During the retreat from the frozen jumble of ice that was the Yalu River, its chopped-up appearance due to sections refreezing after American 105-millimeter artillery shells had holed it, the Third Infantry Division, under Gen. Arthur C. Creigh, now in full retreat from the river, was encountering the worst Korean winter for the past seventeen years. Medics were carrying their morphine ampules in their mouths in order to keep the morphine warm enough to pass through a syringe. Many of the wounded, waiting in the heavy snow for the “khaki angels,” the helo Medevacs, died before the choppers could reach the besieged Changsong Road that lead back from the river toward the MASH units of Kusong. Many of the wounded, covered with snow, slipped into the warm sleep of hypothermia as plasma froze solid, drip pouches split open, and the men still able to march discarded everything nonessential, including mess kits, using their helmets instead. Others ate the freeze-dried emergency C ration as it was, unable to get hot water except for rare moments when a tank, or rather those tanks still moving, could provide the heat from their engines.
While the freeze-dried food kept some of the troops going, many of the wounded, who normally would have survived the relatively quick Medevac, ate the food, using snow to wash it down, and in doing so, reduced vital body heat before the consumed food had time to do any good. Since coming under heavy fire from the Chinese artillery, much of which had been carried piece by piece by the Chinese and Korean infantry to the ridges overlooking the road, Creigh’s division had suffered over four thousand casualties.
At 1400 hours the snowfall swallowed up the sun, thereby limiting the vital air support that had been coming in from the carrier Salt Lake City. It gave the Chinese perfect opportunities for ambush and close-in fighting, for which they had been especially trained. By 1630, the divisions’ casualties had climbed to over five thousand, making it — apart from the mass U.S. surrender on Corregidor in World War II — one of the worst disasters in U.S. military history.
As fresh Chinese and North Korean divisions continued to pour across the Yalu, General Kim’s North Korean regulars formed the eastern arm of a pincer soon to be completed by an artillery-supported right hook of four Chinese divisions — over sixty thousand Chinese and North Koreans in all — closing on the beleaguered Americans.
The next morning, December 25 in Korea, Christmas Eve in the United States, millions of viewers across America were riveted and sickened by astonishing clear TV-satellite-relayed pictures from the Changsong “gauntlet,” seeing haggard, hollow-eyed American infantrymen, many too weak either from exhaustion, wounds, or both, struggling to fight off repeated Chinese attacks, which at times cut the road into segments in which they hoped to annihilate the U.S. troops, the fighting often hand to hand, after which the remaining Chinese, cannibalizing the retreating GIs’ equipment, re-formed for yet more attacks on the flanks of the demoralized and retreating American army.
In all the television footage, however, one shot, a lingering pan of a quarter-mile section of road that had been white but was now red with American blood and littered with American dead, was the picture that traumatized civilians back home. About the road, brown boils of uprooted earth marked the spots where shells from the Chinese artillery had bracketed the retreating Americans. And now, in this war, the taboo that had been so long and meticulously observed right up to and including Vietnam — never to show a dead American’s face on film if possible — was broken. The taboo had not been violated through any willfulness of field reporters but because of the sheer efficiency of the electronic media whose signals were received in real time only seconds after the action had taken place. What, at first, viewers assumed were long shots of crumpled clothing turned out to be close-up photos of dismembered American soldiers blown apart by the Chinese artillery and high-velocity close-in weapons fired only seconds before.
Throughout the television coverage, one of the most persistent comments concerned the bravery of the television cameramen who, though their pictures often shook violently from time to time, more from the pressure waves of the few remaining American 105s and mortars than from fear, kept filming some of the worst of the fighting. Even the older generation of civilians at home who, though too young to have remembered the Vietnam War, had seen footage of it later on, had never seen such carnage.
What the U.S. media didn’t know, however, was that North Korean General Kim, whose favorite expression at Panmunjom during the prewar days was “Be careful, you Americans, or you will end up like Kennedy. Shot like a dog in the street,” had issued orders, with threat of severe punishment if not obeyed, that enemy TV cameramen and crew were not to be harmed wherever possible.
“They are your allies in the struggle against the American warmongers,” Kim had explained to his comrades. “The way to defeat Americans is to show what is happening to their children. They are a weak people. They will cry for armistice as they did when our forefathers defeated them over fifty years ago. Remember, Comrades, American television was one of the most decisive strategies of our comrades in Vietnam. Show them American casualties and the antifascist youth of America will clamor for their brothers’ return. This is particularly true of the American bourgeoisie — the middle class. Show them how we are cutting the Americans to pieces and there will be mass demonstrations in the streets to bring their sons home.”
When the first reports, both visual and decoded military traffic, of Creigh’s retreat first reached Douglas Freeman, his plane, en route to Korea, was approaching Hawaii, and against all normal safety procedures, he not only refused to leave the plane while it was being refueled but ordered all thirty electronic warfare and other console operators to stay aboard as well. The situation in Korea was too critical for anyone to leave the plane, Freeman having decided to immediately issue orders for Creigh to stand and fight.
“Not a matter of heroics, Jim,” he told Colonel Norton, “but if this casualty rake keeps up, the entire division’ll be wiped out before they get anywhere near Kusong. That’s over forty miles away. My God — what’s the matter with Creigh?”
Norton handed him a sheaf of “eyes only” transmits from Creigh’s retreating HQ, the messages routed via Seoul.
“Sir,” one of Freeman’s aides cut in, “we’ve got reports here from General Waverley, Two Brigade commander in Creigh’s outfit. He doesn’t come right out and say it, but you can read between the lines. Waverley’s saying Creigh’s stressed out!”
“Stressed out!” bellowed Freeman. “Goddamn it! I’ll give him stress.” He stood up from his seat in the plane’s forward command booth. “Riley!”
The radio operator came running down through the “canyon” between the two rows of consoles.
“Yes, General?”
“ ‘Top secret,’ priority rush to General Creigh, Second Infantry Division, Korean Northern Command. If you can’t pinpoint his position and beam it down, funnel it through Seoul, but get it there.”
“Yes, sir,” said Riley, flipping out his notepad.
“Message reads,” began Freeman, glowering as if Creigh, a popular commander by all accounts, was standing before him, Freeman starting to pace up and down the aisle just beyond the radio control like a caged bear. “Second Division is to cease retreat immediately. If you are incapable of command, you should transfer all authority at once. Repeat ‘at once.’ Shoot any man refusing to fight. I accept full responsibility. Freeman, C in C Korea. Message ends.”
“By God,” said Freeman, turning to address the two lanes of operators. “Stressed! That’s just a fancy word for funk. Word gets out about Creigh shitting in his pants, we’ll have desertion on that road.” His voice was rising. “We’ll leave more than blood on that road, gentlemen. We’ll leave American honor.” He paused — Norton taking the opportunity to follow the radio operator down through the canyon. “Now,” continued Freeman, “I want everyone here to remember that. I don’t ever want to hear ‘stressed out’ in this command— goddamn pansy excuse for not working hard. Not doing your job. Do I make myself clear?”
There was murmured assent.
“Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir!” came a chorus.
Down by the radio console, Norton stood behind the operator and spoke in a quiet, even tone, to Riley, who was feeding the message into code pretransmission. “Change the first part of the message, Riley,” Norton told him. “Replace ‘if you are incapable’ with ‘if you are incapacitated.’ “
Riley looked up worriedly at the colonel.
“Just do it, son,” said Norton. “If it hits the fan, I’ll take the flak.”
“Yes, sir.”