Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Besides the weapons, most of his men were equipped with the kind of clothing meant to combat the coming of winter, thick padded pants and coats, with a hat to match, heavy earflaps to stave off the harsh, icy winds. They did not wear helmets, another point of pride, the officers knowing that a well-placed bullet could easily penetrate the tin hat worn by the Americans.

There were few boots, the lack of tough leather explained away by the need for stealth, that heavy-heeled boots would likely be too clumsy for men accustomed to lengthy marches. Their shoes were soft canvas, rubber soles, and if they did little to ward off freezing temperatures, Sung had convinced himself and his officers that when the men moved, their feet would warm themselves. The simple answer was to keep them moving.

Sung watched a gathering of coolies farther down the hill, the A-frames standing together, silent men digging into whatever rations they might be carrying. I should order the younger officers to carry those A-frames themselves, maybe just a single night. That should keep those whips silenced. He shook his head. No, you do not do such a thing to officers. You destroy a man’s honor by unwise punishment. There is no shame in this army. We shall teach the Americans about shame.

“Hello, General Sung!”

The voice was too loud, drawing stares from the other officers. Sung saw the larger man moving toward him, open coat, a small bottle in his hand.

“Major Orlov. Have you found a suitable place to sleep?”

The Russian glanced toward the sunrise, said, “No. Not yet. In time. It will be a long day. I do not require so much sleep.”

Sung wasn’t sure just how he felt about the presence of the Russian, assigned to his camp from above, perhaps higher than General Peng. He had tried to read the man, the Russian tall, lanky, too eager to laugh. He spoke fair Mandarin, with a heavy accent that made him difficult to understand. But Sung had spent a great deal of time in Manchuria, had heard enough Russian blended with Chinese dialects to understand most of what Orlov was trying to say.

Sung knew his orders, that the observer was to be regarded as a guest in Sung’s camp. So far the Russian had kept mostly out of the way, no questions, the man with little curiosity about just where this army was marching. Sung watched Orlov take a long drink from his bottle, guessed it was alcohol, something Sung and most of his officers never touched. The Russian slipped the bottle into his coat, seemed to follow Sung’s gaze at the new dawn.

“A few more days…it will get cold, yes?”

Sung nodded, pulled his coat more tightly around him. “We are prepared.”

“I see that. Your men wear a double coat. One side brown, the other white. Either way, very useful. If there is snow, they can be well camouflaged.”

“There will be snow.”

“Yes. I can smell it. Many mornings. At Leningrad, I learned to smell many things, including the Germans. Did you know there is a different smell between German tanks and our own? I should think your enemy here must carry his own odor. If you continue to maneuver in the darkness, your men will learn.”

“We will continue to move in the darkness. Likely we shall fight in the darkness. It is the one advantage we have. The Americans are too much in love with their plush sleeping bags, their soft blankets. How is that in your army, Major? Are there luxuries? How badly do you miss your supplies of vodka?”

He stopped, knew he had gone too far. No, you must not insult this man. To his surprise, Orlov laughed.

“I do miss my vodka, yes.” He tapped his pocket. “This will not last long, I regret.” Orlov paused. “You do not care for my presence, eh, Comrade?”

“I would prefer you address me by my rank. My soldiers are not accustomed to such informality.”

“My apologies. My orders were to show you every respect. I am privileged to be in your camp, General.”

Sung looked at him, thought, What else were you ordered to do? He looked again toward the rising sun, a harsh glow now bathing the hills with sprays of light.

“I am privileged to have you as my guest.” It was the same polite formality that had passed between them since Orlov arrived, just as the army had crossed the Yalu River. Orlov’s comment reached him now. “I did not know you were at Leningrad. I assume you were a soldier then?”

Orlov seemed to shrink, more serious now, his voice lowering. “I was a very young lieutenant. I knew nothing of war or Germans or what artillery shells can do to other young men. I learned very quickly.”

Sung said nothing, kept those kinds of memories far away. “We all must learn. Perhaps one day there will be no need.”

Orlov moved closer to him. “There will always be need. I know your combat record, General Sung. I know of your great struggle against the Nationalists. Your army, even these men here, they march with the pride that comes from victory.”

Sung held himself back, felt a pang of caution. “The officers here are veterans, many of them. The soldiers are young. They must still learn.”

Orlov nodded. “Yes, I heard one of your commanders saying that the soldiers consider your army to be like a great university. It is all they know, all they are meant to do. You teach them to read, you educate them in the ways of the world. They are better for it.”

It was a point of pride for Sung, for many of the senior commanders in the Chinese army, that even the lowest troops learned much about Chinese history, particularly the great struggles of the recent past. Sung said, “They learn of the revolution. They are proud to march under our flag, the flag that reminds them always of their dedication to Chairman Mao.”

“Certainly. Well spoken. You have learned as well. I trust such knowledge will give you confidence against the guns of the Americans.”

There was sarcasm in Orlov’s words, Sung more uncomfortable now. He didn’t want this, felt the hard weariness of the long night’s march. He began to ease away, but Orlov followed, and Sung stopped, said, “Major, I must speak with my commanders. They will have reports about this march. I must know the condition of my men before we begin again tonight.”

“Of course. I would very much enjoy hearing of this. It is one reason I am here, as you know.”

Sung looked at him, studied the man, tried to see past the friendliness of his eyes. “Are there other reasons? Or am I not to ask?”

Orlov held out his hands, open palms. “I am in your service, General Sung. This is your command. My task is to observe for Chairman Stalin, to report what I see, and possibly to offer suggestions to my superiors what the Soviet army might do to assist you.”

It was the first time Orlov had used Stalin’s name. He studied the man again, Orlov slowly crossing his arms, the grin returning. Sung said, “We are hopeful for such assistance as you can provide. There is a great deal of concern that we engage with an enemy far superior to what our officers have experienced. I make every effort to eliminate such fears. I believe the Americans possess superior weaponry, but I am not afraid of the American heart. They are soft, arrogant.” He paused. “I have heard that your officers have concerns as well. There is talk in Peking that you will not help us because you are afraid of what the Americans can do.” He hesitated, knew it was a dangerous subject. “My apologies. It is not my place to question the heart of your soldiers.”

Orlov seemed unaffected, shrugged. “There is nothing to apologize for. You are likely correct. There is concern in Moscow, as there is surely concern in Peking, that a war with the Americans could destroy us all, the Americans included. It is not about the hearts of men, General. It is about guns. Big guns. Power versus power. Are we willing to assist your government in a fight that might destroy your precious revolution, everything you hold dear? And to what reward? Chairman Stalin has his eyes focused on Europe, on the threat to our sovereignty that still exists on battlefields soaked with Russian blood. The people of the Soviet Union have a great deal of experience with bloody sacrifice. The wounds from the last war are very fresh in our minds. Chairman Stalin is in no hurry to repeat such slaughter, no matter who suffers the most. Your revolution might be centered in this part of the world, but Chairman Stalin is aware that our enemies have great armies of occupation throughout Europe. It is there we must give our greater attention. As much as we would enjoy aiding your efforts, Chairman Stalin must keep mindful of other priorities. He loves his people and does not wish to see them bloodied for no useful cause. Is this war, right here, a useful cause?” Orlov shrugged again. “That decision lies with others, of course. I am but a major. You should understand our concerns, General.”