Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Smith kept his eyes on the mass grave, felt a sickening twist in his stomach.

“We’ll get ’em out.”

THERE WERE SIX PRISONERS, bandaged and crippled, huddled together in a small hut. Two of Sung’s men guarded them, showing more menace than the prisoners required, Sung aware it was more for his benefit than for any threat that these men would attempt escape. He studied them as they studied him, caked filth on bearded faces, bloody clothing, rags wrapped on their feet.

Sung looked at the aide beside him, said, “What happened to their boots?”

The man shook his head. “I do not know, sir.”

Sung thought, Well, I know. Whoever captured them took their boots and anything else of use.

“Have we been able to speak with them?”

“None of them speak Mandarin, sir. Our interpreter, Mr. Hong, has not been seen in several days. We believe he deserted.”

Sung looked at the man. “Where would he go, Colonel? He would join these men, fight against us?”

“I do not know, sir.”

“I hear those words far too often, Colonel. What do we know of these men? They do not appear to be Marines.”

“They admit to being American army. We understood that much from what they said.”

“Two of them carry wounds.”

“Yes, sir. We treated them as best we could. We have very little to offer our own wounded.”

“That is not a reason to ignore the treatment of prisoners. Have their wounds cleaned, bandaged again. We are not war criminals, Colonel Liu.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

Liu backed away, moved quickly toward the medical area, and Sung dropped to one knee, looked hard at the faces, eyes staring sharply at him. He saw fear as much as anger, was gratified by that. He fought for the words, the scattered English he had absorbed so many years before.

“Your war is past. You will be freed soon. I do not need to keep you.”

He waited for a response, the men perking up a bit to his words. One man nodded toward him, a hesitant thank you .

“You may speak. We want no secrets from you. We offer you only sanctuary. You are no different than us.” He stopped, struggled to find the words he sought. “You do not have to fight for your warlords. Men who get rich on your blood. You do not have to fight for the generals, for your government. You can return to your army, spread this joy. There will be a new war. The people fighting the government. Tell your soldiers, your friends. They can end this war if they turn their guns to their own officers.”

Their expressions did not change, but one man took a long, grimacing breath, said, “Go to hell.”

Sung waited for more, saw nothing coming from the others. He stood again, saw defiance from them all, a surprise. Liu returned, one of the medical men in tow. Sung watched the doctor go to the first prisoner, a clean bandage in his hand, but the soldier pulled away, angry words, too fast for Sung to understand. The doctor tried again, the prisoner protesting loudly, slapping the man’s hand away. The doctor looked at Sung now, said, “What do I do, sir? They will not allow me to treat them.”

“Doctor, treat them when you can. They become weaker, or their pains become greater, they will allow it. We shall release them when it is appropriate to do so.” Sung spoke to the men again in his rough English. “We will not harm you. We are not your enemy.”

The first prisoner looked up at him, said, “I told you to go to hell.”

Behind Sung, Colonel Liu said, “They must believe we’re poisoning them, or torture perhaps. Your orders were clear, sir. We have already returned a number of prisoners who were well cared for. Surely their soldiers will understand that we mean them no harm, that this struggle is for all soldiers. How do we teach them of the revolution, sir? How do we make them understand?”

“Colonel, you must have faith in the revolution. These men will remember how we treated them, and they will return to the abuse of their masters. We have planted a seed in them. It is all we can do.” He paused, studied the men again. “But I admit, I thought it would be easier convincing them.”

SOUTH OF HAGARU-RI, NORTH KOREA—DECEMBER 11, 1950

“Sir! This way!”

He nudged the horse over the snowy trail, followed the man’s wave, saw the cave now. All along the climb he had passed bodies, nearly all of them his own. He tried not to see that, but the horse saw it for him, stepping gingerly through the frozen rocky ground, avoiding the snow-covered corpses. The cold was relentless, and he pulled himself into his coat, a futile effort to keep the wind away. Behind him, staff officers rode as he did, while out to both sides a company of guards climbed on foot, keeping themselves in formation, a veil of protection. The guide motioned again, pointed, and Sung climbed down from the horse, handed the reins to his aide. The guide waited for him, stood aside, the opening of the cave partially blocked by a pile of rocks and rubble, someone’s attempt to add cover. He hesitated, staring into the ragged maw of the cave, then dipped his head slightly, moved inside.

The cave opened up to a wide hollow, some of that man-made, the preparation his men had labored over to keep hidden from the American aircraft. He blinked in the darkness, just enough light to see why they had brought him here. The cave was filled with soldiers, nearly thirty or more, an entire platoon, their weapons stacked neatly to one side. Some appeared to be sleeping, pale white faces, others staring ahead. All had their legs pulled up tightly, were huddled close together, their quilted coats embracing each man, the customary flapped hats on their heads. He studied them, expected any one of them to suddenly acknowledge him, the usual deference, a respectful salute. But they stayed silent, none of them moving at all, nothing in their eyes but frozen death.

He backed out of the cave, stood for a long moment, thought, We must mark this place. It would be easy to forget this hill, this cave. Now it is a tomb, and we shall be respectful of that. He looked up past the opening, the hill wide and steep, rocks and frozen scrub. He looked back toward his horse, his aides waiting for him, and he moved that way, said to anyone who could answer him, “Are there more caves on this hill?”

No one responded, and he knew it was a foolish question, that very likely the only men who knew of the caves were the men who had sought out their protection, and if there were more like this one, they too had become tombs.

He climbed up on the horse, the aide handing him the reins, no one speaking. Among the staff was a young captain, a man who had been punished by his colonel because he had lost his soldiers, unable to explain what had happened to his command. Sung had been nearby, making the slow, plodding ride down the valley to Koto-ri, had interrupted the colonel’s tirade, a threat of execution screamed into the terrified captain’s face. It was an overreaction from an officer who surely carried some blame himself, one small failure in a vast campaign of failure. Sung had stopped, inquired, the young captain begging him for leniency, offering an explanation that the colonel had tossed aside with a self-conscious smugness. But Sung saw something of substance in the captain, a story that offered more of tragedy than incompetence. And so he had made the climb up the great hill, led by one of the captain’s men, a witness ignored by the colonel. And now the story was confirmed.