The Frozen Hours

by Jeff Shaara

  “Leave him be. It’s the shoe pacs. Bunch of us here got nothing left to stand on. I lost most of the hide off the soles of both feet. You thaw out and you know what the hell pain feels like. They’re supposed to evacuate us, hospitals, all of that.”

  Killian seemed to doze off, and Riley stood, looked at the other man, said, “You warm enough at least?”

  “For now. They keep bringing ’em in, though. And there ain’t enough room.”

  Riley bent down, slipped Killian’s arm back inside the bag, pulled the loose top up over Killian’s face. The other man said, “Hey, can you do that for me? My arm’s busted up, can’t move.”

  “Sure.”

  Riley pulled at the man’s sleeping bag, caught the strong smell of urine now. He looked through the tent, a pair of corpsmen tending to patients, some of them on cots, another row of men in sleeping bags stuffed against one end of the tent.

  “I’ll get you somebody. Take care of that.”

  The man didn’t respond, seemed to fade into sleep, and Riley was angry now, wanted to call out, order someone to look out for these men. Welch was beside him, seemed to read him.

  “They’ll get to him when they can. We’re just in the way. Come on, we got better things to do. I don’t see McCarthy. Maybe in the other tent.”

  Riley looked at the other men, the few cots jammed together, couldn’t ignore the cries, the misery muffled by morphine. He heard Killian’s voice, then a soft groan, more words, his name. Riley knelt low again, pulled back the bag, said, “I’m right here. You need something?”

  “Oh, God, Pete. It hurts. My feet. They’re gonna chop off my feet.”

  A corpsman was there now, eased Riley out of the way.

  “No, they’re not. We just gotta get you to the hospital ship. Maybe Tokyo.”

  Killian calmed, the grogginess settling over him again.

  Riley felt a desperate helplessness, said to the corpsman, “You sure?”

  The man stood again, said, “You bet. Might lose some toes. There’s some a lot worse.”

  The man moved away, tending to more of the men in the sleeping bags, and Riley caught the hard smell of excrement, felt himself getting sick, tried to stifle it. He backed away, stumbled against a cot, a man responding with a sharp yelp.

  “Oh, Jesus. Sorry.”

  He searched for Welch, saw him moving out of the tent, and the man in the cot shouted now, “Get me out of here! I ain’t dying!”

  The man reached for him, his hand clawing the air, and Riley backed off, the growling nausea worse, more smells, pushing him past the edge. He turned, hustled out of the tent, collapsed to his knees, vomited in the snow. The tears came now, the despair complete, the horrors overwhelming, the shame of his weakness. He felt a hand on his shoulder, the voice of Welch.

  “Get over it. You’ve smelled worse. Seen worse, too.”

  Riley closed his eyes, still on his knees, hands down in the snow. “Don’t know what happened.”

  “No sleep, no food, assholes shooting at you all night long. And your buddy’s crapped himself. None of us are enjoying this, Pete. Get up.”

  Riley rose, struggled to his feet, Welch with a hard grip under his arm.

  Another pair of stretcher bearers came down the hill, the wounded man bloodied across his face. They moved inside quickly, and Riley said, “Where the hell are they putting all these guys? Outside? What about tonight, Hamp?”

  “That ain’t your problem. They’re doing all they can. The best thing we can do is kill every damn Chink out there, so we can get back to some kinda camp.”

  “What are you doing here, boys?”

  Riley knew the voice now, saw Captain Barber hobbling toward him, a crude wooden splint on his upper leg, a pair of makeshift tree branches for crutches. Two men were with him and one said, “I’ll get the doctor, sir. You really should stay put here.”

  Barber waved one of the crutches at the man, just missing the man’s leg. “I’m fine. Too much to do. Get the damn doctor out here, tell him to stick a fresh bandage on it. Go!”

  He looked at Riley again. “I said, what are you doing here?”

  Welch said, “Came down to see a buddy, Captain. We’re heading back up.”

  “You’re Third Platoon, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Barber seemed unsteady on the odd crutches, and Riley could tell that the man was in obvious pain.

  Barber said, “I was with Lieutenant McCarthy. We both got hit. His leg’s a mess. He’s over at the other tent, last I saw.”

