The Frozen Hours

by Jeff Shaara

  Smith felt his eyelids growing heavier, forced himself into alertness, glanced over at General Barr, the Seventh Division’s commander staring blankly, the same emotionless expressions on the faces of his staff officers. From behind Smith came an abrupt sneeze, which seemed to wake up everyone around him. There was a low groan and Smith turned, saw Bowser struggling with a handkerchief, a whistling blast as Bowser blew his nose.

  “Sorry. Bloody awful cold.”

  Barr seemed to jump on the distraction, said, “General Almond, you did mention maps?”

  Almond was still annoyed, waved one hand to the side, motioning for an aide. “All right. Maps. I suppose some of us feel the need to dwell on the mundane. In my role as chief of staff to the general, I have witnessed great things, what I would only describe as a whirlwind of the momentous. So many in Washington fail to see what is being accomplished here. Even Truman…” He stopped, seemed to catch himself. “Well, enough about all of that. Captain, please distribute the maps among these men. I suppose marching men need to know where they are marching. If you will examine the lines, indicating your specific units, you will see what we have designed. I intend to have my forces scattered all over the eastern half of North Korea. As you know, the Eighth Army is occupying much of the western half. The goal of course is to sweep up whatever remains of the enemy’s forces.”

  Smith ignored Almond now, took the map, focused, Bowser sliding his chair up alongside him. Bowser sniffled loudly, said into Smith’s ear, “I won’t breathe on you, sir. Promise.”

  “You’re breathing on me now. Back off.”

  Bowser obeyed, the chair sliding back. He had a map of his own, Almond’s aide completing the task. Bowser grunted, and Smith knew why. Smith said, “General Almond, these maps are in Japanese. Have we none of our own?”

  Almond shrugged. “The maps would be the same. Only the names would be different. I give credit to our Japanese allies for providing us with such helpful tools. Their loyalty to General MacArthur is most extraordinary. Are the routes of march, the troops deployments, not clear to you, Smith?”

  Smith scanned the map, the red lines showing the Marine units extending northward, concluding at a town called Hagaru-ri. Beyond the town to the north was a three-pronged lake, a reservoir the map named Chosin, created by what seemed to be a dam. Smith felt a familiar twist, a punch of uncertainty. He looked up at Almond.

  “This is all too clear. You are intending us to advance some, what? Sixty miles? Seventy? You have indicated that the First Regiment is to maintain position close to here, while the Fifth and the Seventh move up toward this body of water.”

  Almond’s annoyance seemed to bloom all over again. “More than that, Smith. Your Colonel Puller shall advance southward, protecting the rear of your division down as far as the village of…oh, damn…what’s it called?”

  To one side, an aide whispered loudly, “Kojo, sir.”

  “Yes. Kojo. At least one battalion shall move westward, to the area around Majon-ni. One would think these people could name their towns something more convenient.”

  Smith scanned the map, his hands with a hard grip on the stiff paper. “Kojo is…forty miles to the south. Majon-ni is no closer.” He looked at Almond now, who seemed to ignore him, speaking in a low voice to his aide. “General, I am not comfortable extending our lines such a distance.”

  Almond seemed surprised. “Tell me, Smith, do you not have confidence in your man Puller?”

  Smith stifled a low growl, closed his eyes for a brief moment. “I have complete faith in Colonel Puller. But even Puller will object to his regiment being scattered to the four winds. You would have the Fifth and Seventh begin their march to the north, while Lewie is moving in the opposite direction. Support will be difficult at best. Once Litzenberg reaches this reservoir, he will be tied to our supply bases along the coast by one primary road. Do we know the quality of that road? Its vulnerabilities?”

