The Frozen Hours

by Jeff Shaara

  Riley looked to the side of the road, the remnants of a hut, thoughts of the Marine they had rescued. “Hey, Sarge. Maybe we should take a look.”

  Welch looked that way, nodded wearily. “Yeah. Let’s check it out. Kane, you and Riley.”

  Riley stepped over a low mound of icy snow, slipped, adding to the misery in his feet. Kane was beside him now, silent, holding the BAR at his waist, and Riley said, “Just don’t shoot me in the ass.”

  He moved to the hut, heard a soft cry, jolting him alert. “What the hell? Hey, Sarge, somebody’s in here.”

  Welch was awake now as well, moving that way, the Thompson in his hands. He stopped beside Kane, said to Riley, “Okay, easy.”

  Riley felt the churning jitteriness in his stomach, pushed into the timbers with the muzzle of the rifle. The cry came again, very soft, very high, and he was suddenly dreading what he was going to find. He hesitated, Welch behind him.

  “Go!”

  Riley lifted the remains of a wooden door, saw now a very small figure, buried beneath a scrap of a blanket.

  “Holy cow. Sarge, it’s a kid. A little kid.”

  Welch was there now, the others moving close, the small, filthy face looking at Riley with raw terror. Welch knelt low, pulled at the blanket, the child crying out.

  “Jesus, kid. I’m just trying to help.”

  Riley bent low, said, “Easy, Sarge. You’d scare hell out of me, too. Here, kid, just need to take a look. It’s okay.”

  The child responded to Riley’s softer tone, still the fear, tears now, a faint whimper. The blanket pulled free and Riley felt suddenly sick, dropped to one knee, closed his eyes. Welch said, “Oh, Christ. His feet. They’re just ice. He’s got a hell of a wound, up his leg.”

  Riley couldn’t speak, the child’s whimpering slicing into him, a man behind him calling out, “Corpsman!”

  The corpsman was there now, familiar face, Rebbert. “Whoa. What we got here? Oh, God.”

  Rebbert moved in close, the child too weak to protest, and Welch stood, said, “Back off. Let him do what he can.”

  Riley forced himself to stand, eyes still closed, a step backward. Rebbert spoke to the child now, soft comforting voice, the whimper continuing, and Riley turned, moved back to the road. He saw Abell now, the lieutenant’s arm in a sling, a wound from the fighting the night before. Abell seemed annoyed, said, “What’s the holdup?”

  Welch pointed silently, and Abell looked that way, shook his head.

  “Can you do anything?”

  Rebbert looked back toward the road, and Riley was surprised to see red, tearful eyes.

  “He’s done for, sir. Frozen extremities. He gets warm, his wound will just bleed out. If we can fix that, the pain will kill him. I can’t give a little kid morphine.”

  Abell put his hands on his hips, said, “We’ll try. Who wants to carry him?”

  Morelli raised his hand, said, “I’ll do it, sir.”

  Rebbert covered the child again, stood, said, “I’m telling you, sir, he’s done for. The legs are infected, his hand’s frozen stiff. Sir, there’s nothing we can do. Nothing will fix him.”

  Abell seemed angry now, frustration boiling over. “Damn it all! Carry him anyway.” Abell turned away, moved toward the front of the column, stopped, said, “Listen up! Radio says there’s a pile of locals, refugees, coming out from every hole. There’s already a pile of ’em following the march. Don’t shoot anybody just because they got slant-eyes, you hear me?”

  Welch stepped up toward the road, looked at Abell, said, “What the hell do they want, LT?”

  Abell shrugged. “They don’t want to be Chinese, I guess. Battalion says keep an eye on ’em, watch for infiltrators. There have been Chinese soldiers slipping along with ’em. If they’re surrendering, grab ’em. If they try anything, then you can shoot ’em.”

  Abell moved away now, and Welch gave a last glance to the men at the hut, moved into the road.

  “Let’s go.”

  Riley looked toward the hut, saw Morelli bending low, Rebbert lifting the child, the child letting out a hard cry. Morelli was talking to the child in low whispers, Rebbert wrapping the blanket around the small body. The whimpering came again, then quieted, and Riley felt relief, thought, He’s okay, I guess. Rebbert worked on the child for a long moment, then said, “Hey, Sarge. It’s no good.”

