Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Almond stood, moved out into the larger room, his aide there now, holding open his coat. Within seconds, Almond was out the door.

Smith retrieved the pipe, still full from earlier that afternoon. He flicked the lighter, the aroma engulfing him, warm and wonderful. He looked at Bowser now, was surprised to see a wide smile.

“What?”

“You are my favorite commanding general, you know that? I’ve had a couple others, but none of them—”

“Oh, shut up.”

Bowser chuckled now, and Smith jabbed the pipe into his teeth, said, “He comes up here all full of beans, and orders us to move with lightning speed backward. He gives us a wave of his hand and expects everything to happen as he describes it.”

Smith heard an aircraft, glanced up, and Bowser said, “He didn’t waste any time. I don’t guess his pilot likes flying around North Korea in the dark.”

There was a chattering roll of fire, machine guns, and Smith moved out quickly into the larger room, the cook and his aide dropping down to their knees.

“Sir, that’s close. Be careful.”

More firing came now, another direction, the heavy thumps from incoming mortars. Bowser was there, beside him, said, “They’re coming again.”

Smith strained to hear, said, “Maybe. Could be probes. It’s not late enough for a full-on assault.”

The chatter blew past him now, a splinter of wood from the wall, the clank of metal, pots on the cookstove tumbling to the floor. The cook yelped and Smith ducked down, Bowser flattening out to one side of him. Now another round burst through the wall, another ricochet, the cook shouting out some kind of curse.

“Easy, son. Stray rounds. You two, grab your weapons, find Lieutenant Griggs. If they need you on the line, he’ll tell you.”

The cook sat now, held up a wet pot, a ragged hole through the sides.

“Your dinner, sir. They busted up your cooking pot.”

Smith listened, more firing, farther away, the steady rumbles he had heard all day from the east hill. “I’ll manage. Go!”

The two men scrambled across the floor, coats snatched down from hooks on the wall. Smith looked at Bowser, said, “You all right?”

Bowser sat up, wiped a hand over his mussed hair. “Too close.”

“Only casualty here was my dinner, Colonel. If you wish, grab a carbine. My forty-five is in my bag.”

“Not funny, sir.”

“I’ve been under assault before, Colonel. It’s never funny.”

Bowser crept toward the door, eased it open, the cold air immediate. He closed it again, said, “Looks calm. Most of the firing is to the east.”

“I hear it.”

“Well, sir, at least you don’t have to prove your point to the army. If they’ve got any doubts whether you can spare anybody to rescue their people, a nice attack from the Chinese ought to convince them we need every hand right here.”

Smith stood, eased the ache from his knees, moved toward the stove. “General Barr doesn’t need convincing. Hodes is feeling this in someplace deep. Nothing I can do about that.” He thought a moment, said, “We’ve got a Marine air controller out that way, right?”

“Yes, sir. He was left up there, back when Murray pulled out, when the army boys moved up. Captain Stamford, Ed Stamford. Good man.”

“I hope so. The air cover might be the best chance those boys have.”

Bowser was serious now, said, “You think they’re in real trouble? That’s near three thousand men.”

Smith listened again to the firing, a spray of mortar shrapnel dancing on the roof above him. “Colonel, we might all be in trouble. But I’d rather be here than out there.”

HAGARU-RI—DECEMBER 1, NOON

“Six hundred, a few more. It’s not good, General. Something has to open up quick, or we’ll lose a good many of them.”

Smith knew that Hering was never a man to exaggerate, and he had seen the hospitals himself. “I know the situation, Doctor.”

“How much longer, then? You can only keep a man on morphine for so long. The plasma we have is just about worthless. Sir…” Hering paused, seemed suddenly emotional. “If we can’t evacuate these men in the next twenty-four hours…”

“I heard you, Doctor.”

Smith couldn’t be angry, knew that Hering was as dedicated a healer as any medical man in the service. But the daily frustrations were still building, no different now than yesterday, the day before that.

Hering seemed resigned to his situation, said, “I should return to the hospital. A few of the Royal Marines got hit this morning. Some of them took some white phosphorous wounds. Not sure they’ll survive.”

Smith nodded, a feeble wave of his hand. “Dismissed. Just keep doing your job. I’ll do mine.”

Hering turned, left the room, and Smith heard the others in the larger room, a small group of officers, daily reports still to come. He waited for the sound of the door, Hering’s departure, tried to find some comfort in the pipe in his mouth, the tobacco growing bitter. He listened to the talk among the officers, a tone of doubt, anxiousness spread all through them, worse now than any day before. His order to Litzenberg had been finalized, the command for the units at Yudam-ni to commence their breakout early that morning. He had heard nothing since, didn’t expect to, unless it was bad news. No, he thought, they’ll do it. It’s one road, and a dozen miles, and they’re Marines. This isn’t some idiotic order tossed their way by a crowing peacock in Tokyo. They’re my men, and I need them here. They need to be here. It’s that simple.

He stood, nervous energy, paced slowly, the tobacco not helping at all. Outside, a distinctive voice, his chief of staff, Colonel Gregon Williams. Bowser was there as well, always there, both men doing their own jobs and the duties left behind by Eddie Craig. This will kill Eddie, he thought. He’d want to be right in the middle of the mess, just like Bowser. This might be the toughest assignment most of these men have ever had, ever suffered through. Well, maybe. Hard to ignore what we had to do against the Japanese. How different is it now? A fanatical enemy, hell-bent on wiping us out. Nothing new there. The Chinese probably think the same thing about us.

“Sir, Colonel Drysdale is here. He asked if he could see you.”

Smith saw a smile on Sexton’s face, felt it himself. “By all means. Send him in here. We have any tea around?”

Sexton still smiled. “He brought his own, sir.”

Sexton backed away, and Smith couldn’t avoid a lift to his spirits, had come to like Drysdale as much as he already respected him. Drysdale was there now, and Smith was surprised, the man’s uniform perfect in every detail, the wounded arm bandaged as neatly as the man’s attire. Smith couldn’t help a smile of his own.

“Come in, Colonel.”

“Thank you kindly, General. I shan’t take up your time. I do wish only to report that our efforts to drive the enemy from East Hill have been mostly frustrated. Difficult terrain, to say the least. The enemy’s artillery, what there is of it, is tossing some rather nasty stuff our way.”

“I heard. White phosphorous.”

“Quite so. My men will never complain, sir, but I must speak up for them when I say we have some rather awful injuries. I understand there can be little assistance for our attempts, and your medical people are doing a bang-up job. But I admit to having a weakness for the suffering of my men, when I see little point to it.”

“There is a point, Colonel, I promise you. East Hill is a key to our position. I have seen very little of the enemy’s artillery in action, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have any. If they suddenly bring up some heavy stuff, East Hill is a perfect location for it. This base becomes indefensible. Even if we can’t remove them from the hill itself, we must keep them engaged, let them know we won’t let them have the place free and clear. I’m sorry for your men, but, frankly, Colonel, every unit in this command is suffering. If not the wounds, then the cold. I’m not telling you what you don’t already know.”