The Frozen Hours Read online

  Sung stood, stiffened, a salute toward Peng. “Thank you, sir. We shall do our duty.”

  He turned, moved to the door, pulled it open, the guards standing to either side, eyes ahead. The air was cooler now, and Sung placed his hat on his head, saw it was dark outside. He stepped crisply toward the entryway of the great hall, more guards, smart salutes, a group of officers to one side standing still as he passed. The steps led him down, outside, the delicious chill of a cold night, and he glanced skyward, the stars spread out to the horizon. The excitement was inside of him still, the inspiring words of General Peng. Little of that was unusual, many of those words coming from Chairman Mao, unshakable faith in the perfect righteousness of their cause. The troops will know that, he thought. They will trust in their leaders, in why we fight. They will know of our enemy, just what kind of dishonor the Americans carry, their weaknesses, their lack of will.

  He moved out across a wide avenue, a flicker of lights from the buildings around the square, another glance skyward.

  Still, he thought, a few Soviet planes could be very helpful.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Riley

  THE SEA OF JAPAN—OCTOBER 25, 1950

  THE STINK FROM BELOW drove the men to the open deck, desperate for gasps of fresh air. Riley climbed the final gangway with a hard lunge, burst into the open, released the breath he had held as long as his lungs would allow.

  “Good God. What the hell, anyway?”

  All around him men were dropping, joining more men who had found anyplace to sit in the open air. The curses surrounded him, one man speaking out.

  “Good Christ. You smell that? Musta been ten guys with the trots all at the same time. Ten more guys puking. The heads ain’t made for this. I can’t go near those places. I’ll just hold it.”

  “Or let it fly over the side. You won’t catch me down there again, no matter what.”

  “How long we gotta be on this bucket, anyhow?”

  “I’m out of C-rations. Anybody spare some?”

  Riley looked at the last voice, familiar, the kid, Morelli. He motioned him closer, made space on the hard deck, said, “Sit down. You better keep any talk of rations to yourself. Any one of these jackasses is liable to toss you overboard.”

  The boy settled down beside him, seemed strangely cheerful. “Hey, Pete, I watched the squids today. They were running a whole flock of minesweepers through the harbor. What a job, huh?”

  “Picking up mines ain’t my idea of a job, kid. They’re taking their damn time about it, too.”

  To one side, Killian crawled to a clear space on the hard deck, said, “I’m with him, kid. I heard one of those tubs got blown to hell. Guess those clumsy-assed swabbies dropped one. I heard the mines are Russian. Figures.”

  Riley had heard the talk, that the navy’s boats were still struggling to clear the harbor.

  “Blew up? Didn’t hear that. Might explain why the squids are moving so damn slow.”

  Killian said, “Marines would have had that place cleaned up by now. If I knew my buddies were out here bobbing up and down like turds, I’d sacrifice a few minesweepers to help ’em out.”

  Riley looked out toward the harbor, still busy with the work of the minesweepers. It had gone on now for more than a week, the harbor at Wonsan too clogged with mines to allow the landing crafts to move in. It was clear to all of them that the North Koreans had been caught seriously unprepared for the Marine landing at Inchon, and so, someone high up the North Korean command had made sure it wouldn’t happen again. The enemy’s tactic had seemed to catch everyone by surprise. The transports were not expected to be at sea more than a few days, the time it took to transport the Marines from Inchon, down around the Korean Peninsula, then up to the North Korean port of Wonsan. With the delay, the landing craft had been forced to bide their time, much of that in the open water. But they would not merely sit still. Concerns arose about the possibility of enemy planes, Russian MiGs, first and foremost, the LSTs potentially sitting ducks. And so their crews had kept most of the LSTs in motion, motoring back and forth in the Sea of Japan. It didn’t take long for the word to spread, that particular talent the Marines seemed always to possess, the art of the nickname. Very soon the entire division was calling their predicament Operation Yo-yo.

  But the humor was short-lived. After more than a week of delay, the LSTs had run out of hot food. The supply of soap was exhausted, along with the drinking water in the ship’s limited tanks. Bathing had become a distant memory, the men forced to endure the aroma from painfully close quarters. Then a new crisis developed. An epidemic of low-grade dysentery had spread throughout the LSTs, and with that new plague, the heads had quickly become inoperable, unable to handle the volume from so many digestive problems. The one activity that occupied those well enough to move around came from watching the minesweepers. Even now, men gazed out to one side, cursing the slow labor of the navy.

