The Frozen Hours

by Jeff Shaara

  Smith had known Lewis Puller since their early days at Fort Benning, through several campaigns in the Pacific. The two men were complete opposites in appearance, Puller barely five six, with a thick barrel chest that rode precariously upon two birdlike legs. Smith towered over him, a lean frame standing better than six feet. Their temperament seemed radically opposite as well, Puller a profane and caustic man. But Smith had seen the softer side of Puller, knew him to be a man of enormous heart, and if Puller’s first instinct was to jam his Marines into anyplace hot, it wasn’t because he was careless with their lives. Puller had absolute confidence that his Marines could do anything he asked of them, and do it well. If men died, well, it’s war. That’s what men did. But Smith knew that Puller never glossed over his casualties, even if the newspapers portrayed him as the hardhearted and sometimes hardheaded warrior. Smith knew another side of Puller almost no one ever saw, what few newspapermen would find worth writing about. Chesty Puller was extremely well-read, a man who took education seriously. Smith knew they were far more alike than people assumed. No matter Puller’s flaws or rough edges, Smith truly liked the man. And clearly, MacArthur did, too.

  MacArthur scanned the area, then said, “We thought we’d find you at your command post, Colonel.”

  Puller stabbed a pipe into his teeth. “This is my command post, General. There’s a hell of a scrap down that hill.”

  MacArthur studied the distant ridges, smoke billowing up nearby, more incoming mortar fire. Smith closed his eyes, shook his head, saw Puller watching him. You know what I’m thinking, Lewie. This is insanity.

  MacArthur said, “Colonel, your regiment is splendid. First-rate. I am gratified to present you with a Silver Star.” MacArthur seemed to rummage through his pockets, then shrugged. “Don’t seem to have one handy. Well, my staff will make note of it. So, where’s the enemy?”

  Puller pointed behind, back to the next ridge. “The sons of bitches are right over there, General. There’s no doubt some North Korean officer is up there pointing to all these sons of bitches right here.”

  Smith flinched, but MacArthur didn’t react. His aides came closer, binoculars put into MacArthur’s hands. He raised them, scanned for a moment, said, “Seoul is how far?”

  Puller said, “Four miles, maybe more.”

  “How long before you get there?”

  “Three or four days.”

  MacArthur lowered the glasses, glanced back at Smith. “I thought we were pushing them more quickly. We should be inside the city now.”

  Smith had no answer, knew the timetable had been bested already, wasn’t sure why MacArthur or anyone else would complain. Puller said, “Sir, there’s a good bunch of those other fellows out there. We pushed ’em back to these ridges, and figured they’d keep going, blow outta here pretty quick. But they’ve reinforced. Seems like they intend to make a fight out of this. But we’ll get there, sir.”

  MacArthur handed the binoculars to an aide. “I wish they’d come on up here and give us a fight. We’d clean them out pronto. I want that city by the twenty-fifth. You understand that, Colonel?”

  Puller took a deep breath, looked at Smith. “We’ll do our best, sir.”

  MacArthur stared out again, his hands planted firmly on his hips. The smoke rose from a new round of incoming fire, the artillery behind them responding, sharp whistles passing overhead.

  “Magnificent. You Marines have done the job. I told them back on the ship, the admiral, the reporters. The Marines and navy have never shown more brightly. They’ll quote me on that. The world will know. I want a Presidential Unit Citation for these boys.” He turned, looked past Smith to the reporters, who had kept their distance. “You hear that? Write it down.” MacArthur looked again at Puller, kept his hands on his hips, and Smith could feel MacArthur’s pride, the raw satisfaction. To one side, a mortar blast drove the reporters back, a nervous flock of birds, the Marines around them ducking low as well. Another blast came now, farther away, then more, patterned along the crest of the ridge. Smith kept his position, close behind MacArthur, Almond glancing nervously at Smith. He felt the words coming in his head, wouldn’t say anything out loud. These are the front lines, General Almond. Get used to it.

  Puller stared out through binoculars of his own, called now for a radioman. He turned to MacArthur, said, “Excuse me, General, but I’ve got some things that require my attention. You want us in Seoul, we need to clean things up out here first.” Smith knew Puller’s mood, that it was time to go to work. Parades could come later.

