Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

He heard the rumble of the tanks coming up from behind, saw a man moving back toward him, breathing a thick fog. It was the new CO, Lieutenant Abell, halting in the road, waving toward the lead tank. The tank slowed, and Abell climbed up onto the rear of the machine, dug out the intercom telephone, shouted something, still shouting as the tank rolled past Riley. Abell climbed up on the tank’s turret, pounding angrily on the hatch, and Riley heard the words now, “Open the damn hatch, you jackass!” The tank stopped now, the hatch opening slightly, Abell’s face down low, hot talk Riley couldn’t hear. The lieutenant backed away, jumped down, and the turret began to turn, the big gun pointing out to one side of the road. Riley was curious, followed the aim, saw a small cabin barely visible against the hillside, a hint of movement there, and the tank’s gun erupted, a loud thump, the cabin shattered in a fiery blast. Abell shouted out toward Welch, “Take your squad up there. Check it out. Eyes open!”

Welch called out, “First squad, up the hill! Let’s go!”

Riley followed, questions in his mind, a half-dozen men moving with him. They ran as quickly as the shoe pacs would allow, Riley already gasping for air, the usual burn in his throat and lungs. They were there quickly, and he kept his eyes on Welch, saw him pointing the Thompson toward the wreckage of the cabin. Riley saw the small fires, the remnants of the blast, and scattered through the wreckage, bodies of the enemy.

“You heard the LT. Keep your damn eyes open!”

Riley studied the Chinese soldiers, some of them in mangled pieces, was surprised to see two of them cloaked in American coats. “Hey, Sarge! You sure they’re Chinese?”

Welch pushed into the shattered timbers, reached down, rolled one man over, said, “They’re Chinks. I guess they been souvenir hunting, too.” He called out, “Now listen up! You didn’t even know these bastards were up here! Lieutenant Abell spotted them. They’re just letting us pass by for now. Seen this before. They just watch us, then when we think we’re safe, they smack us from behind. Or the men behind us, the trucks, think we’ve cleared the way, and they get slammed from the flanks. Keep your eyes alert. It’s full daylight soon.”

Riley knew most of that was aimed at the new men, and he moved closer to Welch, a low voice, “Did you spot them?”

Welch slung the Thompson on his shoulder. “Hell no. I was kinda enjoying the peace and quiet. I guess we gotta figure they’re out here on every damn hill.”

“I suppose we owe the lieutenant for this one. They coulda hit us hard.”

Welch moved to another body, kicked it lightly. “That’s why he wears the silver bar. Let’s get back to the road. We’re holding up the whole works.”

The Chinese were firing from behind a burnt-out jeep, other wreckage blocking the road. Riley had rolled down low in the snowy grass, close beside the road, more firing coming down from the hill to the left. He pulled himself small, no cover at all, the chatter of machine gun fire raking the road beside him. The men around him were returning fire, and Riley slid the M-1 up to his shoulder, peered up carefully, then down flat again. The roadblock was just past a curve in the road, two hundred yards away. In front of him, a loud shout, “Where’s that damn tank?”

More men were calling out, and Riley heard a loud grunt, too familiar. He turned that way, saw blood on the hood of the man’s coat, a large rip across the back of the man’s head. He felt a jolt, shouted out, “Corpsman!”

“Not now! He’s had it!” He knew the voice, Welch, sliding up close. “I saw him hit. He raised up his head, and I was just about to give him hell. The bullet went through him, hit me in the arm.”

“Who…?”

“New guy. That Georgia cracker. Christ, this hurts.”

Riley felt a burst of alarm, scanned Welch’s coat. “Where? You hit bad? You need a corpsman?”

“Don’t think so. His brains slowed it down. My coat did the rest. Mighta busted a bone.”

“Let me see it.”

“Go to hell. We got an enemy up there. Find somebody to shoot at.”

A machine gun opened up on the heights above them, the icy road peppered again. Riley pulled himself in tight, felt Welch beside him, rolling over. The Thompson fired now, then stopped, Welch shouting, “He’s right above us! That clump of brush. Take him out!”

The men on both sides of the road responded, a chorus of firing, and Riley saw the muzzle of the machine gun protruding from a brushy thicket. He slid the M-1 up, aimed, fired, then again. The machine gun went silent, but he saw the grenade now, a high arc, tumbling down, bouncing on the hard road. Others saw it as well, shouts, “Grenade!”

The blast sprayed him with hard dirt, and there was more rifle fire, another machine gun opening up from the roadblock ahead. Riley gasped for air, the cold forgotten, saw Welch’s face, crusted with dirt and ice. Welch said, “You okay?”

Riley took a long breath, said, “Think so. A few feet shorter and we’d have shared that grenade between us.”

“Yeah. Where the hell is that tank?”

The answer came now, behind them, the hard thump of the gun, a blast impacting the roadblock. Another came now, and in front of them, a shout, “Up! Hit ’em!”

The men began to rise, Welch up quickly, Riley beside him. In front of them, two dozen men surged forward, and Riley saw Kane moving to one side, the men in front of them falling flat, firing steadily. Kane stayed up in the road, flattened out behind the BAR. There was more fire from another BAR, Kane joining in, and behind them, another hard thump from the tank. Riley kept on his stomach, just off the road, saw Welch rise, firing the Thompson. He aimed the M-1, fired, no targets, just the blackened wreck on the road, movement beyond.

The voice came again, from up in front. “Go! They’re running!”

The men rose up again, a hard scamper toward the roadblock, no enemy fire. Riley ran as quickly as he could, gasping cold air, Marines reaching the roadblock, firing farther down the road. He stumbled, cursed the clumsiness of the shoe pacs, saw a body to one side, men low around it, kept moving. He was at the wrecked jeep now, collapsed to his knees, searched the slopes to both sides, saw men up on the high ridges, Marines, pushing forward. Around him, the harsh order, “Cease fire! Save your ammo!”

The rifles went silent, and he saw Abell, peering up past the jeep. More men were coming forward, and Abell waved them out to both sides of the road. Behind Riley, the tank was rolling closer, and Abell squatted down behind the jeep, called out, “Good job! You’ve taken out your first roadblock. Gather up, prepare to move out!”

Riley thought of the dead man, saw Welch, said, “We should check on that guy, make sure he’s not wounded.”

Welch pointed back, and Riley saw a pair of corpsmen, slipping quickly between several downed men.

“They’ll figure it out. We got better things to do.”

“What was his name? I don’t remember.”

Welch seemed to think for a long second, shook his head. “From Georgia. Talked with a mouth full of molasses. Just came in yesterday. They’ll grab his dog tags.”

Riley looked back that way, a half dozen wounded, said, “Jesus. His first day?”

“It happens. You know that.”

“Yeah. I guess. How’s your arm?”

“Nothing. Hell of a bruise, probably. I guess I owe that fellow something.”

A man jogged forward now, moved toward Abell, said, “Lieutenant, sir?”

“What?”

“Sir, Lieutenant Dunne’s dead, sir. Back there a ways.”

Riley saw shock on Abell’s face, unexpected.