Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

He was astounded to learn just how much press coverage the plight of the Marines was receiving in the States, that every news report began with the certain doom that was swallowing the First Marine Division. So, he thought, if it’s not MacArthur telling them we’ve won this thing before it even began, it’s MacArthur or someone else telling them that all is lost. Why don’t those people wait until the story ends, one way or the other, before they tell the whole country how bad off we are? I suppose I’ll get my chance to preach about that right now. He stopped, looked at the large tent, saw a team of MPs, eyes watching him, men doing their job. Smith hesitated another moment, thought, God, I hate interviews.

“If you have any further questions, I’ll do my best to give you a straight answer. I expect all of you to board the planes by tonight and return to, well, wherever it is you came from. I do not need civilians marching alongside men under fire. And I assure you, we will be under fire. We will begin our advance very early tomorrow morning.”

“Sir, you used the word advance. Shouldn’t we describe your next operation as a retreat, or perhaps simply a withdrawal?”

He detected a British accent, one of a half-dozen reporters that had gathered in the larger tent.

“We’re not doing either one. Where the enemy is blocking our path, we will confront him. As you know, we are surrounded, and so we will have to fight our way out. I have issued attack orders to all my commanders. It just happens that this time, we’re advancing in another direction.”

Within twenty-four hours, the reporters had made the best use of the wire services, telephone, and any other communication line that would carry their stories. Very soon after, the word filtered back to Smith’s headquarters, various responses coming to him from the quote now attributed to him, a ringing cry that began to appear in headlines in every newspaper that carried the story. For Smith, the twist to his words was amusing, and unlike so many misquotes attributed to military commanders, he saw this one as positive. The language now was a bit raw for his taste, but the sentiment conveyed his message perfectly, a message that he intended more for his own men.

“Retreat, hell. We’re just attacking in another direction.”

THE BONFIRES HAD BEGUN the day before, anything not carried off by the Marines and army troops to be destroyed. The orders were specific and detailed, the order of march, the assignment for Murray’s Fifth to remain behind, long enough to prevent the enemy from striking at Hagaru-ri, until the entire force had cleared the area. To the surprise of Riley and everyone around him, Fox Company was chosen to move out first, leading the way south, the point of the entire convoy. The trucks would follow, spread out all through the column of marching men, while up the hills to the right, Marines from the Seventh’s Charlie and Baker Companies would clear away any Chinese troops who attempted to interfere. Above the road to the left, the army’s newly formed Seventh Regiment, what remained of Task Force Faith, would tackle the job. If there were doubts about the army’s abilities in a fight, the orders had mentioned nothing about it. Immediately behind Fox Company, four Sherman tanks were fueled up and put into line, though in the deep freeze of the predawn, the crews were struggling to fire up the engines. But the schedule was precise, and so, as the tanks finally coughed to life, the men of Fox Company were already moving out.

The goal was to reach Chesty Puller’s perimeter at Koto-ri, and in between lay elements of five Chinese divisions, with at least nine roadblocks identified by reconnaissance planes.

Riley was shivering, nervous energy, the cold filling his lungs as energizing as it was painful. He had never thought about going into combat again, the next time, but like most of Fox Company, he accepted that their job was not yet complete. No matter how many they had killed, no one believed the Chinese would simply turn around and go home. Within an hour of leaving the southern perimeter of Hagaru-ri, the Chinese made it very clear that they were still on the heights, and still intended to make a fight of it.

Riley’s arms were clamped tight against him, his breathing in hard bursts, no one talking. He kept behind Welch, his usual place in line, Morelli across from him. He had missed Killian immediately, the idiotic chatter that livened up any march. But the men close to him now were silent, some of those the replacements, nervous and excited men, who had welcomed the order to lead the way. He had met most of them, brief exchanges, and like the other veterans, Riley made very little effort to buddy up to anyone. Some of the new men were older, leftovers from World War II, many of those volunteering in response to the awful news that flowed across the pages of stateside newspapers. Their arrival at Hagaru-ri was mostly without fanfare, the grim acceptance of veterans that they were needed, warm bodies to fill the gaps left by so many casualties. The new recruits were wholly different, and Riley had seen too much of that already, boisterous backslapping introductions from boys who thought they were men. But the weather offered a rude slap that the adventure for these new Marines was not what they expected. Very quickly, the new men appreciated the value of the heavy coats, and many did what Riley had done long before he reached Fox Hill, tossing away the helmet, relying instead on the wool hat and the hood of the parka to prevent frozen ears.

It was mostly dark, the hint of dawn showing a gloomy blanket of fog over the hills around him. He kept his gaze downward, shielding his face from a steady spray of windblown snow. Another glorious day, he thought. Maybe it’ll keep the Chinese in their caves. He had a new thought, sweeping away his optimism. Or maybe it will keep the Corsairs from seeing anything on the ground. Christ, nothing glorious about that.

There was scattered firing up the hill to the right, a brief exchange, silence now. He felt the jump in his chest, one hand gripping the rifle close beside him. Already? Maybe we woke ’em up. Surprise, Chinamen, now get the hell out of our way. We got someplace better to be. He felt the weight of the excess ammo on his belt, in his pockets, thought, Hope I ain’t gotta use it all up. The Thompson was gone, Riley relying again on the M-1, much more useful at long range. He felt the tug of the fully loaded backpack, thought, It’s only a few miles away, so why’d they tell us to load up with so much stuff? He thought of the fires again, understood why the supply officers had opened up the PX, offering the men as much as they could carry, free of charge. From bitter experience, the veterans grabbed up things they could eat, and not the canned goods that turned quickly to blocks of ice. They had learned by now that candy was far more useful, thawing out in your mouth, and so they grabbed up enormous amounts of caramel and chocolate bars, and of course, Tootsie Rolls. He had scooped up as much of that as the others around him, encouraged by the supply officers. Like a Christmas sale at Sears, he thought. Half off, one hour only . Ruthie goes nuts for that. Not sure I’ll ever want to look at another candy bar, even free ones.

He could see glimpses of the hill to the right, like so many others, tall and wide, little cover but scrub brush and snowdrifts. He heard more firing up to the right, thought, That’s supposed to be Charlie Company. He looked ahead, past Welch, Lieutenant Dunne’s First Platoon already up past a curve in the road. He glanced up the hill again, still nothing to see, thought of the Chinese. They had to know we were doing this, he thought. They saw the bonfires, surely. We either burn that stuff or let them have it all, and that’s probably not a good idea. I wonder if they know what a Tootsie Roll is?