Snow at the Yalu

Soldiers waited along the Yalu River, expecting an announcement from President Truman or General MacArthur at any time about their total victory in Korea. The Yalu was beautiful, but it brought no comfort. China, on the other side, and General MacArthur did not want the Chinese to enter the war, but he did so privately. He often requested permission to invade Manchuria, and would not reprimand anyone who might go in there and kick ass.

The US-led UN forces pushed the invading KPA, or North Korean Army, from the Pusan Perimeter in south-east Korea, landed at Inchon, and captured Seoul. They pushed the KPA back to the agreed armistice line turned DMZ at the 38th parallel, and to let General MacArthur have some fun, and teach the Communists a lesson about invading a defenseless and unprepared South Korea, General MacArthur advanced with Secretary of State, General George C. Marshall’s blessings after reading the Willoughby Report—a suppressed and outright distorted piece of intelligence nick-named the manilla folder of lies.

Named after Major-General Charles A. Willoughby, MacArthur’s chief of military intelligence, who personally interrogated Chinese soldiers found in Korea and told no one despite the mounting proof that there was an 80,000 man build up at the Chinese-Korean border along the Yalu, with scraps of KPA who over extended themselves across the peninsula until they dwindled to a 15,000 man army, Willoughby and MacArthur insisted that the Chinese would never cross the Yalu, where the US-led UN force waited.

The sun went down, and they rested, believing their year of hell was over. They sat on their helmets, shared cigarettes, played cards, and looked at photos of women back home. It was tough, but the 8th Army made it. They drank the water from the cool river, and the next morning, turned up their radios as the first snow lightly fell. They waited and waited for any news until some soldiers started seeing Snow Leopards while also waiting for food. Men like Calvin from South Carolina, a kid with a sharp shot and a secret love of reading. Steven, the baby of the 2nd Infantry Division, from the South Carolina-Georgia border around Savannah, flip-flopping over state lines depending on who the judge was that day, until he turned himself into Judge Mathis’ courtroom in Georgia. He sent him to Korea for an entire tour, plus an additional 2 years doing whatever the Army wanted him to do. Beside them was Al. A man from Montana, no one had yet beaten in arm wrestling, because he started chopping wood when he was seven years old and worked for his father’s lumber company shortly after. He was 25, looked Italian, despite being Irish; his thick, dark eyebrows had been arched since their days south, pissed at his father for refusing and then getting him out of World War II. Now that the Korean War was over, he could not wait to rub it in his old man’s Quaker face.

Behind the three of them was Captain Finch of the Eighth Army Ranger Company, who, along with the rest of his outfit, was peppered into infantry units, trying not to let his guys or the enemy know that he or anyone else was in these pine trees, wedged between the river and the blue rock of the Taebaek Mountains, where his binoculars never left his face. The 2nd Infantry knew little about him, except that he wasn’t regular Army. He was something else, they’d say, and depending on who said it, no one quite knew what the other meant. Was he in special forces, or was he, personally, something else? No one had seen him sleep or eat, but if you thought you were going to die, whatever it is that’s going to kill you: a soldier or a falling tree, Finch always seemed to be there at the right time to save your ass.

Calvin aimed his M-1 Carbine, and he swore he saw a giant Snow Leopard across the river, and licked his lips. Al grabbed his collar and said, “That ain’t no cat, numb nuts. That is a branch with a water glow reflecting off it. You’re hungry. I’m hungry. 1st Sergeant Papadopolous says that food is making its way up here. That we can expect live pigs today.” He reached over and lowered Calvin’s rifle. “So let’s lower this and rest. The fighting is over.”

Steven shook. He looked around and said, “I don’t know about that. It’s snowing, and I heard there’s 150,000 Chinese soldiers on the other side of that water, a few kilometers away.”

“If they knew that,” said Al, “They would be bombing the shit out of them right now.”

“In China,” chimed Calvin, who was doing breathing exercises against a large, cold rock. “Can’t go in there.”

“MacArthur wants to nuke all of Manchuria,” said Steven, shaking from nerves and the cold. Al gave him a look and crossed his arms.

“I say, let him. Sure saved a bunch of lives in Japan.”

“I liked fighting in the heat more. We don’t have winter clothing!”

“And we aren’t catching dysentery or malaria anymore, Steve. Snow kills all the shit.”

Al sat on a rock, Steven hid behind one, and Calvin stretched in the freezing mud.

“What’s Finch up to? Where’s he at? Anyone seen him?”

Al rubbed his long-sleeve Army fatigue arms and could see his breath for the first time since crossing the Pacific.

“They probably shipped him off to some place where all the serious shit is going down. Either that, or he’s in China.”

Steven rubbed his arms, too.

“We aren’t supposed to be in there.”

