Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Riley saw Welch looking at Goolsby, the lieutenant responding. “Yes! Good! We’ll keep an eye out over here. You boys be careful over there.”

The man looked at Goolsby with curiosity, then to Welch, who said, “He’s the lieutenant. We’ll take care of our side.”

The man nodded, glanced at the others, a brief recognition of Riley.

“Yeah, I’ll tell Sergeant Tyler you said so. We already wiped out a squad of those bastards, half frozen to death.”

Welch looked at Goolsby, then said, “It’ll be dark in a half hour. Don’t hang out here too long. We’ll secure what we can here, then pull back.”

“The sarge is already thinking that. See you in hell.”

The man slipped away, the same path back toward the rest of Peterson’s men. Riley saw the black concern on Welch’s face, another glance at Goolsby.

“Sir, we’ve got to move up, keep abreast of their position. The captain gave us a job. We’re not doing a damn thing just sitting here.”

Goolsby seemed angry now, said, “I know what we have to do, Sergeant. Let’s move out through these rocks.”

They dropped low, Welch pointing to the brush off to one side, the men scrambling that way. Riley pushed himself through the muddy snow, a slushy mess from the heat of the napalm, slid down into the first row of brush. The Chinese machine gun began again, far up on the rocky hill, the fire peppering the rocks around him, pinging ricochets on the rocks along the ridge. He dropped flat, the others doing the same, heard Welch, fiery anger, shouting to Goolsby, “Get down! Keep to the cover! We can’t stay here! Get down the slope.”

Riley turned his head in the snow, watched the two men, Goolsby staring back at Welch with empty helplessness. Welch moved away now, a quick check of each man, his eyes now on Riley.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. What do we do now?”

“You could ask the man in charge. We’ve done all we can do right here. The napalm took care of most of the Chinks out here, and Second Platoon did the rest. Barber wanted it cleaned up. It’s cleaned up. The longer we sit out here, the more Chinks will figure out where we are. Jesus.” Welch lowered his voice. “He should have shoved us out quicker, found the enemy, before they found us. Tyler knew what he was doing. We got no reason to sit here.”

Goolsby slid down closer, seemed to gather himself, said to Welch, “Sergeant, we still have a job to do. The captain said to check the drop area. Clean out the enemy.”

“Well, sir, if I may suggest, now that every Chink weapon is aimed this way, how about we head back to our lines?”

Goolsby looked at the others, all eyes on him. “I suppose so, yes.”

The grenade struck a rock close beside Riley, tumbled down the hill, sliding to a stop in the snow. Riley shouted, “Grenade!”

He flattened out, waited for the blast, but nothing happened. He peered through the crook in his arm, the handle of the grenade sticking up from the snow. Welch said, “A dud. But there’ll be more. Don’t wait for ’em. Hit ’em now!”

Welch climbed quickly up through the brush, up to his knees now, fired the Thompson, a continuous spray, emptying the magazine. The others moved up with him, more firing, and Riley pushed into the snow, his feet finding rock, climbed the embankment, saw them now, a dozen men, some kneeling, the flash of fire from their rifles, more men moving up from farther up the saddle, grenades now in the air, a shower of sticks tumbling past him. He fired his own machine gun, heard the BAR open up, the enemy tumbling down, the image in his mind, ten pins, from a single ball. The firing continued, one rifle beside him, the clink of the clip, and Welch said, “That’s it! Cease fire! Get back into cover.”

He slid down through the snow, the others doing the same, Goolsby still hunkered down in the low place.

“Did we get ’em all?”

Riley looked at Goolsby, saw icy tears on the man’s face, and Welch moved close to him, grabbed the man’s shoulders.

“Tighten up! No time for this! That was one bunch. There’s more. Tyler’s already got his men pulling back. Let’s get back to the hill!”

Riley looked up toward the crest of the saddle, the smell of the napalm still inside of him. He pulled a magazine from his pocket, slammed it into the Thompson, jerked the small bolt, ready again. Welch moved along the hill below him, the others falling into line, and Welch called out to him. “Watch our rear. They know we’re here, and they’re figuring out what to do about it. You see anybody, shoot everything you got.”

Riley kept his eyes on the darkening sky, the ridgeline still quiet. He glanced at the Thompson, his hand tapping the pockets of his coat. Plenty of ammo for now, he thought. What the hell’s wrong with the lieutenant? Maybe it’s seeing that Chinese candlestick up there. I bet he’s never seen napalm up close. Don’t need to see it again.

He heard the planes again, the roar growing closer, and he saw them coming up the draw, straight overhead. He had a burst of panic, thought, No, oh Christ, not now! He slid quickly down through the snow, kicked through brush, running now, closer to the others. The rest of the squad had stopped, squatted low, watching the planes, and Riley glanced back, the planes gone now, the far side of the ridge. He was breathing in hard gasps and Welch said, “Easy, Pete. The son of a bitch waved at me. They know we’re here. They’re keeping the Chinks off our tails. God bless ’em.”

The planes returned, the roar of the engines and the hard rattle of their machine guns. One plane peeled off, rolled out to one side, swung around, and Riley watched the nose of the plane pointing straight toward them. He called out, pointed, the others watching the plane, all of them dropping flat. The Corsair was barely twenty feet above the rocky hill, the machine guns opening now, the flickers of fire along the wings. Riley felt frozen, terror enveloping him, but the plane dipped lower still, firing down into the draw beneath them. The plane roared straight over them now, close enough to touch, and Riley felt a hard impact on his head, more falling around him, the men yelling in panic, and Welch shouted, “Shells! Empties, you idiots!”

Riley saw now, pockets of steam in the snow, the spent shells from the Corsair’s guns splattering the hillside around them. His legs gave out, and he sat in the snow, reached down, retrieved an empty .50-caliber shell. It was still warm to the touch, and he cupped it in his hands, then slipped it into his pocket. Welch was still standing, said in a low voice, “You got your damn souvenir? Let’s get back up the ridge before it’s too dark for those numbskulls up there to see who we are. And keep an eye on this draw. That flyboy saw something worth shooting at.”

Goolsby was up beside Welch, said, “Let’s go. Head back. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Riley saw something fragile in the man’s face, his voice a weak quiver. He looked at Welch, who returned the glance, said nothing. There was a pop from the draw down below, a single shot, and Goolsby sat suddenly, looked at his hands, one reaching for his shoulder. “Oh! I got stung!”

Welch was down beside him, said, “You hit? Where?”

Goolsby looked at him, then at the others, seemed confused. Riley moved closer, saw Welch push the lieutenant’s hands aside, staring into his chest, pulling the coat back off his shoulder. And now, a sharp whistle, the dull smack, Goolsby knocked flat on his back. Riley saw the hole, blood in a light stream from Goolsby’s forehead, and Welch shouted, “Down!”

They flattened out in the snow and brush, more firing from down below cutting the snow around them. Welch crawled up through the brush, said, “Give ’em hell! Then get your asses up that way. Get to the cover in those rocks!”