Counterattack
Syngman Rhee's voice lowered. His position on that word was crystal clear. He didn't recognize the 38th Parallel. The entire Korean Peninsula belonged to the Republic of Korea. That was Rhee's creed.
"Excellency, operations north of the 38th Parallel are on an entirely different level from anything we've done so far. We're pushing deep into enemy territory. If the ROK Army and UN forces operate separately, there's a real risk of being picked off piecemeal by the enemy."
I deliberately avoided the term "Chinese forces." It wasn't time to play that card yet. Straight military logic was enough for now.
"We need to operate under a unified command structure. North of the 38th Parallel, the ROK Army must fall under direct operational control of UN Command. This is also a measure to protect the ROK Army."
A long silence stretched out. Only static crackled. Rhee was thinking. The old man was emotional, but he wasn't a fool. He was weighing what he gave against what he got.
Finally, Rhee spoke. "Seoul... reclaimed by the hands of our soldiers..." His voice was like a murmur, repeating it to himself.
"General MacArthur, if you keep that promise, we can discuss the command issue north of the 38th Parallel."
"We can discuss it." In Rhee-speak, that meant "I'll consider it positively." Not full agreement, but the door was cracked open.
"Thank you, Excellency. The details will be worked out between your staff and mine."
"Good. And General MacArthur."
"Yes, Excellency."
"I'll see you... in Seoul."
The line went dead. Static hissed—
I set the receiver down and let out a heavy breath. My back was soaked through. I could feel the communications soldiers glancing my way, but I had no time to care.
'It's done. For now.'
Not a perfect agreement. "We can discuss it" left plenty of room to back out later. Rhee had a knack for making promises vanish when the winds shifted. But the seed was planted. The promise to let the ROK Army claim the honor of recapturing Seoul—that was a hefty carrot for him. If I threatened to yank it away, it could lever the command agreement north of the 38th Parallel.
'That's how politics works. Not just swinging fists, but alternating carrot and stick.'
I left the comms room and headed back to my cabin. Through the corridor window, noon sunlight shattered across the sea. In Incheon harbor, supply ships were still unloading cargo, and trucks snaked inland from the coast. The war machine was grinding forward. And gripping its rudder was a thirty-two-year-old Korean office worker, crammed into this old man's body.
Back in the cabin, I slumped into the chair. I pulled out the memo paper and added a new item.
[To-Do List — Updated]
Nakdong River encirclement annihilation complete <- 7th Division southbound orders issued ✓
Seoul recapture, ROK Army vanguard <- Almond orders issued, initial Rhee contact complete ✓
38th Parallel north command agreement <- Rhee "discussion possible" confirmed
CPV intervention preparations <- Willoughby intel collection ordered ✓
Ridgway summons <- Message sent, awaiting reply
Walker survival <- Pending
The pencil stopped. Walker's traffic accident. December. Three months away. Plenty of time to figure something out.
I folded the paper, tucked it into my inside pocket, and removed my hat, setting it on the desk. MacArthur's hair was stiff and grease-free—an old man's hair.
'Two hours until the afternoon meeting. Maybe rest a bit.'
But closing my eyes felt risky. That voice from last night might come back.
'You try it.'
Yeah, I'm trying. I am. Just keep watching, whoever the hell you are.
Woooong—
Distant naval gunfire echoed. Shelling to mop up remaining resistance on Incheon's outskirts. Using the sound as a lullaby, I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes. Sleep wouldn't come.
Daegu, 8th Army headquarters.
Whirrr, whirrr.
Under the ceiling where the fan spun feebly, Walton Walker read the telegram on his desk for the second time. His sweat-soaked khaki shirt clung to his back unpleasantly, but what really nagged him was his uncertainty—whether the telegram's contents pissed him off or pleased him.
TELEGRAM — FROM X CORPS
7th Infantry Division will not be committed to Seoul. Proceed south to block enemy retreat routes on the Nakdong River front and, in conjunction with the 8th Army, encircle and annihilate the enemy's main force.
