Free The Cold War by Robert Cowley Page A

than a few feet from us. Nervously, I fingered the web sling on my Thompson—the impulse to bring up the weapon to aim at our very recent enemies and squeeze the trigger was almost more than I could suppress. The marine next to me expressed my feelings, and probably those of many of the other men, when he said, “It sure is hard not to line 'em up and squeeze 'em off.”
    As the lead tank slowly clanked past us, its headlights shining, we saw a Japanese officer in dress uniform and cap, Sam Browne belt, campaign ribbons, and white gloves standing erect in the turret with his samurai saber slung over his shoulder. I wondered if I would ever understand the Japanese military. The infantrymen wore helmets and cartridge boxes but no packs. They carried Arisaka rifles, with bayonets fastened to their belts. The tank treads and hobnailed shoes churned up dust as they went past us and disappeared behind village buildings.
    Returning to our previous positions along the wall, we learned that our CO had sent word to the Japanese major that we were neutral, but the U.S. government would hold him responsible if any marine was injured.
    The sound of firing lasted until about midnight. Just before dawn, the Japanese came past us and returned to their barracks. At daylight, several puppet soldiers came to our gate and begged for treatment of their wounds. Our corpsman bandaged them, but he was ordered to conserve his supplies for our use. Other wounded soldiers were sent to the Japanese barracks.
    The sun rose in a cloudless sky of brilliant blue. We soon heard the familiar sound of approaching Corsair engines. We watched with great satisfaction as several of the beautiful gull-winged marine fighters flew back and forth and circled over us. The pilots waved and gave us the thumbs-up sign. The Corsairs provided a great boost to our morale, as well as an impressive show of force for any watching Communists. We no longer felt isolated.
    I do not remember how many days we remained in Lang Fang before another patrol relieved us, but it was not long. During this time, we were ordered to remain in or near the compound—not that any of us had the least desire to go exploring. We played baseball in a field just outside the compound gate and stayed vigilant. Fortunately, everything was quiet, and we soon returned uneventfully to Peking.
    The final G-2 report of the incident mentioned that four to five thousand Communists had attacked the village but that the marine patrol had not been molested. There was only a brief reference to the Japanese tanks, and none to the infantry with them. I have no idea whether the U.S. government really would have held the Japanese major responsible if any Americans had been injured in the skirmish. And I never learned who ordered the Japanese to send out a patrol with tanks to guard the railroad station.
    The incident at Lang Fang became a bland paragraph in a routine report. But to the marine combat veterans involved, this close call was an unforgettable experience, not so much for what happened but for what could have happened to a small group of fugitives from the law of averages. The wheel of fortune had spun once more—and again we had survived.

The Escape of the
Amethyst
    SIMON WINCHESTER
    How drastically military momentum can change in just three and a half years. In the fall of 1945, when Eugene Sledge had his encounter with the sullen detachment of Communist troops, the Nationalists held a distinct advantage. Against the advice of American military advisers, Chiang sent his best armies north into Manchuria. They took the most important cities, but the Communists held the countryside and threatened rail connections. For Chiang, it was a strategic trap from which he would never escape.
    The Communists, close to defeat in the early months of 1946, would regroup; as time went on and their armies grew, the initiative in the civil war would pass to them. They began to sever the supply links to the armies holding