Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

The doctor completed the task, an aide handling the bandages, the patient seemingly unconscious. Sung was grateful for that, had heard too much screaming from these places. It was one advantage of the cold, that many of the soldiers were brought here nearly frozen, halting the flow of blood from so many wounds. The doctor wiped at his hands, red and raw, stuffing them into his shirt now, a feeble effort to bring warmth to his fingers. Sung waited, had no reason to hurry the doctor, did not require that mindless salute that so many of the officers seemed to enjoy, an exercise of their own power. The doctor turned toward him now, seemed surprised, but his reaction was dampened by his own shivering.

“General, welcome. I would offer you tea, but there is none.”

The man was young, Sung guessed twenty-five, too young for what he was experiencing now. Sung had no idea what his medical qualifications were, knew only that he had come attached to the 124th Division, along with a handful of others. The hospitals were scattered, as close to the fighting as the commanders dared. Unlike the Americans, the Chinese ignored the Red Cross insignias, assuming that the Americans in their planes would ignore them as well. Sung agreed with his officers that it was far better to camouflage the makeshift hospitals just as they hid any kind of supply dump.

“I do not require tea, Doctor.” He looked past the man, the patient being moved carefully toward the gathering of men, all with the same bandages. “Tell me, Doctor, are those men all carrying the same wounds? They are bandaged alike.”

The doctor rubbed his hands against his sides, still inside his coat. “They are not wounds, precisely, sir. These men are like so many others. They were found nearly unconscious, their hands frozen to the steel of their weapons. There is no remedy but to sever their fingers. I suppose the military prefers men to remain loyal to their rifles, no matter the conditions. Their digits are still attached to their weapons, if that pleases you.”

Sung looked again at the men seated beneath the blankets, the newest patient set down among them. He would forgive the doctor for his impudence, had no reason to find fault with any man who did this kind of work.

“I am not pleased at all, Doctor. Is this a common problem?”

The doctor shrugged. “It is common enough. The men are suffering more from the cold than they are from wounds. A great many have lost use of their feet. Fortunately, most of those men have died as a result.”

Sung looked at the man now, trying to read him. “Why is that fortunate? Bitterness is not a virtue here, Doctor. You will not speak to me in such a tone.” The threat was empty, both men aware that Sung would do nothing to remove any doctor from his work.

“I mean no disrespect, General. I do not enjoy my work, no matter that this is a duty I must perform. Perhaps it will please you that these men are ready to begin their journey. I can do no more for them here. They have feet. They can walk.”

There was a hint of anger in the man’s words, and Sung tried to ignore that as well, his eyes on the men.

“Good. We must wait until dark, and send them north. Do they understand?”

“They have surrendered to the inevitable, sir. Is that not what good soldiers must do? They have not died today, and so they will likely die tomorrow.”

Sung pulled the coat more tightly around him, his hands stuffed in the fur-lined pockets. “Doctor, there is no argument. And there is no alternative. They will die here because we cannot feed them, we cannot warm them. If they march north, they have a chance of reaching the Yalu, and assistance. I have ordered that patrols advance south of the river, to rendezvous with these men. There are many others in the same situation, Doctor. It is the only course we have. I need every man here to be fit and capable of fighting. Any man who cannot fight only consumes supplies.”

The doctor would not look at him, stared downward. “I understand, sir. It is mathematics.”

Sung was impatient now. “Call it what you wish, Doctor. I admire you for doing your duty here, in these conditions. I do not ask that you admire me for doing mine. But I will do what I must. I do not have the luxury of a conscience.”

NORTH OF YUDAM-NI—NOVEMBER 30, 11:00 A.M.

In view of our many advantages thus far, I am confident that our mission will be gloriously successful. We enjoy a significant superiority in manpower, which we are using to counter the enemy’s air forces and long-range artillery. It would be premature to offer the Central Committee a specific timetable for our victory. However, we are engaging the enemy on several fronts, and we hold the advantage in every position. We offer our most sincere congratulations to General Lin Biao, for the victories he has enjoyed.

He stopped, thought, Yes, offering that kind of praise is a wise move. Lin is continuing to drive the enemy southward, and I must not show envy for his success. His enemy no doubt is a weaker foe than what we are facing here.

The aide waited, paper in hand, and Sung stood now, said, “I believe that will be adequate. Chairman Mao has not expressed disappointment with our efforts here. There is no need to thicken my report with empty promises. Put my words to ink, and bring it to me for my signature. You may leave.”

The aide rose, a quick bow, left the small house. Sung continued to stand, staring out through a cracked windowpane. To one side, his two primary aides kept to their chairs, no one speaking. He turned now, said, “I do not anticipate remaining in this place beyond today. We must move closer to our front lines. The troops require inspiration. Colonel Liu, bring me the map of the reservoir, the entire area.”

“Right away, sir.”

Liu rose, left quickly, and Sung turned to the window again.

“What do you think of my report, Colonel Wang?”

Wang stood, always too formal, said stiffly, “Your message to the Central Committee is excellent, sir. Chairman Mao can only be pleased with our campaign. I see great advancement for you, sir, when our victory is secure.”

Sung looked at the young man, said, “Did you rehearse your words again?”

Wang showed surprise, shook his head, and Sung raised a hand.

“No matter. I should appreciate that everyone around here agrees with me. The fact is, Colonel, our progress against the enemy is not adequate. Across the mountains, Lin Biao has driven the Americans and their allies far to the south, and I am quite confident that, if they have not yet done so, they will soon liberate Pyongyang. We have failed to drive the Americans back more than a mile. Our strategy has been sound, and by our maneuvers, we created excellent opportunity. And yet the victory Peking expects of us has been slow in coming.”

“Sir, we are in control of the field in every quarter. Your tactics have prevailed. The enemy is entrapped and cannot survive as he stands now.”

Sung stared at the young man. “How do you know that? How does he stand now ?”

Wang seemed uncertain, said, “You have said yourself, sir, we have encircled the Americans in every place they fight us. If they do not die from our guns, they will starve or freeze.”

Sung turned to the window again. “You are quoting me again, Colonel. I said those very words two days ago, and probably the day before that.”

“I believed you then, sir. I believe you now. As you said to Peking, our advantages will bring us victory, in short order.”

Sung kept his gaze outside, the flurries of snow brushing silently against the window. “How many men have we lost to the cold?”

“I am not completely certain, sir. If you wish, I shall order Captain Jin to prepare a report.”