Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

A few miles below their goal of Koto-ri, they had marched past a power station, a concrete bridge that carried them over four enormous pipes, man-made waterways that funneled the flow from the Changjin River northward, down through the plateau and valley that eventually led to the great reservoir that the Japanese maps labeled Chosin. But the power plant was merely a break in the scenery, the men paying little heed, even if the engineers among them were quietly impressed. Most of the men strained to hear any sounds of an ambush, hesitating at each sharp bend in the road, the recon patrols still fanning out over the hills above them. By late afternoon they reached the outskirts of Koto-ri, and once more the lieutenants passed the word: Prepare to dig in.

The first two battalions had already spread out through Koto-ri, some of those men patrolling the outlying villages. Like Koto-ri itself, the smaller settlements showed the effect of American air strikes, each village no more than a pothole of ruin along narrow trails.

The town had already taken a new shape, camps set up, tents erected, aid stations and command posts. Trucks were rolling in, a slow procession, one tank moving past, clanking its way farther north. Riley loved the tanks, no one disagreeing with him, the men around him staring as he was, grateful for the power in the steel beast.

They passed men working, shovels chopping into hard ground, a handful of men erecting a larger tent. There were jeeps there, wheels thick with mud, Welch mumbling beside him, “Brass. Maybe Old Homer wants a nap.”

McCarthy led them farther into the wreckage, all that remained of the town, more Marines in every open place, familiar officers, the other companies of Litzenberg’s Seventh establishing their base. The men mostly ignored one another, but Riley heard the calls from the column, friends seeking friends, and behind him Killian said, “Hey! There’s Hooperman!” He was louder now, “Hey, Dog Breath! Your mama let you run loose?”

The man stood knee-deep in a foxhole, shovel now resting on his shoulder. He stared toward Killian for a long moment, then broke into a smile, climbed up, walked toward the road.

“I told you if you ever mention my mama again, I’d polish my bayonet on your nut sack.”

“Give it a try, Hoop. I could use the attention.”

Up ahead, McCarthy had stopped, was speaking to an officer Riley didn’t know, Lieutenant Goolsby leading the rest of the platoon into a small blasted field. Riley hung back with Killian, said, “Didn’t know you had any friends.”

“Hell, yes! Known this ugly son of a bitch since basic. Corporal Wayne Hooperman, this here is Pete Riley. He’d have made corporal, but he’s too stupid.”

Hooperman nodded toward Riley. “Pleased to meet you. I don’t see any stripes on your arm, Sean. I guess the Corps ain’t so hard up they gotta promote big dumb Irishmen.”

Riley could feel the man’s good cheer, smiled, said, “We passed a goat a ways back. Sean saluted it. Guess he knows his place.”

Hooperman laughed, said to Killian, “Hey, I like your friend. Knows you as well as I do.”

Killian made a mock scowl. “No friend. Just a rifleman lucky enough to share my hole. I gotta teach him to throw a grenade, not just drop it on his toes.” Killian pulled out his canteen. “Glad you’re okay, even if you’re still the ugliest Marine in Korea.”

There was a softness to the Irishman’s words, a hint of sentiment that Riley rarely saw. Hooperman nodded, said, “Yeah. We lost a couple men in that last scrap. No fun at all. Hey, you guys are Fox. I knew your captain back in Pendleton. Damn shame he’s gone, huh?”

Riley waited for more, glanced at Killian. “What do you mean?”

Hooperman seemed surprised. “The word passed along this afternoon. Zorn’s been pulled out, transferred to headquarters or something. He always wanted to be with the big boys. I guess somebody noticed him. You meet your new CO yet?”

Riley was confused, thought, Zorn’s gone? He looked toward McCarthy, saw the lieutenant with the other two platoon leaders, and still the unfamiliar officer. Riley saw Welch moving closer, the sergeant hearing the talk. Welch said to Hooperman, “They don’t tell us a damn thing till it’s over with. There’s some fresh-faced captain up ahead, talking to the lieutenants. Guess we’ll meet him soon enough.”

McCarthy stepped away from the meeting, looked out toward his men, called out, “Third Platoon, fall in here! Take a seat.”

The men responded, other lieutenants calling to their platoons, the entire company coming together. Welch kept his voice low, said to Riley, “That’s gotta be him. Captain Freshface. They can’t leave anything be. I guess officers gotta move around or they get moldy.”

Riley kept his eyes on the new captain, a tall, lean man, older, hands on his hips. Riley noticed now, the man’s clothing was perfect, dungarees pressed, the jacket seeming to be new. The captain watched as the men sat, appraising them with a hard frown. The chatter grew silent, and the captain moved into the middle of the formation, the company on three sides of him.

“Listen up! I’m Captain William Barber, your new CO. Captain Zorn has transferred. I want you to know, I’m no ninety-day wonder. I started as an enlisted man in World War II. I received my commission in 1943, and like some of you, I ate gravel at Iwo Jima. I took two wounds there, two Purple Hearts. They thought I needed a Silver Star, too. I ended that war as a company commander, and somebody thought I did a good job of it. So my job is to lead you men into whatever scrap the enemy has planned for us. You pay attention, and you’ll likely survive. You don’t, and you’ll end up in a bag. I may not know beans about strategy, but I know a hell of a lot about tactics. Frankly, I’m a hell of a good infantry officer!” He paused. “Who’s here from Kentucky?” Several hands went up, and Barber said, “Me, too. Dehart. East of Lexington. Don’t worry, you never heard of it. I also need to inform you that effective immediately, we have a new battalion commander. Major Sawyer has been replaced by Colonel Randolph Lockwood. If Colonel Lockwood feels the need to talk to you, he’ll let me know.” Barber scanned the men closely. “You are a motley group. Pancho Villa’s bandits looked more fit than you. That will change. By tonight I want every man cleaned up and shaved. I want weapons cleaned, and you will fall out for a conditioning hike at oh–six hundred tomorrow. This company has too few veterans and too many children. You will shape up, or I’ll find you a kindergarten to fit you. You are dismissed.”

Riley stared, his mouth hanging open. Beside him, Killian said, “What the hell is this war coming to? You see his dungarees? They’re creased, for God’s sake.”

Riley watched Barber walk away, had nothing to say. Behind him, Welch said, “That’s just great. We got us a pantywaist captain who thinks we need basic training.”

McCarthy was there now, no smile, said, “Maybe we do, Sergeant. You want to bitch, you go right ahead. But if Captain Barber gives you an order, you will damn well obey it. You got a problem with that, you take it out on the Chinese.”

The foxholes were mostly completed, darkness beginning to spread over the field. Riley cleaned his hands in a softening pile of muddy snow, thought of the C-rations in his backpack. I’m so damn hungry, he thought, I might actually enjoy that slop. In the distance came the rhythmic thump of a helicopter, and he stared up, stretching his back. He folded the small shovel, watched the chopper ease down in a wide clearing near the larger tents. One man was signaling, guiding the chopper to rest, and now another chopper appeared, and from a narrow gap in the hills, two more. Riley said, “What the hell?”