In the Pentagon, Chief of Staff General Gray was on the telephone with the president. The chief executive’s question was, “Can we hold the Taegu perimeter?”
“I honestly don’t know, Mr. President,” replied Gray. “The Seventh Fleet is in a much better position now to strike the peninsula, but the weather’s not so good.” The next question was, how did bad weather affect Smart bombs, infrared guided missiles, and so forth?
“They’re superb, Mr. President, but as yet we can’t be sure we’re hitting enemy targets. The NKA are continuing to move rapidly, and they have civilians on the munitions trains as well. If we could restrain some of the television networks and press photographers from showing refugees holding up signs and—”
“I want up-to-date contingency plans for withdrawal, General, as well as for reinforcement. National Security Council meeting is at four-thirty.”
“Very good, sir.”
General Gray had a plan for both situations, but each one, as everything else, depended on securing safety of movement between Japan and Korea, and the Seventh Fleet was busy fending off incoming attacks from NKA MiG-29s from fields so close to the Yalu — the Chinese border — that they might as well have been in China itself. But the fighter pilots of the Seventh Fleet understood that to cross the Yalu was to invade China.
Gray’s aide, a major from Logistics and Supply, came in with more messages from the Taegu perimeter. Till now they’d been decoded automatically and piped in onto the TV map screen overlay on his wall.
Gray took the sheaf of paper. “President wants to know, Major, if we should cut our losses and run. Or reinforce. That’s not the way he put it, but that’s what he means.”
Apart from the military position, both Gray and the major knew a lot of careers now hung in the balance. Gray was looking at the worldwide distribution of forces, from fighter bases in Japan to AWACS with the U.S. Third Fleet headquarters in Hawaii, from which he could move at least one carrier to Subic Bay in the Philippines, and Guam, where Communist mortar attacks had wreaked havoc among the B-52s. But there was no way he could tap any of the resources tagged for Europe with the East German and Russian divisions still pouring through the Fulda Gap and engaged in broad, sweeping armored thrusts south and north. He simply did not have the forces available from either Third Marine Division in Japan or from the Third Fleet to do a MacArthur, to buy time for the twenty thousand Americans and forty-six thousand ROK forces and many thousands more of refugees from Yosu to Taegu. To buy time and to try another day; that was his plan.
“Maybe Doug Freeman has some ideas,” suggested the major. “That letter that he sent you about predicting the Soviet-Warsaw Pact breakout was right on the button.”
Gray grunted, fighting his tendency to withhold praise from subordinates that might dim his own halo. “Well, they weren’t simultaneous breakouts. Yes — well, he had the general plan right, I suppose. No use to us now, however.” The general was exhausted after having slept only two or three hours in the last twenty-four; his petty reluctance to give credit to Freeman for the spot-on prediction about Europe told Gray he was more fatigued than usual. “Doug Freeman’s a good infantry and tank man. Airborne-qualified to boot, but he’s still a colonel because he talks too much. Always telling people what he would do.”
“Isn’t Freeman’s tank corps in New York,” asked the major, “waiting for the convoy to Europe?”
There was a pause. “You send for him?” asked Gray, not so tired he couldn’t smell a setup.
“He’s at the Washington Hotel.”
“You think I should see him?”
“It wouldn’t hurt, General. Doug’s record at the war college was outstanding.”
“Yes, I know. Thinks he’s Patton resurrected. You know what he’s got in his tank?”
The major was tempted to answer, “A tiger,” but didn’t risk it. “A one-twenty-millimeter I hope,” he answered.
“Got a goddamned index card in the commander’s cupola. Has ‘You have three minutes to surrender!’ in ten different languages.”
“Yes, I heard something about that,” conceded the major. “Only, I thought it was in every tank.”
“Oh, it is. He does spot checks. Every loader and gunner in the battalion has to know them — otherwise it’s a fifty-dollar fine.”
“Well, he’s confident, all right.”
“Funny thing is,” the general ruminated for a second, “I’ve seen him on social occasions — with his wife. When we were in California. Perfect gentleman — wouldn’t think he had an ego big as one of his M-1s.”
When he came in the door at 3:07, Colonel Freeman was carrying his map case of the European central front. He had a plan for a counterattack from the Jutland Peninsula following an amphibious landing northwest of Kiel, supported by B-1 bomber strikes out of Southeast Anglia. He was shocked by General Gray’s appearance, the chief of staff’s eyes so dark from fatigue, it looked as if his nose had been broken. As they shook hands and Gray gave him a peremptory smile, Freeman thought the general needed a damned good tonic, and he had it in his map case.
