Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Riley saw the same, then more, tiny forms, hard against adult bodies. Welch said, “Oh, Christ. Babies. They’ve been killed with their mothers. Looks like bayonet wounds. Enough of this.” He looked toward the civilians, Riley backing away, doing the same. There was no emotion from the old men, a strange calm. Welch said, “These people were butchered. Bullet holes in the heads. Who did this? You speak English? Who did this?”

One old man raised his arm slowly, pointed up the road, to the north.

Killian said, “Nooks. I knew it.”

Welch glanced at him, disgust on his face. “Yeah, genius. You figured it out. I’m getting damn sick of this stuff. This isn’t war. It’s a horror show. I seen too much of this from the Japs.”

Welch started to move again, past the civilians, back toward the road. Riley stepped up, closed the gap between them, said, “You oughta tell the captain, I guess. Somebody’s gotta make a report. The lieutenant, at least.”

Welch didn’t look at him. “Another genius. You think this is one time? Something special? These damn savages can’t whip our asses so they take it out on the innocent. Somebody explain to me why. What the hell are these damn Koreans so hot for, that they slaughter civilians?”

Riley had rarely seen Welch this emotional, had no response. He followed the sergeant back toward the road, the others falling into line, keeping their distance, their good training, all of them sharing the same hope, that the North Koreans had truly gone, that the misery of these people could finally end.

UIJONGBU—OCTOBER 7, 1950

The army troops marched past, the usual catcalls, the Marines answering. But these soldiers were veterans, too, most of them from units of the Eighth Army, the men who had advanced from the Pusan Perimeter, now marching northward. For three days since Uijongbu had been cleared of the enemy, the Marines had strengthened their position in the town, more an army of occupation than anything resembling a combat mission. Now the army was moving into position to take their place. The rumors were hot that orders had come for the Marines to pull back, speculation that with the fighting concluded, the enemy had surrendered.

They had gathered at another of the kitchen trucks, enormous buckets of stew, bread, apple pies in stacks, generous slices to each man. Riley did what the others did, heaped his tin plate, seeking out a comfortable place on the rocky ground, another feast he knew not to take for granted.

“Hey, jarheads! Listen up!”

He forced the pie down his throat, the delicious moment interrupted by the cluster of officers standing nearby. He focused first on the familiar face, Captain Zorn, his hands on his hips.

“All right, listen up. Get your gear together. Orders from Division. The whole lot of us are being trucked back down to Inchon, the port.”

The cheering erupted, but Riley saw a frown on Zorn’s face, knew there was more. Beside Zorn, another officer, familiar, from battalion, one of Major Sawyer’s men, who said, “You men have done exemplary work. You should be proud. We’ve all had a job to do, and that job has been accomplished.”

“We going home?”

The call came from behind Riley, more joining in, the cheering again, but Riley kept his eyes on Zorn’s face, saw the man slowly shake his head. Zorn waited for quiet again, then said, “No. Get that straight, all of you. This job’s not done. We’re to wait at Inchon for new orders, telling us where they want us to be. I wish I could tell you we’re done here, that our next port of call is San Diego. But the orders only said Inchon. Sounds to me like they’re not done with us. That’s all I know.”

Zorn said something to the officer, who moved away with a sharp nod, and Riley watched him go, thought, He’s telling the other companies the same thing. Zorn stood alone now, his arms crossed, watching them, his eye catching Riley. The talk flowed through them all now, rumors springing up from fertile minds, the raw hope that the gloom from Zorn was just part of the job, keeping his company’s feet on the ground. Zorn seemed to recognize him, the acknowledgment of a veteran, but Riley did not smile, saw no reason to. He doesn’t know what’s up, Riley thought. They haven’t told him. But I bet he’s right. This job isn’t done. He glanced around, saw Welch, his hands in his knapsack, organizing.

“What do you think, Hamp?”

Welch kept his stare downward, said, “Nobody surrendered, Pete. We let those bastards get away. We shoulda clamped ’em down in Seoul, wiped ’em off the earth, every damn one of ’em. But we let ’em slip off. Now we gotta go find ’em again.”

“But if they went home, back into North Korea…”

Welch looked at him, hard, cold eyes. “So what? We took casualties, Pete. Men died, Marines, soldiers. The people back home will want to know what the hell for. Somebody’s gotta tell them something good, whether it’s newspapers or the government. Just saying, Hey, everything’s fine now. The North Koreans, they all went back home …that ain’t gonna do it, Pete. We gotta kill some more people, plain and simple.”

Riley looked toward Zorn again, saw the captain standing quietly, arms still crossed, his stare outward, to some other place, whatever might lie ahead.

THE STEAM ROLLED UP around him, wet, glorious heat, the soapy lather sweeping away days of grime. He inhaled deeply, pulling the delicious steam inside of him, breathed it out slowly. His arms hung now by his sides and he leaned his head forward under the shower, blinded by the waterfall that flowed down his face, rinsing away the soap. He opened his eyes, saw a pool of sudsy water at his feet, a slow drift downward through the drain. He allowed himself another few seconds of the watery massage but could not avoid his mind snapping to attention, the harsh reality slapping him that this was only a temporary luxury, a gift from the ship’s captain, the privilege of rank. He reluctantly turned the shower off, blinked water from his eyes, paused, took in another long breath, the last of the warm steam, memories of home, more luxuries, all those pieces of life with Esther. He stepped clear of the shower, his brain waging war with itself, one part of him knowing he could slide once more into the torrent of hot water, that no one would question, no one would find fault. But none of this steamy escape could remove the reality of what was happening beyond the bulkheads, the curiosity of his men, the entire division still waiting at Inchon for the order that would put them aboard the ships, following their general to their next port of call. And for them there would be no hot showers.

Smith knew the rumors, the wishful thinking that rippled through the camps at Inchon, that their job was complete. He had ordered his staff to stop that kind of talk, that this war was still theirs to fight. But he could do nothing to stop the euphoria that came from above, the backslapping congratulations flowing out from MacArthur’s headquarters, so many untested officers in Tokyo completely convinced that they had won a war. The celebration had spread through the upper levels of the Tenth Corps, a message coming to Smith from Ned Almond that offered effusive praise for a job well done. He had tried to imagine Almond’s expression as he wrote the note, whether the man believed his own kindness, or whether Almond wrote with a hard grip on his pen, scowling acceptance that the Marines had earned the praise. Smith tried to avoid meeting with Almond at all, a foolish hope, the Marines still firmly anchored as a part of Almond’s command.