The Frozen Hours

by Jeff Shaara

  He waited for a response, the men perking up a bit to his words. One man nodded toward him, a hesitant thank you.

  “You may speak. We want no secrets from you. We offer you only sanctuary. You are no different than us.” He stopped, struggled to find the words he sought. “You do not have to fight for your warlords. Men who get rich on your blood. You do not have to fight for the generals, for your government. You can return to your army, spread this joy. There will be a new war. The people fighting the government. Tell your soldiers, your friends. They can end this war if they turn their guns to their own officers.”

  Their expressions did not change, but one man took a long, grimacing breath, said, “Go to hell.”

  Sung waited for more, saw nothing coming from the others. He stood again, saw defiance from them all, a surprise. Liu returned, one of the medical men in tow. Sung watched the doctor go to the first prisoner, a clean bandage in his hand, but the soldier pulled away, angry words, too fast for Sung to understand. The doctor tried again, the prisoner protesting loudly, slapping the man’s hand away. The doctor looked at Sung now, said, “What do I do, sir? They will not allow me to treat them.”

  “Doctor, treat them when you can. They become weaker, or their pains become greater, they will allow it. We shall release them when it is appropriate to do so.” Sung spoke to the men again in his rough English. “We will not harm you. We are not your enemy.”

  The first prisoner looked up at him, said, “I told you to go to hell.”

  Behind Sung, Colonel Liu said, “They must believe we’re poisoning them, or torture perhaps. Your orders were clear, sir. We have already returned a number of prisoners who were well cared for. Surely their soldiers will understand that we mean them no harm, that this struggle is for all soldiers. How do we teach them of the revolution, sir? How do we make them understand?”

  “Colonel, you must have faith in the revolution. These men will remember how we treated them, and they will return to the abuse of their masters. We have planted a seed in them. It is all we can do.” He paused, studied the men again. “But I admit, I thought it would be easier convincing them.”

  SOUTH OF HAGARU-RI, NORTH KOREA—DECEMBER 11, 1950

  “Sir! This way!”

  He nudged the horse over the snowy trail, followed the man’s wave, saw the cave now. All along the climb he had passed bodies, nearly all of them his own. He tried not to see that, but the horse saw it for him, stepping gingerly through the frozen rocky ground, avoiding the snow-covered corpses. The cold was relentless, and he pulled himself into his coat, a futile effort to keep the wind away. Behind him, staff officers rode as he did, while out to both sides a company of guards climbed on foot, keeping themselves in formation, a veil of protection. The guide motioned again, pointed, and Sung climbed down from the horse, handed the reins to his aide. The guide waited for him, stood aside, the opening of the cave partially blocked by a pile of rocks and rubble, someone’s attempt to add cover. He hesitated, staring into the ragged maw of the cave, then dipped his head slightly, moved inside.

  The cave opened up to a wide hollow, some of that man-made, the preparation his men had labored over to keep hidden from the American aircraft. He blinked in the darkness, just enough light to see why they had brought him here. The cave was filled with soldiers, nearly thirty or more, an entire platoon, their weapons stacked neatly to one side. Some appeared to be sleeping, pale white faces, others staring ahead. All had their legs pulled up tightly, were huddled close together, their quilted coats embracing each man, the customary flapped hats on their heads. He studied them, expected any one of them to suddenly acknowledge him, the usual deference, a respectful salute. But they stayed silent, none of them moving at all, nothing in their eyes but frozen death.

  He backed out of the cave, stood for a long moment, thought, We must mark this place. It would be easy to forget this hill, this cave. Now it is a tomb, and we shall be respectful of that. He looked up past the opening, the hill wide and steep, rocks and frozen scrub. He looked back toward his horse, his aides waiting for him, and he moved that way, said to anyone who could answer him, “Are there more caves on this hill?”

  No one responded, and he knew it was a foolish question, that very likely the only men who knew of the caves were the men who had sought out their protection, and if there were more like this one, they too had become tombs.

