Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Killian cursed, said, “Why in hell we gotta ride these tubs manned by Japs? They got no good ole USA squids handy? I seen one of those bastards at the stern, catching some kind of grubby little fish, acting like he’d hit a home run. I heard they make fish-head stew. I got a hard enough time eating the good parts.”

Morelli leaned forward, looked past Riley toward the Irishman. “What kind of fish they catching?”

“How the hell do I know? The kind they eat. The kind that make them stink like that.”

Riley closed his eyes, knew he couldn’t escape the conversation. He took a long, futile breath, fought the rumble low in his gut, said, “They eat that stuff so we won’t steal it from ’em. One of ’em offered to sell me his bowl of soup. There was a fish looking up at me. I passed.”

Killian leaned back against the rail. “At least you found one that spoke English. All I been hearing is Jap talk. Nasty critters, too. Keep eyeing me like the war was my fault. They remember what we done to ’em, count on that. I keep wondering if I put a slug between the eyes of some family member, that maybe when I’m not looking, one of ’em might slip a blade between my ribs.”

Riley shook his head. “Not hardly. I heard they love MacArthur and all, treat us like kings in Tokyo. They’re as happy to be done with that war as we are. Happier still. They ain’t gotta fight this one.”

“Listen up, jarheads!”

Riley saw Zorn, the others reacting to the captain in slow motion, Zorn’s shirt as stained as the men around him.

“We’re expecting to land tomorrow. Gather up your gear tonight. Where’s Lieutenant McCarthy?”

One of the men pointed down the hatchway.

“He’s the one locking himself in the head, sir. Didn’t know officers were allowed to smell like that.”

There were low laughs, Zorn not smiling.

“Make sure he gets the word. This tub will empty out as quick as we can get it done. It’ll be an administrative landing. No enemy around, according to the shore birds. The place is ours for the taking.”

Killian said, “Sir, after we take it, can we give it back?”

There were low laughs, but Riley could see that Zorn was in no mood for anyone’s attempt at humor.

“Just gather your gear. The quicker we get off this tub, the quicker I can wash my skivvies. Our luck, the first fresh water we’ll find will be in those damn rice paddies.”

The captain moved away, and Killian leaned back beside Riley again.

Morelli said, “ ‘Administrative landing.’ What’s that? You mean like paperwork and stuff?”

Riley said, “It means there’s nobody there to shoot at us.”

“I guess that’s good.”

Killian sniffed. “Maybe. I was hoping we’d clean out a bunch of those bastards. Built up a fine, healthy hate for those Nook sons of bitches. Don’t guess they’re any different on this side of their damn country than they were at Inchon. I bet the squids would like to pound a few of ’em, too, after losing a couple of their minesweepers. We’re gonna screw around and miss out on the fun again. I just know it.”

Riley crawled slowly to his feet, held himself up against the iron railing, looked at Morelli. “No incoming fire is always good, no matter what this moron says.” He looked at Killian. “They told us we’re supposed to march north. You forget that? They got work for us to do, and you can bet they’ll make up for what all we missed at Inchon. We were the tail end on that one. We’ll be first in line. Count on it.”

Killian leaned his head back, closed his eyes. “Hope so.”

Riley glanced toward the hatchway, said, “Guess I’ll go below and find the sarge. Hate to see him so damn wrecked. He’ll be glad to hear there’s not gonna be a fight. The lieutenant, too. They’ll feel better when they hear we’re finally getting off this crate.”

Riley moved to the hatchway, eyed the steps leading below. The smells rose to meet him, and he hesitated, thought, My gear’s down there. Gotta do this sooner or later. At least, Korea’s gotta smell better after this.

Killian called out to him, “Hey, Pete, I’m taking bets. How long can you hold your breath?”

BLUE BEACH—WONSAN—OCTOBER 26, 1950

The men lined the seawall with jubilant cheers, the Marines curious, no one expecting a welcoming party. Riley could see that many of the men onshore were Marines, the word passing quickly that they were from the First Marine Air Wing, the fliers already establishing a base on an airfield in the port. Others were Korean, soldiers to be sure, seemingly as anxious as the airmen to offer a good cheer for the incoming Marines.

They had ridden off the LST on amtracs, the vehicles hauling them on the short journey ashore. Beside him, Killian said, “Who the hell are those jarheads? And what the hell are they doing here? I thought this was our party.”

The men were ordered off the vehicle, and Riley jumped down, his knees giving way, a hard fall into the dirt, his sea bag tumbling to one side. He struggled to his feet, heard the grunts and curses around him, more men doing as he did, their legs betraying them, inelegant landings, men rolling over, all of it now swallowed by the raucous laughter from their audience.

He pulled himself up, lifted the sea bag, but he was too unsteady to swing it over his shoulder. Around him, the men were nearly all down, some climbing to their feet, sea bags scattered about them. Riley tested his knees, stood at attention, felt the weakness again, said aloud, “What the hell?”

Welch was there now, stretching his back, said, “Haven’t felt this weak since boot. Jesus. Three weeks on a ship with nothing to do but sit on a head. I guess it hit us pretty hard.”

“This is ridiculous, Sarge. We’re not even thirty, not like some old fart whose ass is hanging.”

The sergeant had one hand on his gut, an uneasy look on his face. “Shut up. I’ve still got the trots. Need this to clear up right damn now. Feel like my intestines are boiling.”

From the onlookers came the calls, all manner of insults, some of it good-natured, some as vulgar as any Marine was used to. Riley looked at the others, the Koreans, let out a small laugh.

“Hey, Sarge. Check out those guys. Somebody’s been teaching them our ways.”

“What the hell you talking about?”

“Those Koreans. They’re giving us the one-finger salute.”

Behind Riley, the voice of Captain Zorn. “Cultural exchange program. Bringing them our kind of civilization.”

Zorn moved out in front of Riley, more men dropping off the amtracs behind them. Zorn called out, “Tighten it up! Find your damn legs! Get your asses in line! Stand tall! You’re Marines, dammit! Show those assholes what Marines look like! What the hell is this? We’re out of action for three weeks and we turn into blubber guts? I’ll kick all your asses for this. Those flyboys think this is pretty damn funny. Fox Company isn’t anybody’s entertainment, you got me?”

Riley saw McCarthy move out in front of them.

“Come on, men. They’re laughing at you. You heard the captain. We’re supposed to be Marines. This is embarrassing, for sure. Fall into line.”

Riley tried to stiffen his back, his eyes ahead, saw Goolsby step forward, trying to make a good show, standing with McCarthy. But Goolsby staggered now, turned away, dropped to his knees. Riley closed his eyes, thought, Don’t need to see that. Not now. The distinctive sound came, though, Goolsby vomiting, more laughter, more insults coming from the men along the seawall.

McCarthy grabbed Goolsby under the arm and Riley heard him say, “Just sit down. We’ll get corpsmen out here on the double.”

From the far end of the line, Riley saw a jeep rolling along the formation, heard Killian behind him.