  Killian sat down close beside Riley, said, “I seen Kane down below. Green at the gills. The sarge, too. Doc told ’em to get up here, air it out. Not sure Kane’s got enough strength to climb anywhere.”

  Riley shifted away from Killian, said, “Don’t need a blow-by-blow. Jesus. You smell worse than I do. Make some space, how ’bout it.”

  Killian ignored the complaint, and Riley knew it didn’t matter anyway. To the other side, Morelli smelled even worse.

  A sailor passed through them, a hint of a uniform, crusted with the same greasy smears that coated the Marines. Riley caught the man’s odor, so very different, a strong whiff of dead fish. His face curled, a hopeless effort, and Morelli said, “Wowee. Those Japs sure do carry a smell.”

  Killian cursed, said, “Why in hell we gotta ride these tubs manned by Japs? They got no good ole USA squids handy? I seen one of those bastards at the stern, catching some kind of grubby little fish, acting like he’d hit a home run. I heard they make fish-head stew. I got a hard enough time eating the good parts.”

  Morelli leaned forward, looked past Riley toward the Irishman. “What kind of fish they catching?”

  “How the hell do I know? The kind they eat. The kind that make them stink like that.”

  Riley closed his eyes, knew he couldn’t escape the conversation. He took a long, futile breath, fought the rumble low in his gut, said, “They eat that stuff so we won’t steal it from ’em. One of ’em offered to sell me his bowl of soup. There was a fish looking up at me. I passed.”

  Killian leaned back against the rail. “At least you found one that spoke English. All I been hearing is Jap talk. Nasty critters, too. Keep eyeing me like the war was my fault. They remember what we done to ’em, count on that. I keep wondering if I put a slug between the eyes of some family member, that maybe when I’m not looking, one of ’em might slip a blade between my ribs.”

  Riley shook his head. “Not hardly. I heard they love MacArthur and all, treat us like kings in Tokyo. They’re as happy to be done with that war as we are. Happier still. They ain’t gotta fight this one.”

  “Listen up, jarheads!”

  Riley saw Zorn, the others reacting to the captain in slow motion, Zorn’s shirt as stained as the men around him.

  “We’re expecting to land tomorrow. Gather up your gear tonight. Where’s Lieutenant McCarthy?”

  One of the men pointed down the hatchway.

  “He’s the one locking himself in the head, sir. Didn’t know officers were allowed to smell like that.”

  There were low laughs, Zorn not smiling.

  “Make sure he gets the word. This tub will empty out as quick as we can get it done. It’ll be an administrative landing. No enemy around, according to the shore birds. The place is ours for the taking.”

  Killian said, “Sir, after we take it, can we give it back?”

  There were low laughs, but Riley could see that Zorn was in no mood for anyone’s attempt at humor.

  “Just gather your gear. The quicker we get off this tub, the quicker I can wash my skivvies. Our luck
, the first fresh water we’ll find will be in those damn rice paddies.”

  The captain moved away, and Killian leaned back beside Riley again.

  Morelli said, “ ‘Administrative landing.’ What’s that? You mean like paperwork and stuff?”

  Riley said, “It means there’s nobody there to shoot at us.”

  “I guess that’s good.”

  Killian sniffed. “Maybe. I was hoping we’d clean out a bunch of those bastards. Built up a fine, healthy hate for those Nook sons of bitches. Don’t guess they’re any different on this side of their damn country than they were at Inchon. I bet the squids would like to pound a few of ’em, too, after losing a couple of their minesweepers. We’re gonna screw around and miss out on the fun again. I just know it.”

  Riley crawled slowly to his feet, held himself up against the iron railing, looked at Morelli. “No incoming fire is always good, no matter what this moron says.” He looked at Killian. “They told us we’re supposed to march north. You forget that? They got work for us to do, and you can bet they’ll make up for what all we missed at Inchon. We were the tail end on that one. We’ll be first in line. Count on it.”

  Killian leaned his head back, closed his eyes. “Hope so.”

  Riley glanced toward the hatchway, said, “Guess I’ll go below and find the sarge. Hate to see him so damn wrecked. He’ll be glad to hear there’s not gonna be a fight. The lieutenant, too. They’ll feel better when they hear we’re finally getting off this crate.”

