Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

“Let’s go.”

The jeep rolled into motion, a tight turn onto the road back to the command tent. It’s not done yet, he thought. But there’s enough runway there to support smaller transports, probably the C-47s. Right now I’d settle for the Red Baron in his triplane.

The wounded were overflowing the aid stations, hundreds now, many of them taking turns inside the warming areas, soaking up precious heat from the fat-bellied stoves. There was no room for all of them, not now, the casualty list passing four hundred, more men adding to the count every hour. There was no surprise to that, the Chinese striking hard at the perimeter, especially toward the east, the area around East Hill. But through it all, the engineers had continued their work, carving a magnificent airstrip out of frozen ground.

Smith kept his head down, the only protection from the brutal cold, the jeep turning again, coming to a halt by the large tent. He glanced at the driver, goggles and earmuffs, offered a short nod. “Thank you, son. Find a warm place.”

Smith bailed out of the jeep, passed through a pair of guards, men far more miserable than he was, pushed his way into the tent. The coffee came quickly now, the aides knowing exactly what he wanted, Sexton there, offering a can of pipe tobacco.

“Pulled this from the private stock. I saw you empty the last tin. A bit nippy out there, sir?”

Smith took the tobacco, sat, said, “How cold is it?”

To one side, Bowser said, “Thirty below this morning. We think. Thermometer broke. Someone carried it in here just to show me, and the warmth in here just shattered it. I guess. Or Captain Sexton dropped it. I forget which.”

Smith sipped at the coffee, pulled the pipe from his pocket. “Well, then, someone needs to find us another one.”

Bowser said, “Already on it, sir. They making good progress on the airstrip?”

“They’re closer. It’s usable. I keep thinking of General Almond handing out medals to anyone he bumps into. It’s those boys out there, the engineers, who deserve one. Colonel Partridge told me they’re taking turns holding off the enemy. One man drives the tractor, one shoots the carbine. I want the whole world to know what those boys are doing.”

Bowser went to the coffeepot, poured a cup for himself, said, “You know, you don’t have to go out there yourself. I’ve volunteered to do it, and I know full well any man here would rather eat this weather than watch you do it. It’s no different than going up to Yudam-ni. I really don’t understand why you won’t send me up there.”

Smith lit the pipe, scanned the tent, the staff engulfed in all manner of work, paper, and radios. “Because I want you here. And it’s not up for discussion. What do we hear from Litzenberg?”

Bowser said, “It wasn’t too bad last night. Not nearly as many casualties. The enemy seems to have calmed down a bit. They could be regrouping, and Litz expects to be hit again, maybe tonight. He and Murray have their heads together, and they seem pretty pleased with your orders.”

Smith clamped the pipe in his teeth, thought, I suppose I should be grateful. Litzenberg argues with every order he gets. Now, if they can just do the job. “Any progress on opening the road this way?”

“Not yet. He says the enemy is in strength all along the road, major roadblocks at several points. Air recon confirms that. Murray should have his people back into Yudam-ni by now, if the Chinese let them disengage. They had gotten a mile or more west of the town when they got hit. Weather was pretty stinky up that way earlier this morning, made things tough for the chopper pilots. The fighters are getting through, hitting the enemy positions, when they can find them. You want to give out medals, give ’em to the air spotters. Litz says those boys have saved lives. The enemy wants no part of an air assault, and they button up good when the planes show up.”

“What about Fox Company?”

Bowser seemed to hesitate. “Not sure. The air boys say they’re still on their hill, overlooking the road. We’re dropping ammo, and we’ve supplied batteries for their radios.” Bowser motioned to a man to one side, earphones clamped to the man’s head. “Sergeant, anything from Captain Barber?”

The radio man shook his head. “No, sir. I’ll try again.”

Bowser said, “Try every half hour.” He looked at Smith, who saw the worry. “It could just be the weather, or these mountains. Barber’s gotta be trying to communicate with Yudam-ni, or us. Let’s give him every chance, sir. He knows what those batteries are for.”

Smith finished the coffee, stood, tried to ignore the pains in his legs. He appreciated what Bowser was doing, that no matter what else was needed, Smith had to keep his best staff officers close at hand. The priority, still, was Hagaru-ri, and Bowser was as important to him as finding rifles to strengthen the perimeter.

“I’m going to my quarters. Let me know if Barber gets through. Let me know if we hear from Colonel Drysdale. Or anything new from Litzenberg. Get on the horn to General Tunner, at Air Force Cargo. Tell him we’re close to a usable airstrip, and I want every plane in the Far East Command to be gassed up and ready. Well, no, don’t tell him that. Just let him know we are very close to asking him for all the help he can send this way.”

Outside, he heard the roar of a fighter formation, passing low. Bowser glanced upward, said, “I’ll try to reach General Harris. We get out of this place, the air wing will be one reason why. I’ll buy him a steak dinner.”

“I’ll buy him two.” Smith paused, a new thought. “I suppose, once we get the strip completed, we’ll get a mail run.”

He saw the other faces turn, knew that mail was a magical word. Bowser said, “Yes, sir, I suppose so. The boys mention it once in a while.”

Smith slid into the coat again. “I’ll be in my billet. I’ll be ready to send a few letters of my own. I want my wife to know I’m not just up here getting a suntan.”

He moved outside quickly, the cold blasting him. He hobbled slightly, hoped no one noticed, stepped gingerly through the packed snow toward the small house. He glanced out from the hood of his coat, saw the nearest aid station, slowed his steps, couldn’t avoid feeling a familiar gloom, asked himself, How many more were there today? At least I should look in on them. He passed a row of corpses draped in snow-covered cloth, slowed, counted, two dozen. More tonight, he thought. No, let that go. We cannot fix this, not yet.

He looked toward the large tent, the tin chimney spitting out a column of gray smoke, swept away by the wind. Stepping carefully, he avoided a smear of ice, stepped to a layer of rice straw spread out, a pathway that led to the entrance of the tent. He stepped inside, a flurry of quiet activity, smells of disinfectant and urine, too familiar. He eyed the doctors, stethoscopes and hypodermic needles, those men ignoring him. A handful of corpsmen were there as well, stepping over the closely packed cots, none of them empty. Smith scanned the wounded men, faces turning toward him, no one speaking. He wanted to give them something, to tell them of the airstrip, the promise that very soon they could be evacuated, a real bed in a real hospital.

Another flight of Corsairs flew over, answered by subdued cheers from the wounded men, one man raising a fist, his own silent salute. I can’t add anything to that, he thought. They’ll salute me when I give them a good reason. Right now, they don’t have one.

Behind him, litter bearers moved inside, a doctor coming forward with a bottle of plasma, giving instructions. “We’re ready. Lay him over here.”

The men obeyed, and Smith kept back, looked at the wounded man, the man’s clothing coated with icy filth, black stains, one leg exposed, the man’s skin white and frozen. The doctor went to work, one corpsman hanging the plasma beside the worktable, the man’s uniform cut away. Smith had seen this before, so often, in the Pacific, wounds festering quickly from the heat. But there was very little blood here, the wounds freezing, the one astonishing benefit of the absurdity of the weather. He saw now, the wounded man was an officer, unfamiliar face, an army uniform. Staff, he thought, one of Almond’s clerks. Or a musician maybe. He imagined the scene, the man receiving orders he never expected. Here’s a rifle, son. Now you’re going to fight. There’s an enemy out there who doesn’t care what your job is, what you were trained to do. And we don’t care, either. Right now, we don’t have the luxury of soft duty .