by Jeff Shaara
“I tried a piece of your dried fish this morning. There isn’t much else in the camp that resists the cold. I saw one of your aides chewing a piece of rice paper.”
Sung slid the stick into the small pile of dense rice, bent low, scooped the rice into his mouth, repeated the same routine, another half-choking swallow. “We shall endure. As we shall prevail.”
Orlov pulled his small bottle from his coat, took a drink. “I believe you call that the party line. Your Chairman Mao is quite adept at the poetry of war.”
“There is nothing wrong with inspiring the soldiers to do their duty.”
Orlov put a gloved hand to his face, brushed at snow on his hat. “So, you inspire a man’s mind while his feet suffer a painful death. I was at one of your hospitals this morning. I suppose you would call it that. There was a man there behaving like a doctor. You had at least thirty men laid out like frozen trees, thirty more who still had enough life in them so they could scream.”
“You were in Leningrad. You know what cold can do, what kind of challenges it holds.”
Orlov pulled at his coat, blew a foggy breath into his hands. “This is not Leningrad. We had snow and ice and the kind of suffering that no man should see. Here? There is death in the air, pushing into a man’s lungs. There is death on the ground, beneath your feet. There is no protection, no sanctuary. Look at you. You cannot eat your meal without struggling with frozen rice. There is no tea to be had. Boiling water freezes in seconds. If you drank spirits, you would at least warm yourself from the inside.”
Sung put the bowl aside, ignored the harsh rumble in his stomach. “What would you suggest, Major? We all go home? Is that what you told your officers years ago? I am cold, I am suffering, I cannot fight. This is too difficult.”
Orlov breathed again into his glove. “And they would have shot me. As you would shoot your own.”
Sung was annoyed. “Do not assume I am Russian, Major. We help our soldiers as we are able. Once the attack begins, they will no longer notice the cold.”
“Can’t you at least provide them with boots?”
Sung paced slowly, a hard breeze ripping into his furry coat. He tried to hide the effect of that, said, “You are supposed to observe, not criticize. The footwear we use is meant for stealth. It is one of the few advantages we have, the ability to approach our enemies discreetly, to attack at night at close range. The soldiers know that. They are prepared to do what we must do to prevail. We do not have the luxury of fine radios, and so we must communicate with sound, with the bugles and cymbals and whistles. Every regimental commander has his own signals, and his men have been trained to recognize that. I should not have to provide you a lesson in tactics.”
He was angry now, watched as Orlov retrieved the bottle again. He tried to keep Orlov’s observations at a distance, knew of the horrors of the field hospitals. In the past he had visited them often, comforting wounded men, offering them the gratitude befitting their heroics. But there were no heroics now, not yet, every man crippled by the cold just one more bullet lost, reducing the strength of Sung’s army.
“Are you concerned about the prisoners? I heard your General Chao. You seemed to dismiss his concerns about losing a few men to the Americans. I would be concerned about intelligence, that the Americans might gain some valuable information.”
“I am not concerned at all. For weeks now we have lost prisoners. This is a proud army, and pride compels men to boast of all they know. How has that changed this fight? I have twelve divisions in these mountains. I outnumber my enemy by a factor of five to one, perhaps more. If the Americans are aware of that, why do they come? They must believe that we are a mirage, an army of ghosts.”
“Or, they believe it doesn’t matter how many men you have. The Americans in particular, they believe they are invincible.”
Sung nodded. “Precisely. And tonight we shall prove to them that ghosts can kill, and that the confidence of their generals is a sad mistake.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Riley
HAGARU-RI—NOVEMBER 27, 1950
FOR THE PAST FEW DAYS, the Chinese seemed to wake up, slipping closer, the skirmishes more intense. An even greater concern was the occupation of a tall hill a short mile up the road toward their next objective, Yudam-ni. It had fallen on Baker Company to push the Chinese away from the vantage point that could have decimated any convoy attempting to travel up the main supply road. After a sharp and brief fight, the Marines gained control of the hill, the Chinese then doing what they had done all along. They disappeared.
