The Frozen Hours

by Jeff Shaara

  The blast sprayed him with hard dirt, and there was more rifle fire, another machine gun opening up from the roadblock ahead. Riley gasped for air, the cold forgotten, saw Welch’s face, crusted with dirt and ice. Welch said, “You okay?”

  Riley took a long breath, said, “Think so. A few feet shorter and we’d have shared that grenade between us.”

  “Yeah. Where the hell is that tank?”

  The answer came now, behind them, the hard thump of the gun, a blast impacting the roadblock. Another came now, and in front of them, a shout, “Up! Hit ’em!”

  The men began to rise, Welch up quickly, Riley beside him. In front of them, two dozen men surged forward, and Riley saw Kane moving to one side, the men in front of them falling flat, firing steadily. Kane stayed up in the road, flattened out behind the BAR. There was more fire from another BAR, Kane joining in, and behind them, another hard thump from the tank. Riley kept on his stomach, just off the road, saw Welch rise, firing the Thompson. He aimed the M-1, fired, no targets, just the blackened wreck on the road, movement beyond.

  The voice came again, from up in front. “Go! They’re running!”

  The men rose up again, a hard scamper toward the roadblock, no enemy fire. Riley ran as quickly as he could, gasping cold air, Marines reaching the roadblock, firing farther down the road. He stumbled, cursed the clumsiness of the shoe pacs, saw a body to one side, men low around it, kept moving. He was at the wrecked jeep now, collapsed to his knees, searched the slopes to both sides, saw men up on the high ridges, Marines, pushing forward. Around him, the harsh order, “Cease fire! Save your ammo!”

  The rifles went silent, and he saw Abell, peering up past the jeep. More men were coming forward, and Abell waved them out to both sides of the road. Behind Riley, the tank was rolling closer, and Abell squatted down behind the jeep, called out, “Good job! You’ve taken out your first roadblock. Gather up, prepare to move out!”

  Riley thought of the dead man, saw Welch, said, “We should check on that guy, make sure he’s not wounded.”

  Welch pointed back, and Riley saw a pair of corpsmen, slipping quickly between several downed men.

  “They’ll figure it out. We got better things to do.”

  “What was his name? I don’t remember.”

  Welch seemed to think for a long second, shook his head. “From Georgia. Talked with a mouth full of molasses. Just came in yesterday. They’ll grab his dog tags.”

  Riley looked back that way, a half dozen wounded, said, “Jesus. His first day?”

  “It happens. You know that.”

  “Yeah. I guess. How’s your arm?”

  “Nothing. Hell of a bruise, probably. I guess I owe that fellow something.”

  A man jogged forward now, moved toward Abell, said, “Lieutenant, sir?”

  “What?”

  “Sir, Lieutenant Dunne’s dead, sir. Back there a ways.”

  Riley saw shock on Abell’s face, unexpected.

  “Good God. You sure, son?”

  “He’s dead, sir. There’s no doubt.”

  Riley looked at Welch, who dropped his head, and Riley said, “He made it out of Toktong Pass without a scratch. They said he was the only officer who did.”

  Welch said, “So did we. No one’s wearing a lucky charm out here.”

  Behind Welch, Abell said, “The trucks are moving up. Let’s load up the casualties.”

  —

  They had marched more than three miles, more roadblocks, more casualties. Up on the ridges on both sides of the road, Riley could hear the firefights, some brief, some more intense. But the greatest distraction was the air cover, the Corsairs and other bombers unloading on pockets of the enemy wherever they were found. From the men down on the road, the blasts of rocket fire and fiery bursts of napalm brought cheers, and outbursts of amazement from the new men. The aircraft hit the roadblocks as well, adding enormous firepower that swept away most of the enemy resistance. For most of the day, the fighting was brief and sporadic, the enemy content to strike quickly, then fall back, unwilling or unable to make a strong stand.

  As dark began to settle over the heights around them, Abell passed the word. The order had come from Litzenberg that the company was to keep going, advancing as much as possible, even in the darkness.

