Annihilation: Dawn Returns
The morning returned. The Incheon temporary headquarters awoke to the mingled scents of coffee and ink on dispatch paper.
The morning briefing brought equal measures of good and bad news. The good: Walker's 8th Army had launched a full counterattack. The 1st Cavalry Division had crossed the Nakdong River at Waegwan, securing a bridgehead. Paik Sun-yup's ROK 1st Division had broken through at Daegu. Enemy resistance was fierce, but reports indicated their firepower had weakened due to supply shortages.
The bad: Resistance around Seoul was fiercer than anticipated. They'd secured Gimpo Airfield, but a hastily erected North Korean defensive line near Yeongdeungpo was delaying the Marines' advance.
Of course. Pulling the 7th Infantry Division out made things tight around Seoul.
I'd expected it, but seeing it confirmed in the report still hit like a punch to the gut.
It's fine. Seoul can wait. The key is the Nakdong.
I repeated the self-assurance. But between the lines of the report on the Marines struggling at Yeongdeungpo were numbers: wounded and dead. The moment abstract strategy translated into concrete lives lost.
If the 7th had been in Seoul, we'd have punched through Yeongdeungpo faster, with fewer casualties.
I tried to shake the thought. But I couldn't.
I'm the one killing them. My decisions are forcing the Marines into longer, deadlier fights.
My hands trembled. I set down the pipe.
But sending the 7th to Seoul lets the North Koreans on the Nakdong slip away. Guerrilla warfare in the rear, more civilian deaths, a prolonged war. More people die.
Sacrificing a few to save the many. Easy to say. Easy to write in a paper. "MacArthur's obsession with Seoul caused unnecessary bloodshed." One line of criticism. But now I was the one redirecting that "unnecessary bloodshed" elsewhere—not reducing it, but shifting it. Accepting more bleeding in Seoul to trap the enemy at the Nakdong.
There's a difference. Crushing their main force at the Nakdong shrinks the entire war. Extra casualties in Seoul are a strategic investment.
Strategic investment. The phrase made me sick, calling human lives by such a term.
I washed my face at the basin. Cold water stung my eyes. MacArthur stared back from the mirror.
This is why you got criticized, Douglas. Moving men's lives like chess pieces is terrifyingly easy.
Yeah, it was easy. Scary easy. Draw arrows on a map, send a dispatch, and tens of thousands march that way. Some die. Shift the arrow a bit, and the dead live while the living die.
I'll go mad.
I dried my face with a towel and took deep breaths. Once. Twice. Three times.
Don't get emotional. Emotion clouds judgment, and clouded judgment kills more people.
Words from my paper too. In the section on "How a commander's emotional turmoil distorts strategic decisions."
And now I'm creating that case study.
A miserable laugh escaped me. I donned my uniform and headed to the operations room. Officers in the corridor saluted; I nodded back, mimicking MacArthur's gait—shoulders back, chin up, deliberate steps. The image of a confident commander. All an act. Inside, I was rotting, but outside, I played the part.
The staff rose as one when I entered the ops room.
"Core reports first," I commanded, settling into my chair. My voice was firm. MacArthur's voice. Not Jeong Woong's.
Intelligence chief Charles Willoughby stood.
"General, two key items. First, enemy disarray confirmed along the Nakdong River front. Some North Korean units show signs of rearward movement. Likely the Incheon landing news has reached the lines."
They're starting to move.
My pulse quickened.
"Second, anomalous activity in Manchuria." Willoughby flipped a page. His face was calm. But that word perked my ears.
"Large-scale troop concentrations detected in Manchuria. Exact size unknown, but intel indicates elements of the Chinese People's Liberation Army on the move."
It's here.
A chill raced down my spine.
"However," Willoughby added—and that was the problem. "It's unclear if this is genuine military action or routine border defense repositioning."
History on rails. Willoughby was the type to read CPV movements as "routine." He did, right up until 250,000 troops crossed the Yalu.
"Keep watching. Don't rush to judgment." I issued a deliberately neutral order. I wanted to scream danger, but held back. It was still September. Real CPV intervention came late October. Panicking now would raise eyebrows. "How do you know?" No answer for that.
Slowly. Step by step. Build the intel, then guide them to my conclusion.
Willoughby nodded and sat. I glanced at Manchuria on the map. Still a blank space. In a month, 250,000 troops would pour from it.
Can I stop it?
No answer yet. But one thing was sure: I wouldn't ignore it like the original MacArthur.
Tick-tock. The wall clock chimed. Eight a.m. A new day dawned. Day four of the war, fifth morning for the possessor.
I was hungry. My stomach, starved of rice for two days, sent knife-like pains.
