Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Sexton straightened, a look of seriousness, said to the gathering, “They don’t teach you boys a damn thing, do they? You ever heard the expression, three on a match?”

The officers nodded silently, some of the enlisted men as well. But others, mostly the younger men, seemed perplexed, heads shaking. Sexton looked at Smith, mock disgust.

“What’s the world come to, sir?”

Smith held the pipe in his mouth with one hand. “Go on. Tell them.”

Sexton assumed an air of authority now, hands behind his back. “In the First World War, the men in the trenches found out very quickly that in the time it takes a man to light three cigarettes with a single match, a sniper across the way could find the range, and make his aim. More than one doughboy died because he was being a nice guy for his buddies, whether it was cigarettes, or, maybe, like right now, three candles. That’s a lesson you should learn this way, by me telling you, than some commie sniper showing you.”

The mood suddenly changed, the visual of Sexton’s description sinking into the younger men. Smith knew Sexton had gone too far, said, “Just cut the cake, Captain. No snipers here.”

Sexton obliged with his Ka-bar, the cake quickly disappearing onto mess plates, paper napkins, most of the men not bothering with a fork. Beside him, Craig took a piece, handed another to Smith, and Craig said, “Should I read the note from Admiral Joy?”

Smith put a forkful of the cake into his mouth, nodded, and Craig smiled, said, “Gentlemen, we have received a most kind letter from Admiral C. Turner Joy, the man most responsible for the navy hauling us into Inchon. We may not have the closest of friends among the ground pounders, but you can be assured that the squids know just who has their back.”

Smith finished the square of cake, said, “Just read the note.”

Craig held up a paper, read, “On the occasion of your one hundred seventy-fifth anniversary I consider it indeed an honor and a privilege to salute our courageous comrades in arms, the United States Marines, wherever you may be. You can justly be proud of your past record, of your present gallant and heroic exploits in the Korean campaign, and God willing, you will face the future with the knowledge that you have done much toward restoring a happy and peaceful world . ”

Smith raised the pipe, all eyes on him now. “To a peaceful world.”

It was late, the party concluded, the cake long gone. Smith sat on his sleeping bag, stared at the paper, held the pen poised above. He smiled, tried to picture his granddaughter, couldn’t avoid a flicker of sadness. She’ll be grown the next time I see her. It happens so fast.

He looked up, saw Bowser in the doorway.

“Sorry, sir, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Come in, Al. Just working on a letter to Esther. Thinking about my granddaughter, Gail.”

“How old is she now, sir?”

“Six. But she’ll be sixteen before you know it. Seems it’s always been like this. I’m off in who-knows-where, and their lives just march on.” He stopped, was never comfortable talking about these kinds of feelings. “Sorry. What’s up?”

“Nothing, really. The staff is mostly in their quarters. No reports of any major action. Seems the Chinese are respecting our celebration.” Bowser paused. “You haven’t been outside, have you, sir?”

“Why?”

“Pretty impressive. Temperature dropped about thirty degrees since sundown. I guess winter’s finally here. Just didn’t expect it to come in all at once.”

Smith heard a rattle, looked at the lone window, could hear the wind now. “How cold?”

“Not sure. If it’s this cold here, though, pretty sure it’s getting a little rough up in the hills. I’m guessing the men will be a little happier with those heavy coats.”

The assault against the Marines at Sudong had only deepened what seemed to be a complete shift in strategy, the concern much more now for consolidation and a posture of defense. Smith had used that shift to the advantage of his division, Ned Almond allowing him far more leeway than Smith had enjoyed before.

But the Chinese had seemed to offer MacArthur a new gift. By pulling away from any confrontation with the bruised American units, embarrassed intelligence officers in Tokyo could now point to their original estimates, that the Chinese were in fact a minor force of no real significance. With the disappearance of the Chinese across the entire front, and the reconnaissance teams failing to learn just where they had gone, a buoyant confidence once again blossomed in Tokyo. Urgent discussions about the possible evacuation of American forces from Korean ports were suddenly silenced, replaced by MacArthur’s renewed enthusiasm for ending this war as he had always planned.

On November 11, new orders were passed down to both Eighth Army and Smith’s Marines. The march would once more be resumed, and there would be no hesitation, no cautious halt for winter. Once more MacArthur was insisting that they drive hard and fast to the Yalu River.

Smith received the order with annoyed frustration. Nowhere in Almond’s renewed sense of glee was there any explanation for just how the yawning gap between Eighth Army and Tenth Corps was to be resolved. Despite claims from Tokyo that each force was protecting the flank of the other, Smith knew that as his Marines advanced closer to the Chosin Reservoir, Walton Walker’s army units were on the far side of a vast and rugged mountain range, still nearly seventy miles away.

THEY AWOKE TO a fresh blanket of snow that painted the mountains around them with the kind of beauty the Marines had forgotten. Once more, the orders were to march north, the road now as steep as the hills they passed, the climb up through what the maps called the Funchilin Pass. The march was slow and methodical, Colonel Litzenberg obeying the spirit of General Smith’s order that the advance be deliberate, cautious. With the Seventh still in the lead, Litzenberg had pushed small reconnaissance patrols up into the hills along both sides of the road, discreetly probing the hollows and narrows, seeking out any hidden enemy. There had been confrontations, but they were brief and very limited, mostly scattered posts of Chinese lookouts, sent scurrying away. The men were as nervous as their commander, anticipating another sudden assault from every hidden place. But the Chinese had indeed backed away, allowing the Marines to climb ever higher through the pass. Litzenberg had no interest in the intelligence reports still pouring toward them from Tokyo that whatever enemy they had collided with had most certainly scurried back toward the Yalu River. From Litzenberg down to the privates who trudged their way up muddy ruts in a soggy road, no one paid any attention now to MacArthur’s amazing optimism, Tokyo still trumpeting that these men would leave this miserable land in time to celebrate Christmas with their families. Each day’s march put them farther from the seaports to the south, and closer to what they all believed would be another fight.

At the top of the pass, the ground flattened, a plateau some three thousand feet higher than the hills they had left behind at Sudong. Bone-chilling blasts of wind now that staggered the men as they marched, slicing through their clothing. The careless quickly learned to fasten their overcoats, the hoods yanked down hard over the wool hats, watery eyes staring down, feet moving in the steady rhythm that matched the man to your front. The march warmed them a little, sweat soaking their undershirts, the columns stopping periodically, orders to the men to change their socks.