A Proper Beginning
"Excellent. Above all, we seize Pyongyang swiftly. Then we establish defensive lines. To prepare for any potential enemies."
I ground out my pipe in the ashtray. Sizzle. The remaining embers died down, releasing a faint wisp of smoke.
"Matthew. What's the situation along the Manchurian border?"
I rose slowly from the backless wooden chair. A dull ache throbbed in my knee joints.
"Nighttime aerial reconnaissance yesterday showed heat sources north of the Yalu River more than doubled from the previous day," Matthew Ridgway said, flipping through his binder. Flip.
"Endless lines of freight trains were spotted at rail yards in Andong and Jian. They've finished preparations to cross the river."
My heartbeat quickened irregularly. A chilling sensation spread through my veins, cooling my blood across my entire body.
Mao Zedong's hundreds of thousands of troops.
"If... the Chinese Communists cross, we'll meet them with firepower. We won't move rashly."
Ridgway nodded.
"I've pre-distributed 1.5 times the standard allotment of shells to each division's artillery regiments. Unloading at Incheon Port is running 24 hours straight."
Whoosh. Heavy rain began pouring outside the tent. The wind and rain battered the canvas roughly. Flap, flap.
The docks at Incheon Port were a massive hellscape. The salty tang of seawater mixed with the nauseating fumes of diesel engines, numbing the senses. Steel cables on the cranes screeched with friction. Screeech, clang.
"Move it, you bastards! No one sleeps until every ammo crate's off that ship!"
The foreman bellowed, his voice piercing the rain.
Port workers in raincoats and U.S. military police dashed through the mud. Splash, thud. Forklifts roared, hoisting wooden pallets. Vroom, thump. Wooden crates of 155mm shells, paint chipped and peeling, poured endlessly into the beds of 2.5-ton trucks.
Military boot soles scraped the slick concrete floor, curses erupting from all directions.
'Every truck that rolls up to Pyongyang lengthens our lifeline by another foot.' Supply officer Major Roberts wiped rain from his face and irritably tore through the dispatch log.
The road network north was barely paved—truck tires punctured constantly, engines overheated without fail. He bit his lip, mentally calculating the ratio of ammo to rations.
Boom rumble. A distant thud—thunder or artillery?—shook the ground.
Three cruisers anchored off Incheon Harbor were raising anchor. Thick black smoke billowed from their stacks, mingling with the rain and sinking heavily over the sea. The deception fleet was ready to sail toward the waters off Wonsan on the east coast.
On deck, sailors gripped the slippery surface, pulling waterproof covers from gun barrels. Clank, clang.
Admiral James Doyle glared at the roughening waves through the bridge's glass. His naval uniform was crisply ironed, but deep fatigue shadowed his eyes.
"Communications officer."
Doyle's thin lips parted.
"Is the deception radio transmission ready?"
"Yes, Admiral. 150 encrypted fake landing operation orders loaded into the automatic transmitters. We'll flood all frequencies the moment we enter the East Sea."
The communications officer adjusted his headset as static crackled. Crackle, hiss.
'We'll make those North Korean remnants tremble on the Wonsan coast, staring at the sky.' Doyle paced the bridge, hands clasped behind his back.
No actual landing, but the 8-inch guns' devastating power to shatter coastal batteries was real. While Wonsan burned, the Hungnam detachment would hit the beach unopposed.
Two hundred miles north, on the front lines. Dozens of M4 Sherman tanks crouched beneath barren ridges outside Kaesong. The idle rumble of diesel engines filled the valley. Rumble rumble, chug chug.
Eighth Army commander Lieutenant General Walton Walker had spread a map across the hood of his rain-soaked Jeep. His uniform was caked in mud, rainwater dripping from his helmet brim.
"Damn weather."
Walker gripped a red pencil roughly and jabbed the map. Thud.
"At dawn, 1st Cavalry Division advances up Route 1 toward Sariwon."
His voice boomed over the rain, thunderous and commanding.
"Don't stick to paved roads. Infantry battalions parallel the tanks along the ridges. Any woods that could hide anti-tank guns—level them with mortars first, then advance."
