Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

“Up! Let’s go! Spread out into the field! They’ll be back!”

He knew Zorn’s voice, pulled himself up, stepped down through the muddy ditch, a deep puddle. He struggled to stay upright, keeping his balance, his knees soft rubber. The flames lit the field, taller grass, voices around him, orders, other men moving with him. He felt the water, the splashes high, more orders, men put into position, a line, the men settling down, good cover. He flattened out, water soaking through his clothes, the smells engulfing him, sickening, the sudden clarity, the turn of his stomach. It was a rice paddy.

The North Koreans kept up their advance for several hours, every road or trail alive with troops, more tanks offering them cover and added firepower. The fights were mostly confused and meaningless, but the Marines had the advantage of greater firepower, machine guns moving up quickly, mortars put into place. The surge by the North Koreans began to run dry, exhausted by their casualties, by the tenacity of the men who fought them.

For most of the night, the Marines pushing their way into Seoul itself advanced along dark streets, confronting blockades of rice bags, heavy machine guns seeking targets in a confused melee, casualties mounting on both sides. By early morning the North Korean resistance had seemed to weaken, but the advance was slow, many of the Marines holding tight to the ground they had already earned. Despite the attack orders the Marines had received from Tenth Corps HQ, their own commander understood that a full-blown frontal assault down a hundred narrow streets was suicide. With the Marines digging in, preparing to hold off any new push by their enemy, orders were given for a new tactic. As the sunrise spread slowly over the smoking ruins of Seoul’s outskirts, the Eleventh Marine artillery regiment went to work. Pressured to capture the capital by MacArthur’s deadline, Oliver Smith used the most effective weapon he had against a stubborn, well-fortified enemy. If the fight between men was mostly equal, the Americans’ heavy artillery tipped the scale. Throughout the bombardment, the Fifth and First Marines could only wait, hoping the artillery would do the job. Flanked by the Seventh to the north and the army’s Thirty-second to the south, the Americans closer to the city pulled into a tighter arc, pressing the North Koreans on three sides. With daylight, once again, the push would begin through the streets of Seoul. The artillery had weakened the enemy, but the fight would continue, slow yet steady progress by the Marines, whose training had rarely included house-to-house searches.

The Marines facing the enemy did not know of the orders first given to Oliver Smith, that the ancient architecture of the historical city be saved, a gesture of ignorant futility from Ned Almond. Almond’s orders had now become a contradiction, his need to satisfy MacArthur forcing him to rush the entire operation. Despite Tenth Corps’ fairy-tale hopes that the enemy would simply vanish, Smith and the Marines understood that the city would not be taken without a serious struggle. And so, when Smith called on his artillery, the results were inevitable. The big guns punished not only the enemy, but the historic capital itself. With the Marines renewing their hard push against the battered enemy, they drove down the narrow streets of a city that lay mostly in ruins.

NORTHWEST OF SEOUL—SEPTEMBER 26

With the daylight came a closer examination of the tank, the hole blasted through the turret with perfect aim. Captain Zorn leaned in close, said aloud, “Who did it?”

One of the other lieutenants, the Second Platoon’s commander, Peterson, moved up, said, “Speak up. Who did this?”

The men gathered, all eyes on the hole in the tank. Behind Riley, one of the sergeants.

“Sir, my man won’t claim it. But I’m pretty sure it was Brubaker. Front and center, Corporal.”

Brubaker obeyed, a sheepish grin on his face, said to Zorn, “It was the M-20, sir. Bazooka. Hell of a gun, that one. I musta got lucky.”

Zorn stood with his hands on his hips, glanced at Brubaker, then back to the tank.

“We all got lucky, son. You keep that M-20 close at hand. I’m asking battalion for a dozen more. Who was on the machine gun?”

A voice came out to one side, no hesitation. “That was Private Atkinson, sir. One of the heavies.”

Zorn looked that way. “Where is he?”

“I positioned the heavies back on that low ridge. He’s out to the left.”

Zorn stepped away from the tank, stared out to the ridge, called, “Atkinson! You got Spittin’ Sally?”

Riley looked out that way, saw a man standing, one arm in the air, the response, “Raht hyar, yassir!”

There was laughter, Riley not sure what any of this meant. Zorn stood out in the road, said, “Some of you have names for your rifles. Not sure I’ve heard of a name for a heavy machine gun. Gentlemen, our bacon was saved this morning by Spittin’ Sally. You get a chance, pay your respects.”

Riley didn’t know many of the men in the machine gun squad, saw their lieutenant, Hill, a smiling nod toward Zorn.

“Thank you, sir. Atkinson keeps this up, may have to put him in for a citation.”

Zorn said, “Don’t forget Sally.” The laughter came again, the stress of the morning drifting away, relieved by the few moments of humor. Zorn seemed to understand that, called out now, “Move out into that field, take up along the highest ground. Battalion is keeping us along this road, in case the enemy makes another try.” He seemed to search, then said, “We got the enemy body count?”

It was Goolsby, unexpected, the youngest officer in the company stepping forward. “Eighty-one, sir.”

“Prisoners?”

“Twenty, I think.”

Zorn glanced at McCarthy, then stared at Goolsby for a long moment. “Write it down, Lieutenant. I’ll give that to battalion. Those kinds of numbers will make Major Sawyer pretty happy. Good ratio. All right, move out up that hill. Eyes open. Dig in. Not sure how long we’ll be here. Uijongbu is up that road a few miles. My CP will be set up back behind that ridge. I wanna be close to Sally.”

The fight early that morning had been a rapid-fire nightmare, but Riley knew the men had been buoyed by Zorn talking to them, felt that himself. He knew little about the battalion commander, Buzz Sawyer, even less about Litzenberg. But none of them lorded over their commands with that peculiar attitude that seems to tell their men that whatever is happening now is simply an inconvenience, that the senior officers have their eye mainly on a different prize, putting an eagle or even a star on their shoulder. Riley had seen that in the Pacific, officers who ignored everything but the spotlight. Hopefully, he thought, that’s not Zorn.

He stepped along a path, men in front of him, and behind him, Killian.

“Well, what the hell happened to you? You smell worse than Korea.”

The wetness in Riley’s clothes had mostly dried, the odor a part of him now. He looked back, said, “No, you stupid son of a bitch, I smell exactly like Korea. Where the hell were you, anyway? I don’t see any of that damn rice paddy on you.”

Killian was beside him now, gave him a sharp rap on the back. “Brains, skinny boy. Found a good spot on dry ground. Took down a few of those bastards, too. Hell, might give the M-1 a name. How ’bout Deadly Dixie? Maybe the captain’ll give me something, too. Those gunneys get all the attention.”

“They earn it. The captain’s right. That heavy kept us alive. We’d have been trampled by those bastards, no matter how good your cover was.”

Killian said nothing, both men moving with the others farther up the hill. He saw McCarthy now, Welch and the other sergeants around him. Welch saw Riley, called out, “This way. Take position back of this rise. Dig in. Eat something.”