  Almond glanced toward his aide. “I told you there would be argument.” He looked again at Smith. “Dammit, we have considered this plan in every detail. We have already allowed the enemy to escape our clutches by delaying our advance. That shall not happen again. Your Marines pride themselves on their speed, yes? Their ability to fight off any force with a handful of their own? I’ve heard all of that bravado. Well, show me why I should believe it. Puller’s men will work alongside ROK units to secure your rear, your left flank, and the port of Wonsan. Your other two regiments will drive northward with as much haste as you can muster. Our goal is the Yalu River, and with that, we shall end this war, Smith. Simple as that. I’ve already passed along the information that, once the enemy has surrendered, or been annihilated, two of your regiments are scheduled to return home. That should put a fire under their backsides, don’t you agree?”

  Smith looked down. “I will not tell them that. I am much more comfortable having them in fighting spirit, rather than spending their hours each day contemplating home.”

  Almond looked at Barr. “What about you? Is the Seventh Division not anxious to end this thing? Perhaps show their Marine brothers just how well the army can manage things? I have known very few soldiers who do not carry memories of loved ones with them into combat. Homesickness is a powerful motivator. Don’t you agree?”

  Barr glanced at Smith. “I prefer to keep such orders within my headquarters, until it is an appropriate time to communicate them.”

  Almond clamped his hands on his hips. “Is this defeatism I’m hearing? Do you not understand what the job is? The enemy is in chaos, he is retreating willy-nilly. This has become a mopping-up operation, and the sooner we can complete this, the sooner we may all return to our homes and loved ones. Good God, why the doubts? Shall I report to General MacArthur that the Tenth Corps cannot keep pace with the Eighth Army because we fear the enemy is still dangerous? Even Walton Walker understands the prize that awaits him, and I promise you, he will seek any means to embarrass this command. They have already captured and occupied Pyongyang and are certain to reach the Yalu before us if we do not put our people into motion. All right, I have heard enough gloom from you. You have your orders, and I will see them carried out. You will advance with all speed toward the Yalu River, and should you engage the enemy along the way, you shall destroy him. Now go. Dismissed.”

  Almond left the room, clearly disgusted, his aides in tow. The remaining staff officers gathered behind their commanders, Bowser sneezing again. Barr moved closer to Smith, said to Bowser, “Take care of that cold, Colonel. I imagine we are all to be on our toes for the next few weeks.” He looked at Smith now, shook his head. “He does not believe the enemy is dangerous. That could be a mistake.”

  Smith held up the map. “I am being told to spread my division over dozens of miles, in places we are not familiar with, supplied by a single road. There are a number of towns along the route, and to my knowledge, none of them are secured. I’m not sure just how dangerous the enemy needs to be. There is danger enough in our own arrogance.”

  FIRST MARINE DIVISION COMMAND POST—WONSAN—NOVEMBER 2, 1950

  Puller was pacing, the smoke from his cigar swirling up around his head. “This is idiocy, O.P. I’ve got men holding off enemy troops in every direction. What kind of support am I getting?”

  Smith kept his eyes on the map, glanced up, saw Sexton on the far side of the room. “Captain, go someplace else.”

  Sexton obeyed, was out of the room, the door closing.

  “I would prefer if you not address me like that in front of staff.”

  Puller yanked the cigar from his mouth. “My apologies, General. But, Christ Almighty. You’ve got me spread all over creation out there. My battalions are too scattered to support each other. I was told there was no enemy anywhere in the area, and my men are taking fire as we speak. We’ve run slam into whole flocks of North Korean troops, popping up like so many bands of guerrillas. We wondered what the hell happened to all those enemy who escaped us at Inchon? Well, here they are. We�
�re on their ground now, and they don’t seem to like it one bit. But Christ, O.P., I was told to expect a nuisance, flocks of Korean jackrabbits that might try to raid our supply posts. It’s a whole lot more than that. Right now I’m taking casualties. We didn’t expect to have to dig in just to hold a bunch of nameless hills.” He paused, a hard glare at Smith. “I know damn well that wasn’t your doing. What the hell’s happening?”

  “I need them to hold on. How much heat are they taking?”

