Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

They stumbled over the snow-covered rocks, and Riley tried to watch the saddle, a useless exercise. The snipers were still active, Riley’s brain teasing him into believing he might see them before they took their shot, before the worst could happen. The worst so far had come the day before, the image of Goolsby’s death ground into his brain. He had mourned the man’s death with paralyzing grief, some of that the product of sleeplessness and hunger. He tried to think of the man’s first name, couldn’t recall it, felt foolish asking anyone else. He wanted to offer the lieutenant an apology, did so in his thoughts throughout the long night, wondering if Goolsby had known of the rude comments, Killian and the others, “the ninety-day wonder,” “shavetail,” all those monikers the veterans gave fresh-faced officers. He scolded himself even now, stumbling behind the cover of taller rocks, halting with Welch for a gasp of frozen air. Stop this! He’s dead, and you might be, too, if you don’t get a handle on this.

Welch moved again, the Thompson dangling from his shoulder, and Riley followed, another glance toward the rocky hill. There had been casualties all throughout the night, some of those from carelessness, or simply bad luck, sprays of machine gun fire that blew into men who might have been away from their foxholes, if only for a moment, trying to stretch, to bring life to dead limbs. He felt guilty for not visiting Killian, but for now there wasn’t much point. The wounded were still down there in the tents, more vulnerable now than any day so far, the men on the hill who protected them weakening by the hour. He hadn’t even asked Welch about going down, knew instinctively that the energy required for the climb might be too costly, that if the enemy came again that night, he would need everything left inside him to stand tall, to make another tough fight. Killian would understand, he thought. He’d kick me in the ass if I wasn’t up here doing the job just so I could hold his hand.

They moved past scrambling supply men, a pair of stretcher bearers, and Riley saw the lines of foxholes facing west, the men barely visible, protected by the mounds of Chinese corpses. He couldn’t avoid shivering, his breathing punching his lungs with frigid air. The hood of his parka was clamped tight around his head, the three pairs of socks on his feet less effective with each new gust of brutal wind. He saw a light wisp of smoke, rising from belowground, and Welch halted, searched, a low voice to one side, from one of the holes.

“What’s up?”

Welch moved that way, Riley following, the familiar face of Lieutenant Peterson sitting low in a hole.

Welch crawled low, Riley doing the same, both men down in the snow.

Welch said, “Thought I should report to you, sir. No officers on our side of the hill. Not sure if anything’s going on we oughta know about.”

There was firing out past the rocky hill, distant sounds that echoed faintly. Riley turned that way and Peterson shifted in the hole, said, “Heard that for a while now. It’s not aimed this way, so I’m not sure what to do about it. I’m not too mobile right now.”

Riley peered down over the edge of the foxhole, the repairs to Peterson’s wounds hidden by the heavy coat, the sleeping bag over his legs. Welch said, “You okay, sir? We can still get a corpsman up here if we need one.”

“Leave them be, for now. I got half a dozen holes in me, but I’m still here. Unless they blow my hands off, I can fire a rifle. The only officer on the hill not wounded yet is Lieutenant Dunne. First Platoon has had it easy so far. The enemy keeps pushing us from this direction, like he knows we’re shot full of holes. If Dunne tries to help us out, shifting any of his people around to this side, the Chinese will see that, and sure as hell, they’ll bust up the hill in his sector. They’re out there in every direction.” He paused, seemed to gather strength. “I heard about Lieutenant Goolsby. Tough.”

Welch said, “Yeah. We were there.”

“I’ll put him in for a citation, if you want to. That’s the way it works, sometimes. Dead men aren’t too humble to accept medals. Last I heard, Lieutenant McCarthy’s doing okay. Nasty wound, but in the right place. Not sure how much longer we’re gonna be up here, but at least nobody’s bleeding to death. Too damn cold.”

Riley said, “How’s the captain?”

Welch looked at him, too tired to scold him. Peterson didn’t seem to mind the question, said, “His wound’s gotten bad. The doc says it’s infected, and getting worse. I told him to keep down near his CP. No need for him to risk his stretcher bearers just so he can make an inspection. He’s already lost two of his runners.”

Welch looked out past the distant rocks. “It’s gotten heavier. Who’s doing all that shooting? We heard the artillery at Yudam-ni, a couple days ago. But that’s not artillery. Too light.”

“And too close. No idea, Sergeant. Maybe it’s John Wayne and the South Korean cavalry coming to our rescue. Hagaru-ri’s the other way, so it ain’t help from down there. Right now it’s somebody else’s problem. We got our hands full holding the enemy off this hill. Get back to your men, tell them to keep doing what they’ve been doing. Air cover will be here soon, I hope. The captain’s radio’s maybe got enough juice to last an hour, and he’s hoping to hear something from those boys before it conks out again.”

Riley heard the sharp zip, the ping of lead off a rock to one side. He put his head down flat in the snow, pressed up closer to one of the corpses, and Peterson said, “Careful. That son of a bitch out there knows I’m here, and he must have some idea I’m in charge. He keeps me honest about every twenty minutes. Keep back to those rocks over that way. That seems to be safe.”

“Sir!”

Peterson responded, “Who the hell is calling me sir ?”

The man fell flat close to Riley, crawled forward, out of breath. “Sorry. Captain wanted me to get up here, tell you what’s up.”

The man ran out of words, gasping for air, and Peterson said, “So? What’s up? MacArthur still saying we’ll be home for Christmas?”

“Sir, the radio. We got a call. There’s Marines coming this way! You’re to order your men to hold their fire if they see personnel out toward the rocky hill.”

Peterson didn’t respond, a long silence, and Riley could hear the sounds from the distant fight, sporadic now, small pops. Welch said, “I guess that would be them?”

Peterson struggled to stand, another man close by.

“Sir! The sniper!”

Peterson stared out that way, propped against the corpses in front of him.

“I have a feeling that guy has his hands full. He can hear what we’re hearing.” Peterson looked at Barber’s man, said, “Whose Marines? Did they say?”

“First Battalion, Seventh, sir.”

“Davis. Figures. He’s buddies with Chesty Puller. They’re always trying to outdo each other for balls.” He paused, stared toward the sounds of the fight, almost nothing now. “He brought a whole damn battalion over that miserable ground just to help us get off this damn hill? I think Chesty will like that.”

FOX HILL—DECEMBER 2, 11:00 A.M.

The Corsairs came again, the saddle and much of the rocky knoll bathed in a bright shower of napalm. The men along the ridgeline watched as they had before, grateful for the attention from the air wing, Riley as curious as any of them just what it was like to fly the big blue birds. With the raid past, the enemy’s guns had fallen silent, the last firefight erupting close to the rocky knoll on the big hill, the men on Fox Hill surprised to see an eruption of Chinese soldiers boiling up from hidden places, most of them scattering off into the deep draws. Soon after, the men with binoculars passed the word there were troops moving out along the distant ridges, and they were not Chinese. Within minutes, Marines were advancing across the saddle toward them, more men coming up from the low places alongside.