Strings Attached to Seoul
The door to the President's Cabin swung open, and Edward Almond stepped in. It had been barely two hours since the morning briefing, making this his second summons. But his face showed not irritation, but curiosity. He had clearly been turning over the unexpected orders from the meeting in his mind.
"You called for me, General?"
"Sit."
I gestured to a chair for Almond and unrolled the map. It detailed the route from Incheon to Seoul, along with the surrounding terrain.
"I have additional orders regarding Seoul from earlier."
Almond's eyes gleamed faintly. Seoul. The word he obsessed over.
"The 1st Marine Division will advance on Seoul, but place the ROK Marines at the vanguard."
A brief silence fell. A furrow creased Almond's brow.
"The ROK Marines, sir?"
"Yes. And attach the ROK Army's 17th Regiment as well. Korean forces will enter Seoul first."
Almond leaned forward in his chair, staring at me as if he couldn't comprehend.
"General, the ROK Marines are limited in scale. For urban combat in Seoul..."
"It's not about combat power."
I set my pipe down on the table and met Almond's gaze head-on.
"It's politics."
Almond's mouth fell slightly open. He hadn't expected MacArthur to use the word "politics" in this context. The original MacArthur was adept at political maneuvering, but he rarely yielded ground to others.
"Seoul is Korea's capital. Korean soldiers reclaiming their capital—that's the narrative. If American troops do it, it looks like occupation, not liberation."
My logic was simple but struck at the heart. Almond's expression shifted. His mouth, poised for rebuttal, closed.
"President Syngman Rhee will gain momentum once Seoul is retaken. He'll push even harder for northward unification. The 38th Parallel? He'll dismiss it as irrelevant."
Almond nodded. He had dimly sensed this issue himself.
"In exchange for giving the honor of liberating Seoul to Korean forces, we secure firm command and control north of the 38th Parallel. We grant Rhee a favor—and set the price upfront."
I slid a sheet of paper toward Almond. My prepared memo.
He picked it up and scanned it, his eyes darting left and right.
"Prohibiting independent ROK operations north of the 38th Parallel... placing them under direct UNC control..."
"Exactly. We need agreement before Seoul's liberation. If we demand it afterward, Rhee won't even snort."
Almond set the paper down and looked up at me. Surprise—or perhaps reassessment—flickered in his eyes, replacing earlier discontent.
"I didn't expect you to consider such political angles, General..."
He trailed off, clamping his mouth shut as if realizing his slip.
You know the old MacArthur wasn't like this.
A wry smile tugged inside me, but my face remained impassive. Wearing sunglasses indoors felt odd, but damn if they weren't perfect for hiding emotions.
"Falling into the sea must've cleared my head."
I tossed it off like a joke, and Almond gave an awkward laugh. He couldn't grasp the double meaning.
"I'll handle contact with Rhee myself. You focus on operations. Develop plans for the ROK Marines and ROK 17th Regiment to join the Seoul advance, but clarify coordination with the US 1st Marine Division."
"Understood, General."
Almond stood and saluted. As he reached the door, he paused and turned back.
"General."
"What?"
"Good call."
The door clicked shut.
Alone in the cabin, I exhaled deeply. My back was soaked with sweat. MacArthur's old body apparently poured it out under stress. Or maybe that was always me.
Convinced Almond. First hurdle cleared.
But the real challenge was Rhee. He was leagues beyond Almond—a diplomat, a Princeton grad, a wily old politician. This wouldn't be persuasion; it'd be a deal.
Give Seoul, take the reins north of the 38th. Fair trade. Rhee isn't stupid; he'll accept... hopefully.
I picked up the draft message envelope on the table. The Ridgway matter—more urgent. I called my aide.
"Send this to Washington. To Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Collins. Top priority, emergency."
The aide snatched the envelope and vanished. Watching him go, I thought:
If Ridgway comes... no, he must come.
The Pentagon's response would take days. Even in wartime, personnel moves followed bureaucracy. A week at best, two at worst. By then, Seoul would be ours, and the Nakdong encirclement underway.
I'd hold the line alone until then.
I stood before the map again, eyeing the Nakdong River front. Red pins clustered thickly—that was North Korean divisions. Opposite, blue pins for Walton Walker's 8th Army. The 7th Infantry Division descending from Incheon wasn't marked yet.
Woooosh—the engine roar of low-flying aircraft outside. Navy Corsairs launching for frontline support.
When the 7th hits Suwon, then Cheonan and Daejeon—what's the road condition? Bridges blown by retreating North Koreans? Supply lines?
Practical questions hammered my brain. Issues I'd never pondered writing papers—didn't need to. Strategy said encirclement; tactics and logistics hid a thousand variables.
That's why I need Ridgway.
I gritted my teeth. I'd paint the big picture; he'd fill the details. Perfect structure.
Until he arrived...
A knock. Knock knock.
"Come in."
The door opened, and the comms officer entered with a message flimsy.
"From Pusan, General. President Rhee's office requests a phone call."
Rhee reached out first. Incheon news had hit Pusan. No surprise. The old man's political instincts were sharp. He sensed Seoul within reach.
Perfect timing.
I adjusted my cap and stood. Time for the comms room.
Walking the corridor, I simulated the talk in my head. Rhee spoke fluent English—decades in America. No interpreter needed.
Don't lead with the core. He's a seasoned negotiator. Good news first, build goodwill, then the terms.
The comms room was cramped, packed with radios and phones, operators bustling. They snapped to attention and saluted as I entered.
"At ease. Patch Pusan."
I grabbed the receiver. Heavy static. Amid the crackle, the operator's voice.
"Connecting, General."
Moments later, a familiar yet strange voice—high and sharp. English, but with a unique accent.
"General MacArthur! Congratulations! I hear you've won a great victory at Incheon!"
Syngman Rhee. Late seventies, grizzled politician. South Korea's first president. The man I had to convince.
"Thank you, Mr. President. But it's not over yet."
MacArthur's gravelly voice carried through the receiver, roughened further by static.
"I have something to discuss about Seoul."
Silence on the line. Rhee holding his breath. One word—Seoul—had his full attention.
"Seoul... Can we retake it?"
Desperation laced his tone. I seized it.
"We will. Absolutely. And Mr. President, Korean forces will retake Seoul."
"...What did you say?"
Rhee's voice shifted—shock and suspicion mingled.
"The ROK Marines and ROK units will lead the entry into Seoul. Korea's capital must be reclaimed by Korean soldiers. That's justice."
I spoke with maximum gravitas. MacArthur's theatrical flair shone here. It might sound overblown, but it worked on men like Rhee.
A faint gulp from the receiver.
"General MacArthur..."
Rhee's voice trembled. Emotion? Caution? Both?
"Do you mean that?"
"Of course, sir."
Now.
"But there's one matter to discuss."
I gripped the receiver tighter.
"What comes after Seoul. We'll likely cross the 38th Parallel. We need to clarify command structures for ROK and UN forces in advance."
"The 38th Parallel..."