“You know Major Wexler,” Gray introduced him to his aide.
“Of course—” But there was more a professional than personal tone to Freeman’s greeting, and Gray recalled Freeman’s terse response to the circular sent out by Wexler notifying officers of the possibility of the Supreme Court ruling in the near future that, other than submarine duty, women might be permitted a wider range of combat roles. “Goddamn it!” Freeman had written back. “No room to piss inside a tank except in your helmet — let alone having a woman in there!” Major Wexler had responded that as women had been dealing with such problems for years, he had no doubt that if, as Colonel Freeman had put it, his men weren’t “allowed to stop to have a pee”—they just did it in their helmets, threw it out, and kept on fighting — the female members of a tank crew would find this a great motivator “to win battles quickly.”
“He’s a smart-ass, that Wexler,” Freeman had told his wife. “A Washington smart-ass.”
“Douglas,” continued General Gray, “Major Wexler here was struck by your prescient abilities regarding the Soviet-Warsaw Pact invasion of Europe. He pulled your file and suggested we call you in.”
The change in Freeman’s manner was dramatic, the smile now genuine for a man who, even if he didn’t agree with Freeman about not having women in tanks, hadn’t let it cloud his ability to see a brilliant tactical mind at work. “Yes, I remember the major well. Good to see you.”
“Douglas,” Gray informed him, “I read your letter and I must say I was a little surprised at it not coming through regular channels.”
Freeman grinned. “I didn’t think that would surprise you at all, sir. After all, you were the one who taught me about initiative. I figured if I sent it by regular post, last thing a Commie agent would think of is trying to penetrate our mail service — it being such a balls-up.”
Gray motioned him to a chair, with men dying as he spoke, he was in no mood for another one of Freeman’s harangues about the mail service. Freeman had once suggested that the postal service be run along military lines — any letter not delivered anywhere in the United States within four days would render all employees in the post office liable to a fifty-dollar fine.
“Douglas, I have to tell you up front your manner is considered extremely abrasive by many of your colleagues. And especially by the State Department. By all accounts, your record, militarily speaking, shows you should have had your first star two years ago.”
Freeman was wearing a scowl but nodding; he could feel possibility in the air. If he could only keep his cool. “Yes, sir, I understand that, but I’ve—”
“Goddamn it, Douglas, let me finish!” The figures on the TV screen of wounded and missing were changing. Getting worse, especially on Germany’s central front.
“In one hour,” continued Gray, “I have to present a contingency plan to the president. At that meeting there might well be several more members of the cabinet than usual. Transport and Communications secretary included. Military needs their help if we’re to have these NATO convoys loaded and shipped out on time, so I don’t want you getting anyone’s dander up unnecessarily. You’re a first-class tank and infantryman, Douglas, and God knows we need more like you. I’m giving you a chance to show your stuff, but if any questions are directed at you, remember you’re not Randolph C. Scott—”
“I think you mean George C. Scott, General.”
“What? Oh, yes. Christ! — Douglas, that’s precisely what I mean. It’s not—” Freeman affected a lot of people this way, bringing out the fight in them at the drop of a hat. It was precisely what was needed in battle, Wexler knew, but deadly to smooth sailing in Washington.
“Randolph Scott’s fine with me, General,” said Freeman, flashing a smile. The general was shaking his head, surprised at his own reaction to Freeman’s personality. The tank commander seemed to carry a charge in the air about him that stirred up everything it passed.
“What I need, Douglas — in simple, straightforward terms-is a plan for a tactical withdrawal from—” At the word “withdrawal” Freeman stiffened, all sense of humor, his earlier air of accommodation, gone.
“From Europe? General, this would be catastrophic—”
“What? — No, Goddamn it! Korea.”
Gray’s aide looked quickly at Freeman. Was he as good on his feet with an entirely new situation thrown at him? Freeman stared at General Gray.
“May I smoke?”
“No. Well-?”
Freeman swung his hard gaze up to the green fluorescent map of Korea, as if it were an assassin towering over him, daring him to risk a career. Gray was telling him the situation was much worse than the newspapers or anybody else outside the Pentagon had presented it. But whether Freeman had heard him or not, the general didn’t know, Freeman taking out his bifocals, leaning forward, looking past the casualty figures at troop dispositions in the Yosu-Taegu perimeter. “How up-to-date is this intelligence, sir?”
