Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

The Seventh Regiment had been fortunate to be the first to receive the far warmer winter clothes, but farther south, along the same line of march, Ray Murray’s Fifth had yet to receive the heavier gear. Their single advantage was that at the lower altitude, the temperatures hadn’t dropped so severely. But Murray’s orders were to keep close behind the Seventh, and so, very soon, as his men pushed up through the pass, they would suffer the same misery. As word of the abrupt change in the weather went back to division headquarters, General Smith responded by ordering the supply depots to the south to push forward as much winter gear as could be found.

Once their physical reactions had been tempered, the men of Fox Company began to adjust to the severity of winter. Though their clothing brought some relief, new problems arose, from frozen canteens to frozen toes. If there was no escaping the cold, the men were comforted in some part by what they saw in Koto-ri. Within days of reaching the town, establishing their perimeter, convoys of supplies began to arrive, driven along the same road these men had climbed by foot. The engineers had done their job, widening and strengthening the pathway, to make way for the large six-by trucks and columns of tanks. Koto-ri rapidly became an enormous supply depot, a protected fortress established by General Smith as a precaution for the continuing advance northward by his division. With the great ports so far behind them, a supply line connected to their advance by a single road, Smith realized what Tenth Corps seemingly did not, that the Marines were more vulnerable with every day’s march. If there should be some crisis farther to the south, some danger that could jeopardize that supply line, Smith would provide depots all along the way.

But the men of the Seventh Regiment did not enjoy the relative comforts of Koto-ri for more than a few days. Once more they were ordered to shoulder their gear and resume the march northward toward the Yalu River. Again there was little sign of the Chinese, no significant roadblocks, no attempt by the enemy to stand in their way. And so the men marched farther along the single narrow avenue toward their next goal, the town of Hagaru-ri, at the southern tip of the Chosin Reservoir.

HE CLIMBED OUT of the jeep, stepped down gingerly on frozen feet. The staff was waiting, a helpful radio call alerting them that Smith was close. He moved quickly inside without speaking, a cup of hot coffee pressed into his hands, the heat in the main room embracing him like a powerful blanket. He thought of his escort, the team of jeeps manned by machine gunners, guards against any enemy who might have been observant enough to realize that the small convoy that tracked past them held the commanding general of their enemy.

Sexton was there, concern on the man’s face, and Smith said, “Captain, make sure those boys out there get something, too. Feed ’em, give ’em coffee. Send them to the warming tents, or somebody’s billet. I’ll not have casualties from this weather just because I needed babysitting.”

Sexton moved outside quickly, and Smith stood silently, wriggling his toes, the feeling returning. He curled his fingers tightly, pulled his hands close to his stomach, glanced at the staff, hoping no one noticed. It was the old malady, an affliction his doctors attributed to the case of influenza he had endured years before. Smith had not escaped the astounding plague that swept the world in 1918, killing more than six hundred thousand people in the United States alone. He had survived his own battle, but the lingering symptom was a quivering weakness in his hands and feet whenever he had been subjected to extreme cold. And today the cold was extreme.

To Smith’s dismay, the helicopters had been crippled, the mechanics working feverishly to solve the problem. The cold had thickened the oil in the crafts’ crucial gearbox, rendering the choppers wholly unreliable. For Smith to maintain close contact with his commanders, meetings that were too involved for radios, the only option now was the jeep. Smith had prepared for the dismal trips the same as his officers, heavy coats and scarves, as much protection from the windy ride as could be found. The journey up to Litzenberg’s headquarters had taken the better part of three hours, and no matter how much coffee was available at either end, the lingering effects of the trip exposed Smith’s dread of extreme weather and brought back the shaking in his limbs. If his staff was aware of that, it wasn’t because he would tell them. Weakness of any kind was a plague all its own, especially when his men were struggling to advance through the hostility of the winter by moving on foot.

The progress was still grindingly slow, and Tenth Corps had only partly accepted Smith’s explanation that the weather had greatly inhibited the march. Whether anyone around Ned Almond actually believed Smith’s reasons for such sluggishness, Smith didn’t really care. No one could accuse him of disobedience if his men were moving north. But Almond himself had his own agenda, and Smith was well aware that military considerations, including the physical suffering of his men, were secondary to Almond’s sycophantic need to please Douglas MacArthur.

The word had come that morning, even as Smith’s jeep carried him southward from his visit to the Seventh in their camps above Koto-ri. Almond was making yet another visit to the Marines’ headquarters. The thought was just one more incentive for Smith to advance his headquarters northward, where Almond’s visits might become more infrequent.

On the far side of the room, he saw Craig, speaking into a radio phone, Craig eyeing him as he spoke.

“Yes, Colonel, he has just returned. I will share your concerns.” Craig paused, and Smith could see he was absorbing a lashing from the other end of the line. “Yes, Colonel. General Almond is due here at any time, and I am certain that General Smith will express what needs to be, um, expressed. Goodbye, Colonel.”

Craig put the telephone down, seemed exhausted. Smith said, “Puller?”

Craig nodded. “Tenth Corps still has him chasing guerrillas down there, and he’s not happy about it.”

“Lewie knows we’re putting more distance between his people and the other two regiments every day. I’ve told him how I’m holding back progress as much as I can, but Lewie feels like he’s stuck in the mud. I’ll talk to General Almond again. When’s he due here?”

Bowser emerged from one of the smaller offices, said, “Just got off the line with Tenth Corps HQ. He’s on his way. Colonel Trotter says that the general is greatly pleased to be relocating his HQ to Hungnam.”

Smith sagged, tried to hide it. “I expected that. It’s protocol. Corps command needs to keep up with the corps.”

“Yes, sir. Colonel Trotter says it will be good for us to be neighbors.”

Smith said nothing, knew that Bowser and Craig both could read his thoughts. He drank from the coffee cup, the bitterness curling his tongue, the cup now empty except for a smudge of grounds in the bottom. But the cold still ran through his veins, and he ached for more, saw the pot on a small burner in one corner. One of the enlisted aides was up quickly, moving that way, the pot in hand.

“Please. Allow me, sir.”

Smith waited for the cup to fill, the shaking in his hand nearly gone. The young man seemed not to notice, and Smith turned away, a soft, “Thank you, Corporal.”