  Welch was angrier now, impatient. “What’s no good? Get him out here. The kid wants to carry him, he can carry him.”

  Morelli lowered the bundle to the frozen ground, kept to his knees, soft words. Rebbert put a hand on Morelli’s shoulder, said, “Sarge, I told you. It was no good. The child’s dead.”

  Welch said, “What do you mean he’s dead? Just like that?”

  Rebbert pulled Morelli up by the shoulder of his coat and Riley saw dull shock on Morelli’s face. Morelli said, “He just quit. Stopped breathing. He was stiff as a board, damn near.”

  Riley closed his eyes again, didn’t want to hear any more. He shouldered the rifle, looked up along the ridgeline above them, saw Marines moving out that way, the constant push to protect the column. He flexed his stiff toes, icy wetness, the twisting misery in his stomach. Behind him, Morelli moved back to his place in the march and Riley heard sobs, Morelli, his eyes down. They began to move again, the sounds returning, a truck to their front, more behind, and along the roadside, another string of shattered huts.

  —

  The refugees had been as Abell described, a gathering parade of misery, old men and women, suffering children, and the younger men who tried to blend in. Many of those were soldiers who had given up the fight, Chinese and even North Korean troops, some not bothering to hide their uniforms or coats. Many of those were injured, light wounds or, more likely, severe frostbite. But there were others who still knew their duty, who worked their way close to the column of Marines, close to a truck of wounded men, only to toss a grenade, pull a burp gun from inside their clothing. There were casualties, but not many, the infiltrators not surviving long, the Marines offering no mercy to the enemy who had shown none.

  As they continued the downhill march, Riley ignored the harsh shrieks of the heavy artillery shells passing overhead, big guns in Hungnam still engaged, the artillery impacting pockets of Chinese troops all along the main road. Behind them, Murray’s Fifth again brought up the rear, those men cleaning up the last remnants of whatever stand the Chinese were still willing to make. As the Marines reached the outposts north of Hungnam, the Chinese finally backed away. The officers already in the port city had no idea if the enemy had been ordered to stand down by their commanders, or whether the smaller units had withdrawn on their own, conceding that the great struggle was past.

  HUNGNAM, NORTH KOREA—DECEMBER 12, 1950

  The beards were still there, the men only slightly more clean, no one with any real incentive to change out their uniforms. At the medical tents and the larger hospitals, men gathered to ask about friends, seeking any information they might find.

  Riley had stood in line for more than an hour, an unsatisfying and fruitless effort to learn something about Killian. He moved across an open field now, tents lined up to one side, a formation of parked trucks behind him. He wasn’t sure just what to do, had eaten all his uncertain belly would absorb. He thought of returning to the bivouac, had heard there would be another mail run later in the day. The letters from Ruthie had been waiting for him, four in all, perfume and sweetness, a photo of mother and son beside their Christmas tree. He carried that now, slid into his shirt, argued with himself if he should do that, if keeping her so close would only make him more homesick. I’m here, he thought. And that sure as hell ain’t changing anytime soon. But by damn, I do love looking at both of ’em. One day soon, I hope to God, it’s all three of us.

  “Hey, Pete!”

  He knew the voice, saw Welch limping toward him. Riley waited, watched him, knew better than to scold him.

  “Howdy do, Hamp. How you feeling?”

&nbs
p; “Hurts like hell. Not bad enough for morphine, and I don’t want that crap inside me anyway. I guess if McCarthy hadn’t gone down, he’d have chewed on my ass to check my feet more. You find out about Irish?”

  Riley shook his head. “They got nothing on him here. Said he probably flew straight to Japan, with the worst foot cases. I’ll track him down sooner or later.”

  Welch was serious now. “Not likely. I heard all that garbage about us being shipped home. It ain’t happening. They’re loading us up on those tubs out there, moving us down to Pusan. It’ll be a while before the rest of us go home.”

  Riley felt a punch in his chest. “So much for being home for Christmas.”

