The Frozen Hours

by Jeff Shaara

  He had left the Marines at Inchon making preparations for the voyage, supplies distributed, equipment gathered, the officers seeing to their commands, the men seeing to themselves. They would sail as he was sailing, around the bottom of the Korean Peninsula, eastward, then up to the North Korean port of Wonsan. There the Marines would make yet another landing, securing the port, establishing a base for the next operation.

  He felt in his pocket, the unfinished letters, one to each of his two daughters. Get that done tonight, he thought. Esther, too. They’re all showing off that magazine cover, sure as the dickens. Rather they didn’t do that. He thought of his granddaughter, Gail, yes, she’s probably taken that thing to school, waving it around like a flag for all to see. He shook his head. No, let them be proud.

  He heard the sound of engines, looked up, a pair of B-29s high above, and he eyed the direction, thought, Japan. Going home. Empty, probably. Aim well, gentlemen. But a new thought jolted him, as it had so many times before, the young man’s face, a burst of cold, dragged into his mind by the sight of the big bombers. You should be here, he thought. That should be you, up in those marvelous birds.

  The plane had gone down just before Christmas 1944, his son-in-law Charles Benedict listed officially as missing in action. Benedict had been flying a bombing mission over Mukden, China, the word coming to his family that there was little hope of the crew’s survival. The pain of that had been overwhelming, Smith stationed then in Hawaii, so far from home, unable to do anything to comfort his daughter, Virginia. The helplessness of his absence had stayed with him, and so he would never forget to write them, could never escape the nagging fear that if something happened to him, they might not hear of it for many weeks, the horrible coldness of a telegram.

  He tapped the folded papers in his pocket. Tonight. Get them done. Tell them only good things. They can read about Ned Almond in the newspaper.

  “Well, General, I was told you were enjoying the captain’s hospitality. Feel better, I assume?”

  The voice was cheerful, the expression on the man’s smiling face always seeming sincere.

  “General Lowe. Yes, the captain was most kind. You should take advantage of it yourself. Surely he would not object.”

  “Oh, I have, I assure you, even before we set sail. One thing I have learned quickly is that naval vessels have no shortage of hot water. Their food seems to be superior as well. No offense to your staff, of course.”

  Smith felt Lowe’s good cheer, turned again to the horizon, thought, What have we told the president today? Lowe moved up beside him, anchored himself to the rail with unsteady hands, a slight waver. Smith watched him, said, “Are you feeling all right, General?”

  “Please, I do wish you could get past your need for such rigidity. It’s Frank. I’m perfectly happy to greet you always as General Smith, but when you call me general…I’m not altogether comfortable having anyone believing me to be your equal.”

  “I’ll try. Frank. Are you all right?”

  “You mean, the waves? The captain advises me to get lots of fresh air and keep my eyes on the horizon. It has seemed to help. Not sure I enjoy sleeping belowdeck, though.”

  “Stay up here. We’ll get you a cot. He’s right. The fresh air will help.”

  Lowe took a deep breath, said, “Damn embarrassing, you know. Never really been a problem for me before. I can’t really tell Mr. Truman that his envoy has a weak stomach. You think MacArthur has ever been seasick?”

  It was a strange question, and Smith detected more meaning than Lowe might have intended.

  “No idea.”

  “Hmm. I’ll bet General Almond has tossed his lunch a few times. Seems the type.”

  “You expecting a response, General? Frank?”

  Lowe seemed genuinely surprised. “Not at all. No games here, General. But to be honest, there is concern in Washington that General MacArthur is relying on his unshakable belief in his own infallibility. There were expectations that Inchon would be his final bow, that he would have no choice but to allow others to take the reins.”

  “Why?”

