Ian Slater - World in Flames

“They had trouble with their sensors, Jim, when our boys were hit in the middle of the night at the beginning of this war by two Chinese divisions. By God, we flew over the Chang-song Road yesterday. Creigh didn’t even have time to bury his head. Littered along the highway like—” He turned to the major. “I’ll tell you the first thing we’re going to do here, Major, is mount reconnaissance patrols in this area — right across the front. Day and night until we find out what the hell those bastards are up to. I don’t want another Chinese breakthrough here. And another thing, Major. I want all cooking fires put out. C rations only. And a forty-eight hour ban on smoking. And start digging “Z” turns and star trenches — put all the dirt at the end of the trenches, not over the top, otherwise the Chinks’ll see the fresh soil. It’d stand out a mile in this snow. Right now my hunch is those Sons of Heaven are sitting around and having more than a political meeting. They’re dotting their maps with our positions for a night attack, making sure they know where we all are so they won’t lose their way in the razor wire.”

Gazing across at the now ice-blue fastness of Manchuria, Freeman shook his head, not at something seen but, as Norton could tell, out of respect for his enemy. “Say what you like, gentlemen, those bastards are geniuses at burrowing under the earth.” He paused. “Ever been to China, Major?”

“No, sir.”

“I was there in the nineteen eighties — before Tiananmen. Went to see the clay warriors they dug up in Xian. Full-sized— all in full battle order. They’d been there thousands of years— longer than the pyramids — and nobody knew about them till the nineteen seventies. Completely hidden. Imagine — an entire army! Emperor Qin wanted his army to guard him in death. Hadn’t been for some peanut farmer kicking up a bit of clay with his plow, they’d still be hidden. No wonder we can’t spot the tunnels from the air. It’s a contest who is better digging tunnels — Chinese or the Vietcong.”

Jim Norton rolled his eyes at the major. Freeman was good for a half hour on tunnels anytime, day or night — the ingenuity of construction, the ammunition dumps built off to the side, the traps for the unwary. Happily for Norton, the general’s lecture on the enemy’s art was interrupted by the rolling thunder of the sonic boom from four F-14s thundering high above the bleak white humps of the snow-covered hills that tumbled down toward the flats in front of the Yalu.

By the time the jets had passed overhead, the Delta HQ major had been called in by a signal corpsman with an urgent transmit from Seoul. Freeman stood watching the fighters’ contrails as they went into a tight bank to the northeast following the snaking line of the Yalu to the Tamur and the Sea of Japan. “Might be Shirer up there, Jim,” said Freeman. “Beautiful things, aren’t they?”

“Yes, sir, but I’m just as happy to leave them to the fly-boys.”

“Well,” commented Freeman, as the Delta major reappeared, “We’ll be off. Strategy’s straightforward enough. Change your internal placements, mortars, machine guns… That attack yesterday morning was probably just a probe — to pinpoint your positions. You shift things about like I told you and we’ll give ‘em a big surprise when they come up this hill again.” The major was looking worried, preferring that the general had said “if the Chinese came up the hill again. The men’s morale was bad enough after Creigh s humiliating withdrawal without confronting them with the prospect of another battle.

“You and your boys are going to have to hold these ridges, Major — till we can mount a counterattack. Chinese get up here with their artillery overlooking the next valley, they’ll make mincemeat of us. That’s what happened to Creigh — so I don’t want anybody falling back. Understood?”

“Yes, General.”

As Freeman and Norton walked down from the snowy crest toward the snow-covered, sandbagged chopper pad, the rotor slap of the Black Hawk was already fibrillating the air, curling up snow on the rim of the hill. The general heard a voice complaining above the roar of the motors. “Yeah, well, shit, man. Freeman’s same as Creigh. Won’t see ‘im do it.”

Freeman stopped, turned back into the trench, walked around the Z bend, and found himself looking at a dozen or so bleary-eyed and unshaven GIs. “What won’t you see me do, soldier?”

There was silence.

“What won’t I do?” repeated Freeman.

A GI, using his rifle like a staff, hauled himself reluctantly to his feet, his voice low, almost drowned by the sound of the chopper. “Sorry, General—”

“Won’t see me doing what, soldier?”

Norton saw the soldier visibly gulp, trying to find the spittle to answer Freeman.

“Well?” bellowed Freeman.

“Taking out a patrol—” answered the soldier. “Sir.”

Freeman was sniffing the air like a bloodhound. “Who’s wearing fairy water?” The GIs looked at one another, perplexed, several clearly frightened, a few not giving a damn, leaning sullenly against the trench. Behind the general, Norton was making a quick pantomime for the GIs — as if he were applying deodorant beneath his arm.

“Ah — me, sir,” said one of the younger, more hapless GIs.

“By God!” said Freeman, “I oughta have you skinned. You know how far a Chink can smell?”

No one answered.

“From here to Beijing. You’re endangering the safety of the whole position. A position taken out, soldier, will break the whole line. A line breached and you could cost a battle — a war. You understand?”

“Y — yes, sir.” The private saluted.

“You bury that fairy stick right now and wash out your armpits,” growled Freeman. Freeman saluted, turned to go, stopped and asked them, “Why haven’t you shaved?”

“No hot water,” said a private. “Sir.”

“Since when does one of my soldiers need hot water to shave?” Freeman challenged derisively. “Where the hell you think you are, soldier? At college?”

“No, sir.”

“You shave that fuzz off. That goes for all of you. Understand?”

There was a murmur of “yes, sir”s. No one was looking at him. His anger seemed to sear them. As he stalked off toward the helo pad, Norton increased his pace to keep up. Going down the hill, Jim Norton tapped the general before they got too close to the chopper for Freeman to hear him. “General, sir?”

“What?” Freeman shouted above the noise.

“Sir — the deodorant stick — fine, sir. They needed to be told about that. But the shaving, sir—” Norton said nothing more, his tone carrying implicit criticism.

“Damn it, Jim! Their morale’s rock-bottom. They start to lose respect for themselves, their appearance, the next is a slide into lack of self-confidence. No matter what the weaponry, Jim, you know well as I do, low morale loses wars. Good God, if Vietnam didn’t teach us anything, it taught us that.”

“I realize that, sir,” replied Norton, his voice rising to overcome the chopper, one hand holding on to his helmet. “But you told me once the Chinese have a thing about facial hair, remember — any body hair, other than where it should be. See it as the sign of a barbarian. Barbarians scare them, you said, General.”

Freeman grunted. “You’re telling me I overreacted?” Before Norton could answer, the general waved to the chopper pilot to shut her down — he was a stickler for setting the example about not wasting gas or anything else at the front. Creigh had lost over a hundred tons of supplies, along with howitzers, which hadn’t yet been replaced. Besides, he didn’t want the Chinese picking up too much of the blown snow from the chopper’s wash — to better pinpoint Delta.