Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Smith couldn’t hide his anxiousness. “I’m not going to sit here and jabber on the radio while those men slug it out. We’re not helpless. I want a force to move out on the main road, shove up as close as possible to the lead of the column, do what we can to eliminate the enemy who we know is standing in their way.”

He was surprised to see Colonel Drysdale entering the tent, the usual spit and polish, clean-shaven, his uniform pressed.

“Oh, very sorry, sir. I did not mean to intrude. Just wanted to check on some extra rations for my wounded.”

Smith didn’t respond, the thought forming in his head. To one side, Colonel Williams said, “No matter. General, if you’ll allow, I can see to Colonel Drysdale’s request.”

Smith shook his head. “I have a better idea. Colonel, are your men in position to embark on an assignment?”

Drysdale did not hesitate. “By all means, sir. My men are ready for any task you wish them to undertake.”

“Then undertake this. Put them to the road, northward. I want them to get rid of the enemy troops who are on those closest hills. We’ve got a heavy column coming this way, and they’ve taken enough casualties.”

Drysdale seemed to light up. “If you mean, sir, that we should open the path for those boys, I’m happy to oblige. Would it be possible to add some of your tanks to our efforts? Casualties are a certainty, as you know. That could help.”

Smith looked at Bowser. “Colonel, order the Thirty-first Tank Company to roll out immediately, in support of the Royal Marines. Open that damn road.”

HAGARU-RI—DECEMBER 3, 7:30 P.M.

With the darkness came the brutal cold, but Smith wouldn’t keep to the command post. He had taken the jeep, others in line with him, moved out toward the limits of the perimeter to the north. The sounds of fighting had mostly stopped, scattered sounds coming from farther up the road, what remained of the struggle for the rear guard to hold the Chinese off the tail of the column. With the darkness, he had ordered Drysdale’s men to withdraw, that if the Chinese were to make another assault, it was better if the perimeter was strong, avoiding confusion for the gunners who would target the high places along the road.

He put a hand out, the silent order for the driver to halt the jeep. Smith’s eyes had adjusted to the gloomy night, his ears sheltered by the hooded coat, and he slipped the coat back, strained to hear. Around him, the others were doing the same, the men along the perimeter very aware why he was out there in the cold night. Within minutes he heard it, the rumble of trucks, the lone tank, and he stood tall in the jeep, absorbing the sounds. It was one moment of success in a campaign ripe with disasters, one mission fulfilled, by men he knew he could depend on. Their mission was not yet complete, the danger far from eliminated. But now, on this one night, for a long few minutes, he allowed himself to feel their pride, their relief.

They came in column, Ray Davis’s men, the First Battalion, Seventh, led by Davis himself. Behind them came the first vehicles, trucks filled with wounded men, jeeps with corpses strapped to the hoods, more bodies lashed to any piece of equipment that could hold them, including the long barrels of the artillery pieces.

They approached the checkpoint, Colonel Ridge’s roadblock, one foolish officer insisting that no one pass without offering up the current password. Davis responded as appropriately as he could, that no one in this column had any idea what the password was, and that the best idea for anyone manning the checkpoint was to move out of the way. The officer complied.

Just outside the checkpoint, the Royal Marines had performed one last dangerous task, eliminating an advance by a small body of enemy troops, what might have been a last costly firefight for the men down on the road. Their job complete, Drysdale’s men positioned themselves along the line of march, welcoming the Americans with calls of good cheer, as well as cigarettes and chocolate bars.

With barely a quarter mile to go before entering the perimeter, Colonel Davis ordered a halt, passing the word that any man who could march would now do so. Obeying the call, the trucks held back, the Marines, including dozens of walking wounded, forming up in column. At Davis’s command, they began to march once more, moving past the respectful salutes of the Royal Marines.

In his jeep, watching them come, Oliver Smith gave himself up to the moment, his own emotions wrapped around those of his men, as Davis’s Marines, ragged and filthy and unshaven, made their way into Hagaru-ri, singing the words every Marine knew so well.

“From the halls of Montezuma, to the shores of Tripoli…”

ALL ALONG THE MARCH, Riley had stayed close to the truck that carried so many of the wounded men, including Killian, who rode in the same truck as Lieutenant McCarthy. Around the truck were more wounded, men who could walk, no one trying to hitch a ride if it meant crowding those men who were so worse off.

They had come into Hagaru-ri several hours behind Davis’s First Battalion, but the greeting they received was no less emotional, and no less enthusiastic. The British were there still, passing out hot coffee, which very quickly lost its burn. For men who had not tasted coffee in days, the cooling off was welcome. Tender faces also meant tender mouths, bleeding gums, and cracked lips. For some, including Riley, the lack of real food had drained their appetites, digestive systems impacted or shut down completely, most of the men unable to make use of a latrine since the assaults had begun. The medical staffs seemed to understand just how poor these men had become, that beneath the layers of frozen crust on their uniforms and faces, malnutrition and dehydration could create one more kind of bedridden casualty. But if a man was fit enough to avoid a visit to the aid station, the staffs guided them in another direction, where the hot food waited.

Riley followed the scent, not even his chapped and burnt nostrils able to disguise what was emerging from the mess tents. He followed Welch through the flaps of the big tent, the smells overwhelming now. Besides the amazing odors was the heat, and Riley felt swallowed by warmth, stopped, stared with tired eyes at the men who had already swarmed around the mess tables. They sat in long rows, some of the men barely holding themselves upright. Around them, the mess orderlies slid mounds of food in a steady procession in front of anyone who had the strength to empty his plate. Riley stepped closer, one hand on Welch’s shoulder, trying to keep upright, staggering unsteadiness in his knees.

“Hey, you boys. There’s seats over here.”

Riley followed the voice, a smiling orderly with his hands on the backs of a pair of metal chairs. Welch stepped that way, Riley following numbly. They reached the chairs, and Welch sat heavily, Riley sliding in beside him. Across from him, a familiar face, one of Barber’s aides, the man shoveling something thick and gooey into his mouth, a drool flowing down through the thick stubble on the man’s chin. There was a plate put down in front of Riley now, and he absorbed the sight, had a sudden sense that this wasn’t real, one more illusion after days of nightmares. No one was speaking, and Welch stuffed a fork into the pile on his plate, Riley fumbling for the fork with the fingers of his rotten gloves. He looked at his hands, tugged at the gloves, pulled them free from his swollen red fingers, tried to pick up the fork, dropped it, and across from him the man said, “Just use your hands, if you have to. Worth it. Best damn pancakes I ever ate.”