Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Puller lowered the glasses, said, “He leave yet?”

Smith kept his eyes on the smoke, caught glimpses of moving men. “Tomorrow morning. He’ll fly out. Kimpo’s secure, more or less. He’ll want his picture taken boarding a plane.”

Puller sniffed, said, “You don’t much care for Mac, do you?”

Smith brought down the binoculars, thought a moment.

“Never said that. Wouldn’t say it. Not even to you.”

“That just makes you gutless.”

“No. Just careful.” Smith looked along the hillside, no one close enough to eavesdrop. “He’s not in good shape, Lewie. Seventy years old, and looks every bit of it. There’s weakness, fragility. Forgets what he’s saying sometimes. It’s all about the spectacle, the grand show. He’s entitled to that, I suppose. But he’s not right all the time.”

“He was never bothered by whether or not he was right. He sure as hell ain’t worried about being wrong . Or being old, or fragile, or anything else. And so what? Are you gonna tell him to step out of the way? Not even the president’s got that much nerve. The Joint Chiefs? They’re a bunch of old ladies who’d rather be playing bridge. They don’t want to hear anything but good news, talk of victory, the war’s over, all of that. Unless Mac decides to lead his own bayonet charge, they’re not gonna stand up to him one bit. Well, maybe that’s not a good choice of words. They might like to see him leading a bayonet charge. Could solve a problem for them.”

Smith lowered his head, stared into scrub grass and gravel. “Stop that, Lewie. There’s no one else over here who can lead the men like he can. He’s got some…difficulties, no doubt. But he inspires. Only man I know who can do that is…you. But until there are stars on your shoulder, you’re no better off than me. Do what you’re told.” The word triggered a thought. “By the way, you ever get your Silver Star?”

Puller sniffed. “Some aide brought it up here, expected me to bow down and kiss his feet. I told my staff to send it to my son.” Puller stopped. “What’s so damn important about the twenty-fifth?”

Smith wasn’t sure what Puller meant, then recalled MacArthur. “September twenty-fifth is exactly three months since the North Koreans launched their invasion. I think he promised Syngman Rhee the South Koreans could have their capital back on that date. Makes good press.”

Puller said nothing, and Smith knew what he was thinking. Puller raised the glasses again.

“Hell of a way to fight a war. Make sure we win on anniversary dates. What does he think we’re doing out here? I’m taking casualties, for God’s sake. I can’t just waltz into Seoul like it’s empty. Those bastards will hold to every block, every house. This is gonna be messy, whether Mac likes it or not.”

Smith nodded slowly. “I know. Do what you have to do. Murray knows that, too. The Fifth is moving on past Kimpo. Oh, if you didn’t get word, as of today, Litzenberg has the Seventh ashore.”

“Good! That puts us at full damn strength. Murray and I will be in position to grab Seoul pretty quick, I think. I’m assuming you’ll have the Seventh move up in support. It’s still going to be a tough one. The enemy’s dug in all over the place.”

Smith stared out at the flat ground, flickers of fire, the harsh whine of artillery streaking past. “General Almond insists the entire North Korean army is in full retreat, that they’ll be clear of their own border in a few days.”

Puller looked at him now and Smith saw the disgust. “You paying any attention at all to what that office boy tells you?”

“Have to, Lewie. He’s in command here.”

Puller pounded one hand on the hard ground. “Good Christ, O.P.! MacArthur anoints his chief of staff as the next coming of Napoleon, and we’re just supposed to bow down and obey him? Almond doesn’t know combat from combat boots. You want to know where the North Koreans are? Ask any of those boys out there. They’re up to their asses in North Koreans.”

Smith let out a breath. “MacArthur has put General Almond in command of the Tenth Corps, which includes us. It doesn’t matter why. So far, this operation has been successful. General Almond deserves credit.”

“Oh, he’ll take the credit, all right. But if we fall on our faces, it’s you who’ll take the blame. He’s a cookie pusher, and he’s really good at kissing MacArthur’s ass every night when he goes to bed. That’s why he’s leading this operation. And that’s why there’s gonna be trouble. It’s not over yet, O.P. Not by a long shot. I’m losing boys out there, and the North Koreans aren’t going anywhere we don’t shove ’em.”

Smith knew everything Puller was saying was true. He had already had enough confrontations with Ned Almond to know that Almond had no grasp of battlefield tactics. But he couldn’t say that to Puller, nor to anyone else.

“Look, O.P., I appreciate your predicament. I would only request that you allow your men to do their job the best way we know how. Keep the cookie pushers out of the way.”

“I can’t keep him away from his own command, Lewie. We’ll manage. We have to. No other choice.”

Puller went back to his binoculars, the conversation over. There was no argument from Smith. He thought of the command post, that Eddie Craig would have dispatches for him, that Smith would need to follow up with his Seventh Regiment’s deployment. They’re just boys, so many of them. There wasn’t time to season them, and Litzenberg has to know that. I just hope to God the veterans lead the way. He hated Puller’s phrase, “cookie pushers,” thought of Craig. He didn’t know what to expect from me, I suppose. Had to wonder if I was just another office boy. Hope I can prove him wrong on that one. Craig’s a good man, seems happy with the job. I need experience with me if we’re to do this thing right, somebody who understands combat. At least Puller trusts me. Knows we’re all on the same side. The other regimentals, too, Murray and Litzenberg, both good men. And Carl Youngdale, the right man to command the artillery. We’ll need them all to be on their toes, no matter how many cookie pushers we have to deal with.

Smith had received a hard dose of the misery that came from Almond’s style of command during their first meeting, a month ago in Tokyo. The man had an astounding talent for condescension, Almond repeatedly calling Smith “son,” though the two men were nearly the same age. Almond had questioned whether Smith had any actual combat experience, which showed how little Almond knew about the man he was suddenly supposed to lead. Smith had responded with specifics, details of his service throughout so many of the campaigns in the Second World War, which seemed not to impress Almond at all. Only then did Smith realize that Almond had virtually no experience in combat, had, for the most part, been kept on a back burner in World War II. But MacArthur had his reasons for placing Almond in command of the Tenth Corps, and Almond intended to make the most of the opportunity. The Tenth now consisted of two army divisions and Smith’s First Marine Division, creating a formidable force against any enemy. Whether General Almond was up to the task was a problem as much for MacArthur as it was for the men who would serve him. If Almond fell apart, or made bad decisions, there could be a far greater price for MacArthur than a missed timetable. But so far, neither Almond nor MacArthur seemed concerned about the gravity of any of the decisions that lay before them. The war was going according to plan, MacArthur’s plan. And the word was already seeping out of headquarters in Tokyo that this war would likely be over before Ned Almond or anyone else had a chance to screw it up.