Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Smith dressed quickly, the dread returning. He buttoned up with jerking fingers, tugged the trousers up, the loose waistband revealing his loss of weight. He thought of writing that to Esther but he knew it would inspire concern, worry that he was not eating well, or worse, that he had picked up some Asian malady. No, he thought, she does not deserve worry. But I will write. After all, it is good news, all of it. Success. But I must be honest with her, clear away the junk. She knows full well not to believe what she reads in the newspapers. And Time magazine. Good Lord. What is the matter with those people? I’m no hero. Not even close. The Marines were the best-prepared men we could put into the field, and I happen to be at the top. It’s no different now than the First World War. Marines called upon to serve as infantry. The Fifth led the way at Belleau Wood. I need to make sure Murray knows that. Make sure he tells his men their own history. It’s important. Though, right now, their morale is about as high as it can be. And it’s my job to stick a pin in that balloon.

He was fully dressed now, checked himself in the captain’s small mirror, satisfactory. I must thank him for this, he thought. For the first time in many days, I don’t smell like Korea.

He moved into the passageway, sailors standing aside, crisp salutes, which he returned. He climbed to the next deck, saw officers, Marines in a small cluster, cigarettes and coffee cups. They noticed him immediately, faces smiling, Eddie Craig.

“Well, General, you look a good bit more presentable. Fit even by MacArthur’s standards.”

He acknowledged the smiles with a brief nod, said, “The staff will meet in the wardroom in ten minutes, if you please. I’d like to know our status. I’ll request the captain be there as well.” He caught a whiff of something pungent, saw Sexton backing away slightly, self-conscious. “Make that thirty minutes. I would appreciate it if you gentlemen would see to your personal hygiene. Even a damp rag will do.”

It was his attempt at a joke, but there was no laughter, the men responding with brief sniffs at their clothing. He could rarely tell a joke, found it difficult to break that pane of glass between them. Craig and Bowser seemed to be the exceptions, but here, even Bowser kept his seriousness.

“Aye, sir. If I can find my clean uniform, I’ll change. We’ll make ourselves more presentable. Sorry.”

Craig said, “There wasn’t much time. But you’re certainly correct, sir. We could all use a scrub-down.”

Smith regretted the comment now, didn’t want them to think he was scolding them for anything at all. But he had no use for excuses.

“Any effort will be fine. Thirty minutes, then.”

He reached another ladder, climbed up to the open deck, a breeze of fresh salt air. He stepped carefully to the port-side rail, the ship rolling over heavy swells, and he saw the land spread out along the horizon, the coastline of South Korea. It can’t take us too long, he thought. The captain will tell me when we pass the boundary. I wonder how the men will react. Word will spread on the transports, some sailor making sure the Marines find out when they cross the line. No need for secrets here. The 38th parallel might not mean much to them, the land won’t look any different from out here. Likely no one will be shooting at them, either. If the South Koreans have done their job, the landing will go smoothly, no enemy anywhere around. There will be one thing very different from Inchon, though, something even the new men will understand. This time we’re not liberators. We’re invaders.

He had left the Marines at Inchon making preparations for the voyage, supplies distributed, equipment gathered, the officers seeing to their commands, the men seeing to themselves. They would sail as he was sailing, around the bottom of the Korean Peninsula, eastward, then up to the North Korean port of Wonsan. There the Marines would make yet another landing, securing the port, establishing a base for the next operation.

He felt in his pocket, the unfinished letters, one to each of his two daughters. Get that done tonight, he thought. Esther, too. They’re all showing off that magazine cover, sure as the dickens. Rather they didn’t do that. He thought of his granddaughter, Gail, yes, she’s probably taken that thing to school, waving it around like a flag for all to see. He shook his head. No, let them be proud.

He heard the sound of engines, looked up, a pair of B-29s high above, and he eyed the direction, thought, Japan. Going home. Empty, probably. Aim well, gentlemen. But a new thought jolted him, as it had so many times before, the young man’s face, a burst of cold, dragged into his mind by the sight of the big bombers. You should be here, he thought. That should be you, up in those marvelous birds.

The plane had gone down just before Christmas 1944, his son-in-law Charles Benedict listed officially as missing in action. Benedict had been flying a bombing mission over Mukden, China, the word coming to his family that there was little hope of the crew’s survival. The pain of that had been overwhelming, Smith stationed then in Hawaii, so far from home, unable to do anything to comfort his daughter, Virginia. The helplessness of his absence had stayed with him, and so he would never forget to write them, could never escape the nagging fear that if something happened to him, they might not hear of it for many weeks, the horrible coldness of a telegram.

He tapped the folded papers in his pocket. Tonight. Get them done. Tell them only good things. They can read about Ned Almond in the newspaper.

“Well, General, I was told you were enjoying the captain’s hospitality. Feel better, I assume?”

The voice was cheerful, the expression on the man’s smiling face always seeming sincere.

“General Lowe. Yes, the captain was most kind. You should take advantage of it yourself. Surely he would not object.”

“Oh, I have, I assure you, even before we set sail. One thing I have learned quickly is that naval vessels have no shortage of hot water. Their food seems to be superior as well. No offense to your staff, of course.”

Smith felt Lowe’s good cheer, turned again to the horizon, thought, What have we told the president today? Lowe moved up beside him, anchored himself to the rail with unsteady hands, a slight waver. Smith watched him, said, “Are you feeling all right, General?”

“Please, I do wish you could get past your need for such rigidity. It’s Frank . I’m perfectly happy to greet you always as General Smith, but when you call me general …I’m not altogether comfortable having anyone believing me to be your equal.”

“I’ll try. Frank. Are you all right?”

“You mean, the waves? The captain advises me to get lots of fresh air and keep my eyes on the horizon. It has seemed to help. Not sure I enjoy sleeping belowdeck, though.”

“Stay up here. We’ll get you a cot. He’s right. The fresh air will help.”

Lowe took a deep breath, said, “Damn embarrassing, you know. Never really been a problem for me before. I can’t really tell Mr. Truman that his envoy has a weak stomach. You think MacArthur has ever been seasick?”

It was a strange question, and Smith detected more meaning than Lowe might have intended.

“No idea.”

“Hmm. I’ll bet General Almond has tossed his lunch a few times. Seems the type.”

“You expecting a response, General? Frank? ”

Lowe seemed genuinely surprised. “Not at all. No games here, General. But to be honest, there is concern in Washington that General MacArthur is relying on his unshakable belief in his own infallibility. There were expectations that Inchon would be his final bow, that he would have no choice but to allow others to take the reins.”