  “Enough. But they’ll hold. I’m heading down to Kojo right now, kick some colonel in the ass. I heard panic on the radio last night. Won’t have that.”

  Smith studied Puller’s expression, tried to see past the man’s obvious anger. He wouldn’t ask for details, knew that Puller would tell him if the problems were serious.

  “Take care of things, Lewie. I need all of you to do the job.”

  Puller pointed toward him with the cigar. “What job? Just what the hell are we doing here? I’m to protect Wonsan from an enemy that isn’t supposed to be there. What am I protecting? The supply dumps here are cleared out, if not by us, then by the damn civilians. The navy’s not taking any heat in the harbors. Nobody’s shelling their damn boats. They can come and go like they want. My whole damn regiment is doing lunchroom duty, while Litz and Murray go racing off to see who’s first to piss in the Yalu River!”

  Smith let it go, knew that letting Puller blast away was the best way to handle him. “Take care of business, Lewie. That’s all. Tenth Corps has a plan, and it comes straight from Tokyo. We’re just a piece of the puzzle.”

  “What about the enemy’s plan? Any ideas there? They just gonna let you drive a big damn convoy all the way to the Chinese border, like some flag-waving parade? We should be gathered up, O.P. We have to be able to support each other.”

  Smith knew he was right. But there was nothing to be discussed now. “Go, Lewie. See to your men. Fix that nervous colonel. Keep in touch with me. I’m going up in a helicopter, meet with Litzenberg. He’s leading the way north.”

  Puller shook his head. “So, Tenth Corps gave you a new toy, huh? I rode in one of those bouncy-assed things. Like sitting on a basketball. Fine, go have fun. Give my regards to the convoy.”

  —

  He recalled Puller’s description, “sitting on a basketball,” the helicopter tilting wildly to one side, caught by a gust of wind. The pilot jerked the stick, gained control again, dropping the helicopter downward. Below him a small crowd of officers gathered, waiting in the road, one man signaling with his arms toward the makeshift landing zone. The craft settled down now with a soft bump, the pilot cutting the engine, leaning over to him.

  “Sorry for the rough ride, sir. The winds are a little tricky.”

  Smith nodded, said nothing, tried to unravel the knots in his stomach. He slid out of the seat, landed shakily on the soft ground, one hand against the craft, trying to find his legs.

  Litzenberg was there now, a short, stocky man, intense eyes, a hard stare at Smith. “Thank you for coming up here, General. Never thought I’d see these things so useful.”

  Smith glanced at the pilot, who nodded toward him.

  “So far. Saves time. You have a CP?”

  “This way, sir. We’re making good time, but I’m hearing a lot of noise from the locals.”

  “Let’s go inside, Colonel.”

  Smith’s message was clear, no conversation needed for casual listeners. Litzenberg had the annoying habit of arguing when he should be keeping quiet, something Smith had learned to tolerate. Not the time, he thought.

  He followed Litzenberg to a ramshackle building, a line of trucks moving past, dust engulfing the waiting helicopter. Inside, Litzenberg pointed to a chair.

  “Please have a seat, sir. Coffee?”

  “No. Tell me about the locals. What are you hearing?”

  Litzenberg sat across from him, two aides spreading a map on a small table between them. “Nervous as the dickens. Farmers, whatnot. They keep telling us there’s troops all over the place, waiting for us. We’ve been picked at a few times, snipers mostly. Nothing to slow us down. If the enemy’s waiting to slug us in the gut, they’re taking their time about it. Locals keep telling us it’s the Chinese. I had interpreters talking to these people, watched all manner of dramatics. These people talk to us like they’re terrified, and every time we reassure them that the enemy is gone, they just get louder, preaching doom and gloom. The interpreters seem to think it’s all for effect. Every village we’ve passed through, the people beg us to stick around. We’re making friends pretty easy. Kinda strange, since these folks are all North Koreans.”

