Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Riley felt the familiar rumble down low, said, “Hey, maybe you better tell them to hurry it up with that trench. What was that we had for dinner, anyway?”

“Pork. That South Korean officer came through this afternoon, and I guess he hit it off with Old Homer. Sent a flock of pigs our way. I thought we might have an old-fashioned barbecue, but the Koreans showed the cooks what to do. Big mistake, maybe. I always heard Korean pigs weren’t fit to eat.”

Riley was gingerly caressing his stomach. “I’m not convinced either way. Talk to me in the morning.”

“Jarheads! Listen up!” Riley knew the voice of the captain, the low talk all around them falling silent. “Where’s Lieutenant McCarthy?”

Welch stood, moved that way, said, “Aid station, sir. Checking on Rickman.”

“That’s okay. But I want him back quick. Where’s the adjutant, the new man…oh, hell. What’s his name?”

“Lieutenant Goolsby, sir?”

“Yeah. Goolsby.”

“He went with Lieutenant McCarthy.”

“Of course he did. Ten minutes, and you send someone to get both of them. Right?”

“Yes, sir. What’s up, Captain?”

“Orders. There’s a bees’ nest at division. Whole regiment getting ready to move. All I know. Find your lieutenants.”

Zorn moved off quickly, his voice coming again, farther, more instructions for the next platoon. Riley rose up, Welch standing close to him. Riley glanced skyward, a scattering of stars through patches of clouds. He thought of Rickman, the platoon’s first casualty. Riley didn’t know him well, a quiet man, all business, hit by a sniper on the advance that morning. The bullet found Rickman’s gut, the impact dropping the man in a tight curl. They didn’t hear the shot, the sniper far away, and the men responded by flattening out anywhere they happened to be. But McCarthy had pulled them back up, a sharp order to keep them moving. Goolsby had scampered all through the platoon, hauling the men back into line, McCarthy watching him with a hard stare. Riley had been impressed by that, the new lieutenant doing the right thing, not allowing the men to slow their own advance by reacting to an enemy that was so far away.

He could feel the men rising up, the fresh foxholes emptying, sleeping bags rolled tight, gear pulled together. Riley did as they all did, responding to the captain’s orders.

Killian was back, hard breathing, tossed the small shovel into the hole. Welch was moving through the men, came close now, said, “Well, Irish, I guess you owe me a latrine.”

“Yeah, I heard. What’s up, Sarge?”

“Orders to move.” Welch raised his voice. “Check your weapons. Make sure you got plenty of ammo.”

Riley pulled himself up, said, “Captain didn’t say anything about fighting. We just advancing?”

“I didn’t ask him, Pete. Somebody shoots at your ass, I expect you to shoot back.”

Killian grabbed for his gear, cursed, said, “There’s mail. Truck just pulled up back by the captain’s CP. Damn it all. I’m expecting a pile of stuff from my wife, and my kid’s just learning to draw pictures.”

Welch said, “It can wait. We figure out where we’ll be tomorrow night, that truck will still be there. Why the hell were you at the CP? You planning to dig your hole next to the captain’s bedroll?”

Killian didn’t respond, and Riley glanced around, said, “Where’s the kid?”

Killian kept working, said, “Hell if I know. He followed me back here, I think. I’m not his damn nursemaid.”

Riley searched the darkness, shadows and motion, low talk, the muffled sounds of equipment. Beside him, Welch said, “Let it go, Pete. He won’t get lost. Scared of the dark, so he’ll head for the noise.”

Killian made a nervous laugh. “Yeah. Great for a Marine. Run to Mommy when the sun goes down.”

Welch moved away, and Riley picked up the M-1, rubbed his hands down the stock, wiping away any dirt, felt the bandolier of magazines around his waist, a quick touch to the four grenades on his chest. He searched the dark again, said to Killian, “You shoulda kept an eye on him. He’s too green.”

Through the darkness, a stumble, heavy breathing. The voice came now, high-pitched, excited.

“Fox Company? Third Platoon?”

Riley felt a hint of relief, said, “Yeah, kid, you’re in the right place.”

“We’re moving, huh? In the dark? Won’t be light for a while.”