  He climbed up on the horse, the aide handing him the reins, no one speaking. Among the staff was a young captain, a man who had been punished by his colonel because he had lost his soldiers, unable to explain what had happened to his command. Sung had been nearby, making the slow, plodding ride down the valley to Koto-ri, had interrupted the colonel’s tirade, a threat of execution screamed into the terrified captain’s face. It was an overreaction from an officer who surely carried some blame himself, one small failure in a vast campaign of failure. Sung had stopped, inquired, the young captain begging him for leniency, offering an explanation that the colonel had tossed aside with a self-conscious smugness. But Sung saw something of substance in the captain, a story that offered more of tragedy than incompetence. And so he had made the climb up the great hill, led by one of the captain’s men, a witness ignored by the colonel. And now the story was confirmed.

  He looked toward his aide, said, “Colonel Liu, release the captain. He may return to his command.” He looked at the young captain now. “Do you still have a command?”

  The young man did not look at him, kept his eyes downward. “Sir, I have only six men from my company. There are others who died in the night, and the night before. The storm caught us on the march. We were already down to sixty men. They performed admirably, sir. I regret I could not prevent their loss.”

  “So do I. You may go. I shall inform your colonel that you are without blame. If he wishes to find fault for our losses, he may express that to me. The blame is mine.”

  KOTO-RI, NORTH KOREA—DECEMBER 11, 1950

  The fires were still burning all throughout the town, and he moved into a wide square, the wreckage of what had been a hospital. The stink was putrid, burning bandages and bedding, a smoldering mass of gauze and linens and too many things he did not need to identify. He dismounted the small horse, walked slowly toward a scattered heap of empty steel barrels. Gasoline, he thought. What they didn’t require for their trucks they could use to ignite their fires, to destroy anything of use. I suppose I would have done the same.

  Down one of the narrow avenues of the town, men were gathering, a cluster of quilted uniforms, poking through more of the rubble. They seemed cheerful, boisterous talk, and he watched them for a long moment as they found small treasures. One man made a loud noise, held up what seemed to be a large hammer, the others saluting him, then returning to their own search. He was curious just why they were so joyful, but stayed away, would allow them to continue searching. They have very little, he thought. Perhaps they will find food, somewhere in this wreckage. Weapons we have in abundance, even if our ammunition runs low. Does that matter? There is no longer an enemy.

  The staff kept back, knew him well, that when he was like this, pensive, silent, he was not to be interrupted. But the Russian had no such tactfulness, dismounted a horse of his own. Sung avoided looking at him, a spectacle of opulence in his thick fur coat. But he will offer his opinion, Sung thought. After this day there will be opinions in every quarter. I cannot avoid it.

  Another group of soldiers emerged from a side street, carrying all manner of junk. They saw him, seemed too giddy for discretion, one man calling out, “General! It is a wonderful day! We salute your victory!”

  He waved to them, knew his aides would try to silence the men, scold them for such a lack of respect. It hardly matters, he thought. But still, they should continue to do their job.

  Orlov was there now, kicking through more of the rubble the Americans had left behind.

  “So, you have won a great victory.”

  There was sarcasm in Orlov’s voice, and
Sung expected it.

  “You would mock me, even now?”

  Orlov feigned surprise. “General, it is not my place to pass judgment on your accomplishments.”

  “Yes, yes, you are merely an observer. That tune has grown quite stale, Major. You did not ride into Koto-ri with my staff just to observe. In this miserable country, one burnt-out town is so like another. There is no charm in this place. Even the people have gone, following after the Americans like hungry dogs. We liberate them, and they flee.”

  “So, you have liberated them? I suppose that will be the message to your people. Chairman Mao will no doubt send joyous tidings to Moscow, trumpeting the glorious successes of his armies over the imperial stooges.”

  Sung turned to him, angry at the man’s interminable smugness. “What would you have me do, Major? My army has eliminated the American threat. We have driven the enemy from the soil we vowed to protect. Even now, they rush to their ships, desperate to escape the destruction we have levied upon them.”