  Smith stared at the map, ignored the details, sorted through Litzenberg’s descriptions. “You seen any sign of Chinese troops?”

  “No. Am I supposed to?”

  “Not according to G-2 in Tokyo.”

  “G-2 should come out here, talk to these civilians. What’s his name? Willoughby?”

  “General Charles Willoughby. MacArthur trusts him like his own son. I’ve invited him to come out here, see what’s happening for himself. Hard to pry those fellows away from Tokyo. General Willoughby insists we’ll have an easy time of this, that the path is open all the way to the Yalu. My job is to take him seriously. Your job is to follow orders.”

  “Do you?”

  “Take him seriously? No choice, Colonel. I’ve got orders, too. If there are Chinese in this fight, Willoughby insists with absolute certainty that they’re flocks of volunteers, sent south to help out their Korean allies. No more, no less.”

  “Well, it’s nerve-racking, sir. We’re watching enemy on distant ridges, no one close enough to grab. I’m hoping we can snatch a few prisoners, see what they have to say. My guess is they’re North Koreans, but who the hell knows? If there are Chinese troops standing in our way, it’s a different fight. I’m no politician, General, but I know something of politics. We start killing Chinese, and the Soviets might not be happy about that. It spreads, like a stain. Next thing, the bombs start falling. Big ones. We could be starting World War Three. That doesn’t make me comfortable, sir.”

  Smith didn’t want this, respected Litzenberg too much to watch him get rattled. “I need you to do the job, Colonel. That’s all. I’ve got very specific orders from Tenth Corps. I intend to follow them.” He paused. “I intend to follow them with great deliberation. Great care. Precision, if you will.”

  Litzenberg smiled, glanced at the staff officers around him. “Understood, sir. We shall advance with…precision.”

  Smith stood now, moved to a filthy window, stared out. “I don’t know what’s out there, Colonel. But until I feel we can readily support each other, I’ll not have three regiments strung out across half of Asia. Our first priority is to relieve South Korean elements that have already pushed out in front of us. Maybe those fellows can give us some accurate intelligence. For all we know, Willoughby is spot-on. One part of me hopes that General MacArthur is absolutely right, that this war is pretty much over. I miss my granddaughter, Colonel. I’ll be as happy as every private in this division if we get home for Christmas.” He turned, looked at Litzenberg. “Keep that under your hat. Your staff, too. I don’t need your men thinking they’re just biding time out here. Keep them sharp, awake.”

  “Certainly, sir. I’d be happy to make a wager with you about that Christmas thing.”

  Smith felt a rising burn of bad humor. “I don’t gamble. Don’t mention that again.”

  “Never again, sir.”

  Smith looked out through the filthy glass. “Road still looks decent enough for trucks.”

  “For now. Civilians say the road gets hairy a few miles north of Hungnam. If the topo maps are accurate, there are some pretty steep climbs farther north. Might have to put the men on their feet.”

  Smith saw a hazy form in the window, a man running toward Litzenberg’s CP. The door opened with a loud crash, the man halting, coming to attention. He looked at Smith, said, “Sir! They told m
e you were here. Excuse me.”

  Litzenberg was on his feet now, said, “What’s the problem, Lieutenant?”

  The man pulled himself under control, still looked at Smith.

  “Sir, begging your pardon, but your staff’s been trying to track you down.”

  “They know where I am.”

  “Yes, sir. A Colonel Bowser reached us by radio. He was most insistent that you return to Wonsan.”

  “No message?”

  “He wouldn’t say, sir. I can raise him for you.”

  Smith looked out through the window, the helicopter waiting.

  “No.” He looked at Litzenberg. “Keep ’em moving, Colonel. Eyes sharp. If those civilians keep talking about the Chinese, I’ll make sure General Willoughby hears about it. I’ll push again for Willoughby to fly up here himself. Maybe our intelligence people can be persuaded to do more than host banquets for Japanese politicians.”