  After a long moment, MacArthur said, “Excellent job, Colonel. Truly well done.” He turned, Almond following in step, both men moving past Smith. But MacArthur stopped, looked again at Puller. “No more delays, Colonel. I want Seoul in hand on the twenty-fifth.”

  THE HAN RIVER, WEST OF SEOUL—SEPTEMBER 20, 1950

  Smith lay flat alongside Puller, both men glassing from the ridgeline down across the lowlands that spread into the city. Below them, Marines poured down the hill in a fresh advance, disappearing into a fog of thick smoke, the rattle of machine guns punctuated by the thump of mortar fire. Smith felt the stirring in his stomach, never enjoyed watching combat, men scrambling straight into the enemy positions.

  Puller lowered the glasses, said, “He leave yet?”

  Smith kept his eyes on the smoke, caught glimpses of moving men. “Tomorrow morning. He’ll fly out. Kimpo’s secure, more or less. He’ll want his picture taken boarding a plane.”

  Puller sniffed, said, “You don’t much care for Mac, do you?”

  Smith brought down the binoculars, thought a moment.

  “Never said that. Wouldn’t say it. Not even to you.”

  “That just makes you gutless.”

  “No. Just careful.” Smith looked along the hillside, no one close enough to eavesdrop. “He’s not in good shape, Lewie. Seventy years old, and looks every bit of it. There’s weakness, fragility. Forgets what he’s saying sometimes. It’s all about the spectacle, the grand show. He’s entitled to that, I suppose. But he’s not right all the time.”

  “He was never bothered by whether or not he was right. He sure as hell ain’t worried about being wrong. Or being old, or fragile, or anything else. And so what? Are you gonna tell him to step out of the way? Not even the president’s got that much nerve. The Joint Chiefs? They’re a bunch of old ladies who’d rather be playing bridge. They don’t want to hear anything but good news, talk of victory, the war’s over, all of that. Unless Mac decides to lead his own bayonet charge, they’re not gonna stand up to him one bit. Well, maybe that’s not a good choice of words. They might like to see him leading a bayonet charge. Could solve a problem for them.”

  Smith lowered his head, stared into scrub grass and gravel. “Stop that, Lewie. There’s no one else over here who can lead the men like he can. He’s got some…difficulties, no doubt. But he inspires. Only man I know who can do that is…you. But until there are stars on your shoulder, you’re no better off than me. Do what you’re told.” The word triggered a thought. “By the way, you ever get your Silver Star?”

  Puller sniffed. “Some aide brought it up here, expected me to bow down and kiss his feet. I told my staff to send it to my son.” Puller stopped. “What’s so damn important about the twenty-fifth?”

  Smith wasn’t sure what Puller meant, then recalled MacArthur. “September twenty-fifth is exactly three months since the North Koreans launched their invasion. I think he promised Syngman Rhee the South Koreans could have their capital back on that date. Makes good press.”

  Puller said nothing, and Smith knew what he was thinking. Puller raised the glasses again.

  “Hell of a way to fight a war. Make sure we win on anniversary dates. What does he think we’re doing out here? I’m taking casualties, for God’s sake. I can’t just waltz into Seoul like it’s empty. Those bastards will hold to every block, every house. This is gonna be messy, whether Mac likes it or not.”

  Smith nodded slowly. “I
know. Do what you have to do. Murray knows that, too. The Fifth is moving on past Kimpo. Oh, if you didn’t get word, as of today, Litzenberg has the Seventh ashore.”

  “Good! That puts us at full damn strength. Murray and I will be in position to grab Seoul pretty quick, I think. I’m assuming you’ll have the Seventh move up in support. It’s still going to be a tough one. The enemy’s dug in all over the place.”

  Smith stared out at the flat ground, flickers of fire, the harsh whine of artillery streaking past. “General Almond insists the entire North Korean army is in full retreat, that they’ll be clear of their own border in a few days.”

  Puller looked at him now and Smith saw the disgust. “You paying any attention at all to what that office boy tells you?”

  “Have to, Lewie. He’s in command here.”

  Puller pounded one hand on the hard ground. “Good Christ, O.P.! MacArthur anoints his chief of staff as the next coming of Napoleon, and we’re just supposed to bow down and obey him? Almond doesn’t know combat from combat boots. You want to know where the North Koreans are? Ask any of those boys out there. They’re up to their asses in North Koreans.”