  “I never believed that anyway. I heard from the LT, Eighth Army got way more busted up than we did. They couldn’t even hold on to Pyongyang. The whole UN force has pulled back below the boundary with the North. Brass is saying the Chinese won’t stop there, that maybe in the spring, we get hit even more.”

  Riley absorbed that, said, “So, we’re back where we started from.”

  “Yep. Everybody’s waiting to hear what MacArthur is gonna do next. Meantime, we gotta get shipshape. They just put up a flock of shower tents back behind the truck park. I’ve gotta get rid of this fur on my face. And you could use a good dose of soaping, too.”

  Riley pulled the photo from his pocket. “Yeah, I guess. Look here. Ruthie sent this. She had her pop get us a Christmas tree. She and Peter decorated it all up. He’s grown, Hamp. He’s up to her waist now.”

  Welch scanned the photo, smiled, held it for a long minute. “God, he looks like you. Poor kid.” Welch kept his eyes on the photo, no smile now. “I want me one of those, Pete. I want the whole package.”

  Riley was surprised, saw more seriousness than he expected. “Hell, you got fifteen names in your book. Just pick one. You’re a war hero now. They’ll go all gooey just hearing about it.”

  It was a joke, but Welch didn’t smile.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. One of these days, they’ll send us home. If I get out of this thing in one piece…” He paused. “I need your help, Pete. Maybe Ruthie can ask her friends, find someone worth talking to. I mean, real talking. They don’t need to kick their shoes off after five minutes. Kinda don’t wanna do that stuff anymore.”

  Riley saw Welch still staring at the photo. “Sure thing, Hamp. Ruthie’s got a pile of friends. It’ll work. One I know of, really nice girl. She’s a knockout, too. Pretty sure she’s not like any of those in your book. From what Ruthie’s said, I’m pretty sure she’s kept her shoes on.”

  “Thanks, Pete. I’ll remind you about that when we get home.”

  “You won’t have to. Ruthie will start working on you first thing.”

  Welch handed the photo back to Riley, and Riley caught the look in Welch’s eyes, a smile now. Welch reached a hand out, slapped Riley’s arm. “You need a shower.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Smith

  HUNGNAM, NORTH KOREA—DECEMBER 12, 1950

  SMITH STOOD OUT in the breeze, a soft chill wrapping him, the light jacket not quite adequate. Around him, the camps were in full bloom, great rows of tents, larger tents where food was being served, and the medical and evacuation facilities, the final stop for men not yet assigned to the hospital ships offshore or the larger facilities in Japan.

  He watched the men, some in groups, some alone, wandering as though they were lost. He kept back from all of that, would allow them the brief respite, disorganized and scattered, with no particular place they needed to be. In the larger tents, he knew the papers were flowing, Bowser and the other senior staff tracking down the various units, the weaknesses, the holes, sorting through the massive details of rebuilding the First Marine Division.

  He didn’t know yet what the next assignment would be, if Ned Almond would still be in command, if the division would even remain a part of Tenth Corps. It was a respite for him as well, a brief pause from the orders, the duties, the job. He had already pondered what might happen now, if he would protest serving under Almond again, just how much noise he could make and still keep his career. He has to know what we did out here, he thought. He’s not stupid, after all. He’s just not…leadership. He should go back to Tokyo and do what he did before, shining Mac’s shoes, cleaning up paperwork jams. MacArthur has to know where Almond’s better off, where all of us would be better off.

  The wharves were frantic with activity, ships of all sizes, guarded by the warships offshore, patrols of aircraft overhead. He moved that way, energized by the chill, and he did not ignore the irony of that, the temperatures here so much warmer than what his men had suffered around the Chosin Reservoir. He had learned that the altitude there was more than three thousand feet above where he stood now, and in the winter that part of Korea could be one of the coldest in all of Asia. I knew that, he thought, before we ever began the march. But I didn’t really know, none of us could.

  He had seen the reports of the numbers of frostbite cases, crippling and in many cases permanent damage, worse for many than the wounds from enemy bullets. They’ll write about it, he thought, the men, the reporters. They should. No one should ignore what those men went through.

