Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

The MP made a quick nod, moved away, the other MPs motioning the prisoners into line, marching them into captivity.

Riley watched Goolsby again, the young lieutenant trying to gather himself. On the road, more Marines were moving up, the rest of the platoon, another platoon behind them. The prisoners had their full attention, the men offering a chorus of catcalls and hoots. Lieutenant McCarthy was there, and with him Captain Zorn. Zorn moved up closer to Goolsby, said in a low voice, “Let’s move out, Lieutenant. This is protocol. No atrocities here.”

Goolsby lowered his head, said, “Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

Zorn called out, “Fox, Third Platoon will lead the way. Keep it close. Dark in an hour, and we’re moving up in support of First Battalion. We’ll make camp in a field up ahead. Good work with the prisoners. Move out.”

The men were all in motion now, two parallel lines, spread out to either side of the narrow road. The talk started again, laughter, and Riley knew the jokes would come next, the big talkers talking big. He picked up the rhythm of the footsteps in front of him, kept his distance behind Welch, Killian falling in across the road, the routine of the march.

SOUTH OF UIJONGBU—OCTOBER 3, 1950

The foxholes were dug, but this time the men didn’t have to rely on C-rations. With Seoul secure, the trucks had come up in support, bringing all manner of supplies, including one of those marvelous luxuries every Marine hoped for: hot food.

Uijongbu had been quiet for a while now, darkness offering what seemed to be a peaceful night, the Marines closer to the town making more efficient progress than had been made in Seoul. The men of Zorn’s company were spread out alongside other companies of the Seventh, McCarthy’s Third Platoon grateful for the order to enjoy the meal provided by someone higher up the chain of command.

Men were moving about in the darkness, some dropping down into their holes, the click of weapon checks, canteens, low chatty talk. A few yards from Riley, Welch sat against an old tree stump, his knees bent, seemed to be writing, and to one side of him, Killian was doing the same. Riley thought of the mail call late that afternoon, Killian finally getting his wife’s package. Riley watched them both for a long, quiet moment, said, “Hey. How can you two see what you’re writing? It’s dark, for Chrissakes.”

Welch ignored him, but the big Irishman took the bait.

“You got something to say, you don’t need to see the paper. It just comes out. Poetic, too, some of it. She’ll appreciate it, for sure.”

“If you say so. Didn’t know we had a poet in the outfit. How ’bout you, Sarge?”

“Shut up. I’m thinking.”

Riley thought of Killian’s package. “Hey, Sean. You inclined to share any of that stuff from home?”

Killian looked up. “Yeah, sure. Cookies. Want one? All I got left is oatmeal. Hammered the sugar cookies soon as I got ’em. Do that every damn time. Brain tells me, Hey, stupid, save some, but my mouth says, Just give me the whole batch.”

He shuffled through his backpack, pulled out a small box, leaned out, Riley meeting him halfway.

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

“Yep, you do. When these are gone, no telling when she’ll send more. Took her a month to send these, and I been begging in every damn letter I write.”

“Maybe the poetry will help.”

“Can’t hurt.”

Welch looked up from his own letter, said, “Both of you are gonna end up squatting over that stinking latrine. I seen more jarheads get the trots from home packages than from C-rations. Your gut’s not used to soft living.”

Killian said, “Cookie, Sarge?”

Welch didn’t hesitate. “Sure. Thanks.”

Morelli came up through the darkness, always in a hurry. “Hey, Sarge, where’s my foxhole? This one?”

To one side, the BAR man, Kane. “Over here, kid. Jeez, somebody get him a map.”

Killian looked up at Morelli, said, “Hey, kid, you play poker?”

“Um, no, not really. Played a little on the ship over here. Lost a week’s pay.”

The Irishman laughed. “That’s how it’s supposed to work. You pay for the privilege of a good time, getting to know your comrades. Beats doing nothing.”

“Maybe. Coulda used that pay. My mama’s expecting it, says she’s counting on it every month.”

Riley wanted to ask, let it go. But Killian wasn’t so discreet. “So, you live with your mama? Bet you got a house full of bambinos, and a hot little sister, too, I bet. She like Irishmen?”

Killian laughed, and Riley couldn’t help a smile, Welch chuckling as well. The others were offering up comments of their own, and Riley began to feel sorry for Morelli, standing still in the dark, thought, I can see how red his face is from here. He slipped down into the foxhole, said, “It’s okay, kid, they need somebody to rag. For now, you’re it. We get more replacements, it’ll be your turn to dish it out. You’ll be the veteran.”

Morelli knelt down close to Riley, said in a low voice, “It’s okay. I like it, sorta. He’s right, though. I live with my folks back in Jersey. No sister, though. Just four brothers, one older. He’s in politics.”

Riley looked at Morelli through the darkness. “What’s that mean?”

“He figured out how to keep from coming over here. Knows people. I told him I signed up on purpose, he went nuts. Said he coulda had me put into any job I wanted. He thinks he’s gonna be mayor of Jersey City someday.”

“Yeah, great. I’m with you. I’d rather be a jarhead.”

Morelli sat close beside him now, keeping his voice low. “You married, Pete?”

“Yep. Christmas makes five years. Little Ruthie.” He smiled, let the image flow into him. “Tiny thing. Five feet nothing. Miss her like hell. My boy, too.”

“You got a son?”

“Peter Junior. He’ll turn four soon. She won’t let me call him Pete. Says he’s gonna be more respectable than his old man. Get a good education, not like me. She says there’s no way he’s gonna grow up a Marine. Only one man in the family allowed to spend his days getting shot at. We had a few rounds about that one. I say let the boy make up his own mind.” He smiled, shook his head. “Here’s some advice for you, kid. Choose carefully what you wanna argue about. Best to let ’em have their way more often than not. When it matters to you, really matters, well, then okay, stand up. Keeps the peace. Peace is good, I promise you. Grew up with war, every damn day. Pop and Mama raising hell about nothing at all. Bad stuff, there.”

“What they fight about?”

Riley brought himself back to the moment, the darkness, low sounds around him. “None of your damn business. What you wanna know this stuff for, anyway?”

The boy lowered his head, leaned closer still, a quiet voice. “I gotta tell you, Pete, those MPs today. I never seen that before. None of it.”

Riley wasn’t sure what he meant, said, “Not likely any of us have seen too much of that. The enemy is bad people.”

“No, I mean…I never seen that . Naked women and all. I couldn’t look too long. That musta felt awful embarrassing. All us men watching them. I was raised Catholic. My mama…”

Killian was there now, easing into the foxhole. There was no whisper in the man, his voice booming, “How embarrassed would you be if one of those bitches stuck a grenade in your ear? It’s the enemy, kid. Get used to it. Any Nooks capture you, they’ll stick your rosary beads up your ass. You been paying attention? You see what kind of things they done to their own kind? What’s your Bible say about heathens?”

Welch called over, “Enough. You’re waking up the whole battalion. Can’t concentrate on my letter.”