Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Riley stood in the foxhole, laid the Thompson down, stared with Welch, neither man speaking. All along the line, cheers began to flow out, shouts and greetings, the Marines moving up toward them responding with calls of their own. Welch climbed up without speaking, moved out past the muzzle of the machine gun, Riley struggling to follow. He stepped once more past the walls of bodies, stood alongside Welch, watched the Marines as they made contact with the others along the ridge. Hands went out, more loud talk, and Riley felt a shiver, raw emotion, tried to blink through the frosty tears in his eyes. Two men made their way up the hill straight below them, filthy bearded faces, ragged coats over dirty pants, one man calling out, pulling a can from his pocket.

“Howdy, Marine. They told us you might be hungry. Got some beef stew here, if you want it.”

Welch took the can, mumbled something, his voice low, his head down. The man pulled out another can, offered it to Riley, who stared at the man’s outstretched hand, the dull green tin. Riley felt the strength go out of his legs, and he dropped down to his knees, sat back on his heels, too weak to raise his arm. The man stepped closer, stuffed the can into Riley’s coat pocket.

“Maybe later, then.”

The other Marine pulled more rations from his coat, tossed them into the foxhole behind Riley, and after a quiet moment Welch offered the man his hand, said, “What took you so damn long?”

The first man smiled, said, “It’s kind of a hike, and there’s about five million Chinese tried to stop us. The colonel wasn’t sure just what we’d find. It’s good to see you boys are still up here. But I gotta say. You look like hell.”

Throughout the day on December 2, Captain Barber ordered the preparation for his men to evacuate their position on Fox Hill. The wounded were of course the first priority, their number increasing by two dozen more, the casualties Davis’s battalion had taken on their extraordinary journey.

While Fox Company gathered up their own gear, anything worth retrieving, Davis’s men continued their mission. The hills around Toktong Pass were still infested with Chinese, men who had kept their distance as they observed this fresh influx of strength. Davis’s men were now the aggressors, driving the Chinese away from anyplace around Toktong Pass where they might still pose a threat. Aided by raids from the Corsairs, and blistering fire from the artillery at Hagaru-ri, by nightfall most of the enemy concentrations had been either driven away or destroyed.

With darkness settling over them one more time, the men of Barber’s command were poised for the march down off Fox Hill. Of the 240 men who had begun the fight, barely eighty had survived without wounds.

As Davis’s men continued to sweep the surrounding heights, Barber’s Marines kept watch on what had been the enemy positions, the rocky knolls and deep draws where so many assaults had come before. Instead of the bugles and whistles that had become a terrifying part of their nightly routine, the Marines were startled by an entirely new sound, the familiar clanking grind of a lone tank as it wound through the narrow pass below them. With the tank came the vanguard of Murray’s Fifth, followed by Litzenberg’s Seventh, and back behind them, scattered formations of the Chinese still willing to pursue them. But Barber’s men understood that the men coming down the main road were more than just their own salvation. Word passed quickly that the evacuation from Yudam-ni was complete, the Marines pushing their convoy of heavy equipment and wounded men southward, with only a few miles to go before they reached Hagaru-ri.

THE SURVIVORS OF Task Force Faith had continued to straggle into Hagaru-ri, men alone, others in groups of a dozen or more. The greatest surprise had come out on the ice of the frozen reservoir, hundreds of soldiers fleeing the Chinese by drifting out onto the wide-open, coverless terrain, shuffling through several inches of fresh snow, some carrying the men who could not walk by themselves. As they came into view of the forward observation posts, one Marine officer had reacted by commandeering one of his jeeps, and accompanied by a convoy of vehicles and a team of his own subordinates, he had driven onto the ice, pushing out as far as he dared. Unsure of the thickness of the ice beneath him, and coming under fire from Chinese troops along the shoreline, the Marines had moved in closer on foot, corralling as many of the soldiers as they could, leading them or in some cases carrying them back to the safety of the lines at Hagaru-ri.

Smith had heard about the rescue, was as curious about this new hero as he was the condition of the soldiers who had made it back. The jeep rolled slowly, the driver with a keen eye on the limits of the land, the snow disguising the water’s edge. As they passed the last of the low huts, Smith saw smoke, a fat fire roaring near the edge of the ice, men standing close, hands out, bearded faces fixed on the flames that warmed them. Beside Smith, the driver sat hunched over in the jeep, his face wrapped as usual, a swath of green fabric engulfing most of the man’s face. Smith glanced behind him, saw the red-faced Captain Sexton, who said, “That’s him in the jeep, sir. Colonel Beall.”

“I know who it is.”

Beside Smith, his driver said, “I heard all kinds of stories, sir. Hard to believe it.”

It was an odd comment to hear from the young man, who rarely offered any kind of sound but the occasional groan from the blustery winds that ripped through the jeep.

Smith was curious, looked again toward the fire, the officer paying no attention to his visitors. “Why do you say that, Corporal?”

“Well, begging your pardon, sir, but Colonel Beall is not a man prone to good deeds. I mean, he’s rather a tough nut. Every time I have your vehicles serviced, or even cleaned up, I catch all kinds of grief for it. The colonel seems to be unhappy most all the time.” The young man paused. “Oh, gee, sir, I didn’t mean nothing. Shouldn’t have spoke up.”

Smith glanced back at Sexton, saw a smile through cracked lips. He was still curious, said to the driver, “I know Colonel Beall, son. Heads up the First Motor Battalion, and there’s nobody better for the job. Most of those motor pool fellows aren’t happy unless they’ve got a wrench in their hands and grease on their uniforms.”

Sexton said, “I think the corporal here has learned that those motor boys love their steel hardware as much as the artillery or the tank drivers do. I dented up a jeep once, and Beall…Colonel Beall threw enough cussing at me to start a forest fire.”

Smith heard the humor in Sexton’s voice, ignored it. “Both of you need to pay a little more attention to a man’s deeds instead of his mouth. Colonel Ridge has made it pretty clear to me that Colonel Beall has saved some lives, and maybe a whole lot of them. I want to hear more about it from him.”

Beside him, the driver kept his head down, said, “Well, yes, sir. That’s what I’ll say from now on, I promise, sir.”

Smith looked again at the young man, thought, Not everybody here has to be buddies. And not every officer is a nice guy. I’m not sure what this particular bug is about. Maybe I should keep it that way.

“Stay here, son. Keep the jeep running. Captain, follow me.”

Smith stepped out of the jeep, eyed the gathering of men around the fire. There were two dozen or more, ragged and filthy, no weapons, Beall now speaking to the men as though they were there for inspection.