Walker tore his eyes from the telegram and stared up at the ceiling fan. The rusty blades creaked in circles, just like the thoughts looping in his head. Round and round.
'MacArthur's abandoning Seoul?'
No, not abandoning. Marines were taking it. But not throwing the 7th Division in too—instead, sending it south. That wasn't like MacArthur.
Walker didn't like MacArthur. No reason to. An old man parked in Tokyo, drawing arrows on maps. Never stepped in the frontline mud, yet droned over the phone, "Can't spare troops; Incheon landing comes first." Landing operation fetishist. The ones who'd squeezed blood from stones along the Nakdong for three months were Walker and the 8th Army—not MacArthur in Tokyo.
But this telegram was different.
Walker stood and walked to the large wall map. The Nakdong front was marked in red. From Masan to Yeongcheon, a winding defensive line along the river's curves. Beyond it, the North Korean main force dug in. Thirteen divisions. They'd hammered that line like mad for three months, and Walker's 8th Army had gritted its teeth and held.
His finger tapped Incheon. Then slowly dragged south. Suwon. Cheonan. Daejeon. The line sliced across the North Koreans' rear at the Nakdong.
'Encirclement.'
He rolled the word in his mouth. Familiar taste. Six years ago, France. Patton's 3rd Army bursting from Normandy, racing across the interior. Walker had been XX Corps commander under him. Breaking the bocage hedgerows, piercing Avranches, forming the Falaise pocket that summer. The sight of the German 7th Army trapped at Falaise was still vivid: tangled vehicle wrecks on roads, burning tanks, endless columns of surrendering Germans.
Encircle the enemy's main force, and the war flipped. Not textbook theory—reality Walker had witnessed.
MacArthur was aiming for that.
'Paris came later.'
The memory continued. The Allies liberated Paris after smashing the German main force at Falaise. Ike hadn't rushed in for the political symbol. He chose military substance. De Gaulle's Free French took Paris; the main Allied force pushed east toward Germany.
Seoul and Paris. Political symbolism of recapturing the capital versus the military reality of annihilating the main enemy force.
'That old man's... doing the same math?'
Walker hated admitting it, but the plan was airtight. Hell, it was exactly what he wanted. After three months holding the Nakdong, what he'd craved most was a counterattack. Switching from defense to offense. With enemy supply lines severed, now was the time to bring down the hammer.
But under the original plan, much of that hammer's weight would've drained into Seoul. Tie up the 7th in streetfighting, and there'd be no force to cut the Nakdong retreat. Even if the 8th pushed frontally, the enemy could slip rearward—through mountains, scattering into regimental groups, turning guerrilla to harass the rear.
But if the 7th went south?
Walker placed his finger on the map and narrowed his eyes. 8th Army attacks frontally. 7th blocks the rear. North Koreans trapped in the bag.
'We can do it.'
He clenched and unclenched his fist. The corners of his mouth twisted—the bulldog grimace that earned his nickname. Smile or snarl? Even he couldn't tell.
Click. He pulled a red pencil from the desk drawer. Standing before the map, he began sketching attack axes. 1st Cavalry Division, toward Miryang. 2nd Division, Nakdong crossing. 24th and 25th, north from Masan. ROK 1st Division, breakthrough at Daegu.
With each stroke, red arrows thrust toward North Korean positions. Walker's hand moved without hesitation. A counterattack plan he'd rolled around in his head hundreds of times over three months. Just lacked the setup before.
Now it did.
The chief of staff entered without knocking. He froze a step in, staring at Walker's face. The commander was smiling. First time in three months.
"Sir, what—"
"Draft counterattack orders. Summon all division commanders by 1600."
Walker's voice was short and gruff. Like a bulldog barking.
"And one more thing."
He turned to the CoS.
"Reply to Tokyo: '8th Army counterattack preparations complete. Won't let a single enemy escape.'"
The CoS nodded and left. Walker turned back to the map. Red arrows fanned out across the Nakdong front like a pocket.
'That old bastard MacArthur finally made a sane call.'
He muttered to himself, clamping the red pencil between his teeth like a cigarette.
'Sane boss makes life easy for the troops.'