  Welch eyed the heavy bandage on the captain’s upper thigh. “Yes, sir, I know. I’m Sergeant Welch. Lieutenant Goolsby’s in command of the rifle squads now. We’ll be moving back up there right now.”

  Barber let out a breath, seemed to sag, then forced himself upright. Barber’s aide returned now, the doctor in tow, the same man Riley had seen the night before. The doctor knelt close to Barber’s leg, said, “Damn it all, Captain, I wish you’d be a little smarter. This is a hell of a wound, and you don’t need to lose this leg just because you’re stubborn as hell. You damage the artery and you’ll lose more than the leg.”

  Barber scowled at the doctor, said, “Just put a fresh bandage on it. Save the advice.”

  “All right. Come inside.”

  “Do it right here. I got no time for your bedside manner.”

  Riley saw frustration on the doctor’s face, saw the man produce the fresh dressing from his coat as though he had already expected to apply it on the spot. Barber raised his foot slightly, the doctor pulling at the splint, the old bandage stripped away, tossed aside. He worked quickly, the fresh dressing applied, wrapped with tape, and the doctor looked up at Barber, said, “If it wasn’t cold as hell, you’d have bled to death. You still might.”

  “It’s not warming up anytime soon, Doc. I’ve got work to do.”

  Barber looked at Welch again. “Make it quick down here, Sergeant. There’s a lot more going on than the problems we’ve got on this hill. I want all my platoon and fire team leaders at my CP in ten minutes. I guess that means Goolsby. Give him the word.”

  Barber hobbled away, his two aides flanking him, prepared for a stumble. The doctor watched him go, said, “Not sure what he’s trying to prove. He feels guilty getting hit, like he’s letting all of us down.” The doctor looked at Riley now, no recognition. “You boys looking for someone in particular?”

  Welch said, “We found him, sir. Frostbite case.”

  “There are a lot of those, Sergeant. Not much we can do for ’em out here. I told the captain we need choppers to come in, but the enemy’s shooting them up when they try to land. I got work to do, boys.”

  The doctor moved back into the tent, and Riley tested his gut, the nausea passing.

  “Never expected to see this kind of stuff. Feet freezing. Christ.”

  Welch said, “Never expected to see a Chinese soldier trying to stuff a grenade down my throat, but here we are. Do I have to tell you to change your damn socks?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Didn’t think so. Do it right now. I’ll wait. I want to check on McCarthy, and we still gotta hunt down some rations.”

  Riley sat, went to work on the boots, pulled the dry socks from his belt. He could see down through the trees to the main road, the narrow strip of snow and dirt, what someone thought was so valuable. From across the road he heard a faint chatter from a distant machine gun, scattered rifle fire closer, above him, along the west side of the hill. Welch began to move out through the trees, and Riley followed, heard more of the machine gun fire ripping across the hill behind him, heard the pop of the rifles, saw more stretcher bearers, moving down, another wounded man, one more sleeping bag, less room for all the rest.

  —

  The briefing from Barber to his officers and squad leaders was short and to the point. He had finally made radio contact with Colonel Litzenberg at Yudam-ni. Barber relayed the description of just what had happened there, and what still
might happen, that both regiments had already endured a crushing assault from the Chinese from nearly every direction. But Litzenberg’s message to Barber had been clear. If Fox Company could not move off their hill, and add anything to that fight, it was essential that they stay exactly where they were. If the Fifth and Seventh Marines were to have any chance of escaping annihilation, the narrow road that led back through Toktong Pass had to remain in the hands of Barber’s Marines. But there was more to Litzenberg’s message. Litzenberg had finally learned of the situation beyond the Taebaek Mountains, where much of the Eighth Army was in a headlong retreat southward. And, for the first time, Barber and his men were told of the situation at Hagaru-ri. There, Chinese prisoners had offered the matter-of-fact detail that some thirty thousand Chinese troops, the better part of three full divisions, were pushing in toward the Hagaru-ri perimeter from three directions. If Hagaru-ri fell to the enemy, the Marines at Yudam-ni, as well as Barber’s lone company, would be completely cut off. And there was no one anywhere in Korea who could offer any rescue.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Smith

  HAGARU-RI—NOVEMBER 29, NOON

  HE SAT IN THE JEEP, huddled against the cold, the driver beside him as miserable as he was. Smith kept his gaze on the heavy equipment, the engineers laboring with as much effectiveness now as anytime since the bulldozers arrived at Hagaru-ri. He wiped at his eyes, a hard frost already glued to his face.