“We,” said Al, “The special forces guys, or operations. They got their own rules. Their own methods. Plus, why can’t we go in there? We keep findin’ the damn Chinese over here.”

“If there’s one thing I learned during my stay here,” said Calvin, “War has too many rules.”

Al popped a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. “Amen, brother.”

A soft pop in the trees shattered his left collar bone, followed by a parade of artillery that lit up, moved, or blew up everyone’s positions along the river. Calvin picked up his rifle and fired at the countless waves of men heading their direction.

“Holy fuck, they’re coming!”

Steven tried to drag Al back, but only got him to the American side of the rocks, where he kept screaming. Still, his pain went unnoticed as the river slowed down the advancing Chinese and KPA armies. Men and boys their age, in the same predicament, getting slaughtered by the 2nd’s rifles and machine guns. Still, there were a lot of them. Just when Calvin and Steven thought that was it, another wave came until they were forced to retreat without Al to the foothills of the Taebaek Mountains, which gave them and the rest of them a great advantage, except now they could hear Al between artillery shells, and it was much colder. It had stopped snowing, but steam still rose from Al’s smashed collarbone, which gave him the worst physical pain of his life. Calvin and Steven had even heard of snipers purposefully shooting the collarbone so the target would scream, and bring out other victims who wanted him to shut up. The artillery continued.

For approximately 15 minutes, the 2nd was sure they’d be overrun and killed, until a tank company showed up with a mix of 15 M4 Shermans, M26 Pershings, and M46 Pattons. How they got this far North, in this terrain, was a mystery to Calvin and Steven until they caught a glimpse of Captain Finch on the radio, up front, closer to Al. The only reason they had seen him was that he wanted them to see him, as he signaled for some men to keep their distance from the advancing armored company that was actually full of South Koreans. They fired away and cleared much of the forest on the other side of the river, as well as death by large splinter to the throat. The enemy had retreated, and in his most southern accent, Steven got the nerve to shout, “We won again!”

Captain Finch tried to get the tanks to stop advancing, and Calvin was the first one to read what he was mouthing into the radio. He didn’t call for tanks, but an airstrike.

“He’s sending some jets to bomb the artillery.”

“No shit?”

They looked at the tanks getting dangerously close to the shell craters and wanted to stop them, but, out of fear of ending up like Al, who was passed out and was very close to getting run over, Calvin and Steven did not get up to try to stop them. There were snipers everywhere. Captain Finch tossed a mirror, and it was shot to pieces before reaching the Yalu.

They heard the jets and felt the explosions, past the tank deforestation, or wherever Captain Finch knew they would be. Still, another round of artillery rained down on the tanks and metal. People burned along with the trees and animals, creating a circle of flames that enclosed both sides. Some men in the 2nd threw Molotov cocktails into their smashed up and exposed tree line of stumps and dead. Calvin and Steven considered running over to Al, but they decided to wait until the sun finished setting. The fire would give them light, but the fire from hell woke Al again, and he screamed after the Jets dropped their bombs, off in the distance, that rumbled the earth. They were fighting in China, alright, whether they ought to or not, another invasion into Korea was on its way.

Captain Finch had not fired a shot and spoke into one of the company’s portable radios. They had spent the days heading to the Yalu laying down cable, and now it was paying off. 30 minutes went by, and there was no more artillery, but when Captain Finch joined Calvin and Steven, he had only bad news. They were the only Division to hold their position, while Chinese and North Korean soldiers advanced from the left and right. They would eventually encircle them unless they started their retreat that night, but they stayed because Al was screaming so much. They had not really thought about what they had gotten themselves into when Captain Finch asked for five volunteers, including himself, to stay behind and either shut Al up or get him out of there. When the Captain said, “Shut up, Al,” Calvin and Steven grew suspicious of him, thinking he wanted to shoot Al, but it was because Captain Finch had been a Japanese prisoner in World War II for two years, and he feared what they would do to Al if they got to him alive with a broken collarbone. They collected extra morphine as the 2nd retreated and waited in the ring of fire. Finch had given the portable radio to the departing and said it would be useless to keep anyway. The Chinese and North Koreans would soon be cutting their cable.

“Shit,” said Steven. “That was hard to lay down.”

“Shut up, stupid.” Calvin aimed his rifle, looking for any outline of a man in the fire. Finch tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Not yet, son. They think we’re gone.” Calvin mouthed, “Oh.”

The two others who volunteered to stay behind were 1st Sergeant George Papadopolous and Corporal Andy Oates. Both had five o’clock shadows that went nowhere, no matter if they had shaved or not. Andy had bags under his eyes that suggested he had not slept since leaving his Mother’s red brick home in the medical district of St. Louis.

In a male nurse’s tone, he asked, “Captain, you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Sergeant Polous weighed in on the matter.

