The pale, yellow sun slipped behind the ridges to the west just before 5 p.m. on November 27, and in the sudden darkness the temperatures plummeted to minus twenty-five degrees Fahrenheit; a 20 m.p.h. Siberian wind howled off the bald faces of ugly saw-toothed mountains that seemed to frown down upon Smith’s huddled Marines. One must think that a Gyrene trained in lightning amphibious strikes (which is why Army brat MacArthur nevertheless chose his rival Marine Corps for the Inchon landing) wondered how he ended up freezing his tail off high in the windswept Korean mountains eighty miles from the Sea of Japan. But such thoughts would have evaporated when the peaceful night was suddenly lit up by star shells and the silence broken by the unnerving clanging of gongs and the blowing of bugles followed by an eruption of small arms and mortar fire.
The Chinese attack Marine commander Smith feared had come.
“All you could see ahead of us was Chinese coming at us. A lot of them,” said one Marine who was in the thick of it at Yudam-Ni when Mao’s counter-attack along the Chosin Reservoir opened in the shrouding darkness of the North Korean night. The Americans scrambled out of their sleeping bags and quickly set up defensive positions with M-1 Garand rifles, carbines, heavier Browning Automatic Rifles (BARs), 30-caliber machine guns and mortars. The Marines laid down a curtain of fire while calling in barrages from pre-sighted artillery. The overwhelming enemy numbers meant they couldn’t miss. “You didn’t have to look where they were,” said one startled Marine. “They were in back of you, in front of you, around you, right in the middle of you.” There were so many Chinese that some positions were overrun and under the eerie luminescence of drifting flares, moonlight, and clouds of whipping snow the fighting turned to the most primitive and savage hand-to-hand combat. One Marine recalled: “You’d be shooting, you’d be stabbing, you’d be using your rifle as a club.”
The chaotic, swirling fighting lasted until daybreak when the Chinese disappeared back into the hills to avoid swooping attacks of Marine, Navy and Air Force support that had been called in at first light, winging in either from Yonpo airbase farther south or carriers out in the Sea of Japan. The Chinese left a carpet of their dead comrades behind, staining the snow with rivulets of blood that froze solid, resembling maroon tree roots. The greatly outnumbered Americans somehow managed to hold. But it was clear the Chinese had entered the war with both feet…and the Marines were in a fight for their lives.
When the attack east of the reservoir that hit the flanking Army troops with equal ferocity also subsided in morning, General Almond helicoptered in to bolster his badly-shaken troops. One of the senior officers, Col. Don Faith, told his commander they’d just barely held on and added: “We’re in deep trouble. We captured Chinese soldiers from two different divisions. We need help.” He recommended pulling back. But Almond, no doubt echoing MacArthur’s own detached sentiments in distant Tokyo, refused to accept the new situation. “What?” he said. “You’re going to let a few Chinese laundrymen stop you? We keep attacking!”
From his base at Hagaru-ri, which had not yet been attacked, General Smith assessed the heavy fighting farther north and understood that the consequence of MacArthur’s boldness was now falling on his Marines. He had no delusions over what was happening. As far as he was concerned, the advance to the Yalu was over. They were being surrounded, and he genuinely feared his entire Marine division might be wiped out. His job now was to figure a way out of the trap.
The most critical task before Smith was to shore up the supply base at Hagaru-ri and complete the airstrip. Without this crossroads village at the bottom of the reservoir, and its single road south, it was doubtful his men could extricate themselves before they were destroyed. But Hagaru was mostly manned by rear echelon and support. Mechanics, cooks, bakers, engineers, artilleryman, construction workers. It was a motley crew. But whatever their stated role, they were now riflemen too. Many were sent up the slopes of crucial East Hill overlooking the village and the soon-to-be-completed airstrip.
When night fell at about 5 p.m. on November 28, the men on East Hill could see the construction crews down in the valley under floodlights racing to finish the airstrip. All was quiet but for the roar and scrape of bulldozers until 10:30 pm when the Chinese unleashed their ferocious assault on Haguru and East Hill. Said a Navy corpsman: “The Chinese were coming and coming and coming and we were scared!” One Marine on East Hill remembered: “The only way they could overcome us was through sheer force of numbers. The first wave would all have weapons. The second wave wouldn’t all have weapons. They would pick up weapons from the first wave. And the third wave would be commissars with burp guns. Nobody retreats.”
Meanwhile farther up the road at the Toktong Pass and Yudam-ni beyond on the west side of the reservoir, the second night of heavy Chinese attacks was under way. One Marine reflected: “You reached back and found out what you’re made of. It’s not trying to be a hero. You’re out there to do a job. And if you don’t do it, it’s not only going to get you killed but your whole outfit killed.” Another recalled: “They really came down on us. Our machine guns were firing so hot and heavy they were burning the barrels out.” The fighting was once again desperate and at times hand-to-hand. The Americans, who’d grown up believing in the value of the individual, were astonished at the Chinese willingness to sacrifice themselves in mass waves to press their attacks, prompting some of the veterans to recall the Japanese banzai charges of the Pacific War. One glaring weakness in Chinese military dogma was readily apparent: once a plan was set in motion their junior officers were given no latitude to alter tactics as needed, instead offering themselves up like fodder before the roaring gun barrels of the just-as-determined Marines. When the sun came up, the battered Chinese once again retreated before the air strikes came in. The frozen Americans all along the lines somehow still held their positions. But for how much longer?
Brad Schaeffer is an historian, author, musician, and trader. His eclectic body of writings have appeared in The Wall Street Journal, New York Daily News, and a variety of well-read blogs and news outlets. Of Another Time and Place is his first novel, which takes place in World War II Germany and the deadly skies over the Western Front. You can pre-order his book here:
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