The Frozen Hours

  Through the dull glow from the lantern light, he spotted Welch, moving toward him, a hard scowl on his face. Riley was grateful for the distraction, said, “What’s up, Sarge?”

  “They’ve got a pile of warming tents set up for us over that way. The captain’s in that big tent right there. He’s not in command anymore.”

  Riley felt a jolt. “Why?”

  “He’s shot up too bad. I talked to Lieutenant Abell, the new CO. He’s from First Battalion. The captain and Lieutenant McCarthy are both being shipped out. Peterson, too. They’re finding somebody to take over Third Platoon from the replacements that are coming up here. Transports are hauling new guys in from the ships. Looks like we might get another ninety-day wonder.”

  “Jesus, Hamp.”

  Welch stared away, and Riley knew him well enough to know he was holding back emotion. Riley said, “It might not be all that bad. There’s probably some good officers still back in Pendleton.”

  Welch still stared away. “Yeah. Like Goolsby.”

  Riley didn’t want to think about him, had tried not to recall the image of the man’s wound, the small river of blood freezing to his forehead.

  “I think we oughta go see the captain, if it’s okay. And I wanna find Killian.”

  Welch looked at him again, nodded. “Yeah. I miss that Irish idiot. Maybe his wife’s sent some more of that good hooch.”

  Welch started toward the larger tents, Morelli hanging back. Riley looked at him, motioned with his hand.

  “Come on, kid.”

  Welch led the way to the tent, men emerging with empty stretchers, another truck rumbling up close. Riley looked that way, the faint light from a handful of lanterns reflecting off a mound of bodies lashed to the truck’s hood. The driver jumped down now, his arm bandaged, the man staggering to his knees. Riley moved that way, caught the man before he collapsed in the snow. He called out to the corpsmen, “Hey! Right here! He’s hurt.”

  The stretcher bearers moved out from behind the truck, a man hauled between them, one of them calling out, “Corpsman!”

  Another man appeared out of the big tent now, and Riley stood back, the corpsman kneeling down, talking to the driver, reaching into the man’s coat, one hand on the man’s neck. The corpsman backed away, still on his knees, the driver tilting slowly, falling to one side. Riley moved closer, said, “Hey, what the hell? Help him inside.”

  The corpsman looked at him, then away, stood slowly, held out one hand, covered in wet blood.

  “He didn’t make it. Hole in his chest. Musta had just enough left in him to get his buddies here. I been seeing this all night. Just about every truck driver is shot up. This one’s a hero.”

  Riley felt a hand on his shoulder, the voice of Welch.

  “You can’t fix it, Pete. Let’s go inside.”

  Riley kept his eyes on the driver, felt the agonizing helplessness, so familiar now. Like Goolsby, he thought.

  “Yeah. I gotta see Killian. Make sure he’s okay.”

  They moved into the tent, more stretcher bearers coming out past them, another truck rolling up, a squeal of brakes, another load of wounded, more corpses tied to the hood.

  —

  He didn’t expect to see tears, Killian’s words coming out in a spray of cursing.

  “They’re shipping me out! Damn it all! I might never walk again, that’s what one jackass said. Crippled up forever! On account of these damn shoe pac boot things.”

  Riley stood silently, Morelli beside him, Welch coming up now.

  “Hey, Irish. Guess you’ll get your Purple Heart. I talked to that guy in the white coat. He says you’re going home tomorrow.”

  It was Welch’s effort at cheerfulness, and Killian said, “Keep the damn medal. Give me back my feet. What’s my wife gonna say? They gotta give me a fake foot, maybe half a leg.”

  Killian’s voice was carrying, faces looking that way, and Riley felt uncomfortable now, said, “You’re going home, Sean. Ain’t that enough? You’re alive, for Chrissakes.”

  Killian turned away, the tears still flowing. Riley glanced at Welch, expected anger, saw it. But Welch spoke in low words, his voice calm. “I just saw Captain Barber. He took a bad wound on his thigh, just below his groin. Walking may not be the worst thing he misses. There’s a guy over there who’s lost half his face. A half dozen down this next row missing a whole limb, some more than one. Tell them how bad your wife is gonna feel.”

