Gordon watched as first one and then a second infantryman fell. On hearing the roar of a jet, the cameraman zoomed out. It was just in time to catch the fleeting image of a lone fighter-bomber. At an altitude of less than one hundred feet, the jet’s shadow bobbed from treetop, to bare ground, back to treetop. In an instant, both shadow and plane were gone. But they left behind a string of bombs — each with their own smaller shadow.
The camera jumped with the concussion of six blasts. When the cameraman recovered, he panned down the length of the road and rail line and took in the rising columns of smoke. Like from miniature atomic bombs there rose six mushroom clouds. They were spaced every hundred meters or so along the road.
‘The American casualties have been heavy,’ the reporter continued before pausing to swallow — her voice thick as if from nausea or fear — ‘with many whole units now missing in action. But the death toll among the Chinese is staggering. Little opportunity has arisen for the Chinese to collect their dead under the direct fire poured on by the Americans. As a consequence, the woods and foothills of this valley are littered with uncollected and now decaying bodies. And those woods are being filled at an ever-increasing rate as a result of the obviously growing sense of desperation felt by the People’s Liberation Army. With a callous disregard of human life, unit after unit has charged headlong into the American killing fields. American commanders on the ground here have no good estimates as to the numbers of Chinese killed. But surely, their best guesses go, they run into the many tens of thousands.’
There was yet another jumpy change of scene. When the picture finally steadied, Gordon felt a knot of nausea form in his stomach. Filling the screen was a seemingly unending row of upturned boots. The bodies of the Americans had been laid out side-by-side under a series of green ponchos. All the boots were the same. Their alignment was neat and orderly. As the cameraman walked slowly down the line, Gordon wondered just when he would come to the end.
‘But the cost in American lives has been steep as well. And the supply of Americans in this valley will be exhausted far more quickly than the supply of Chinese.’ The camera continued its close-up procession of boots. ‘These men all died in the fighting just last night, and they cannot be replaced in time to affect the current battle’s outcome.’
‘Jesus,’ the White House Military Officer said in disgust. The Army colonel — wearing a crisp green uniform with a white cord under the epaulet on his shoulder — was incensed by the reporter’s parading of the dead. But to Gordon, it wasn’t a question of dishonoring the fallen. It was a scene that at least he — as the dead men’s commander-in-chief — should see. The consequence of the actions that only he had the power to take. The flag-draped coffins arriving at Dover Air Force Base were too sanitary. Dusty boots turned up to blue sky made the point more clearly. And the point, Gordon thought as the reporter concluded her story, was that the war had to end, and end quickly.
‘The Lord is my shepherd,’ the kneeling soldiers read from their tiny Bibles, ‘I shall not want. He maketh me lie down in green pastures, He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.’ The Chaplain stood in full battle dress at the front — his vestments hanging from around his neck. ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord… forever.’
‘Amen’ the men concluded, and they rose. Gordon’s skin tingled. The camera turned to take in the diminutive reporter. ‘This is Kate Dunn,’ she said with a quivering voice and moist eyes, ‘NBC News, reporting to you from the valley of the shadow of death.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
The joint staffs operations and planning team hovered over the map as if they’d find something new if they studied it longer. But Nate Clark understood his options exactly. They’d been evident in the first five seconds. ‘Okay,’ he said loudly. The closed rank of uniformed backs parted. They turned from the brightly lit map to face their commander. ‘What does the PLA have along the Songhua between the 25th Light Infantry Division and the Tangyuan Valley?’
They all looked at the Dutch intelligence officer. ‘There appear to be two full Chinese divisions and part of a third along that road. They are survivors of the fighting around Birobidzhan that made it across the Amur before the ice broke. When we inserted the 101st into Tangyuan Valley, they were trapped.’
‘Will they fight?’ Clark asked.
The Dutch colonel shrugged. ‘The southernmost unit has applied some pressure against the north end of the Tangyuan Valley. But our airstrikes reduced that to only token attacks mounted once every day or two. The partial division was damaged so severely that they amount to little more than walking wounded. It’s the third unit — which we believe to be the 549th Infantry Division — that poses the most serious concern. We just don’t know its strength yet.’
Clark pursed his lips. ‘Can anybody threaten the flanks or rear of the 25th if we send them south?’
The British planner replied. ‘The hills in that area are very rugged. The roads and rivers run north and south. To go east and west you have to cross mountain ranges. In my opinion, the only forces the Chinese can bring to bear on the 25th are the three units that lie along the length of the Songhua River.’
‘If the Chinese dig in,’ the German operations officer chimed in, ‘just like the 101st has in the Tangyuan Valley, the 25th will have to dismount and dislodge them.’
‘But we have air superiority,’ Colonel Reed countered. ‘That makes for a big difference between our defense of the Tangyuan Valley, and any Chinese defenses along the Songhua.’
The arguments were just building steam. But Clark had already made his mind up so he headed off the debate. ‘We drop the German parachute regiment into the valley as soon as possible. And we order the 25th south along that road at maximum possible speed.’ The disbelievers looked back and forth at one another. ‘In road miles, they’re half the distance from Tangyuan as the main force.’
‘General Clark,’ the British planner began gingerly, ‘their mission, if I might say so, was purely in support of the main attack. They have only two heavy battalions attached to them, and the terrain does obviously favor the defenders.’
‘We can’t drop any more troops into that valley,’ Clark reminded him, reviewing their limited options. ‘There’s no more room to maneuver. They’re already pressed into a four-square-mile box. And I will not consign men to a battle in which they’re going to run out of ammunition after the second or third firefight. The 25th Light Infantry Division is the closest unit. The fact that they crossed the Amur at all was due solely to the speed with which they broke out of Birobidzhan. We didn’t even know what to do with them, if you’ll all remember, so we assigned them the flank support role down that two-lane, piece-of-shit highway. But now they’re our only real hope of saving those men in the Tangyuan Valley. And I plan on asking them to do just that. Now you go off and come back when you’ve got a plan.’