Racing to Pyongyang
A thick fog blanketed the surface of the Daedong River, heavy and unyielding. Smoke from the fires that had raged all night in Pyongyang across the water mingled with it, weaving a dense gray curtain. The acrid stench of burning rode the river breeze to the southern shore.
Major General Edward Almond propped his combat boots on the muddy hood of his jeep and glared across the river. Boom. Intermittent artillery fire echoed from the north, crossing the water. It was the North Korean rearguard blasting the Daedong River rail bridge and pontoons in their flight.
Almond fished binoculars from his uniform pocket and pressed them to his eyes. The lenses framed the skeletal piers of the severed spans and geysers erupting from the river below in stark clarity.
"Damn bastards. They blew every last bridge and ran."
He lowered the binoculars and spat irritably. Ptui. The glob landed in the mud, beside deep gouges from tank treads. X Corps' vanguard armored battalion had raced up Route 1 all night, reaching the Daedong's south bank just before dawn. Almond had arrayed his tank guns in a line along the shore while waiting for the trailing infantry regiments.
Clank. Tank commanders popped their turret hatches and scanned the far bank. Their faces mingled the exhaustion of an all-night march with the thrill of victory in a strange brew.
"General, organized North Korean resistance has vanished entirely south of the river," his aide reported, approaching with a map board. His boots sucked in the muck with wet squelches. "Traces of sandbag machine-gun nests on the north bank, but not many troops."
Almond glanced at the map, then raised his binoculars again. "Signal headquarters: X Corps advance elements reached south bank of Daedong. Request approval for river-crossing ops to enter Pyongyang."
Tap-tap-tap. The radioman's typewriter clattered through the morning air of the Incheon temporary HQ. I snatched the fresh yellow telegram sheet. Fresh ink mingled with the bitter scent of coffee I'd brewed through the night, stinging my nostrils.
"Almond's at the Daedong," I said, setting the sheet on the table.
Matthew Ridgway marked Eighth Army and X Corps positions on the map with a red pen. Scratch-scratch. He paused and looked up. "If the NKs blew the bridges, it'll take time for crossing gear to arrive."
His heavy jawbeard gleamed roughly under the lights. Pipe clenched in my teeth, I jabbed at the Daedong on the map. "No delays on the crossing. Order them to seize a bridgehead north of the Daedong immediately."
Ridgway's eyes sharpened at my command. "You mean occupy all of Pyongyang?"
"Yes. We need to hold it firm for the symbolism." I bit down hard on the pipe stem. Crack. "Planting the Stars and Stripes and Taegukgi in Kim Il-sung's capital stamps the end of Act One. And Pyongyang will make a fine logistics hub to weather the attritional war with the Chinese coming from the north."
The city's airstrips, road nets, and buildings would clearly serve as vital refuges and supply depots in the coming defense.
"I'll prioritize engineer battalions on pontoon bridges," Ridgway said, pulling out his notepad to jot notes. "We'll scout fordable shallows too, push an infantry battalion across first. Primary targets: key government buildings and the broadcast station in Pyongyang."
"Good. Call in bomber squadrons to sweep the north-bank machine-gun nests clean. No spilling our infantry's blood on the crossing."
I gripped the table and rose. Dull pain throbbed in my knees, but I didn't show it. "Tell Almond: the first unit leader into Pyongyang City Hall gets a Silver Star pinned on by me personally."
Ridgway snapped a salute. Behind him stretched the topography of the east coast. The eastern front rolled to a different rhythm than the west. Salt-laced sea wind gusting into the tent. Flap.
ROK I Corps' command tent squatted at the gateway to the Hungnam Plain. Corps commander Kim Baek-il tossed his helmet onto the desk. Thud. His copper skin glowed with vigor from days of sweet rest. U.S. trucks groaning under ammo and rations had streamed up from Gangneung, stuffing I Corps' depots to bursting.
"General! Wonsan's outer defenses have collapsed completely," the chief of staff burst in, breathless with excitement. Sand from his boots scattered on the floor. "Capital Division's 1st Regiment seized Wonsan Airfield. 3rd Division's 22nd Regiment pushing into the city center. NK defenders dropping weapons and fleeing to the hills."
"Expected that," Kim Baek-il chuckled, wiping dust from his helmet with his sleeve. "Navy boys put on a hell of a show offshore for days—shelling like they were landing. Drew every NK eye seaward."
He fished a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. Flick. His match strike was leisurely. The U.S. Navy feint had gnawed the Wonsan garrison's nerves raw. 8-inch salvos pulverized defenses helpless; fake landing craft puffing smoke sent them blazing away, wasting ammo. Through the gap surged ROK I Corps from the south—rested troops with full belts ripping the gutted southern lines apart.
"Casualties?" Kim Baek-il exhaled a long plume.
"Surprisingly light. Enemy resistance so feeble, just a few wounded in the lead companies."
Kim nodded. "Good. Don't stop. Assign follow-on regiments to mop up stragglers in Wonsan. Vanguard pushes straight north to Hungnam."
He stabbed the map at Hungnam. "We grab the Hungnam Plain by land before the Marines hit the beach."
Rat-tat-tat. Machine-gun bursts outside the tent—ROK troops chasing fleeing foes from Wonsan. Offshore, U.S. destroyers punctuated the feint's finale with sporadic salvos. Boom-crash.
Kim Baek-il stepped out. Autumn sun shattered blindingly over the East Sea. Beyond Wonsan sprawled the northern mountains, a vast wall.
"We'll be first over those peaks," he said, grinding his cigarette butt under his boot. Sizzle.
ROK trucks, caked in east-coast dust, roared north in a convoy. Vrooom. Westward, X Corps strained for the Daedong crossing; eastward, I Corps charged Hungnam. The massive front slicing Korea's waist crested toward its climax. My Pyongyang-Wonsan Line—no longer red ink on a map, but etched in the bootprints of hundreds of thousands—now scarred the real earth.
I leaned back in the ops room chair, eyes closed. Knee pain easing, a chill tension crept over me.
Two days. Three at most.
We had to seal Pyongyang and Wonsan airtight, harden the line. On the grand scale: primary defenses along the Daedong north of Pyongyang to Hungnam; secondary linking the cities themselves. Time to pile breakwaters against the Chinese hordes that would pour south under night's cover from beyond the Manchurian border.
"General." Ridgway approached from the comms shack, another yellow sheet in hand. "1st Marine Division detachment just began landings off Hungnam. No enemy resistance."
My gaze drifted northeast on the map. Above Hungnam Plain loomed vast blue-shaded mountains—the tangled Nangnim and Paektu ranges framing a massive lake at their heart. Chosin Reservoir.
To my history-attuned mind, that name carried immense weight. There, in killing cold down to -40°F felt temperature, 1st Marines and Chinese 9th Army Group had devoured each other's flesh in a vast slaughterhouse. The Marines took a mauling, evacuating to Hungnam. But the 9th Army Group lost over half its 80,000—frozen and dead—effectively shattering the unit. That meat grinder clipped the Chinese right flank, dooming their east front.
Without it intact to sweep via Hungnam, Eighth Army on the west would have been encircled and booted from Korea.
Chosin was hell for the U.S. Marines—but strategically, a colossal grinder snapping the enemy's wing.
I wedged the pipe between my lips. Wood clicked against teeth.
Problem. My Pyongyang-Wonsan line meant the Marines wouldn't push to Chosin. Nor could I order them to—