  Orlov smiled. “Very well said, General. Those would be the very same words you would put on paper, then, in your report to Peking?”

  Sung looked again toward the soldiers, more men flowing into the town, some gathering at the fires, seeking the warmth. The air of celebration continued, officers moving among their men, high spirits and salutes.

  “Yes. I will tell Peking what Peking requires me to say. They will tell your Chairman Stalin, and everyone else in this world, the very same thing. The Americans have been humiliated. We are victorious.”

  Orlov rubbed a hand through his rough beard. “Forgive me, General, but I don’t hear victory in your voice.”

  Sung kept silent for a long moment, still did not trust this man. But there was no one on his staff, no one among his senior officers he could confide in. He glanced upward, the sky clear and blue. No aircraft today, he thought. Not here, anyway. This place is now in the past.

  “Tell me, Major, in your army, is there great ambition, jealousy, men who seek opportunity for their own advancement?”

  Orlov glanced at the soldiers, said, “Of course. Men who have power always want more. Do you fear your officers? Or is it the politicians in Peking whom you fear?”

  “There is no fear in Peking. All is secure there, all are obedient to Chairman Mao. Men of ambition have no place in the revolution, and are soon removed. Chairman Mao has secured his place.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Moscow is a very similar place.”

  “But the army is very different. There is a way to rise, to advance above others, to gain more power, more authority. I have been very fortunate. But there are some in my command who see what we have sacrificed, who will use that to make reports of their own, and they will not be so positive.”

  “I have always wondered, General, how many knife blades you had to slip into the ribs of your rivals.”

  Sung looked at Orlov, saw only seriousness now. “I have done no such thing. I have advanced by my deeds, by my performance. It is the best way. I have no guilt for my position.”

  “And yet you fear your officers.”

  He moved away, his eyes on soldiers, some falling into formation, officers gathering up their men. Orlov followed, and Sung felt a different kind of fear now, wondered if Orlov carried knives of his own. He stopped, no one close.

  “What I fear, Major…” He paused, looked again toward the soldiers. “What is the truth here? My soldiers will be told they have won a great campaign. They will believe that, because they have no choice. We are trained all our lives to believe what our superiors tell us. In that we are no different than the Americans. I spoke to prisoners, offered hope that they need not fight for the imperialists any longer. They most certainly did not believe me. Their indoctrination is as powerful as ours, no doubt.” He stopped, felt uncomfortable now, watched Orlov for a reaction. But the Russian offered no comment, and Sung understood now, He knows more about that than we do. “Major, no amount of lessons from above can alter the fact that there is failure here, my failure.” He raised his hands, pressed his fingertips together in a sphere. “The enemy was trapped. They were surrounded. My strategies were sound. And yet they were allowed to escape. Already there is talk from my generals, for all that we have lost.”

  “But Peking will ignore that. You said it yourself. The Americans are fleeing to their ships. Every newspaper, every government in the world will acknowledge that truth.”

  “There is another truth, Major. I lost a third of my army. The casualties who did not die by the guns of the Americans have frozen to death, or they have been so crippled from the cold they can never fight again. I have lost the fighting effectiveness of three full divisions, and possibly, when we gather together, reorganize, that number will grow. Entire regiments no longer exist. There are officers with no one left to command, soldiers with no one to command them. There are men in these hills that we will never find. A great many men.”

  “Will you be punished for that? How will Peking explain that to your country?”

  Sung looked down, shook his head. “Peking does not concern itself with casualties. I have believed that it was the only way to command an army, not to concern oneself with the death of soldiers. But there were so many deaths. And we let them escape.”

  Orlov stared at him, black, piercing eyes. “They might end this, right now. This was a distasteful campaign to the capitalists, no profit to be made here. Korea is not worth such a cost. You feel that way, surely the Americans do as well. They might very well board their ships and sail home, and they might even find some way to save face doing it.”

