The Frozen Hours

by Jeff Shaara

  —

  “I want them brought down here with all haste! All haste! The battalion, that fellow up there, Faith? I want them pulled out as well! We have to remove ourselves from this problem, and I want that accomplished yesterday!”

  The tent was bulging with men, Smith’s staff still at work, no one accomplishing anything beyond their discreet listening to Almond’s bluster. Beside Smith, the two army generals sat in front of Smith’s own senior officers, all of them summoned to hear what Almond had to say.

  Almond seemed to work at catching his breath. “This morning, I was cornered by those damn newspapermen. I told them we had whipped the North Koreans completely, but that the action now ongoing is an entirely new Chinese development. But I will not allow those pen pushers to paint anything we’re doing in a negative light. So, the rest is up to you! Smith, bring your people out of Yudam-ni. I want a plan put on paper for the evacuation of the army forces on the east side of the reservoir. I want to know when that blasted airstrip will be complete so that we may begin moving your wounded, and your most vital equipment, out of here. We must evacuate your entire force down to Hamhung. Supply will make large-scale drops, delivering to you everything you would require along the way. This means you may leave behind, and destroy, the greater part of the equipment you have now. Travel light, gentlemen. Make speed!”

  —

  Smith had gone back to his quarters, Almond and Bowser following at Smith’s request. Almond had seemed to calm slightly after his energetic orders, and Smith rolled the man’s speech through his brain, sorting out what might actually be realistic.

  “General, perhaps we should move into the back room. Alpha, gather up the chairs.”

  Bowser moved quickly, the three chairs placed opposite each other, Bowser keeping his own a bit farther from the other two. Smith pointed, and Almond sat, slapping his hands on his knees, a show of nervousness.

  “I hope I was clear, Smith.”

  Smith sat, thought of the pipe, scolded himself, No. “General, you have insisted all throughout this campaign that we move in haste. Had we done so two weeks ago, it is likely my division would have been destroyed. As it stands now, that is still a possibility, but I believe we are moving in the right direction. The speed with which we move will be governed by my ability to evacuate my wounded, including those that will be brought down from Yudam-ni. Once that is completed, we will fight our way out of here, and I will require the equipment we now have on hand, including trucks, jeeps, tanks, and anything else that will aid our operation. I will do my job the best way I know how. It will be dark very soon. You should get to your plane. Do you have any other instructions for me?”

  Almond’s mouth was slightly open, and he shook his head slowly.

  “No, I think you have it under control.” He seemed to blink at a new thought. “Oh, yes, the plane. Good idea, yes. I should be off. Godspeed, Smith.”

  Almond stood, moved out into the larger room, his aide there now, holding open his coat. Within seconds, Almond was out the door.

  Smith retrieved the pipe, still full from earlier that afternoon. He flicked the lighter, the aroma engulfing him, warm and wonderful. He looked at Bowser now, was surprised to see a wide smile.

  “What?”

  “You are my favorite commanding general, you know that? I’ve had a couple others, but none of them—”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  Bowser chuckled now, and Smith jabbed the pipe into his teeth, said, “He comes up here all full of beans, and orders us to move with lightning speed backward. He gives us a wave of his hand and expects everything to happen as he describes it.”

  Smith heard an aircraft, glanced up, and Bowser said, “He didn’t waste any time. I don’t guess his pilot likes flying around North Korea in the dark.”

  There was a chattering roll of fire, machine guns, and Smith moved out quickly into the larger room, the cook and his aide dropping down to their knees.

  “Sir, that’s close. Be careful.”

  More firing came now, another direction, the heavy thumps from incoming mortars. Bowser was there, beside him, said, “They’re coming again.”

  Smith strained to hear, said, “Maybe. Could be probes. It’s not late enough for a full-on assault.”

  The chatter blew past him now, a splinter of wood from the wall, the clank of metal, pots on the cookstove tumbling to the floor. The cook yelped and Smith ducked down, Bowser flattening out to one side of him. Now another round burst through the wall, another ricochet, the cook shouting out some kind of curse.

  “Easy, son. Stray rounds. You two, grab your weapons, find Lieutenant Griggs. If they need you on the line, he’ll tell you.”