  Lowe tilted his head. “You are not naïve, General. You know that MacArthur is not as popular in Washington as he is in the newspapers. He is rather convinced that his way of running things is the only way. And he does not pay much heed to anyone who disagrees with him. The man has been a general in this army for more than thirty years. Things can happen to a man who is always in charge, who is never confronted by argument. He has surrounded himself with those who worship him. What does that do to a man? I don’t know. Do you?” Lowe paused. “It is an uncomfortable situation. I have received word, and not just from the president, mind you. The Joint Chiefs are afraid of the man. MacArthur tells them what he intends to do, and they decide they’ll allow it. Not sure what would happen if they decided not to.”

  “That’s not my concern, General.”

  Lowe looked at him, another pause. “No, I suppose not. However, I would very much like your view on what is happening right now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your division has been ordered to make a landing in North Korea. Already, South Korean troops are pushing north of the Thirty-eighth parallel, and reports say they are receiving little resistance. There is hope that those troops might end this thing without our own people crossing that border. It concerns me that General MacArthur seems not to care about borders at all. He’s giving General Almond another opportunity for headlines. That’s how some see it. Ned the Anointed, they call him.”

  Careful, Smith thought. He’s testing you.

  “Hadn’t heard that.”

  Lowe seemed to read him, said, “Come now, General. I’m not here to pin you down, put your seat in hot water. It’s my job to understand what is going on here, beyond the piffle Tokyo hands out. I need you to be honest with me, and I assure you, our discussions are in confidence.”

  “You, me, and the president.”

  “Your commander in chief. Doesn’t he deserve your honesty as well? Certainly, your insights. Your position here is crucial to the success of this campaign. And your performance. Almond knows that. He’s watching you like a hawk. But he’s protected, MacArthur’s hand on his shoulder, warding off any criticism. Not so General Walker. Do you know the man?”

  “Some.”

  “Walton Walker can’t be happy, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Smith searched for the right words. “If I was Walton Walker, three stars, and I was told that a two-star, Ned Almond, would not answer to me, that he would operate a separate independent command, I would probably ask why.”

  “And the answer?”

  “You would have to ask General MacArthur.”

  Lowe leaned again on the rail, seemed more at ease now. “It’s no secret, not even to you, that MacArthur dislikes Walton Walker. Doesn’t trust him. Walker’s done okay, served his men well around Pusan. But his headquarters is a mess, disorganized, men running around with no clear notion of their objectives, or how to obtain them.”

  Smith was surprised by that, kept it to himself. “I’m not familiar with General Walker’s methods.”

  “No, and you won’t be, not anytime soon. You answer to Almond, and only Almond. And Almond answers only to MacArthur. Walton Walker and his Eighth Army might as well be on the moon. It might feel like that, before too long.”

  “You want me to give you my view about my orders, about the next part of this campaign. You need me to explain to you what MacArthur’s doing? You already know.”

  “Perhaps. I’d prefer hearing it from you. Let’s just say the president wants to know who’s paying attention.”

  Smith let out a breath, looked hard at Lowe. “I’m not pleased with your questions, General Lowe.”

  “Perhaps it is the answers that bother you.”

  Smith stared out, thought, Perhaps it is. He looked again at Lowe, saw nothing to give him doubts about the man’s integrity, no hint of some duplicitous agenda. But still, Smith
was careful. It was the sorest point Smith had wrestled with, the contradiction to the training every senior officer had received.

  His words came out slowly. “General MacArthur has divided his army. The Tenth Corps is to advance into North Korea east of the mountains. The Eighth Army is to advance to the west. This country is split in two by a backbone, a mountain range that will limit communication and logistics.”

  “You don’t approve?”

  “I don’t have approval. I obey the orders I’m given. If MacArthur is correct, this war will end rapidly, without many more casualties. I must support that optimism.”

  Lowe shook his head, seemed frustrated. “Marines.” He leaned against the rail, faced Smith. “You may enjoy the luxury of your optimism, General. Others are not so fortunate. There is more at stake here than the destruction of the North Korean army. General, do you know what MacArthur told the Joint Chiefs? Allow me to paraphrase. In exploiting the defeat of the enemy, our troops may cross the Thirty-eighth parallel at any time….I regard all of Korea open for our military operations. He doesn’t mention whether or not it’s wise to divide his army in two. He doesn’t talk about mountain ranges and backbones. He has rattled the president with his insistence that this cakewalk will end by Christmas. That kind of talk plays well in the newspapers, believe me. Plays well among the troops, too. But the larger concern is just how well that plays in Moscow.”

