Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Sung absorbed the order, felt a flash of excitement, his heart quickening. “Yes, sir. We shall obey.”

“You shall do more than that. You shall relive those days we all miss. You shall once again know how it feels to crush your enemy. And you shall be observed from the highest posts in China. When this is over, your name will adorn great banners.”

He felt uncomfortable now, had never been celebrated in public places. “I only wish to do my duty. Do we know just when we might expect contact with the Americans?”

“That is very likely up to you. The Americans will be wandering blind in a strange land. They do not expect to meet us on our own terms. They do not believe we have the resolve to bring this war to them. You shall show them just how mistaken they are.”

A new thought rolled into Sung’s brain. “Might I expect a Soviet observer in my own camp?”

Peng shrugged. “Possibly. You will of course be the good host.”

“Of course. Am I to make known my needs? Am I to allow the Soviets to know my positions, my troop strength?”

“Chairman Mao is not amused by that prospect. But I convinced him that there is no harm. If the Soviets know our situation, they might yet be persuaded to offer us aid. Otherwise, their presence will merely be a distraction. Chairman Mao does not believe Chairman Stalin will ever support us, in any way. I hold to a bit more optimism.”

“Then I shall be optimistic as well. I shall do what I can to secure heavy artillery, or air support.”

Peng laughed again. “Just lead your troops, Shi-lun. It is not your concern what the Soviets will or will not offer us. Chairman Mao shall see to that. Now go. Return to your troops. Prepare them for what lies ahead. Prepare them for the glory that awaits their victory!”

Sung stood, stiffened, a salute toward Peng. “Thank you, sir. We shall do our duty.”

He turned, moved to the door, pulled it open, the guards standing to either side, eyes ahead. The air was cooler now, and Sung placed his hat on his head, saw it was dark outside. He stepped crisply toward the entryway of the great hall, more guards, smart salutes, a group of officers to one side standing still as he passed. The steps led him down, outside, the delicious chill of a cold night, and he glanced skyward, the stars spread out to the horizon. The excitement was inside of him still, the inspiring words of General Peng. Little of that was unusual, many of those words coming from Chairman Mao, unshakable faith in the perfect righteousness of their cause. The troops will know that, he thought. They will trust in their leaders, in why we fight. They will know of our enemy, just what kind of dishonor the Americans carry, their weaknesses, their lack of will.

He moved out across a wide avenue, a flicker of lights from the buildings around the square, another glance skyward.

Still, he thought, a few Soviet planes could be very helpful.

THE STINK FROM BELOW drove the men to the open deck, desperate for gasps of fresh air. Riley climbed the final gangway with a hard lunge, burst into the open, released the breath he had held as long as his lungs would allow.

“Good God. What the hell, anyway?”

All around him men were dropping, joining more men who had found anyplace to sit in the open air. The curses surrounded him, one man speaking out.

“Good Christ. You smell that? Musta been ten guys with the trots all at the same time. Ten more guys puking. The heads ain’t made for this. I can’t go near those places. I’ll just hold it.”

“Or let it fly over the side. You won’t catch me down there again, no matter what.”

“How long we gotta be on this bucket, anyhow?”

“I’m out of C-rations. Anybody spare some?”

Riley looked at the last voice, familiar, the kid, Morelli. He motioned him closer, made space on the hard deck, said, “Sit down. You better keep any talk of rations to yourself. Any one of these jackasses is liable to toss you overboard.”

The boy settled down beside him, seemed strangely cheerful. “Hey, Pete, I watched the squids today. They were running a whole flock of minesweepers through the harbor. What a job, huh?”

“Picking up mines ain’t my idea of a job, kid. They’re taking their damn time about it, too.”

To one side, Killian crawled to a clear space on the hard deck, said, “I’m with him, kid. I heard one of those tubs got blown to hell. Guess those clumsy-assed swabbies dropped one. I heard the mines are Russian. Figures.”

Riley had heard the talk, that the navy’s boats were still struggling to clear the harbor.

“Blew up? Didn’t hear that. Might explain why the squids are moving so damn slow.”

Killian said, “Marines would have had that place cleaned up by now. If I knew my buddies were out here bobbing up and down like turds, I’d sacrifice a few minesweepers to help ’em out.”

Riley looked out toward the harbor, still busy with the work of the minesweepers. It had gone on now for more than a week, the harbor at Wonsan too clogged with mines to allow the landing crafts to move in. It was clear to all of them that the North Koreans had been caught seriously unprepared for the Marine landing at Inchon, and so, someone high up the North Korean command had made sure it wouldn’t happen again. The enemy’s tactic had seemed to catch everyone by surprise. The transports were not expected to be at sea more than a few days, the time it took to transport the Marines from Inchon, down around the Korean Peninsula, then up to the North Korean port of Wonsan. With the delay, the landing craft had been forced to bide their time, much of that in the open water. But they would not merely sit still. Concerns arose about the possibility of enemy planes, Russian MiGs, first and foremost, the LSTs potentially sitting ducks. And so their crews had kept most of the LSTs in motion, motoring back and forth in the Sea of Japan. It didn’t take long for the word to spread, that particular talent the Marines seemed always to possess, the art of the nickname. Very soon the entire division was calling their predicament Operation Yo-yo.

But the humor was short-lived. After more than a week of delay, the LSTs had run out of hot food. The supply of soap was exhausted, along with the drinking water in the ship’s limited tanks. Bathing had become a distant memory, the men forced to endure the aroma from painfully close quarters. Then a new crisis developed. An epidemic of low-grade dysentery had spread throughout the LSTs, and with that new plague, the heads had quickly become inoperable, unable to handle the volume from so many digestive problems. The one activity that occupied those well enough to move around came from watching the minesweepers. Even now, men gazed out to one side, cursing the slow labor of the navy.

Killian sat down close beside Riley, said, “I seen Kane down below. Green at the gills. The sarge, too. Doc told ’em to get up here, air it out. Not sure Kane’s got enough strength to climb anywhere.”

Riley shifted away from Killian, said, “Don’t need a blow-by-blow. Jesus. You smell worse than I do. Make some space, how ’bout it.”

Killian ignored the complaint, and Riley knew it didn’t matter anyway. To the other side, Morelli smelled even worse.

A sailor passed through them, a hint of a uniform, crusted with the same greasy smears that coated the Marines. Riley caught the man’s odor, so very different, a strong whiff of dead fish. His face curled, a hopeless effort, and Morelli said, “Wowee. Those Japs sure do carry a smell.”