Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Almond kept his eyes locked on Smith. “So, nothing has changed. Poor morale is still your biggest problem. You have engaged a defeated enemy, and his defeat becomes yours.” He reached into his pocket. “See these? Silver Star, times three. You’ll not get one of these from me. These are for Colonel Faith’s command. One for him, certainly. Morale spreads from the top down, something you’ve never understood. I will find others in Faith’s command who are worthy of the other two. They will appreciate that their commanding officer is aware of their efforts, and will continue to support them. As for the attacks you fear, I will tell you, as I will tell Colonel Faith: The enemy who is standing up before you is nothing more than the remnants of a Chinese division fleeing northward. We are going all the way to the Yalu. Do not let a bunch of Chinese laundrymen stop you!”

Almond had continued on his journey up the east side of the reservoir, a Marine helicopter that kept its flight path far out over the snow-covered ice.

Smith was still at the table, the pipe in his mouth, the only piece of joy he had received this entire day. Bowser had examined the rest of the small house, returned now, holding a framed portrait of Joseph Stalin.

“This was hanging on the wall. I suppose you saw it.”

Smith stared ahead, pulled at the pipe, the pungent smoke wrapping around his gloom. “Put it back up. I told the staff to leave it be. Might inspire us.”

“If you say so.”

Bowser returned quickly, said, “Mind if I sit?”

Smith pointed with the stem of the pipe. Bowser sat, said nothing, could read Smith’s moods better than anyone on the staff. Smith said, “We could use Eddie about now. I can’t fault him for caring so about his father. But his timing could have been better. He could go up to Yudam-ni. That’s what a second in command does.”

“You want me to go up there?”

Smith shook his head. “I need you here. We’re short-staffed, and for all I know, we might both need to pick up a rifle.”

Bowser seemed to weigh Smith’s words. “My marksmanship has always been suspect. But I’ll do whatever you tell me to do. Maybe a carbine. Easier to handle.”

He appreciated Bowser’s humor, always at the right time, the right amount.

“It seems that the best way to communicate with Yudam-ni is by choppered dispatch. I am ordering Murray to pull back from his advanced position and combine his forces with Litzenberg at Yudam-ni itself.”

Bowser let out a low whistle. “Almond’s orders haven’t changed. Murray is to continue moving west, over the mountains. You’ll contradict that?”

“The Chinese have contradicted that. The mission has changed, whether or not Tenth Corps understands that or not. From every indication, we are severely outnumbered on every front. There is no more advance to the Yalu . We are fighting for survival.”

“But what about Almond?”

Smith pulled again at the pipe. “I cannot order Litzenberg and Murray to withdraw out of Yudam-ni and return here, without Tenth Corps approval. But that is exactly what we must do. Our best hope, perhaps our only hope, is that General Almond can be made to understand that.”

“How?”

Smith pulled the pipe from his mouth, laid it on the table. “I don’t know, Alpha. The man is crazy.”

The snow began late in the afternoon, blanketing the men as they sat in their foxholes. The command organized by Colonel Ridge was a jigsaw puzzle of Marine infantry and artillerymen, service and supply troops, army headquarters personnel, and anyone else capable of aiming a rifle. With darkness falling quickly, the word was passed to men who didn’t need to be told. Make ready for imminent attack. By nightfall, the Chinese began their assault. As had happened at Yudam-ni, at Koto-ri, at Fox Hill, and around the army position far up the east side of the Chosin Reservoir, the attack began with a chorus of bugles and whistles, cymbals and shouts, the Chinese soldiers pouring out of their hiding places straight into the guns of the American defenses. At Hagaru-ri there were also breakthroughs, holes punched in the defenses that allowed Chinese troops to pour through. But Hagaru-ri offered something the other positions did not. The massive supply dump offered the Chinese soldiers the kind of temptation few of them had ever seen. Instead of pressing forward their assault, routing the Americans completely from the crucial town, the Chinese began to loot the stockpiles, bogging down their attack. In time, the Americans turned the tide, a massacre of men whose mission had been lost in a quest for whatever prizes they could find. By morning the Americans had suffered nearly five hundred additional casualties, but the losses for the Chinese were far worse.

Smith understood that Hagaru-ri would continue to be vulnerable, and that from all indications, the Chinese were intent on continuing their attacks. With the army troops to the northeast cut off in a desperate fight for their own survival, Smith had only one other option for reinforcing his position. The radio link to Koto-ri was still clear, and Smith sent word to Chesty Puller to mobilize any force Puller could spare and send them northward with all speed. Among the troops in Puller’s command was a British unit, the Forty-first Independent Commandos, of the British Royal Marines, led by Lieutenant Colonel Douglas Drysdale. Drysdale was an experienced combat veteran of the Burma campaign in World War II who had sought out and was delighted to receive assignment to serve alongside Chesty Puller. By morning Colonel Drysdale’s assignment would change. Though Puller had barely two thousand men to defend Koto-ri, Drysdale would assume command of a task force of nearly half of Puller’s forces. Accompanied by tanks and a large number of supply trucks, Drysdale would push northward, with no real idea what kind of obstacles the Chinese would put in their way. Smith understood the chances Drysdale would take. Every report reaching Hagaru-ri, from the radio transmitters in Koto-ri and Chinhung-ni, to the haphazard messages passed along from chopper and fighter pilots, told the same story. The Chinese were in strength, surrounding every position the Marines now occupied. With nightfall again settling over the Chosin Reservoir, every outpost, every headquarters, every frontline platoon commander was keeping his men on the alert, waiting for the inevitable attack.

THE PLANES HAD come again, but not the blue Corsairs. This time there had been eight P-51 Mustangs, the beloved fighter that had once turned the tide against the German Messerschmitts in World War II. The appearance of the Mustangs was a surprise, and very quickly the air spotter passed the word that they were flown by Australians. Like the Marines who flew the Corsairs, the Australians were fearless, skimming the hilltops, dipping low into the valleys, pouring a devastating mix of machine gun, rocket, and cannon fire on the Chinese positions. As the Mustangs turned away, the Marines cheered them, new respect for an old ally.

The Corsairs had returned as well, but they did not come to help the men on Fox Hill. To the dismay of Captain Barber’s Marines, the Corsairs continued northward, word passing again from the air spotter that the planes were destined for Yudam-ni. Barber’s weakening radio had made brief contact with Litzenberg’s headquarters, and the news both ways was bad. Litzenberg had hoped to bring Fox Company northward, precious strength adding to the forces fending off increasing pressure from the Chinese. But Barber’s people had nowhere to go. Throughout the morning, scouting parties had probed the ground in all directions, seeking alternative routes southward that might allow Fox Company to return to Hagaru-ri. But the Chinese were on every hill, in every valley, in every direction. With the road to Hagaru-ri blocked completely, and with no help coming from Litzenberg, Barber knew that Fox Company could very well be wiped out.