  Killian looked at Welch, then lay back, closed his eyes. After a long moment, he said, “I don’t wanna go home, Sarge. I know I’m not all that busted up. But you guys are the whole thing, you know? I got nothing back home. I couldn’t hardly get a job before, and now I’m a gimp. Everybody in this place says how great it is that I’m not dead.” He paused. “Up on that hill…I kinda felt like it was the right place to cash it all in. Like it was my time. I ain’t never done anything in my life that felt as good as that. When those Shambos were close enough to smell, God, Sarge, it was fun. Now, I have to go home and be…normal.”

  HAGARU-RI—DECEMBER 4, 9:00 A.M.

  As they waited for the planes to land, the medical aides had laid the wounded under thick piles of rice straw, each man inside a sleeping bag, no one complaining, even if they were cold. Some of the men were unconscious, heavy doses of morphine, others more excited to be awake, their wounds not erasing the joy at the sight of the C-47s that would haul them south.

  There were others, too, the quiet ones, and Riley saw faces looking at him, could feel the guilt, the odd need to stay out here, that even if they couldn’t fight, they didn’t want to leave their units, or abandon the men who had shared the foxholes. Riley stayed close to Killian, neither man speaking, Riley fighting the cold, while the Irishman fought his tears.

  The plane touched down, the ground crews moving quickly, and Riley watched as the plane disgorged its passengers, a dozen men who stepped onto the icy tarmac like green sausages. Replacements, he thought. He was curious about them, saw men with bandaged hands, their coats worn, dirty, others cloaked in everything fresh. Maybe they’re ours, he thought. God, I hope not.

  Welch had learned that Fox Company had barely sixty effective men, but Lieutenant Abell was anticipating a hundred new faces. And none of them will be Killian, he thought. They’ll be like the kid, too eager and too stupid, and it will take blood and bullets to teach them anything.

  “Okay, load ’em up!”

  Riley stood back, the crews moving to the wounded men, sweeping away the straw, each man carried quickly toward the open maw of the plane’s belly. He looked again at Killian, saw red eyes staring back, struggled to say something, anything that would matter.

  “Hey, Sean! They got nurses on those hospital ships, you know.” There was no response from Killian, and Riley felt idiotic. The crews worked their way down the row, the man beside Killian carried off now. Riley moved closer again, put a hand on Killian’s arm. “Time to go. It’ll be okay. Your wife will be happy as hell to see you. I promise.”

  Killian nodded, more tears, said, “I know. I hate leaving this. That’s all. Maybe they’ll fix me up and I’ll be back.”

  “Go home, Sean. Go plant some flowers and mow your grass, and maybe hatch a couple more kids.”

  “You sound like Colleen. That’s what she wants.”

  “It’s what we all want. Some of us just don’t know it yet.”

  The stretcher bearers were there now, a quick glance at Riley, and one man said, “Heads up. You’re the last one on this run. Another plane coming in a few minutes.”

  Killian held out a hand, and Riley took it, a hard squeeze. The bearers paused, but Riley could feel their impatience, no one enjoying the cold. He backed away, Killian up and moving, the rumble from the plane’s engines sweeping away his words. Riley watched as he was loaded on the plane, felt a man moving up beside him. He glanced to the side, saw Welch, who said, “He gone?”

  “Yep.”

  He saw now, Welch holding a package, and Welch
said, “Mail run. Came in this morning. Looks like his wife sent another loaf of bread.”

  Riley looked out toward the plane, moving away now, rolling out toward the strip. “Guess he wouldn’t need it anyway.”

  Welch shook his head. “Nah. They’d have taken it away from him. Regulations, and all.”

  Riley looked at the fat package, Welch staring at the plane. Riley said, “So, what say we go drink a toast. To Irishmen everywhere.”

  “In a minute.”

  Riley heard a crack in Welch’s voice, both men watching the plane taxi to the far end of the strip, a hard roar of the engines, the plane moving slowly, gaining speed, lifting off as it passed by. They were both silent, stood for a long moment, and he looked at Welch, the thick grime through the man’s ragged beard, red eyes, and icy tears.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Smith

  HAGARU-RI, NORTH KOREA—DECEMBER 4, 1950

  “OH, LORD. HE’S BACK.”

  Smith looked up from the papers on the small table, saw Bowser at the window. There was a loud clatter from the next room, a voice calling out, “General Smith! General Almond wishes to see you outside on the double.”