  Riley kept his eyes on Welch, the steady rhythm of his footsteps. There was little else to see, the roadside dotted with occasional huts and run-down farmhouses, most of them wrecked by artillery or torched by fire from the planes. For much of the day, the tanks had moved forward, leading the way, and Riley tried to feel comfort from that, but there were doubts as well. Some of the men kept close to the big machines, warmed by the stinking exhaust, for most, a welcome trade. Riley was too far back in line, and with the darkness settling in, he thought of the tankers, a job he never wanted. But now those boys are warm, he thought, and they’re buttoned up tight. Not a bad place to be when you can’t see a damn thing. Ain’t seen much the Chinese have that can hurt those fellows, as long as they keep their hatches closed. Wonder what they can see from inside the damn things. Or maybe they don’t bother looking. They leave that to us.

  The fighting on the darkening ridges above had grown quiet, a surprise, especially with the planes returning to their bases. He saw Welch wave a hand, move off to one side of the road, the column slowing. Riley moved up beside him, felt the misery of cold, wet socks, said, “We gotta change socks, Sarge. We stopping for long?”

  “Hell if I know. Something’s up. Hey, what’s that?”

  Riley listened, nothing, but Welch held up his hand, the men around him silent. Riley heard it now, a faint voice, “Help! American!”

  Welch pointed. “There. Easy. Spread out.”

  Riley saw Abell now, the lieutenant moving closer to Welch.

  “What is it?”

  “Somebody in one of those huts. Maybe. Not sure. Could be Chinks.”

  The voice came again, slightly above the road, and Riley could make out the group of small huts, the voice more distinct.

  “American!”

  Abell said to Welch, “Check it out. Careful. Those bastards speak English when they want to.”

  Welch began to climb off the road, the rest of his squad following. The call continued, high and faint, coming clearly from one of the huts. Welch moved that way, waved the others out in a wide formation, a quick glance at Kane. Welch whispered, “Get up here. You see Chinks, you unload that thing.”

  Kane moved forward, out to the left of Welch, the BAR held ready. Welch leveled the Thompson, Riley up to the other side, the M-1 pointing, four more men out past Riley. He ignored them, kept his eyes on the darkened hut, dim light, an odd stink. Welch dropped down to one knee, still pointing the Thompson, said, “Hey! You wounded?”

  “Oh, God. American. Yes, help.”

  “So who’s Ted Williams play for?”

  “Red Sox. Red Sox!”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Jim Kalin, Corporal. George Three One.”

  Welch absorbed that, said, “Come out.”

  “Can’t. Can’t walk.”

  Welch pointed at Riley, motioned him forward. Riley let out a cold breath, his heart pumping, crept forward, the rifle ready, pushed the muzzle into the opening of the hut. In the faint light, he saw the man, lying up against one side of the small hut, bodies beside him.

  “Thank God. Thank God.”

  Riley glanced around the hut, nothing else, called out, “I got him.”

  Welch was there quickly, a glance at the man, then a hard shout, “Corpsman!”

  Riley moved to the man, the pungent stink overwhelming, Kalin stammering now, a pool of emotion.

  “Oh, God. Thank you. Check these fellows. I think they’re dead. But check.”

  The corpsman was there now, and Riley recognized him, Rebbert, a longtime veteran. Rebbert moved quickly, kneeling close to Kalin, said, “Can you feel your legs? Are you wounded?”

  “No. They busted me up good. Ca
n’t walk.”

  Riley bent low, one hand probing the other men, each one cold and stiff.

  “Sorry, pal. They’re gone.”

  Kalin said something, too low to hear, and Rebbert said, “Let’s get him to the trucks. We’ll have to carry him.”

  Welch moved in, Riley beside him, Welch calling out, “Morelli. Make yourself useful.”

  The kid was there now, breathing heavily, and Welch said to Kalin, “It’s okay, sport. We got ya. How long you been here?”

  They hoisted Kalin up from beneath his arms, a sharp cry.

  “My legs. Oh, damn.”

  Rebbert said something unintelligible, and Riley could see him pull something from his mouth, a syringe.

  “Here. This will help.”

  The needle went in, Kalin calming immediately, and he said, “Four days, five. Not sure. They gave me a couple potatoes to eat. I tried to help the others, thought we’d all just freeze. They left us. Didn’t come back.”

  They had him upright, Welch leading the way out of the hut, a fresh burst of cold enveloping Riley. They moved slowly down the hill, Kalin’s legs dangling, dead weight. On the road, the column had continued to move, trucks in line, moving slowly. Rebbert called out, one truck stopping, a squeal of brakes, the group carrying Kalin to the rear of the truck. Riley saw inside, men with fresh wounds, two men laid out with sleeping bags over them. Abell climbed up, said, “Lift him up here.”

