The Decision to March on Pyongyang
“George, do you think Zhou Enlai's words are just a bluff?”
Marshall nodded. “They've assembled about 200,000 troops along the Manchurian border. But the era where troop numbers alone decide the outcome of a war is over. The Chinese have no air force to seize control of the skies, no navy to contest a landing.”
Acheson leaned forward, tapping the table. “But they can use their infantry numbers to exploit the terrain. The mountainous north of the Korean Peninsula hampers armored advances.”
“Logistics is the issue.” From his seat in the corner of the Oval Office, Joint Chiefs Chairman Omar Bradley spoke up. His uniform was crisply pressed. “The moment Chinese forces cross the Yalu River, their supply lines will be completely exposed to our Air Force. Our bomber squadrons will sever Manchuria's rail network and every bridge over the Yalu. Two hundred thousand starving infantrymen will freeze or starve in the mountains.”
Bradley tapped the briefing folder on his lap. “MacArthur's report says the same. Of course, there's Willoughby's intel assessment claiming the heat signatures in Manchuria are just border guard maneuvers.”
Truman drew deeply on his cigar once more. His mouth felt thick with smoke. He shoved Panikkar's document aside on the desk. “Panikkar is sympathetic to the communists.” Truman tapped ash into the ashtray. Tap. Tap. “Zhou Enlai is using that to scare Washington. If we stop at the 38th Parallel, Kim Il-sung's regime survives, and China keeps its buffer zone along the Yalu.”
Acheson adjusted his tie. The silk rustled softly. “Mr. President, then do we cross the 38th?”
Instead of answering Acheson's question, Truman jabbed at another document on the desk. It was MacArthur's plan for “Limited Advance North and In-Depth Defense.”
Bradley shifted in his chair. The leather creaked. “MacArthur handled it shrewdly, sir.” Rare respect for MacArthur colored Bradley's voice. “He even threatened to cut off ROK Army supplies to seize firm control from Syngman Rhee. And he drew the advance limit at the Pyongyang-Wonsan Line.”
“Pyongyang-Wonsan Line.” Marshall approached from the window and peered down at the map-spread table. “The narrowest waist of the peninsula. It minimizes the defensive front.”
Truman rose from his seat. His shoe heels sank into the carpet. Pacing the Oval Office with hands clasped behind his back, he said, “MacArthur's changed.” His footsteps echoed rhythmically through the room. Thud. Thud. “Right before Inchon, he was the epitome of arrogance. Now he's cautious about crossing the 38th and actually asking for our input.”
Acheson pulled a fountain pen from his briefcase. The gold cap clicked open sharply. “It could be political calculus.” He scribbled on a notepad. “MacArthur has Republican support ahead of the midterms. He might be aiming for a flawless victory with minimal casualties, returning as a hero.”
Truman halted and fixed Acheson with a stare. “Whatever his motives, right now his judgment aligns with Washington's.”
He moved to the window and gazed out. A drizzling autumn rain had begun. Raindrops pattered against the glass. Tap-tap-tap. “The American people want a victory before the November elections.” Truman's breath fogged the cold pane white. “So many young men spilled blood along the Naktong River. If we pull back south of the 38th and revert to the status quo, the public will call me a weak coward. That lunatic Joseph McCarthy will scream that I sold the country to the communists.”
Marshall cleared his throat. Ahem. “Militarily, stopping at the 38th makes no sense either,” he said gruffly. “Leave North Korean remnants alive, and they'll rearm and invade south again in months. We need to seize Pyongyang and dismantle their command structure completely.”
Truman wiped the fog from the glass with his finger. Screech. “The problem is China,” he said, turning back. “If we advance only to the Pyongyang-Wonsan Line, will Mao see it as securing a buffer—or as stepping stones to Manchuria?”
Bradley picked up his pen and traced the Pyongyang-Wonsan Line on the map. Scritch. “Per MacArthur's plan, we'll keep at least a hundred miles from the Yalu border.” His eyes sharpened. “That distance weakens any pretext for China to risk all-out war with us. Even if they intervene, their supply lines stretch longer.”
Acheson tore off his notepad sheet. Riiip. “We'll need to revise the UN General Assembly resolution.” He crumpled the paper. “The current one has vague language about 'repelling armed attack and restoring international peace.' We'll propose a new one specifying 'the establishment of a unified, independent democratic government across all of Korea.'”
Truman returned to his desk and ground out his cigar in the ashtray. Sizzle. Bitter smoke curled up as the ember died. “Will Britain and France agree?”
Acheson nodded. “I've coordinated with British Foreign Secretary Ernest Bevin. They agree to full North Korean disarmament—as long as U.S. forces don't cross into Manchuria.”
Truman pulled a fresh bottle of bourbon from his drawer. He popped the cork with a pop. Amber liquid glugged into an empty glass. “Good.” He raised his glass. “Officially authorize MacArthur to advance north of the 38th. But lock in the Pyongyang-Wonsan Line as the limit, per his plan. No operations beyond it without prior Washington approval—make that explicit.”
Marshall snapped a salute. “I'll issue it from the Pentagon immediately.”
“And Dean.” Truman turned to Acheson. “Relay a message to Zhou Enlai via Panikkar: The U.S. has no hostile intent toward Chinese territory or interests. Our goal is solely peace and stability in Korea.”
Truman sipped his whiskey. Alcohol burned through his nostrils. “Whether Mao's bluffing or sending real troops, we dig in at that line. Stuff tens of thousands into the massive wedge MacArthur's building and hold.”
Bradley closed his briefing folder. Thud. “Major General Ridgway's arrival as chief of staff will be a big help, Mr. President.” He stood. “He's unmatched in tactical defense. He'll rein in any MacArthur hubris and perfectly coordinate the Eighth Army and X Corps.”
Truman nodded. “Ridgway going to Tokyo was a stroke of luck.”
The White House grandfather clock chimed the hour with a deep toll. Dong. Dong. Dong.
Truman set down his glass and looked out the window. The Potomac flowed gray under the pouring autumn rain. Beyond that river, across the Pacific's raging waves, the blood-soaked dust of the Korean Peninsula seemed to shimmer. In that narrow East Asian peninsula thousands of miles away, the great powers' massive chessboard was taking shape.
“Issue the orders.” A firm command slipped from Truman's lips. “We're going to Pyongyang.”
Rustle. Ridgway smoothed out the folded section of the Korean Peninsula map with his palm. Calluses hardened his fingertips.
“Preventing supply line delays is the key to this advance.” Ridgway's voice rumbled low like grinding steel. “National Route 1 from Inchon through Seoul to Kaesong is already half-collapsed from North Korean sabotage and our own artillery.”
He jabbed north of Kaesong along the winding road network with his pencil tip. Tap. Tap. “I've positioned the entire engineer battalion ahead of X Corps' lead battalions.”
I clamped my pipe between my lips. Ridgway's plan mirrored the raw face of the battlefield.
“Emergency road repairs, pontoon bridges over destroyed spans to ford valleys and streams. We'll punch through bypasses and charge north to Pyongyang at all speed. Speed and supply lines are the lifeblood of this operation.”