  Smith sat back in the small chair, said, “I was just about warm. How many of our dead have we shipped out today?”

  Bowser kept his gaze out the window. “Forty-six. Eight more are wrapped and ready. He’s talking to the men. Anyone who will stop long enough to listen to him.”

  “Make sure those eight get on the planes today. I know Doc Hering has more wounded he wants out of here, but I want the corpses moved out just as quick. I don’t intend to leave trucks or artillery here, and I’m sure as hell not leaving the dead.”

  Bowser looked at him now, knew Smith was serious. “I’ll see to it. The last plane in, one of the R4Ds, had another handful of replacements, some of the lightly wounded from Hungnam. And the reporters keep flocking in as well.”

  Smith pulled himself up from the chair. “I don’t give a hoot about reporters.”

  Sexton was at the door now, said, “Sir, there’s a lieutenant here who says General Almond doesn’t care to be kept waiting. They’re looking for you to meet with him outside.”

  Smith felt tired resignation, said, “You may tell the impatient lieutenant I’m coming.”

  “You just told him yourself, sir.”

  Smith saw the man peering in over Sexton’s shoulder, ignored him, saw his coat in Sexton’s hands. He turned, Sexton holding the coat, Smith sliding his arms into the sleeves. He looked at Bowser, saw the hint of a smile.

  “Don’t be so smug. You’re coming, too. He might have questions I don’t feel like answering.”

  Bowser retrieved his own coat, said, “I had no doubts, sir. I aim only to please.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  He moved out past Almond’s young aide, still ignored him, Sexton holding the door open, a blast of cold wind greeting Smith as he stepped outside. He saw Almond, a half-dozen men gathered around him, an audience that Almond was addressing with obvious enthusiasm. Smith moved that way, his men responding by backing away. Almond saw him now, said, “Ah, Smith! You receive my congratulatory letter this morning?”

  The letter had come that morning by wire, a gush of praise for Smith and his regimental commanders, as though Almond had never been angry at anyone in Smith’s command.

  “We did. Thank you.”

  “Nothing to it. And there’s more. I should like the lot of you to receive the Distinguished Service Cross. Perfectly appropriate, under the circumstances. Can you pull them together? The colonels, Murray and Litzenberg? Perhaps your artillery man, too.”

  “Colonel Youngdale.”

  “Sure, him, too. But be quick about it. I have a rather busy schedule today. I do intend to visit Colonel Puller on my way south, so no need to bother him with this now. I’ll save him the trip up here.”

  Smith absorbed Almond’s good cheer, thought, Does he know just how many Chinese are sitting between here and Koto-ri? Well, no, he flew above it all. He looked at Bowser, said, “I suppose we should get the word to all three commanders. Tell them to meet here on the double.”

  “Well, damn it all!” Almond was searching his pockets, obviously frustrated. “It seems I only have the one medal. Well, Smith, here it is. You might as well take it. I can have others sent up here for the rest of you.”

  Smith held his words inside, fought the temptation to tell Almond just where to put the medal. Beside him, Bowser leaned in closer, said, “Sir, how about Colonel Beall?”

  Smith smiled to himself, said, “General Almond, as much as my senior officers and I appreciate your gesture, we can wait for another day. However, I would very much prefer to see Lieutenant Colonel Olin Beall receive that medal. He was in command of our efforts to rescue a good many survivors of Task Force Faith. Pulled in a sizable amount of the battalion right off the ice, under the nose of Chinese snipers. Exemplary job.”

  “Beall, huh? Sounds good. Newspapers will like that. Take some of the sting out of the reports about Faith’s, um, problems. Find him for me, will you?”

  Smith looked at Bowser, who moved away quickly.

  Almond looked again toward the small gathering of Marines, as though hoping once more for an audience. Smith felt the cold slicing through every seam in the coat, said, “Sir, might we move this inside?”

  Almond weighed the request for a long second. “No. This won’t take long, and my aircraft is waiting. I told the boy to keep the engine running. Helps with the heat.” Almond seemed to have a sudden thought. “My chief of staff, General Ruffner, tells me you’re removing your dead from here. Taking up a good bit of space on the cargo planes. That a wise move?”

