Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Riley put his fingers on the soft mass on his plate, probed, the man smiling, then stuffing a blob of food into his mouth. Beside him, Welch mumbled something, slid a large can toward him, and Riley saw now it was syrup. His mind seemed to wake just a bit more, the smells drilling into his hunger, the juices in his mouth beginning to flow, uncontrollable, his tongue pushing through the dry crust on his lips. He reached out, took the can, poured the syrup clumsily across his plate, the thick liquid pouring out onto the table, an instant mess. He set the can down, wiped at the spill with his fingers, glanced around, embarrassed, heard the orderly behind him.

“Don’t worry, sport. There’s plenty more. Just eat up. More coffee here?”

The orderly put two coffeepots on the table, some of the men reaching out, pouring a steaming brew into tin cups. Beside him, Welch said, “You gonna eat those things, or do I have to show you how?”

Riley grabbed the fork again, stabbed a thick wad of pancakes, now a soft, gooey blob, stuffed it into his mouth. Across from him, more smiles.

“See? Told you so. Cures what’s wrong. I’m stuffed to the gills. There’s more of us coming in. I’ll make room. Enjoy that, while you can.”

The man slid back, moved away, happy talk toward some of the others. More men were coming into the tent, like Riley, moving toward the table with wide, puzzled eyes.

He was more energized than he had been in days, the rich sugar from the syrup rolling through his veins like gasoline. The darkness was complete, no stars, just the usual wind, and he felt like returning to the mess tent, his mind embracing the astonishing luxury of the pancakes. But the corpsmen had cautioned them all, especially any man whose bowels had shut down, don’t overdo it. What goes in had to come out eventually, and already some of the men were suffering the agony of diarrhea.

He watched more men coming out of the mess tent, a stark contrast to those still going in, men groaning in the darkness with hands on their bellies. He couldn’t help smiling, thought, Whoever thought of making up those pancakes gets a Medal of Honor. If they’d have told us that’s what was waiting for us, we mighta beat hell out of the Chinese a whole lot sooner.

He stood alone in the cold dark, wasn’t sure just where to go, Welch off searching for officers, someone to tell them where they were supposed to be. All around the compound, men were standing in groups, huddling together against the windy cold. There were walking wounded as well, corpsmen guiding those men to the aid tents or the larger hospital, what seemed to resemble a ramshackle schoolhouse. Riley felt the cold again, leaking into his coat, his toes numb, his hands stuffed into his coat pocket. He looked toward the aid tents, trucks parked nearby, one more being unloaded, the stretcher bearers moving quickly, a doctor pointing the way. He had no idea what Killian’s truck had looked like, just one more out of dozens, but the guilt came now, a full belly, the stickiness still on his fingers. They must feed the wounded, he thought. Got to. His mind was racing now, thoughts of Captain Barber, the lieutenant, and all those men who had been carried off the hill in closed-up sleeping bags. Already, the Graves Registration people had gone to work, logging the names, checking them against the rosters from Fox Company, other companies, so many men hauled down from Yudam-ni. There were the missing, too, two men from Third Platoon simply gone, no sign of them, whether they had been captured, or simply buried in some snowy hole under a mass of Chinese bodies. Riley had been a part of the search, the team discovering one other corpse, a Marine from First Platoon who had moved out too far, cut down by the enemy, freezing stiff before anyone knew he was gone. All along the march down from the pass, he had thought of what they had left up on the hill, the amazing scene, so many Chinese bodies spread out across every stretch of open ground. Someone had made a count, Barber’s aides maybe, estimating a thousand enemy soldiers scattered in front of the guns on Fox Hill. Davis’s First Battalion had been the first to see that, their approach bringing them over the mass of enemy dead. Those Marines had offered salutes for that, raucous congratulations to the men of Fox Company for a job well done. They’re still up there, he thought. Nobody buried them, nobody hauled ’em off. And one day it’s gonna be spring. Then what? Somebody goes out there and finds ’em? Not a job I’d want.

“Hey, Pete. You get some pancakes?”

He knew the voice of Morelli, saw the kid bounding toward him, more energy than usual.

“Yeah. I won’t eat for a week.”

“I know. Me, too. Haven’t had coffee that good since I left home. You might wanna go back inside. Just as I was getting up, they starting putting out beef stew, noodles, and God knows what else. It’s like Christmas dinner and Easter Sunday rolled into one.”

“Not me, kid. Had all I could handle. What the hell time is it?”

Morelli shrugged. “Maybe three. I’m gonna wait for dawn, then have breakfast.”

Riley wasn’t in the mood for cheeriness, but he couldn’t escape Morelli, the kid beside him now, an overeager puppy. Riley said, “The sarge is off finding out what’s up. You oughta go look for him.”

Morelli didn’t get the hint, said, “They say we’re leaving this place pretty quick. I also heard we’re supposed to stay here until spring, holding the fort and all. The enemy’s getting ready to hit us hard. Someone said that, too. Someone else said the war’s over, the enemy’s done quit. There’s an army unit got busted up out east of the reservoir. I heard they might want us to go up thataway. Someone else—”

“And someone else said there’s a truck full of gorgeous Hollywood stars on their way here, just to lay a wet kiss on you. Jesus, kid, you oughta know better than to listen to all this crap. When they want us to move, or fight, or eat more pancakes, they’ll let us know.”

“I know. I just…I wasn’t sure I’d ever see any of this again. Look how many we are. Two whole regiments made it back here. Or what’s left of ’em. You see all those British guys, all spiffed up, like right out of a picture book? One of ’em slapped me on the back, handed me a pack of cigarettes. Guess I’ll start smoking. Don’t wanna hurt anybody’s feelings.”

Through the dull glow from the lantern light, he spotted Welch, moving toward him, a hard scowl on his face. Riley was grateful for the distraction, said, “What’s up, Sarge?”

“They’ve got a pile of warming tents set up for us over that way. The captain’s in that big tent right there. He’s not in command anymore.”

Riley felt a jolt. “Why?”

“He’s shot up too bad. I talked to Lieutenant Abell, the new CO. He’s from First Battalion. The captain and Lieutenant McCarthy are both being shipped out. Peterson, too. They’re finding somebody to take over Third Platoon from the replacements that are coming up here. Transports are hauling new guys in from the ships. Looks like we might get another ninety-day wonder.”

“Jesus, Hamp.”

Welch stared away, and Riley knew him well enough to know he was holding back emotion. Riley said, “It might not be all that bad. There’s probably some good officers still back in Pendleton.”

Welch still stared away. “Yeah. Like Goolsby.”

Riley didn’t want to think about him, had tried not to recall the image of the man’s wound, the small river of blood freezing to his forehead.

“I think we oughta go see the captain, if it’s okay. And I wanna find Killian.”

Welch looked at him again, nodded. “Yeah. I miss that Irish idiot. Maybe his wife’s sent some more of that good hooch.”