Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Welch was up beside him, passing him slowly, said, “Dark soon. We get to where they’re sending us, dig a deep one quick as you can.”

Riley wiped sweat from his face, kept climbing, the grunts around him louder, no curses now, no one with the energy for griping.

“Right. Just dig one for yourself.”

McCarthy was waiting near the crest, waving one arm, spreading them out just behind the highest point. Riley searched for Killian a few yards behind him, saw him jam the butt of his M-1 into the ground like a crutch, pulling himself up, red-faced, sweating. He looked at Riley now, then bent low, said, “My damn boots are full of water.”

“Shovel. Let’s dig.”

Riley slid out of his backpack, pulled his shovel out, looked over the crest of the hill, could see the fight to the north, First Battalion’s position bathed in a low fog of gray smoke. But that fight seemed to slow, and he turned to the west, across the road, could see specks of men all across that hill, sparks of flame, drifting smoke.

“Jesus. They’re getting hammered.”

Welch was there, his shovel in his hand, said, “You don’t know who’s hammering who. Do your damn job.”

Riley dropped the heavy coat, lay the rifle close by, saw Killian drop down to his seat, yanking off his boots. The socks came now, Killian barefoot, peeling away his shirt.

“Gotta dry this crap out. Don’t wait for me, dammit. Start digging.”

Riley chopped the shovel downward, piercing the rocky dirt, shallow roots of the thin brush. Now Killian joined him, the hole taking shape quickly, others around them doing the same, dirt and rocks tossed in the air. He straightened, arched his back, took a long breath, stared out across the road again. It was harder to see, the glare of the sun in his face.

“Sounds like the fight’s slowing.”

Killian was breathing hard, said, “Then dig more. We might be next.”

From far behind them, Riley heard the rhythmic thumps of a helicopter, and he looked up, the craft now overhead, slipping past, moving out to the east. He stepped down into the foxhole, nearly over his knees, deep enough, watched the helicopter, and Welch was there, breathing heavily, his shovel in his hand.

“Searching for the enemy. If anybody hits us, they’ll come up from that way, I guess. Not much light left. Don’t know what those idiots are hoping to see.”

The helicopter moved out of sight, dipping low past the next hill, and Riley caught the last glow of sunlight still bathing the hillside to the east. That hill was taller, steep and ragged, thick trees painted with the colors of fall, and above them, a bare ridge, the sun reflecting off patches of fresh snow.

Many of the men had stripped down to their undershirts, allowing the sweat to dry, giving time for their outer layers to dry as well. Boots had come off, socks spread out on flat rocks. But with the darkness came the chill, and soon those men had reluctantly redressed, cursing the blanket of cold that settled over them.

Killian was squatting down across from Riley, his usual perch. They munched on C-rations, the first thing Riley had eaten since breakfast. Killian tossed a small can to one side, said, “So, Old Homer thinks we’ll have a fight up here? That oughta shut up the damn replacements. Tired of all their bitching about missing out. You take a look at some of these morons? They’re ten years old.”

Riley didn’t respond, but the same thoughts had struck him, new men who didn’t seem to know the first thing about being a Marine.

Since the landing in Wonsan, the entire regiment had been beefed up with replacements, some of them with even less training and preparation than Morelli. The officers seemed pleased with the added numbers, but few of the veterans had any confidence that the new men would add anything to the fight. Riley’s best hope was that the men around him now at least knew how to aim a rifle.

He tossed aside the remnants of a can of fruit cocktail, said, “Wonder if that helicopter found anybody out there. Pretty quiet, so far.”

Killian said, “Sounded like all the fun was other side of the road. Or up north. No idea where the hell we are. Maybe that next hill belongs to China.”

“Just keep your eyes open. I’m not ending up like those KIAs back on the road.”

Killian shook his head. “That’s officers for you. Scare the hell out of the new ones, so they’ll fight better. Hell, they might just run like banshees.” Killian paused. “The captain’s nuts if he thinks that’ll happen to me. When I go out, I wanna be staring down the muzzle of some Nook cannon. If you’re gonna take me out, by God, blow me to ribbons. Make it worthwhile.”

Riley didn’t respond, thought of his son. Nope, they’ll never find me like that, either. My boy’s never gonna hear that his pop died in a sleeping bag. Maybe he won’t hear anything at all. Don’t go missing, dammit. Ruthie won’t never forgive me if I just disappear. But it ain’t gonna be because I’m scared. Damn those officers anyway.

Killian drank from his canteen, said, “You’d a thought they’d have more faith in us. They seem to forget just how well we handled those damn Nooks.”

“Everything I’m hearing says it’s the Chinese now.”

“What the hell difference does it make? Nooks or Shambos. They all bleed the same, right?”

Shambos?

Riley knew not to ask. He leaned back against the side of the foxhole, glanced up, stars spreading across the black sky. Peaceful, he thought. Too bad there’s gotta be a war.

“You think you’d ever come to this place without this war?”

Even in the dark, Riley could feel Killian staring at him.

“You’re nuts. None of us know where the hell we are, exactly. Ain’t seen a map in weeks. What’s so damn special about Korea? Place stinks worse than my cousin Kevin. And he stinks worse than you.”

Riley knew better than to expect anything serious from Killian. He slid his hand up the stock of the M-1, ran a finger over the steel barrel. He knew many of the men had given names to their rifles, treated them like girlfriends. Just do the job, he thought.

Killian said, “I see you. Can’t keep your hands off that thing, can you? You been playing footsies with it all day long.”

“You’re just jealous. I shoot straighter than you.”

A few feet away, Welch said, “You don’t watch it, I’ll make you swap with me. Not sure I’m happy with this damn carbine.”

It was an ongoing debate, the value of the M-1 Garand versus the shorter, more compact carbine. The carbine could be set to full automatic, a spray of fifteen bullets that could come in handy in a tight squeeze. But the new men especially were prone to shooting up all their ammunition before they had targets. Riley knew that Welch had better discipline than that, but still, in a tight spot, if the enemy was more than a couple hundred yards out, the carbine was nearly worthless. The M-1 was far more accurate at long distance, reliable, even though it only held an eight-shot clip. Riley had always preferred the M-1, had seen too many carbines clog up, especially in the mud on Okinawa. But he knew better than to talk down a man’s weapon. Welch carried the carbine because he chose to, at least for now, and Riley thought, I just hope there’s no problem with that thing when you need it.

It had been dark for longer than Riley could tell, no idea what time it was. He glanced upward, many more stars, the cold breeze driving him deeper into his parka. He heard Killian stirring, the change of watches, Riley’s turn to rest for a couple of hours. He leaned forward, a soft voice, “Did you sleep at all?”

“Nah.”

Killian rustled through his backpack, cursed, and Riley whispered, “Your socks dry out?”