Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Riley said, “Who’s that one to? Doreen or Janice?”

“Not sure yet. Maybe Ellen. I put the name on last, depending on my mood.”

Riley leaned back against the side of the hole, said to Morelli, “Let go of it, kid. If that’s the worst thing you see over here, you’ll be lucky. Besides, I bet God forgives you for looking. Hell, he made those women, right? He made your eyeballs, right?”

Morelli seemed to absorb that, thought a moment. “Yeah, maybe so. I mean, well, yeah.”

Killian shifted his weight in the hole, his rifle up beside him. “Unless you’re here to play poker, go to bed, kid. You’re getting on my nerves.”

Morelli leaned low to Riley, said, “Thank you, Pete. ’Night.”

He moved off, and Riley said to Killian, “Where’d you get cards? I’ll play some. You’ll have to tell me what’s on my cards, though. Don’t know what all those pictures mean, all that other stuff, diamonds and whatnot.”

Welch laughed, crawled over closer. “Hey, Irish, you be careful with this one. He cleaned out half the swabbies on the way over here. I think he grew up in a casino or something.”

Riley laughed. “Just like to play a friendly game, Sarge.”

“It was against orders on the ship, you know. Still is.”

Killian said, “Not quite, Sarge. It was forbidden . Not quite the same thing as an order. I took twenty off a lieutenant in Baker Company.”

Goolsby was there now, the small man coming through the darkness with soft steps. “Let’s get some sleep, if we can. Captain Zorn has ordered one quarter watch, and Lieutenant McCarthy assigned Sergeant Welch to pick out the man for first watch. Two-hour shifts.”

Welch said, “Irish will take the first watch. I’ll relieve him in two hours. Riley can be next. I’ll do the fourth. Don’t need much sleep. Kane, Baxter. That’ll get us to dawn.”

Goolsby said, “Very good. See to it, Sergeant.”

He moved away, more instructions to the next squad. Killian pulled himself up, said, “Now those are orders . See you in two hours, Sarge.”

Welch ignored the sarcasm, crawled away, and Riley said, “ ’Night, Sarge.”

He shifted his weight, tried to find any kind of comfortable position, knew Killian would be sharp, wide-eyed. He’s loud and a jerk sometimes, he thought. But he’s a good Marine. Riley closed his eyes, visions of the prisoners, naked bodies and hateful stares, thought of the kid, the shame of it. He’ll learn. I hope. Or maybe not. He goes home with no more of a nightmare than that, I don’t care what his mama says, he’ll be the luckiest son of a bitch in the Corps.

He felt sleep coming, the weariness of the last few days seeping through him. To one side, a voice, jarring, a few yards away, singing.

“Good night, Irene. I’ll see you in my dreams….”

Killian stood up. “Oh, for God’s sake. Who the hell is doing that? I heard that damn song all the way over here, and I ain’t listening to it now!”

There was silence for a moment, then the voice of Lieutenant Goolsby. “Sorry. Just…rather like the song.”

Killian sat again, and Riley fought to quiet his own laughter, leaned toward the Irishman.

“Nice going, Private. He’d bust you, except you’re already as low as you can get. How about you save all that heat for the enemy?”

Killian whispered, “Oh, for Chrissakes. You think he knows it was me?”

Welch called over from his own hole. “Don’t worry, Irish. I’ll tell him in the morning.”

UIJONGBU—OCTOBER 4, 1950

The men of Fox Company were patrolling again, as they had near Inchon, the sounds of the fight replaced by the occasional burst from a distant machine gun, a thump of artillery somewhere to the north. Above, squadrons of Corsairs roared past, searching for targets, their power adding to the morale of the men on the ground. Riley glanced up, six planes in a loose formation high above, moving north. He always wondered about the pilots, the glamour job, thought, Lucky bastards. They don’t ever have to smell this place. He couldn’t get used to the stink from the rice paddies, but Uijongbu offered new smells, even worse. The reasons for that were everywhere, decaying bodies buried beneath blasted homes. Some were North Koreans, left behind, rotting where they had died. But there were others, civilians, caught in the firefights, trapped by the shelling with nowhere else to go.

Up ahead was a row of crude huts, burnt, whether by design or by the chance impact of an artillery round. Smoke rose from smoldering straw, another squad of Marines moving out that way, careful inspection, but there were few places the enemy could hide. McCarthy was pointing, and Sergeant Welch looked back, motioned in front of him, this way . The rest of the squad followed him, stepping off the road, and Riley eyed a flattened fence line, more huts beyond. More of the awful smell washed over him now, a new kind of putrid, his face twisting, a hard exhale, futile effort to keep the stink away. Welch reacted as well, turning his head, and behind him, groans from the others. Welch led them between two huts, one smashed flat, as though punched by a giant fist. He pointed toward the other, a heap of mangled straw.

“Check it out.”

Riley peered through a gap, what remained of someone’s home.

“Nothing, Sarge.”

Welch didn’t answer, kept his eyes on whatever lay ahead, and behind Riley, a voice, Killian.

“Oh, good Christ.”

Riley turned quickly, saw the big Irishman staring out to one side, toward a heap of freshly churned earth. Welch moved that way, and beside Riley, another man, Harper, nearly as green as Morelli.

“It’s a cow. Ox, I guess.”

The Southern drawl was unmistakable, and Killian stepped closer, stared at the decaying mass, swarms of flies, said, “You sure? How the hell you know that? You a farm boy?”

“Yep. Seen plenty of dead cows. This one’s poor, though. Sack of bones.”

Riley avoided looking at the carnage, said, “It’s no use to anybody now. Hey, Sarge. Over that way. People by those huts.”

Welch said, “Let’s see what’s up.”

Riley followed the sergeant, stepped over debris, all of them still cautious. The stink was even worse now, and Riley shook his head, thought, How much of this can these people stand?

The civilians stood in a cluster, a dozen of them, watching the Marines move closer. It was the usual scene, old men in ragged white clothes, old women standing back behind them. There were children, dead stares, hints of fear, tears on dirty faces. Behind him, Killian said, “What the hell’s over there?”

Welch turned, motioned them forward, said, “For the love of God.”

It spread out before all of them now, the sight every man dreaded, a mass grave. Riley glimpsed the half-decayed bodies, pieces of flesh, black blood and grotesque faces, dark bones covered with swarms of flies. He felt his stomach pull up into a tight curl, one man grunting behind him, dropping to his knees, vomiting.

Riley closed his eyes for a brief moment, another sight he didn’t need to absorb. He backed away, the rest of the squad doing the same, looked again to the civilians standing off to one side, mostly silent, the soft whimper of a single child. Welch said, “We’ve got to report this. Get a good look. Look for uniforms, South or North.”

Riley let out a breath, tried to detach himself from the scene. It’s just death, he thought. Do your damn job.

The grave was shallow, not much of a grave at all, most of the bodies protruding, blackened limbs, hands with crooked fingers. Rain had drained away much of their cover, grim evidence that most of the bodies were without clothes. Killian said, “No uniforms, Sarge. These folks were executed. Bullet holes in the heads.”