Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

“Good God. You sure, son?”

“He’s dead, sir. There’s no doubt.”

Riley looked at Welch, who dropped his head, and Riley said, “He made it out of Toktong Pass without a scratch. They said he was the only officer who did.”

Welch said, “So did we. No one’s wearing a lucky charm out here.”

Behind Welch, Abell said, “The trucks are moving up. Let’s load up the casualties.”

They had marched more than three miles, more roadblocks, more casualties. Up on the ridges on both sides of the road, Riley could hear the firefights, some brief, some more intense. But the greatest distraction was the air cover, the Corsairs and other bombers unloading on pockets of the enemy wherever they were found. From the men down on the road, the blasts of rocket fire and fiery bursts of napalm brought cheers, and outbursts of amazement from the new men. The aircraft hit the roadblocks as well, adding enormous firepower that swept away most of the enemy resistance. For most of the day, the fighting was brief and sporadic, the enemy content to strike quickly, then fall back, unwilling or unable to make a strong stand.

As dark began to settle over the heights around them, Abell passed the word. The order had come from Litzenberg that the company was to keep going, advancing as much as possible, even in the darkness.

Riley kept his eyes on Welch, the steady rhythm of his footsteps. There was little else to see, the roadside dotted with occasional huts and run-down farmhouses, most of them wrecked by artillery or torched by fire from the planes. For much of the day, the tanks had moved forward, leading the way, and Riley tried to feel comfort from that, but there were doubts as well. Some of the men kept close to the big machines, warmed by the stinking exhaust, for most, a welcome trade. Riley was too far back in line, and with the darkness settling in, he thought of the tankers, a job he never wanted. But now those boys are warm, he thought, and they’re buttoned up tight. Not a bad place to be when you can’t see a damn thing. Ain’t seen much the Chinese have that can hurt those fellows, as long as they keep their hatches closed. Wonder what they can see from inside the damn things. Or maybe they don’t bother looking. They leave that to us.

The fighting on the darkening ridges above had grown quiet, a surprise, especially with the planes returning to their bases. He saw Welch wave a hand, move off to one side of the road, the column slowing. Riley moved up beside him, felt the misery of cold, wet socks, said, “We gotta change socks, Sarge. We stopping for long?”

“Hell if I know. Something’s up. Hey, what’s that?”

Riley listened, nothing, but Welch held up his hand, the men around him silent. Riley heard it now, a faint voice, “Help! American!”

Welch pointed. “There. Easy. Spread out.”

Riley saw Abell now, the lieutenant moving closer to Welch.

“What is it?”

“Somebody in one of those huts. Maybe. Not sure. Could be Chinks.”

The voice came again, slightly above the road, and Riley could make out the group of small huts, the voice more distinct.

“American!”

Abell said to Welch, “Check it out. Careful. Those bastards speak English when they want to.”

Welch began to climb off the road, the rest of his squad following. The call continued, high and faint, coming clearly from one of the huts. Welch moved that way, waved the others out in a wide formation, a quick glance at Kane. Welch whispered, “Get up here. You see Chinks, you unload that thing.”

Kane moved forward, out to the left of Welch, the BAR held ready. Welch leveled the Thompson, Riley up to the other side, the M-1 pointing, four more men out past Riley. He ignored them, kept his eyes on the darkened hut, dim light, an odd stink. Welch dropped down to one knee, still pointing the Thompson, said, “Hey! You wounded?”

“Oh, God. American. Yes, help.”

“So who’s Ted Williams play for?”

“Red Sox. Red Sox!”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Jim Kalin, Corporal. George Three One.”

Welch absorbed that, said, “Come out.”

“Can’t. Can’t walk.”

Welch pointed at Riley, motioned him forward. Riley let out a cold breath, his heart pumping, crept forward, the rifle ready, pushed the muzzle into the opening of the hut. In the faint light, he saw the man, lying up against one side of the small hut, bodies beside him.

“Thank God. Thank God.”

Riley glanced around the hut, nothing else, called out, “I got him.”

Welch was there quickly, a glance at the man, then a hard shout, “Corpsman!”

Riley moved to the man, the pungent stink overwhelming, Kalin stammering now, a pool of emotion.

“Oh, God. Thank you. Check these fellows. I think they’re dead. But check.”

The corpsman was there now, and Riley recognized him, Rebbert, a longtime veteran. Rebbert moved quickly, kneeling close to Kalin, said, “Can you feel your legs? Are you wounded?”

“No. They busted me up good. Can’t walk.”

Riley bent low, one hand probing the other men, each one cold and stiff.

“Sorry, pal. They’re gone.”

Kalin said something, too low to hear, and Rebbert said, “Let’s get him to the trucks. We’ll have to carry him.”

Welch moved in, Riley beside him, Welch calling out, “Morelli. Make yourself useful.”

The kid was there now, breathing heavily, and Welch said to Kalin, “It’s okay, sport. We got ya. How long you been here?”

They hoisted Kalin up from beneath his arms, a sharp cry.

“My legs. Oh, damn.”

Rebbert said something unintelligible, and Riley could see him pull something from his mouth, a syringe.

“Here. This will help.”

The needle went in, Kalin calming immediately, and he said, “Four days, five. Not sure. They gave me a couple potatoes to eat. I tried to help the others, thought we’d all just freeze. They left us. Didn’t come back.”

They had him upright, Welch leading the way out of the hut, a fresh burst of cold enveloping Riley. They moved slowly down the hill, Kalin’s legs dangling, dead weight. On the road, the column had continued to move, trucks in line, moving slowly. Rebbert called out, one truck stopping, a squeal of brakes, the group carrying Kalin to the rear of the truck. Riley saw inside, men with fresh wounds, two men laid out with sleeping bags over them. Abell climbed up, said, “Lift him up here.”

They hoisted Kalin into the truck, the man out completely now, a wounded man making space. Abell said, “How many more are there?”

Welch said, “Just him, sir. Three more didn’t make it.”

Behind Abell, one of the wounded men said, “Jesus. What happened to him?”

Welch said, “He’s been out here for days. Chinks left him behind. Try to keep him warm, okay?”

The man examined Kalin, said, “Hey, pal, you’re gonna be all right now. Holy cow, he’s a Marine. What the hell’s he doing out here?”

Abell said, “He’s part of Task Force Drysdale. Road up ahead is a mess. Burnt trucks, bodies all over the place. Let’s move out.”

Abell jumped down, moved toward the front of the truck, tapped the passenger-side door, the truck lurching forward slowly. Riley kept pace, the smell easing, replaced by the sharp chill from his breathing. They moved as quickly as Abell could walk, and Riley saw the rest of the platoon, familiar faces, men scattered out along both sides of the road. It was almost full dark now, and he heard low talk, caught a new smell, burnt vehicles, saw one group of men in a tight knot, Abell moving that way.

“What’s up?”

The men made way, and Riley saw now bodies in a pile off the side of the road. They were white, crusted with snow, and naked. Abell knelt low, a small flashlight in his hand, said, “They’ve still got dog tags. All right, let me grab one of the trucks, somebody who’s got room. Then we’ll put ’em aboard.”