Private Choi Young-sik of the North Korean People's Army 3rd Division, 7th Regiment huddled in the trench bottom, shaking his empty canteen. Just a clank. No water. Someone had said drink from the Nakdong, but crawling to the riverbank was suicide—within U.S. mortar range.
Woo-ooo-ooo! A U.S. fighter roared low overhead. Mustang's sharp engine whine. Instinctively, Choi burrowed deeper. Trench dirt rained down from the vibration, stinging his face. Earth smell pierced his nose. Days ago, it was gunpowder; now, ammo shortages made the earth reek stronger.
"Comrade, quick." A whisper beside him. Same squad's Corporal Park Sang-chul, twenty-three from Hamhung. One of the few originals left since war's start. The rest dead or wounded, replaced by "volunteer" boys dragooned from the South. Fifteen-, sixteen-year-olds who could barely hold rifles, slumped in the trench.
"What?"
"Look there."
Park nodded toward the trench's end. Platoon leader Lieutenant Ri Kwang-su crouched by the radio. Static hissed from it. No contact with regiment HQ for over a day.
Ri's face was caked in dirt and blood, frozen. Young officer, fresh from Pyongyang's military academy at twenty-five. Three months ago, the platoon had thirty-six men. Now fourteen. Fewer than half combat-effective.
"Regiment HQ's gone silent. Since yesterday." Fear laced Park's voice. For frontline troops, lost contact with higher meant one thing: isolation.
"Supplies cut too."
Choi said nothing. Nothing to say. Fact was fact. Two days ago, rumors spread: U.S. landing somewhere. Their main force racing south. Incheon, they said. Choi barely knew where—near Seoul, maybe. But supplies had vanished since: ammo two days dry, food three.
Ku-gu-gu-gu—Kwaang!
The earth shook. U.S. artillery. A 105mm howitzer shell slammed fifty meters behind the trench. Dirt erupted; shrapnel whistled. Men clutched heads, flattening.
Kwaang! Ku-gung! Kwaang!
Barrage. 1st Cavalry Division artillery prepping for crossing. But the NK soldiers didn't know—just fire from sky, shaking ground, deafening roar.
Shelling paused. Ears rang. Choi peered across the river. Dawn mist cleared, revealing the Nakdong's muddy flow. Three hundred meters wide here. Something stirred on the far bank.
"Comrade! There!"
Duh-duh-duh-duh-duh! Machine guns first. Crossing boats sliced the current. Americans. 1st Cavalry's lead battalion. MGs blazed from boats, more following in line.
Lt. Ri sprang up. Blood trickled from his dirt-smeared face; he seemed oblivious.
"Open fire! Shoot the enemy on the river!"
Fewer than half raised rifles. Volunteer boys froze; even veterans were out of ammo.
Choi shouldered his Mosin-Nagant, aimed at the river. Five rounds left. All he had.
Tang!
Recoil shoved his shoulder. Aimed at a boat three hundred meters off—shaking target, even snipers struggled. Water geysered beside it. Miss.
Tang! Tang!
Shots from beside. Park's submachine gun spat short bursts. But SMG range fell short; just noise.
Ku-gu-gu—Kwaang!
U.S. guns roared again. This time, right in front. Shockwave smashed the wall; Choi flew back. Back hit trench floor, breath seized. World went white. Ears screamed tinnitus.
When senses returned, the volunteer boy beside him was gone. Just gore and dirt where he'd been. Not direct hit—shrapnel through the gut. Fifteen-year-old slid down the wall, foaming at the mouth. Eyes rolled back. Dark red poured from his belly.
"Medic! Medic!"
No medic—killed yesterday. No drugs, no bandages. Choi stared at the boy's face. Didn't know his name. Dragged up from rear three days ago. From Daejeon? Forgotten.
The boy's eyes glazed. Fingers clawed air. Lips moved soundlessly. Then stopped.
Duh-duh-duh-duh-duh—Kwaang! Kwaang!
Fight raged. Dirt buried the corpse. Choi stared blankly, then gripped his rifle. Four rounds left.
Boats neared their bank. U.S. troops leaped into shallows, charging ashore. Dozens. Then dozens more. Endless.
"Fall back!"
Not Lt. Ri. He slumped against the wall, chest shredded. Eyes open, focus gone.
Fall back? To where? Rear crawling with enemy. Supplies gone—fleeing meant mountains with rifle and empty canteen. How long?
Park yanked Choi's arm. "Come on. Stay and die."
Choi, eyes fixed on the dead boy, let himself be dragged out.
U.S. shouts behind. Troops stormed the trench.
They ran. Bent low, over shattered rice paddies, dry ditches. Shots cracked. A runner beside crumpled. No time to look.
Mountains ahead. Five hundred meters. Just reach—
Shieee—Kwaang!
Mortar ahead. Blast hurled Choi sideways. Blood trickled from ears. World muted. Mouth screamed, but no sound.