Jeff Shaara: The Frozen Hours

Welch pointed silently, and Abell looked that way, shook his head.

“Can you do anything?”

Rebbert looked back toward the road, and Riley was surprised to see red, tearful eyes.

“He’s done for, sir. Frozen extremities. He gets warm, his wound will just bleed out. If we can fix that, the pain will kill him. I can’t give a little kid morphine.”

Abell put his hands on his hips, said, “We’ll try. Who wants to carry him?”

Morelli raised his hand, said, “I’ll do it, sir.”

Rebbert covered the child again, stood, said, “I’m telling you, sir, he’s done for. The legs are infected, his hand’s frozen stiff. Sir, there’s nothing we can do. Nothing will fix him.”

Abell seemed angry now, frustration boiling over. “Damn it all! Carry him anyway.” Abell turned away, moved toward the front of the column, stopped, said, “Listen up! Radio says there’s a pile of locals, refugees, coming out from every hole. There’s already a pile of ’em following the march. Don’t shoot anybody just because they got slant-eyes, you hear me?”

Welch stepped up toward the road, looked at Abell, said, “What the hell do they want, LT?”

Abell shrugged. “They don’t want to be Chinese, I guess. Battalion says keep an eye on ’em, watch for infiltrators. There have been Chinese soldiers slipping along with ’em. If they’re surrendering, grab ’em. If they try anything, then you can shoot ’em.”

Abell moved away now, and Welch gave a last glance to the men at the hut, moved into the road.

“Let’s go.”

Riley looked toward the hut, saw Morelli bending low, Rebbert lifting the child, the child letting out a hard cry. Morelli was talking to the child in low whispers, Rebbert wrapping the blanket around the small body. The whimpering came again, then quieted, and Riley felt relief, thought, He’s okay, I guess. Rebbert worked on the child for a long moment, then said, “Hey, Sarge. It’s no good.”

Welch was angrier now, impatient. “What’s no good? Get him out here. The kid wants to carry him, he can carry him.”

Morelli lowered the bundle to the frozen ground, kept to his knees, soft words. Rebbert put a hand on Morelli’s shoulder, said, “Sarge, I told you. It was no good. The child’s dead.”

Welch said, “What do you mean he’s dead? Just like that?”

Rebbert pulled Morelli up by the shoulder of his coat and Riley saw dull shock on Morelli’s face. Morelli said, “He just quit. Stopped breathing. He was stiff as a board, damn near.”

Riley closed his eyes again, didn’t want to hear any more. He shouldered the rifle, looked up along the ridgeline above them, saw Marines moving out that way, the constant push to protect the column. He flexed his stiff toes, icy wetness, the twisting misery in his stomach. Behind him, Morelli moved back to his place in the march and Riley heard sobs, Morelli, his eyes down. They began to move again, the sounds returning, a truck to their front, more behind, and along the roadside, another string of shattered huts.

The refugees had been as Abell described, a gathering parade of misery, old men and women, suffering children, and the younger men who tried to blend in. Many of those were soldiers who had given up the fight, Chinese and even North Korean troops, some not bothering to hide their uniforms or coats. Many of those were injured, light wounds or, more likely, severe frostbite. But there were others who still knew their duty, who worked their way close to the column of Marines, close to a truck of wounded men, only to toss a grenade, pull a burp gun from inside their clothing. There were casualties, but not many, the infiltrators not surviving long, the Marines offering no mercy to the enemy who had shown none.

As they continued the downhill march, Riley ignored the harsh shrieks of the heavy artillery shells passing overhead, big guns in Hungnam still engaged, the artillery impacting pockets of Chinese troops all along the main road. Behind them, Murray’s Fifth again brought up the rear, those men cleaning up the last remnants of whatever stand the Chinese were still willing to make. As the Marines reached the outposts north of Hungnam, the Chinese finally backed away. The officers already in the port city had no idea if the enemy had been ordered to stand down by their commanders, or whether the smaller units had withdrawn on their own, conceding that the great struggle was past.

HUNGNAM, NORTH KOREA—DECEMBER 12, 1950

The beards were still there, the men only slightly more clean, no one with any real incentive to change out their uniforms. At the medical tents and the larger hospitals, men gathered to ask about friends, seeking any information they might find.

Riley had stood in line for more than an hour, an unsatisfying and fruitless effort to learn something about Killian. He moved across an open field now, tents lined up to one side, a formation of parked trucks behind him. He wasn’t sure just what to do, had eaten all his uncertain belly would absorb. He thought of returning to the bivouac, had heard there would be another mail run later in the day. The letters from Ruthie had been waiting for him, four in all, perfume and sweetness, a photo of mother and son beside their Christmas tree. He carried that now, slid into his shirt, argued with himself if he should do that, if keeping her so close would only make him more homesick. I’m here, he thought. And that sure as hell ain’t changing anytime soon. But by damn, I do love looking at both of ’em. One day soon, I hope to God, it’s all three of us.

“Hey, Pete!”

He knew the voice, saw Welch limping toward him. Riley waited, watched him, knew better than to scold him.

“Howdy do, Hamp. How you feeling?”

“Hurts like hell. Not bad enough for morphine, and I don’t want that crap inside me anyway. I guess if McCarthy hadn’t gone down, he’d have chewed on my ass to check my feet more. You find out about Irish?”

Riley shook his head. “They got nothing on him here. Said he probably flew straight to Japan, with the worst foot cases. I’ll track him down sooner or later.”

Welch was serious now. “Not likely. I heard all that garbage about us being shipped home. It ain’t happening. They’re loading us up on those tubs out there, moving us down to Pusan. It’ll be a while before the rest of us go home.”

Riley felt a punch in his chest. “So much for being home for Christmas.”

“I never believed that anyway. I heard from the LT, Eighth Army got way more busted up than we did. They couldn’t even hold on to Pyongyang. The whole UN force has pulled back below the boundary with the North. Brass is saying the Chinese won’t stop there, that maybe in the spring, we get hit even more.”

Riley absorbed that, said, “So, we’re back where we started from.”

“Yep. Everybody’s waiting to hear what MacArthur is gonna do next. Meantime, we gotta get shipshape. They just put up a flock of shower tents back behind the truck park. I’ve gotta get rid of this fur on my face. And you could use a good dose of soaping, too.”

Riley pulled the photo from his pocket. “Yeah, I guess. Look here. Ruthie sent this. She had her pop get us a Christmas tree. She and Peter decorated it all up. He’s grown, Hamp. He’s up to her waist now.”

Welch scanned the photo, smiled, held it for a long minute. “God, he looks like you. Poor kid.” Welch kept his eyes on the photo, no smile now. “I want me one of those, Pete. I want the whole package.”

Riley was surprised, saw more seriousness than he expected. “Hell, you got fifteen names in your book. Just pick one. You’re a war hero now. They’ll go all gooey just hearing about it.”

It was a joke, but Welch didn’t smile.