Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Barber seemed weaker still, lay back down on the stretcher, said something to the two men helping him. They responded, lifted the stretcher, moved back along the hill. Goolsby dipped low, crawled forward, pushing through the snow, said to Welch, “I guess it’s your squad, Sergeant.”

“You don’t have to guess, sir. Just order it.”

Goolsby nodded. “Right. Not used to it, that’s all. Okay, Sergeant Welch, pick four men to go with us. Pick good men. And let’s try not to get lost out there.”

The sound of the planes came suddenly, the Corsairs rolling up over the hill behind them, and Welch said, “Guess they set their alarm clocks. No time like right now.”

There were four in the formation, the tails of each plane marked with distinctive letters, LD. Goolsby said, “Love Dog. Lieutenant Peterson told me. Bunch of real characters. I guess we oughta lay low.”

The men dropped into their holes, the planes banking sharply, a dry run straight down the saddle. By now the pilots were familiar with the lay of the land, the position of the enemy, very little guesswork. Riley peered up over the edge of the hole, realized his hands were resting on the frozen arm of a dead soldier. He pulled back, avoided looking at any more of the man, kept his eyes on the planes. They climbed now, rolling over, coming back toward the crest of the hill, no more than fifty feet above the rocky ground. Riley watched them pass, saw the face of one pilot, the man looking down onto the Marines, his audience. The planes disappeared behind the hill, long seconds, then came back, one at a time, straight down the saddle. The rockets came first, a spray that blew through the rocky hilltop beyond. The next one followed, more rockets, and then the single tank, hung from the plane’s belly, tumbling down, bouncing once on the rocks, and then the explosion, the napalm’s massive fireball, the storm of flames curling skyward, swept by the wind. Riley felt himself cheering, the others around him joining in, hands in the air. The planes banked away, circling high above, and Goolsby was there, a hard shout, “Watch the fire! When it dies down, we’re going!”

Welch jumped up from the hole, called out along the line, “Kane, Morelli, Norman, Riley. Grenades and ammo. Check it!”

Riley was not surprised by the choices, except for the kid. He knew that Welch would choose the men he had confidence in, and he looked that way, saw Morelli fumbling with a handful of grenades, stuffing them into his pocket. No shortage of ammo, he thought. Just don’t forget how to throw ’em.

He climbed up from the foxhole, saw Morelli and the others doing the same, the kid looking toward him with wide-eyed eagerness. They watched the fire, the flames spread out on the far end of the saddle, growing smaller now, black smoke still flowing to the west. Goolsby was out front, rose up, the Thompson in his hands, Welch’s words in Riley’s head, Al Capone . Goolsby waved them forward, then launched himself out away from the foxholes, moving downhill, the others following in line, keeping a gap between them. To the left, Peterson’s men did the same, all of them pushing quickly to the saddle.

Goolsby led the way down the hill, and Riley felt the weakness in his legs, jogged with the others, kept up, no one with any more energy than he had. The lieutenant led them down along the right side of the saddle, slipping through rocks, snow-covered scrub brush, stepping past hard-frozen bodies of the enemy. Riley fought to breathe, icy air punching into his lungs, caught the smell of the napalm now, stinking smoke, his breathing harder still. Goolsby raised a hand, held them up, and Riley saw him, red-faced, gasping through the cold. Goolsby pointed up the side of the saddle toward the wide crest, small columns of smoke rising from spots of fire. He stood, waved the Thompson, started forward, and Welch was next, glancing back, sharp motion forward with his hand.

They were climbing again, slow progress, the ground rough, the rocks hidden by the snow, ankle busters, Riley making careful steps, the shoe pacs clumsy, unsteady. He could feel waves of warmth, the fresh stink of the napalm overwhelming, stirring the misery in his gut. He cursed himself, looked down the hill, the deep draw off the edge of the saddle, thick brush, the wooded draw where the enemy had risen so many times before. The woods were quiet, the only sound the breathing of the men, Goolsby leading them through a tall thicket, still below the crest of the saddle. They climbed farther, one man stumbling, Kane, struggling with the BAR, Welch pulling him upright, a slap on Kane’s back. Riley kept his eyes on Goolsby, the lieutenant stopping, hands on his knees, then easing forward again, pushing past the ragged hedge of scrub. The others followed in turn, Riley watching everything, eyes on every rock, every tree and cluster of brush. They were close to the smoke now, and Goolsby stopped, stood upright, in the open, staring down, the smoke swirling around him. Riley felt a strange uneasiness, saw Goolsby step back, still staring down. Welch was there now, pulling on Goolsby’s arm, the lieutenant staggering away, Welch leading the rest of them up the saddle, into the stinking smoke. Riley followed, saw now what Goolsby had seen. The body was clad in the usual white uniform, the fire moving slowly along the man’s legs, the thick quilted cotton burning like the wick of a lantern, the man’s bare flesh seared black. The man’s face was gone, a black, bloody smear, smoldering fire in what remained of the man’s hair. He lay with his burp gun still in his hands, the gun charred, useless. Riley moved past, tried not to see any more, but there were other bodies, a cluster of half a dozen, seated in a circle, down in a depression, each man bent over in a curl, cooked where he sat, hands holding still to their weapons. Up front, Welch fired his Thompson down into a hole, jolting Riley alert. Welch moved on, and Riley was there, saw the wounded man wedged in a narrow gap in the rocks, wounded no more. The breeze rolled up around them now, the stink of the napalm impossible to avoid. One man dropped down, vomited in the snow, and Welch held up, kneeling close to the man, shouting something. Riley kept his eyes on the rocky hill, black smoke, silence, searched for Goolsby. He saw the lieutenant, the Thompson hanging by his side, and Welch was there, more shouts, grabbing Goolsby’s coat.

The first shots came from far off, the scattered machine gun fire ripping the air overhead. The response came from Peterson’s men, a fight breaking out higher up the saddle. Goolsby seemed to freeze, uncertain, and Welch moved up beside him, jerked at Goolsby’s sleeve, said, “Let’s go! They need support!”

The men followed Welch, Goolsby taking the point again, finding something inside him. Riley followed, eyed Kane with the BAR, a glance between them, no words, Riley knowing that Kane had the same thoughts. What the hell’s wrong with the lieutenant?

The firing across the saddle increased, and Riley could see the Marines, moving up in leapfrog formation, a handful of men passing the others, then hunkering down, the first group moving past. Up in the rocks nearer the tall hill, the Chinese were firing down. Peterson’s men were close to them, the Chinese starting to break, scrambling up through the rocks, making their escape.

Welch called out, “Take ’em down!”

He fired the Thompson, too far to be effective, but Morelli knelt, anchored against a rock, aimed the M-1, fired, then again. Riley huddled low, could see the enemy dropping, Morelli doing the job, Peterson’s men still putting on the pressure. There was more firing from Peterson’s men, aimed down to the left, a fresh fight breaking out, but it ended quickly, shouts from the Marines. Riley saw a man moving toward them, darting quickly along the saddle, keeping low, eyes on Welch. He slid in close, breathless, said, “We’ve cleaned out a pocket of ’em. They didn’t want to stick around. Sergeant Tyler says it’ll help if you keep to this side of the saddle. Some of the Chinks dropped off this side earlier. They might try to get behind us.”