Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

The contagious despair that flowed through Smith’s headquarters came from his own nagging doubts that no one in Tokyo or at Tenth Corps had any real idea just how dangerous this campaign could still become. Smith embraced protocol as much as any officer in the war, but despite the chain of command that passed down from Tokyo, Smith also answered to what was in his mind a higher authority: General Clifton B. Cates, the commandant of the Marine Corps. On November 15, Smith penned a lengthy letter aimed directly at Cates, bypassing Almond, MacArthur, and his own immediate superior in the Corps, General Lemuel Shepherd, who commanded the Fleet Marine Force, covering the entire Pacific Theater. If there were to be repercussions for his doubts and objections, if Smith’s impertinence would possibly end his career, he at least wanted the facts known to the highest-ranking Marine general.

Although the Chinese have withdrawn to the north, I have not pressed Litzenberg to make any rapid advance. Our orders still require us to advance to the Manchurian border. However, we are the left flank division of the Tenth Corps, and our left flank is wide open. There is no unit of the Eighth Army nearer than eighty miles….I have little confidence in the tactical judgment of the Tenth Corps, or in the realism of their planning….I believe a winter campaign in the mountains of North Korea is too much to ask of the American soldier or Marine….We have reached a point now at the south end of the Chosin Reservoir where we will now have to review the situation….

“NOT MUCH OF A TOWN. Shacks and stuff.”

Riley ignored Killian’s appraisal, heard Welch spit the words, “It’s Korea, you Irish jackass. You expecting New York City?”

Riley moved farther from the gathering men, could feel too much anger, the kind that brings fistfights. It had been like this for the past couple of days, the increasing tension of the march, each day closer to what every man believed was a certain confrontation with the Chinese. Their edginess was made worse by the brutal misery of the weather, the harsh bite of the bitter winds, brief storms of icy snow. The nights were only slightly better, colder temperatures made bearable by the luxury of the sleeping bags, the men curling up into their foxholes sheltered from the worst of the wind. For those keeping watch, there was no respite at all, two hours of frozen fingers, frozen ears, frozen tears against red cheeks, eyes blinking desperately to see any movement in the darkness. If they had a free hand, the men would breathe into their hands, through their gloves, the only way to keep the worst of the cold out of their lungs.

With their arrival into Hagaru-ri, the weather had tempered, sunshine pushing the daytime temperatures just above freezing. For men who had endured the long nights in cold that was well below zero, forty degrees was positively balmy. Their coats came open now, their boots pulled off, wet socks allowed to dry.

Riley moved away from the rest of the platoon, gazing toward the sunshine, escaping the foul mood of Welch and the others. A gust of wind rolled past him, swirling dust in his face, and he turned away, too late, spit the grit from his mouth. The pain was sudden and searing, his lips split to bloody cracks. He put a gloved hand on his lips, thought, Damn it all! This won’t be healing anytime soon. He reached for the canteen, shook it, the slosh of water evidence of a partial thaw. He drank, felt a bath of cold water washing away the grit, thought of spitting it out, No, drink. Can’t hurt you. You’ve eaten plenty of dirt before. He thought of Barber, the new captain backing off from his threats to harden them up by dawn hikes. Says he ate gravel on Iwo Jima. Maybe so. I bet it didn’t taste any better than what I ate on Okinawa. Jesus, I hope like hell he isn’t some damn martinet, all talk about blood and guts, while he sits in the rear and plays cards.

He walked farther, others milling around, nowhere to go for the moment. The officers seemed content with organizing their command posts, some of the other companies put into position closer to the reservoir, strengthening their new defensive perimeter. He looked that way, could see a glimpse of the wide lake, oddly smooth in the blowing wind. Ice, he thought. Wonder how thick? Back home it would be January before you could walk out on a pond. But it wasn’t hardly ever twenty below. He flexed his toes, painfully stiff, thought of the socks. You’re wearing all three pairs, you moron. Take ’em off, dry ’em out. Or toss ’em in a fire drum and get some more. There’s gotta be supplies around here.

He heard the rumble of a tank, four machines clanking closer. He stepped aside, stared at each one as it passed him, moving out on the road that stretched east of the reservoir. I bet they got heat inside those things. Maybe too much heat. No place to hide, either. He could never watch the tanks without thinking of coffins, the old joke that burying a tanker was cheaper, since they carried their own tombs with them. Not me, he thought. I’ll settle for the rifle and two feet. I need to duck, I’ll duck. The dust rose up around him, and he covered his face, stepped off the road. Damn. Got me good. He blew at the crud in his nostrils, turned toward his platoon, the men doing mostly what he was, seeing the sights. His eyes settled on the road to the south, more trucks moving up, pulling off to one side, contributing to another supply depot. I guess we’re pretty secure, for all that to be brought in here. I’d like to see those boys from the Fifth come rolling in here. The more the merrier.

Litzenberg’s Seventh spread out in camps closer to the reservoir, shifting out to the west, making space for Murray’s Fifth coming through the valley right behind them. In every open place, tents were going up, some alongside whatever existing structure they could use. The artillery had begun to move in as well, the 105s and 155s rolling past, their officers parking them into formations, preparing them to move once more when the inevitable order came. Other guns were down below the town, ranged on the nearby hills, protection against any sudden appearance by the enemy. But so far the Chinese had kept away, allowing the Marines to move up unmolested to the southern tip of the vast reservoir, building a massive supply depot as formidable as what Smith had moved into Koto-ri.

Throughout the town, aid stations had been established, medical teams inspecting their inventory. The chaplains had established their own kind of aid station, and already men were seeking out the Catholic priest, Father Cornelius Griffin, who was receiving confessions in his makeshift church.

Each company’s supply officers had begun to organize the enormous stores of ammunition and every other tool the men would require, from barrels of gasoline and oil to great mountains of C-rations. But not all the rations would be dry. Kitchens were being erected, tubs and pots set over fire pits, the men who watched curious just what kind of luxury the officers might provide them, or if those treats were kept only for the brass.

The engineers had begun work on an entirely new project as well. The Marines watched with curiosity, far out along the edge of the town, green bulldozers and tractors rumbling along a long flat stretch of mostly level ground, great dirt movers scraping the earth, dirt piling high, flattening it out again. The project began to take shape immediately, and the men could see that the effort was lengthwise, a wide and flattened roadway, long enough to serve as a runway. Marine engineers were performing the work that, to Smith’s enormous frustration, the army’s engineers had refused to do. If the Marines at Hagaru-ri wanted a landing strip, they would build it themselves.