The Frozen Hours

by Jeff Shaara

  Sung measured his words, spoke slowly. “Major, we are miles below the Yalu River even now, and we will continue to march southward until we embrace the American invasion. I do not see how bases can be built on land we have already put behind us.”

  Orlov shrugged. “I have been told that the Americans might not be aware just what territory you have passed. I have been told that the official dispatches coming from their headquarters in Tokyo reveal no knowledge of your army being here at all.”

  Sung was surprised, had heard nothing about that. So, of course. The Soviets have eyes in places I will never see.

  “You have excellent sources, Major. Are you able to communicate using the stars?”

  “My communications have regrettably ceased since we have advanced farther south. I am completely at your mercy, General.”

  Sung turned slowly away, thought, Somehow, I doubt that.

  —

  The radios were nearly worthless, their range cut off by the great hills to the west. But the word had come to his camp, passed along a network of outposts that spread out over the mountains that divided Sung’s army from those troops who were moving more toward Pyongyang. He could not know just how accurate the reports were, knew that sometimes reports of combat victory were mighty exaggerations. But he knew Lin Biao, respected the man’s abilities to lead any army. If Lin had gone to such lengths to offer him a report, Sung would accept it as accurate. And so would his men.

  He gathered the senior commanders, the men seated around an enormous squat tree. Sung had ordered tea, the men grateful for the small treat.

  “Comrades, it is a glorious day. I am to inform you that beyond the mountains to our west, the People’s Thirteenth Army Group has struck the first blow against the Americans and their puppet armies of South Korea. We have achieved a great victory.”

  The men called out a salute, their arms in the air, Sung absorbing their good cheer. The questions came now.

  “Have the Americans retreated? Have we liberated Pyongyang?”

  “Shall we join with them? Will they add to our strength?”

  He looked at the voice, one of his youngest generals, a man Sung suspected would one day replace him.

  “General Huk, your enthusiasm is welcomed, but there is a great struggle still to be waged. I do not have every detail of the engagements beyond the mountains. While we should draw spirit from General Lin’s successes, we must not forget our mission, and what still lies in our path. Our foe is advancing toward us even now. Our observers have reported South Korean troops, along with units of American infantry, advancing along the east coast. But I would also inform you that a large column of American Marines has begun their northward march out of Wonsan. Our orders are very specific. We shall observe them until the time is right, and then we shall destroy them.”

  —

  As the sun had set, his army rose from the ground all around him, across narrow valleys, stretches of thick timber, tens of thousands of men making ready for the next night of their advance. They had begun to spread out far beyond the few narrow roads, the meager farm lanes that held the attention of the American planes. To their front now lay a sprawling lake, the reservoir that was the water source for farms that stretched all the way to China.

  For several days other units had been marching across the rugged hillsides, ordered much farther away from the roads. They were Sung’s most forward battalions, probing and scouting, soldiers who were ordered to keep their positions hidden from even the most skilled UN observers. As those units sent their reports back to their commander, Sung ordered more of his army forward, pushing them rapidly southward down both sides of the great reservoir, then spreading them farther out into the hills that rose along both sides of the primary avenue the Americans were using for the march north.

  With word of the great success to the west, the bloody blow that Lin’s Thirteenth Army Group had struck against the American and ROK troops, Sung’s officers were energized even more. But Sung would not yet order any kind of massed assault. As he drove his troops southward, he advanced several of his divisions well past the vanguard of the American march, allowing the Americans to move up between the outstretched arms of a great pincer. To Sung’s amazement, as the Marines pushed out along their single roadway, they extended their position, stretching their power into a thin ribbon that extended nearly sixty miles. He was more curious just what kind of strategy the Americans were employing. With each day, the massive advantage of firepower the Americans enjoyed seemed to be diminished, spread farther apart by decisions Sung did not understand. As energized as his commanders were becoming, Sung Shi-lun held them back, ordering only a probing confrontation, a test to learn just what kind of secrets the Americans might be hiding, just what the logic was to their advance. As the Americans continued to spread themselves thin, Sung’s primary mission seemed, oddly enough, to be getting easier.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Riley