  Riley moved to the hatchway, eyed the steps leading below. The smells rose to meet him, and he hesitated, thought, My gear’s down there. Gotta do this sooner or later. At least, Korea’s gotta smell better after this.

  Killian called out to him, “Hey, Pete, I’m taking bets. How long can you hold your breath?”

  BLUE BEACH—WONSAN—OCTOBER 26, 1950

  The men lined the seawall with jubilant cheers, the Marines curious, no one expecting a welcoming party. Riley could see that many of the men onshore were Marines, the word passing quickly that they were from the First Marine Air Wing, the fliers already establishing a base on an airfield in the port. Others were Korean, soldiers to be sure, seemingly as anxious as the airmen to offer a good cheer for the incoming Marines.

  They had ridden off the LST on amtracs, the vehicles hauling them on the short journey ashore. Beside him, Killian said, “Who the hell are those jarheads? And what the hell are they doing here? I thought this was our party.”

  The men were ordered off the vehicle, and Riley jumped down, his knees giving way, a hard fall into the dirt, his sea bag tumbling to one side. He struggled to his feet, heard the grunts and curses around him, more men doing as he did, their legs betraying them, inelegant landings, men rolling over, all of it now swallowed by the raucous laughter from their audience.

  He pulled himself up, lifted the sea bag, but he was too unsteady to swing it over his shoulder. Around him, the men were nearly all down, some climbing to their feet, sea bags scattered about them. Riley tested his knees, stood at attention, felt the weakness again, said aloud, “What the hell?”

  Welch was there now, stretching his back, said, “Haven’t felt this weak since boot. Jesus. Three weeks on a ship with nothing to do but sit on a head. I guess it hit us pretty hard.”

  “This is ridiculous, Sarge. We’re not even thirty, not like some old fart whose ass is hanging.”

  The sergeant had one hand on his gut, an uneasy look on his face. “Shut up. I’ve still got the trots. Need this to clear up right damn now. Feel like my intestines are boiling.”

  From the onlookers came the calls, all manner of insults, some of it good-natured, some as vulgar as any Marine was used to. Riley looked at the others, the Koreans, let out a small laugh.

  “Hey, Sarge. Check out those guys. Somebody’s been teaching them our ways.”

  “What the hell you talking about?”

  “Those Koreans. They’re giving us the one-finger salute.”

  Behind Riley, the voice of Captain Zorn. “Cultural exchange program. Bringing them our kind of civilization.”

  Zorn moved out in front of Riley, more men dropping off the amtracs behind them. Zorn called out, “Tighten it up! Find your damn legs! Get your asses in line! Stand tall! You’re Marines, dammit! Show those assholes what Marines look like! What the hell is this? We’re out of action for three weeks and we turn into blubber guts? I’ll kick all your asses for this. Those flyboys think this is pretty damn funny. Fox Company isn’t anybody’s entertainment, you got me?”

  Riley saw McCarthy move out in front of them.

  “Come on, men. They’re laughing at you. You heard the captain. We’re supposed to be Marines. This is embarrassing, for sure. Fall into line.”

  Riley tried to stiffen his back, his eyes ahead, saw Goolsby step forward, trying to make a good show, standing with McCarthy. But Goolsby staggered now, turned away, dropped to his knees. Riley closed his eyes, thought, Don’t need to see that. Not now. The distinctive sound came, though, Goolsby vomiting, more laughter, more insults coming from the men along the seawall.

  McCarthy grabbed Goolsby under the arm and Riley heard him say, “Just sit down. We’ll get corpsmen out here on the double.”

  From the far end of the line, Riley saw a jeep rolling along the formation, heard Killian behind him.

  “Hey! It’s Old Homer.”

  The jeep pulled up, stopped with a squeal of brakes, Colonel Litzenberg dismounting. Another officer was there as well, fresh uniform, unfamiliar, and the men fell silent, the airmen as well. One of theirs, Riley thought. Great. Tell everyone what kind of idiots we look like.

  Litzenberg stood with his hands on his hips, a stout fireplug of a man. After a long moment, he said, “Men of the Seventh Regiment. This is Major Jacoby, of the air wing. Our reception committee belongs to him. Like many of you, I had wondered why there was no enemy awaiting us here. You may credit the Marine airmen for making our job that much easier. The Koreans as well. These men are part of the Sixth ROK Division. They began the push up this coastline and have done much to secure this port for us.” Litzenberg paused, looked down. “I might also add that we had anticipated a reception of a far different nature. We are grateful to the ROK for removing the enemy from the formidable gun emplacements you see around you now. I believe Major Jacoby has something to add. You’ll find out anyway, so I thought we’d cut through the scuttlebutt and give you the straight scoop.”

