Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

He felt overwhelmed, sat up straight. Behind her, he could see a variety of faces, his aides, overwhelmed in ways of their own. He stood, tugged at his jacket, his brain screaming caution.

“Miss Higgins, I have far more to worry about than a flock of reporters. But that doesn’t mean you are not my responsibility.”

“I intend to march out of here with your men. It’s the best way I can get an accurate story of what their experiences have been like. The American people are begging for the story, just what it has been like for these men. It’s no secret that this could have been a very different kind of story, a postmortem. The men who fought their way out of certain disaster deserve to have their stories told.”

“You may write whatever you please. But you will not march alongside my men.”

She seemed to grow angrier now, hands on her hips. “You would discriminate against me because I am a woman. I expected as much.”

He let out a breath, glanced up behind her, hoping to see Bowser. “Miss Higgins, it is precisely because you are a woman that I cannot have you marching in column with my men.”

She made a sound, was red-faced now, and he felt a surge of desperation, called out, “Where is Colonel Bowser? Find him!”

“Is my being a woman a threat to you, General? Do you feel I am too fragile to march?”

He felt anger himself now, took a deep breath, the word rolling over again in his brain. Careful . “Miss Higgins, I am not threatened by you or any other woman, except perhaps my wife when she’s royally angry. I am well aware that you being here is a distraction, as are you . My men have a difficult job in front of them that will very likely involve heavy combat. There will also be casualties due to the cold, frostbite cases, and whatnot. Should you become injured in any way, I know how my men will respond. Their attention will be diverted. They will do all they can to ensure your safety, or they will compete to see who will take care of you. I am sure that these men would go to any length to take care of you, and we haven’t time for that kind of business. Such a distraction could be dangerous, if not to you, then to my men. I won’t have it. You will board the next plane out of here.”

Bowser was laughing, and Smith held his scowl, was in no mood for it.

“Where were you?”

“I came as soon as they found me. But you appear to have weathered the storm.”

Smith jabbed the pipe into his mouth. “She’ll write this up, you know. Paint a picture of me like some sort of barbarian. We don’t need this kind of nonsense, Alpha. Not one bit!”

Bowser laughed again. “We’re Marines, sir. To most people that makes us barbarians. No harm will come, surely.”

“She wanted to go out with the troops. Can you see that? These men haven’t seen an American woman in ages.”

“She’s a comely lass, too. Oh, there would be fistfights, I’m sure.”

Smith looked at him, still the scowl. “Nothing’s funny about this, Colonel.”

Bowser looked down, stifled the smile. “I apologize, sir. But you have to admit, she added a little spice to your day.”

“I don’t admit any such thing. Make sure she gets on that plane. She’s taking up a wounded man’s space. Somebody down there should have stopped her before now.”

“I don’t think anyone had the guts.”

Smith felt his anger calming, Bowser’s good humor contagious. He tasted the pipe, allowed himself to enjoy the smoke, and Bowser said, “She’s spitting mad, that’s for sure. But she’ll get over it. I heard the other reporters talking about her. None of ’em are as fired up to march out of here as she is. I’m guessing she’ll be waiting for us down the road a ways.”

Smith pulled the pipe from his mouth. “Where?”

“Well, the rest of ’em are mostly going to Koto-ri. I imagine she’ll do the same.” Bowser laughed again, and Smith knew why, the scene forming in his mind. “I’d love to be there to see it, sir. I wonder if she’ll march into Colonel Puller’s HQ with that much vinegar.”

Smith couldn’t help a smile. “I hope so. At least I was polite.”

HAGARU-RI—DECEMBER 5, 2:30 P.M.

He had promised the reporters a news conference. There were few secrets to protect, the operation in front of them straightforward. Litzenberg would lead the way south while Murray’s men did what they could to sweep the enemy away from the east hill, protecting the march from the rear.

Around him now, Colonel Ridge’s perimeter had been enormously strengthened, the Marines in Hagaru-ri numbering nearly ten thousand effectives. The Chinese had seemed completely aware that any assault now would be even more costly than their attacks thus far, and so the enemy was keeping mostly quiet. The one primary sticking point for the position at Hagaru-ri was the east hill, where enemy troops continued to make themselves a dangerous nuisance. It would be Murray’s job to sweep them away, removing eyes as well as guns from the best vantage point the Chinese now had. As long as the Chinese seemed content to hang back, the movement out of Hagaru-ri might not be as dangerous as what the commanders had already dealt with at Yudam-ni. And if the Chinese made an effort to attack the town, Smith had planned on heavy air support, the Corsairs and air force planes poised to blanket the enemy’s positions. Any aggressive assault by the Chinese would have to absorb the kind of firepower the Chinese had seemed increasingly unwilling to chance.

He moved across the frozen ground, his boots cracking the thin sheet of ice that seemed to drape over every surface. The entire convoy from Yudam-ni was now safely in Hagaru-ri, and Smith had ordered them to rest and refit as much as possible, allowing both Murray and Litzenberg forty-eight hours to put their men back into shape. With the refit, including weapons and warm-weather gear, was the matter of distributing the replacements who had been flown up from Hungnam, close to six hundred men now, rebuilding the platoons and companies that had lost so many of their number. The newly healed wounded would of course return to their units, while the new men would be assigned where they were needed most.

The able survivors from Don Faith’s command had been formed into a temporary battalion numbering close to four hundred men. Smith had no idea how effective those men might be in a fight, and already there were rumblings among some of the Marine officers that the army troops should simply be kept out of the way. Smith would entertain none of that, knew that these men had seen the worst a war can be, most all of them losing friends as well as commanders. There had always been the friction between the services, and now Smith began to hear that many of the Marines were unhappy marching alongside the soldiers, many of Faith’s men offering no enthusiasm at all for another stiff fight. But Smith had no patience for squabbles. The soldiers were still capable, had been regrouped and rearmed, and in the campaign Smith had planned, their numbers were certainly needed. If they were unwilling to fight on, that was a mindset Smith couldn’t fathom.

He thought of Almond’s last boasting pledge, as the man moved out toward his small plane. I’ll give you all the B-17s and B-29s you need. We’ll open up a clean path all the way to the ocean. Smith felt a growl inside of him, thought, Almond looked like he was about to break down and cry, as though there was some kind of gooey sentiment attached to such an offer. I suppose that’s how he thinks. It’s all so simple. Bombs and big guns, and the enemy will melt away. Victory, just like that. Have none of them learned what kind of enemy this is? I wonder how many of these newspaper people think the same way.