  SOUTH OF SUDONG, NORTH KOREA—NOVEMBER 2, 1950

  THEIR LOAD HAD GROWN, the new equipment issued as they left Wonsan. Their green dungarees were now a heavier material, said to be windproof, covering cotton long johns many of the Southern men had never seen. The jokes followed immediately, teasing from the Northerners, that back home, civilian long johns had the benefit of a trapdoor, something these long johns didn’t have. If there were instructions on just how a man was to relieve himself by maneuvering through multiple layers of clothing, none of the officers had bothered to provide them.

  Those men who had grown up in the cold back home already understood layering, and the Southerners were learning quickly the benefit of the variety they wore now. Each man wore an undershirt beneath his usual Marine uniform shirt, covering that with a green denim jacket. The greatest burden they carried now was the heavy parka, a fur-lined hooded coat that hung to their knees. To wear the parka during the march meant more sweating, but carrying it or slinging it over the backpack could be even clumsier.

  They carried gloves now, every man wondering just how he was supposed to pull the trigger of his weapon with thickened fingers. And so, many had sliced the fingertip off the wool on their shooting hand. Hanging below their backpack was a thicker sleeping bag, what someone at supply labeled “fit for the mountains.” In their packs they carried extra socks, and on their feet the lightweight leather boots had been replaced by what supply had called shoe pacs, a thick wool sole housed inside a watertight rubber boot, designed to keep feet dry. The men soon learned that keeping water out meant keeping sweat inside, that the longer the march, the wetter their socks. Orders had been passed to every man that once they took to the roads, they were to change socks frequently, avoiding the kind of plague some of these men could recall from a very different time fighting in the Pacific. Then it was called jungle rot; after long days in soggy terrain, a man who ignored his feet might find that his socks had become nothing more than a nasty crust that seemed to be glued to his skin. That lesson had been driven into every man who had suffered the agony of having his skin peeled from the bones of his feet. This time the enemy wasn’t the steaming heat of the jungle. Wet socks produced a variety of agonies, including blisters, and warnings came that with the coming of winter, wet feet meant cold feet, and if it was cold enough, the result could be frostbite. There were skeptics, of course, many of them the new recruits who had never endured that kind of cold, who imagined the march concluding with feet propped up in front of a campfire. But the officers did what they could to erase those kinds of pleasant expectations, the company commanders passing down the threat that anyone who ignored caring for his feet, or sought to escape to the aid stations with crippled toes, was to be treated with no more regard than the man who purposely shot himself in the foot. Few of the men around Riley seemed interested in testing the resolve of a man like Captain Zorn. But there were others, always the big mouths, who didn’t seem to give much heed to threats from officers. To those men, the corpsmen provided incentive of their own, calmly
assuring them that a case of frostbite most often ended with amputation.

  As they moved north from Wonsan, the nights became chillier, some of that from an increase in elevation. The cursing over the heavier loads began to quiet, the fall giving way to a North Korean winter, the mild days passing quickly to teeth-chattering nights. For now they rode in the larger trucks, the six-by deuce and a half most of these men had become used to. The road itself was crude, hard-packed gravel, patches of hard dirt, and some not so hard, clouds of choking dust that engulfed each vehicle in the column. They rode mostly in silence, the veterans knowing that the trucks were a luxury, that the kidney-bashing bumps were always better than hiking this ground, any ground, on foot. Word had already been passed down that farther on the roads would become steeper, and quite likely more narrow. Rumors flew, sightings of Chinese units, North Korean tanks on the prowl, the men blind in their covered trucks knowing only that they were moving farther into enemy territory.

  Riley felt the truck slowing, the sharp squeal of brakes. He sat forward, straightened his back away from the bone-cracking bench seat. Across from him, Welch.

  “Looks like the end of the ride. We sure as hell ain’t burning much gas. Never seen a convoy move so slow. We could walk faster.”

