The Frozen Hours

by Jeff Shaara

  To more moderate suggestions that the men should take advantage of their transportation, riding the trucks instead of marching the eleven miles to Koto-ri, Smith understood what many staff officers in Tokyo did not, that packing trucks full of men, allowing them to sit still in frigid conditions, would drain away their ability to react to a crisis. If the journey was uncontested, the far more pleasant ride would make sense. But Smith had to anticipate that the Chinese along that eleven-mile stretch would do all they could to crush the convoy, as they had already done to Task Force Drysdale. Any assumption that the Chinese would simply lie back was erased the first mile out of Hagaru-ri. To arguments that the convoy could make far better speed than the pace of marching men, Smith knew very well that the condition of the road, added to the misery of the weather, meant that speed was a luxury they wouldn’t have. Smith knew that even in decent weather, the trucks would be easy pickings for Chinese mortars and machine gunners, his men crowded together nothing more than ripe targets. Marching among the trucks meant better security for everyone in the convoy.

  He had thought of walking with the men, one of those morale boosters that sounded more effective than they truly were. In fact, the business of reorganizing the division, of planning the next phase of the operation, had to be well under way even before the men reached Koto-ri. Chesty Puller had already prepared a large command post for Smith and his staff, and now the engineers were tackling a problem farther down that Smith had anticipated for weeks.

  Some three miles south of Koto-ri, the Chinese had finally destroyed the bridge that spanned a deep gorge in Funchilin Pass, creating a major obstacle for the Americans once they began their next drive southward toward Hungnam. Smith was certain the Chinese would fortify the hills around the deep chasm, hoping to crush the Marines and army troops as they bunched up, helpless to move. Smith had to wonder if the Chinese command truly believed the Americans would allow themselves to march full speed toward a nearly impassable roadblock, only to halt in a ten-thousand-man traffic jam while their officers scratched their heads figuring out what to do next. But so far, the Chinese had shown very little imagination in their tactics. By finally blowing the bridge, it was clear to Smith that the Chinese would continue to do what they had done now for weeks, full-on frontal assaults. By creating a difficult roadblock, the location of that assault seemed pretty clear.

  The solution to the challenge lay once more with the engineering team led by Colonel John Partridge, the man responsible for the extraordinary success in building the airstrip at Hagaru-ri. This time Partridge was faced with the task of rebuilding the bridge, assisted by the fortunate presence in Koto-ri of a team of army engineers, led by Lieutenant George Ward. Ward had significant experience with the construction of Treadway bridges, prefabricated steel spans, with plywood platforms strong enough to support a tank. The gorge, nearly thirty feet wide, could be bridged easily once the right equipment was brought into Koto-ri. On December 7, while Litzenberg’s men were still fighting their way south, the engineers received a total of eight bridge sections, enough for two full bridges. The spans weighed nearly two tons each and were dropped at Koto-ri by parachute, each span hauled by a C-119 Flying Boxcar. The next task was to clear the pass around the gorge of a formidable force of Chinese whose purpose was to prevent any kind of crossing at all.

  KOTO-RI, NORTH KOREA—DECEMBER 7, 1950

  “Not sure where we’re going to put them all. I guess I should have paid more attention to just how many people you already had down here.”

  Puller drank from a coffee cup, shrugged. “We’ll manage. We’ve got tents ready, mess areas, medical teams. I assume we’re not going to remain here for long. We can certainly supply the men by air as long as we need to, but I’m assuming you’d rather have the men go to the mountain than have the mountain brought up here.”

  Smith stared at the map, Puller’s wisecrack slipping past him. “Do we know how strong the enemy is around that bridge?”

  Puller sat back, toyed with a half-spent cigar. “Plenty. My suggestion is to send the fresh troops I’ve got here down that way. Chinhung-ni is about seven miles below those hills. I can order my First Battalion there to move north. The enemy will be squeezed from both sides. Won’t matter much how many they are. They can fight for those hills, or die trying. We can grab those hills pretty easily, and once the enemy is out of the way, it’s a clear shot to Chinhung-ni. The convoys can push across the bridge pretty quick, if there’s nobody shooting at them.”

  Smith leaned back, one hand on the pipe in his mouth. “Just like that.”

  “You don’t agree?”

  Smith appreciated Puller’s total confidence, even if there could be a significant cost in casualties.

  “How secure is Chinhung-ni?”

  Puller stabbed the cigar into his mouth, crossed his arms over his chest. “Right now, my First Battalion is being relieved by some part of the army’s Third Division. That was always the plan. We didn’t really think we’d be bringing everybody back down the same road we went up. You were so fired up about your people being spread out all over hell and gone. Now you’re bitching because we’re all rammed together?”

  Smith knew there was nothing angry in Puller’s words, saw the rough hint of a smile. “Lewie, I’m just doing my job. Tenth Corps is going to pick apart every detail of this entire operation. Count on it. If there’s one mistake, my backside is gonna boil for it.”

  Now he saw anger, Puller’s expression changing abruptly.