  Riley saw a beaming smile, Jacoby a head taller than Litzenberg, rocking back and forth on his heels, clearly pleased.

  “Marines, it is my regrettable duty to inform you that your arrival here was tardy by only two days. I must say that the men of the First Marine Air Wing thoroughly enjoyed a show that was meant partly for you. It is entirely possible, of course, that there will be a repeat performance, although the entire rig has since left for other bases. Truly a shame, Marines.”

  Litzenberg stepped forward, and Riley saw a scowl, the colonel as annoyed as Jacoby was pleased. Litzenberg put a hand on Jacoby’s arm, said, “You will all hear this in the next few days, so hear it first from me. As it was put to me a short time ago, our delay meant that the port of Wonsan was captured and secured not by the Seventh Marines, as we had hoped, but by units of the ROK, the First Marine Air Wing…and I regret to announce…Mr. Bob Hope.”

  Jacoby laughed now, said, “Maybe you won’t miss out next time. But it was an outstanding show.”

  The men reacted as both officers expected, a hard groan and angry calls. The airmen watching them erupted into more cheers. Riley sagged, had heard about too many spectacular visits by Bob Hope, all the way back to his days in the Pacific, none of them Riley’s unit could ever attend.

  Litzenberg kept his pose, still the scowl, waited for the men to quiet. “We are presently awaiting orders as to our next march. For now, you men will be cleaned up, fed, and made ready. I may not be able to give you a USO show, but I promise you, before we’re done
here, we’ll show these flyboys what we were sent here to do. And where we’re going, it’s not likely Mr. Hope will be welcome.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Smith

  TENTH CORPS HQ—WONSAN—OCTOBER 30, 1950

  “SO, INSTEAD OF General MacArthur’s proposed strategy of crushing the North Korean armies outright, ending this war on our terms, the British are insisting that we should appease everyone concerned by peacefully carving up Korea, creating a demilitarized buffer zone for the Chinese to occupy, all along the Yalu River. Apparently there is some concern among others that if we do our jobs and win this war, we will have made things, um, uncomfortable for some of the neighboring states. I mean, of course, China and the Soviet Union. It seems that there are those in Washington who wish us to win this war as long as we do not offend anyone doing it.”

  There was nothing different about Almond this time, no change in the man’s amazing arrogance. Smith glanced around, various Tenth Corps staff officers mimicking Almond’s disdain for just who these others might be. It had been a supreme exercise in patience, but Smith felt it wearing thin, Almond’s briefing droning on for more than two hours. There was one spark of optimism that Smith embraced, confident that sooner or later, Almond would finally tell the army commanders and the Marines just what they were supposed to do next. There seemed to be an opening in Almond’s self-satisfied pause and Smith said, “Sir, do we have operational maps in hand? I should like to distribute them to my regimental commanders.”

  Almond seemed annoyed at the question. “Of course. But first I should like to read to you General MacArthur’s response to the British proposal.”

  Smith nodded, said in a low voice, “Of course.”

  “General MacArthur is very aware that there are those in Washington who wish to handcuff our movements. I, for one, have no idea why anyone should oppose the general’s plans at all. I can only attribute this to the dirty game of politics. General MacArthur has assured me that he is far more interested in conducting what we all know to be the dirty game of war. Our mission going forward is to drive rapidly to the Yalu River, eliminating the North Korean army along the way. Despite British concerns that our presence along the Chinese border will cause indigestion among the yellow race, you are to follow General MacArthur’s orders, and mine, to the letter.” He leaned forward, sorted through a handful of loose papers. “Ah, yes. Right here. To the British idea, General MacArthur has responded to the Joint Chiefs in this way. ‘The widely reported British desire to appease the Chinese Communists by giving them a strip of North Korea finds its historic precedent in the actions taken at Munich on September 29, 1938.’ ” Almond smiled, staring out above them. “Magnificent. Let no one tell you that General MacArthur does not embrace the errors of history. There shall be no such appeasement occurring here. You might think that the British would recall their disastrous efforts to make nice with Herr Hitler.” Almond paused. “I might add that I offered some assistance to the general in composing that note.”