Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Smith felt something snap inside him, ignored the others, said in a low hiss, “General Almond, might I have a word with you?”

Almond seemed surprised, said, “You may speak freely here.”

“I prefer a private moment.”

Almond held on to his blanket of smugness, moved to the far end of the room, the staff making way, the men shifting position to the opposite end. Smith knew it was all he was going to get, and he followed Almond, kept his back to the others. The fury was complete, Smith’s hands clenched, his heart beating rapidly, and he hesitated, thought, He wants witnesses.

Smith took in a long breath, tried to calm himself. The words came in a low growl. “General Almond, I am aware you have issued orders directly to my regimental commanders in the field. In the future, I would appreciate it if you give those orders to me, and I will relay them to my subordinates. It is chain of command, General.”

He paused, waited for some reaction from Almond. But the maddening smugness remained and Almond said, “I never gave direct orders to any of your command, General Smith. I offered my suggestions as to their deployment, based on my knowledge of events as they are. I assure you, I am not handling your regiments. I am just seeing how they do after you handle them.”

The wall of arrogance was a mile thick, Smith realizing Almond had the upper hand. He stared hard at the man, tried to find the weak point, the place to dig in, but Almond was too good at this game. He moved past Smith, said to the rest of the men, “If we have no further discussion, my orders are plain, and have been given to your staffs. My goal here is to capture the capital with a minimum of energy expended, by squeezing the enemy until he is forced to retreat wholesale.”

Around the room, the others were staring intently at both men, and Smith knew his words to Almond had been heard by all of them.

Almond continued, his voice rising. “If the enemy chooses to continue his futile efforts against us, we must crush him where he sits, and do it with all speed.”

Smith moved up beside Almond, said, “And you would have us destroy the city. That is unnecessary. Your orders already issued have called for us to preserve the buildings, not to obliterate the place. I am certain that we can surround Seoul with the troops we now have available, and by cutting the enemy off from escape and resupply, he will have no alternative but to surrender. This enemy will not respect maneuver, a pincer movement, or any other kind of dance. He will only respond in our favor if he has no other choice. The city of Seoul has a million inhabitants. It does not have to be a casualty of this war. Would not General MacArthur prefer we return Syngman Rhee his capital in one piece?”

Almond turned toward him, a different look, grim anger, but he forced a smile, said, “The orders are as written, Smith. An envelopment would take far too much time. I had hoped the enemy would have recognized the hopelessness of his situation by now, and made good his full retreat. If he remains, he will be crushed. This meeting has concluded. You may all return to your commands.”

MARINE DIVISION COMMAND POST, NEAR THE HAN RIVER—SEPTEMBER 25, 1950

The order came after dark, nearly eight o’clock, while most of the Marines were standing down. All of them knew that the dawn would send them out against the enemy once more, another hard slugging match to push the North Koreans through the streets of the capital. But to Smith’s surprise, his superior had a new plan.

Tenth Corps Tactical Air Commander reports enemy fleeing city of Seoul on road north of Uijongbu. Heavy air attacks are ongoing and will continue. You will push attack now to the limit of your objectives in order to ensure maximum destruction of enemy forces. Signed Almond.

“Is this certain? Who did you speak to? Ruffner?”

Bowser nodded. “I spoke with Colonel Chides first, the G-3. He told me that we are to carry out this order as written. I called back and got General Ruffner, and asked him for a reaffirmation.”

Smith ran a hand over his forehead, had no reason to doubt Bowser. “Did you explain to those people that attacking at night in an unfamiliar city is not advisable ? Particularly since there is no indication the enemy is going anywhere across this entire division front?”

“All of that, sir. General Ruffner told me the order had been dictated by General Almond himself, and that it was to be executed without delay.”

“Get Murray on the phone. Puller won’t take as long to get ready. Call him next.”

“Sir, are we to just order the men to march straight into the enemy? In the dark?”

“Those are the orders, Colonel.”

As the Fifth and First Marine Regiments scrambled into readiness for the midnight assault, another report came into Smith’s HQ. A Marine forward observer north of the city, positioned along the very road the air command had claimed as the enemy’s line of retreat, observed North Korean tanks and soldiers on the move. But they were not moving north. They were adding to the strength of those forces already inside of Seoul. Instead of a retreat, it was a counterattack.

“WHERE’S THAT KID? Captain wants latrines, and he’s the one to do it.”

There was little response, the men mostly hunkered down in shallow foxholes, making good use of the darkness to avoid Sergeant Welch altogether. Riley knew Morelli would speak up, the boy just too eager to please.

“You mean me, Sarge?”

It was just the enthusiasm Riley expected, and he knew Welch was smiling, the darkness hiding their faces. Welch said, “Sounds like you. Eight years old, right? My favorite volunteer.”

Riley laughed to himself, his knees drawn in tight, his sleeping bag beneath him. Killian sat across from him, both men belching their dinner, an odd mix of C-rations and some kind of local meat, courtesy of some South Korean marines. Killian said, “He’ll do it with a smile, too. Don’t know why the young are so stupid. Any dirty job, and those kids still think it’s a good idea to volunteer.”

Riley didn’t answer, had dug his share of latrines. He could hear the movement close by, Morelli pulling out his entrenching tool, the telltale clank of clumsy hands working the metal.

“Where, Sarge?”

Riley shook his head silently, heard Welch, “Down that hill there. You don’t put the damn things next to where you sleep. Jesus. I want a one-two-three trench. You got that?”

Killian called out, “Hey, Sarge, you better show him how.”

Welch was there now, a shadow standing over them. “I got a better idea, Irish. You show him. Right now. Off your ass.”

Killian grumbled, stood slowly, knew there was no arguing with Welch. He climbed up from the small depression, disappeared into the dark, the voice of the kid following him.

“One two three?”

Killian responded, “One foot wide, two feet deep, three long. You ask me again, and I’ll put you in it headfirst….”

The voices trailed away, and Riley leaned back against the rocky dirt, Welch sitting down beside the foxhole.

“He’ll be all right. Just green. Like you on Guam.”

The memories came now, a thousand years ago. Riley said, “No greener than you. Around the gills, too. Didn’t think one man could throw up that many times.”

Welch laughed. “My damn gut’s still sore. Didn’t think I’d ever eat again.”