Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

“Hey! It’s Old Homer.”

The jeep pulled up, stopped with a squeal of brakes, Colonel Litzenberg dismounting. Another officer was there as well, fresh uniform, unfamiliar, and the men fell silent, the airmen as well. One of theirs, Riley thought. Great. Tell everyone what kind of idiots we look like.

Litzenberg stood with his hands on his hips, a stout fireplug of a man. After a long moment, he said, “Men of the Seventh Regiment. This is Major Jacoby, of the air wing. Our reception committee belongs to him. Like many of you, I had wondered why there was no enemy awaiting us here. You may credit the Marine airmen for making our job that much easier. The Koreans as well. These men are part of the Sixth ROK Division. They began the push up this coastline and have done much to secure this port for us.” Litzenberg paused, looked down. “I might also add that we had anticipated a reception of a far different nature. We are grateful to the ROK for removing the enemy from the formidable gun emplacements you see around you now. I believe Major Jacoby has something to add. You’ll find out anyway, so I thought we’d cut through the scuttlebutt and give you the straight scoop.”

Riley saw a beaming smile, Jacoby a head taller than Litzenberg, rocking back and forth on his heels, clearly pleased.

“Marines, it is my regrettable duty to inform you that your arrival here was tardy by only two days. I must say that the men of the First Marine Air Wing thoroughly enjoyed a show that was meant partly for you. It is entirely possible, of course, that there will be a repeat performance, although the entire rig has since left for other bases. Truly a shame, Marines.”

Litzenberg stepped forward, and Riley saw a scowl, the colonel as annoyed as Jacoby was pleased. Litzenberg put a hand on Jacoby’s arm, said, “You will all hear this in the next few days, so hear it first from me. As it was put to me a short time ago, our delay meant that the port of Wonsan was captured and secured not by the Seventh Marines, as we had hoped, but by units of the ROK, the First Marine Air Wing…and I regret to announce…Mr. Bob Hope.”

Jacoby laughed now, said, “Maybe you won’t miss out next time. But it was an outstanding show.”

The men reacted as both officers expected, a hard groan and angry calls. The airmen watching them erupted into more cheers. Riley sagged, had heard about too many spectacular visits by Bob Hope, all the way back to his days in the Pacific, none of them Riley’s unit could ever attend.

Litzenberg kept his pose, still the scowl, waited for the men to quiet. “We are presently awaiting orders as to our next march. For now, you men will be cleaned up, fed, and made ready. I may not be able to give you a USO show, but I promise you, before we’re done here, we’ll show these flyboys what we were sent here to do. And where we’re going, it’s not likely Mr. Hope will be welcome.”

“SO, INSTEAD OF General MacArthur’s proposed strategy of crushing the North Korean armies outright, ending this war on our terms, the British are insisting that we should appease everyone concerned by peacefully carving up Korea, creating a demilitarized buffer zone for the Chinese to occupy, all along the Yalu River. Apparently there is some concern among others that if we do our jobs and win this war, we will have made things, um, uncomfortable for some of the neighboring states. I mean, of course, China and the Soviet Union. It seems that there are those in Washington who wish us to win this war as long as we do not offend anyone doing it.”

There was nothing different about Almond this time, no change in the man’s amazing arrogance. Smith glanced around, various Tenth Corps staff officers mimicking Almond’s disdain for just who these others might be. It had been a supreme exercise in patience, but Smith felt it wearing thin, Almond’s briefing droning on for more than two hours. There was one spark of optimism that Smith embraced, confident that sooner or later, Almond would finally tell the army commanders and the Marines just what they were supposed to do next. There seemed to be an opening in Almond’s self-satisfied pause and Smith said, “Sir, do we have operational maps in hand? I should like to distribute them to my regimental commanders.”

Almond seemed annoyed at the question. “Of course. But first I should like to read to you General MacArthur’s response to the British proposal.”

Smith nodded, said in a low voice, “Of course.”

“General MacArthur is very aware that there are those in Washington who wish to handcuff our movements. I, for one, have no idea why anyone should oppose the general’s plans at all. I can only attribute this to the dirty game of politics. General MacArthur has assured me that he is far more interested in conducting what we all know to be the dirty game of war. Our mission going forward is to drive rapidly to the Yalu River, eliminating the North Korean army along the way. Despite British concerns that our presence along the Chinese border will cause indigestion among the yellow race, you are to follow General MacArthur’s orders, and mine, to the letter.” He leaned forward, sorted through a handful of loose papers. “Ah, yes. Right here. To the British idea, General MacArthur has responded to the Joint Chiefs in this way. ‘The widely reported British desire to appease the Chinese Communists by giving them a strip of North Korea finds its historic precedent in the actions taken at Munich on September 29, 1938.’ ” Almond smiled, staring out above them. “Magnificent. Let no one tell you that General MacArthur does not embrace the errors of history. There shall be no such appeasement occurring here. You might think that the British would recall their disastrous efforts to make nice with Herr Hitler.” Almond paused. “I might add that I offered some assistance to the general in composing that note.”

Smith felt his eyelids growing heavier, forced himself into alertness, glanced over at General Barr, the Seventh Division’s commander staring blankly, the same emotionless expressions on the faces of his staff officers. From behind Smith came an abrupt sneeze, which seemed to wake up everyone around him. There was a low groan and Smith turned, saw Bowser struggling with a handkerchief, a whistling blast as Bowser blew his nose.

“Sorry. Bloody awful cold.”

Barr seemed to jump on the distraction, said, “General Almond, you did mention maps?”

Almond was still annoyed, waved one hand to the side, motioning for an aide. “All right. Maps. I suppose some of us feel the need to dwell on the mundane. In my role as chief of staff to the general, I have witnessed great things, what I would only describe as a whirlwind of the momentous. So many in Washington fail to see what is being accomplished here. Even Truman…” He stopped, seemed to catch himself. “Well, enough about all of that. Captain, please distribute the maps among these men. I suppose marching men need to know where they are marching. If you will examine the lines, indicating your specific units, you will see what we have designed. I intend to have my forces scattered all over the eastern half of North Korea. As you know, the Eighth Army is occupying much of the western half. The goal of course is to sweep up whatever remains of the enemy’s forces.”

Smith ignored Almond now, took the map, focused, Bowser sliding his chair up alongside him. Bowser sniffled loudly, said into Smith’s ear, “I won’t breathe on you, sir. Promise.”