At Hagaru other Americans staggered into town to join the Division for the march out. They were survivors of a 7th Division Regiment, who had lived through battles of extinction second to none, after the Chinese and disaster stuck. And one small band of men was not American at all. They were British Royal Marine Commandos, who had been attached to the Division from the day it drove inland . . . and had taken nearly fifty per cent casualties. When asked about the strangers with the magnificently upcurled mustaches and rakish berets, General Smith turned to squint into the glare where the men were eating their rations. He paused, then very quietly, and with great pride, answered, “They're Marines.” After the Division reached the rim of the plateau and started down the narrow, tortuous road winding to the canyon below, the vehicles, though moving very slowly, began to skid uncontrollably on the ice. Many were saved. Others fell upon their sides, where they lay until salvaged by the tractors following at the end of the column. Others went careening over the edge, with men jumping off at the last possible instant, to crash upon the rocks far below. Some were caught in Chinese ambushes during the nights, riddled with bullets and blasted by grenades. Those were bulldozed out of the way . . . and the column continued to pass. Many vehicles wound down that road and they were loaded with vital equipment, the equipment with which to run a full combat division . . . so the men walked. They walked with necks bent, shoulders hunched up, eyes almost closed to a kind of cold against which there was no protection . . . in which no clothes had warmth. So they just walked . . . carried their rifles . . . and froze. During the rest intervals fires were built alongside the road. Fires which gave no heat, for the hours near dawn were so cold that nothing could break their grip. Nor did the fires cause concern among the men . . . they had long since ceased to worry that they might be next to fall from enemy bullets. Too much exhaustion and pain and death had been their companions. They no longer thought . . . or cared. 158 l Ⅵ. “Retreat, Hell!” This is War!
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