  “I won’t put up with that crap, not one bit. There hasn’t been a campaign in any war in history where somebody didn’t hunt up a scapegoat for anything that went wrong. But there’s fifteen thousand, hell, twenty thousand fighting men gathering up in this place who would be happy as hell to tell those mush-brained bastards just what we’ve done here. You didn’t give the orders that got us into this pickle jar. The newspapers, by Christ, they’re telling the American people that this whole outfit is gone, wiped out, and you can believe that Tenth Corps or those morons in Tokyo might still believe that. Or, since we’re doing just fine, thank you, they’re trying to figure out the best way to put perfume on a hog’s ass and lead him in a parade down Fifth Avenue.”

  Smith smiled, couldn’t help marveling at Puller’s confused choice of words. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  Puller was fuming now, tossed the cigar into a large tin can. “One day I’m gonna run this show. Find a way to keep the damn politicians out of our nose hairs. Your problem, O.P.? You’re a nice guy.”

  Smith glanced at the various staff officers, the command post part of an enormous hospital tent. The men had gathered, the junior officers keeping back behind the senior staff. But all eyes were on their commanders. Smith said, “You have work to do, gentlemen?”

  Bowser was sitting close by, grinning, his usual expression. “Not really, sir. The boys are still coming in here, and Murray’s people are on the march. Until they complete the trip and we can tally up our casualties, there’s not much else that Colonel Puller hasn’t already done for us.”

  Puller kept his arms crossed, grinned past a fresh cigar. “See? Somebody needs to tell MacArthur that Marines aren’t just sons of bitches. We know how to run a war, not just fight one.”

  From the far side of the tent, a pair of aides came forward, and Smith looked that way, said, “What is it?”

  They halted, a young sergeant speaking out.

  “Sirs, the newspapermen are pushing pretty hard. They want to know details. The MPs are keeping them back, but they’re mighty pushy, sirs.” The other man elbowed the sergeant, a sharp whisper. “Oh, yes, that broad. She’s pushy, too.”

  Smith looked at Puller. “Maggie Higgins?”

  Puller blew out a cloud of smoke. “She said you’d authorized her being here. Pain in the ass.”

  Smith thought a moment. “I’ve no patience for this crap, Lewie. Here’s what I’m authorizing. Put her on a plane, quick as you can. And send along anyo
ne else you think is a pain in the ass. I tossed her out of Hagaru-ri already. This is too important, and we’re too close to success here. I don’t care about how good a reporter she is, and the fact that she’s a woman. She’s a distraction, whether she likes that or not. Am I clear?”

  He knew he didn’t have to be that stern with Puller, the browbeating more for the rest of the staffs. Puller kept the cigar in his mouth, nodded.

  “She’s been pretty pissy about being treated differently because she’s in a combat zone.”

  Smith was fully annoyed now. “Bull. I’m treating her differently because there are twenty thousand young men around here who haven’t seen a good-looking woman in weeks. Months maybe. She’ll be the prime attraction, men stepping all over each other to get an interview, or maybe just stare at her.”

  Puller shook his head. “One reason I didn’t give her too much grief is that she’s so damn disagreeable all on her own, and I figured the boys would find that out themselves. She’s already gone around interviewing wounded men, ignoring what kind of shape they might be in, like their damn misery isn’t as important as giving her their full attention. More than one of the boys has fallen asleep while she’s holding court. She might be pretty, but she’s not making any friends here. Maybe this will teach her something about humility.”

  Smith was in no mood for this. “Lewie, she’s already distracting you. How many reporters are here? A dozen? Name them. I can’t. We’re not here to humble civilians. If you’re right, she cares more about her reputation than the boys she’s talking to. Get her the hell out of here.”

  Puller nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Across the tent, more men were moving in, and Smith looked that way, had a nagging dread of some new disaster. The group moved his way and Puller said, “Those are Murray’s boys. I know that major, Simmons.”

  Smith knew the men as well, stood, felt a surge of energy. They stopped, four men, ragged dirty uniforms. The major said, “Sir, Colonel Murray is pleased to report that his lead elements have entered Koto-ri. I can verify that, sir. I led them.”

  Bowser stood, moved out to the far end of the tent, and Smith watched him for a long second, not certain where he was going. He looked at Major Simmons now, said, “Welcome. How much difficulty did you have? We received several radio calls, a good bit of resistance all along the way.”

  “Yes, sir, there was. The air cover helped, and the artillery boys used those one-oh-fives in short-range combat, point-blank fire. Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen, sir. The enemy pushed hard all along the road, and we chewed ’em up pretty effectively.”

  Smith couldn’t avoid feeling nervous relief. “Major, there’s warm food in a number of mess tents. Grab some, if you like.”

  The man smiled, and Smith saw the weariness, the grime on the man’s bearded face.

  “Will do, sir.”

  Bowser returned now, said, “Excuse me, sir, but I heard something odd. It sounded like singing. I checked on it.” He looked at Simmons. “Major, I assume those are your boys out there.”

  “Yes, sir. I can shut ’em up if you wish.”

  Bowser seemed apologetic now. “Oh, no. I was just curious. They’re singing some pretty, um, raw stuff.”

  Simmons smiled now, his pride showing through. “Colonel, the men are quite accomplished in adding their own lyrics to some pretty dull songs. Colonel Murray encourages it.”

