The Frozen Hours Page 2

  On September 15, a force of nearly forty thousand American Marines and soldiers surges ashore at the port city. Facing almost no opposition, they capture Inchon in a matter of hours. The next phase of the invasion begins: crossing the Han River, and liberating the South Korean capital of Seoul. If Seoul can be swept clear of North Korean troops, MacArthur’s forces will drive farther inland, cutting off the North Korean troops still waging war along the Pusan Perimeter. There, Walton Walker’s Eighth Army is to begin a hard push of their own, a breakout designed to throw the North Korean forces into disarray. If Walker succeeds, the North Koreans will retreat northward, directly into the arms of the forces moving inland from Inchon.

  An ecstatic MacArthur reacts to his success by predicting the war’s end in a matter of weeks. To many in his command, he has elevated himself to a position of infallibility, a view not shared by official Washington, including President Truman. But victory inspires confidence, and no one is prepared to take anything away from Douglas MacArthur, including his absolute authority over the decisions that will determine the progress of the war.

  As the Americans and their allies build up their military presence in South Korea, the Soviets keep a watchful eye on events, seemingly grateful they stayed away. But the Chinese observe as well, anxiously curious what MacArthur’s success might mean for Chinese sovereignty.

  OLIVER P. SMITH

  Born 1893, in Menard, Texas, Smith attends the University of California, Berkeley, graduating in 1916. He is first employed by the Standard Oil Company, but Smith understands the appeal of travel and so, in 1917, he joins the Marine Corps and receives a commission as second lieutenant.

  In 1917, Smith marries Esther King, and within three years she gives birth to two daughters.

  Throughout the 1920s and ’30s, Smith serves in a vast variety of posts, including Guam, France, Haiti, and Iceland, and domestic bases at Fort Benning, Georgia, and Quantico, Virginia.

  In 1936, his reputation as an academic is enhanced significantly by his post as instructor at the Marine Corps School at Quantico, Virginia. Nicknamed the Professor, he is considered scholarly and rule-bound, though is highly respected as an expert on amphibious warfare. For the first three years of World War II, Smith remains in Washington, in command of the office of Plans and Policy. But his reputation for efficiency lands him posts in the Pacific Theater, participating in operations at New Britain and Cape Gloucester. In 1944, he is named assistant commander of the First Marine Division and leads his forces onto the beaches at Peleliu, in one of the bloodiest Marine engagements of the war. In spring 1945, he serves as chief of staff to the American Tenth Army during the campaign for the capture of Okinawa.

  After the war, he returns to Quantico, is named commandant of the Marine Corps schools, and continues his duties as an instructor. In 1948, he is named chief of staff for the Marine Corps, and assistant commandant.

  In June 1950, Smith receives command of the First Marine Division, which includes four regiments and is the sole Marine force sent to Korea in response to the invasion by the North. Unlike many of the army’s forces already in Korea, and those hastily assembled to answer the threat, Smith knows his Marines are well trained, many of them veterans of World War II. If the tide is to be turned against the North Koreans, Smith knows his Marines must bear a significant part of the load. As plans for MacArthur’s invasion of Inchon take shape, it is Smith’s Marines who will lead the assault.

  On September 16, 1950, Smith observes the ongoing invasion from the command ship, USS Mount McKinley, along with the rest of the Allied high command, including MacArthur. After only a single day, the advance has secured most of Inchon, and has driven more than five miles inland. Smith then does what he has done on so many landing zones in the Pacific. He moves among his men, surveys the faces, the mood, the buoyant morale, all the while holding to the agonizing hope that their astonishing good fortune will continue.

  PETER “PETE” RILEY

  Born in 1923 in York Springs, Pennsylvania, Riley is an only child. He grows up in the orchard country of south central Pennsylvania, gaining a deep appreciation of the land and its bounty. His family struggles through the Depression and Riley is forced to find work in the orchards. He does not complete high school. In 1940, with little hope for a better job, Riley enlists in the Marine Corps.

