Courtyard House: I Rely on Time-Space Trade to Build a Nation

November 27, 1950, Chosin Reservoir, North Korea.

It snowed all night long.

At five o'clock in the morning, Brigadier General Oliver Smith, commander of the 1st Marine Division, stood at the window of his command post in Hagaru-ri, watching the snowflakes still falling outside.

The thermometer read minus thirty-two degrees Celsius, the diesel fuel had frozen into a gel, and radio communication was intermittent.

He had a bad feeling.

Three days ago, Major General Almond, commander of the 10th Army, flew to Hagaru-ri and talked at length about "going home for Christmas".

Smith had no interest in agreeing. He was a veteran of Guadalcanal and Okinawa, and had seen the Japanese charge at Sherman with explosives strapped to bamboo poles.

War is not an arithmetic problem; the enemy will not surrender obediently just because you have calculated it well.

"General." The intelligence officer pushed open the door and entered.

"Frontline reconnaissance report: There were numerous track tracks on the ridge north of Liutanli last night. The depth of the tracks exceeds half a meter."

Smith turned around: "Heavier than Pershing?"

"Yes, General."

Smith remained silent for three seconds.

"Order all units in Liutanli to strengthen their vigilance. Order a reconnaissance team to be dispatched from the direction of Gutuli to extend the search area."

Telegram to the 10th Army: Signs of unidentified armored forces have been detected in the direction of Chosin Reservoir. Requesting aerial reconnaissance.

He looked out the window at the gray sky.

The snow is still falling.

At 11 PM on November 27th, in Liutanli.

Lieutenant Colonel Murray, commander of the 5th Marine Regiment, had just finished dinner—canned turkey, a "Thanksgiving gift" that MacArthur had shipped from Tokyo.

He was about to lie down and take a nap, as he would continue his northward journey tomorrow.

Suddenly, he stopped.

It wasn't a sound. It was a vibration. A deep, continuous vibration coming from the soles of my feet.

He rushed out of the tent.

On the northern mountain ridge, snow and mist churned. That wasn't the wind.

Those are tracks.

The silhouette of the first tank emerged from the snow and mist. Its wide tracks rolled over half a meter of snow as if tearing paper.

The streamlined turret gleamed coldly in the moonlight, and the 100mm gun barrel pointed diagonally towards the sky.

The second vehicle. The third vehicle. The tenth vehicle. The thirtieth vehicle.

Murray had participated in five landing operations during the Pacific War and had never seen such a tank formation.

He didn't know what this thing was called.

Later he learned it was the Type 59.

The turret began to rotate. A flash of light appeared at the muzzle.

The first shell hit the regimental headquarters bunker, and the reinforced concrete roof shattered like an eggshell.

Murray was thrown to the ground by the shockwave, and all he could hear was a sharp buzzing sound.

He struggled to his feet and grabbed the phone.

"Headquarters! This is Murray! The Chinese have tanks! At least a regiment!"

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone.

"Lieutenant Colonel Murray," the divisional staff officer's voice trembled with barely concealed emotion.

"The tank battalion in the ancient land... has just lost contact."

"Damn it!" Murray had just hung up the phone when he heard voices from the front lines coming through the walkie-talkie.

Those were anxious roars.

"Damn it, we can't penetrate their tanks!"

"Tank No. 6 exploded, damn it, 1500 meters."

They can destroy our tanks from 1,500 meters away, even more powerful than Tiger tanks!

"Quatrains, more ricochets! Damn it, our armor-piercing rounds are ineffective at 800 meters!"

"Rockets, those are their bazookas!"

……

At 1:00 AM on November 28, on the highway north of Gutuli.

Lieutenant Colonel Hersh, commander of the tank battalion of the 1st Marine Division, crawled out of the burning Pershing River; his right arm was gone.

Seventeen minutes ago, he received orders to lead his entire battalion north to reinforce Liutanli.

Thirty-two M26s lined up in two columns and drove along the highway into the darkness.

Then the Chinese opened fire from both sides of the hillside.

It's not a rocket like a bazooka that looks like fireworks.

It is a true, precision-guided anti-tank missile.

The infrared seeker detected the heat source of the Pershing engine and roared in from two kilometers away, trailing its exhaust flame.

The first shot hit the front of the lead vehicle's turret.

The 120mm rolled steel armor was pierced by the metal jet, and all three crew members were killed instantly.

Second shot. Third shot.