  “Let’s go.”

  The jeep rolled into motion, a tight turn onto the road back to the command tent. It’s not done yet, he thought. But there’s enough runway there to support smaller transports, probably the C-47s. Right now I’d settle for the Red Baron in his triplane.

  The wounded were overflowing the aid stations, hundreds now, many of them taking turns inside the warming areas, soaking up precious heat from the fat-bellied stoves. There was no room for all of them, not now, the casualty list passing four hundred, more men adding to the count every hour. There was no surprise to that, the Chinese striking hard at the perimeter, especially toward the east, the area around East Hill. But through it all, the engineers had continued their work, carving a magnificent airstrip out of frozen ground.

  Smith kept his head down, the only protection from the brutal cold, the jeep turning again, coming to a halt by the large tent. He glanced at the driver, goggles and earmuffs, offered a short nod. “Thank you, son. Find a warm place.”

  Smith bailed out of the jeep, passed through a pair of guards, men far more miserable than he was, pushed his way into the tent. The coffee came quickly now, the aides knowing exactly what he wanted, Sexton there, offering a can of pipe tobacco.

  “Pulled this from the private stock. I saw you empty the last tin. A bit nippy out there, sir?”

  Smith took the tobacco, sat, said, “How cold is it?”

  To one side, Bowser said, “Thirty below this morning. We think. Thermometer broke. Someone carried it in here just to show me, and the warmth in here just shattered it. I guess. Or Captain Sexton dropped it. I forget which.”

  Smith sipped at the coffee, pulled the pipe from his pocket. “Well, then, someone needs to find us another one.”

  Bowser said, “Already on it, sir. They making good progress on the airstrip?”

  “They’re closer. It’s usable. I keep thinking of General Almond handing out medals to anyone he bumps into. It’s those boys out there, the engineers, who deserve one. Colonel Partridge told me they’re taking turns holding off the enemy. One man drives the tractor, one shoots the carbine. I want the whole world to know what those boys are doing.”

  Bowser went to the coffeepot, poured a cup for himself, said, “You know, you don’t have to go out there yourself. I’ve volunteered to do it, and I know full well any man here would rather eat this weather than watch you do it. It’s no different than going up to Yudam-ni. I really don’t understand why you won’t send me up there.”

  Smith lit the pipe, scanned the tent, the staff engulfed in all manner of work, paper, and radios. “Because I want you here. And it’s not up for discussion. What do we hear from Litzenberg?”

  Bowser said, “It wasn’t too bad last night. Not nearly as many casualties. The enemy seems to have calmed down a bit. They could be regrouping, and Litz expects to be hit again, maybe tonight. He and Murray have their heads together, and they seem pretty pleased with your orders.”

  Smith clamped the pipe in his teeth, thought, I suppose I should be grateful. Litzenberg argues with every order he gets. Now, if they can just do the job. “Any progress on opening the road this way?”

  “Not yet. He says the enemy is in strength all along the road, major roadblocks at several points. Air recon confirms that. Murray should have his people back into Yudam-ni by now, if the Chinese let them disengage. They had gotten a mile or more west of the town when they got hit. Weather was pretty stinky up that way earlier this morning, made things tough for the chopper pilots. The fighters are getting through, hitting the enemy positions, when they can find them. You want to give out medals, give ’em to the air spotters. Litz says those boys have saved lives. The enemy wants no part of an air assault, and they button up good when the planes show up.”

  “What about Fox Company?”

  Bowser seemed to hesitate. “Not sure. The air boys say they’re still on their hill, overlooking the road. We’re dropping ammo, and we’ve supplied batteries for their radios.” Bowser motioned to a man to one side, earphones clamped to the man’s head. “Sergeant, anything from Captain Barber?”