Even before Thanksgiving, the orders had come from Litzenberg that once Baker Company had secured the big hill, more of the Seventh would move up that way, advancing northward along the west side of the reservoir. But the orders continued to come, more men from the Fifth moving out that way as well, no one explaining to the men of Fox Company just what those men had been ordered to do. For now the mission of Fox Company had not changed, instructions to serve as a security force. As was typical, the griping came, assumptions that Fox was being punished for some indiscretion, or worse, that Captain Barber himself had asked to have his men passed over for any of the more important tasks. Riley had no idea what to believe, and like the others, he knew only what the officers told him. But even Lieutenant McCarthy was grumbling, low comments suspicious of the captain.
The orders finally came for Fox to follow in the tracks of the others, but still, no one above them offered any satisfactory explanation as to just where they were supposed to go. The scuttlebutt only grew louder when the men observed Captain Barber and the battalion commander, Colonel Lockwood, moving out in a lone jeep, what McCarthy told them was a scouting mission, though the men still grumbled that no one was sure just what the officers were scouting.
Their gear had been stowed, the backpacks assembled, the men gathering, checking their weapons, cursing the cold that made cleaning a rifle impossible. Riley did as he did often, marched in place, a vain effort to keep his feet thawed. Around him others were doing the same, waiting impatiently for the order to move. He saw Lieutenant McCarthy now, and Killian was there, his loud tone piercing even the bustling wind.
“Hey, Lieutenant. How come we gotta walk? There’s trucks all over the place.”
“If they tell me, I’ll tell you. All I know is that Captain Barber went forward with Colonel Lockwood, scouting out the road. The colonel came back, but the captain’s still out there. Wherever he is now, that’s where we’re going. If there were trucks for us, we’d have ’em.”
McCarthy moved away and Killian saw Riley, moved closer to him, said, “You’d think as newfangled as we’re supposed to be, they’d have a decent way to move us around. My damn feet are already wet. I got spare socks stuck in places I ain’t telling you where, and I was writing a letter to Colleen, and had to put it up halfway through. I’m still carrying a turkey leg in my coat that one day might thaw out enough for me to eat it.”
Riley saw the chaplain, Craven, moving through the men, welcomed the break from Killian’s bellyaching.
“Hello, Chaplain. I guess we’re moving north after all.”
“Howdy, boys. Yep, count on that. I got it pretty solid that we’re headed all the way to the Yalu River.”
Killian tugged at his backpack, hoisted it over his shoulders, said, “I tell you what. I’m holding on to my pee, and when we get there, I’m unloading it all into that river, let those Shambos know I been there.”
Riley looked at Craven, wasn’t sure how the man would react.
The chaplain was smiling at Killian’s bluntness, said, “Well, now, Private, you do that if it pleases you. I’d rather like kneeling down beside that water and saying a prayer that the Chinese pull out of this war, so we can all go home.”
Craven smiled, nodded toward Riley, moved away. Killian stared after him, said in a low voice, “Figures. Even those Bible fellas pull rank on you.”
Riley ignored Killian, pondered Craven’s words. “He said we’re
going to the Yalu. The captain sure as hell ain’t gone that far. You think the Chinese are gonna just let us stroll up there without saying something about it?”
“Who cares? We find the Shambos, we’ll bust ’em up.” Killian looked around. “Not sure how quick we’re moving. Maybe I can finish this damn letter.”
He hustled off, and Riley shivered, the cold eating through his clothing. He marched in place again, saw Lockwood moving toward his jeep, others with him wrapped in bundles of green. Riley was surprised, thought, Don’t see him all that much. Now he’s all over the place. They gathered at the jeep, a brief discussion. Riley eased closer, but the talk ended, Lockwood suddenly moving toward him. Lockwood dropped the blanket, yanked his coat closed, an obvious shiver, seemed to make a show of sharing their discomfort. More men were gathering, most of the company, officers calling them forward. Lockwood said, “Here, men! Fox Company!” Lockwood seemed miserable, pulling at his own coat, stomping his feet, and after a long moment he said, “All right, here’s the story. Captain Barber is up ahead in the Toktong Pass, waiting for us to join him. The hills there make a bottleneck, the main supply road narrow as hell. It has been confirmed that this company has been ordered to occupy a strong position overlooking the road, to act as security for the rear of the rest of the regiment, and to protect any supply convoys moving north. Captain Barber and I have located that position, some four miles this side of Yudam-ni. The march will cover approximately seven miles.”