Thirty-two Pershing tanks, thirty-two missiles. 100% hit rate.

Lieutenant Colonel Hersh was the only tank commander who escaped.

He lay on the snow, blood gushing from the severed wound on his right arm, the excruciating pain now replaced by numbness.

He saw that the follow-up supply trucks were also hit by rockets, and flames turned the night sky orange-red.

He recalled that before he left, his wife asked him: Where is North Korea?

He didn't know how to answer.

He still doesn't know.

In the distance, several Type 59 tanks drove onto the road, their gun barrels lowered, like hunting dogs patrolling their territory.

The train commander leaned out halfway, wearing a winter uniform of the Chinese People's Volunteer Army, so his face was not visible.

Hersh's consciousness gradually faded.

My last thought was: God, who are we fighting against?

At 9:00 AM on November 28th, in Hagaru-ri.

Smith received a telegram from Liu Tanli.

Ammunition and supplies are only enough for one day. All tanks are destroyed. The enemy has completed the encirclement. Murray.

He put down the telegram and picked up another one.

Koto-ri: The tank battalion was wiped out. The road was cut off. The acting battalion commander was killed in action.

Smith placed the two telegrams side by side on the table.

He suddenly remembered what MacArthur had said to him in Tokyo before the Inchon landing:

"The Chinese will not fight. They have no tanks, no planes, and they can't even get enough to eat."

You'll be able to go home before Christmas.

He didn't say anything at the time.

He still hasn't spoken.

"General," the operations staff officer asked in a low voice.

"The airdrop supply request has been sent. The Fifth Air Force replied that due to inclement weather, it could not take off until the afternoon at the earliest."

Smith nodded.

He walked to the window and looked towards the faint silhouette of the mountains to the north. The muffled sound of cannon fire could be heard from there.

He counted the intervals between the cannon shots.

Six shots per minute.

This was not a test shot.

This is industrialized, precise, and unhurried firepower coverage.

At 11 PM on November 28th, at Dedong Pass.

This unnamed hill is the only passage from Hagaru-ri to Koto-ri.

A reinforced company of the 7th Marine Regiment, with a strength of 420 men, is stationed here.

Company Commander Lieutenant Seker stood on the position, observing the north through binoculars.

In the snow and fog, three Type 59 tanks were slowly maneuvering 300 meters away.

His anti-tank team had fired all six of their bazookas. Two hits, both deflected.

He called for artillery support from the division headquarters.

Ten minutes later, shells landed around the Type 59, exploding into clouds of snow and mist.

The smoke cleared. The three tanks continued to advance.

Lieutenant Seker lowered his binoculars.

He suddenly became very calm.

He recalled what his instructor had told him when he enlisted: "If you hear the sound of tank tracks getting closer and closer, and your weapon can't penetrate it—"

Then run.

Whether they can escape or not is another matter.

He slung his rifle over his shoulder, turned to the communications soldier, and said:

"Send a telegram to the division headquarters: The Dedongguan position is about to fall. The entire company is preparing to break out."

December 29, Hagaru-ri.

The airdrop began at 3 p.m.

Sixteen C-119 transport planes took off from Japan, attempting to deliver supplies to the circular position at an altitude of 5,000 meters.

They did not enter the airspace over Changjin Lake.

Sixty silver-gray jet fighters swooped down from the clouds to the north.

The Type 2 fighter jet had a pale blue tail flame trailing behind its exhaust nozzle, and air-to-air missiles were mounted under its wings.

The US military escort F-80s intercepted them head-on.

The air battle lasted for twenty-one minutes.

The U.S. military lost eight F-80s and six Type 2 fighter jets.

The remaining eight C-119s dropped their supplies and hastily returned to base.

The parachutes drifted into the snowfield and were scattered everywhere by the high-altitude air currents. At least half of them landed on Chinese positions.

Smith looked up at the sky.

For the first time in his life, he saw the backs of the U.S. Air Force fleeing in panic.

That evening, the number of people killed by frostbite in Hagaru-ri exceeded 1,500.

There wasn't enough heating fuel. There wasn't enough medicine. There wasn't even enough clean dressings.

The military doctor tore the captured parachute into strips of cloth to bandage the wound.

As Smith was inspecting the field hospital, a black soldier with a frostbitten chin grabbed his sleeve.

"General," the soldier's voice was soft, "can we still go home?"

Smith crouched down.

"Yes. I promise."

He didn't know if he could keep his promise.