“Satellite,” answered Gray, turning to Wexler. “Real-time or delayed?”
“Real-time, General.”
“Air superiority?” asked Freeman.
“Not as yet. Holding our own, but that’s about all. Hope to get better as the Seventh Fleet moves further north, but Europe gets first call on everything.” Freeman was tapping the series of half dozen or so red lights flashing on the big screen on Japan’s west coast from Shikoku to Hokkaido. “What’s this? Air strikes?”
“Yes. Japanese fighters are doing well, but their main function is defense and they haven’t the carriers. Combat time off the North Korean coast is very short.” Now Freeman pointed to the position of the Seventh Fleet steaming north midway between South Korea and Japan’s main island of Honshu. He zeroed in on the cluster of blips behind the Seventh Fleet. “Reinforcements?”
“Yes. Nine Corps. It’s based in Japan.”
“Hmm—” responded Freeman. “Soft in the belly. Too much sushi and pussy. They won’t last.”
Wexler looked across at the general, who calmly responded, “Well, the Third Marine Division is part of the reinforcements, too.”
“Well — that’s good news. Problem is, we might not have any perimeter left by the time they get there. Those newspaper reports right about the NKA using some of our captured M-60 tanks?”
“Afraid so.”
“Goddamn it! That’s sacrilege.” Freeman shook his head like a medieval bishop might upon hearing his church had been sacked by vandals. “Course, the trouble is, we’re not up against Hitler here. This toad won’t hold back the tanks. He’ll drive us right into the sea if he can — which I suspect he’s close to doing right now.”
“Well, Kim’s no fool,” said Gray, “whatever else you might think of him. George Cahill found that out when—”
Freeman stood up, his stature growing in the reflection of the big screen. “Hell, no, General. I didn’t mean General Kim. He’s run-of-the-mill Commie trash. Learned all he knows in Beijing, where it’s all numbers — just keep pushing the bastards at you. And in Moscow — echelon attack with the tanks. No, I mean Kim Il Sung’s progeny. He’s blood-crazy. Killing all those people like that in Rangoon. Civilians. Blowing up women and children in airliners. We should have shot that bastard long time ago.”
“Then you think withdrawal’s the best bet, Douglas. Don’t be afraid to say so. Everyone else here’s come to the same conclusion.”
Freeman stood back from the screen, eyes moving quickly up to Korea to Japan to Manchuria, down to Korea again. “No, sir. I do not concur.”
“Then, Colonel, you’re a minority of one.”
Freeman took off his bifocals, grinning broadly as he slipped them back into his top pocket. “I know, General, I know.”
“You seem pleased.”
Freeman’s smile was gone. “I don’t like being beaten, General. Not by anyone. And ‘specially not by that goddamned psycho. Little runt needs a good kick in the ass.” Freeman held up his hand as if halting oncoming traffic. “General, I don’t mean to be disrespectful. I’m sure you understand that. But would it be too out of line to say that the policies of the majority of the general staff got us into this situation?” Gray said nothing. The screen flickered again and the perimeter had grown smaller, the NKA spearheads, however, reportedly stopping to draw breath before the final assault. Or was it, Freeman wondered, that the hard-pressed U.S.-ROK headquarters in Pusan had decided to give up a little territory in return for a smaller, tighter perimeter? Either way, it was shrinking dangerously.
Freeman had his bifocals out again, using them as a pointer on the screen. “Kim’s supply line,” he announced, pointing at Taegu on the western side of the Sobaek Mountains, which ran north/south between Taegu and Seoul. “Airborne attacks, General. Here at Taegu, where they have to haul freight through high country, and further up — at Taejon, halfway down from Seoul. This toad has got too big a mouth and not enough belly, General. Grabs more than he can hold. He’s overrun so much territory — damn near two hundred miles in a little over ten days— that’s why he’s cannibalizing everything he can. That’s why he’s using the M-60s. They can’t maintain sophisticated equipment like that. Haven’t got our ground support, technical backup. They’re using oxen carts to move half—”
“How do you know that?” interjected General Gray. “Oxen carts?”
“New York Times.”
Wexler looked out the window at the Potomac.