  The letters had reached him from home, most from Esther, a chronicle of her days of fear and uncertainty, fueled by the newspapers and all those voices who had no real knowledge of just what was happening. He thought of her, couldn’t help a smile, moved closer to the water’s edge. He kept far away from the activity, focused on the calm sea, caught the salt smell, even now, in winter, memories of Hawaii. We will do that again, he thought. Without a war, without generals and newspapermen and casualty reports. My girls, too. It would be amazing to watch my granddaughter grow up. Maybe I can keep the boys away, at least for a while. He smiled. That didn’t work so well with my daughters.

  Don’t do that, he thought. Every one of these boys wants to go home a whole lot more than they want to be here. And they’ve earned it more than you. They’ve gone through more kinds of hell than any of us expected, and unless the commandant tosses me overboard, there’s still too much to do out here. There’s still a war, and it’s a whole lot nastier than any of us thought. For now, I’ve still got my command. And every man in this place still salutes me. They know what we did, even if Washington’s trying to figure it out. He thought of Truman’s man, Frank Lowe. He’s been holed up with Walton Walker for a while, while Eighth Army tries to pull itself back together. Maybe they had it worse than us. There was nothing about what happened over there that smelled like anything but a flat-out retreat. But don’t you say that, never. Not once. Not to Lowe, not to your own officers. It’s too easy to make enemies, and nothing good comes from that. No matter what Ned Almond might believe, the only contest going on here is between us and the Chinese. And we’re not done yet. Sorry, Esther, but Hawaii will have to wait. He fingered one of her letters in his pocket, recalled her words, could see her face as he read them.

  “Your march is being called many things. ‘An attack in reverse,’ ‘a fighting march to the sea.’ But the description I like best is that it is a ‘splendid moral victory.’ I think it was just that, and I am very grateful.”

  No, he thought. It is so much more than that. So much talk about disaster, about our mistakes and flaws and poor decisions. So much about the quality of our enemy, and how badly we underestimated him. So much about suffering and loss and blame. They must be told, they must know what I know. There was no defeat, no tragedy here. It was war, and the men in this command didn’t just survive and escape. We were outnumbered and outmaneuvered, and yet we persevered. He looked toward the camps again, a swarm of activity around the tents. None of those men believe we were defeated. They came down from that reservoir, those hills, with purpose, and that purpose remains. This war will go on, and they will need us, somewhere, and very soon. And no matter anything that has happened, we will be ready. And we will do the job. And that is our victory.

  AFTERWORD

  THROUGHO
UT THE EARLY MONTHS of 1951, the Chinese make every effort to exploit their gains, filling the void left by the withdrawal of American and United Nations forces across all of North Korea. Though the Chinese recapture the South’s capital of Seoul, they are not content to maintain a position that pushes the boundary southward well below the 38th parallel. Mounting a number of major offensives, they continue to wage war aggressively, against an enemy who has finally learned just what kind of foe the Chinese have become. As a result, the Americans and their allies continue to build up their resources, and thus their defensive lines.

  The war settles into a brutal stalemate, though there are voices in the American high command, notably General James Van Fleet, who insist that the Chinese are vulnerable to another all-out effort to drive them back to the Yalu River. But Washington is leery of a tactic that has already failed in a spectacular way. The goal, stated discreetly, is to return Korea to the status quo that existed before the war, reestablishing the boundary between North and South at the 38th parallel. It is a solution that inspires no one.

  Though combat erupts along the various fronts, there is a realization on both sides that with the Americans insisting on maintaining a “limited war,” without the potential for nuclear weaponry, peace can only be achieved by negotiation. According to historian David Halberstam, “No one knew how to end it. The war had settled into unbearable, unwinnable battles. It had reached a point where there were no more victories, only death.”

  In July 1951, peace talks begin at Kaesong, northern South Korea, and eventually are moved to Panmunjom, close to the border itself. But while the United Nations negotiators push for a resolution, the Chinese are distrustful at best of any offer or suggestion that does not originate in Peking. Worse for the negotiations, Joseph Stalin is firmly behind the Chinese, and believes that a protracted war will weaken his primary communist rival, as well as his adversaries in the West. The negotiations drag out for close to two years, while on the battlefront, blood continues to spill.