Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

For his loyalty to Mao, and his excellence in the field, Sung is promoted to full general. When the war breaks out in Korea, Sung shares the belief of many in the Chinese army that the war will never involve China, since most believe that the United States will not hesitate to employ its nuclear weapons, an asset China does not have. Sung also harbors a profound distrust and dislike for the Soviets, an attitude passed down from Mao himself. As the war in Korea evolves in unexpected ways, Sung responds willingly to the responsibilities he is given, and he is assigned to command of the Ninth Army Group of the People’s Liberation Army, a force numbering more than one hundred twenty-five thousand men.

As the Chinese government carefully observes events to their south, Sung has one duty. Prepare his army to fight.

“WHERE’S PULLER? I want to see him, see what’s going on. He’ll be in the thick of it.”

MacArthur seemed to speak to all of them, but Smith had to respond.

“His men went in at Blue Beach, sir. He’ll be at his new command post there, certainly.” He glanced to one side, saw Ned Almond hanging on MacArthur’s words like a sparrow on a telephone wire, a hint of anger toward Smith. Smith tried to avoid Almond’s glare, turned to MacArthur again. “The jeeps are waiting. On your command, sir.”

“Well, let’s go. We delay any longer, this thing might be over before we get to see it.”

The aides behind MacArthur laughed, his ever-present audience, Almond laughing the loudest. Smith moved to the door of the crude hut, held out one hand.

“This way, sir.”

Smith backed away from the opening, allowed MacArthur the lead, a tradition Smith had learned from their first meeting in Tokyo, a month before. He kept back, allowed the other staff officers to go as well, Almond first, the man ignoring Smith as much as he could. Smith shook his head, then stopped, clamped down any reaction at all, wouldn’t show any of them a response. The aides flowed past, the room emptying quickly. He glanced at Craig.

General Edward Craig was, by title, the assistant commander of the Marine division, and so Smith’s second in command, a combat veteran whom Smith respected enormously.

Craig said nothing, and Smith glanced at the simple accommodations Craig had established, Smith’s folding cot in one corner, the field desk where Craig had spread the all-important maps. Smith reached for his helmet, said, “I suppose I’m off on a field trip, General. Mac wants to see the action. He’s asking for the right man.”

Craig nodded, a quick smile. “Not sure why General MacArthur seems drawn to Colonel Puller.”

Smith shrugged. “He likes fighters. They go back to the last war. Lewie had a few choice comments about Mac, but Mac doesn’t seem to mind. Or he doesn’t listen to anything a Marine has to say.”

“Or he’s going to arrest him. Just on general principles.”

Smith looked down.

“Then you can have his job.” It was a joke, but neither man was laughing. “Got to go, Eddie. Can’t keep the man waiting.”

He moved outside, saw the others loading up into the jeeps, four vehicles summoned for the journey. There was space remaining in one, directly behind MacArthur, who sat beside a Marine driver who could not avoid a wide-eyed sideways stare. Smith climbed up, wedged his long legs in tightly, looked at the others around them, Almond in one front seat, the others filled now with staff officers and the reporters who had come along with MacArthur. Smith knew the routine, MacArthur handpicking his favorites for the privilege of accompanying the commanding general to the front lines of his great triumph. The Marine drivers all seemed transfixed by MacArthur, but it was Smith who gave the order, a quick wave of his hand.

“Move out!”

The jeeps rolled into single file, Smith shifting his weight, trying to maneuver his legs into some kind of comfortable position. MacArthur turned slightly, said, “Puller, right?”

“Yes, sir. As I said, we’re headed to Blue Beach, Colonel Puller’s forward command post. He’ll be there, certainly.”

MacArthur nodded, seemed satisfied, stared forward, the jeep lurching past scattered shell craters, the remnants of the navy’s bombardment. Smith couldn’t avoid the questions in his mind, sliding between the stabs of discomfort in his legs. Was this all it took? The big guns from the ships unload on them, and the North Koreans just…take off? It’s never that easy. No, surely they’re still out there. Not sure how many. Puller will know more about that. But we’re in range of just about any kind of artillery right here, and maybe mortars, too. MacArthur must know that, of course. But if I told him that, offered him caution, he’d just order the driver to go faster, closer. Well, it’s his show.

They passed ambulances, other trucks small and large, artillery moving into position. Smith kept his eyes on a long ridgeline in front of them, thick smoke in bursts, spreading out with a light breeze. The thumps from distant artillery came in a steady rumble, the impacts on the ridge mostly from enemy mortars. Smith studied the hill carefully, men in motion, his men, but there was little else to see, the smoke spreading in a wide thin blanket. Up ahead, he saw officers gathering near the road, pointing toward the jeeps. Smith held his hand up, instinct, a message to the driver behind him. He reached a hand out to his own driver, tapped him on the shoulder.

“Pull over here.”

The young man eased the jeep to the side of the road, the officers approaching, a pair of cautious MPs among them. They seemed baffled by the strange convoy, but there was recognition, eyes wide, more men emerging from wrecked huts, all of them coming closer. MacArthur seemed to absorb that, gave the men time to assemble. MacArthur glanced toward a reporter’s upraised camera, rose slowly, stood high in the jeep, leaned heavily on the windshield, made a slow wave to the gathering Marines. Smith kept his place, knew to wait for MacArthur to leave the jeep. Finally, MacArthur stepped off, and Smith was surprised to see him stumble slightly, a hint of unsteadiness. An aide was beside MacArthur quickly, seemed prepared, but MacArthur held him away with his hand. The man backed off, MacArthur fully in control now, hands on his hips, the ever-present pipe in his mouth. He seemed to pose for a long minute, the camera clicking away. Smith jumped down, no reporter aiming any camera at him. He stumbled himself, a nagging pain in his knees, held himself against the jeep. One of the men moved closer, a captain Smith recognized, Puller’s aide. MacArthur said, “Where’s Puller?”

The captain looked briefly at Smith, then pointed behind him. “Up on that ridge, sir. There’s a good many of the enemy…”

MacArthur said, “Then let’s get up that ridge.” He turned to Smith. “I thought this was his command post.”

“It is, sir.” Smith looked again at the smoke, a new round of shelling peppering the crest. “I might suggest waiting for Colonel Puller to return.”