Jeff Shaara: The Frozen Hours

“GOOD GOD. WHAT IS that smell?”

The boy had his hands clamped over his face, but no one responded to his question. Riley fought the stink himself, looked out over the rice paddy, civilians working the watery field. He pointed, said, “Maybe it’s them. Not the rice. It don’t stink like that.”

Behind him, the sergeant, Welch. “It’s the water. They fertilize it with human waste. Don’t hardly need a latrine or any kind of outhouse. You just take a dump in your honey pot, then toss it in the fields.”

Riley tried to escape the odor, impossible to avoid. Behind him, another man.

“Then they eat the damn rice?”

Welch laughed. “Have to. All they got, I think. You seen any big fat cattle around here? Hell, I heard there’s a reason you don’t hardly see any dogs. Meat’s hard to come by.”

Riley shook his head. The dust from the road covered his boots, a gray coating on his green dungarees. He hoisted the rifle a little higher, said, “Hey, Sarge. How come they making us walk?”

“Don’t want to bring the trucks up too close to the river. Need ’em back at the seawall, hauling more supplies. The river’s just up ahead. Captain Zorn says we’ll be crossing that pretty quick, maybe by morning. I guess they’re happy we finally got here.”

Across the road from Riley, the boy spoke again. “You think we missed it?”

Riley glanced over at the boy’s face, all pimples and short wisps of beard, two fingers clamped firmly on his nose. “Missed what? The fighting? You think we’re here for a vacation? You already got a good whiff of this place. You better get used to it. Where you from, anyway? It stink like this back home?”

“New Jersey. Paterson. No, not hardly. Never smelled anything like this. I thought we were the reserve and all. Didn’t think we’d actually do any walking.”

Riley heard a laugh from Welch.

“Welcome to the Corps, kid. You didn’t expect to walk anyplace? Just how dumb are you? They not teach you anything in boot?”

The boy hesitated. “Didn’t have boot, Sarge. Not really. A bunch of meetings, more like.”

Riley looked hard at the boy now. “Meetings? What the hell are you talking about?”

Welch said, “Heard that a lot, Pete. They brought these kids in for training and didn’t have time to teach them a damn thing. Sat them down around campfires like a bunch of Boy Scouts and told ’em ghost stories. That right, kid? What’s your name, anyhow? You come with us to Japan? Don’t remember seeing you on the transport.”

The kid nodded, obvious embarrassment. “Joey Morelli, Sergeant. I stayed outta the way, I guess. Sick most of the time. Never been on the ocean before.”

Riley gave a low laugh. “Nothing different about that. I tossed up lunch a few times. What the swabbies called lunch, anyway.”

The boy seemed to animate now, glanced behind him to the sergeant. “I wanted it, boot camp, the whole thing. Expected to learn all of it. Couldn’t wait to grab me a rifle, show ’em I knew how to shoot and all. They just showed us how to polish boots. Taught us about C-rations. Then we had to board the ship. Maybe fifty of us. They handed me a piece of paper, told me to report to Captain Zorn, that I was with Fox Company. I just done what they said.”

Welch said, “Welcome to Fox Company. I guess the captain put you with me so’s I keep your head down. You can shoot, huh?”

“Yes, sir, done a good bit of hunting down in the Pine Barrens. Rabbits and such.”

Riley shook his head. “Jesus. Good luck with this one, Sarge.”

Riley felt disgusted, thought, They’re calling these idiots Marines, and they can barely tie their shoes. He heard the sergeant again.

“Not surprised by any of this. It’s the new Marine Corps boys. Bring in these slick-faced babies and teach ’em how to shine the general’s boots. Hand ’em a rifle and send this one to me. Sergeant Hamp Welch, official babysitter. Tell you what, Private Morelli, you stay the hell out of my way, don’t raise your damn head up in front of my riflemen, don’t look down a mortar tube, or scratch your ass on a machine gun. Somebody shoots at you, you shoot back.”

“You bet, Sarge.”

Riley ignored the boy, watched a small cluster of civilians, dirty, sad people, scavenging through a pile of blasted debris. His eyes stayed fixed on the clothing, instinct, looking for telltale bulges, hidden weapons. But the people seemed desperate, tearing through what might have been their home.

Most of Inchon was behind them now, many more buildings still standing than anyone expected to see. They knew there had been shelling, the navy’s big guns doing all they could to erase any opposition from North Korean defenses. But the North Korean positions had been vacated quickly, no match for the surge from the Marines that poured off the boats. Riley had been as surprised as the rest of the veterans that there was no beach, that the amphibious landing had used ladders. They expected a storm of fire, the same as it had been in the Pacific, but by the time the Seventh had reached Inchon, the fighting had moved well inland. It was unusual enough to move ashore with no enemy in front of them, but the sight of huge transports perched up high in the mud was an oddity of its own. The tide had gone out quickly, stranding the landing craft like so many enormous toys. The sailors were making their jokes, that someone ought to put wheels on the boats, drive them ashore. Until the tide returned, none of the LSTs were going anywhere else.

Riley had passed through Inchon with the same thoughts as the men around him, that the Seventh Marines had come in too late to accomplish anything, bringing up the rear, acting as a reserve. Out in front, the Han River was already being crossed by the first waves, the men of the First and Fifth Regiments, pushing the North Koreans away from the enormous airfield at Kimpo, what the officers were calling the best airfield in Asia. Riley knew nothing about that, knew only that the road they were on now was supposed to take them to a crossing of the river, the last barrier to the city of Seoul.

All these men knew was the talk from the sailors, that the invasion had been magnificent, perfect execution, the Marines surging up and over the seawall, seeming to frighten the North Koreans away completely. From all anyone seemed to know, the North Koreans around Inchon had been caught completely by surprise, the Marines and now others, men of the army’s Seventh Division pushing across the Han River well ahead of schedule. But the sounds from in front of them now told Riley and the other veterans that the North Koreans had not just vanished, that somewhere up ahead there was a fight. Now there were casualties, aid stations along the way that these men could not avoid. Riley had seen all of this before, marches on dusty roads past blasted homes and wrecked villages, civilians like these Koreans swept up in a war few of them understood.

He watched the civilians, most of the people old or very young. The men are gone, he thought. And there’s not many young women. Those bastards will have use for them, too. Maybe that’s what we’re fighting for. Maybe not. They don’t tell us much about that.

Riley glanced back toward the sergeant, the rest of the squad leading the platoon, who marched in the vanguard of the rest of Fox Company. He loved Sergeant Welch, that particular kind of affection that veterans knew well, when a man could be counted on to lead, as Welch had proven in a dozen fights across the Pacific. Riley and Welch had served side by side, Welch admitting that his stripes had come from chance, that any man in their company could have earned a promotion for what they accomplished against the Japanese. The most vivid memories now were from Okinawa, civilians caught up in the war that inspired pity as much as outrage. There seemed to be little difference between the Koreans and the Okinawans, all of them victims in one way or another. But Okinawa didn’t stink, he thought. Not like this, anyway. Fleas and vermin, maybe. But I bet the North Koreans are just like the Japs. Use their own civilians for cover, for whatever they need. Slave labor, sex. Jesus. They’re just savages. He watched a handful of old men in another rice paddy, shook his head, tried to blow the stink from his brain.