Preparing for his first trip to the front, Hardy had looked through the clip files to get a sense of what Stars & Stripes wanted in its pages. Mostly, the reporting was heavy on interviewing soldiers about what they missed back home and short on any strategy details. There was lots of praise for their bravery and accounts of heroic actions. In his quest to figure out the war, the picture of the Korean conflict that Hardy had pieced together so far was not a great one.
First, the North Korean communist forces had initially swept through the entire peninsula with overwhelming success, capturing all of the major cities. The small American military presence had been unprepared to fend them off and had really been knocked back on its heels. The simple truth was that the peacetime military in the Pacific had gone soft and let its guard down.
Then, that old warhorse General Douglas MacArthur had roused himself long enough from his cushy headquarters in Japan to plan a daring but brilliant amphibious invasion at Inchon and consequent breakout from the Pusan Perimeter, where US and South Korean troops were hemmed in. The tables had soon turned, and it was the North Korean communist guerrillas who were in full retreat. But US and UN forces under MacArthur's right-hand man, General Almond, had overreached themselves, pushing relentlessly toward the Chinese border at the Yalu River.
Chairman Mao had not been eager to embrace the idea of a US-controlled territory on his borders, or with having troops from the world's democracies breathing down his neck. A hop, skip, and jump away, Uncle Joe Stalin had come to the same conclusion. The Soviets sent military advisors and supplies to the Chinese. Before long, Chairman Mao had unleashed masses of Chinese troops into the conflict, resulting in the disastrous Chosin Reservoir campaign for the Americans and UN. For days back home, newspaper headlines had trumpeted grim news about the war and the surrounded troops in every city and small town. The US troops had narrowly avoided complete annihilation.
Since then, there had been some changes in leadership. Part of the trouble with Korea was that there had not been a continuity in leadership, as there had been in Europe under General Eisenhower. General MacArthur had been replaced by General Ridgway who had been replaced by General Van Fleet, who was now in overall command. President Truman was still proving himself to be an ineffectual, hands-off leader who was content to rely on reporters filtered through the military than to see the situation for himself. He was definitely no FDR or Churchill.
The war continued to be limited, in that nuclear weapons were off the table. At the same time, Truman had opted against allowing the bombing of bases in China or any bridges across the Yalu River in an effort to avoid a larger conflict. The cost of that decision was that the Chinese forces in Korea could be resupplied with impunity. It was a bit like trying to use buckets to catch all the water coming out of a firehose, rather than turning off the valve.
Meanwhile, thousands of drafted American boys who didn't really want to be there had died, mostly fighting drafted Chinese boys. To use the term "boys" was not an exaggeration. Enlisted men in Korea were typically ages seventeen to twenty-four, although there were a few older Second World War veterans in the ranks. South Korean boys were drafted to fight starting at age sixteen. As usual, old men went to war and expected boys to do the actual fighting.
Hardy's musings on the landscape and the war were interrupted by the driver.
"There it is," said the driver, taking his hands off the Jeep's bucking steering wheel long enough to point. "Triangle Hill. That's where we're headed."
The road wound its way across an open plain, but Hardy looked ahead at the mountains and hills they were driving toward. He saw one rounded peak that rose above the others. It wasn't clear to him how this was a military objective of obvious strategic value because it looked much like the hills surrounding it, just a little taller.
"Doesn't look like much to fight over."
The driver laughed. "You are a regular green bean, aren't you? If you do find anything in this place worth fighting over, that's going to be headline news, Mr. Reporter."
"If you say so," Hardy said, unable to keep an annoyed tone out of his voice. He didn't need a Jeep driver telling him what to write about.
But the driver just chuckled, apparently amused by his passenger's lack of knowledge. Helpfully, the driver pointed out the other nearby hills and peaks. "Now, just in front of Triangle Hill, that's what they call Pike's Peak. Off to the left is the hill called Jane Russell, on account of it looking like a pair of tits. To the right is Sniper Ridge. You can probably figure out why it's called that."
"What do the Chinese call these hills?"
The driver barked another laugh. "Buddy, they call them theirs."
That explanation sounded ominous to Hardy, who began to feel a soupçon of concern, like that first tickle you get in the back of the throat as the flu comes on.
Slowly, the mountains loomed closer with each passing mile. The rough road carried them into the US base camp. He saw sandbags stacked around machine gun emplacements and tangled rows of concertina wire gathered like prickly tumbleweeds. Some of the sandbags were leaking sand, and he realized that these were bullet holes.
A few men glanced with curiosity at the approaching Jeep, but Hardy's arrival didn't keep their attention for long when they realized that the Jeep held only a couple of soldiers and not the brass. Anymore, most of the high-ranking officers flew in by helicopter to avoid the danger of being ambushed on the road. The sight of one of these ungainly "choppers" remained a novelty. If you weren't a general, your only chance of getting a ride on one was if you were wounded and lucky enough to be flown out to one of the new MASH units. Nobody wanted that kind of luck.
These men looked like they had been through the wringer. Streaked with mud, their worn uniforms had seen better days. Helmets bore scratches and dents — even bullet holes. One helmet that he spotted had a Confederate flag painted on the front. The eyes under the helmet flicked at him and Hardy recoiled at the soldier's pale gray stare that seemed to instantly dismiss him, like a wolf looking for worthier prey. These were hard men at the front. Some of them had that unfocused gaze of men who had seen too much and looked through Hardy and the Jeep without seeing them at all.
The faces that weren't covered in several days of stubble looked haggard. Nobody seemed particularly friendly, and Hardy gulped, just thinking about trying to interview one of these hard cases — or God forbid, take their picture for Stars & Stripes.
"Here you go, delivered safe and sound at HQ, which is sayin' something these days," the driver announced, pulling to a stop in front of what could only be described as a sandbagged bunker. The driver made no move to switch off the engine or to help Hardy with his duffel bag. "Hurry up and get your gear unloaded. I want to get back before dark, or I probably won't make it back, if you know what I mean."
Hardy had barely pulled his gear off the rear seat before the Jeep was rolling away, back the way it had come. Watching it go, despite the excitement of being on his first real assignment on the front lines, he regretted that he wasn't going back with it.
He hefted his duffel bag to his shoulder and headed for HQ. The sentries didn't try to stop him, so he walked right in. The dark space reeked of burnt coffee and stale cigarette smoke. He checked in with a harried sergeant sitting at a typewriter and got sent from one desk to another until he found himself in the presence of a major named Severn.