Washington's Unease

Washington D.C., the Pentagon. The Joint Chiefs of Staff conference room was thick with cigarette smoke. The latest situation map of the Far East front lay spread across the table, marred by several coffee mug rings—evidence of an all-night meeting. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Omar Bradley adjusted his glasses as he alternated between reading two cables in front of him. One announced the success of the Incheon Landing Operation; the other was MacArthur's request for Ridgway as his personal chief of staff.

"Is this really from MacArthur?"

At Bradley's question, Army Chief of Staff Joe Collins shifted in his chair. "Codes check out. It's from MacArthur's headquarters."

"MacArthur asking for a chief of staff?" Bradley reread the cable. His eyes narrowed behind his glasses. Anyone who'd dealt with MacArthur for long knew one thing: the old man never asked for help. Even during the Pacific War, when he was chased out of the Philippines, he'd declared, "I shall return," not "Help me." He'd complain about whatever Washington sent, but outright requesting someone was exceedingly rare.

And Ridgway, of all people?

"If he needs a chief of staff, he could pick from his own people."

Collins picked up his coffee mug, took a sip of the cold brew, and grimaced. "He's got Almond. Promote that yes-man to chief of staff—why pull someone from Washington?"

"That's what makes it strange." Bradley set the cable down on the table. MacArthur's loyal inner circle was well-known: Almond, Willoughby, Whitney. These were men he'd groomed himself, famous for faithfully executing his will—which meant they almost never offered opposing views.

Ridgway was cut from different cloth. The man who'd jumped into Normandy as commander of the 82nd Airborne. A battlefield-hardened soldier with ironclad confidence in his own judgment. No yes-man for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠MacArthur. A talent whose competence was legendary across the entire Army.

Why would MacArthur want him at his side?

"There's something else odd." Collins pulled out another document. "It's about the post-Incheon operational plan change. Originally, the 7th Infantry Division was slated to join the 1st Marine Division in the assault on Seoul. But MacArthur's holding them back and sending them toward the Nakdong River."

Bradley raised an eyebrow. "Abandoning Seoul?"

"Not abandoning. Marines and ROK forces handle Seoul, while the 7th cuts off the enemy's retreat at the Nakdong. Coordinate with Walker's 8th Army to envelop and annihilate the main enemy force."

Silence fell over the room. The staffers exchanged glances. Bradley removed his glasses and polished the lenses—a habit when deep in thought.

"Not a bad call."

Collins nodded. "Honestly, it might be better than the original plan. Focusing everything on Seoul would give a lot of North Koreans at the Nakdong room to slip away. If the 7th swings south and blocks their retreat..."

"The enemy at the Nakdong gets trapped in a sack." Bradley slipped his glasses back on.

That was the problem. This was the militarily sound choice. And it was not very MacArthur-like. The two facts clashing at once made Washington's staff uneasy.

MacArthur was the type to obsess over Seoul—the political symbolism, recapturing the capital just three months after the war began. A dramatic narrative. For such a man to suddenly prioritize strategic rationality?

"Didn't he fall in the water?" someone said. A colonel from the Strategy Division.

"There was a report he briefly fell into the sea during the Incheon landing. Said he was off for a day but recovered."

"So? A dip in the ocean made him smarter?"

Bradley’s quip drew light laughter from the room. But behind the chuckles lingered real questions.

Collins picked up the Ridgway cable again. "What about the Ridgway request?"

Bradley pondered long and hard. The only sound for several seconds was his fingers drumming the table.

"Send him."

Collins looked up. "MacArthur asking for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠personnel is a first. And not even one of his own. No idea what that old buzzard's thinking, but putting Ridgway at his side isn't a bad move. Hell, better than Almond, right?"

Bradley’s voice carried genuine assessment. The corner of Collins' mouth twitched upward. Washington's bureaucrats calculated like this. A natural check on MacArthur's unilateralism had rolled right into their laps.

"I'll notify Ridgway personally."

"Good. And Collins."

"Yes."

"MacArthur prioritizing Nakdong envelopment over Seoul... that's a change worth watching. For now, no interference—let's see the results."

Collins nodded, gathering his papers. The meeting was wrapping up. Bradley stood and gazed out the window. Washington's September still held summer's lingering heat. The Potomac sparkled in the sunlight.

MacArthur's changed? We'll see.

