Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

DAMN, I’M HUNGRY.

He tried not to do that, his exhaustion scattering his thoughts out in every direction. But the hollow cave in his stomach was worse today, the supply of C-rations nonexistent. His hands were clumsy, stiff, the gloves shredding more each day, the biting cold in his fingers making the work all that more difficult. Riley unrolled the wire, Kane and Morelli holding the other end of the spool, Riley trying to keep his footing in the snow as he backed slowly along the face of the hill. He couldn’t keep the thought away, worse with every step, the hollow rumble down low, a twisting ache that now stopped him, the pain in his stomach growing.

Damn, I’m hungry.

Higher up the hill, Lieutenant Goolsby watched them, offering instructions no one really needed.

“That’s it. Spread it along that rise there. Stick it in the snow.”

The spool emptied, and Riley dropped to one knee, jabbed the steel stake into the ground, no penetration. He tried again, no strength in his arms, the stake ripping a fresh tear in his glove. He looked at his hands, dark red fingers poking through, and he tried to curl them, too numb to feel the pain. He sagged, the weakness overwhelming him now, heard Welch, just behind him.

“Hey! Wake up. No time for taking a nap. That sniper jackass might decide to try again.”

Riley tried to stand, his knees stiff, no feeling in his feet, and he stumbled, fell forward on his hands. Welch was there now, his voice hollow, distant, “Hey, L.T., I’m hauling him back to the hole.”

Riley felt Welch’s hands under his arms, tried to stand, his feet floundering, trying to find the ground. The harder pain came now, a cramp in his gut, and he moaned, the cramp pulling him into a curl. Welch kept his grip, Riley’s coat slipping upward, and Welch bent low, shouted into his ear, “Stand up, dammit! Do it!”

Riley tried to see through the fog in his brain, his eyes nearly frozen shut, the numbness spreading, a sharp punch striking him from behind.

“Wake up! Jesus. Let’s get him to the hole. There’s a can of Sterno, we can make some kind of fire. Maybe melt some snow.”

Riley found his feet, a beehive of stinging pain spreading up through his legs. He blinked hard, the ice stuck painfully to his face, tried to speak, his knees curling again, the cramp still pulling him down. He fell from Welch’s grip, dropped hard to his knees, the cramp churning harder, and he vomited, grunted a hard cry, gasping for air, nothing at all coming out of his stomach. He cramped up again, another dry heave, felt the sobs overtaking him, and rolled to one side, tried to wipe at his eyes. He was lifted again, more men, his arms stretched over shoulders, his feet dragging the ground, the hillside a blur of white. He heard a voice, Goolsby.

“Take him down the hill, Sergeant. We’ll finish here. Sterno’s not gonna fix him. If you see a corpsman, drop him there. We need hands up here if we’re gonna get all this wire strung.”

Welch was close to one side, and Riley started to protest, no, no . But the grips were firm, his weakness complete, agonizing helplessness, the worst pain still in his gut. They carried him for what seemed like miles, his mind drifting away, a flash of awareness, the cold, the stinging pains, the churning sickness inside, and gone again, soft sounds, blindness, his eyes frozen shut.

“He’s okay. He needs food and water, more than anything else. Body can’t function without fuel.”

Riley was awake now, blinked, a warm cloth covering his eyes. “What happened? I can’t see!”

The cloth was removed, and he fought for his vision, figures above him. He tried to rub his eyes, felt a hand on his wrist, stopping him.

“Nope, don’t do that. Skin’s raw. It’ll only hurt worse.”

Riley strained to see the faces, caught the smell, familiar now, the same he had smelled for days. “What the hell is that stink?”

He heard a chuckle, his eyes clearing, realized it was Welch.

“It’s you, you moron.”

Riley recognized the doctor now, another corpsman standing beside him, and the doctor said, “Actually, it’s all of you. This is what happens when you warm up a little. First order I’m giving when we get out of this mess is every man in the company takes a shower. Scrub brushes. Maybe with bleach. Every man who comes in here brings his own smell with him.”

Riley tried to see the faces, next to Welch, the kid, Morelli. He had a burst of panic now, said, “Am I hit? Oh, God, my feet!”

He tried to rise, Welch leaning down, a heavy hand pressing him back to the cot.

“Knock it off, bozo. You’re not hit. Just loony. And you still got your feet. That’s the only part of you that’s not screwed up. The kid and I dragged you down here, and you were dead to the world. Thought maybe you took the easy way out.”

The doctor said, “It’s not all that bad, son. I’m seeing a fair amount of this. You just need something inside of you. Be grateful that’s all it is. Plasma’s gone, you don’t need morphine. I can’t explain why we haven’t received any rations from all those ammo drops. We’ve got a few cans left, for emergencies. Here, eat this. Slowly. No gulping.”

He saw a spoon coming closer, smelled the sugar sweetness of the fruit cocktail, opened his mouth, the syrup overwhelming him. He choked, sat up, coughed the fruit out, and the doctor said, “All right. Too much. Sergeant, can you or your buddy keep at it? He needs to eat something, and this is the best we’ve got. I’ve got people who need me.”

The doctor moved away now, and Riley lay back heavily, felt the softness beneath him, glanced to one side.

“Christ, I’m in the aid station.”

Welch knelt beside the cot. “It ain’t Honolulu. Here. Eat this crap. It’s better than the rest of us are getting. We ran out of anything but Tootsie Rolls this morning. And they’re being pretty stingy with those.”

Welch pushed the spoon to his mouth, and Riley took a long breath, tried to relax, opened his mouth. The fruit was intensely sweet, but he held it in his mouth, warming it, then swallowed carefully.

“Not bad, Sarge. More?”

Welch offered another spoonful, Riley taking the fruit easier now. Above him, Morelli said, “Holy cow, Pete. We thought maybe you’d gone around the corner or something. You was puking and nothing was coming out. You scared hell out of me, that’s for sure.”

Welch fed Riley another spoonful, said, “It’s around the bend, you idiot. And he’s been out there for a while now.” He fed Riley again, said, “You’ll be fine. We’re all in the same fix, just you had to be the first to get waited on. You ever tell anybody I did this for you, and I’ll stick my boots where the sun don’t shine. That’s it. No more. One can is all they could give you.”

Riley savored the last of the fruit cocktail, wiped his tongue all across his teeth. He flexed his toes now, realized he had nothing but socks on his feet.

“Where’s my boots? You sure I’m not hit? I remember puking.”

Welch held up his boots. “Right here. They got you fresh linings, some dry socks. We were stringing the wire we got in that last airdrop. Captain thinks it’ll slow down the Chinks next time they come at us.”

“And I just passed out?”

“Hell if I know. I thought you’d curled up and died.”

“How long I been here?”

“An hour. Doc cleaned up your face. You’re gonna lose maybe a piece of your nose, tops of your ears. He says we might all get that way. Frostbite’s not particular, kinda like bullets. But your feet work just fine. As soon as you feel like getting out of this lap of luxury, I need you back on the hill. So, how about right now?”