Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Alpha Bowser had just turned forty, was another of the veterans of the campaigns in the Pacific, and when Smith went to Korea, he was grateful to have Bowser assigned to his staff. Bowser brought a capacity for patience, and as Smith had quickly discovered, when dealing directly with the communications from the Tenth Corps, patience was critical.

“End the mystery, Colonel.”

“Delighted to, sir. If you will all take note of this. General MacArthur made his latest farewell to us from Kimpo this morning. As his last official act on Korean soil, for this week anyway, he presented our illustrious commander with a Silver Star. Allow me to congratulate you, sir.”

Smith was annoyed, knew that Bowser was spilling out a truckload of his own sarcasm.

“Stuff that, Colonel. A commendation like that is for combat, not for standing around looking official.” He looked at the others now, all eyes on him. “Make nothing of this. You understand? General MacArthur seems eager to award anyone at any time the mood strikes him. I will not celebrate such things that are not deserved.” No, no. Keep your mouth shut. He pointed toward Sexton, seated at a small table, said to Bowser, “Give the thing to Captain Sexton. Hide it, Captain. No one mentions this again.”

Sexton was smiling, the staff clearly not taking his anger seriously.

“As you wish, sir. Should I send it home to your wife?”

Smith tried to remove his gloom, to feel their mood, the entire staff enjoying the scene. He nodded, a hint of his own smile breaking through. “Fine. I’ll have a letter for her today as well.”

Sexton reached for a piece of paper on the desk, said, “Oh, and this came for you, sir. I suspect Mrs. Smith might already be aware. Hard to keep this stuff quiet.”

Smith reached for the paper, said, “What is it now?” He read, Sexton not responding. He read again, wondered if there was some prankster at work. “This cannot be. I never thought that photographer was serious.”

Bowser moved up beside him, peering discreetly at the paper, said, “Problem, sir?”

Smith hung his head, the note crumpled in a wad. “I assume all of you know about this?”

There were low mumbles of agreement and Smith looked at Sexton, said, “You may inform Colonel Bowser. I can’t do it.”

Sexton stood, more ceremony than Smith wanted. “Colonel Bowser, it pleases me to report that our commanding officer, General O. P. Smith, has been anointed as our latest national celebrity. His picture will grace the cover of Time magazine for the week of twenty-five September.”

Bowser stared for a moment at Sexton, then at Smith. “Good God, sir, you’re a star. How’d this happen?”

Sexton said, “It seems that General MacArthur’s praise for our commander’s performance during the Inchon invasion was heard in all the right places. The reporter was one of the crew that followed the general here and there. Mainly here .”

Bowser said, “Congratulations indeed, sir. It is certain that your wife will know of this as quickly as the rest of the country. She will be most proud, sir. As are we all.”

Smith tossed the note into a trash can. “Just go back to work. The Inchon invasion has only begun. Lest any of you forget, we are taking casualties this very minute. Men are dying so that I can be on the cover of a magazine. I take no pride in that.” He knew he had drained away their morale, but would not apologize. This is MacArthur, he thought. This is how we fight his war.

Ed Craig emerged from a smaller room, the space that served as Smith’s own office.

“Sir, we have received a communication from Tenth Corps.”

“Fine.”

He followed Craig back into the smaller room, a young corporal at the desk, pen in hand. Craig said, “You may leave.”

The young man stood quickly, made his way past the two officers, and Craig closed the rickety door behind him. Smith said, “What now?”

“Sir, we are receiving reports from the regimental level, particularly from Colonel Murray, that General Almond is issuing orders directly to those commands. Your commands, sir. He has apparently made good use of a small spotter plane and is dropping in on the various positions as he sees fit. I am told that the general has gone so far as to order the positioning of individual machine guns and mortar batteries. Colonel Murray is most unhappy with this, of course. Colonel Puller is…well, he’s Puller. You can imagine his response. Apparently, General Almond feels that by going directly to the front lines, as it were, he can speed things along.”

“Bypassing my command.”

Craig nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Smith felt lava boiling in his brain, clamped it down. “You said you had a communication?”

Craig leaned out over the desk, searched, grabbed a piece of paper, handed it to Smith.

“From General Almond, this morning.”

You are instructed to advance with all deliberate speed, capture the city of Seoul as ordered, with a minimum of destruction to the buildings in the city, and hasten the ongoing withdrawal of the enemy. This command anticipates that by your stout show of force, the enemy will make haste to avoid a significant confrontation. There must be no delay.

Smith said, “He said this three days ago.”

“And two days ago, and yesterday.”

Smith tossed the paper on the desk. “There is apparently some displeasure at Corps HQ that the enemy is putting up a fight.”

“I would disagree, sir. There is displeasure that this division is behaving as though there is an enemy in the first place. Intelligence continues to insist that the bulk of the North Korean forces have vacated Seoul and are retreating up through Uijongbu, near the border.”

“And yet, General Almond is issuing orders to men in the field engaged in a fight that his own people are telling him doesn’t exist?”

“That sounds accurate, sir.”

There was a soft knock and Smith turned, pulled the door open: Bowser, no smile now.

“What is it, Colonel?”

“Sir, General Lowe has returned. Wishes to speak with you. Sorry.”

Smith looked at Craig, cocked a finger over his shoulder, the silent order to leave. Craig moved past him, tapped him on the back.

“We’re with you, sir. Every damn one of us.”

Smith stood alone for a long moment, the air thick in the small room, the smell of smoke and paperwork. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a pipe, sniffed the bowl, the tobacco still fresh. He would rarely smoke around any other brass, certainly not MacArthur, and never in any kind of high-level meeting. But there were times…

“Ah, General, pleasure to see you again.”

“General Lowe. Do come in. Sorry there isn’t more, um, luxury.”

“Nonsense. Mind if I sit? An hour bouncing in a jeep is a different kind of luxury.”

Smith motioned to a small folding chair, Lowe easing down, a slight grimace on his face. Smith moved behind the small desk, sat as well, waited for whatever the man had to say.

Major General Frank Lowe had arrived a few days before, carrying the only authorization required for him to be anyplace he wanted to be. He was there specifically as an observer for President Harry Truman, and carried no authority to lead troops, had no command status, and from what Smith could tell, was perfectly content just watching anything worth watching. Lowe was older than Smith, mid-sixties, but his bearing was similar to Smith’s, a tall, thin, straight-backed man. His qualifications came more from his friendship with Truman than from any particular military expertise, even the rank something of a mystery. Lowe had planted himself into Smith’s command, had even brought a cot to share Smith’s meager quarters. Smith had been anything but happy with Lowe’s arrival, but warmed to the man quickly. Lowe had no caginess about him, had freely admitted his reasons for being there, to communicate his personal observations to the president on a nearly daily basis.