Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

“Oh, what the hell? No.”

“Keep moving. I want everybody to see this.”

Riley looked down in the ditch, saw four bodies, Marines, wrapped in bloody sleeping bags. He moved past quickly, looked away, tried to erase the image, heard the men behind him reacting as well.

“Good God. Those are our boys. Who did this?”

Zorn called out, “They’re from First Battalion, the men up ahead of you. The enemy caught them asleep last night. They were bayoneted in their holes, in their sleeping bags. Never knew what hit them. This could be you morons if you don’t keep awake and alert. You hear me?”

Riley was angry now, thought, They didn’t have to do this. Leaving them there, like some kind of exhibit. We’re not rookies, for God’s sake. Not all of us. Behind him, he heard Zorn, calling to McCarthy.

“Lieutenant, your men have seen enough. First Battalion is on those big hills to the front, and Colonel Davis has radioed back that the enemy is approaching their position. Last call was that they were beginning to take mortar and machine gun fire. The colonel has his men digging in, trying to find just what the enemy’s got in mind. We’re in support, and Third Battalion is behind us.”

There were more thumps now, a plume of smoke rising up on a hill a mile to the front. Riley kept his eyes that way, followed McCarthy farther forward, the column forming up on both sides of the road. He heard the usual comments around him, nervous chatter, most of that from the new men. Now there were more blasts, far above them on the left, a wide hill, thick with trees, bare on top. He glanced at Zorn, saw the captain staring up that way, a look of surprise on the company commander’s face. McCarthy was staring that way as well, more of the officers, all eyes on the closer hill. After a long, noisy moment, Zorn said, “That’s Dog Company. They started up that way a half hour ago. What the hell?”

A jeep rolled up, a sliding stop, dust flowing over the men. Riley saw an officer running past him, a sudden stop in front of the captain. Riley knew the man, Lieutenant Wright, Zorn’s executive officer.

“Sir! Radio call from Colonel Litzenberg. The trucks have been ordered to withdraw. Fox Company is to climb to the right, take position below the ridgeline, send observation parties higher, see if we can spot any hostile troops to the east of this position. Dog and Easy are out on our left, First Battalion is deployed up ahead.”

“I can hear First Battalion, Lieutenant. They’re getting hammered. Dog, too. Where’s Major Sawyer?”

“Sir, Battalion is establishing a command post just to the rear of this position.”

“Fine. I’ll do the same at the base of this hill, once we get into position. Stay here, keep any stragglers off this road.”

Riley could see movement high on the hill to the left, more Marines climbing from back behind them, spreading up toward the sounds of the fight. Beside him, Welch said, “Easy Company, probably. Go, you dumb bastards. Make yourself useful.”

Another jeep rolled up from behind the column, stopping a dozen yards up the road. Farther on, the road curved to the left, sweeping past the snout of the steep hill. The men in the jeep dismounted, and now, from around the bend in the road, a flock of what seemed to be soldiers appeared, moving toward them, some halting at the jeep. There were hands in the air, shouts of jubilation. Riley stared, curious, cautious, the others around him slipping rifles off shoulders. Now they appeared above, to the right, descending rapidly, cheerful men in filthy uniforms.

Welch said, “South Koreans. ROK. Where the hell they come from?”

Riley watched the men swarm down around and through the Marines, realized now most of them had no weapons.

“Marines! Marines. Many Chingese! Chingese!”

The soldiers were pointing back, some up the hill they had just descended, others pointing toward the sounds of a growing fight to the front. Riley looked again to the jeep, saw the ROK troops in a swarm around the officers, saw now it was Sawyer, the battalion commander, others from his staff, one man using their radio. The ROKs were gesturing fitfully, more loud voices, most of that in Korean, and Welch said, “Looks like the major was expecting them. My buddy at regimental said we were supposed to relieve the ROKs wherever we find them. I guess we found them.”

One of the Koreans came down the hill close to Riley, thick grime on his face, pointing back up the hill.

“Many many! Go!”

Riley glanced back, saw the two lieutenants, Goolsby moving closer, McCarthy behind him. Goolsby approached the man, said, “What’s the story here?”

Welch said, “ROKs, sir. Seems like a happy bunch.”

McCarthy was there now, said, “There’s a lot more up ahead. The major got the call a while ago from First Battalion. There’s ROK popping up in every hole, most of ’em not waiting for us to get into place. We’re supposed to be replacing their positions all along these hills. Reports of a good many of the enemy up ahead.”

Riley watched the men move past, many more flowing down the hill, dropping into the road, scrambling back toward the south, all smiles.

“They seem happy as hell to be leaving.”

One of the men slowed in front of McCarthy, the uniform of an officer, spoke with very little accent. “Many Chinese. Many in the hills. Be prepared.”

McCarthy said, “What’s your unit? Your rank?”

“Sorry, Marine, I have to follow my men. Many Chinese. Good luck.”

The man scampered away, adding to the flow passing by, and Welch said, “Speaks good English. Hell of a hurry. Never saw them run like that from any North Koreans.”

McCarthy spat, said nothing, and beside him Goolsby said, “We should tell the captain what he said.”

McCarthy began to move up the hill to the right, said, “Count on it. He knows. Battalion knows, too. There’s too many of ’em to miss. They’ve dropped their weapons. I guarantee they were running a hell of a lot faster before we showed up.”

Zorn moved through the throng of Koreans, seemed disgusted, climbed up just above the road, closer to McCarthy, one hand pointing up the hill to the right.

“We’ve got our orders, Lieutenant. Let’s go!”

Riley pushed one foot in front of the other, a slow, steady climb. He felt the sweat rolling down his back, sweat in his eyes, felt the soft squish in his boots. He put one foot up against a heavy rock, raised himself one more step, heard the grunts around him, one man stumbling, loud curses. McCarthy was there, a harsh whisper, “Keep it quiet! These hills aren’t friendly.”

The sounds of the fight still rolled past them, close, the far side of the road, more from the hill ahead. He glanced up, men swarming over the bare ground, using rocks for leverage, the hillside flattening slightly, the ridgeline farther still. McCarthy stopped, looked past him back down the hill, seemed impatient, a hard scowl.

“Halt here. We’ll wait for the captain.”

The men obeyed gratefully, spreading out, eyes searching the ground all around them. Machine gun fire rattled across the road, a steady chatter, and Riley looked that way, catching his breath, thought, Dog Company. Names came to him now, men he had known before, familiar faces as they passed on various marches. One face settled in his brain, a broad smile, Harper. Damnedest drinker I ever saw. Keep your head down. You still owe me a bottle of Scotch.

Zorn scrambled past, moving toward McCarthy, said, “Keep Third Platoon moving, get to where you can see to the east. I’ll have the others spread out along this line, supporting you. Map says this is Hill 727. That might matter to my kids.”

McCarthy waved them on, Riley already climbing again, Zorn’s words in his head. My kids. You’re not the only one, Captain. There’s my kid, too.