  Sung shook his head. “No. I have seen them fight. They will come back. And we shall do all of this again. Perhaps not here, perhaps to the south, perhaps in the summer, when men suffer not from the cold, but from the heat. And more men will die, and more divisions will be lost, and again Peking will celebrate my accomplishments. And perhaps next year, the war will end. Or the year after.” Sung felt a thick wave of sadness, looked toward the smiles of his men, the celebration, great crowds gathering at the bonfires, officers leading the men in songs, raucous cheers, the morale of an army eager to fight again. “Or perhaps, Major, it will never end.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Riley

  SOUTH OF CHINHUNG-NI—DECEMBER 10, 1950

  HE HAD WALKED ACROSS the Treadway bridge in blind darkness, guided by the helping hands of Marine engineers, low voices that kept the men focused on the plywood beneath their feet. Riley had no idea just what lay below the bridge, how deep the gorge, was grateful for that. The fighting had continued most of the way south, but there was none of the intensity of the journey they had taken toward Koto-ri. Now what seemed to be scattered units of Chinese were more content to lob their mortar rounds toward the convoy from the heights, far fewer of them descending on the road itself. The effort of the walk was as severe as any before, the night of December 10 the coldest yet. Riley had only heard talk about that, Lieutenant Abell jawing with some higher-ranking staff officer along the route. With the Chinese keeping mostly away, checkpoints and command posts were more visible, but none of them mattered to Riley or the men around him. As they pushed slowly into the village of Chinhung-ni, there had been an odd inspection, a large command tent manned by men in clean uniforms. There was warm food as well, though it was nothing like the feasts of pancakes and stews they had left behind. Even in Koto-ri, the rations were plentiful, the men encouraged to chow down, supply officers explaining that what they didn’t eat would be burned. Along the route, with brief firefights still erupting along the high ground, Riley walked with the same rhythm as before, following Welch in front of him, the occasional glance to the man across the road. The misery was still there, the lengthy hikes made even worse by the never-ending pains in his feet. None of that was helped by the weight of what felt like a brick that he hauled inside him, low in his gut.

  At Chinhung-ni, they passed by army units, the men assigned to replace Chesty Puller’s Firs
t Regiment. The Marines were mostly too exhausted to pay any attention to the soldiers, catcalls and lewd remarks flowing over them, the custom when the two branches crossed paths. But several of the soldiers made a deadly mistake, a boastful cry that the army had come up to rescue the cowardly Marines, who were too panicked to stand up to their enemy. If few had the energy for a knock-down brawl, the officers recognized a new threat, several of the men around Riley reacting to that particular insult by sliding rifles off shoulders, muzzles aimed at the offending soldiers, that particular horror clamped down by a scramble of words from the sergeants. Though the insults continued, the worst offenders began to temper their words, aware that quite likely, the sudden reaction by the Marine officers had saved lives.

  South of Chinhung-ni, the road sloped downward, Riley not remembering that he had hiked this road the other way, nothing of the landmarks around them now familiar at all. What had been ugly scrub and ragged homesteads were just as ugly and just as ragged now, changed only by a light coating of snow, or scattered bodies of Chinese troops. Some of those lay in the road itself, corpses crushed by the wheels of trucks, the tread of the tanks, flattened almost beyond recognition.

  They rounded yet another sharp curve in the road, and he eyed the smoldering wreckage of another truck, men retrieving the human cargo from the rear. He passed the cab of the truck, glanced that way, saw what used to be the driver, the cab charred and stinking, no one yet retrieving the blackened corpse. He looked down, blinked that away, too tired to be sickened by a sight he had seen too often now.

  “Hold up!”

  He stumbled, stopped, the ache in his feet worse by standing still. Up ahead, men had gathered, and he tried to be curious about who or why, his curiosity as numb as the rest of his brain. He looked to the side of the road, a place to sit, no one yet giving the order to move off the road. Welch turned to his squad, men as half-conscious as Riley, and Welch said, “Lieutenant’s got something going on. Make ready. Could be Chinks.”