Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

There was a grim edge in Craig’s words, no smile, Craig returning to work with the radio. Coffee in hand, Smith eased toward the second of the smaller rooms, peered in, saw Lowe on his knees on the floor, digging in a haversack, retrieving a variety of personal items, arranging them in a neat display beside his sleeping bag. His aide stood beside him, the young man noticing Smith, a quick pat on Lowe’s shoulder, the aide regarding Smith with boyish terror. Lowe turned, said, “Ah, General! You survived another daredevil mission. Survived one myself.”

Lowe rose to his feet, stretched himself tall, said to the aide, “Corporal, this will do for now. Go get yourself some of that coffee, if the general’s staff will oblige you.”

The young man offered a weak “Thank you, sir,” then moved past Smith, flattening himself against the wall as he passed. Smith saw something new on Lowe’s face, a hint of despair similar to Craig’s. Lowe said, “Do you mind if we close that door?”

Smith stepped into the room, pulled the flimsy door shut with a rattling thump. “You know you can speak freely in front of my staff.”

Lowe sat on the floor again, leaning against one wall, his knees pulled up. “Rather keep this between us. It has been a difficult few days.”

Lowe had conceded the lone chair to Smith, who sat, allowed himself to sag into the chair. Smith said, “I’ve just come from Colonel Litzenberg’s CP. The Seventh Regiment inflicted heavy casualties on an entire division of Chinese in the hills up toward Sudong. We took casualties of our own, perhaps seventy dead. My division is spread a hundred fifty miles along a road I can’t adequately defend. We’re ordered to move northward on what the Koreans call a highway, and not too many miles in front of us, that road will be too narrow for nearly every mechanized vehicle we have. My superior is extremely unhappy that we have not yet waded into the Yalu River.” He paused. “So tell me, Frank, how are things with you?”

It was a rare show of sarcasm, and Lowe let out a breath, said, “I do not mean to suggest that this entire operation…this entire war, is not difficult for us all. For you all. I am most sorry to hear about your casualties.”

“The enemy is more sorry to hear about his.”

“Yes, well, of course. I was wondering how well you know Walton Walker?”

“Not very well.”

Lowe looked down into his hands, nodded slowly. “Nor I. I know him a bit better now. Spent several days with his command. I suppose you’re not so familiar with Hobart Gay.”

“Met him. Somewhere.”

Lowe peered up at him. “They have problems over there. They took heavy casualties against an enemy that wasn’t supposed to be there. General Gay commands the First Cavalry, and I can smell the rats surrounding him. The army always has need of a scapegoat, and Gay’s troops took the worst of the assault from the enemy. They lost an entire battalion, for God’s sake. Morale is awful, all through Walker’s command, and of course, somebody has to walk the plank for that one. I’m afraid it will be Gay. I couldn’t say a word. If I bring the president into a situation like that, I’ll lose every bit of cooperation from every officer in Tokyo, Tenth Corps, and likely even Walker won’t be too happy. I had to keep my mouth shut while I watched Walker’s people scramble to create elaborate justifications for every move they’re making.”

“Why are you telling me this? Nothing I can do. You think Almond cares what anyone here thinks?”

“Sorry. I just had to say it. I’ll inform the president all that’s happening, of course. But I’ll also caution him about jumping into the fray. MacArthur would explode like a rocket on the Fourth of July if Harry Truman told him how to deal with his subordinates. I’m not even sure I should offer the president my own opinion, that the fault isn’t with Eighth Army at all. It’s Tenth Corps. No effort has been made to move in tandem, to support either flank. There is a gap of nearly seventy miles between Walker’s troops and yours.” He paused, Smith’s expression not changing. “Of course you know that. Forgive me, General.”

“You can call me O.P. You’ve been here long enough.”

Lowe smiled, nodded. “No. You’re the one man I’ve come into contact with who deserves to be called general. Right now Walker’s people are contemplating their possible withdrawal, some of them expecting the order to come from Tokyo that it’s time to pull the entire Eighth Army back through the port of Pusan.”

“That won’t happen. That would be the equivalent of surrender, and MacArthur’s having none of that. He’ll replace people first.”

Lowe stared at the floor in front of him. “You’re right, of course. But the morale. No one wanted to talk to me, since they assumed I would relay every swear word to the president. And there were plenty of those. Just before I left, a call came in from Tokyo, the first time anyone there has acknowledged that the Chinese might actually be in this war. I thought Walker would have a stroke, like he wanted to reach through the wire and strangle whoever was on the other end. And even then, G-2 was pulling back from that, claiming that perhaps it was Walker who was mistaken. There is apparently some kind of argument going on in MacArthur’s headquarters. No one wants to admit they were wrong about the Chinese being down here.”

Smith finished the coffee, set the cup down on the floor beside him. “I can’t do much to relieve your anxiety. But I can assure you, the Chinese are out there, and they aren’t hesitant about punching us in the nose. We have the prisoners to prove it. According to them, we were hit by a single division, the One Hundred Twenty-fourth. Those prisoners have been talking like the dickens, claims of a dozen more divisions, waiting for us up the road.”

Lowe said, “Walker’s hearing that, too. You believe your prisoners?”

“Hard to tell. The interpreters believe them. To my mind, it’s unlikely that low-level foot soldiers would have access to high-level planning.”

“That’s exactly what Walker believes. He has prisoners, too, so they tell me. His interrogators don’t necessarily trust what the prisoners are saying. Have you spoken to him? Perhaps you two should be coordinating your efforts directly.”

“I would enjoy speaking with General Walker. I’m sure he and I could fight this war in a way the president would approve. But that’s not how it works. Should we want to speak to Eighth Army, we go through Tenth Corps. No one here has the luxury of a direct line to anyone in Walker’s command.”

“That’s insane!”

“If you say so. It’s chain of command.”

Lowe stared at the floor for a long moment, visible frustration on his face. He looked up at Smith again.

“What happens now? What are your orders?”

Smith glanced at the door, heard the soft knock. “Enter.”

Sexton pushed his way in, two cups of coffee balanced in his hands. He handed one to Lowe, then moved to Smith.

“It’s really hot, sir. Been boiling for about an hour. Best let it cool a bit.”

Lowe sipped carefully, grunted, staring into the cup. Smith took the cup, waved Sexton away.

“Thank you, Captain. That’s all.”

Sexton backed out of the room and Smith said, “General Almond will visit here tomorrow. When he has new orders, he usually demands that we go to him. When he wants orders carried out with haste, he goes directly to my regimental commanders, company commanders, anyone he can intimidate. I’ve tried to break him of that habit, with some success. You may of course involve yourself in any such meeting, here, or on the front lines, assuming we can determine where that might be.”