Prologue
THE COLD WINDS of autumn were setting in, and the leaves just beginning to turn amber and crimson. In late September 1986, thirty-six years after their first taste of combat, the men of George Company reunited.
The aging warriors circled a room in the Thayer Hotel, located a stone’s throw from the U.S. Military Academy in West Point, New York. The venerable hotel had served as a temporary home to numerous dignitaries, generals, and even General Douglas MacArthur’s mother, who stayed there while he attended the academy.
The castlelike ambience of the building seemed to fit the event. The handcrafted woodwork from the 1920s lent a stately air to the occasion.This chilly autumn day, it would be home to blood brothers who for the most part had not seen each other in three decades. Each man was anxious in his own way; the moment, bittersweet.
The majority of George Company hung up their uniforms at the close of the Korean War. They returned home, eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds who had grown older than their fathers. Part of the “Forgotten War,” the Leathernecks never talked about their experiences to anyone. America was ambivalent about their sacrifices. Nobody understood, and unlike WWII, nobody seemed to care about the Korean War. But the invisible scars of war remained. In some cases, those wounds had grown deeper, manifesting themselves in phantasmal dreams. But in the hospitality room at the Thayer, the men rarely discussed the unpleasant side of war, even among friends.
On this day, it was all about fellowship—friendships and bonds formed in battle among men who trusted and loved one another. “It was like heaven,” recalled one George Company Marine, “seeing my friends for the first time” since the war.
Bonds of friendship held George Company together, a spirit that had remained unbroken. That friendship, combined with excellent leadership, had allowed the men to accomplish the impossible, making several epic stands that had changed the course of history.
As the senior warriors circled the hospitality room, a ghost from the past entered—a forgotten warrior from the forgotten war. A balding, gray-haired man, whose bearing seemed vaguely familiar, approached one of the Marines. “Have you talked to Rocco Zullo?” he asked.
“No. Rocco was killed on the road to Hagaru in November 1950.”
“No, he wasn’t,” responded the man, sternly.
Another Marine overheard the conversation: “Why, he’s dead!”
“He’s not dead.”
The confident figure then added with an unmistakable bellowing voice, “You’re talking to Rocco Zullo.”
Most of the men in the room were dumbfounded. First Sergeant Rocco Zullo had been killed on November 29, 1950. Or so they thought.
3Overcome by emotion, one Marine fought back tears as he flashed back to one of the most difficult nights of his life.
The Road to Hagaru-ri,Task Force Drysdale, November 29, 1950
“Get your fucking guinea ass up here, and go find me some ammo!” The beefy, six-foot-three first sergeant barked at a nearby Marine.
Dozens of gnomelike, parka-clad Chinese soldiers darted around the trucks in front of him. Christ! Chinese are all around, he thought, as he scanned ten or fifteen yards to the left and right.
Out of the corner of his eye, First Sergeant Zullo saw a Chinese sapper pitch a satchel charge under one of the Marines’ trucks, engulfing the two-and-a-half-ton vehicle in a massive fireball. The cacophony of enemy bugles and whistles could not drown out the deadly, high-pitched scream of an incoming mortar round. Small arms fire and explosions rocked the area, throwing up a blanket of smoke that settled over the valley. The stench of cordite permeated the air.
A streaking flare lit up the evening sky, highlighting the snow that was blowing in sideways, pelting the men’s faces. Half a dozen enemy rounds perforated the soft metal skin of the 6x6 truck as Zullo worked his way into the ring mount of the .50 caliber machine gun. He frantically pulled back on the belt to clear the jam. With the temperature hovering near -20, any exposed flesh would stick to metal. Ice coated the men’s beards and mustaches, and snow caked their gear and helmets.
Zullo pulled back the bolt on the .50 and threaded the copper and steel belt into the chamber. A hastily wrapped bandage covered a fresh bullet wound on his left wrist, and crimson seeped through the left shoulder of his parka where he’d taken shrapnel. He adjusted the head space on the weapon and began firing on the Chinese with projectiles that could cut a man in half.
Zullo provided covering fire as Marines rushed to recover a fallen man. He stayed on the gun for hours as the trucks pushed forward through one Chinese roadblock after another, while he administered a steady drumbeat of death.
Finally, the Marines and what was left of the convoy of trucks and tanks cleared the last enemy roadblock. Still manning the .50, the World War II veteran of the Pacific campaign spotted a beautiful sight: tents and the working lights from the airfield under construction in Hagaru-ri. We made it, he thought.
Abruptly, several individuals clad in Marine uniforms emerged from the tents and approached the convoy. Zullo turned to George Company’s commanding officer. “Captain, what’s our next move?”
Right at that moment, small arms fire erupted from the tents, and the muzzle flashes illuminated Chinese faces cloaked by Marine green. Machine gun and rifle bullets tore through Zullo’s side, leaving a hole the size of a grapefruit. Blood gushed from his guts like a geyser.
Two of his men covered the first sergeant’s broken body, forming a shield of flesh and bone.They loaded him back on a truck where he faded in out of consciousness as his fellow Marines worked to save his life. As what was left of the tattered Marine convoy rolled through the gates of Hagaru-ri, one Marine who’d been tending to his wounds looked up. “I can’t find a pulse,” he said.
Three subdued men struggled to control their emotions as they carefully lifted the fallen first sergeant into the makeshift morgue. The dead lay stacked inside the standard-issue tent like cordwood. With no room inside, the three gently placed Zullo’s body outside near a corner, away from the others. Dejected, they rejoined their brothers who were still staggering into Hagaru-ri.
After his body had rested in the house of the dead for hours, word finally trickled down to the men. Zullo was dead.
