Wheels in Motion
It wasn't waking from sleep so much as failing to sleep and opening my eyes. MacArthur's aged body groaned with back pain every dawn, and that's when my consciousness flickered back, bit by bit. The mismatch of a thirty-two-year-old mind crammed into a seventy-something body. It was day two, and there was no sign of adaptation.
Screeech. I rose from the bed and stood before the washbasin. MacArthur stared back at me from the mirror, dark circles pooling under his eyes. His face was already so wrinkled that it barely showed, which was a small mercy.
Let's sort the situation.
I turned on the faucet. As I splashed lukewarm water on my face, I organized my thoughts. Yesterday, September 16th—my orders:
One. 7th Infantry Division heads south instead of Seoul. Encirclement and annihilation at the Nakdong River.
Two. Marines and ROK forces advance on Seoul.
Three. Initial contact with Syngman Rhee. Give the honor of recapturing Seoul to the ROK forces, in exchange for command north of the 38th Parallel.
Four. Message dispatched summoning Ridgway.
Five. Orders to Willoughby to gather intel on Chinese People's Volunteer Army movements.
I dried my face with a towel. The rough cloth scraped against wrinkled skin.
Yesterday's commands are turning the gears right now, whether I'm sleeping or tossing and turning.
That terrified me. At a keyboard, you could just hit backspace. Fixing a line in a paper cost only time. But here, one word from my mouth altered the paths of thousands, rolled hundreds of vehicles, disrupted flows of ammo, food, and fuel.
The 7th Division's probably started south already. By now.
I needed the morning report. I donned my uniform, cap, and sunglasses. The corncob pipe stayed on the table. Biting it was becoming habit, but it made my teeth ache first thing in the morning.
My aide arrived with the morning briefing. Click-clack. "General, sir, this is the situation summary as of 0600 hours today."
I took the paper and scanned it. Dense with printed text and English abbreviations that made my eyes swim, but the essentials were straightforward.
1st Marine Division advancing east along the light rail corridor. Clearing remnant enemy in Incheon city; lead elements reached the Bupyeong area.
ROK Marines handling the left flank, maintaining formation.
7th Infantry Division initiating motorized movement from Incheon Port. Advance guard heading south toward Suwon. Roads in good condition, though some bridges damaged—engineers dispatched ahead.
Enemy situation: Remnants around Incheon abandoning organized resistance, only sporadic skirmishes. Signs of enemy reinforcements moving toward Seoul.
I set the report down. Within expected parameters. Day two of the Incheon Landing Operation; the plan was still rolling mechanically. Problems wouldn't hit for a few more days.
But I have to finish preparations in those few days.
I picked up a pencil and jotted notes in the margins. Confirm 7th Division's southbound speed. Time from Suwon to Cheonan? Sync with Walker's counterattack timing...
A knock at the door stopped my pencil. It was Almond. Why did this man always show up when I was in the middle of something?
"General, sir, the ROK Marine commander has arrived. He's waiting to discuss the Seoul advance."
"Send him in."
ROK Marines. Colonel Shin Hyun-jun. The ROK Marine commander at this time. My papers hadn't delved deep into him—the ROK Marines' role in the Incheon Landing Operation was often treated as secondary.
But things were different now. I'd put them at the vanguard of the Seoul push myself.
Admit what I don't know, and focus on listening.
The door opened, revealing a not-tall but solidly built officer with a stern face. He snapped a crisp Marine salute. I nodded and gestured to a seat. A Korean interpreter waited nearby.
"I want to hear your thoughts on the advance to Seoul."
I could see the subtle shift in the officer's eyes at those words from MacArthur's mouth. It wasn't common for the UN Commander-in-Chief to ask a ROK officer's opinion directly. The original MacArthur would've issued orders, not solicited views.
Too many un-MacArthur-like actions, and suspicion will follow.
Anxiety gnawed at me inwardly, but the words were out; no taking them back.
