Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

His new plan had been heartily approved in Peking, General Peng suggesting that Sung’s forces offer a display of the raw power behind the Chinese will, a crushing blow that might reverse the American tide completely. To the west, such a blow had resulted in a chaotic withdrawal by several units of the American Eighth Army, a retreat that even now was ongoing. Lin Biao’s campaign had already shown more success than Peking had seemed to expect, and Sung knew that General Peng would expect no less from him.

Sung eyed the teacup, focused on a tiny crack, his eyes blinking with a hint of exhaustion. He was rarely sleeping through these long, chilly days, focused instead on the camps, the supplies so very important to men who stayed on their feet. You should nap more often, he thought. It was the same admonition offered by his staff officers, Colonel Wang tending to him like a nursemaid. Sung appreciated the man’s intentions, but Sung believed that it was never good to demonstrate such a love of luxury as Wang insisted was appropriate for the army’s commander. Meat was provided for at least one meal per day, but nearly always, Sung ordered that away, commanding Wang and the other staff officers to focus their energy more on providing sustenance for the soldiers. But Wang was relentless, and behind Sung’s mask of stoicism he felt enormous affection for this young man, who seemed to have no other ambition than serving his commanding general. The game would play itself out after every march, Wang somehow conjuring up a magnificent roast, a hind quarter of a goat or pig, which Sung would order sent down into the hidden camps of the men. Wang would protest, and Sung would insist. Wang knew not to protest too vigorously, and Sung had to keep hidden that the meat was more tempting each time it was offered. His admonition to Wang’s protests had been that such a feast would be reserved for the future, once the great victory had been achieved. There was little Wang could say to that.

He was growing impatient, looked around the crude camp, motioned to Wang, said, “Is General Gao aware that I am waiting for him?”

Wang moved closer, a short bow, his voice low. “Quite so, sir. We have expected his arrival at any time.”

To one side, Sung saw the Russian, seated at a small fire.

“Major Orlov, you will extinguish that blaze. Have you no regard for our safety?”

Orlov did not hesitate, gathered a handful of dirt, tossed it on the fire, then another, his hand working to wave away the remaining smoke. Orlov stood, uncoiling his long legs, moved closer, said, “My apologies, General Sung. I intended to keep the fire very small, the smoke to a minimum. I have been saving a tin of boiled meat, and it is not a pleasant experience when eaten cold.”

Orlov always seemed cheerful, which annoyed Sung even more. He kept his seat, his legs curled on a thin cushion, said, “Care must be taken, always. I should not have to remind you what the American planes can do to us if our location is discovered. Smoke will draw their bombers like rats to a stinking carcass.”

“Of course, General. I shall be more careful.” Orlov moved closer still, towering over Sung. “I have been curious about one practice I have observed here. Your men ingest a great deal of garlic. In some parts of the Soviet Union, the lands to the east, that is considered a wise precaution against creatures of the night. Specifically, vampires. It is likely you know little of such things. We tend to regard that as superstition, and there is no place for that in our army. I do not wish to insult you, or suggest that you rely on superstition in any form.”

“Major, the garlic is for our health. It is widely accepted that garlic holds a great many medicinal properties. The health of this army is important to me, as it is to Chairman Mao. Mao is an enthusiastic advocate for the benefits of garlic. And so am I.”

Orlov seemed satisfied, rubbed his nose. “I admit, it has taken me some time to become accustomed to the aroma produced by such a practice.”

“You should ingest it yourself. Not only will it be of great benefit, but it might relieve your discomfort. You wish to become a part of this army, that will certainly assist.”

Sung saw Wang down the draw, scanning off into the woods with his binoculars. Sung frowned, folded his arms. Where is Gao?

Orlov said, “Is there some problem today, General?”

Sung looked up, saw the maddening smile, still wondered how much he could reveal to this man. “I am displeased with my subordinate. Surely that has happened to you.”

Orlov chuckled. “Never. There is no displeasure in the Soviet army.”

Sung’s aide turned, others pointing down a sloping hill.

“Sir, there is a horse team approaching. It could be General Gao.”

Sung heard the hoofbeats now, pulled himself to his feet. One of the aides nodded fiercely. “Yes, sir. It is General Gao and his staff.”

Sung felt his patience snap, wanted to march that way, held a tight grip on his decorum. He closed his eyes briefly, let out a breath, knew that Orlov was watching him.

Sung saw Gao hand the reins to an aide, adjusting his uniform with the flourish of a man in no hurry at all. One of Sung’s aides was close to Gao now, pointed toward Sung, Gao making a show of removing his gauntlets. Sung pulled himself up, rocked slowly on his heels, forced himself to wait. Gao stopped in front of him, offered a crisp salute, with a pronounced glance toward Orlov.

Gao Shu was nearly as old as Sung, another of Mao Tse-tung’s loyal veterans. He had commanded the 124th Division since the army had been reorganized, a logical choice based on his experience fighting the Nationalists. But his arrogance seemed to hide greater ambition, the always nagging concern that a subordinate considered himself worthy of far greater command, perhaps Sung’s command. Sung knew that, often, that kind of obvious arrogance masked something else: a weakened spirit for the difficult fight. Like many of Mao’s troops, Sung had seen something fall away, that perhaps too much had been left behind in those awful struggles against the Nationalists.

“I expected a thorough report from your command much sooner.”

Gao stood stiffly, a glance at Orlov, who seemed to know when to withdraw.

Orlov said, “If you will permit me, I shall return to my perch. I should like to enjoy this cold meat.”

Sung nodded, looked again at Gao, was surprised to see a hint of tears in the man’s eyes. Gao lowered his head, said, “Sir, might we speak away from the camp?”

There was nothing arrogant in Gao’s demeanor now, his voice soft. Sung said nothing, motioned toward a cluster of brush, farther up the hill. He turned, Gao following, and Sung felt a punch of sadness. So, he thought, it is true.

The first reports of the clash south of Sudong had carried few details of the struggle. Sung had always relied on his teams of observers, planted high above the fight, officers who would creep forward in the quiet times, absorbing as much information as possible. Some of that information concerned Sung’s commanders, carefully weighing just what kind of performance a man could achieve under so much pressure. The responsibility for providing Sung with the more graphic details of the fighting lay with Gao, but now, as they moved farther from the activity of the camp, Sung could feel the kind of emotion from Gao he hoped never to see.

Sung stopped, stared away, said, “I know little of what occurred with your confrontation. You are aware of course that my observation posts can only report now what they see of the American aid stations, their command posts, their ambulances and trucks removing wounded and dead from the field. You are very well aware that I must hear a great deal more from you.”