Chapter One Smith East of Inchon, South Korea--­September 17, 1950 "Where''s Puller? I want to see him, see what''s going on. He''ll be in the thick of it." Mac­Arthur seemed to speak to all of them, but Smith had to respond. "His men went in at Blue Beach, sir. He''ll be at his new command post there, certainly." He glanced to one side, saw Ned Almond hanging on Mac­Arthur''s words like a sparrow on a telephone wire, a hint of anger toward Smith. Smith tried to avoid Almond''s glare, turned to Mac­Arthur again. "The jeeps are waiting.

On your command, sir." "Well, let''s go. We delay any longer, this thing might be over before we get to see it." The aides behind Mac­Arthur laughed, his ever-­present audience, Almond laughing the loudest. Smith moved to the door of the crude hut, held out one hand. "This way, sir." Smith backed away from the opening, allowed Mac­Arthur the lead, a tradition Smith had learned from their first meeting in Tokyo, a month before. He kept back, allowed the other staff officers to go as well, Almond first, the man ignoring Smith as much as he could.

Smith shook his head, then stopped, clamped down any reaction at all, wouldn''t show any of them a response. The aides flowed past, the room emptying quickly. He glanced at Craig. General Edward Craig was, by title, the assistant commander of the Marine division, and so Smith''s second in command, a combat veteran whom Smith respected enormously. Craig said nothing, and Smith glanced at the simple accommodations Craig had established, Smith''s folding cot in one corner, the field desk where Craig had spread the all-­important maps. Smith reached for his helmet, said, "I suppose I''m off on a field trip, General. Mac wants to see the action. He''s asking for the right man.

" Craig nodded, a quick smile. "Not sure why General Mac­Arthur seems drawn to Colonel Puller." Smith shrugged. "He likes fighters. They go back to the last war. Lewie had a few choice comments about Mac, but Mac doesn''t seem to mind. Or he doesn''t listen to anything a Marine has to say." "Or he''s going to arrest him.

Just on general principles." Smith looked down. "Then you can have his job." It was a joke, but neither man was laughing. "Got to go, Eddie. Can''t keep the man waiting." He moved outside, saw the others loading up into the jeeps, four vehicles summoned for the journey. There was space remaining in one, directly behind Mac­Arthur, who sat beside a Marine driver who could not avoid a wide-­eyed sideways stare.

Smith climbed up, wedged his long legs in tightly, looked at the others around them, Almond in one front seat, the others filled now with staff officers and the reporters who had come along with Mac­Arthur. Smith knew the routine, Mac­Arthur handpicking his favorites for the privilege of accompanying the commanding general to the front lines of his great triumph. The Marine drivers all seemed transfixed by Mac­Arthur, but it was Smith who gave the order, a quick wave of his hand. "Move out!" The jeeps rolled into single file, Smith shifting his weight, trying to maneuver his legs into some kind of comfortable position. Mac­Arthur turned slightly, said, "Puller, right?" "Yes, sir. As I said, we''re headed to Blue Beach, Colonel Puller''s forward command post. He''ll be there, certainly." Mac­Arthur nodded, seemed satisfied, stared forward, the jeep lurching past scattered shell craters, the remnants of the navy''s bombardment.

Smith couldn''t avoid the questions in his mind, sliding between the stabs of discomfort in his legs. Was this all it took? The big guns from the ships unload on them, and the North Koreans just . take off? It''s never that easy. No, surely they''re still out there. Not sure how many. Puller will know more about that. But we''re in range of just about any kind of artillery right here, and maybe mortars, too. Mac­Arthur must know that, of course.

But if I told him that, offered him caution, he''d just order the driver to go faster, closer. Well, it''s his show. They passed ambulances, other trucks small and large, artillery moving into position. Smith kept his eyes on a long ridgeline in front of them, thick smoke in bursts, spreading out with a light breeze. The thumps from distant artillery came in a steady rumble, the impacts on the ridge mostly from enemy mortars. Smith studied the hill carefully, men in motion, his men, but there was little else to see, the smoke spreading in a wide thin blanket. Up ahead, he saw officers gathering near the road, pointing toward the jeeps. Smith held his hand up, instinct, a message to the driver behind him.