  The cook sat now, held up a wet pot, a ragged hole through the sides.

  “Your dinner, sir. They busted up your cooking pot.”

  Smith listened, more firing, farther away, the steady rumbles he had heard all day from the east hill. “I’ll manage. Go!”

  The two men scrambled across the floor, coats snatched down from hooks on the wall. Smith looked at Bowser, said, “You all right?”

  Bowser sat up, wiped a hand over his mussed hair. “Too close.”

  “Only casualty here was my dinner, Colonel. If you wish, grab a carbine. My forty-five is in my bag.”

  “Not funny, sir.”

  “I’ve been under assault before, Colonel. It’s never funny.”

  Bowser crept toward the door, eased it open, the cold air immediate. He closed it again, said, “Looks calm. Most of the firing is to the east.”

  “I hear it.”

  “Well, sir, at least you don’t have to prove your point to the army. If they’ve got any doubts whether you can spare anybody to rescue their people, a nice attack from the Chinese ought to convince them we need every hand right here.”

  Smith stood, eased the ache from his knees, moved toward the stove. “General Barr doesn’t need convincing. Hodes is feeling this in someplace deep. Nothing I can do about that.” He thought a moment, said, “We’ve got a Marine air controller out that way, right?”

  “Yes, sir. He was left up there, back when Murray pulled out, when the army boys moved up. Captain Stamford, Ed Stamford. Good man.”

  “I hope so. The air cover might be the best chance those boys have.”

  Bowser was serious now, said, “You think they’re in real trouble? That’s near three thousand men.”

  Smith listened again to the firing, a spray of mortar shrapnel dancing on the roof above him. “Colonel, we might all be in trouble. But I’d rather be here than out there.”

  HAGARU-RI—DECEMBER 1, NOON

  “Six hundred, a few more. It’s not good, General. Something has to open up quick, or we’ll lose a good many of them.”

  Smith knew that Hering was never a man to exaggerate, and he had seen the hospitals himself. “I know the situation, Doctor.”

  “How much longer, then? You can only keep a man on morphine for so long. The plasma we have is just about worthless. Sir…” Hering paused, seemed suddenly emotional. “If we can’t evacuate these men in the next twenty-four hours…”

  “I heard you, Doctor.”

  Smith couldn’t be angry, knew that Hering was as dedicated a healer as any medical man in the service. But the daily frustrations were still building, no different now than yesterday, the day before that.

  Hering seemed resigned to his situation, said, “I should return to the hospital. A few of the Royal Marines got hit this morning. Some of them took some white phosphorous wounds. Not sure they’ll survive.”

  Smith nodded, a feeble wave of his hand. “Dismissed. Just keep doing your job. I’ll do mine.”

  Hering turned, left the room, and Smith heard the others in the larger room, a small group of officers, daily reports still to come. He waited for the sound of the door, Hering’s departure, tried to find some comfort in the pipe in his mouth, the tobacco growing bitter. He listened to the talk among the officers, a tone of doubt, anxiousn
ess spread all through them, worse now than any day before. His order to Litzenberg had been finalized, the command for the units at Yudam-ni to commence their breakout early that morning. He had heard nothing since, didn’t expect to, unless it was bad news. No, he thought, they’ll do it. It’s one road, and a dozen miles, and they’re Marines. This isn’t some idiotic order tossed their way by a crowing peacock in Tokyo. They’re my men, and I need them here. They need to be here. It’s that simple.

  He stood, nervous energy, paced slowly, the tobacco not helping at all. Outside, a distinctive voice, his chief of staff, Colonel Gregon Williams. Bowser was there as well, always there, both men doing their own jobs and the duties left behind by Eddie Craig. This will kill Eddie, he thought. He’d want to be right in the middle of the mess, just like Bowser. This might be the toughest assignment most of these men have ever had, ever suffered through. Well, maybe. Hard to ignore what we had to do against the Japanese. How different is it now? A fanatical enemy, hell-bent on wiping us out. Nothing new there. The Chinese probably think the same thing about us.

  “Sir, Colonel Drysdale is here. He asked if he could see you.”

