Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

They halted, a young sergeant speaking out.

“Sirs, the newspapermen are pushing pretty hard. They want to know details. The MPs are keeping them back, but they’re mighty pushy, sirs.” The other man elbowed the sergeant, a sharp whisper. “Oh, yes, that broad. She’s pushy, too.”

Smith looked at Puller. “Maggie Higgins?”

Puller blew out a cloud of smoke. “She said you’d authorized her being here. Pain in the ass.”

Smith thought a moment. “I’ve no patience for this crap, Lewie. Here’s what I’m authorizing . Put her on a plane, quick as you can. And send along anyone else you think is a pain in the ass. I tossed her out of Hagaru-ri already. This is too important, and we’re too close to success here. I don’t care about how good a reporter she is, and the fact that she’s a woman. She’s a distraction, whether she likes that or not. Am I clear?”

He knew he didn’t have to be that stern with Puller, the browbeating more for the rest of the staffs. Puller kept the cigar in his mouth, nodded.

“She’s been pretty pissy about being treated differently because she’s in a combat zone.”

Smith was fully annoyed now. “Bull. I’m treating her differently because there are twenty thousand young men around here who haven’t seen a good-looking woman in weeks. Months maybe. She’ll be the prime attraction, men stepping all over each other to get an interview, or maybe just stare at her.”

Puller shook his head. “One reason I didn’t give her too much grief is that she’s so damn disagreeable all on her own, and I figured the boys would find that out themselves. She’s already gone around interviewing wounded men, ignoring what kind of shape they might be in, like their damn misery isn’t as important as giving her their full attention. More than one of the boys has fallen asleep while she’s holding court. She might be pretty, but she’s not making any friends here. Maybe this will teach her something about humility.”

Smith was in no mood for this. “Lewie, she’s already distracting you . How many reporters are here? A dozen? Name them. I can’t. We’re not here to humble civilians. If you’re right, she cares more about her reputation than the boys she’s talking to. Get her the hell out of here.”

Puller nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Across the tent, more men were moving in, and Smith looked that way, had a nagging dread of some new disaster. The group moved his way and Puller said, “Those are Murray’s boys. I know that major, Simmons.”

Smith knew the men as well, stood, felt a surge of energy. They stopped, four men, ragged dirty uniforms. The major said, “Sir, Colonel Murray is pleased to report that his lead elements have entered Koto-ri. I can verify that, sir. I led them.”

Bowser stood, moved out to the far end of the tent, and Smith watched him for a long second, not certain where he was going. He looked at Major Simmons now, said, “Welcome. How much difficulty did you have? We received several radio calls, a good bit of resistance all along the way.”

“Yes, sir, there was. The air cover helped, and the artillery boys used those one-oh-fives in short-range combat, point-blank fire. Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen, sir. The enemy pushed hard all along the road, and we chewed ’em up pretty effectively.”

Smith couldn’t avoid feeling nervous relief. “Major, there’s warm food in a number of mess tents. Grab some, if you like.”

The man smiled, and Smith saw the weariness, the grime on the man’s bearded face.

“Will do, sir.”

Bowser returned now, said, “Excuse me, sir, but I heard something odd. It sounded like singing. I checked on it.” He looked at Simmons. “Major, I assume those are your boys out there.”

“Yes, sir. I can shut ’em up if you wish.”

Bowser seemed apologetic now. “Oh, no. I was just curious. They’re singing some pretty, um, raw stuff.”

Simmons smiled now, his pride showing through. “Colonel, the men are quite accomplished in adding their own lyrics to some pretty dull songs. Colonel Murray encourages it.”

Smith was curious, looked at Bowser. “I’d like to know what they’re singing.”

“You sure, sir? It’s rather amazing just how profane…well, you know, sir.”

Smith laughed, knew Bowser was too efficient at protecting him. “Colonel, I assume they have chaplains who’ve heard this stuff? If it’s all right by them, it’s all right by me.”

Simmons spoke up now. “Actually, sir, it’s a couple of the chaplains who wrote the stuff.”

The fighting around Funchilin Pass began early on December 8, made more difficult for both sides by a vicious snowstorm that limited visibility and movement. Worse for the Marines, the storm kept their air cover away. But Puller’s suggestion and Smith’s plan for squeezing the Chinese between two halves of a vise proved enormously effective. By dawn on December 9, with the weather clearing, the Chinese had either been wiped out or had withdrawn on their own from the site of the destroyed bridge. With the word coming back to Koto-ri of the successful push, the engineers took over. By four that afternoon, the lead vehicles of the enormous convoy began crossing the bridge. After a temporary delay, caused by a near disaster for one of the heavier bulldozers, the bridge was made fully passable. Throughout that night, nearly fourteen hundred vehicles and most of the Marine and army troops made their way across the span.

Puller’s final responsibility at Koto-ri was to perform the same task Murray had accomplished at Hagaru-ri, keeping the Chinese away from the perimeter of the base until the convoy had cleared the area. In the process, the airstrip successfully evacuated some six hundred new casualties, most of those from the fighting they had endured on the journey down from Hagaru-ri.

With the perimeter of Koto-ri secure and the crucial bridge fully operational, Smith knew it was time once again to move his command post south, this time returning to the port of Hungnam, the exact location where his headquarters had been established when this campaign had begun.

He boarded the helicopter, watched as Bowser led a half-dozen men toward an idling C-47. His pilot was unfamiliar, Smith absorbing a slight jolt of discomfort from that. But the young man smiled at him, said, “On your command, sir.”

Smith pulled the coat tightly around him, pointed upward, the pilot revving the engine, the chopper rising quickly. They topped the tallest structures, the pilot turning, aiming south, and Smith felt a tug, a hard pull inside of him. He put a hand on the young man’s arm, said, “Over that way. Past the tents. Just a few seconds.”

The pilot obeyed, the chopper swinging around, easing slowly over the encampment. Smith looked down, saw crews of Puller’s men gathering up everything worth carrying, loading it on the vast rows of trucks. The pilot looked at him, uncertain, and Smith kept his eyes on the ground, pointed ahead, the chopper sliding farther along, no more than a hundred feet above the ground.

“Sir, the enemy’s been raising Cain with every aircraft flying out of here. We go much closer to those hills, we’re pretty sure to take fire.”

Smith ignored the caution, searched, held up a hand now. “Hover right here.”

The chopper slowed, and Smith saw the freshly churned ground, already frozen, an enormous grave.

“We had to leave some men here, son. One hundred thirteen of them. Buried them right there. The airstrip wasn’t adequate to fly ’em out. I hate that. Hate it with every bone in my body. We’ll get ’em out one day. I promised them. We’ll get ’em out.”

The pilot looked at him with wide eyes, nodded slowly. “Yes, sir. I’m certain of it, sir.”