Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Smith let it go, knew that letting Puller blast away was the best way to handle him. “Take care of business, Lewie. That’s all. Tenth Corps has a plan, and it comes straight from Tokyo. We’re just a piece of the puzzle.”

“What about the enemy’s plan? Any ideas there? They just gonna let you drive a big damn convoy all the way to the Chinese border, like some flag-waving parade? We should be gathered up, O.P. We have to be able to support each other.”

Smith knew he was right. But there was nothing to be discussed now. “Go, Lewie. See to your men. Fix that nervous colonel. Keep in touch with me. I’m going up in a helicopter, meet with Litzenberg. He’s leading the way north.”

Puller shook his head. “So, Tenth Corps gave you a new toy, huh? I rode in one of those bouncy-assed things. Like sitting on a basketball. Fine, go have fun. Give my regards to the convoy .”

He recalled Puller’s description, “sitting on a basketball,” the helicopter tilting wildly to one side, caught by a gust of wind. The pilot jerked the stick, gained control again, dropping the helicopter downward. Below him a small crowd of officers gathered, waiting in the road, one man signaling with his arms toward the makeshift landing zone. The craft settled down now with a soft bump, the pilot cutting the engine, leaning over to him.

“Sorry for the rough ride, sir. The winds are a little tricky.”

Smith nodded, said nothing, tried to unravel the knots in his stomach. He slid out of the seat, landed shakily on the soft ground, one hand against the craft, trying to find his legs.

Litzenberg was there now, a short, stocky man, intense eyes, a hard stare at Smith. “Thank you for coming up here, General. Never thought I’d see these things so useful.”

Smith glanced at the pilot, who nodded toward him.

“So far. Saves time. You have a CP?”

“This way, sir. We’re making good time, but I’m hearing a lot of noise from the locals.”

“Let’s go inside, Colonel.”

Smith’s message was clear, no conversation needed for casual listeners. Litzenberg had the annoying habit of arguing when he should be keeping quiet, something Smith had learned to tolerate. Not the time, he thought.

He followed Litzenberg to a ramshackle building, a line of trucks moving past, dust engulfing the waiting helicopter. Inside, Litzenberg pointed to a chair.

“Please have a seat, sir. Coffee?”

“No. Tell me about the locals. What are you hearing?”

Litzenberg sat across from him, two aides spreading a map on a small table between them. “Nervous as the dickens. Farmers, whatnot. They keep telling us there’s troops all over the place, waiting for us. We’ve been picked at a few times, snipers mostly. Nothing to slow us down. If the enemy’s waiting to slug us in the gut, they’re taking their time about it. Locals keep telling us it’s the Chinese. I had interpreters talking to these people, watched all manner of dramatics. These people talk to us like they’re terrified, and every time we reassure them that the enemy is gone, they just get louder, preaching doom and gloom. The interpreters seem to think it’s all for effect. Every village we’ve passed through, the people beg us to stick around. We’re making friends pretty easy. Kinda strange, since these folks are all North Koreans.”

Smith stared at the map, ignored the details, sorted through Litzenberg’s descriptions. “You seen any sign of Chinese troops?”

“No. Am I supposed to?”

“Not according to G-2 in Tokyo.”

“G-2 should come out here, talk to these civilians. What’s his name? Willoughby?”

“General Charles Willoughby. MacArthur trusts him like his own son. I’ve invited him to come out here, see what’s happening for himself. Hard to pry those fellows away from Tokyo. General Willoughby insists we’ll have an easy time of this, that the path is open all the way to the Yalu. My job is to take him seriously. Your job is to follow orders.”

“Do you?”

“Take him seriously? No choice, Colonel. I’ve got orders, too. If there are Chinese in this fight, Willoughby insists with absolute certainty that they’re flocks of volunteers, sent south to help out their Korean allies. No more, no less.”

“Well, it’s nerve-racking, sir. We’re watching enemy on distant ridges, no one close enough to grab. I’m hoping we can snatch a few prisoners, see what they have to say. My guess is they’re North Koreans, but who the hell knows? If there are Chinese troops standing in our way, it’s a different fight. I’m no politician, General, but I know something of politics. We start killing Chinese, and the Soviets might not be happy about that. It spreads, like a stain. Next thing, the bombs start falling. Big ones. We could be starting World War Three. That doesn’t make me comfortable, sir.”

Smith didn’t want this, respected Litzenberg too much to watch him get rattled. “I need you to do the job, Colonel. That’s all. I’ve got very specific orders from Tenth Corps. I intend to follow them.” He paused. “I intend to follow them with great deliberation. Great care. Precision, if you will.”

Litzenberg smiled, glanced at the staff officers around him. “Understood, sir. We shall advance with…precision.”

Smith stood now, moved to a filthy window, stared out. “I don’t know what’s out there, Colonel. But until I feel we can readily support each other, I’ll not have three regiments strung out across half of Asia. Our first priority is to relieve South Korean elements that have already pushed out in front of us. Maybe those fellows can give us some accurate intelligence. For all we know, Willoughby is spot-on. One part of me hopes that General MacArthur is absolutely right, that this war is pretty much over. I miss my granddaughter, Colonel. I’ll be as happy as every private in this division if we get home for Christmas.” He turned, looked at Litzenberg. “Keep that under your hat. Your staff, too. I don’t need your men thinking they’re just biding time out here. Keep them sharp, awake.”

“Certainly, sir. I’d be happy to make a wager with you about that Christmas thing.”

Smith felt a rising burn of bad humor. “I don’t gamble. Don’t mention that again.”

“Never again, sir.”

Smith looked out through the filthy glass. “Road still looks decent enough for trucks.”

“For now. Civilians say the road gets hairy a few miles north of Hungnam. If the topo maps are accurate, there are some pretty steep climbs farther north. Might have to put the men on their feet.”

Smith saw a hazy form in the window, a man running toward Litzenberg’s CP. The door opened with a loud crash, the man halting, coming to attention. He looked at Smith, said, “Sir! They told me you were here. Excuse me.”

Litzenberg was on his feet now, said, “What’s the problem, Lieutenant?”

The man pulled himself under control, still looked at Smith.

“Sir, begging your pardon, but your staff’s been trying to track you down.”

“They know where I am.”

“Yes, sir. A Colonel Bowser reached us by radio. He was most insistent that you return to Wonsan.”

“No message?”

“He wouldn’t say, sir. I can raise him for you.”

Smith looked out through the window, the helicopter waiting.

“No.” He looked at Litzenberg. “Keep ’em moving, Colonel. Eyes sharp. If those civilians keep talking about the Chinese, I’ll make sure General Willoughby hears about it. I’ll push again for Willoughby to fly up here himself. Maybe our intelligence people can be persuaded to do more than host banquets for Japanese politicians.”

Smith moved out through the door, blew through the clouds of dust, more trucks moving past, curious faces watching him. He motioned to the pilot, the man quickly in his seat, firing up the engine, the rotors beginning their slow turn. He slid in beside the young man, pointed with his hand, Go, the engine revving louder, then louder still, the helicopter rising slowly, losing touch with the ground. Smith glanced up, his mind focused on the single steel bar, the only connection between the rotor and the rest of the craft, an uneasy lifeline that kept him airborne. He tried not to think of that, stared ahead, the pilot maneuvering out over the first hills, the parade of trucks spread out along the road beneath him. Smith felt a hard chill, pulled at his jacket, couldn’t avoid a shiver. He glanced at the pilot, knew the man couldn’t hear him, said in a low voice, “Getting colder.”