  When the war breaks out in December 1941, he is in Marine boot camp at Parris Island, South Carolina. His first assignment places him with the Third Defense Battalion at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, where he is witness to the grotesque aftermath of the Japanese attack. Chafing to participate in the campaigns in the Pacific, he finally receives assignment to the Seventh Marine Regiment in June 1943. He participates in severe combat on New Britain, Peleliu, and Okinawa, where he meets and forms a lasting friendship with Hamilton Welch. Both men continue in service to the Corps after the war’s end, when the First Division is assigned to occupation duty in China. In late 1945, as a result of the massive downsizing of the American military, Riley and Welch are both ordered to civilian life.

  Riley returns to Pennsylvania and marries high school sweetheart Ruthie Biesecker. They settle in the small orchard community of Arendtsville, where once again Riley returns to the tedious labor of the fruit orchards and processing plants. In November 1946, Ruthie gives birth to a son.

  In June 1950, with the sudden breakout of fighting in Korea, Riley responds to calls for veteran Marines and reenlists, reuniting with his friend Welch. He is assigned to Fox Company, the Seventh Marine Regiment, First Marine Division. His commanding officer is Oliver P. Smith. Like many who reenlist, Riley is not completely certain just where Korea is, or just what the Marines are expected to do there.

  SUNG SHI-LUN

  Born 1907, in Hunan Province, China. As a young man, he attends the Whampoa Military Academy, Guangzhou, China, graduates with high honors, attracting considerable attention from his superiors. As part of his lessons at the academy, he learns rudimentary English.

  Sung despises politics, and with the country embroiled in conflicts from the heavy-handed corruption of Chiang Kai-shek’s government, Sung is disgusted by the abuses he witnesses on both local and national levels. He considers himself a patriot to China and willingly joins the army of Mao Tse-tung, embarking on the struggle to rid the country of Chiang’s despotic rule.

  In 1934, he participates in the Long March, Mao’s desperate gamble to escape Chiang’s military forces. The march, more accurately a military retreat, covers more than five thousand miles and requires a full year. Much of Mao’s strength and support comes from the vast numbers of peasants he champions, waging war against Chiang’s machine of corruption and betrayal of the Chinese people, bolstered by guns and money from the West. Those who survive the march pledge a loyalty to Mao that is unshakable, and Mao’s command of the Communist Revolution in China becomes unquestioned.

  During the vicious struggle against Chiang’s forces, Sung is promoted multiple times and builds a well-earned reputation for combat, leading troops in a number of bloody campaigns. In 1949, when Mao’s final victory secures control of all mainland China, Chiang flees to the island of Formosa, now Taiwan, where Chiang establishes his republic as a government in exile. Mao’s victory is celebrated by communist governments the world over, and adds greatly to the lore that Mao espouses, that the communists are certain to achieve a worldwide revolution.

  For his loyalty to Mao, and his excellence in the field, Sung is promoted to full general. When the war breaks out in Korea, Sung shares the belief of many in the Chinese army that the war will never involve China, since most believe that the United States will not hesitate to employ its nuclear weapons, an asset China does not have. Sung also harbors a profound distrust and dislike for the Soviets, an attitude passed down from Mao himself. As the war in Korea evolves in unexpected ways, Sung responds willingly to the responsibilities he is given, and he is assigned to command of the Ninth Army Group of the People’s Liberation Army, a force numbering more th
an one hundred twenty-five thousand men.

  As the Chinese government carefully observes events to their south, Sung has one duty. Prepare his army to fight.

  PART ONE

  “There is nothing romantic about war.”

  —OLIVER P. SMITH, COMMANDING GENERAL, FIRST MARINE DIVISION, KOREA

  CHAPTER ONE

  Smith

  EAST OF INCHON, SOUTH KOREA—SEPTEMBER 17, 1950

  “WHERE’S PULLER? I want to see him, see what’s going on. He’ll be in the thick of it.”