  The radio man shook his head. “No, sir. I’ll try again.”

  Bowser said, “Try every half hour.” He looked at Smith, who saw the worry. “It could just be the weather, or these mountains. Barber’s gotta be trying to communicate with Yudam-ni, or us. Let’s give him every chance, sir. He knows what those batteries are for.”

  Smith finished the coffee, stood, tried to ignore the pains in his legs. He appreciated what Bowser was doing, that no matter what else was needed, Smith had to keep his best staff officers close at hand. The priority, still, was Hagaru-ri, and Bowser was as important to him as finding rifles to strengthen the perimeter.

  “I’m going to my quarters. Let me know if Barber gets through. Let me know if we hear from Colonel Drysdale. Or anything new from Litzenberg. Get on the horn to General Tunner, at Air Force Cargo. Tell him we’re close to a usable airstrip, and I want every plane in the Far East Command to be gassed up and ready. Well, no, don’t tell him that. Just let him know we are very close to asking him for all the help he can send this way.”

  Outside, he heard the roar of a fighter formation, passing low. Bowser glanced upward, said, “I’ll try to reach General Harris. We get out of this place, the air wing will be one reason why. I’ll buy him a steak dinner.”

  “I’ll buy him two.” Smith paused, a new thought. “I suppose, once we get the strip completed, we’ll get a mail run.”

  He saw the other faces turn, knew that mail was a magical word. Bowser said, “Yes, sir, I suppose so. The boys mention it once in a while.”

  Smith slid into the coat again. “I’ll be in my billet. I’ll be ready to send a few letters of my own. I want my wife to know I’m not just up here getting a suntan.”

  He moved outside quickly, the cold blasting him. He hobbled slightly, hoped no one noticed, stepped gingerly through the packed snow toward the small house. He glanced out from the hood of his coat, saw the nearest aid station, slowed his steps, couldn’t avoid feeling a familiar gloom, asked himself, How many more were there today? At least I should look in on them. He passed a row of corpses draped in snow-covered cloth, slowed, counted, two dozen. More tonight, he thought. No, let that go. We cannot fix this, not yet.

  He looked toward the large tent, the tin chimney spitting out a column of gray smoke, swept away by the wind. Stepping carefully, he avoided a smear of ice, stepped to a layer of rice straw spread out, a pathway that led to the entrance of the tent. He stepped in
side, a flurry of quiet activity, smells of disinfectant and urine, too familiar. He eyed the doctors, stethoscopes and hypodermic needles, those men ignoring him. A handful of corpsmen were there as well, stepping over the closely packed cots, none of them empty. Smith scanned the wounded men, faces turning toward him, no one speaking. He wanted to give them something, to tell them of the airstrip, the promise that very soon they could be evacuated, a real bed in a real hospital.

  Another flight of Corsairs flew over, answered by subdued cheers from the wounded men, one man raising a fist, his own silent salute. I can’t add anything to that, he thought. They’ll salute me when I give them a good reason. Right now, they don’t have one.

  Behind him, litter bearers moved inside, a doctor coming forward with a bottle of plasma, giving instructions. “We’re ready. Lay him over here.”

  The men obeyed, and Smith kept back, looked at the wounded man, the man’s clothing coated with icy filth, black stains, one leg exposed, the man’s skin white and frozen. The doctor went to work, one corpsman hanging the plasma beside the worktable, the man’s uniform cut away. Smith had seen this before, so often, in the Pacific, wounds festering quickly from the heat. But there was very little blood here, the wounds freezing, the one astonishing benefit of the absurdity of the weather. He saw now, the wounded man was an officer, unfamiliar face, an army uniform. Staff, he thought, one of Almond’s clerks. Or a musician maybe. He imagined the scene, the man receiving orders he never expected. Here’s a rifle, son. Now you’re going to fight. There’s an enemy out there who doesn’t care what your job is, what you were trained to do. And we don’t care, either. Right now, we don’t have the luxury of soft duty.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  He knew the face, the naval doctor, Eugene Hering. Hering had a wide smear of something awful on his apron, looked at Smith with dark, exhausted eyes. Smith focused on the man’s face, heard a hint of hostility in his voice.