The Fire Ceases

For the men at the front, the last day was the longest. In nine languages, they heard the cease-fire order on bunker radios. Many grinned as they listened to their lieutenants and captains read them the message from Eighth Army Commander Maxwell Taylor: "There is no occasion for celebration and boisterous conduct. We are faced with the same enemy, only a short distance away, and must be ready for any move he makes."

In the air, allied warplanes roared off for North Korean targets, then were called back to their bases with full bombloads. More than 200 F-86 Sabre jets patrolled Mig Alley for the last time, found no MIG-158 willing to fight. The last plane shot down: a Russian-made IL-12 transport, which might have been carrying some of the Red officials who witnessed the signing at Panmunjom.

But across the front, hours after the : truce agreement was signed, the big guns roared. U.N. artillerymen were under orders not to shoot unless shot at. The Reds, however, wanted to slug it out until the 10 p.m. bell. The Communists fired round after round at U.N. trenches; the Eighth Army guns fired back at the Red cannon. Said one marine wounded on the last day: "I guess those fellows on the other side didn't get the word."

On cease-fire night, a full moon hung like a Halloween lantern in the sky. At 9:45 p.m., command radios crackled: all shooting from the U.N. side is to-stop.

The barrage died down, but the smell of cordite hung in the air. At two seconds before 10 p.m., a crop-haired battalion commander took a soggy cigar from his mouth, flicked a switch, and called his companies: "Thanks for sticking out the war. You'll be all right now if you don't step on a mine on the way back." At the ist Marine Division, a bugler played taps. Despite the sober warnings, men dashed from their bunkers, shed their flak jackets, then stood around in little groups, talking, in a no man's land that was suddenly safe.

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