Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

He looked toward his aide, said, “Colonel Liu, release the captain. He may return to his command.” He looked at the young captain now. “Do you still have a command?”

The young man did not look at him, kept his eyes downward. “Sir, I have only six men from my company. There are others who died in the night, and the night before. The storm caught us on the march. We were already down to sixty men. They performed admirably, sir. I regret I could not prevent their loss.”

“So do I. You may go. I shall inform your colonel that you are without blame. If he wishes to find fault for our losses, he may express that to me. The blame is mine.”

KOTO-RI, NORTH KOREA—DECEMBER 11, 1950

The fires were still burning all throughout the town, and he moved into a wide square, the wreckage of what had been a hospital. The stink was putrid, burning bandages and bedding, a smoldering mass of gauze and linens and too many things he did not need to identify. He dismounted the small horse, walked slowly toward a scattered heap of empty steel barrels. Gasoline, he thought. What they didn’t require for their trucks they could use to ignite their fires, to destroy anything of use. I suppose I would have done the same.

Down one of the narrow avenues of the town, men were gathering, a cluster of quilted uniforms, poking through more of the rubble. They seemed cheerful, boisterous talk, and he watched them for a long moment as they found small treasures. One man made a loud noise, held up what seemed to be a large hammer, the others saluting him, then returning to their own search. He was curious just why they were so joyful, but stayed away, would allow them to continue searching. They have very little, he thought. Perhaps they will find food, somewhere in this wreckage. Weapons we have in abundance, even if our ammunition runs low. Does that matter? There is no longer an enemy.

The staff kept back, knew him well, that when he was like this, pensive, silent, he was not to be interrupted. But the Russian had no such tactfulness, dismounted a horse of his own. Sung avoided looking at him, a spectacle of opulence in his thick fur coat. But he will offer his opinion, Sung thought. After this day there will be opinions in every quarter. I cannot avoid it.

Another group of soldiers emerged from a side street, carrying all manner of junk. They saw him, seemed too giddy for discretion, one man calling out, “General! It is a wonderful day! We salute your victory!”

He waved to them, knew his aides would try to silence the men, scold them for such a lack of respect. It hardly matters, he thought. But still, they should continue to do their job.

Orlov was there now, kicking through more of the rubble the Americans had left behind.

“So, you have won a great victory.”

There was sarcasm in Orlov’s voice, and Sung expected it.

“You would mock me, even now?”

Orlov feigned surprise. “General, it is not my place to pass judgment on your accomplishments.”

“Yes, yes, you are merely an observer. That tune has grown quite stale, Major. You did not ride into Koto-ri with my staff just to observe. In this miserable country, one burnt-out town is so like another. There is no charm in this place. Even the people have gone, following after the Americans like hungry dogs. We liberate them, and they flee.”

“So, you have liberated them? I suppose that will be the message to your people. Chairman Mao will no doubt send joyous tidings to Moscow, trumpeting the glorious successes of his armies over the imperial stooges.”

Sung turned to him, angry at the man’s interminable smugness. “What would you have me do, Major? My army has eliminated the American threat. We have driven the enemy from the soil we vowed to protect. Even now, they rush to their ships, desperate to escape the destruction we have levied upon them.”

Orlov smiled. “Very well said, General. Those would be the very same words you would put on paper, then, in your report to Peking?”

Sung looked again toward the soldiers, more men flowing into the town, some gathering at the fires, seeking the warmth. The air of celebration continued, officers moving among their men, high spirits and salutes.

“Yes. I will tell Peking what Peking requires me to say. They will tell your Chairman Stalin, and everyone else in this world, the very same thing. The Americans have been humiliated. We are victorious.”

Orlov rubbed a hand through his rough beard. “Forgive me, General, but I don’t hear victory in your voice.”

Sung kept silent for a long moment, still did not trust this man. But there was no one on his staff, no one among his senior officers he could confide in. He glanced upward, the sky clear and blue. No aircraft today, he thought. Not here, anyway. This place is now in the past.

“Tell me, Major, in your army, is there great ambition, jealousy, men who seek opportunity for their own advancement?”

Orlov glanced at the soldiers, said, “Of course. Men who have power always want more. Do you fear your officers? Or is it the politicians in Peking whom you fear?”

“There is no fear in Peking. All is secure there, all are obedient to Chairman Mao. Men of ambition have no place in the revolution, and are soon removed. Chairman Mao has secured his place.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Moscow is a very similar place.”

“But the army is very different. There is a way to rise, to advance above others, to gain more power, more authority. I have been very fortunate. But there are some in my command who see what we have sacrificed, who will use that to make reports of their own, and they will not be so positive.”

“I have always wondered, General, how many knife blades you had to slip into the ribs of your rivals.”

Sung looked at Orlov, saw only seriousness now. “I have done no such thing. I have advanced by my deeds, by my performance. It is the best way. I have no guilt for my position.”

“And yet you fear your officers.”

He moved away, his eyes on soldiers, some falling into formation, officers gathering up their men. Orlov followed, and Sung felt a different kind of fear now, wondered if Orlov carried knives of his own. He stopped, no one close.

“What I fear, Major…” He paused, looked again toward the soldiers. “What is the truth here? My soldiers will be told they have won a great campaign. They will believe that, because they have no choice. We are trained all our lives to believe what our superiors tell us. In that we are no different than the Americans. I spoke to prisoners, offered hope that they need not fight for the imperialists any longer. They most certainly did not believe me. Their indoctrination is as powerful as ours, no doubt.” He stopped, felt uncomfortable now, watched Orlov for a reaction. But the Russian offered no comment, and Sung understood now, He knows more about that than we do. “Major, no amount of lessons from above can alter the fact that there is failure here, my failure.” He raised his hands, pressed his fingertips together in a sphere. “The enemy was trapped. They were surrounded. My strategies were sound. And yet they were allowed to escape. Already there is talk from my generals, for all that we have lost.”

“But Peking will ignore that. You said it yourself. The Americans are fleeing to their ships. Every newspaper, every government in the world will acknowledge that truth.”

“There is another truth, Major. I lost a third of my army. The casualties who did not die by the guns of the Americans have frozen to death, or they have been so crippled from the cold they can never fight again. I have lost the fighting effectiveness of three full divisions, and possibly, when we gather together, reorganize, that number will grow. Entire regiments no longer exist. There are officers with no one left to command, soldiers with no one to command them. There are men in these hills that we will never find. A great many men.”