Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

They carried gloves now, every man wondering just how he was supposed to pull the trigger of his weapon with thickened fingers. And so, many had sliced the fingertip off the wool on their shooting hand. Hanging below their backpack was a thicker sleeping bag, what someone at supply labeled “fit for the mountains.” In their packs they carried extra socks, and on their feet the lightweight leather boots had been replaced by what supply had called shoe pacs, a thick wool sole housed inside a watertight rubber boot, designed to keep feet dry. The men soon learned that keeping water out meant keeping sweat inside, that the longer the march, the wetter their socks. Orders had been passed to every man that once they took to the roads, they were to change socks frequently, avoiding the kind of plague some of these men could recall from a very different time fighting in the Pacific. Then it was called jungle rot; after long days in soggy terrain, a man who ignored his feet might find that his socks had become nothing more than a nasty crust that seemed to be glued to his skin. That lesson had been driven into every man who had suffered the agony of having his skin peeled from the bones of his feet. This time the enemy wasn’t the steaming heat of the jungle. Wet socks produced a variety of agonies, including blisters, and warnings came that with the coming of winter, wet feet meant cold feet, and if it was cold enough, the result could be frostbite. There were skeptics, of course, many of them the new recruits who had never endured that kind of cold, who imagined the march concluding with feet propped up in front of a campfire. But the officers did what they could to erase those kinds of pleasant expectations, the company commanders passing down the threat that anyone who ignored caring for his feet, or sought to escape to the aid stations with crippled toes, was to be treated with no more regard than the man who purposely shot himself in the foot. Few of the men around Riley seemed interested in testing the resolve of a man like Captain Zorn. But there were others, always the big mouths, who didn’t seem to give much heed to threats from officers. To those men, the corpsmen provided incentive of their own, calmly assuring them that a case of frostbite most often ended with amputation.

As they moved north from Wonsan, the nights became chillier, some of that from an increase in elevation. The cursing over the heavier loads began to quiet, the fall giving way to a North Korean winter, the mild days passing quickly to teeth-chattering nights. For now they rode in the larger trucks, the six-by deuce and a half most of these men had become used to. The road itself was crude, hard-packed gravel, patches of hard dirt, and some not so hard, clouds of choking dust that engulfed each vehicle in the column. They rode mostly in silence, the veterans knowing that the trucks were a luxury, that the kidney-bashing bumps were always better than hiking this ground, any ground, on foot. Word had already been passed down that farther on the roads would become steeper, and quite likely more narrow. Rumors flew, sightings of Chinese units, North Korean tanks on the prowl, the men blind in their covered trucks knowing only that they were moving farther into enemy territory.

Riley felt the truck slowing, the sharp squeal of brakes. He sat forward, straightened his back away from the bone-cracking bench seat. Across from him, Welch.

“Looks like the end of the ride. We sure as hell ain’t burning much gas. Never seen a convoy move so slow. We could walk faster.”

Lieutenant Goolsby was peering through the canvas, voices outside, and Goolsby said, “This is it. Everybody out. What we do this time, two hundred yards?”

It was an unusual piece of sarcasm from the young lieutenant, but Riley knew he was right. For reasons no one would explain to the riflemen, the brass didn’t seem to be in any hurry.

The men rose slowly, easing their way back, dropping down. Riley followed, Killian behind him, Riley’s turn to jump down to the hard ground. He scanned the countryside, most of it vertical now, and Killian descended heavily, said, “No more orchards. This ain’t farm country anymore. Too sloping for rice paddies, for sure.”

Riley shouldered his rifle, said, “That just means it’ll smell better. Never did figure out what those orchards were growing. Never seen those kinds of trees. Weren’t peaches or apples.”

The kid was down beside him, said, “Persimmons. Too late in the year for ’em now. I ate ’em growing up. They’re great, unless they’re green. Pucker you up real good then. We used to do that when we were young. Chomp down on a green one, then wait for our mouths to turn inside out.”

Killian sniffed. “Great. Our Guinea is also a farmer.”

Morelli kept silent, had learned not to spar with the big Irishman. Riley ignored them both, stepped farther out off the road, saw a small, flat field to one side, a rough shack to one end. A civilian emerged now, the usual scene, the man old and bent, caped in a simple white garment that matched the color of the man’s wispy beard. Riley watched him, the old man staring silently, no expression, the passing of this army just one more meaningless part of what Riley assumed was one more meaningless day. Welch moved out beside him, said, “Most exciting thing happened to that old fart in a while. How the hell does he eat? Nothing growing on this ground. Must have some generous neighbors.”

Riley said, “Maybe. There’s a hay pile behind his shack. He’s got a cow, or ox, whatever the hell they call ’em. He’s got it hidden, I bet. Afraid we’ll eat the damn thing.”

Welch said, “I don’t blame him. I’d hide everything I own from this nasty bunch.” He looked back behind Riley, said to Killian, “Hey, Irish. You think this one’s a threat, too? We oughta search his rathole?”

Killian shouldered his rifle, grumbled. “Don’t trust none of ’em. Where’s his damn flag, anyway?”

Riley began to move, following the flow of men as they stepped into column, thought of Inchon, the great throngs of Korean civilians, hundreds of them holding up small American flags. It had happened at Wonsan, too, though not as many. But the flags were there, waved by smiling crowds of North Koreans. The show had been inspiring, especially for the newspapermen. But the Marines were more curious than gratified. Riley thought of that now, wondering, Just where the hell did they get the flags? And do they have one for every occasion, depending on which army is marching by? There’s Brits here, Greeks, all kinds of troops helping us out. Good old UN. So, did all those civilians get the flags from the UN, some lackey running around passing ’em out? He looked over toward the old man again, called out, “Hey Papa-san, you forgot your flag. You not sure which side we’re on?”

Behind him, Killian said, “Yeah, you old Nook. We’re the good guys. Come to save the world. You get lucky, somebody’ll hand you a loaf of Wonder Bread. You pay enough, I’ll sell you a Hershey bar.”

“Knock it off. Save your breath for the climb.”

Riley glanced at the sergeant, knew that Welch had no patience for Killian’s mouth. Rumbles of artillery fire flowed over them now, the men silent, eyes searching the hills. From behind them Captain Zorn stepped forward, waved one hand, said, “Listen up! There’s something Battalion has ordered us to see.”

Riley was puzzled, thought, In this place? What the hell is worth staring at?

Zorn directed the men to one side of the road, a harsh order to each of the lieutenants as they passed, keeping each squad, each platoon, to one side of the road. Riley fell into the single line, saw a wide ditch, the men stopping, the words coming now.

“Jesus. What the hell happened?”