Jeff Shaara: The Frozen Hours

MacArthur was already stepping out onto the road, moving toward the ridge. The others fell into line quickly, MacArthur leading the parade at a brisk walk, Smith catching up, keeping the pace. He watched MacArthur carefully, could feel the pace slowing, MacArthur not hiding the weariness in his legs. The ridge was steep and dusty, the smoke drifting past, and MacArthur slowed even more, a hint of a struggle. Smith watched as Almond moved past in a rush, taking his place beside his commanding general.

The road narrowed, more shell craters on all sides, rocks strewn about, the wreckage of a jeep partially blocking the way. Smith looked into the jeep as they passed, nothing but charred metal, and he thought of protesting again, but MacArthur stared ahead, slow, plodding pace, saying nothing. Smith glanced back, the line of reporters and aides strung out down the hill, men with pads of paper, more cameras. He knew he couldn’t allow this ridiculous parade to just wander out onto the open crest of an exposed hill. The incoming mortar fire came again, down to one side, and Smith said, “Sir, we should stop here. Colonel Puller is certainly close by.”

MacArthur took one more slow step, then halted, seemed to fight for air, Almond beside him, pretending not to notice. MacArthur straightened, eyed the crest of the hill just ahead, said, “I want Puller. Find him.”

Smith glanced around, saw Marines working mortars of their own, a heavy machine gun dug into a cluster of rocks, one man with field glasses pointing the way, the gunner firing a long burst. More men seemed to emerge from the rugged ground, all of them recognizing MacArthur. Smith felt the need to grab the man and pull him back down the hill, the thought in his brain: This is no place for you.

And then, the booming voice of Chesty Puller. “What in blazes we got here? Oh, for the love of Gertrude. They told me it was you coming up here. You’re the only man who’d lead a damn caravan to the front lines.” The salute came now, hard and crisp, Puller’s chest puffed out even farther than usual. “General MacArthur, it is my honor. Welcome, sir.” He looked past Almond at Smith now, a hard scowl giving way to the hint of a smile. “You too, sir.”

Smith needed nothing further from Puller, knew there would rarely be formalities between them. He knew that MacArthur had an odd affection for Puller, despite the fact that Puller seemed to bristle at nearly every order MacArthur had ever given him. The thought rolled into Smith’s head. Nobody but Lewie would talk to Mac like that and expect to keep his command. Puller knows something we don’t. Or, Mac thinks he does.

Smith had known Lewis Puller since their early days at Fort Benning, through several campaigns in the Pacific. The two men were complete opposites in appearance, Puller barely five six, with a thick barrel chest that rode precariously upon two birdlike legs. Smith towered over him, a lean frame standing better than six feet. Their temperament seemed radically opposite as well, Puller a profane and caustic man. But Smith had seen the softer side of Puller, knew him to be a man of enormous heart, and if Puller’s first instinct was to jam his Marines into anyplace hot, it wasn’t because he was careless with their lives. Puller had absolute confidence that his Marines could do anything he asked of them, and do it well. If men died, well, it’s war. That’s what men did. But Smith knew that Puller never glossed over his casualties, even if the newspapers portrayed him as the hardhearted and sometimes hardheaded warrior. Smith knew another side of Puller almost no one ever saw, what few newspapermen would find worth writing about. Chesty Puller was extremely well-read, a man who took education seriously. Smith knew they were far more alike than people assumed. No matter Puller’s flaws or rough edges, Smith truly liked the man. And clearly, MacArthur did, too.

MacArthur scanned the area, then said, “We thought we’d find you at your command post, Colonel.”

Puller stabbed a pipe into his teeth. “This is my command post, General. There’s a hell of a scrap down that hill.”

MacArthur studied the distant ridges, smoke billowing up nearby, more incoming mortar fire. Smith closed his eyes, shook his head, saw Puller watching him. You know what I’m thinking, Lewie. This is insanity.

MacArthur said, “Colonel, your regiment is splendid. First-rate. I am gratified to present you with a Silver Star.” MacArthur seemed to rummage through his pockets, then shrugged. “Don’t seem to have one handy. Well, my staff will make note of it. So, where’s the enemy?”

Puller pointed behind, back to the next ridge. “The sons of bitches are right over there, General. There’s no doubt some North Korean officer is up there pointing to all these sons of bitches right here.”

Smith flinched, but MacArthur didn’t react. His aides came closer, binoculars put into MacArthur’s hands. He raised them, scanned for a moment, said, “Seoul is how far?”

Puller said, “Four miles, maybe more.”

“How long before you get there?”

“Three or four days.”

MacArthur lowered the glasses, glanced back at Smith. “I thought we were pushing them more quickly. We should be inside the city now.”

Smith had no answer, knew the timetable had been bested already, wasn’t sure why MacArthur or anyone else would complain. Puller said, “Sir, there’s a good bunch of those other fellows out there. We pushed ’em back to these ridges, and figured they’d keep going, blow outta here pretty quick. But they’ve reinforced. Seems like they intend to make a fight out of this. But we’ll get there, sir.”

MacArthur handed the binoculars to an aide. “I wish they’d come on up here and give us a fight. We’d clean them out pronto. I want that city by the twenty-fifth. You understand that, Colonel?”

Puller took a deep breath, looked at Smith. “We’ll do our best, sir.”

MacArthur stared out again, his hands planted firmly on his hips. The smoke rose from a new round of incoming fire, the artillery behind them responding, sharp whistles passing overhead.

“Magnificent. You Marines have done the job. I told them back on the ship, the admiral, the reporters. The Marines and navy have never shown more brightly. They’ll quote me on that. The world will know. I want a Presidential Unit Citation for these boys.” He turned, looked past Smith to the reporters, who had kept their distance. “You hear that? Write it down.” MacArthur looked again at Puller, kept his hands on his hips, and Smith could feel MacArthur’s pride, the raw satisfaction. To one side, a mortar blast drove the reporters back, a nervous flock of birds, the Marines around them ducking low as well. Another blast came now, farther away, then more, patterned along the crest of the ridge. Smith kept his position, close behind MacArthur, Almond glancing nervously at Smith. He felt the words coming in his head, wouldn’t say anything out loud. These are the front lines, General Almond. Get used to it.

Puller stared out through binoculars of his own, called now for a radioman. He turned to MacArthur, said, “Excuse me, General, but I’ve got some things that require my attention. You want us in Seoul, we need to clean things up out here first.” Smith knew Puller’s mood, that it was time to go to work. Parades could come later.

After a long moment, MacArthur said, “Excellent job, Colonel. Truly well done.” He turned, Almond following in step, both men moving past Smith. But MacArthur stopped, looked again at Puller. “No more delays, Colonel. I want Seoul in hand on the twenty-fifth.”

THE HAN RIVER, WEST OF SEOUL—SEPTEMBER 20, 1950

Smith lay flat alongside Puller, both men glassing from the ridgeline down across the lowlands that spread into the city. Below them, Marines poured down the hill in a fresh advance, disappearing into a fog of thick smoke, the rattle of machine guns punctuated by the thump of mortar fire. Smith felt the stirring in his stomach, never enjoyed watching combat, men scrambling straight into the enemy positions.