  They hoisted Kalin into the truck, the man out completely now, a wounded man making space. Abell said, “How many more are there?”

  Welch said, “Just him, sir. Three more didn’t make it.”

  Behind Abell, one of the wounded men said, “Jesus. What happened to him?”

  Welch said, “He’s been out here for days. Chinks left him behind. Try to keep him warm, okay?”

  The man examined Kalin, said, “Hey, pal, you’re gonna be all right now. Holy cow, he’s a Marine. What the hell’s he doing out here?”

  Abell said, “He’s part of Task Force Drysdale. Road up ahead is a mess. Burnt trucks, bodies all over the place. Let’s move out.”

  Abell jumped down, moved toward the front of the truck, tapped the passenger-side door, the truck lurching forward slowly. Riley kept pace, the smell easing, replaced by the sharp chill from his breathing. They moved as quickly as Abell could walk, and Riley saw the rest of the platoon, familiar faces, men scattered out along both sides of the road. It was almost full dark now, and he heard low talk, caught a new smell, burnt vehicles, saw one group of men in a tight knot, Abell moving that way.

  “What’s up?”

  The men made way, and Riley saw now bodies in a pile off the side of the road. They were white, crusted with snow, and naked. Abell knelt low, a small flashlight in his hand, said, “They’ve still got dog tags. All right, let me grab one of the trucks, somebody who’s got room. Then we’ll put ’em aboard.”

  There were groans from some of the men, and Riley ignored that, knew it had to be the new men. He studied the corpses for details, wounds long frozen, smears of dried blood. He thought of the Chinese, wearing American parkas, thought, They’re wearing everything else, too. He was grateful for the darkness, no faces, and he looked toward the column of trucks, saw Abell in the road, halting one. The lieutenant moved quickly to the truck’s rear, then waved the men closer, this one. Riley bent low, flexed his fingers, slid his hands beneath one of the bodies. Other men joined him, Welch beside him, the men working together, lifting, the frozen bodies separating. They carried the first man to the truck, the corpse twisted, one arm extended, the body pushed up into the bed of the truck. Abell was in the truck, pulled the man as far back as there was room, more men bringing the next body, then the rest. Riley went back to the pile, but more men from the platoon had joined in, the dead all retrieved. He felt exhausted, the squishing cold in his shoe pacs miserable, and he felt for the spare socks, tucked into his belt. Up ahead there was a burst of machine gun fire, flashes of light. The shouts came now, men scattering, a sharp blast erupting from the bed of a truck. The rifles began, the chatter of a BAR, the hillside across the road alive with flickers of light. Riley dropped down, rolled the M-1 off his shoulder, crawled off the road, a narrow strip of grass. He backed into the slope, turned the rifle outward, another blast beneath another truck, the word in his mind, grenade. The machine gun fire came down from the heights, streaks of green tracers, most of it pouring into the column of trucks. There were shouts, orders, the trucks moving again, then stopping, doors jerked open, men climbing up, new drivers, answering the commands, keep moving. A six-by rolled in front of him, and he saw men swarming around it, white coats, his brain screaming, Chinese! To one side, a Thompson fired, spraying the side of the truck. The men in white tumbled down, another grenade erupting, the flash illuminating the scene. More Chinese troops moved out into the road, some of them trying to board the truck. The truck stopped again, one man firing a burp gun into the cab, and Riley fired, the man falling back. More rifle fire came from the edge of the road, the Chinese caught in a crossfire, some running away, still on the road, cut down. More were moving up the hill, a retreat, the BAR chopping men as they ran, Riley finding targets, emptying the clip. He rammed another into the rifle, sighted a man scrambling up the hill, the man stopping, his arm up, tossing a grenade. Riley fired, the man collapsing, a long second, the grenade erupting close by.

  The firing began to slow, but there were new flashes high on the ridge, the army troops engaging the enemy, intercepting the retreat of the Chinese from the road. Riley sat still for a long moment, thunder in his chest, his back against a slope of frozen ground. There was a chorus of screaming around him, shouted orders, panic, wounded men. One truck was burning, the fire lighting the entire scene, men working to pull wounded from the burning truck, and he felt a jolt of energy, stood, moved that way. There were a dozen men, some pulling the wounded away from the truck, others trying to get close, the fire now too hot, swallowing the truck. He felt helpless, weak, stared into the flames, stepped closer, past the bodies, the corpsmen working in a frantic rush, more wounded tended to, one man dragged to the side of the road, another laid beside him. Riley couldn’t see that, wouldn’t look at the faces, the wounds, his eyes on the flames, and he moved closer, slow steps, drawn by the heat, the delicious warmth on his face.

