at the scene stone-faced. The sharp tang of cordite wafted into his nostrils on the breeze. When a frontline was on the verge of collapse, raw, immediate violence was the only thing holding the army together.
“How many deserters slipped away last night?” Kim Ung asked without shifting his gaze.
Ri Yong-ho fidgeted with the edge of his binder. “Over four hundred just around Sariwon. They're slipping into the eastern mountains or changing into civilian clothes and heading south. Our lines are so thin we can't cover the whole surveillance net.”
Four hundred. A full battalion vanished overnight. And not a single American in sight—no shots fired—yet the army was crumbling.
Kim Ung pulled a hand-rolled cigarette of dried tobacco leaves from his pocket and lit it. His fingers trembled faintly as he struck the match.
Hiss. The sulfur stench bloomed. He inhaled deeply, the harsh smoke tightening his chest.
Whummm. A mechanical drone like swarming hornets filled the sky overhead. Kim Ung and Ri Yong-ho reflexively ducked their heads and looked up. Through the clouds flashed two silver-bodied American recon planes, tails linked as they streaked past.
Whiiiiiine.
“Those bastards' eyes have our positions mapped now,” Kim Ung muttered, grinding the cigarette between his teeth. “Come morning, squadrons of bombers will carpet the spots they scouted. No matter how deep these trenches, those boys are gonna burn or get buried alive.”
As the recon engines faded, the ridge filled again with the dull thunk of pickaxes. Kim Ung ground the hard mud under his boot. If the seventy thousand who'd died at the Naktong River were standing on Sariwon's plains now, they might've waged a brutal delaying action against the Americans. But with this force? They wouldn't buy a single drop of blood, let alone time.
Ri Yong-ho licked his dry lips. “Comrade Commander, shouldn't we request reinforcements from Pyongyang again?”
Kim Ung flicked his cigarette butt to the dirt. “You think they've got any left in Pyongyang?” A chill edge of menace laced his voice. “The top cadres are probably already packing for Kanggye or Sinuiju. They're forcing us to play corpse games defending a hollow shell of a city.”
Ri Yong-ho's eyes flickered. Treasonous words, but Kim Ung didn't care. To a general cornered on all sides, the political officers' watchful glares meant nothing anymore. He glared again at the security officer toying with his pistol.
“Pull the defensive line tighter, right into the outskirts of Sariwon town. Spreading thin across the mountains just invites piecemeal destruction. Fight house-to-house in the streets. Pile wreckage to block alleys—make it hell for their tanks to pass.”
Ri Yong-ho pulled out his notepad and scribbled the orders. The fountain pen nib gouged roughly into the paper.
Scratch, scratch.
“How's the comms repair going?” Kim Ung turned, pointing to the command tent below on the slope.
Ri Yong-ho shook his head. “American fighter-bombers severed the rail lines and main networks. Landlines to the Wonsan units are completely cut. We're down to sporadic radio, but interception risks make it hard to get a clear picture.”
“Abandon Wonsan.”
Ri Yong-ho startled, looking up. “Abandon it? If Wonsan falls, Pyongyang's eastern flank is wide open.”
“If we can't even hold Sariwon head-on, how the hell do we stop the American fleet off Wonsan? Mines to buy as much time as we can—that's it.” Kim Ung fixed Ri Yong-ho with cold eyes. “Splitting our forces to stretch the line just makes us paper-thin, ready to tear. Order all remaining Wonsan troops inland for mountain guerrilla ops. We fight conventional only at Sariwon and south of the Daedong River.”
Ri Yong-ho nodded reluctantly, closing his notepad and pocketing it. “Comrade Commander, when do you expect the American main force to hit here?”
Kim Ung stared at the murky southern sky under its blanket of clouds. Dust clouds from tens of thousands of U.S. vehicles snaking north from Kaesong already seemed to choke the horizon.
“Three days.” The dry word slipped from his lips. “In three days, Sherman tanks will roll onto those plains ahead.”
Washington D.C. White House Oval Office.
Clink. President Harry S. Truman swirled the ice in his crystal glass. The bourbon's sharp alcohol bite numbed his sinuses. He tossed it back in one gulp. The fiery liquid burned down his throat, blooming hot in his gut.
Thud. The empty glass hit the desk. Truman's eyes locked on the binder in the desk's center. The paper stamped with blue 'TOP SECRET' ink held a decrypted cable from Tokyo's Far East Command.
Swish. Footsteps muffled on the thick carpet. George Marshall stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back. His ramrod spine defied his seventy years. Lips pressed tight, he stared at the thick fog rising over the Potomac.
Click. The Oval Office's white door swung open. Secretary of State Dean Acheson entered, briefcase tucked under his arm. He set it on the sofa and approached Truman.
“Your Excellency.” Acheson's voice was low and dry. He pulled a yellow envelope from his inside pocket and slid it across the desk. A red State Department seal stamped the front.
Rustle. Truman tore it open and extracted the contents—an urgent diplomatic dispatch from the New Delhi embassy. Deep furrows creased his brow as he scanned the print.
“Ambassador Panikkar,” Acheson said, pushing up his slipping glasses with an index finger. “India's man in Beijing, K. M. Panikkar, met Zhou Enlai late last night. The message is clear.”
Truman gripped the paper tighter. It crumpled with a crinkle.
“If U.S. forces cross the 38th Parallel, China will not stand idly by.” Acheson voiced the crux. “South Korean forces... correction: The Chinese Communists view ROK troops crossing as civil war extension and won't intervene, but U.S. advance northward triggers deployment of Chinese People's Volunteer Army—official diplomatic warning.”
Marshall turned from the window. His boot heel ground into the carpet.
Thud.
“Beijing's bumpkins don't know the first thing about military basics.” Marshall's tone was aggressive. “Fresh off their civil war with half-baked forces, threatening the world's strongest firepower? Mao Zedong's just bluffing.”
Truman opened a desk drawer and fished out a cigar. He bit off the end and spat it into the wastebasket beside the desk.
Ptoo.
Hiss. The match flared, sulfur stench spreading. Lighting up, Truman exhaled a long plume of bluish smoke that dispersed into the air.
“Bluffing.” He murmured around the cigar clamped between his fingers. “George, you think Zhou Enlai's words are just simple posturing?”