  Smith saw a smile on Sexton’s face, felt it himself. “By all means. Send him in here. We have any tea around?”

  Sexton still smiled. “He brought his own, sir.”

  Sexton backed away, and Smith couldn’t avoid a lift to his spirits, had come to like Drysdale as much as he already respected him. Drysdale was there now, and Smith was surprised, the man’s uniform perfect in every detail, the wounded arm bandaged as neatly as the man’s attire. Smith couldn’t help a smile of his own.

  “Come in, Colonel.”

  “Thank you kindly, General. I shan’t take up your time. I do wish only to report that our efforts to drive the enemy from East Hill have been mostly frustrated. Difficult terrain, to say the least. The enemy’s artillery, what there is of it, is tossing some rather nasty stuff our way.”

  “I heard. White phosphorous.”

  “Quite so. My men will never complain, sir, but I must speak up for them when I say we have some rather awful injuries. I understand there can be little assistance for our attempts, and your medical people are doing a bang-up job. But I admit to having a weakness for the suffering of my men, when I see little point to it.”

  “There is a point, Colonel, I promise you. East Hill is a key to our position. I have seen very little of the enemy’s artillery in action, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have any. If they suddenly bring up some heavy stuff, East Hill is a perfect location for it. This base becomes indefensible. Even if we can’t remove them from the hill itself, we must keep them engaged, let them know we won’t let them have the place free and clear. I’m sorry for your men, but, frankly, Colonel, every unit in this command is suffering. If not the wounds, then the cold. I’m not telling you what you don’t already know.”

  “I’m not questioning your command decisions, sir, I assure you. I understand the logic of your tactics and what we are being asked to do. I only wanted to inquire if there might be some relief in the offing, some way to deal with the rather terrible condition of my wounded.”

  Smith said nothing for a long moment, gave up on the pipe, pulled it from his mouth, rapped the bowl on the arm of the chair. He saw Bowser now, peering into the room, thought, Something else.

  “What is it, Colonel?”

  Bowser stayed beyond the door, said, “Intel report, sir.”

  “Anything new?”

  Bowser moved closer, a glance at Drysdale, said, “More like confirmation, sir. Colonel Holcomb reports that it is definite that we are facing six full Chinese divisions.”

  “In total?”

  “That’s just around Hagaru-ri. There is an estimate of five more at Yudam-ni, possibly as many as three up the east side of the reservoir. Colonel Puller has not yet made an estimate to our south, sir.”

  “Thank you, Colonel. Dismissed.”

  Bowser backed away, and Drysdale smiled, a surprise.

  “If I may offer, sir, this seems rather a sticky one.”

  “We’re still here, Colonel. The enemy is still on the outside looking in. When the Fifth and Seventh push their way down here, we’ll have plenty of strength. Nothing the Chinese have shown us changes that.”

  Drysdale rubbed his chin, nodded. “I admire your confidence, sir. I share it, actually. I haven’t often had the opportunity to stand alongside Yanks, and I admit there are some rough edges that are difficult for my men to accept.”

  “Such as?”

  Drysdale seemed to welcome the opening. “I don’t mean to sound critical, General. Certainly not. But throughout the night, your engineers take delight in illuminating the entire landscape while they labor on that airstrip. Invites fire in a reckless sort of way, I’d say. I do understand the urgency, of course.” He paused. “I also appreciate the luxury of having adequate supplies of ammunition. But I must point out, sir, that your men seem to delight in filling the air with lead. I have always taught frugality, conserving one’s ammunition as long as necessary. Your machine gunners, and those marvelous BARs, they do offer quite a show. I just wonder how useful that truly is, spraying ten thousand rounds toward an enemy platoon when a few dozen would do the trick.”

  Smith sat now, could feel Drysdale’s energy rising. “What else?”

  “Well, sir, I don’t wish to risk offense. But we pride ourselves on our deportment, the taut ship, so to speak. It is standard practice for our men to shave and tidy themselves up as much as possible every morning. I have observed very little of that among your Marines. Every man wears a stubble of whiskers, and when any of my chaps mentions it, the response is rather boastful on your part, as though the rough edges are a source of pride.”