  Smith was becoming more uncomfortable now. “I don’t know about such things. I’ve heard no reports of any Russian troops in Korea.”

  “No. But there is real fear in Washington that the Soviets are waiting, watching, might use this as a provocation for a new war. There is concern that if MacArthur drives his people, your people into China, the Soviets will respond in Europe. There are reports of thousands of Soviet tanks poised along the border between East and West Germany. Our allies are praying that this mess concludes as quickly as MacArthur insists it will. But if it doesn’t, we’re sitting on a big damn bomb, General. What happens here could ignite World War Three.”

  Smith glanced around, no one within earshot. He looked again at Lowe, saw no drama in the man, his voice soft and steady. Smith kept his voice low, said, “I’ve heard none of that. It won’t happen. It can’t. No one would go that far. President Truman doesn’t want that, surely. He can prevent it. His orders must be obeyed.”

  “The president knows that, of course. The Joint Chiefs know that. But, General, the greater concern in Washington is whether or not Douglas MacArthur knows that.”

  —

  On October 15, a surprised Douglas MacArthur received an invitation to meet with his commander in chief on Wake Island. The choice of location was seen by those in Washington as a concession to MacArthur, that President Truman’s journey would be much longer than that of his general. Whether MacArthur appreciated or even recognized the gesture, he flew to Wake feeling as though the president had trespassed into MacArthur’s private fiefdom. The meeting itself did nothing to dissuade MacArthur that Truman was playing politics with the war, that voices of opposition against the president in Washington had forced Truman to demonstrate that he was clearly involved in the hard decisions in Korea. MacArthur realized immediately that the meeting was more for show than for substance, a time-consuming annoyance.

  At a formal press conference immediately following, MacArthur repeated to the audience what he had said privately to Truman. His successes were virtually complete. MacArthur was adamant that there was little if any chance of the Chinese or the Soviet Union coming to the support of the North Koreans. MacArthur conveyed the message to the reporters whom Truman had brought across the ocean that the bulk of the American troops would be home by Christmas.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sung

  PEKING—OCTOBER 16, 1950

  THE ROOM WAS QUIET, all eyes on the older man, who kept his stare downward. Sung could feel the impatience around him, the younger officers chafing at the drudgery of yet another meeting, more clarification of orders they had expected to receive days before. Sung had been through all of this before, long before, the acceptance that the army’s resources were so often inferior to the enemy they faced. He had served alongside several of the men in this room, the senior commanders who had learned to endure sacrifice and privation. But others were young, knew little of what it had taken to fight the Japanese, or the great struggle against the Nationalists, the vast armies of Chiang Kai-shek.

  Sung glanced to one side, saw the young colonel, Li, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. Sung tried to hold in his smile, thought, You were not with us when these things were decided in tents, in shacks, when the enemy was shelling us. Now there is luxury, soft chairs, warm quarters. Of course you are impatient. You have learned none of the lessons that come from struggle. Or pain.

  Across the wide desk, the older man’s head rose slowly and he scanned the room, his eyes meeting Sung’s for a brief moment, no smile from either of them. He spoke now, the words coming out in slow rhythm, precise, well rehearsed.

  “Chairman Mao has been very explicit in his orders. We shall be efficient in our obedience of them. It is not the time for hasty judgments, or questions that have already been answered.”

  Sung glanced again at Li, the younger man responding with silence, a bowed head. Good, Sung thought. It is not the time for unwise protest. He looked at the older man now, said, “General Peng, we will obey. The mission will be one more great accomplishment for our leader. His army shall not disappoint him.”