  Smith was curious, looked at Bowser. “I’d like to know what they’re singing.”

  “You sure, sir? It’s rather amazing just how profane…well, you know, sir.”

  Smith laughed, knew Bowser was too efficient at protecting him. “Colonel, I assume they have chaplains who’ve heard this stuff? If it’s all right by them, it’s all right by me.”

  Simmons spoke up now. “Actually, sir, it’s a couple of the chaplains who wrote the stuff.”

  —

  The fighting around Funchilin Pass began early on December 8, made more difficult for both sides by a vicious snowstorm that limited visibility and movement. Worse for the Marines, the storm kept their air cover away. But Puller’s suggestion and Smith’s plan for squeezing the Chinese between two halves of a vise proved enormously effective. By dawn on December 9, with the weather clearing, the Chinese had either been wiped out or had withdrawn on their own from the site of the destroyed bridge. With the word coming back to Koto-ri of the successful push, the engineers took over. By four that afternoon, the lead vehicles of the enormous convoy began crossing the bridge. After a temporary delay, caused by a near disaster for one of the heavier bulldozers, the bridge was made fully passable. Throughout that night, nearly fourteen hundred vehicles and most of the Marine and army troops made their way across the span.

  Puller’s final responsibility at Koto-ri was to perform the same task Murray had accomplished at Hagaru-ri, keeping the Chinese away from the perimeter of the base until the convoy had cleared the area. In the process, the airstrip successfully evacuated some six hundred new casualties, most of those from the fighting they had endured on the journey down from Hagaru-ri.

  With the perimeter of Koto-ri secure and the crucial bridge fully operational, Smith knew it was time once again to move his command post south, this time returning to the port of Hungnam, the exact location where his headquarters had been established when this campaign had begun.

  He boarded the helicopter, watched as Bowser led a half-dozen men toward an idling C-47. His pilot was unfamiliar, Smith absorbing a slight jolt of discomfort from that. But the young man smiled at him, said, “On your command, sir.”

  Smith pulled the coat tightly around him, pointed upward, the pilot revving the engine, the chopper rising quickly. They topped the tallest structures, the pilot turning, aiming south, and Smith felt a tug, a hard pull inside of him. He put a hand on the young man’s arm, said, “Over that way. Past the tents. Just a few seconds.”

  The pilot obeyed, the chopper swinging around, easing slowly over the encampment. Smith looked down, saw crews of Puller’s men gathering up everything worth carrying, loading it on the vast rows of trucks. The pilot looked at him, uncertain, and Smith kept his eyes on the ground, pointed ahead, the chopper sliding farther along, no more than a hundred feet above the ground.

  “Sir, the enemy’s been raising Cain with every aircraft flying out of here. We go much closer to those hills, we’re pretty sure to take fire.”

  Smith ignored the caution, searched, held up a hand now. “Hover right here.”

  The chopper slowed, and Smith saw the freshly churned ground, already frozen, an enormous grave.

  “We had to leave some men here, son. One hundred thirteen of them. Buried them right there. The airstrip wasn’t adequate to fly ’em out. I hate that. Hate it with every bone in my body. We’ll get ’em out one day. I promised them. We’ll get ’em out.”

  The pilot looked at him with wide eyes, nodded slowly. “Yes, sir. I’m certain of it, sir.”

  Smith kept his eyes on the mass grave, felt a sickening twist in his stomach.

  “We’ll get ’em out.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Sung

  NORTHEAST OF HAGARU-RI—DECEMBER 10, 1950

  THERE WERE SIX PRISONERS, bandaged and crippled, huddled together in a small hut. Two of Sung’s men guarded them, showing more menace than the prisoners required, Sung aware it was more for his benefit than for any threat that these men would attempt escape. He studied them as they studied him, caked filth on bearded faces, bloody clothing, rags wrapped on their feet.

  Sung looked at the aide beside him, said, “What happened to their boots?”

  The man shook his head. “I do not know, sir.”

  Sung thought, Well, I know. Whoever captured them took their boots and anything else of use.

  “Have we been able to speak with them?”

  “None of them speak Mandarin, sir. Our interpreter, Mr. Hong, has not been seen in several days. We believe he deserted.”

  Sung looked at
the man. “Where would he go, Colonel? He would join these men, fight against us?”

  “I do not know, sir.”

  “I hear those words far too often, Colonel. What do we know of these men? They do not appear to be Marines.”

  “They admit to being American army. We understood that much from what they said.”

  “Two of them carry wounds.”

  “Yes, sir. We treated them as best we could. We have very little to offer our own wounded.”

  “That is not a reason to ignore the treatment of prisoners. Have their wounds cleaned, bandaged again. We are not war criminals, Colonel Liu.”

  “Yes, sir. Right away.”

  Liu backed away, moved quickly toward the medical area, and Sung dropped to one knee, looked hard at the faces, eyes staring sharply at him. He saw fear as much as anger, was gratified by that. He fought for the words, the scattered English he had absorbed so many years before.

  “Your war is past. You will be freed soon. I do not need to keep you.”