“They’ll start sending guys out to find Al, and…”

“That’s when we pick off the close ones,” finished Finch. “But not from here. I look around and see a group of excellent marksmen. We got to go back up, further, past the trees and into the foothills.”

Steven, never one to shy away from sounding like a sissy, said, “Captain, we’ve got no winter clothing. I’m freezing here. We’ll freeze to death up there.”

“Listen, that’s the only place they are not going, and we are going to get it from every angle. Do you understand me, private?”

“Yessir.”

“Ok, grab what clothes you can from the dead, and.”

But before he could finish his sentence, they were crossing the river, and Finch and Polous, the two with Thompson submachine guns, fired away at all that moving shadow while stepping back until they all could run up the mountain, and into snow that did not melt on the rock. Captain Finch was already looking through his binoculars and said, “We gave them a good scare. They probably think the whole Division is still here. They are not going anywhere near Al.” Who at this point sounded like a drooling child with a high-pitched wail. “You aiming, Calvin?”

Calvin lifted his rifle. The Army tried to give him a better gun, but he preferred the M-1. There was, without a doubt, no questioning his capabilities with that tool. Some said he was the best in the entire Division, though some secretly harbored reservations, and that Captain Finch was the best shot, or at least, the smartest shot.

The Chinese and KPA sent two men across the river, probably South Korean POWs, but no one told Calvin that, and he struck them in the collarbone too.

“Nice shooting, Private,” said Sergeant Polous, as well as Andy, who also gave him a hearty pat on the back. Steven got all wound up with energy and excitement, “Wait till the others hear about this,” and Finch found that hard to hear.

At 4 AM, they went down to Al and gave him a hit of morphine. His screaming had quieted to painful muttering. They asked how he was feeling, and he wiped the tears from his face and said, “A whole lot fucking better.”

Corporal Oates and Private Calvin helped him up, guarded by a destroyed and thoroughly burnt tank, but the sun rose above the mountain, and the smile on Captain Finch’s face disappeared. North Koreans came down from the foothills where they had just been, and on the other side, Chinese soldiers crossed the river with ease, and a puff of smoke from a pine tree struck the frigid and nervous Steven through the gut. Blood immediately flowed from his mouth as they all dropped to the ground in a firing position, except Steven, who lay against the rock Al had been for a day. He did not cry, but his mouth was dry, and he hunched over and grabbed his waist as if his intestines were popping out. Captain Finch slid over to check on him and fired his submachine gun into a unit of the KPA. Andy fired. Calvin fired. Sergeant Polous looked at Captain Finch and gave him a look that said, “This is it, pal,” but did his due diligence and asked, “What are you thinking, Captain?”

Finch looked at each one of their faces. Al’s bulging veins that wrapped around his red face of a small morphine haze. The determination of Calvin to kill every last one of them, despite Finch’s observation that Calvin had no idea how low his ammunition was. He thought about saying something, but could hear Calvin say, “Look around us, Cap! I’ve never seen so much ammo in my life, and I go boar hunting with Senior.” Polous shook his head, not in defeat, but a last-minute twist of hope that they all get up and get out of here, or surrender. Andy finished a clip and looked back, sharing the sentiment across Polous’s face, and then there was young Steven, not making a sound and doing his best not to roll around too much. Pinned to his shoulders and belt were an exuberant number of grenades for one private to carry. He probably thought they’d be more useful, and in Finch’s mind, they were about to be.

He grabbed Polous’s Thompson submachine gun, and told the three who could hear him to leave, and fired both Thompsons in all directions until Calvin, Andy, and the Sergeant were gone from sight. Twice, Calvin tried coming back, but Finch shot the ground in front of him as he craddled Steven in his free arm and saw a boy too young to say he did not want to die. He hugged Captain Finch and spoke into his arm. “I just want ot be warm, Cap’. Make me warm.” He looked up, and both men, in a silent stare, agreed that they were not going to be taken alive. Finch slowly nodded, as if he were asking, “Are you sure?” But as the bullets flew over their heads, he realized that was the dumbest thing he had ever asked anyone. They were fucked.

“Fuck em’, Cap. I ain’t afraid. Make yourself useful and get out of here.”

“Look around you. Where am I going?”

Steven smiled.

“You resourceful son of a bitch. You’ll be fine. Me? I’m cold.”

Finch shook his head, and young Steven grabbed as many grenades as he could and kicked the Captain in the face for trying to grab him. He ran toward the daylight peaking over the hills, yelling a child’s yell until he reached the 30 or so Chinese crossing the Yalu river and setting himself off, but right before he pulled the pins, he knew he did the right thing, and was warm again, for eternity. Finch saw his smile and removed the pistol from his temple. He surrendered with a bloody nose and lived.