  Peng looked at him, still no smile, a short nod. It was the game they had played for many years, a performance meant for the younger men, a script that could have come from Mao’s own hand.

  Peng Dehuai was the overall commander of the Chinese military forces now, a position granted him by Mao Tse-tung as much a reward for loyalty as anything to do with Peng’s expertise as a leader of troops. Sung was grateful for Peng’s authority, respected the man as much now as he had two decades ago, the first time Sung Shi-lun had worn a uniform. In the mid-1930s, Sung had served with Peng during the Long March, a year-long military struggle that had become celebrated by every schoolchild in China. Then it was civil war, the beleaguered army under Mao fighting for survival, escaping destruction from the far superior arms and equipment of the Nationalists. The march had taken Mao’s troops nearly five thousand miles, allowing them to regroup, resupply, and eventually make war once more against the disorganized ranks of Chiang’s army. When the tide turned for good, Mao’s success had elevated him to supreme leadership over the entire Chinese mainland. His authority now was unquestioned, fueled by his fierce claims of dedication to the people he ruled, to their history and ancient culture, and more important, their new place in a changing world.

  The peasants were told in unwavering terms, great boisterous speeches, that the entire world would become theirs, that the great revolution that had crushed Chiang and the Nationalists would continue beyond China’s borders. Most of China’s enormous population were peasants, a great sea of humanity that had produced Mao himself, as well as many of the most successful generals from the war, including Peng Dehuai. No one in China was allowed to forget that Mao’s glorious triumph had been accomplished by an army that had labored so long under the boot heels of the wealthy. It was that revolution that Mao insisted would spread to the peasantry of other lands, the message so very clear that no amount of Western corruption could stifle their voices, that everywhere the capitalists ruled, there would be uprisings, spreading power to the powerless. For the experienced military officers who had finally defeated Chiang’s vastly superior army, Mao’s glorious predictions were embraced publicly, if not always in private. The officers understood what many of the peasants did not, that despite Mao’s insistence that power rested with all the people, Mao was firmly and absolutely in charge. And with the wars now past, the old veterans, warhorses like Peng Dehuai, understood that survival meant loyalty to Mao.

  Sung knew that Peng was as cl
ose to Mao as any man in the army, two old friends who shared the struggles of so many brutal campaigns. Sung had been through that as well, though he was much younger. He had earned respect for his command of troops in the field, catching Mao’s eye and Peng’s as well. Now he commanded an entire army, the reward for his loyalty to the revolution, and more important, to Mao himself. But Sung’s affections for Peng came from something deeper than mere obedience. He valued the older man’s experience and wisdom in the political world as much as the military. He admired Peng’s obvious dedication to Chairman Mao, that if Peng had ever disagreed with Mao’s orders, it would never be revealed to any subordinate. The younger men around Sung had not yet fully grasped the value of that, some of their brashness seeping through when silence and discretion were far more useful. If there was a nagging uneasiness clouding Sung’s own affections for General Peng, it was that some of the strategies that came down from Mao seemed to contradict experience, that the great dreams had clouded military necessity. Peng refused to acknowledge what Sung could see for himself, that as Mao’s power solidified, Mao himself was changing. With the kind of absolute power that Mao enjoyed, the unquestioning obedience of all who served him, Mao had seemed to embrace his own infallibility. The most powerful man in China had also become the most wise. But many of them had memories of those days when Mao’s judgment had been flawed, poor planning, poor strategies employed in the struggle against Chiang Kai-shek. It was a curious mystery to Sung that Mao’s authority was so completely accepted, when the haphazard military decisions continued. Even as Peng’s army maneuvered closer to the Yalu River, poised just above their border with North Korea, delays were ordered, betraying the uncertainties in Peking over just how they were to deal with events to the south. There were contradictions, awkward orders, the kind of hesitations that made military men nervous. For the officers it was an exercise in patience, and a wisdom of their own that kept them silent. When Mao’s intentions were made clear, the military would respond.