  Lieutenant Goolsby was peering through the canvas, voices outside, and Goolsby said, “This is it. Everybody out. What we do this time, two hundred yards?”

  It was an unusual piece of sarcasm from the young lieutenant, but Riley knew he was right. For reasons no one would explain to the riflemen, the brass didn’t seem to be in any hurry.

  The men rose slowly, easing their way back, dropping down. Riley followed, Killian behind him, Riley’s turn to jump down to the hard ground. He scanned the countryside, most of it vertical now, and Killian descended heavily, said, “No more orchards. This ain’t farm country anymore. Too sloping for rice paddies, for sure.”

  Riley shouldered his rifle, said, “That just means it’ll smell better. Never did figure out what those orchards were growing. Never seen those kinds of trees. Weren’t peaches or apples.”

  The kid was down beside him, said, “Persimmons. Too late in the year for ’em now. I ate ’em growing up. They’re great, unless they’re green. Pucker you up real good then. We used to do that when we were young. Chomp down on a green one, then wait for our mouths to turn inside out.”

  Killian sniffed. “Great. Our Guinea is also a farmer.”

  Morelli kept silent, had learned not to spar with the big Irishman. Riley ignored them both, stepped farther out off the road, saw a small, flat field to one side, a rough shack to one end. A civilian emerged now, the usual scene, the man old and bent, caped in a simple white garment that matched the color of the man’s wispy beard. Riley watched him, the old man staring silently, no expression, the passing of this army just one more meaningless part of what Riley assumed was one more meaningless day. Welch moved out beside him, said, “Most exciting thing happened to that old fart in a while. How the hell does he eat? Nothing growing on this ground. Must have some generous neighbors.”

  Riley said, “Maybe. There’s a hay pile behind his shack. He’s got a cow, or ox, whatever the hell they call ’em. He’s got it hidden, I bet. Afraid we’ll eat the damn thing.”

  Welch said, “I don’t blame him. I’d hide everything I own from this nasty bunch.” He looked back behind Riley, said to Killian, “Hey, Irish. You think this one’s a threat, too? We oughta search his rathole?”

  Killian shouldered his rifle, grumbled. “Don’t trust none of ’em. Where’s his damn flag, anyway?”

  Riley began to move, following the flow of men as they stepped into column, thought of Inchon, the great throngs of Korean civilians, hundreds of them holding up small American flags. It had happened at Wonsan, too, though not as many. But the flags were there, waved by smiling crowds of North Koreans. The show had been inspiring, especially for the newspapermen. But the Marines were more curious than gratified. Riley thought of that now, wondering, Just where the hell did they get the flags? And do they have one for every occasion, depending on which army is marching by? There’s Brits here, Greeks, all kinds of troops helping us out. Good old UN. So, did all those civilians get the flags from the UN, some lackey running around passing ’em out? He looked over toward the old man again, called out, “Hey Papa-san, you forgot your flag. You not sure which side we’re on?”

  Behind him, Killian said, “Yeah, you old Nook. We’re the good guys. Come to save the world. You get lucky, somebody’ll hand you a loaf of Wonder Bread. You pay enough, I’ll sell you a Hershey bar.”

  “Knock it off. Save your breath for the climb.”

  Riley glanced at the sergeant, knew that Welch had no patience for Killian’s mouth. Rumbles of artillery fire flowed over them now, the men silent, eyes searching the hills. From behind them Captain Zorn stepped forward, waved one hand, said, “Listen up! There’s something Battalion has ordered us to see.”

  Riley was puzzled, thought, In this place? What the hell is worth staring at?

  Zorn directed the men to one side of the road, a harsh order to each of the lieutenants as they passed, keeping each squad, each platoon, to one side of the road. Riley fell into the single line, saw a wide ditch, the men stopping, the words coming now.

  “Jesus. What the hell happened?”

  “Oh, what the hell? No.”

  “Keep moving. I want everybody to see this.”

  Riley looked down in the ditch, saw four bodies, Marines, wrapped in bloody sleeping bags. He moved past quickly, looked away, tried to erase the image, heard the men behind him reacting as well.