There were audible groans, and Lockwood seemed annoyed.
“I’ll not listen to that! I’ve gone to great lengths, pulled a few strings, made some promises I likely can’t keep. But we’ve got nine trucks pulling up here in a few minutes.”
There were different murmurs now and McCarthy stepped forward, said, “Uh, sir, we were told we had to prepare to move on foot. We were not aware we could ride.”
“Of course you’ll ride! I take care of my boys. We’ve got a pair of heavy machine guns joining us, and a squad of eighty-one mortars, too, just for a little more pop. I intend for you to hold that hill, and to protect anyone who moves past it. That’s it. Prepare to mount up.”
Riley felt energized, watched Lockwood climb back into the jeep. He’s okay, he thought. Sounds like it, anyway.
Welch moved up beside him, said, “I guess he set us straight. We’re doing guard duty while the rest of the boys hunt down the enemy. What do you think of that?”
“Not sure. They wouldn’t send us up there if it wasn’t necessary. Chinese could be anywhere, so everybody keeps saying. But Jesus, it’s cold. Sure glad we’ll be riding.”
Welch pulled the hood of his parka tight around his face. “Yeah, maybe. You’re right about the cold, and we ain’t fighting this war from the back of trucks. I’m wondering about the captain.”
“What about him?”
“He’s out there by himself on some hill, holding the fort until we get there. I guess he thinks if he has to, he can take on the Chinks all by himself.”
TOKTONG PASS—NOVEMBER 27, 1950
The truck ride had been grindingly slow, the convoy delayed by more vehicles in front of them, no one pushing too quickly on the twisting mountain road. Riley tried to settle back into his coat, appreciated the warmth of the cluster of men. Beside him, Killian said, “We’re a sad-looking bunch. No wonder Barber hates us. We been volunteered for latrine duty, I bet. Dig out these slit trenches for the rest of the Corps.”
On the other side of Killian, Welch said, “Bull. We’re going into action. They loaded us up with ammo, and there’s more trucks behind us. The colonel’s leading us up there, and he wouldn’t be riding along if it wasn’t important.”
Riley looked past Killian, caught a glimpse of Welch beneath the hood. “Since when did you get so much respect for the brass?”
Killian said, “He’s bucking for second louie. Talk nice about the officers and they make you one. The reason the colonel’s up there is he’s the only one here who knows where we’re supposed to go. I bet Captain Barber’s up on his hillside cussin’ up a blue storm wondering where the hell we are. I bet he’s got a bonfire going bigger’n this truck.”
Riley leaned back against the hard side of the truck, had no interest in getting into some meaningless argument with Killian. Welch said, “They oughta put you in charge. You got it all figured out.”
At the rear of the truck, a face appeared, the man climbing up with a heavy grunt, standing tall. Morelli said, “Hey, sir, you better hang on. Truck starts moving, you’ll be on your rear end. Happened to me more than once.”
“Thank you, son. They tell me we’ll be a few minutes yet. There’s some artillery up ahead, and they need some time to get them around a sharp turn. I’m Orville Hayes, Associated Press. I don’t believe I’ve spoken to you gents yet. Third Platoon, eh? How’re we doing?”
Riley recognized the man now, had seen him around Hagaru-ri, poking his curiosity into anyplace the officers would allow. Riley had no particular disdain for reporters, but there was something highly counterfeit about this man’s concerns, Riley as suspicious as many of the others that what he really wanted was some kind of negative poop about the brass or maybe the war itself. The man pulled out a small pad of paper, fumbled with a pencil through thickly gloved fingers. Killian pointed to Riley, said, “Hey! Talk to this one here. He loves reporters. Got some great stories. A real hero, all of that.”
Riley pulled himself deeper into his coat, but the man took the bait, leaned low, a gust of sour breath into Riley’s face.
“Outstanding! How you doing, Marine? Don’t think I’ve spoken to you as yet. Hate to miss anyone. I assume all of you fellows know I’m trying to gather up as much as I can, to send back home.”