  MacArthur seemed to speak to all of them, but Smith had to respond.

  “His men went in at Blue Beach, sir. He’ll be at his new command post there, certainly.” He glanced to one side, saw Ned Almond hanging on MacArthur’s words like a sparrow on a telephone wire, a hint of anger toward Smith. Smith tried to avoid Almond’s glare, turned to MacArthur again. “The jeeps are waiting. On your command, sir.”

  “Well, let’s go. We delay any longer, this thing might be over before we get to see it.”

  The aides behind MacArthur laughed, his ever-present audience, Almond laughing the loudest. Smith moved to the door of the crude hut, held out one hand.

  “This way, sir.”

  Smith backed away from the opening, allowed MacArthur the lead, a tradition Smith had learned from their first meeting in Tokyo, a month before. He kept back, allowed the other staff officers to go as well, Almond first, the man ignoring Smith as much as he could. Smith shook his head, then stopped, clamped down any reaction at all, wouldn’t show any of them a response. The aides flowed past, the room emptying quickly. He glanced at Craig.

  General Edward Craig was, by title, the assistant commander of the Marine division, and so Smith’s second in command, a combat veteran whom Smith respected enormously.

  Craig said nothing, and Smith glanced at the simple accommodations Craig had established, Smith’s folding cot in one corner, the field desk where Craig had spread the all-important maps. Smith reached for his helmet, said, “I suppose I’m off on a field trip, General. Mac wants to see the action. He’s asking for the right man.”

  Craig nodded, a quick smile. “Not sure why General MacArthur seems drawn to Colonel Puller.”

  Smith shrugged. “He likes fighters. They go back to the last war. Lewie had a few choice comments about Mac, but Mac doesn’t seem to mind. Or he doesn’t listen to anything a Marine has to say.”

  “Or he’s going to arrest him. Just on general principles.”

  Smith looked down.

  “Then you can have his job.” It was a joke, but neither man was laughing. “Got to go, Eddie. Can’t keep the man waiting.”

  He moved outside, saw the others loading up into the jeeps, four vehicles summoned for the journey. There was space remaining in one, directly behind MacArthur, who sat beside a Marine driver who could not avoid a wide-eyed sideways stare. Smith climbed up, wedged his long legs in tightly, looked at the others around them, Almond in one front seat, the others filled now with staff officers and the reporters who had come along with MacArthur. Smith knew the routine, MacArthur handpicking his favorites for the privilege of accompanying the commanding general to the front lines of his great triumph. The Marine drivers all seemed transfixed by MacArthur, but it was Smith who gave the order, a quick wave of his hand.

  “Move out!”

  The jeeps rolled into single file, Smith shifting his weight, trying to maneuver his legs into some kind of comfortable position. MacArthur turned slightly, said, “Puller, right?”

  “Yes, sir. As I said, we’re headed to Blue Beach, Colonel Puller’s forward command post. He’ll be there, certainly.”

  MacArthur nodded, seemed satisfied, stared forward, the jeep lurching past scattered shell craters, the remnants of the navy’s bombardment. Smith couldn’t avoid the questions in his mind, sliding between the stabs of discomfort in his legs. Was this all it took? The big guns from the ships unload on them, and the North Koreans just…take off? It’s never that easy. No, surely they’re still out there. Not sure how many. Puller will know more about that. But we’re in range of just about any kind of artillery right here, and maybe mortars, too. MacArthur must know that, of course. But if I told him that, offered him caution, he’d just order the driver to go faster, closer. Well, it’s his show.

  They passed ambulances, other trucks small and large, artillery moving into position. Smith kept his eyes on a long ridgeline in front of them, thick smoke in bursts, spreading out with a light breeze. The thumps from distant artillery came in a steady rumble, the impacts on the ridge mostly from enemy mortars. Smith studied the hill carefully, men in motion, his men, but there was little else to see, the smoke spreading in a wide thin blanket. Up ahead, he saw officers gathering near the road, pointing toward the jeeps. Smith held his hand up, instinct, a message to the driver behind him. He reached a hand out to his own driver, tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Pull over here.”