  Smith let out a breath. “MacArthur has put General Almond in command of the Tenth Corps, which includes us. It doesn’t matter why. So far, this operation has been successful. General Almond deserves credit.”

  “Oh, he’ll take the credit, all right. But if we fall on our faces, it’s you who’ll take the blame. He’s a cookie pusher, and he’s really good at kissing MacArthur’s ass every night when he goes to bed. That’s why he’s leading this operation. And that’s why there’s gonna be trouble. It’s not over yet, O.P. Not by a long shot. I’m losing boys out there, and the North Koreans aren’t going anywhere we don’t shove ’em.”

  Smith knew everything Puller was saying was true. He had already had enough confrontations with Ned Almond to know that Almond had no grasp of battlefield tactics. But he couldn’t say that to Puller, nor to anyone else.

  “Look, O.P., I appreciate your predicament. I would only request that you allow your men to do their job the best way we know how. Keep the cookie pushers out of the way.”

  “I can’t keep him away from his own command, Lewie. We’ll manage. We have to. No other choice.”

  Puller went back to his binoculars, the conversation over. There was no argument from Smith. He thought of the command post, that Eddie Craig would have dispatches for him, that Smith would need to follow up with his Seventh Regiment’s deployment. They’re just boys, so many of them. There wasn’t time to season them, and Litzenberg has to know that. I just hope to God the veterans lead the way. He hated Puller’s phrase, “cookie pushers,” thought of Craig. He didn’t know what to expect from me, I suppose. Had to wonder if I was just another office boy. Hope I can prove him wrong on that one. Craig’s a good man, seems happy with the job. I need experience with me if we’re to do this thing right, somebody who understands combat. At least Puller trusts me. Knows we’re all on the same side. The other regimentals, too, Murray and Litzenberg, both good men. And Carl Youngdale, the right man to command the artillery. We’ll need them all to be on their toes, no matter how many cookie pushers we have to deal with.

  Smith had received a hard dose of the misery that came from Almond’s style of command during their first meeting, a month ago in Tokyo. The man had an astounding talent for condescension, Almond repeatedly calling Smith “son,” though the two men were nearly the same age. Almond had questioned whether Smith had any actual combat experience, which showed how little Almond knew about the man he was suddenly supposed to lead. Smith had responded with specifics, details of his service throughout so many of the campaigns in the Second World War, which seemed not to impress Almond at all. Only then did Smith realize that Almond had virtually no experience in combat, had, for the most part, been kept on a back burner in World War II. But MacArthur had his reasons for placing Almond in command of the Tenth Corps, and Almond intended to make the most of the opportunity. The Tenth now consisted of two army divisions and Smith’s First Marine Division, creating a formidable force against any enemy. Whether General Almond was up to the task was a problem as much for MacArthur as it was for the men who would serve him. If Almond fell apart, or made bad decisions, there could be a far greater price for MacArthur than a missed timetable. But so far, neither Almond nor MacArthur seemed concerned about the gravity of any of the decisions that lay before them. The war was going according to plan, MacArthur’s plan. And the word was already seeping out of headquarters in Tokyo that this war would likely be over before Ned Almond or anyone else had a chance to screw it up.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Riley

  EAST OF INCHON—SEPTEMBER 21, 1950

  “GOOD GOD. WHAT IS that smell?”

  The boy had his hands clamped over his face, but no one responded to his question. Riley fought the stink himself, looked out over the rice paddy, civilians working the watery field. He pointed, said, “Maybe it’s them. Not the rice. It don’t stink like that.”

  Behind him, the sergeant, Welch. “It’s the water. They fertilize it with human waste. Don’t hardly need a latrine or any kind of outhouse. You just take a dump in your honey pot, then toss it in the fields.”

  Riley tried to escape the odor, impossible to avoid. Behind him, another man.

  “Then they eat the damn rice?”

  Welch laughed. “Have to. All they got, I think. You seen any big fat cattle around here? Hell, I heard there’s a reason you don’t hardly see any dogs. Meat’s hard to come by.”

