Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

“Will you be punished for that? How will Peking explain that to your country?”

Sung looked down, shook his head. “Peking does not concern itself with casualties. I have believed that it was the only way to command an army, not to concern oneself with the death of soldiers. But there were so many deaths. And we let them escape.”

Orlov stared at him, black, piercing eyes. “They might end this, right now. This was a distasteful campaign to the capitalists, no profit to be made here. Korea is not worth such a cost. You feel that way, surely the Americans do as well. They might very well board their ships and sail home, and they might even find some way to save face doing it.”

Sung shook his head. “No. I have seen them fight. They will come back. And we shall do all of this again. Perhaps not here, perhaps to the south, perhaps in the summer, when men suffer not from the cold, but from the heat. And more men will die, and more divisions will be lost, and again Peking will celebrate my accomplishments. And perhaps next year, the war will end. Or the year after.” Sung felt a thick wave of sadness, looked toward the smiles of his men, the celebration, great crowds gathering at the bonfires, officers leading the men in songs, raucous cheers, the morale of an army eager to fight again. “Or perhaps, Major, it will never end.”

HE HAD WALKED ACROSS the Treadway bridge in blind darkness, guided by the helping hands of Marine engineers, low voices that kept the men focused on the plywood beneath their feet. Riley had no idea just what lay below the bridge, how deep the gorge, was grateful for that. The fighting had continued most of the way south, but there was none of the intensity of the journey they had taken toward Koto-ri. Now what seemed to be scattered units of Chinese were more content to lob their mortar rounds toward the convoy from the heights, far fewer of them descending on the road itself. The effort of the walk was as severe as any before, the night of December 10 the coldest yet. Riley had only heard talk about that, Lieutenant Abell jawing with some higher-ranking staff officer along the route. With the Chinese keeping mostly away, checkpoints and command posts were more visible, but none of them mattered to Riley or the men around him. As they pushed slowly into the village of Chinhung-ni, there had been an odd inspection, a large command tent manned by men in clean uniforms. There was warm food as well, though it was nothing like the feasts of pancakes and stews they had left behind. Even in Koto-ri, the rations were plentiful, the men encouraged to chow down, supply officers explaining that what they didn’t eat would be burned. Along the route, with brief firefights still erupting along the high ground, Riley walked with the same rhythm as before, following Welch in front of him, the occasional glance to the man across the road. The misery was still there, the lengthy hikes made even worse by the never-ending pains in his feet. None of that was helped by the weight of what felt like a brick that he hauled inside him, low in his gut.

At Chinhung-ni, they passed by army units, the men assigned to replace Chesty Puller’s First Regiment. The Marines were mostly too exhausted to pay any attention to the soldiers, catcalls and lewd remarks flowing over them, the custom when the two branches crossed paths. But several of the soldiers made a deadly mistake, a boastful cry that the army had come up to rescue the cowardly Marines, who were too panicked to stand up to their enemy. If few had the energy for a knock-down brawl, the officers recognized a new threat, several of the men around Riley reacting to that particular insult by sliding rifles off shoulders, muzzles aimed at the offending soldiers, that particular horror clamped down by a scramble of words from the sergeants. Though the insults continued, the worst offenders began to temper their words, aware that quite likely, the sudden reaction by the Marine officers had saved lives.

South of Chinhung-ni, the road sloped downward, Riley not remembering that he had hiked this road the other way, nothing of the landmarks around them now familiar at all. What had been ugly scrub and ragged homesteads were just as ugly and just as ragged now, changed only by a light coating of snow, or scattered bodies of Chinese troops. Some of those lay in the road itself, corpses crushed by the wheels of trucks, the tread of the tanks, flattened almost beyond recognition.

They rounded yet another sharp curve in the road, and he eyed the smoldering wreckage of another truck, men retrieving the human cargo from the rear. He passed the cab of the truck, glanced that way, saw what used to be the driver, the cab charred and stinking, no one yet retrieving the blackened corpse. He looked down, blinked that away, too tired to be sickened by a sight he had seen too often now.

“Hold up!”

He stumbled, stopped, the ache in his feet worse by standing still. Up ahead, men had gathered, and he tried to be curious about who or why, his curiosity as numb as the rest of his brain. He looked to the side of the road, a place to sit, no one yet giving the order to move off the road. Welch turned to his squad, men as half-conscious as Riley, and Welch said, “Lieutenant’s got something going on. Make ready. Could be Chinks.”

Riley looked to the side of the road, the remnants of a hut, thoughts of the Marine they had rescued. “Hey, Sarge. Maybe we should take a look.”

Welch looked that way, nodded wearily. “Yeah. Let’s check it out. Kane, you and Riley.”

Riley stepped over a low mound of icy snow, slipped, adding to the misery in his feet. Kane was beside him now, silent, holding the BAR at his waist, and Riley said, “Just don’t shoot me in the ass.”

He moved to the hut, heard a soft cry, jolting him alert. “What the hell? Hey, Sarge, somebody’s in here.”

Welch was awake now as well, moving that way, the Thompson in his hands. He stopped beside Kane, said to Riley, “Okay, easy.”

Riley felt the churning jitteriness in his stomach, pushed into the timbers with the muzzle of the rifle. The cry came again, very soft, very high, and he was suddenly dreading what he was going to find. He hesitated, Welch behind him.

“Go!”

Riley lifted the remains of a wooden door, saw now a very small figure, buried beneath a scrap of a blanket.

“Holy cow. Sarge, it’s a kid. A little kid.”

Welch was there now, the others moving close, the small, filthy face looking at Riley with raw terror. Welch knelt low, pulled at the blanket, the child crying out.

“Jesus, kid. I’m just trying to help.”

Riley bent low, said, “Easy, Sarge. You’d scare hell out of me, too. Here, kid, just need to take a look. It’s okay.”

The child responded to Riley’s softer tone, still the fear, tears now, a faint whimper. The blanket pulled free and Riley felt suddenly sick, dropped to one knee, closed his eyes. Welch said, “Oh, Christ. His feet. They’re just ice. He’s got a hell of a wound, up his leg.”

Riley couldn’t speak, the child’s whimpering slicing into him, a man behind him calling out, “Corpsman!”

The corpsman was there now, familiar face, Rebbert. “Whoa. What we got here? Oh, God.”

Rebbert moved in close, the child too weak to protest, and Welch stood, said, “Back off. Let him do what he can.”

Riley forced himself to stand, eyes still closed, a step backward. Rebbert spoke to the child now, soft comforting voice, the whimper continuing, and Riley turned, moved back to the road. He saw Abell now, the lieutenant’s arm in a sling, a wound from the fighting the night before. Abell seemed annoyed, said, “What’s the holdup?”