Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

“If I may, gentlemen. My mess has prepared a wonderful feast for this occasion, most of it flown in fresh from Tokyo. I’ve always insisted that my command should have only the best, and on this Thanksgiving Day, I have seen to it!”

Officers raised their glasses, happy murmurs from men in dress uniforms, some of them unfamiliar to Smith. Smith held his glass aloft belatedly, the moment past, and he saw Bowser smiling at him. Smith stared at him, the silent message.

I hate parties. And this party, he thought, is utterly ridiculous.

Beside him, Puller leaned in close, said in a whisper just a bit too loud, “I had a pretty fair Thanksgiving mess planned for my HQ. Somebody found a vulture, dressed it up to look like Tom Turkey.”

Smith wasn’t sure if Puller was kidding or not. He said nothing, thought of the turkey that had been provided for his own staff by the navy’s Admiral Doyle, a generous offering, a symbol of the navy’s quiet support for Smith’s efforts. And I’m here. China and silverware. And placecards. We’re in the middle of a war, for crying out loud.

Puller leaned in again, said, “I forgot to polish my boots for this shindig. I’m not certain, but I think yours are even dirtier. Where’d these fellows get all these class A uniforms?”

“Can it, Lewie.”

Smith knew Puller was just as miserable as he was and he glanced at his watch, thought, Just get this over with.

Almond stood again, said, “I understand protocol, of course, and I am eagerly awaiting Chaplain Bryan’s blessing for this wonderful bounty. But I cannot help but offer a toast toward the man responsible for all of us being assembled here today.”

Smith stirred in his chair, looked at Bryan, the chaplain expressionless, staring down at his plate. This should be your time, Chaplain. Almond should know better, and I’m certain you do. Prayer before toasts.

Almond seemed oblivious to the odd breach of custom, said, “If you will all be seated. There, fine, yes. We are privileged to enjoy the glorious responsibility that comes with this command, and I feel we should give thanks to the man to whom we all owe so much. I offer a salute to our supreme commander, General Douglas MacArthur….”

“I didn’t hear you say anything for our supreme commander.”

Smith looked at Bowser. “What?”

“Almond’s toast.”

“I toasted. Just kept it to myself. He breached protocol, you know.”

“How?”

“The blessing. The chaplain always goes first. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”

“Sorry, sir. You’re right, of course. Maybe I was too dazzled by General Almond’s eloquence.”

Smith ignored Bowser’s sarcasm, braced himself as the car jumped, another pothole the driver could not avoid. Smith rode now in a heated station wagon, had succumbed to the need to prevent freezing to death on his many journeys to the regimental command posts. It was a luxury he did not take for granted, passing camps of men engulfed in their coats, performing duties difficult enough for men in summertime.

Bowser sniffed, said, “Why’s he do all of that, anyway? He trying to prove he can outdo every supply officer in Korea? Silver and china?”

Smith shook his head. “He did it because he can. That toast was just a reminder that it’s MacArthur who says he can.”

“Food was good. I’ll give him that.”

“Can’t say. Forgot what I ate. Kept thinking about that plain old turkey the navy sent us. I hope the staff had a good meal. They’ve earned it.”

Bowser laughed. “I’m sure they did. With you and me gone, that was two more servings for the rest of them.”

Smith tried to wash the experience at Almond’s HQ out of his mind, thought, Thanksgiving should be about family. The only family I have out here are those staff officers.

“That’s where we should have been. I should have told Almond no, that we were too busy, what with the war and all.” He regretted his own sarcasm, thought of the turkey from the admiral, the far more pleasant feast he had to leave behind. “They know we’re headed back. Maybe they saved us some of the admiral’s gift.”

Bowser looked at him again, laughed, and Smith couldn’t help a smile. Bowser shook his head, said, “No chance.”

HAGARU-RI, NORTH KOREA—NOVEMBER 24, 1950

The skirmishes were becoming more intense, daily confrontations with Chinese patrols, small-scale fights that seemed to show that the enemy was becoming more aggressive. Smith continued to visit his commanders, grateful that Puller’s men had finally caught up with the northern push from the others, most of First Regiment now centered around Koto-ri.

He watched the great machines at work on the airstrip, the engineers keeping them in motion twenty-four hours a day. Beside him, Craig spoke into a radio, the radioman and a squad of guards keeping careful watch on the surroundings. To the east, a massive hill rose up, what Smith had already suspected was a prime overlook for any Chinese observers monitoring progress on the construction. So far there had been little interference, but Smith knew that could change at any time.

Craig handed the radio receiver to the young man beside him, said, “Harris says his pilots are starting to see a great deal more activity to the west. The reports from the Chinese prisoners seem to be accurate. They’re out there, for sure.”

Smith kept his eyes on a huge bulldozer, scraping the hard ground with a massive steel blade. “They’ve always been out there. They wanted us here.”

Craig pulled at the hood of his coat, covered his head. “What do you mean?”

“That bridge, back down the road. I think of this every time I cross the thing.”

“You mean, Funchilin Pass?”

“Yep. The Chinese should have blown it to bits. It would have delayed us for days. But they left it intact. We thought they did us a favor. It was for them, not us. They wanted us up here, doing exactly what we’re doing. We’re turning cartwheels doing everything we can to prepare for whatever fight we’re going to have. We’re scrambling to haul supplies up to every depot we’ve created. We’re scrambling to bring the men together.”

“At least that’s working out.”

Smith glanced up, a squad of Corsairs passing high above. “It’s better than it was. But don’t be surprised if the enemy doesn’t figure a way to blow that bridge anyway, now that we’re up here. It’ll cut us off from supply, from reinforcement. And Tenth Corps has no idea what’s going on out here. Almond’s too busy waging war with Walton Walker, trying to make points with MacArthur and the newspapers. Who’s gonna get to the Yalu first, who’s gonna get to brag about victory.”

“We got a report from Seventh Division that some of their boys closer to the shore shot up there a few days ago, alongside some ROK. But they didn’t have any support, so they pissed in the river and hightailed it back down.”

“I guess they’re pretty proud of that major accomplishment.”

“Probably. It’ll look good back home.”

Behind them, an aide said, “Sirs, there’s a jeep coming up.”

Smith turned, was surprised to see Bowser and Sexton, a driver with his face wrapped in a green scarf. Bowser climbed from the jeep, slapping himself with his arms, the customary shiver.

“What are you doing up here, Colonel?”

“Had to see Murray, unscrew some snafu with his supplies. It’s taken care of. Captain Sexton caught up with me. Told me we had to find you.”

Sexton pulled a paper from his coat, said, “Sir, we got a wire from stateside, passed through Tokyo and God knows where else.”

Smith saw concern on both men’s faces, felt a sudden tug of alarm. “From my family?”