  Riley shook his head. The dust from the road covered his boots, a gray coating on his green dungarees. He hoisted the rifle a little higher, said, “Hey, Sarge. How come they making us walk?”

  “Don’t want to bring the trucks up too close to the river. Need ’em back at the seawall, hauling more supplies. The river’s just up ahead. Captain Zorn says we’ll be crossing that pretty quick, maybe by morning. I guess they’re happy we finally got here.”

  Across the road from Riley, the boy spoke again. “You think we missed it?”

  Riley glanced over at the boy’s face, all pimples and short wisps of beard, two fingers clamped firmly on his nose. “Missed what? The fighting? You think we’re here for a vacation? You already got a good whiff of this place. You better get used to it. Where you from, anyway? It stink like this back home?”

  “New Jersey. Paterson. No, not hardly. Never smelled anything like this. I thought we were the reserve and all. Didn’t think we’d actually do any walking.”

  Riley heard a laugh from Welch.

  “Welcome to the Corps, kid. You didn’t expect to walk anyplace? Just how dumb are you? They not teach you anything in boot?”

  The boy hesitated. “Didn’t have boot, Sarge. Not really. A bunch of meetings, more like.”

  Riley looked hard at the boy now. “Meetings? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Welch said, “Heard that a lot, Pete. They brought these kids in for training and didn’t have time to teach them a damn thing. Sat them down around campfires like a bunch of Boy Scouts and told ’em ghost stories. That right, kid? What’s your name, anyhow? You come with us to Japan? Don’t remember seeing you on the transport.”

  The kid nodded, obvious embarrassment. “Joey Morelli, Sergeant. I stayed outta the way, I guess. Sick most of the time. Never been on the ocean before.”

  Riley gave a low laugh. “Nothing different about that. I tossed up lunch a few times. What the swabbies called lunch, anyway.”

  The boy seemed to animate now, glanced behind him to the sergeant. “I wanted it, boot camp, the whole thing. Expected to learn all of it. Couldn’t wait to grab me a rifle, show ’em I knew how to shoot and all. They just showed us how to polish boots. Taught us about C-rations. Then we had to board the ship. Maybe fifty of us. They handed me a piece of paper, told me to report to Captain Zorn, that I was with Fox Company. I just done what they said.”

  Welch s
aid, “Welcome to Fox Company. I guess the captain put you with me so’s I keep your head down. You can shoot, huh?”

  “Yes, sir, done a good bit of hunting down in the Pine Barrens. Rabbits and such.”

  Riley shook his head. “Jesus. Good luck with this one, Sarge.”

  Riley felt disgusted, thought, They’re calling these idiots Marines, and they can barely tie their shoes. He heard the sergeant again.

  “Not surprised by any of this. It’s the new Marine Corps boys. Bring in these slick-faced babies and teach ’em how to shine the general’s boots. Hand ’em a rifle and send this one to me. Sergeant Hamp Welch, official babysitter. Tell you what, Private Morelli, you stay the hell out of my way, don’t raise your damn head up in front of my riflemen, don’t look down a mortar tube, or scratch your ass on a machine gun. Somebody shoots at you, you shoot back.”

  “You bet, Sarge.”

  Riley ignored the boy, watched a small cluster of civilians, dirty, sad people, scavenging through a pile of blasted debris. His eyes stayed fixed on the clothing, instinct, looking for telltale bulges, hidden weapons. But the people seemed desperate, tearing through what might have been their home.

  Most of Inchon was behind them now, many more buildings still standing than anyone expected to see. They knew there had been shelling, the navy’s big guns doing all they could to erase any opposition from North Korean defenses. But the North Korean positions had been vacated quickly, no match for the surge from the Marines that poured off the boats. Riley had been as surprised as the rest of the veterans that there was no beach, that the amphibious landing had used ladders. They expected a storm of fire, the same as it had been in the Pacific, but by the time the Seventh had reached Inchon, the fighting had moved well inland. It was unusual enough to move ashore with no enemy in front of them, but the sight of huge transports perched up high in the mud was an oddity of its own. The tide had gone out quickly, stranding the landing craft like so many enormous toys. The sailors were making their jokes, that someone ought to put wheels on the boats, drive them ashore. Until the tide returned, none of the LSTs were going anywhere else.