Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Riley eased forward, peered past the doorway, saw that the man had spoken to Colonel Litzenberg. Riley flinched, thought, Never been this close to Old Homer. He glanced back at Morelli, who stared mesmerized at the prisoners, whispered, “Keep quiet.”

Morelli nodded, his eyes still on the Chinese.

Litzenberg said, “Go to it, Captain. See what they know.”

The interpreter spoke to the prisoners, what sounded to Riley like a chorus of meaningless noise. He watched the prisoners absorb what he assumed to be questions, was surprised to see a broad smile on one man’s face. The prisoner responded now, a chorus of his own, his hands gesturing, pointing, nodding, more chatter. Riley was baffled, thought, These guys aren’t anything like Japs. It looks like they’re having…fun.

The interrogation went on for close to a half hour, the same routine, questions from the interpreter, enthusiastic responses from the Chinese soldiers, the interpreter relaying their answers to one of the officers, who jotted furiously on a legal pad. Through it all, Riley felt drawn into the conversation, the prisoners completely willing to talk about anything the interpreter asked them, offering up as much information as they seemed to have.

The house was growing warmer, Riley starting to sweat beneath his parka, the monotony of the questioning hypnotizing. He blinked hard, shifted his weight, Morelli still close to him. The interpreter ended the routine now, turned to Litzenberg, said, “I’ve gotten all we’re going to get, sir. The conclusion is that these men believe what they’re saying, and they insist there are several thousand Chinese troops in the hills to the west, and many more to the north around Yudam-ni. They were part of an observation detail, and they didn’t expect us to go up after them. They’re both asking for something to eat.”

One of the officers looked up, seemed suddenly to notice Riley, and he pointed to the door, said to one of the guards inside the room, “Close that, Sergeant.”

The door swung shut in Riley’s face, jarring him awake. He backed up, said to Morelli, “Time to go, kid.”

They moved quickly outside, the cold a bracing shock, and Morelli said, “Wow! That was amazing! They just talked and talked. I was told, don’t never say nothing. Name, rank, and serial number.”

Riley searched through the activity around them, said, “Better yet, kid, don’t get captured. I think we go this way.”

“Hey, Pete. What’s that smell?”

Riley caught the aroma, unmistakable. It was cooked meat.

“Let’s find out. Try to look official.”

He led Morelli toward a row of tents, steam rising from enormous pots, huge platters covered in canvas tarps.

“Looks like you boys are first in line. Step on in.”

Riley saw the smiling face of an officer, tried to return the smile, said, “Yes, sir. I guess we’re first.”

He moved up to the first tent, kitchen workers there with enormous forks, and the officer said, “You forget your mess kit? No problem. There’s a few tin plates back here. Here you go.”

Riley took the plate, handed another to Morelli, and he stepped closer to the incredible smells. Behind the long table, another officer appeared, another smile.

“What’s your unit, boys?”

“Fox Two Seven, sir.”

The man wrote something on a pad, said, “Ah, yes, Colonel Lockwood’s Second Battalion. He’s new. Don’t know him yet. Fox Company, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

The tarp closest to Riley was pulled back, and he stared at a massive pile of sliced turkey. Behind him, Morelli said, “Good God. That for us?”

Riley winced, thought, You blow this one, kid, and I’ll strangle you. But the officer said, “Of course it’s for you! It’s Thanksgiving, you know! Division has sent turkey and all the fixings. There’s kitchen units set up for every company, even out in the boonies. Ah, here come some more of you boys. I guess the word spread.”

Riley saw a herd of men stampeding toward the tents, plates in hand. There were MPs there now, keeping order, lines forming in front of the tents, the aides filling the plates from an assortment of tubs and trays. Riley watched as the man in front of him speared the turkey, flopping it on his plate, another man ladling out sweet potatoes and gravy, others with fruit salad, pieces of mince pie. He watched with pure lust as his own plate grew heavier, a dish of shrimp cocktail the final prize. He felt himself pushed to one side, didn’t object, slid away from the throng. All around him, men were shouting, cheering the joy of the moment. Morelli was there now, staring at the feast on his plate, said, “This is amazing, Pete! We gotta find the camp, tell the others.”

“They already know. That officer said there were kitchens set up everywhere.”

Riley pinched a slice of turkey in his gloved fingers, dropped it into his mouth. He closed his eyes, savored the astonishing flavor, put his face down, licked at the gravy.

Beside him, Morelli said, “Damn. It’s cold already.”

“Chow down while you can, kid.”

Morelli fingered his plate, said, “My fruit’s already froze up.”

“Eat. Talk later.”

Riley shoveled the food with his fingers, the gloves already stiffening with the wetness. He searched for a place to sit, moved away from the crowd, sat down heavily on the ground. Morelli landed beside him, and Riley stuffed another piece of turkey into his mouth, the gravy a thick glue. He fought through it, felt the cold in a lump pushing down his throat, stared at the plate, picked up the slice of pie, tried to pinch it, the pie already a frozen brick.

The entire Marine division had been provided with the luxury of a Thanksgiving dinner, the heavy trucks pushing all the way to Hagaru-ri with instructions to provide a generous feast. As word spread to the various camps, the men responded, gathering dutifully, warmed if only for a few seconds by the great vats of steaming food, pots of scalding coffee. Once loaded down, the men scampered back to their perches, and in nearly every case, the plummeting temperatures won the battle. Before the men could enjoy their Thanksgiving dinner, it had frozen solid.

THE TABLECLOTHS WERE white linen, the aides serving the officers clad in white vests, white gloves, the bowls of steaming vegetables set down between the enormous platters of turkey.

“Sir, right this way.” Smith followed the aide to a chair near the end of one of the long tables. “Here you are, sir. Note the placecard.”

Smith saw the small folded card on the table, his name written with script no Marine had ever used. He looked for Bowser, saw him at another table, scanning the name cards. Beside Smith, Chesty Puller was grumbling.

“Thank God I’m next to you. Won’t have to think up something to say to some ground-pounding desk clerk.”

Smith ignored him, watched as the other men began to seat themselves, happy chatter flowing through the room, more than two dozen senior officers from Tenth Corps offering up compliments to their host. The Marine air wing commander, General Field Harris, sat a few seats down from Smith, the only other Marine in the room. Smith caught his eye, saw an uncomfortable frown, Harris silently holding up a silver fork. Smith looked at his own place setting, all of it silver, the plates a fine bone china. The aides were pouring champagne now, and Almond stood at the head of the longest table, a champagne glass in his hand.