  The young man eased the jeep to the side of the road, the officers approaching, a pair of cautious MPs among them. They seemed baffled by the strange convoy, but there was recognition, eyes wide, more men emerging from wrecked huts, all of them coming closer. MacArthur seemed to absorb that, gave the men time to assemble. MacArthur glanced toward a reporter’s upraised camera, rose slowly, stood high in the jeep, leaned heavily on the windshield, made a slow wave to the gathering Marines. Smith kept his place, knew to wait for MacArthur to leave the jeep. Finally, MacArthur stepped off, and Smith was surprised to see him stumble slightly, a hint of unsteadiness. An aide was beside MacArthur quickly, seemed prepared, but MacArthur held him away with his hand. The man backed off, MacArthur fully in control now, hands on his hips, the ever-present pipe in his mouth. He seemed to pose for a long minute, the camera clicking away. Smith jumped down, no reporter aiming any camera at him. He stumbled himself, a nagging pain in his knees, held himself against the jeep. One of the men moved closer, a captain Smith recognized, Puller’s aide. MacArthur said, “Where’s Puller?”

  The captain looked briefly at Smith, then pointed behind him. “Up on that ridge, sir. There’s a good many of the enemy…”

  MacArthur said, “Then let’s get up that ridge.” He turned to Smith. “I thought this was his command post.”

  “It is, sir.” Smith looked again at the smoke, a new round of shelling peppering the crest. “I might suggest waiting for Colonel Puller to return.”

  MacArthur was already stepping out onto the road, moving toward the ridge. The others fell into line quickly, MacArthur leading the parade at a brisk walk, Smith catching up, keeping the pace. He watched MacArthur carefully, could feel the pace slowing, MacArthur not hiding the weariness in his legs. The ridge was steep and dusty, the smoke drifting past, and MacArthur slowed even more, a hint of a struggle. Smith watched as Almond moved past in a rush, taking his place beside his commanding general.

  The road narrowed, more shell craters on all sides, rocks strewn about, the wreckage of a jeep partially blocking the way. Smith looked into the jeep as they passed, nothing but charred metal, and he thought of protesting again, but MacArthur stared ahead, slow, plodding pace, saying nothing. Smith glanced back, the line of reporters and aides strung out down the hill, men with pads of paper, more cameras. He knew he couldn’t allow this ridiculous parade to just wander out onto the open crest of an exposed hill. The incoming mortar fire came again, down to one side, and Smith said, “Sir, we should stop here. Colonel Puller is certainly close by.”

  MacArthur took one more slow step, then halted, seemed to fight for air, Almond beside him, pretending not to notice. MacArthur straightened, eyed the crest of the hill just ahead, said, “I want Puller. Find him.”

  Smith glanced around, saw Marines working mortars of their own, a heavy machine gun dug into a cluster of rocks, one man with field glasses pointing the way, the gunner firing a long burst. More men seemed to emerge from the rugged ground, all of them recognizing MacArthur. Smith felt the n
eed to grab the man and pull him back down the hill, the thought in his brain: This is no place for you.

  And then, the booming voice of Chesty Puller. “What in blazes we got here? Oh, for the love of Gertrude. They told me it was you coming up here. You’re the only man who’d lead a damn caravan to the front lines.” The salute came now, hard and crisp, Puller’s chest puffed out even farther than usual. “General MacArthur, it is my honor. Welcome, sir.” He looked past Almond at Smith now, a hard scowl giving way to the hint of a smile. “You too, sir.”

  Smith needed nothing further from Puller, knew there would rarely be formalities between them. He knew that MacArthur had an odd affection for Puller, despite the fact that Puller seemed to bristle at nearly every order MacArthur had ever given him. The thought rolled into Smith’s head. Nobody but Lewie would talk to Mac like that and expect to keep his command. Puller knows something we don’t. Or, Mac thinks he does.