  “It’s the only move. I’ll not leave anyone behind, if I can help it. These men deserve a proper burial.”

  Almond shrugged, seemed unwilling to argue the point. Smith had already received a protest from Ruffner, paid no attention to the man’s reasoning, that such cargo was taking up space from goods far more useful. If either Ruffner or Almond decided to blow this into something larger, Smith knew that the reporters would leap on the story. And Almond would lose. Smith was becoming miserable now, had forgotten his thick wool hat.

  “General, I’m going back inside. If you require my presence for your ceremony, I’ll return.”

  He didn’t wait for a response, moved toward his quarters, Sexton opening the door. Smith said, “I suppose it makes him more of a warrior if he stands out there and gets frostbite. Colonel Beall can have his medal. He earned it.”

  Sexton hung the coat up beside the door, said, “Sir, when Colonel Beall finds out he’s getting his medal by listening to some speech out in that wind, he might teach General Almond a few words the army’s not heard before.”

  HAGARU-RI—DECEMBER 5, 1950, 10:00 A.M.

  The staff saw her first, Smith detecting a low whistle from the house’s main room. He looked out that way, heard another whistle, and now, Sexton, eyes wide, standing in his doorway.

  “Sir, you’re not going to believe this. That dame is here.”

  Smith had no patience for mysteries, said, “What dame?”

  He heard the door now, the creak of the hinges, a hard slam, a chorus of voices. And one particular voice, responding to the obvious attention. It belonged to a woman.

  Sexton glanced behind him, held the stare for a long second, then looked back at Smith. “This dame, sir.”

  She was there now, no formal request, just pushing past Sexton as though he was merely in the way. “Maggie Higgins, General. New York Herald Tribune. Mind if I sit in on a few of your discussions? I like to go right to the heart of it.”

  Smith felt pressed back in his chair, her presence as full of energy as anything he had felt from Chesty Puller. She was tall, younger than he expected, and even in fatigues, Smith could see why the men reacted to her. For men who had not seen anything female in weeks, she fit the definition perfectly.

  “Miss Higgins, I
had heard you were in the theater. I didn’t think you’d land here. This isn’t exactly the kind of place I’d expect a woman….”

  “I knew you’d throw that at me. Let me tell you something, General. I’m just as capable and just as willing to take risks as any man in the press pool. I’ve interviewed boys while they were bleeding, or being shot at. They didn’t give me a Pulitzer Prize because I’ve got great legs. I hope you don’t intend to keep me from doing my job.”

  He felt overwhelmed, sat up straight. Behind her, he could see a variety of faces, his aides, overwhelmed in ways of their own. He stood, tugged at his jacket, his brain screaming caution.

  “Miss Higgins, I have far more to worry about than a flock of reporters. But that doesn’t mean you are not my responsibility.”

  “I intend to march out of here with your men. It’s the best way I can get an accurate story of what their experiences have been like. The American people are begging for the story, just what it has been like for these men. It’s no secret that this could have been a very different kind of story, a postmortem. The men who fought their way out of certain disaster deserve to have their stories told.”

  “You may write whatever you please. But you will not march alongside my men.”

  She seemed to grow angrier now, hands on her hips. “You would discriminate against me because I am a woman. I expected as much.”

  He let out a breath, glanced up behind her, hoping to see Bowser. “Miss Higgins, it is precisely because you are a woman that I cannot have you marching in column with my men.”

  She made a sound, was red-faced now, and he felt a surge of desperation, called out, “Where is Colonel Bowser? Find him!”

  “Is my being a woman a threat to you, General? Do you feel I am too fragile to march?”

  He felt anger himself now, took a deep breath, the word rolling over again in his brain. Careful. “Miss Higgins, I am not threatened by you or any other woman, except perhaps my wife when she’s royally angry. I am well aware that you being here is a distraction, as are you. My men have a difficult job in front of them that will very likely involve heavy combat. There will also be casualties due to the cold, frostbite cases, and whatnot. Should you become injured in any way, I know how my men will respond. Their attention will be diverted. They will do all they can to ensure your safety, or they will compete to see who will take care of you. I am sure that these men would go to any length to take care of you, and we haven’t time for that kind of business. Such a distraction could be dangerous, if not to you, then to my men. I won’t have it. You will board the next plane out of here.”