Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

“Not quite. They’re miserable. Soaked through three pairs of socks, and I’m gonna make sure they’re dry before I put ’em back on. What dumb son of a bitch thought these damn rubber boots would help us fight a war?”

“Same son of a bitch who thought this was a war we oughta be fighting.”

Killian’s voice always carried farther than Riley preferred, and others around them began to respond, the high-pitched voice of the kid, Morelli.

“Hey, you ought not talk about the president that way. My papa voted for him. Doubt he’s a son of a bitch. Not a bit.”

Killian said, “Oh, shut up. I’m not so sure it was Truman who thought this up anyway. I hear it’s the UN who’s really running this show. They tell Old Harry how high to jump and he does it.”

To one side, Welch said, “I’m just glad some dumb Irishman’s not in charge. You’d have us looking over these hills for leprechauns.”

Riley could feel Killian bristle, knew his chin was probably jutting out, a familiar pose. Here we go again, Riley thought. They’ll both want the last word.

To the north, a sharp clap, a rattle of gunfire, several sharp thumps, the distant hill erupting again. Welch said, “Mortars. They’re hitting First Battalion again. Son of a bitch!”

Riley could see the flashes, streaks of green tracers, something new.

“Hey, Sarge, what’s going on? Never seen that before.”

“How the hell do I know? Russian guns, I guess. I guess somebody decided we’d gone far enough north.”

“All hands! Listen up!” Riley turned, the familiar voice of Lieutenant McCarthy. “Sergeant Halley!”

Riley heard the voice, no one else talking now.

“Sir!”

“Halley, did you spread your squads farther up that way?”

“Yes, sir. I’m heading up there now. We’ve got a thirty positioned with a good field of fire to our front.”

Another shadow, Captain Zorn there now, breathing hard, a hand on McCarthy’s shoulder.

“They waited until near midnight, then hit First Battalion again. That’s all I know. Make ready to receive…well, hell, I don’t know. Nobody lets their pants down until we hear from the regimental CP. I’ll be on the radios back down the hill. Check your walkie-talkies. I’m not jogging up and down this mountain all night long. Where’s Goolsby?”

Goolsby emerged from a nearby hole, scrambled closer, a carbine in his hand. “Sir!”

“Keep your eyes all along this ridgeline to your front. We’ve no idea what’s coming this way, if anything at all. But prepare for it! You understand?”

“Certainly, sir.”

The captain looked again toward the sounds of the fighting, the roar of machine gun fire blending with the pop of rifles. More mortars came now, a steady series of thumps, the darkness to the north broken by the flashes. Now, new sounds, much closer, to the west, across the road, the chatter of machine guns, more rifle fire. Riley looked that way, nothing but darkness, felt his stomach churn, thought, Dog Company. Getting it again. Jesus.

Zorn moved away now, more orders to the other platoons, the two hundred men of Fox Company spread out along the ridge. Riley rose to his knees, moved the rifle up in front, resting on the uneven ground. More movement now, the hushed voices of the ammo carriers. One man moved up close, a harsh whisper. “Grenades. Captain says take as many as you can throw.”

Killian said, “Yeah? How many’s that? Five hundred?”

Riley ignored the chatter, grabbed a handful from the satchel, made a small pile beside the rifle, his eyes now hard to the front. The man moved away, and Killian quieted, adjusting himself, the rifle lying close beside Riley’s. Far out to the west, the fighting across the road continued, nervous attention focused that way, and Riley said in a soft hush, “Dog’s getting clobbered.”

“Maybe. It’s behind us, even. Easy’s there, too. Twice as strong. That’s gotta help.”

The flashes from the next hill to the north came again, the thunder of mortars, a new round of tracer fire. Riley peered out that way, his helmet just above his eyes.

“Green tracers. Never seen that before. North Koreans’ are blue. Ours are red.”

“Yeah, Pete, ours are red. Knew that, you moron.”

“So, green? New guns? Think the Sarge is right? Russian stuff?”

Killian paused a long moment, said, “It’s gotta be the Chinese. Hell, I don’t know what kind of stuff they use. But sure as hell, those ROK idiots weren’t running home just to see mama-san.”

There was hard tension in Killian’s voice, unusual, and now movement close beside Riley, Welch crawling close.

“You set? Keep a sharp eye. They seem to like the dark. We’re hours from daylight.”

Riley glanced toward the sergeant, Welch’s voice calm, steel.

“We’re set, Sarge. Check on the kid. Check Kane’s BAR crew. They’re green as hell.”

“I know my job, Private.”

Welch slid away, and Killian said, “There’s a thirty up that way, on that rise to the right. Where’d Kane take his BAR?”

“Right behind you.” Riley turned, back behind his right shoulder, saw the shadowy form of Wally Kane, his helpers crouched low behind. “We’re not that damn green, Grandpa. You find those bastards, we’ll clean ’em up.”

Kane was younger, still a veteran, what Riley guessed to be a late starter in the last war. But he handled the weapon well, seemed to appreciate just how valuable the Browning automatic rifles were to the entire outfit. The BAR had been issued with a built-on bipod, said to ensure accuracy by keeping the weapon steady on the ground. But Kane had done what many did, tossed that away, insisting he could fire the piece with more accuracy from his shoulder. It took a man with a strong back to hold the BAR upright for a long stretch, and every man who carried one hauled as much ammunition as possible, increasing his load even more. Thus the assistants, whose single responsibility was to stay close to the BAR, handing off ammunition as quickly as Kane could fire. The BAR was thought by many to be even more valuable to each squad than the light machine guns, which were far less mobile. They all knew that if a hole opened up in the line, Kane, or any of the others, could slip into place with his weapon and do the work of a half-dozen M-1s.

Riley looked down the hill again, more flashes far to the front. Kane talks big, he thought. Not sure I could haul that beast around like he does, but I just hope like hell he doesn’t run off. If you do, Wally, at least leave your weapon here. I love emptying a BAR. He kept that taunt to himself, thought, No time for idiocy now. Beside him, Killian whispered, “What the hell’s that?”

Riley froze, stared hard, his eyes digging through the darkness. “What?”

“Down there. Movement.”

The sounds burst over them now, a screaming chorus of police whistles, a sharp blat from a bugle, then another, farther down. Now there were voices, a vast line of men on the hill below them. Riley rose up, searching the darkness, could see them, the shapes growing larger, shadows climbing the hill. The whistles came again, sharp, piercing sounds, Riley gripping the rifle, a cold chill in his spine, his ears ripped by the odd noise. Now rifles popped, muzzle flashes down the line, the light machine gun pouring fire down the hill, streaks of red. Riley jerked the rifle to his shoulder, no targets, just dull shapes, the voices closer, some falling, absorbing the fire from the Marines. But they came on, closer still, a stink washing over him, the familiar odor of rifle fire, and now something new, grotesque, and strange. It was garlic.

He fired the rifle, the muzzle blast blinding him, the tracers from the machine gun giving glimpses of masses of men, all along the hillside, all climbing closer. All across their position, the Marines answered, a storm of fire, the enemy responding with fire of their own, machine guns from distant perches. Riley emptied the rifle, the clip ejected, slammed a new one home without thinking, fired again. Now mortars erupted, coming down behind him, thunderous impacts out to one side, more impacting down the hill. But the Marines were answering with mortars of their own, the blasts spreading out all across the hillside below him. Each blast offered a flash of light, reflections off thick crowds of men, all still moving forward. The Marines kept up their fire, Riley emptying another clip, the shadows with more form, closer still.