Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

“I’m not questioning your command decisions, sir, I assure you. I understand the logic of your tactics and what we are being asked to do. I only wanted to inquire if there might be some relief in the offing, some way to deal with the rather terrible condition of my wounded.”

Smith said nothing for a long moment, gave up on the pipe, pulled it from his mouth, rapped the bowl on the arm of the chair. He saw Bowser now, peering into the room, thought, Something else.

“What is it, Colonel?”

Bowser stayed beyond the door, said, “Intel report, sir.”

“Anything new?”

Bowser moved closer, a glance at Drysdale, said, “More like confirmation, sir. Colonel Holcomb reports that it is definite that we are facing six full Chinese divisions.”

“In total?”

“That’s just around Hagaru-ri. There is an estimate of five more at Yudam-ni, possibly as many as three up the east side of the reservoir. Colonel Puller has not yet made an estimate to our south, sir.”

“Thank you, Colonel. Dismissed.”

Bowser backed away, and Drysdale smiled, a surprise.

“If I may offer, sir, this seems rather a sticky one.”

“We’re still here, Colonel. The enemy is still on the outside looking in. When the Fifth and Seventh push their way down here, we’ll have plenty of strength. Nothing the Chinese have shown us changes that.”

Drysdale rubbed his chin, nodded. “I admire your confidence, sir. I share it, actually. I haven’t often had the opportunity to stand alongside Yanks, and I admit there are some rough edges that are difficult for my men to accept.”

“Such as?”

Drysdale seemed to welcome the opening. “I don’t mean to sound critical, General. Certainly not. But throughout the night, your engineers take delight in illuminating the entire landscape while they labor on that airstrip. Invites fire in a reckless sort of way, I’d say. I do understand the urgency, of course.” He paused. “I also appreciate the luxury of having adequate supplies of ammunition. But I must point out, sir, that your men seem to delight in filling the air with lead. I have always taught frugality, conserving one’s ammunition as long as necessary. Your machine gunners, and those marvelous BARs, they do offer quite a show. I just wonder how useful that truly is, spraying ten thousand rounds toward an enemy platoon when a few dozen would do the trick.”

Smith sat now, could feel Drysdale’s energy rising. “What else?”

“Well, sir, I don’t wish to risk offense. But we pride ourselves on our deportment, the taut ship, so to speak. It is standard practice for our men to shave and tidy themselves up as much as possible every morning. I have observed very little of that among your Marines. Every man wears a stubble of whiskers, and when any of my chaps mentions it, the response is rather boastful on your part, as though the rough edges are a source of pride.”

Smith lowered his head, a smile breaking out. “Colonel, I do not question your methods. I would only say that my men are less concerned with appearances. Cleanliness doesn’t make them any tougher.”

“Certainly not, sir. I intend no insult at all.”

“I know you don’t. I would only suggest, Colonel, that when this war concludes—and I assure you, it will conclude—that these men will return home to their wives and mothers, and there will be shiny cheeks and enough sparkle to go around. As long as your men make the good fight, you may certainly attend to your command any way you see fit. I can also assure you that when it comes to priorities right here, we are pushing hard for morphine and bandages. The soap can come later.”

The jeep rolled closer to the first large dozer, stopped, the crew working beside the big machine halting, watching as he climbed out. There were the usual salutes, but Smith wouldn’t interrupt their labor, moved past, toward the next machine, saw men standing together, a cluster of heavy coats. They parted slightly at his approach, and Smith searched the faces, the scattering of ragged beards, couldn’t help thinking of Drysdale. Beards are warmer, he thought. Should have told him that. He saw the face he sought, the hood of the man’s coat pulled back, no salute, the appropriate response so close to enemy eyes.

“Welcome, sir. Good day for working.”

Smith looked past the man, the surface of the airstrip spread out far to one side. “Colonel Partridge, they’ve all been good. I need to bring aircraft in here right now. Tell me something I want to hear.”

Partridge let out a foggy breath, said, “We’ve got twenty-nine hundred feet completely finished. Specs call for five thousand more. It’s only been twelve days, General.”

“This isn’t a gripe, Colonel. A C-47 can land right now, yes?”

“Yes, sir, I suppose so. This wind’s tough enough, it should shorten the distance for takeoff.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear.”

HAGARU-RI—DECEMBER 1, 2:30 P.M.

He watched with most of the staff, all eyes on the skies, the light snowfall not enough to hide the patches of blue above them. The winds had slowed, easing the torture from the cold, Smith straining to hear the only sound that mattered.

“There!”

The men around him began to point, and he saw it, clearing the hills to the south. It was a single plane, responding to his orders, the first attempt at a dry run, to test whether the engineer knew his aircraft as well as his ability to build an airport.

He heard the plane’s engines now, couldn’t help the shaking nervousness, a glimpse toward the east hill, where he knew the Chinese were watching as well. Beside him, Bowser said, “Hurry up, dammit. You’re too good a target.”

“Shut up, Alpha.”

He marched in place slowly, the anxiety of the moment adding to the hard chill in his legs, the aching in his knees forgotten for the moment. He watched the plane lowering, landing gear out now, sinking lower still. He held his breath, the pounding in his chest unbearable, a glance at the east hill one more time, still no violence from the Chinese. There were voices around him now, the men offering their own quiet encouragement toward the pilot, the aircraft, the moment.

The plane drifted lower, held a few feet off the hard ground, the dull roar of the engines growing soft, the plane settling down slowly, a sudden bump, a slight bounce, the wheels now on the ground, the plane moving past the crowd, slowing, stopping, turning in place, the twin props pulling the craft closer. And now the engines were silent, the props spinning slowly, the men around Smith moving forward, chocking the wheels, gathering at the plane’s hatch, happy chatter. Smith held back, his eyes a blur, the weakness in his knees spreading all through him, a hard stroke of emotion he knew he couldn’t hide. He was alone now, tried to blink through the freezing tears, watched the men swarming the plane, waiting for the pilot to appear. Smith turned to one side, saw Partridge a few yards away, the engineer watching, waiting, a glance toward Smith, a broad smile, the pride in an extraordinary accomplishment.

“I believe, sir, we have an airstrip.”

For the rest of that day, five more of the small transport planes made the journey from the bases to the south, each one carrying necessary supplies, each then filled to capacity with two dozen of the most severely wounded men. Only one incident marred the astounding day, one aircraft losing its landing gear, blocking the runway until it could be cleared. By dark, the runs were halted, but Smith returned to his quarters with a brief stop to see Dr. Hering, sharing his quiet joyful confidence that the wounded men would now be served.

Smith knew what Hering knew, that when Murray and Litzenberg brought their units into Hagaru-ri, with the enormous load of their own wounded, the medical facilities would be woefully inadequate. But their work was now made easier by the extraordinary labor of Colonel John Partridge and his engineers. The final piece of the puzzle for the medical teams was the unknown that lay out to the northeast. There the army’s beleaguered troops were already confronting a hard crisis of their own, no one at Hagaru-ri knowing yet just how severe that crisis could actually become.