Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Welch started toward the larger tents, Morelli hanging back. Riley looked at him, motioned with his hand.

“Come on, kid.”

Welch led the way to the tent, men emerging with empty stretchers, another truck rumbling up close. Riley looked that way, the faint light from a handful of lanterns reflecting off a mound of bodies lashed to the truck’s hood. The driver jumped down now, his arm bandaged, the man staggering to his knees. Riley moved that way, caught the man before he collapsed in the snow. He called out to the corpsmen, “Hey! Right here! He’s hurt.”

The stretcher bearers moved out from behind the truck, a man hauled between them, one of them calling out, “Corpsman!”

Another man appeared out of the big tent now, and Riley stood back, the corpsman kneeling down, talking to the driver, reaching into the man’s coat, one hand on the man’s neck. The corpsman backed away, still on his knees, the driver tilting slowly, falling to one side. Riley moved closer, said, “Hey, what the hell? Help him inside.”

The corpsman looked at him, then away, stood slowly, held out one hand, covered in wet blood.

“He didn’t make it. Hole in his chest. Musta had just enough left in him to get his buddies here. I been seeing this all night. Just about every truck driver is shot up. This one’s a hero.”

Riley felt a hand on his shoulder, the voice of Welch.

“You can’t fix it, Pete. Let’s go inside.”

Riley kept his eyes on the driver, felt the agonizing helplessness, so familiar now. Like Goolsby, he thought.

“Yeah. I gotta see Killian. Make sure he’s okay.”

They moved into the tent, more stretcher bearers coming out past them, another truck rolling up, a squeal of brakes, another load of wounded, more corpses tied to the hood.

He didn’t expect to see tears, Killian’s words coming out in a spray of cursing.

“They’re shipping me out! Damn it all! I might never walk again, that’s what one jackass said. Crippled up forever! On account of these damn shoe pac boot things.”

Riley stood silently, Morelli beside him, Welch coming up now.

“Hey, Irish. Guess you’ll get your Purple Heart. I talked to that guy in the white coat. He says you’re going home tomorrow.”

It was Welch’s effort at cheerfulness, and Killian said, “Keep the damn medal. Give me back my feet. What’s my wife gonna say? They gotta give me a fake foot, maybe half a leg.”

Killian’s voice was carrying, faces looking that way, and Riley felt uncomfortable now, said, “You’re going home, Sean. Ain’t that enough? You’re alive, for Chrissakes.”

Killian turned away, the tears still flowing. Riley glanced at Welch, expected anger, saw it. But Welch spoke in low words, his voice calm. “I just saw Captain Barber. He took a bad wound on his thigh, just below his groin. Walking may not be the worst thing he misses. There’s a guy over there who’s lost half his face. A half dozen down this next row missing a whole limb, some more than one. Tell them how bad your wife is gonna feel.”

Killian looked at Welch, then lay back, closed his eyes. After a long moment, he said, “I don’t wanna go home, Sarge. I know I’m not all that busted up. But you guys are the whole thing, you know? I got nothing back home. I couldn’t hardly get a job before, and now I’m a gimp. Everybody in this place says how great it is that I’m not dead.” He paused. “Up on that hill…I kinda felt like it was the right place to cash it all in. Like it was my time. I ain’t never done anything in my life that felt as good as that. When those Shambos were close enough to smell, God, Sarge, it was fun . Now, I have to go home and be…normal.”

HAGARU-RI—DECEMBER 4, 9:00 A.M.

As they waited for the planes to land, the medical aides had laid the wounded under thick piles of rice straw, each man inside a sleeping bag, no one complaining, even if they were cold. Some of the men were unconscious, heavy doses of morphine, others more excited to be awake, their wounds not erasing the joy at the sight of the C-47s that would haul them south.

There were others, too, the quiet ones, and Riley saw faces looking at him, could feel the guilt, the odd need to stay out here, that even if they couldn’t fight, they didn’t want to leave their units, or abandon the men who had shared the foxholes. Riley stayed close to Killian, neither man speaking, Riley fighting the cold, while the Irishman fought his tears.

The plane touched down, the ground crews moving quickly, and Riley watched as the plane disgorged its passengers, a dozen men who stepped onto the icy tarmac like green sausages. Replacements, he thought. He was curious about them, saw men with bandaged hands, their coats worn, dirty, others cloaked in everything fresh. Maybe they’re ours, he thought. God, I hope not.

Welch had learned that Fox Company had barely sixty effective men, but Lieutenant Abell was anticipating a hundred new faces. And none of them will be Killian, he thought. They’ll be like the kid, too eager and too stupid, and it will take blood and bullets to teach them anything.

“Okay, load ’em up!”

Riley stood back, the crews moving to the wounded men, sweeping away the straw, each man carried quickly toward the open maw of the plane’s belly. He looked again at Killian, saw red eyes staring back, struggled to say something, anything that would matter.

“Hey, Sean! They got nurses on those hospital ships, you know.” There was no response from Killian, and Riley felt idiotic. The crews worked their way down the row, the man beside Killian carried off now. Riley moved closer again, put a hand on Killian’s arm. “Time to go. It’ll be okay. Your wife will be happy as hell to see you. I promise.”

Killian nodded, more tears, said, “I know. I hate leaving this. That’s all. Maybe they’ll fix me up and I’ll be back.”

“Go home, Sean. Go plant some flowers and mow your grass, and maybe hatch a couple more kids.”

“You sound like Colleen. That’s what she wants.”

“It’s what we all want. Some of us just don’t know it yet.”

The stretcher bearers were there now, a quick glance at Riley, and one man said, “Heads up. You’re the last one on this run. Another plane coming in a few minutes.”

Killian held out a hand, and Riley took it, a hard squeeze. The bearers paused, but Riley could feel their impatience, no one enjoying the cold. He backed away, Killian up and moving, the rumble from the plane’s engines sweeping away his words. Riley watched as he was loaded on the plane, felt a man moving up beside him. He glanced to the side, saw Welch, who said, “He gone?”

“Yep.”

He saw now, Welch holding a package, and Welch said, “Mail run. Came in this morning. Looks like his wife sent another loaf of bread.”

Riley looked out toward the plane, moving away now, rolling out toward the strip. “Guess he wouldn’t need it anyway.”

Welch shook his head. “Nah. They’d have taken it away from him. Regulations, and all.”

Riley looked at the fat package, Welch staring at the plane. Riley said, “So, what say we go drink a toast. To Irishmen everywhere.”

“In a minute.”

Riley heard a crack in Welch’s voice, both men watching the plane taxi to the far end of the strip, a hard roar of the engines, the plane moving slowly, gaining speed, lifting off as it passed by. They were both silent, stood for a long moment, and he looked at Welch, the thick grime through the man’s ragged beard, red eyes, and icy tears.