He reached a hand out to his own driver, tapped him on the shoulder. "Pull over here." The young man eased the jeep to the side of the road, the officers approaching, a pair of cautious MPs among them. They seemed baffled by the strange convoy, but there was recognition, eyes wide, more men emerging from wrecked huts, all of them coming closer. Mac­Arthur seemed to absorb that, gave the men time to assemble. Mac­Arthur glanced toward a reporter''s upraised camera, rose slowly, stood high in the jeep, leaned heavily on the windshield, made a slow wave to the gathering Marines. Smith kept his place, knew to wait for Mac­Arthur to leave the jeep. Finally, Mac­Arthur stepped off, and Smith was surprised to see him stumble slightly, a hint of unsteadiness.

An aide was beside Mac­Arthur quickly, seemed prepared, but Mac­Arthur held him away with his hand. The man backed off, Mac­Arthur fully in control now, hands on his hips, the ever-­present pipe in his mouth. He seemed to pose for a long minute, the camera clicking away. Smith jumped down, no reporter aiming any camera at him. He stumbled himself, a nagging pain in his knees, held himself against the jeep. One of the men moved closer, a captain Smith recognized, Puller''s aide. Mac­Arthur said, "Where''s Puller?" The captain looked briefly at Smith, then pointed behind him. "Up on that ridge, sir.

There''s a good many of the enemy ." Mac­Arthur said, "Then let''s get up that ridge." He turned to Smith. "I thought this was his command post." "It is, sir." Smith looked again at the smoke, a new round of shelling peppering the crest. "I might suggest waiting for Colonel Puller to return." Mac­Arthur was already stepping out onto the road, moving toward the ridge.

The others fell into line quickly, Mac­Arthur leading the parade at a brisk walk, Smith catching up, keeping the pace. He watched Mac­Arthur carefully, could feel the pace slowing, Mac­Arthur not hiding the weariness in his legs. The ridge was steep and dusty, the smoke drifting past, and Mac­Arthur slowed even more, a hint of a struggle. Smith watched as Almond moved past in a rush, taking his place beside his commanding general. The road narrowed, more shell craters on all sides, rocks strewn about, the wreckage of a jeep partially blocking the way. Smith looked into the jeep as they passed, nothing but charred metal, and he thought of protesting again, but Mac­Arthur stared ahead, slow, plodding pace, saying nothing. Smith glanced back, the line of reporters and aides strung out down the hill, men with pads of paper, more cameras. He knew he couldn''t allow this ridiculous parade to just wander out onto the open crest of an exposed hill.

The incoming mortar fire came again, down to one side, and Smith said, "Sir, we should stop here. Colonel Puller is certainly close by." Mac­Arthur took one more slow step, then halted, seemed to fight for air, Almond beside him, pretending not to notice. Mac­Arthur straightened, eyed the crest of the hill just ahead, said, "I want Puller. Find him." Smith glanced around, saw Marines working mortars of their own, a heavy machine gun dug into a cluster of rocks, one man with field glasses pointing the way, the gunner firing a long burst. More men seemed to emerge from the rugged ground, all of them recognizing Mac­Arthur. Smith felt the need to grab the man and pull him back down the hill, the thought in his brain: This is no place for you.

And then, the booming voice of Chesty Puller. "What in blazes we got here? Oh, for the love of Gertrude. They told me it was you coming up here. You''re the only man who''d lead a damn caravan to the front lines." The salute came now, hard and crisp, Puller''s chest puffed out even farther than usual. "General Mac­Arthur, it is my honor. Welcome, sir." He looked past Almond at Smith now, a hard scowl giving way to the hint of a smile.

"You too, sir." Smith needed nothing further from Puller, knew there would rarely be formalities between them. He knew that Mac­Arthur had an odd affection for Puller, despite the fact that Puller seemed to bristle at nearly every order Mac­Arthur had ever given him. The thought rolled into Smith''s head. Nobody but Lewie would talk to Mac like that and expect to keep his command. Puller knows something we don''t. Or, Mac thinks he does. Smith had known Lewis Puller since their early days at Fort Benning, through several campaigns in the Pacific.

The two men were complete opposites in appearance, Puller barely five six, with a thick barrel chest that rode precariously upon two birdlike legs. Smith towered over him, a lean frame standing better than six feet. Their temperament seemed radically opposite as well, Puller a profane and caustic man. But Smith had seen the softer side of Puller, knew him to be a man of enormous heart, and if Puller''s first instinct was to jam his Marines into anyplace hot, i.