There were groans from some of the men, and Riley ignored that, knew it had to be the new men. He studied the corpses for details, wounds long frozen, smears of dried blood. He thought of the Chinese, wearing American parkas, thought, They’re wearing everything else, too. He was grateful for the darkness, no faces, and he looked toward the column of trucks, saw Abell in the road, halting one. The lieutenant moved quickly to the truck’s rear, then waved the men closer, this one . Riley bent low, flexed his fingers, slid his hands beneath one of the bodies. Other men joined him, Welch beside him, the men working together, lifting, the frozen bodies separating. They carried the first man to the truck, the corpse twisted, one arm extended, the body pushed up into the bed of the truck. Abell was in the truck, pulled the man as far back as there was room, more men bringing the next body, then the rest. Riley went back to the pile, but more men from the platoon had joined in, the dead all retrieved. He felt exhausted, the squishing cold in his shoe pacs miserable, and he felt for the spare socks, tucked into his belt. Up ahead there was a burst of machine gun fire, flashes of light. The shouts came now, men scattering, a sharp blast erupting from the bed of a truck. The rifles began, the chatter of a BAR, the hillside across the road alive with flickers of light. Riley dropped down, rolled the M-1 off his shoulder, crawled off the road, a narrow strip of grass. He backed into the slope, turned the rifle outward, another blast beneath another truck, the word in his mind, grenade . The machine gun fire came down from the heights, streaks of green tracers, most of it pouring into the column of trucks. There were shouts, orders, the trucks moving again, then stopping, doors jerked open, men climbing up, new drivers, answering the commands, keep moving . A six-by rolled in front of him, and he saw men swarming around it, white coats, his brain screaming, Chinese! To one side, a Thompson fired, spraying the side of the truck. The men in white tumbled down, another grenade erupting, the flash illuminating the scene. More Chinese troops moved out into the road, some of them trying to board the truck. The truck stopped again, one man firing a burp gun into the cab, and Riley fired, the man falling back. More rifle fire came from the edge of the road, the Chinese caught in a crossfire, some running away, still on the road, cut down. More were moving up the hill, a retreat, the BAR chopping men as they ran, Riley finding targets, emptying the clip. He rammed another into the rifle, sighted a man scrambling up the hill, the man stopping, his arm up, tossing a grenade. Riley fired, the man collapsing, a long second, the grenade erupting close by.
The firing began to slow, but there were new flashes high on the ridge, the army troops engaging the enemy, intercepting the retreat of the Chinese from the road. Riley sat still for a long moment, thunder in his chest, his back against a slope of frozen ground. There was a chorus of screaming around him, shouted orders, panic, wounded men. One truck was burning, the fire lighting the entire scene, men working to pull wounded from the burning truck, and he felt a jolt of energy, stood, moved that way. There were a dozen men, some pulling the wounded away from the truck, others trying to get close, the fire now too hot, swallowing the truck. He felt helpless, weak, stared into the flames, stepped closer, past the bodies, the corpsmen working in a frantic rush, more wounded tended to, one man dragged to the side of the road, another laid beside him. Riley couldn’t see that, wouldn’t look at the faces, the wounds, his eyes on the flames, and he moved closer, slow steps, drawn by the heat, the delicious warmth on his face.
—
Throughout the night, the enormous convoy inched its way slowly south. As they had done so many times before, the Chinese positioned themselves for ambush, or rolled down to the main road in a breakneck assault. The firefights continued, the Marines and the men of the army’s newly formed battalion shoving their way through pockets of the enemy. Not all the Chinese were spoiling for a fight. In many encampments, the Americans crept forward to find huddled groups of frozen enemy soldiers, men who had died because their orders kept them on the hills, waiting to confront an enemy they did not live to see. Many of those Chinese units were the same troops who had ambushed Task Force Drysdale, and were still occupying the heights above what the Marines now called Hellfire Valley. The signs of Drysdale’s fight were still in evidence, scattered corpses from both sides, the hulks of wrecked vehicles, shoved aside now by the heavy equipment that cleared the way.
By dawn on December 7, the men of Fox Company could still see hordes of Chinese troops high up above them, but most of those troops were engaged with the Americans sent up the hills to find them. The fights continued, scenes of bloody awful horror, the Chinese again driven back. The convoy was repeatedly struck, machine gun fire, mortar rounds, more destruction and more casualties, some Chinese troops positioned close to the road itself, close enough to lob grenades into masses of wounded, or riflemen who only targeted the truck drivers. Throughout the morning, the convoy kept in motion, fits and starts, tanks and rolling artillery working to keep the enemy away.
Behind them, in Hagaru-ri, the men of Murray’s Fifth engaged the enemy, a brutal and bloody fight that finally pushed the Chinese back, allowing the final battalion of Murray’s regiment to join the convoy. The rear of the column continued to receive heavy assaults from the unending numbers of Chinese on the heights, hard fights for the Marines that were aided again by the tanks and artillery, as well as brutally effective air strikes. They left behind the smoking remnants of the base at Hagaru-ri, worthless now to the Chinese troops who swarmed into the supply depot, finding only heaps of ash from a hundred bonfires.
By late morning, the men of Fox Company reached their goal, leading the way for the entire convoy, passing through Chesty Puller’s outposts that guarded the way into the next link in Oliver Smith’s shortening chain, the town of Koto-ri.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Smith
KOTO-RI, NORTH KOREA—DECEMBER 7, 1950
HE STAYED AT HAGARU-RI until the operation was well under way, would not just leave the men behind until he was confident the Chinese around the base could do little more than throw themselves uselessly into Murray’s guns. Once Litzenberg offered assurances that the leading elements of the convoy were certain to drive through the last of the enemy roadblocks, Smith and his staff officers boarded their own aircraft for the short journey to Koto-ri.
Murray was confident that when it was safe for his last few units to join the march, they would have no difficulty holding off any enemy incursions from behind. As one of his final responsibilities, Murray would leave Hagaru-ri only after destroying as much of the airstrip as possible, and any other asset the now-empty base might offer. The Chinese would certainly swarm into the town, and if they chose to waste time searching through piles of rubble, that was fine with Smith. The convoy, numbering nearly a thousand trucks, jeeps, and ambulances, was hauling everything of military value, including of course the vehicles themselves. To suggestions, especially from Tokyo, that the airstrip be used to evacuate the men by flying them out piecemeal, as had been done with the wounded, Smith offered a flat refusal. Abandoning the massive amount of equipment, including the artillery, tanks, and vehicles, would be a bonanza for the Chinese and a devastating morale crusher for Smith’s troops. Smith knew there were desk jockeys in Tokyo sharing the doomsday sentiments of many of the stateside newspapers, who regarded this campaign as a disastrous failure. But Smith would hear none of that. His newly celebrated battle cry, which still brought a smile, was, in his mind, completely accurate. This was not a retreat. It was an attack in another direction. To fly the men out, abandoning their equipment, would change that completely. As the men prepared for the march south, Smith heard the talk, the enthusiasm for accomplishing this new mission, no different than their enthusiasm for anything he had asked them to do before. He had no interest at all in suddenly taking that away. They had walked in. They would walk out.
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