Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Beside Riley, a voice, heavy New Jersey accent. “I’d kinda like some of that fruit cocktail. Maybe some beef stew? I’m starved.”

Riley tried to recognize the voice, saw Welch looking over toward the next cot. He pushed himself up on his elbows, the man wrapped in his sleeping bag up to his neck.

“You’re Cafferoni….”

“Cafferata. Hector. Hey, I remember you. We shared a hole up there, couple nights ago. So, all you did was puke, and they hauled you to a damn bed?”

Riley began to feel creeping embarrassment now, said, “I guess so. Ran out of gas, maybe. This here’s my sarge, Hamp Welch. The goofy-looking kid is Morelli. From your part of the world.”

Welch said, “Hey, I heard about you. Your buddy Benson came back up on the line. Said you put up a hell of a fight, the first night out, took out maybe half a company. The lieutenant said you played baseball with a dozen Chink grenades.”

Cafferata held up a heavily bandaged hand. “Strike one. Son of a bitch blew up too quick. Cost me a finger or two maybe. That ain’t the worst of it. Didn’t have time to get my boots on, so I fought off those bastards in my bare feet. Not good. They don’t know how bad that’ll be yet. They found shoes for me, but they’re too small. Had to cut off the toes. I’m kind of an extra large.”

Riley sat up, tried to ignore the spinning in his head. He saw Cafferata’s face now, the large man wrapped like a green mummy. He felt a chill, the tent not quite warm, put a hand on Cafferata’s shoulder.

“Hey, you take care, right? I gotta get back out there.”

“I’d like to go with you, but they ain’t letting me do squat.”

Riley stood, unsteady, the doctor moving toward him.

“You all right, son? You can stay here for a while yet, if you’re too weak. Not many wounded coming down during the day. Might need the bed by tonight. Most everybody who’s staying down here is in the warming tents.”

Riley felt Welch slide his hand under his arm, steadying him. He looked at Welch, saw concern, the sergeant’s harsh crust betrayed by his affection for his friend. Riley tested his balance, stood upright, said, “I’m okay now. Feel a hell of a lot better. Let me get my boots on.” He sat slowly, still testing, the lightheadedness clearing away. “I appreciate the care, Doc. But this bed’s for those that need it.” He looked at Welch now. “You seen Killian? We oughta check on him.”

Welch shook his head. “He’s in the other tent. Maybe later. Since you’re fit, we gonna get back up on the ridge. Irish ain’t much good for anything but taking up space.”

Riley pulled the boots on, felt guilty, thought of Killian, wondered just how bad his feet were. He saw Cafferata watching him, said, “I gotta go, pal. We ain’t finished the job yet. Next time I see you, maybe we’ll be on some beach somewhere.”

Cafferata nodded, seemed to grow tired, turned his gaze upward. Riley looked at the doctor, said, “Take good care of that one, Doc. We could use a hell of a lot more just like him.”

FOX HILL—DECEMBER 1, 4:00 P.M.

The snow had deepened to nearly six inches, a soft blanket that covered most of the horror that still lay across the face of the hill. Throughout the day, the men had continued to prepare their defensive line, dragging the enemy’s dead closer, creating human walls around each of the foxholes. Since daybreak the Chinese had kept mostly quiet, the only real danger coming from the scattered snipers, still positioned on the rocky hill and the other hill farther to the west. For now their heavier machine guns stayed silent, what the Marines believed was the logical reaction to the effectiveness of the air strikes.

Riley had made the climb without help, though the weakness kept his steps slow, inspiring a chorus of playful cursing from Welch. At the foxhole, he had eased himself down, saw the faces of the others watching him, offered them a wave of his hand, no one giving him grief. He could see it in Welch’s eyes, the sergeant’s toughness not hiding what was going on inside him, inside all of them, the steady collapse of their energy.

He was impressed by the barrier now guarding the hole, saw another row of corpses piled close in front of Welch’s machine gun. The bottom of the foxhole was coated with a thick layer of fresh snow, and he squatted, scooped out as much as his fingers could hold. In front of the hole, Welch was tending to the machine gun, jerking on the bolt, firing a single round now, the new routine. Riley watched him, Welch’s movements slow and clumsy, betraying the same weakness Riley felt now. From one side, Morelli moved closer, knelt low, precaution against the snipers, held out a pair of gloves.

“Hey, Pete. Here. Use these.”

“Thanks, but I got some. The doc gave me a pair.”

“I seen those. They got holes worse than what you gave up. Here. These are practically new.”

He took the gloves, looked them over, no holes but the missing trigger finger. “Where’d you get them?”

Morelli hesitated, and Welch turned, said, “Don’t ask. Just put ’em on. We gotta use what we gotta use.”

Riley ripped his away, pulled the new gloves onto his fingers, flexed, looked at Morelli. “Thanks, kid. I owe you one.”

“Nah. Here, I found some more Tootsie Rolls, too. Ain’t hardly nothing else left to eat. We been checking the Chink bodies, seeing maybe they got some rice or something, but they’re about as bad off as we are, looks like. Go on, take ’em.”

Riley accepted the gift and Morelli slid away, Welch now looking at him.

“Give me one. Then you eat the rest. Now. Don’t need to be carrying your sorry ass back down the hill ’cause you’re too weak to fight. The Chinks are coming again tonight. Count on it. You stink as a gun crew, but you’re all I got. Kane’s handling his BAR by himself, and we only got four more rifles in the squad. Even Goolsby’s learning how to shoot straight. I saw him back over the hill, trying out a Thompson. He thinks it makes him look like Al Capone.”

“You hear anything about Lieutenant McCarthy?”

“His leg’s busted up good. That’s all I know. He’s still down the hill.”

“Heads up!”

Riley turned toward the voice, saw stretcher bearers moving up, their load between them. The man’s head rose, a quick motion from one hand, the men lowering him to the snowy ground. It was Barber.

Goolsby was there now, the Thompson hanging off one shoulder, the other sergeants coming closer as well, all of them keeping low behind the taller rocks. Riley watched Barber, felt a stir of nervousness, the captain struggling to sit up, his voice weak.

“Not sure I can make it up here anymore. Told the doc to give me morphine. My hip’s busted up pretty bad, and they can’t keep it from bleeding. Lieutenant Wright’s in charge if I’m out of my head. Keep your eyes sharp. Corsairs are making one more run before dark. We’ve picked out a nest of those yellow bastards just below the sharp rocks on the far side of the saddle. They might be gathering up for tonight. But we need to get more aggressive, help the air boys do a better job. It’s not good enough that they just shoot up the hillside and hope they hit somebody. I want a patrol to get out there and check the damage. If the enemy’s still sitting in a hole, take care of ’em. If they’re bringing up machine guns, bust ’em up. With dark coming, they won’t be expecting us to push out there.” He focused on Goolsby, fought for more words. “Lieutenant, take five men with you. Second Platoon will send some men out there as well. Wait for the Corsairs to do the job, then move out there quick. Keep to the right of the saddle. Peterson’s men will hang to the left.”