Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Smith

“OH, LORD. HE’S BACK.”

Smith looked up from the papers on the small table, saw Bowser at the window. There was a loud clatter from the next room, a voice calling out, “General Smith! General Almond wishes to see you outside on the double.”

Smith sat back in the small chair, said, “I was just about warm. How many of our dead have we shipped out today?”

Bowser kept his gaze out the window. “Forty-six. Eight more are wrapped and ready. He’s talking to the men. Anyone who will stop long enough to listen to him.”

“Make sure those eight get on the planes today. I know Doc Hering has more wounded he wants out of here, but I want the corpses moved out just as quick. I don’t intend to leave trucks or artillery here, and I’m sure as hell not leaving the dead.”

Bowser looked at him now, knew Smith was serious. “I’ll see to it. The last plane in, one of the R4Ds, had another handful of replacements, some of the lightly wounded from Hungnam. And the reporters keep flocking in as well.”

Smith pulled himself up from the chair. “I don’t give a hoot about reporters.”

Sexton was at the door now, said, “Sir, there’s a lieutenant here who says General Almond doesn’t care to be kept waiting. They’re looking for you to meet with him outside.”

Smith felt tired resignation, said, “You may tell the impatient lieutenant I’m coming.”

“You just told him yourself, sir.”

Smith saw the man peering in over Sexton’s shoulder, ignored him, saw his coat in Sexton’s hands. He turned, Sexton holding the coat, Smith sliding his arms into the sleeves. He looked at Bowser, saw the hint of a smile.

“Don’t be so smug. You’re coming, too. He might have questions I don’t feel like answering.”

Bowser retrieved his own coat, said, “I had no doubts, sir. I aim only to please.”

“Don’t we all.”

He moved out past Almond’s young aide, still ignored him, Sexton holding the door open, a blast of cold wind greeting Smith as he stepped outside. He saw Almond, a half-dozen men gathered around him, an audience that Almond was addressing with obvious enthusiasm. Smith moved that way, his men responding by backing away. Almond saw him now, said, “Ah, Smith! You receive my congratulatory letter this morning?”

The letter had come that morning by wire, a gush of praise for Smith and his regimental commanders, as though Almond had never been angry at anyone in Smith’s command.

“We did. Thank you.”

“Nothing to it. And there’s more. I should like the lot of you to receive the Distinguished Service Cross. Perfectly appropriate, under the circumstances. Can you pull them together? The colonels, Murray and Litzenberg? Perhaps your artillery man, too.”

“Colonel Youngdale.”

“Sure, him, too. But be quick about it. I have a rather busy schedule today. I do intend to visit Colonel Puller on my way south, so no need to bother him with this now. I’ll save him the trip up here.”

Smith absorbed Almond’s good cheer, thought, Does he know just how many Chinese are sitting between here and Koto-ri? Well, no, he flew above it all. He looked at Bowser, said, “I suppose we should get the word to all three commanders. Tell them to meet here on the double.”

“Well, damn it all!” Almond was searching his pockets, obviously frustrated. “It seems I only have the one medal. Well, Smith, here it is. You might as well take it. I can have others sent up here for the rest of you.”

Smith held his words inside, fought the temptation to tell Almond just where to put the medal. Beside him, Bowser leaned in closer, said, “Sir, how about Colonel Beall?”

Smith smiled to himself, said, “General Almond, as much as my senior officers and I appreciate your gesture, we can wait for another day. However, I would very much prefer to see Lieutenant Colonel Olin Beall receive that medal. He was in command of our efforts to rescue a good many survivors of Task Force Faith. Pulled in a sizable amount of the battalion right off the ice, under the nose of Chinese snipers. Exemplary job.”

“Beall, huh? Sounds good. Newspapers will like that. Take some of the sting out of the reports about Faith’s, um, problems. Find him for me, will you?”

Smith looked at Bowser, who moved away quickly.

Almond looked again toward the small gathering of Marines, as though hoping once more for an audience. Smith felt the cold slicing through every seam in the coat, said, “Sir, might we move this inside?”

Almond weighed the request for a long second. “No. This won’t take long, and my aircraft is waiting. I told the boy to keep the engine running. Helps with the heat.” Almond seemed to have a sudden thought. “My chief of staff, General Ruffner, tells me you’re removing your dead from here. Taking up a good bit of space on the cargo planes. That a wise move?”

“It’s the only move. I’ll not leave anyone behind, if I can help it. These men deserve a proper burial.”

Almond shrugged, seemed unwilling to argue the point. Smith had already received a protest from Ruffner, paid no attention to the man’s reasoning, that such cargo was taking up space from goods far more useful. If either Ruffner or Almond decided to blow this into something larger, Smith knew that the reporters would leap on the story. And Almond would lose. Smith was becoming miserable now, had forgotten his thick wool hat.

“General, I’m going back inside. If you require my presence for your ceremony, I’ll return.”

He didn’t wait for a response, moved toward his quarters, Sexton opening the door. Smith said, “I suppose it makes him more of a warrior if he stands out there and gets frostbite. Colonel Beall can have his medal. He earned it.”

Sexton hung the coat up beside the door, said, “Sir, when Colonel Beall finds out he’s getting his medal by listening to some speech out in that wind, he might teach General Almond a few words the army’s not heard before.”

HAGARU-RI—DECEMBER 5, 1950, 10:00 A.M.

The staff saw her first, Smith detecting a low whistle from the house’s main room. He looked out that way, heard another whistle, and now, Sexton, eyes wide, standing in his doorway.

“Sir, you’re not going to believe this. That dame is here.”

Smith had no patience for mysteries, said, “What dame ?”

He heard the door now, the creak of the hinges, a hard slam, a chorus of voices. And one particular voice, responding to the obvious attention. It belonged to a woman.

Sexton glanced behind him, held the stare for a long second, then looked back at Smith. “ This dame, sir.”

She was there now, no formal request, just pushing past Sexton as though he was merely in the way. “Maggie Higgins, General. New York Herald Tribune . Mind if I sit in on a few of your discussions? I like to go right to the heart of it.”

Smith felt pressed back in his chair, her presence as full of energy as anything he had felt from Chesty Puller. She was tall, younger than he expected, and even in fatigues, Smith could see why the men reacted to her. For men who had not seen anything female in weeks, she fit the definition perfectly.

“Miss Higgins, I had heard you were in the theater. I didn’t think you’d land here. This isn’t exactly the kind of place I’d expect a woman….”

“I knew you’d throw that at me. Let me tell you something, General. I’m just as capable and just as willing to take risks as any man in the press pool. I’ve interviewed boys while they were bleeding, or being shot at. They didn’t give me a Pulitzer Prize because I’ve got great legs. I hope you don’t intend to keep me from doing my job.”