  “Good God. Those are our boys. Who did this?”

  Zorn called out, “They’re from First Battalion, the men up ahead of you. The enemy caught them asleep last night. They were bayoneted in their holes, in their sleeping bags. Never knew what hit them. This could be you morons if you don’t keep awake and alert. You hear me?”

  Riley was angry now, thought, They didn’t have to do this. Leaving them there, like some kind of exhibit. We’re not rookies, for God’s sake. Not all of us. Behind him, he heard Zorn, calling to McCarthy.

  “Lieutenant, your men have seen enough. First Battalion is on those big hills to the front, and Colonel Davis has radioed back that the enemy is approaching their position. Last call was that they were beginning to take mortar and machine gun fire. The colonel has his men digging in, trying to find just what the enemy’s got in mind. We’re in support, and Third Battalion is behind us.”

  There were more thumps now, a plume of smoke rising up on a hill a mile to the front. Riley kept his eyes that way, followed McCarthy farther forward, the column forming up on both sides of the road. He heard the usual comments around him, nervous chatter, most of that from the new men. Now there were more blasts, far above them on the left, a wide hill, thick with trees, bare on top. He glanced at Zorn, saw the captain staring up that way, a look of surprise on the company commander’s face. McCarthy was staring that way as well, more of the officers, all eyes on the closer hill. After a long, noisy moment, Zorn said, “That’s Dog Company. They started up that way a half hour ago. What the hell?”

  A jeep rolled up, a sliding stop, dust flowing over the men. Riley saw an officer running past him, a sudden stop in front of the captain. Riley knew the man, Lieutenant Wright, Zorn’s executive officer.

  “Sir! Radio call from Colonel Litzenberg. The trucks have been ordered to withdraw. Fox Company is to climb to the right, take position below the ridgeline, send observation parties higher, see if we can spot any hostile troops to the east of this position. Dog and Easy are out on our left, First Battalion is deployed up ahead.”

  “I can hear First Battalion, Lieutenant. They’re getting hammered. Dog, too. Where’s Major Sawyer?”

  “Sir, Battalion is establishing a command post just to the rear of this position.”

  “Fine. I’ll do the same at the base of this hill, once we get into position.
Stay here, keep any stragglers off this road.”

  Riley could see movement high on the hill to the left, more Marines climbing from back behind them, spreading up toward the sounds of the fight. Beside him, Welch said, “Easy Company, probably. Go, you dumb bastards. Make yourself useful.”

  Another jeep rolled up from behind the column, stopping a dozen yards up the road. Farther on, the road curved to the left, sweeping past the snout of the steep hill. The men in the jeep dismounted, and now, from around the bend in the road, a flock of what seemed to be soldiers appeared, moving toward them, some halting at the jeep. There were hands in the air, shouts of jubilation. Riley stared, curious, cautious, the others around him slipping rifles off shoulders. Now they appeared above, to the right, descending rapidly, cheerful men in filthy uniforms.

  Welch said, “South Koreans. ROK. Where the hell they come from?”

  Riley watched the men swarm down around and through the Marines, realized now most of them had no weapons.

  “Marines! Marines. Many Chingese! Chingese!”

  The soldiers were pointing back, some up the hill they had just descended, others pointing toward the sounds of a growing fight to the front. Riley looked again to the jeep, saw the ROK troops in a swarm around the officers, saw now it was Sawyer, the battalion commander, others from his staff, one man using their radio. The ROKs were gesturing fitfully, more loud voices, most of that in Korean, and Welch said, “Looks like the major was expecting them. My buddy at regimental said we were supposed to relieve the ROKs wherever we find them. I guess we found them.”

  One of the Koreans came down the hill close to Riley, thick grime on his face, pointing back up the hill.

  “Many many! Go!”

  Riley glanced back, saw the two lieutenants, Goolsby moving closer, McCarthy behind him. Goolsby approached the man, said, “What’s the story here?”

  Welch said, “ROKs, sir. Seems like a happy bunch.”