Pyongyang. North of the 38th Parallel slicing Korea's waist, the northern capital seemed outwardly peaceful in September's lingering heat. Propaganda posters lined the streets, loudspeakers blared nonstop announcements of "great victories" on the front lines.
But deep in the Prime Minister's residence, the mood was the polar opposite.
Bang! A fist slammed the desk. An inkwell toppled, black liquid spreading over documents. Kim Il-sung ignored the spill, glaring at the staff officers across from him.
"Is it true Incheon has been breached?"
His voice was low. Some men sink their voices when rage crests their skulls. Kim Il-sung was that type. This bass rumble was more terrifying than any shout.
The staff froze in their chairs.
"Premier Comrade, on September 15th, U.S. Marines landed at Incheon. Incheon city is now mostly in enemy hands—"
"I know that!" Bang! Another desk-pound. The inkwell rolled to the floor this time.
"What I want to know is why you couldn't stop them! How many troops were stationed at Incheon?!"
Silence descended. The truth was grim. Incheon's defenses were coastal guard level only. Main forces were all south, poured into breaching the Nakdong River. The rear was effectively empty.
Who could've called that judgment wrong? Until August, the tide favored them utterly. Pusan, the ROK provisional capital, was within reach. One more push, and the war would've ended.
Who could've foreseen the Americans striking the back of their head?
But results were results. Incheon breached meant Seoul's supply lines were threatened. Seoul threatened meant the entire main force at the Nakdong River lost its lifeline.
"We must reinforce Seoul's defenses. Pull reserves—"
"Where are the reserves?!"
Kim Il-sung's voice rose for the first time. The room's air iced over with that shout.
Reserves. None. In three months of war, everything deployable had been committed. Frontline divisions were at half strength or worse; the rear held only raw recruits from training camps and factory workers dragooned into service.
Kim Il-sung leaned back, staring at the ceiling. A Soviet chandelier hung there—gaudy but outdated. A few bulbs were burned out.
The Soviets must help.
The thought surfaced. Request aid from Stalin. Air support, weapons—or China.
Mao Zedong. What had he said last month? "If a brother nation is in danger, we will help."
Diplomatic rhetoric. No concrete promises yet.
Kim Il-sung picked up the ink-stained document. A Nakdong River deployment map. Black ink had bled over friendly division markers. An ill omen.
"Can we pull forces from the front?"
A staffer ventured cautiously.
"Premier Comrade, withdrawing from the Nakdong now collapses the line. If the enemy counterattacks..."
"Do we have intel on an enemy counterattack?"
"Not confirmed yet. But if the Incheon landing aims to cut our supply lines, soon—"
"Soon doesn't win wars."
Kim Il-sung flung the paper onto the desk.
Think. Think, damn it.
Incheon to Seoul was close. Days, and the enemy would reach it. Seoul falls, front supplies cut. Supplies cut, Nakdong forces isolated.
No time.
"Build defenses in Seoul. Concentrate every available man at Yeongdeungpo and the Han River line. And..."
Kim Il-sung paused. The next words felt humiliating.
"Contact Moscow and Beijing. Report the situation... and request support."
Relief and anxiety flickered across the staffers' faces. Kim Il-sung rose and walked to the window. Pyongyang's nightscape spread beyond. Sporadic lights pierced the dark—blackout rules kept the city dim. U.S. bombers could strike anytime.
This war should've ended fast.
Failing to press Pusan was the blunder. No—fundamentally, underestimating U.S. intervention scale.
Stalin had said, "America won't intervene." He'd believed it.
Hoo. A sigh escaped. Breath fogged the glass.
It's not over. Hold Seoul. Hold Seoul, keep supplies flowing, buy time for Nakdong forces to withdraw.
But would the Americans target only Seoul? Would all Incheon forces head there?
Kim Il-sung had no answer yet. And he'd learn it days later—far too late.