Ian Slater - World in Flames

“Yes, sir,” Norton told him straight, uncomfortably but fearlessly. “You did overreact, and you said if ever you did, I had your permission to—”

“Yes, yes,” said Freeman grumpily, walking away from Norton and the chopper pad, hands clasped behind him, head bowed, trudging below the line of the hill. It reminded Norton of a painting he’d seen of Napoleon on the eve of the battle for Austerlitz.

When Freeman returned from his solitary walk, his hands were on his holsters. “You’re right, Jim. I did overreact, but—” he sighed, looking over at the ice-blue hills “—those men in there think I’m a damned coward.” He looked at Norton. “A goddamn yellow belly!”

“No, sir — I’m sure—”

“Higher up the totem pole you get,” confided Freeman, his gaze taking in the long, frozen snake of the Yalu, “more you lose touch. Commander’s got to lead, Jim. This whole front is moribund. You could smell it in there — that wasn’t sweat, that was the odor of fear. Creigh’s defeat has passed through the whole front like diarrhea. That’ll get more men killed than Chinese bullets.” He cast his gaze in the direction of the scattered American positions on the hilltops to the west. “By God, that’s what’s wrong here, Jim. It’s a defeated army.”

“Well, maybe now, sir, but when we counterattack—”

“With what?” Freeman growled. “Troops with that kind of morale won’t do it. Hell, why should they? Creigh gets stressed out and runs. Leadership’s gone.”

“Sir, they know you were at Pyongyang, that—”

“No, Jim. That was last season. Old coach like me knows better than that. All they see now is someone flying around in this eggbeater giving ‘em the old rah! rah! rah!” He was walking away from Norton again. “No, Jim, it won’t work. This team won’t attack on the basis of my old win. Last year’s pennant. Besides, Chinese weren’t in the game then. Our boys have got goddamned dragon disease.”

Freeman was staring ahead, but Norton could see it wasn’t the North Korean fastness that arrested him, but memories.

“When I was a youngster,” Freeman confided, “my parents would take me into ‘Frisco to see the Chinese New Year celebrations. I remember the very sight of a dragon in Chinatown was more terrifying to me than anything else I could think of. Fire coming out of its nose, damned thing snaking all about. These boys are scared shitless of the Chinese. See it in their eyes.” He turned around to Norton, gloved hands on his holsters one second, right arm sweeping toward the Yalu the next. “They don’t need me for strategy here. Blind man could figure out the attack plan in five minutes. There’s the Yalu — beat the bastards back. Any first lieutenant worth his Sam Browne could figure it out. What we need is esprit de corps. And fast! That’s why they haven’t been sending out enough patrols up here to get the information we need. You can’t fight an enemy if you can’t see—” He stopped. There was fire in his eyes that Norton knew was unstoppable. “You know,” Freeman raced on, “why the Chinks want to get so close to us?”

Freeman answered his own question. “Because, Jim, they know we won’t call our artillery down on our own men. They’re frightened of our artillery. We’re the best and fastest in the world at setting up and bracketing an enemy attack. We can rain down 105-millimeters on them within ten minutes of an attack — sooner if we’re already in place. You know what they do if we close with them — hand to hand?”

Norton didn’t have to answer.

“That’s right,” said Freeman. “They’ll bring down fire on their own men. That’s why they want to close with us. And the sooner they do it, the less time we have for our artillery to break up their attack. And once they close, they’ll use our boys — those that are left alive — as hostages against our artillery.” He paused, his breathing slowed as if by will. “That’s why we’ve got to beat them to the punch. Find out exactly where their assembly areas are and bring air support and artillery down on their rat tunnels before they can move out.” In the fading light — there was still a quarter hour to sunset — he called out to the Delta major.

“Yes, General?”

“You’re a witness,” Freeman informed him, his voice lowering so as not to be overheard by the men. “I know why the Chinese haven’t attacked in the last twenty-four hours, and now I know why it’s too damned quiet, Jim.”

The major looked at Norton, but the colonel was as perplexed as he was.

“NKA have already used it on their own people. Those bastards have withdrawn across the river because they’re going to use gas.” Before Norton could respond, Freeman raced on. “Jim, this is an order. First whiff you get, you have ‘weapons release’ from me as CIC Korea to reply with 105-millimeter atomic warhead artillery. You hear that, Major?”

“Yes, sir, but hell—”

“Major, I want eight men, grenades, and a squad automatic weapon.”

“General—” began the major, alarmed.

“That’s an order, Major. Now!”

“Yes, sir.”

Norton spoke quietly. “Sir, Washington’ll have my hide if anything—”

“Jim, I want it known that I’m taking out a patrol. And I mean, I want every son of a bitch from here to Seoul to know. I want them to know that their C in C isn’t afraid of some rice-picking comrade. And I want that nuclear artillery release written down on a message pad so I can sign it in front of you and the major. And send it in plain language to Seoul HQ I want those Commie bastards to intercept it.” The general lowered his voice, glancing about to see whether any GI was nearby. “Jim, you and I know that those CBW zoo suits they’ve issued aren’t worth a pinch of coon crap. And the Commies know it. Christ, this weather’s perfect for it. Goddamned visors on our suits’ll steam up for a start. If I had my choice, I’d rather the in two minutes in the open from a gas attack than shit myself to death for ten inside one of those damned contraptions. Now, you make sure you get a Kraut car up here — on every battalion front within the next twenty-four hours. If their spectrometers signal CBW presence, you let loose with those 105 A tips. There won’t be any time to screw around. Then I want you to Flash SACEUR Brussels HQ and tell them that Operation Merlin is to go.”

“Yes, General.” Freeman signaled the chopper pilot to start her up as Norton, using his thigh as a table, wrote down the order to have a Kraut — German-made Fox NBC — nuclear biological/ chemical — weapons reconnaissance vehicle — moved up immediately from Kusong to Delta. After the general signed it, Norton held out his hand. For an embarrassing moment the general thought it was for his pen. Then he realized Norton was saying good-bye. Freeman shook hands, Norton asking, “I suppose there’s no way I can talk you out of this, General?”

“Course not,” said Freeman, grinning. “You know better than that.”

“Yes, sir.” Freeman smacked Norton affectionately on the shoulder. “God go with you, Jim.”

The colonel tried to answer but couldn’t. Instead, he saluted, then turning to the major, gave him the second copy of the message for transmit from Delta Outpost HQ to Seoul, lest the chopper be hit in transit. Lowering his head, left hand holding his helmet down, Norton ran to board the chopper.

As the Black Hawk took off in a bluish-white swirl of snow, Freeman turned and saw eight white figures — the GIs in their white camouflage overlays — straggling out from the trench.

“You boys volunteer?” asked Freeman as he clipped on the grenades and took the squad automatic weapon and pack from the major.