For Bradley, who'd dealt with the old man since the Pacific War, accepting MacArthur's "change" at face value was tough. People didn't change at seventy. Especially not men like MacArthur.

But if the battlefield results were good, prying into the reasons might be a luxury.

I stood before the map in the operations center. The arrows I'd drawn three days ago were now real troop movements. Blue pins on the situation board crept forward.

The 1st Marine Division was pushing past Bupyeong toward Kimpo Airfield. ROK Marines screened the left flank, with the ROK 17th Regiment en route to link up.

And the 7th Division. A blue pin at Suwon, a line drawn south toward Cheonan. Faster than expected. Roads were better than thought, and organized North Korean resistance was negligible here.

Of course. North Korean main forces are all at the Nakdong. The rear is empty.

Relief washed over me that my historical knowledge was holding true. But so did anxiety. The change I'd made—sending the 7th south—what butterfly effects would it unleash?

In original history, the 7th handled Seoul's east side. Without them, the push to Seoul might slow. Marines alone could take days longer to secure it.

A few days' delay. Would it make a decisive difference?

Seoul can wait. The key is the Nakdong. Annihilate the North Korean main force completely—that decides the war's course.

Scratch, scratch. I jotted notes on the map with pencil: 7th's estimated arrival, Walker's counterattack start, their rendezvous point.

The pencil tip tapped somewhere on the map. South of Daejeon, somewhere along the Geum River basin.

If the 7th sets up a defensive line here and Walker pushes up from the north...

Almond entered the ops center, clutching a stack of papers.

"General, reply from General Walker."

I took the paper and read. Walker's style lacked MacArthur's flair—straight to the point.

Today was September 19. Walker was already launching or about to.

Fast.

It fit the man's character. The bulldog who'd waited three months, finally free to unleash hell. No reason to hold back.

7th is past Suwon, heading to Cheonan. Two days to Daejeon. If Walker pushes up from Nakdong in the meantime...

Calculations grew complex. I wasn't a military academy grad. Troop movement speeds, supply ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠needs, road capacities—not my expertise.

Need Ridgway. And soon.

A few days for Washington's reply. More for Ridgway to arrive. I had to hold it together until then.

I drafted a reply below Walker's message.

Daejeon, Okcheon, Yeongdong. This axis followed the main North Korean supply and retreat route from the Nakdong front along the Gyeongbu Highway. Block it, and they couldn't flee south.

In original history, they abandoned gear but retreated this way—some infiltrated the Taebaek Mountains as guerrillas. This stops that.

Almond peered over my shoulder at the map. "General, the 7th's supply line is stretching. Securing the route from Incheon to Cheonan is urgent."

He was right. Faster advance meant longer, more vulnerable lines. History was littered with operations derailed by logistics. Market Garden in '44—pushed too far, too fast, supplies couldn't keep up...

Focus. Irrelevant analogy now.

I nodded. "Have engineers prioritize the supply route from Incheon to Suwon. Once Suwon Airfield's secured, start airlifts too."

"Understood."

Almond left, leaving me alone with the map. Tick, tock. The wall clock's second hand sounded unnaturally loud.

3 p.m. Battlefield time flowed differently from office hours. In 2024 Seoul, 3 p.m. meant coffee and drowsiness. Here, it was combat's peak.

Right now, Marines advanced along the Gimpo road toward Seoul. 7th Division GIs rattled south in trucks. At the Nakdong, Walker's 8th Army was opening fire.

And in Pyongyang, Kim Il-sung was pounding his desk.

That bastard begging China for help is just a matter of time.

Chinese People's Volunteer Army. The time bomb in my head.

Originally, they crossed the Yalu on October 19. Exactly one month from now.

One month. Annihilate Nakdong forces, push to the 38th Parallel, decide next strategy.

Cross the 38th? If yes, how far? And if the Chinese come, how to respond?

Original MacArthur pushed to the Yalu. Chinese? They won't come, he'd said. Disaster followed.

I knew that disaster. Knowing meant I could stop it.

Theoretically.

But I know theory and reality differ.

I clamped the unlit pipe between my teeth. The bite felt oddly reassuring. Pulled a memo from my inside pocket—my personal to-do list.

I added a new item with pencil.

'Ridgway arrival Task 1: Defensive plan for advance north of 38th. Build defense amid offense.'

I stared at the line for a long while, then folded the paper and slipped it back in my pocket.