“And,” continued Freeman, “that’s why he’s raping the goddamned countryside. Feed ‘em as you go.”
“Well, he’s getting a lot of civilian support, I’d say,” put in Gray.
“Don’t buy it, General.”
“Well, I do. We’re not seeing any scorched-earth policy from the satellite photos. All the fires are the result of military action. He’s getting help from South Koreans, Douglas. I know that mightn’t be palatable, but you of all people surely aren’t blind to the—”
“Disagree, General.” Freeman’s bifocals were sweeping the air. “That fink is getting support because the son of a bitch has had over fifty years to plan underground networks right across the country. All his goddamned spies doing the spade work. He’s getting food and water from those civilians same way as Napoleon did in Dubrovnik in the Balkan campaign. That’s why, other than Uijongbu and Seoul, you’re not seeing too many cities on fire in the satellite photos. Like Napoleon. Sent his boys ahead, infiltrated the city. City fathers did a deal. We’ll feed you — leave our city and us alone. Quid pro quo. That’s why you can still walk around the walls of Dubrovnik. Message gets out fast. But we hit him with those airborne attacks just when he least expects it, and we’ll get civilian support as well. Everyone knows — the Americans come back.”
“We didn’t in Vietnam,” put in Wexler.
“By Christ—” began Freeman, “that’s because we put up with that Fonda woman and all her cronies. When she sat on that NVA gun and told our boys they were war criminals for bombing those sons of bitches, we shoulda dropped her from a B-52 right in the middle of the goddamned—”
“As soon as the B-52s are patched up in Guam,” interjected Gray, “then we won’t have to use any troops at all. We can go in and bomb his supply lines and—”
“No time, General. That’s what the board tells me. That’s what you’re telling me, isn’t it? No time. Nothing more we can scrounge from NATO-designated supplies. Besides, Kim’s no dummy. He might overextend his supply line — almost everyone does when he gets the bit in his mouth, sees the other side hightailing it. But it’s my guesstimate, general, that he’s just about shot his wad. Biggest mistake he made was destroying that oil pipeline outside of Taegu. Caused us a lot of damage, but now he’s got no oil for a while at least. Oh, he’ll hold, but he won’t be advancing for a week or two. His supply lines are well over two hundred miles south of Pyongyang now. I say chop it in two at the places I’ve indicated and we’ll stop him for a week or two instead of a few days. Give us time to rush troops into that perimeter. Is the strip at Pusan operational?” He looked at Wexler.
“It’s rough, but it’s operational.”
“Hell, even if it isn’t. We could ferry a lot of Hercules across from southern Japan under Seventh Fleet umbrella in twenty-four hours — use pallet if they can’t land. Around the clock. Christ, that’s what we’re best at. But—” He held his finger up. “The coup de grace, gentlemen. Clear an air corridor for me up here—” his hand shot north of the Seventh Fleet’s battle group, beyond the brown spine of the Taebaek range “—and I’ll turn this thing around. Christ — I’ll take prisoners!” He was pointing deep into North Korea. At Pyongyang.
General Gray sat still for several seconds, leaning forward in his chair. “You have any idea of the casualties, Douglas? I mean — what would you expect?”
“Seventy — eighty percent.”
Gray glanced quickly across at Wexler, then back at Freeman. “Douglas, I think the Seventh Fleet could give you that corridor — for five or six hours anyway — enough time for your air jumps. But to lose men at that rate is simply unacceptable—”
“General,” said Freeman, his voice even, unhurried, “we’ll lose sixty times that number if that perimeter’s punctured.”
“We,” General Gray said, “we won’t be losing our lives, Douglas. It’ll be the men in those choppers and Hercules that will—”
Freeman was stunned. “I assumed I’d be in command, General.”
Freeman’s audacity left General Gray speechless. “You’re a colonel, Douglas. This would be brigade.”
“Sir,” said Freeman. “I think we can solve that problem right here and now.”
“How?”
“Promote me.”
Gray looked across at Wexler, who was biting his lip.
“The president,” said Wexler, “would have to authorize it.”
Freeman wasn’t sure whether Gray meant the promotion or the plan but quickly cut in, “I’m sure he will, General.”
Gray shook his head and looked down at his watch. “Douglas, you wouldn’t by any chance know the Korean phrase for ‘You have three minutes to surrender,’ would you?”
“Sampun inaeē hangpokhae.”