Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

“You know a great deal about Chairman Stalin. It must be an honor to have the privilege of such information.”

Orlov said nothing for a long moment, his eyes locked on Sung. “Tell me, General Sung, I have wondered. Your crossing of the Yalu River was most impressive. It was an ambitious operation, and yet the Americans made almost no effort to interfere. Of course, I understood completely why you chose to cross at night. But surely, you expected all of those bridges to have been destroyed by American bombs. It is reasonable to expect the enemy to put obstacles in your path, slow down every move you make.”

Sung thought of the crossings, more than a hundred thousand of his men advancing into North Korea without a shot being heard. But he shared Orlov’s curiosity about the intact bridges, had expected at least a token of resistance.

“I have no doubt that if we had made our crossing in the daylight hours, the American air forces would have done all they could to impede us. My greater concern was the discipline of the Ninth Field Army Group. I am most proud that my men performed as expected.”

Orlov still had the smile. “Perhaps the Americans left the bridges intact because they do not wish to antagonize your Soviet neighbors? I will admit to you that there has been concern in my government that the Americans intend to build bases along the Yalu, to threaten Manchuria and beyond.”

Sung measured his words, spoke slowly. “Major, we are miles below the Yalu River even now, and we will continue to march southward until we embrace the American invasion. I do not see how bases can be built on land we have already put behind us.”

Orlov shrugged. “I have been told that the Americans might not be aware just what territory you have passed. I have been told that the official dispatches coming from their headquarters in Tokyo reveal no knowledge of your army being here at all.”

Sung was surprised, had heard nothing about that. So, of course. The Soviets have eyes in places I will never see.

“You have excellent sources, Major. Are you able to communicate using the stars?”

“My communications have regrettably ceased since we have advanced farther south. I am completely at your mercy, General.”

Sung turned slowly away, thought, Somehow, I doubt that.

The radios were nearly worthless, their range cut off by the great hills to the west. But the word had come to his camp, passed along a network of outposts that spread out over the mountains that divided Sung’s army from those troops who were moving more toward Pyongyang. He could not know just how accurate the reports were, knew that sometimes reports of combat victory were mighty exaggerations. But he knew Lin Biao, respected the man’s abilities to lead any army. If Lin had gone to such lengths to offer him a report, Sung would accept it as accurate. And so would his men.

He gathered the senior commanders, the men seated around an enormous squat tree. Sung had ordered tea, the men grateful for the small treat.

“Comrades, it is a glorious day. I am to inform you that beyond the mountains to our west, the People’s Thirteenth Army Group has struck the first blow against the Americans and their puppet armies of South Korea. We have achieved a great victory.”

The men called out a salute, their arms in the air, Sung absorbing their good cheer. The questions came now.

“Have the Americans retreated? Have we liberated Pyongyang?”

“Shall we join with them? Will they add to our strength?”

He looked at the voice, one of his youngest generals, a man Sung suspected would one day replace him.

“General Huk, your enthusiasm is welcomed, but there is a great struggle still to be waged. I do not have every detail of the engagements beyond the mountains. While we should draw spirit from General Lin’s successes, we must not forget our mission, and what still lies in our path. Our foe is advancing toward us even now. Our observers have reported South Korean troops, along with units of American infantry, advancing along the east coast. But I would also inform you that a large column of American Marines has begun their northward march out of Wonsan. Our orders are very specific. We shall observe them until the time is right, and then we shall destroy them.”

As the sun had set, his army rose from the ground all around him, across narrow valleys, stretches of thick timber, tens of thousands of men making ready for the next night of their advance. They had begun to spread out far beyond the few narrow roads, the meager farm lanes that held the attention of the American planes. To their front now lay a sprawling lake, the reservoir that was the water source for farms that stretched all the way to China.

For several days other units had been marching across the rugged hillsides, ordered much farther away from the roads. They were Sung’s most forward battalions, probing and scouting, soldiers who were ordered to keep their positions hidden from even the most skilled UN observers. As those units sent their reports back to their commander, Sung ordered more of his army forward, pushing them rapidly southward down both sides of the great reservoir, then spreading them farther out into the hills that rose along both sides of the primary avenue the Americans were using for the march north.

With word of the great success to the west, the bloody blow that Lin’s Thirteenth Army Group had struck against the American and ROK troops, Sung’s officers were energized even more. But Sung would not yet order any kind of massed assault. As he drove his troops southward, he advanced several of his divisions well past the vanguard of the American march, allowing the Americans to move up between the outstretched arms of a great pincer. To Sung’s amazement, as the Marines pushed out along their single roadway, they extended their position, stretching their power into a thin ribbon that extended nearly sixty miles. He was more curious just what kind of strategy the Americans were employing. With each day, the massive advantage of firepower the Americans enjoyed seemed to be diminished, spread farther apart by decisions Sung did not understand. As energized as his commanders were becoming, Sung Shi-lun held them back, ordering only a probing confrontation, a test to learn just what kind of secrets the Americans might be hiding, just what the logic was to their advance. As the Americans continued to spread themselves thin, Sung’s primary mission seemed, oddly enough, to be getting easier.

THEIR LOAD HAD GROWN, the new equipment issued as they left Wonsan. Their green dungarees were now a heavier material, said to be windproof, covering cotton long johns many of the Southern men had never seen. The jokes followed immediately, teasing from the Northerners, that back home, civilian long johns had the benefit of a trapdoor, something these long johns didn’t have. If there were instructions on just how a man was to relieve himself by maneuvering through multiple layers of clothing, none of the officers had bothered to provide them.

Those men who had grown up in the cold back home already understood layering, and the Southerners were learning quickly the benefit of the variety they wore now. Each man wore an undershirt beneath his usual Marine uniform shirt, covering that with a green denim jacket. The greatest burden they carried now was the heavy parka, a fur-lined hooded coat that hung to their knees. To wear the parka during the march meant more sweating, but carrying it or slinging it over the backpack could be even clumsier.