Division commander Major General Hobart Gay nodded. His boots were sunk to the ankles in mud.
"Intel says remnants who fled the Naktong River have dug in at Sariwon. Ragtag bunch with no firepower."
"Don't get complacent."
Walker clenched the pencil as if to snap it.
"Even rats bare their teeth when cornered. Take prisoners from those begging for mercy—but crush anyone who turns a gun on us under the treads."
Behind Walker, infantry hauled ammo crates, rain ponchos flapping. Clank, rattle. Riflemen racked the bolts on their M1 Garands, oiling chambers. The metallic click of clips slamming into magazines echoed everywhere. Clink, clink.
'We held for three months at that goddamn Naktong. Now it's time to snap this godforsaken peninsula in half.' Walker stroked his jawbeard and glared at the blackened northern sky. Memories of the Pazzuz encirclement and the blood-soaked frenzy of battle boiled in his eyes.
At the same time. Near the 38th Parallel north of Yangyang on the east coast. Blaring static-laced martial music poured from the radio in the ROK I Corps command post. Crackle, boom-boom.
Corps commander Kim Baek-il perched on a rickety field cot, puffing heavily on a cigarette. Smoke hazed the cramped tent. Puff.
"Damn Yankee bastards."
Kim Baek-il flung the butt to the floor and ground it under his boot heel. Sizzle.
Three days since he'd boldly crossed the 38th Parallel on the President's orders, only to be stalled by UN threats to cut supplies. Ammo lines severed, gun batteries gathered dust; soldiers survived on cornmeal porridge due to food shortages.
"Corps commander, sir. UN Command has issued orders to resume the advance."
The chief of staff burst in, breathless, thrusting forward a document. Rustle.
"Starting 0600 tomorrow, 3rd and Capital Divisions resume north toward Wonsan. Fifty ammo trucks en route from Gangneung."
Color returned to Kim Baek-il's face. He sprang up. The cot creaked.
"Order all units to prepare to move out immediately."
His voice tore through the tent roof.
"We grab Wonsan before Almond's X Corps climbs from the west. Mountains or whatever—doesn't matter. Starve if you have to, but march, run—plant the Taegukgi on northern soil before the Americans."
The chief of staff saluted sharply and dashed out. Flap.
Kim Baek-il stepped outside. Fierce wind and rain lashed his uniform. In the pitch darkness, tens of thousands of ROK soldiers pressed helmets tight, slinging rifles. Click, clank.
'Land reclaimed with our blood. We won't let the Americans play lord.' Kim Baek-il's clenched fists trembled. National zeal to reclaim the homeland clashed fiercely with deep distrust of the superpower in his chest.
Incheon temporary headquarters. The rain outside the tent had eased slightly but still pattered. I withdrew my finger from the map, brushing off the dust. Tap, tap.
"Once all preparations are complete..."
I turned to Ridgway.
"We launch the attack tomorrow morning."
Ridgway lifted his head from the map to meet my gaze. Not a flicker of hesitation in his sharp eyes.
"Yes, sir."
His voice was calm and resolute. Ridgway struck a match and lit his cigarette. Flick. Harsh smoke swirled in the tent before slipping out through the rain's rhythm.
"Transmit to Eighth Army and X Corps. 0600. Open all fronts."
In a dilapidated brick building in Andong, Manchuria, second floor. Peng Dehuai stood by the iron brazier, thawing his frozen hands. Staff officer Hong Xuezeng entered with a thick binder. Snow-mixed mud from his boots smeared the wooden floor.
"Comrade Commander. South Korean forces have crossed the 38th Parallel along the east coast."
Hong Xuezeng reported, setting the binder on the table.
"UN main forces are still waiting south of the 38th."
Peng Dehuai pulled his gaze from the flames and stepped to the table. The acrid coal stench clung to his rough uniform.
"What do you make of their intentions?"
Hong Xuezeng replied, "Intel from Beijing diplomatic channels says the Yankees are dead set on pushing to Pyongyang. They've notified us they'll ignore our warnings."
Peng Dehuai jabbed the Korean Peninsula map with a callused finger.