Killian sniffed. “Hell, kid, it’s not even midnight. Just don’t fall asleep and run up my ass.”

Riley ignored Killian’s disdain, said, “Get your gear together. Don’t leave anything behind.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Okay.”

Morelli moved off to his own foxhole and Riley slung the M-1 onto his shoulder, heard Zorn again, with another officer, pulling the men together, hushed orders, the urgency rolling through all of them. There was rifle fire, a heavy machine gun, then more, out to one side. He caught a glimpse of tracers, red, comforting, their own fire, but now the North Koreans were answering, blue tracers, something new. He stared for a long moment, the kid again, close beside him.

“What’s all that? We going that way?”

Riley had no time for a lesson, the tension rising inside him.

“We’re going where they tell us. You got your rifle?”

“Right here. I’m ready. I’m ready.”

The tension in the boy’s voice bordered on panic, and Riley grabbed Morelli’s bony shoulder.

“Calm down, kid. We start moving, there might be enemy, or maybe not. We might just be moving to fill in empty ground. Stay low, don’t shoot at anything unless you’re sure. The captain will tell us what’s up.”

He could feel a shiver in the boy’s arm, tried to avoid that himself.

“It’s dark, Pete.”

“Yeah, kid, it’s dark.”

The sounds came first, the hard rumble of a tank, the harsh whisper from in front, the men responding by sliding off the road, lying low, blind. Riley felt soft, wet grass beneath him, lay on a slope, his feet in something wet. The roar from the tank was closer, the ground vibrating, voices, strange, foreign. He rose up slightly, strained to see, the great hulk in the road coming closer, and now a heavy foot in the middle of his back. He grunted, rolled, the man tripping, a cry, surprise. Riley pulled the M-1 up, tried to catch details, anything, the man jogging up into the road, more men, the voices growing, and now a bright light, blinding, from the tank.

The firing began, all sides of him, the others in the ditch spraying the tank, the men who kept close to it. Riley felt the desperate agony of fear, searched still for the man who had stepped on him, the spotlight now moving past him, fire on both sides. He fought to see, kept flat, cold screams in his head, the terror of the darkness, held himself low, still, the sounds of a growing fight all around him. The light was out now, the tank peppered by fire from the Marines on both sides of the road, the great beast answering with machine gun fire of its own. The Koreans were shouting, orders, noise, a bugle, the chaos swallowing Riley, swallowing all of them. The road was alive with men, most of them jogging toward the Marines, some stopping to fire, flashes of light, heavy footsteps moving past him in the ditch. He watched them come, searched for the good target, but there were too many, the fire whistling past him from both sides. One man moved up slowly, close, and Riley reached out, grabbed the man’s leg, pulling him down in a heap, the man rolling over Riley’s body. He pulled the knife, a quick lunge, the Korean crying out, another lunge, soft flesh, the Korean down, beneath Riley, still no sounds, the man’s stink engulfing him. Riley’s breaths were hard and heavy, thunder in his chest, and he rolled himself upright, to his knees, the knife in one hand, the fury, the hate preparing him to do it again. And now a machine gun opened up, far down the road behind the Marines, the spray of lead ripping above him. He flattened, a silent curse, could hear men hit, falling, hard cries, more Koreans crawling close to him. He let them go, the machine gun fire too close, nothing to do but stay low. There was a massive blast, burst of fire, the tank erupting thirty yards away, the fire illuminating the roadway. Another machine gun chimed in, tearing up the road, slicing through the Koreans who scrambled for cover. He stared at the tank, flames erupting from inside, enemy troops scrambling away, leaving their steel protection. He pulled the M-1 up, no aim, jabbed it into a man’s groin as he passed, fired, then rolled over, found another target, easy now, the flames on the tank lighting the scene. He pulled the M-1 to his shoulder, fired again, the Korean a few feet away, falling forward. There were more, coming back along the road, some cut down quickly by the machine gun, most in a full run. He searched for another target, fired again without aim, then again. Now the voices changed, Marines, moving up closer, calling out, rapid fire from carbines and rifles, the machine gun silent. The tank continued to burn, the bodies in the road bathed in orange light, and he stayed on his knees, eyes on the tank, men beneath it, burning bodies.