Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

HE WAS GETTING USED to the journeys by chopper, the colder air offering a smoother ride, dampening the harsh thermal currents that flowed around the steeper hills. But with the cold came the need for his heaviest gear, and even that didn’t protect him completely from the sharp chill, stabbing hard up his legs, stiffening already stiff limbs.

For days now he had planned to advance his headquarters northward the sixty-plus miles from Hungnam to Hagaru-ri, the most logical location to keep in close touch with his entire command. His Marines were still spread out, from Koto-ri up past Yudam-ni, an infuriating situation he still could not completely repair. Until now his greatest nemesis had been Ned Almond, who continued to base his orders on the amazing delusions that flowed out of MacArthur’s headquarters in Tokyo. Regardless of MacArthur’s optimistic predictions, from Koto-ri up through Yudam-ni the Chinese had severed each link in his chain, heavy roadblocks of enemy troops slicing across the main supply road in dozens of key locations. It was no surprise to him that the Chinese were planning a major offensive, his own intelligence relying on the talk from the civilians, so many rooted out of their homes by Chinese troops all along the way. His own patrols had continued to skirmish with various outposts, those fights becoming stronger in the days just past. It was essential to Smith that his three regiments continue drawing closer together, to confront what had become a serious crisis. And yet Tokyo was still insisting that the Marines drive on to the west, linking up with Eighth Army troops, no matter that those troops were even now in a headlong retreat southward. But the roadblocks by the Chinese had been surprisingly effective, and at every link in the chain along Smith’s main supply road, the convoys had been forced to turn back barely a mile into their journey.

Only a small part of the necessary pieces of his headquarters had made it as far as Hagaru-ri, the loads of essential equipment, including communications gear, stalled in the trucks that were penned in with the main body of Chesty Puller’s troops at Koto-ri. If Smith’s gear, including his own personal baggage, could not be transported to Hagaru-ri, at least Smith and his key staff officers could make the journey by the one means available. Even those men who admitted to a terrifying fear of the helicopters were soon convinced to take the flight.

He kept his eyes to the horizon, couldn’t shake a hard stirring in his gut, far more than the usual butterflies from the bounce of the ride. The pilot had obeyed his request, had flown close to the all-important bridge south of Koto-ri, Smith paying particular attention to its condition, amazed still that the Chinese had left it intact. Of course, he thought. They’re using it themselves, probably. As long as they make their moves at night, there isn’t much we can do to stop them. And so far, we’re not strong enough in any one place to shove them out of the way.

He shifted his eyes to the side, studied the closer hills, most of them white. Out front, the ground flattened out, and through a light fog he could see a blank gray smear on the horizon. Hagaru-ri, he thought. I’m ready to get out of this thing.

The chopper suddenly dipped, jamming Smith against the Plexiglas door, his hands reaching out against the windscreen in front. The chopper pulled upright, dipping lower now, the pilot making another sharp turn, a shrill voice now in the earphones cupping Smith’s head.

“Sorry, sir! We’re taking ground fire! Didn’t expect that!”

Smith tried to calm the drumbeats in his chest. He looked over to the pilot, saw wide, focused eyes, the young man maneuvering the craft around a tall rocky dome, then a sweeping turn to the right.

“I didn’t expect it, either, Lieutenant. Do what you have to do.”

“Seemed to be rifle fire. Glad they don’t have ack-ack. We’d be in trouble, for sure.”

The words came out in a burst of nervousness, but the pilot kept a steady hand on the controls, the chopper climbing, clear of the cluster of hills. Smith tried to relax, studied the ground, nothing but snow, looked ahead to the plain, thought, A mile or less from our lines. Do we know they’re out here? Well, yes, of course. Ridge knows his job. Puller wouldn’t have sent him up here if he didn’t.

Lieutenant Colonel Tom Ridge was one of Puller’s battalion commanders, and the man now in charge of the defensive perimeter established around Hagaru-ri. As Smith had ordered at every one of the bases along the main road, Ridge had probed outward, only to find a strong presence of Chinese troops in every direction. Hagaru-ri was already considered the lynchpin of this entire operation, but Ridge had barely three thousand men in position there to defend it. By now Smith had hoped to have Puller’s entire force, some five thousand more Marines. But Puller was penned in at Koto-ri, and until Smith could figure out how he would change that, Ridge had to make do with the strength he had at hand. The only help Smith could provide was to order all personnel, including cooks, supply officers, and truck drivers, to shoulder a weapon. It was one advantage the Marines had over the army. Every Marine was trained in handling a rifle, no matter what noncombat job he might assume down the road. Right now, at Hagaru-ri, every Marine was now a rifleman.

The chopper settled low, slowing, and Smith saw the landing pad below, a gathering of men in heavy coats. The chopper set down with a soft bump and Smith gave a brief thumbs-up to the pilot, pushed open the Plexiglas, a heavily gloved hand reaching out to help him. Smith reached back into the chopper, grabbed a small kit bag from beneath his seat. He looked at the aide again, ducked low beneath the chopper blades, put his hands up, sheltering his face, and the man waved him forward, Smith following to a waiting jeep. They climbed aboard, the driver engulfed in his coat like a green mummy. Smith realized the jeep was already running, the vehicle quickly lurching forward. He scanned the area they drove past, a mass of trucks and other equipment, enormous stocks of all variety of supplies. There was smoke swirling upward from a half-dozen large tents, but his eyes were blinded by tears now, and he lowered his hood, thought, Not the time for an inspection.

The door pulled open, a blast of warmth meeting Smith’s face as he moved inside. He pulled back the hood, the aide removing his, and Smith realized it was Sexton.

“Welcome, sir. Please allow me to make this official.”

Sexton saluted, a brief second of formality, and Smith returned it with a heavy gloved hand.

“Hardly necessary, under the circumstances, Captain.”

“I don’t agree, sir. Since this is your new CP, I thought you should be welcomed appropriately. This house has been set aside for your quarters. The staff tent is close by, outside. If you like, sir, I can have an aide arrange your gear.”

Smith examined the room, one more to the rear, the typical Korean house he was used to. His eyes rested on a squat iron stove, glowing red, the only source of heat.

“That won’t be necessary, Captain. The only gear I have is in that single bag. Unless the Chinese have captured it, my van and all my baggage are still in Koto-ri.”

Sexton seemed concerned, said, “We’ll fix that, sir. I’ll have the men pitch in, put together everything you might need.”