Riley glanced down at his boots, thought, One sharp kick, right into Killian’s crotch. Remember that. I owe him one. He identified the odor, sour cigar smoke, cutting even through the harsh cold of the frigid air. He saw Welch leaning forward, looking at him with an evil smile, others in the truck speaking out now, confirming what Killian had said.
“Yep, he’s your man, sir. Fights bare-handed. Don’t even need a rifle.”
“Toughest hombre in the platoon.”
“I’m scared of him, for sure.”
The exaggerated goofiness seemed contagious, the men welcoming something to laugh about. Riley thought, Maybe I should play the part and grab this idiot by the throat.
Hayes put a hand on Riley’s shoulder, said, “Quite a character, eh? Excellent. So, where’re you from, son?”
Riley tried to avoid the man’s breath. “Pennsylvania. Small town near Harrisburg.”
“Excellent! Amish country. Your family Amish, then?”
Riley could feel the oiliness of the man’s artificial enthusiasm, heard a chuckle from Welch. Riley said, “Not too many Amish Marines, sir.”
“Well, yes, that does make sense. It would make a hell of a story, though.” Hayes laughed, coughed in the sharp, cold air. “Tell me, son, you have a family back home? How’d you like to give them a rousing cheerio, let them know you’re doing fine?”
“I write my wife pretty often. That’s good enough.”
“Yes, well, that’s fine.” Hayes paused, a wet cough blowing out in a fog of steam. “You know, your Colonel Lockwood has authorized me to be out here. I was told you boys would cooperate. I don’t mean to be a bother, but I do have a job to do.”
“Sorry, sir. I don’t hear much that comes direct from the colonel. Guess I just don’t have much to say.”
“Well, let me ask you, son. What’s the one thing you wish for out here, the one thing you wish you had?”
Riley thought a moment, the comments growing quiet, the others more serious now, waiting for his response. The question dug through him, stirred something unexpected, emotions he tried to push away. After a long, cold minute, he said, “I want to see tomorrow.”
Hayes didn’t respond, and Riley tried to ignore him, avoided the thoughts of everything he
was missing, of everything that could happen to him. Hayes stared at him for a long moment, then said, “Thank you, Marine.”
The silence hung in the air for another long second, all eyes on Riley, who closed his, pulling himself away. The silence was broken by the voice of Killian. “Here’s what I want. Write this down. Dry feet. Warm feet. A steak. My dog. My wife. My Packard. My wife again. Another steak. My bed. My fireplace. Maybe my wife again. Pork chops. A baked potato with gravy. Another steak…”
—
The trucks continued their slow progress, climbing, twisting, halting. The reporter was long gone, and Riley wondered if he enjoyed the job, if poking his questions into the faces of fighting men was fun. Has to be interesting, he thought. I guess those fellows gotta keep their heads down, too. He thought of Ernie Pyle, killed near Okinawa, shot down by a Japanese machine gun. Riley never saw Pyle, but knew men who did, who reacted to the reporter’s death as a personal tragedy. This guy’s not anything like Pyle, pretty sure of that. But he’s got a job to do, too. Like the rest of us. And if he’s out here freezing his ass off, give him credit for being something besides a coward. I bet he knows plenty of reporters sitting fat and happy in Tokyo. I shoulda talked to him. Not like Killian’s stupidity. Maybe he’d mention me, make sure Ruthie would see it. He glanced down to his boots, the ground-in filth on his pants legs. Nope, don’t really need her to hear about any of this. Let’s just get this over with.
The truck began to move, swung around a sharp turn, and Riley could see a narrow valley, a flat plain between two massive hills. There was a row of small shacks, a narrow field hemmed in by a collapsing fence. He eyed the shacks, instinct, but he thought, Most likely, no one’s home. It had been that way along every road outside of the bigger towns since they had begun the climb north of Sudong. He was used to it now, the focus solely on just where the enemy might be, if somewhere on the vast hills, there were Chinese eyes watching them pass by, big fat American trucks, big fat targets. Any civilians were just in the way, an inconvenience, and Riley thought of that now, if the Chinese felt the same way. They can’t just shoot them, he thought. The Japs did some of that. Solve their problem by exterminating the pests. Exterminated some of us, too, the POWs. Can’t say we didn’t return the favor once in a while.