  Smith lowered his head, a smile breaking out. “Colonel, I do not question your methods. I would only say that my men are less concerned with appearances. Cleanliness doesn’t make them any tougher.”

  “Certainly not, sir. I intend no insult at all.”

  “I know you don’t. I would only suggest, Colonel, that when this war concludes—and I assure you, it will conclude—that these men will return home to their wives and mothers, and there will be shiny cheeks and enough sparkle to go around. As long as your men make the good fight, you may certainly attend to your command any way you see fit. I can also assure you that when it comes to priorities right here, we are pushing hard for morphine and bandages. The soap can come later.”

  —

  The jeep rolled closer to the first large dozer, stopped, the crew working beside the big machine halting, watching as he climbed out. There were the usual salutes, but Smith wouldn’t interrupt their labor, moved past, toward the next machine, saw men standing together, a cluster of heavy coats. They parted slightly at his approach, and Smith searched the faces, the scattering of ragged beards, couldn’t help thinking of Drysdale. Beards are warmer, he thought. Should have told him that. He saw the face he sought, the hood of the man’s coat pulled back, no salute, the appropriate response so close to enemy eyes.

  “Welcome, sir. Good day for working.”

  Smith looked past the man, the surface of the airstrip spread out far to one side. “Colonel Partridge, they’ve all been good. I need to bring aircraft in here right now. Tell me something I want to hear.”

  Partridge let out a foggy breath, said, “We’ve got twenty-nine hundred feet completely finished. Specs call for five thousand more. It’s only been twelve days, General.”

  “This isn’t a gripe, Colonel. A C-47 can land right now, yes?”

  “Yes, sir, I suppose so. This wind’s tough enough, it should shorten the distance for takeoff.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

  HAGARU-RI—DECEMBER 1, 2:30 P.M.

  He watched with most of the staff, all eyes on the skies, the light snowfall not enough to hide the patches of blue above them. The winds had slowed, easing the torture from the cold, Smith straining to hear the only sound
that mattered.

  “There!”

  The men around him began to point, and he saw it, clearing the hills to the south. It was a single plane, responding to his orders, the first attempt at a dry run, to test whether the engineer knew his aircraft as well as his ability to build an airport.

  He heard the plane’s engines now, couldn’t help the shaking nervousness, a glimpse toward the east hill, where he knew the Chinese were watching as well. Beside him, Bowser said, “Hurry up, dammit. You’re too good a target.”

  “Shut up, Alpha.”

  He marched in place slowly, the anxiety of the moment adding to the hard chill in his legs, the aching in his knees forgotten for the moment. He watched the plane lowering, landing gear out now, sinking lower still. He held his breath, the pounding in his chest unbearable, a glance at the east hill one more time, still no violence from the Chinese. There were voices around him now, the men offering their own quiet encouragement toward the pilot, the aircraft, the moment.

  The plane drifted lower, held a few feet off the hard ground, the dull roar of the engines growing soft, the plane settling down slowly, a sudden bump, a slight bounce, the wheels now on the ground, the plane moving past the crowd, slowing, stopping, turning in place, the twin props pulling the craft closer. And now the engines were silent, the props spinning slowly, the men around Smith moving forward, chocking the wheels, gathering at the plane’s hatch, happy chatter. Smith held back, his eyes a blur, the weakness in his knees spreading all through him, a hard stroke of emotion he knew he couldn’t hide. He was alone now, tried to blink through the freezing tears, watched the men swarming the plane, waiting for the pilot to appear. Smith turned to one side, saw Partridge a few yards away, the engineer watching, waiting, a glance toward Smith, a broad smile, the pride in an extraordinary accomplishment.

  “I believe, sir, we have an airstrip.”

  —

  For the rest of that day, five more of the small transport planes made the journey from the bases to the south, each one carrying necessary supplies, each then filled to capacity with two dozen of the most severely wounded men. Only one incident marred the astounding day, one aircraft losing its landing gear, blocking the runway until it could be cleared. By dark, the runs were halted, but Smith returned to his quarters with a brief stop to see Dr. Hering, sharing his quiet joyful confidence that the wounded men would now be served.