  —

  Throughout the night, the enormous convoy inched its way slowly south. As they had done so many times before, the Chinese positioned themselves for ambush, or rolled down to the main road in a breakneck assault. The firefights continued, the Marines and the men of the army’s newly formed battalion shoving their way through pockets of the enemy. Not all the Chinese were spoiling for a fight. In many encampments, the Americans crept forward to find huddled groups of frozen enemy soldiers, men who had died because their orders kept them on the hills, waiting to confront an enemy they did not live to see. Many of those Chinese units were the same troops who had ambushed Task Force Drysdale, and were still occupying the heights above what the Marines now called Hellfire Valley. The signs of Drysdale’s fight were still in evidence, scattered corpses from both sides, the hulks of wrecked vehicles, shoved aside now by the heavy equipment that cleared the way.

  By dawn on December 7, the men of Fox Company could still see hordes of Chinese troops high up above them, but most of those troops were engaged with the Americans sent up the hills to find them. The fights continued, scenes of bloody awful horror, the Chinese again driven back. The convoy was repeatedly struck, machine gun fire, mortar rounds, more destruction and more casualties, some Chinese troops positioned close to the road itself, close enough to lob grenades into masses of wounded, or riflemen who only targeted the truck drivers. Throughout the morning, the convoy kept in motion, fits and starts, tanks and rolling artillery working to keep the enemy away.

  Behind them, in Hagaru-ri, the men of Murray’s Fifth engaged the enemy, a brutal and bloody fight that finally pushed the Chinese back, allowing the
final battalion of Murray’s regiment to join the convoy. The rear of the column continued to receive heavy assaults from the unending numbers of Chinese on the heights, hard fights for the Marines that were aided again by the tanks and artillery, as well as brutally effective air strikes. They left behind the smoking remnants of the base at Hagaru-ri, worthless now to the Chinese troops who swarmed into the supply depot, finding only heaps of ash from a hundred bonfires.

  By late morning, the men of Fox Company reached their goal, leading the way for the entire convoy, passing through Chesty Puller’s outposts that guarded the way into the next link in Oliver Smith’s shortening chain, the town of Koto-ri.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Smith

  KOTO-RI, NORTH KOREA—DECEMBER 7, 1950

  HE STAYED AT HAGARU-RI until the operation was well under way, would not just leave the men behind until he was confident the Chinese around the base could do little more than throw themselves uselessly into Murray’s guns. Once Litzenberg offered assurances that the leading elements of the convoy were certain to drive through the last of the enemy roadblocks, Smith and his staff officers boarded their own aircraft for the short journey to Koto-ri.

  Murray was confident that when it was safe for his last few units to join the march, they would have no difficulty holding off any enemy incursions from behind. As one of his final responsibilities, Murray would leave Hagaru-ri only after destroying as much of the airstrip as possible, and any other asset the now-empty base might offer. The Chinese would certainly swarm into the town, and if they chose to waste time searching through piles of rubble, that was fine with Smith. The convoy, numbering nearly a thousand trucks, jeeps, and ambulances, was hauling everything of military value, including of course the vehicles themselves. To suggestions, especially from Tokyo, that the airstrip be used to evacuate the men by flying them out piecemeal, as had been done with the wounded, Smith offered a flat refusal. Abandoning the massive amount of equipment, including the artillery, tanks, and vehicles, would be a bonanza for the Chinese and a devastating morale crusher for Smith’s troops. Smith knew there were desk jockeys in Tokyo sharing the doomsday sentiments of many of the stateside newspapers, who regarded this campaign as a disastrous failure. But Smith would hear none of that. His newly celebrated battle cry, which still brought a smile, was, in his mind, completely accurate. This was not a retreat. It was an attack in another direction. To fly the men out, abandoning their equipment, would change that completely. As the men prepared for the march south, Smith heard the talk, the enthusiasm for accomplishing this new mission, no different than their enthusiasm for anything he had asked them to do before. He had no interest at all in suddenly taking that away. They had walked in. They would walk out.