Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

The first grenade landed in front of him, bouncing off his helmet. He shouted, backed away, his arm in a fast sweep, the grenade pushed to one side, the blast now, deafening, his head down, face in the dirt. Riley checked himself in his mind, no pain, no wounds. Thank God. More grenades impacted all along the line, coming down behind the crest of their hill, and beside him, Killian began to shout, “Eat this, you Shambo bastards!”

Riley kept down, turned that way, saw Killian up, throwing grenades of his own, one after another. Riley felt a wave of panic, sickening, expected Killian to go down, machine gun fire whistling past, close above him. But Killian’s grenades continued downward, the blasts down the hill, cries of men, more mortar shells falling among the enemy as well. Riley pulled himself to his knees, lay the rifle down, his hand on the pile of steel beside him. He jerked the pin from a grenade, held it for a long second, searching the chaotic darkness, slung it low and hard down the hill, his face dropping down, the blast finding a target, the flash close. Killian was firing his rifle again, and Riley tossed another grenade, heard more shouts along the line, Kane’s BAR chattering close to one side.

There were more shouts up the ridgeline, the enemy rolling up and over, a burst of firing, men falling. Riley felt a surge of panic, thought of tossing a grenade that way, but too close, foxholes, his own men. He threw the grenade down the hill, grabbed the rifle, aimed, thick, hulking shapes, please God, not one of us. He fired, the hulk falling, more coming up the hill behind. He fired again, heard Killian curse, turned, a man standing up above him, Killian screaming, his rifle swinging low over Riley’s head, hitting the man low, knocking his legs away. Riley jammed the rifle into the man’s chest, fired, a muffled explosion, searched for another, saw Killian jamming a new clip into his rifle, firing again, down the hill. The whistles came again, more of the discordant bugles farther away. He pulled the M-1 tight against his shoulder, searched frantically, but the shadows seemed to back away, and now the flashes from the mortar fire revealed the enemy moving back, pulling away down the hill. The machine gun fire continued, both directions, spraying the hill out in front of him, and he jerked his head down hard, his face in the dirt. Through the thunderous racket, Riley could still hear the bugle calls, somewhere below, drowned out by the thumps from mortars, their own, the tubes somewhere behind, back down the hill. The tracers continued, mostly red now, and he held the M-1, rose up on his knees, saw the shadows growing faint, farther down the hill, dark shapes, outlined by flashes of bright light. He fired again, no aim, just a broad sweep, emptying the clip, searched for clusters, heard only screams and bugles, the clip popping free. Shouts rolled across the hill around him, the last of the mortar rounds finding targets still, more shouts from behind him, men cursing the enemy, others, the officers, cursing the men who kept firing, wasting their ammo.

He lowered the rifle, put one hand down on the hard dirt, his fingers curling, gripping a rock, a painful fist. He let out a hard cry, tossed the rock down the hill, sat back, collapsing against the side of the foxhole, heard a new sound beside him. It was Killian, the man crying.

The daylight broke to their front, the distant hill an uneven line against a gray morning sky. He had slept, if only a few minutes, heard low voices around him, some of them familiar. He raised his head slightly, a slow drift of thin fog moving over the hillside, felt the chill, looked toward Killian, who said, “You gonna sleep all day? It’s supposed to be your watch. Guess we don’t need it. It’s already light enough to see all hell from here.”

Riley eyed his friend for a long moment, wanted to ask if he was all right, but Killian was staring out down the hill, and Riley knew there would be nothing to say. He felt a film of cotton in his mouth, reached for his canteen, a quick swig of cold water, then said, “What time?”

“Four thirty. Maybe. Nothing happening. Damn it all, looks like the Shambos have pulled back. They got a good dose of the United States Marine Corps. It’s quiet across the road, too. Dog and Easy are either resting up. Or they’re gone.”

“They’re not gone. We’d know about that.”

Killian huffed, said nothing, and Riley pulled himself up, eased the stiffness in his back, his knees, sat in the shallow depression. He blinked, realized the stink was still there, shook his head.

“What the hell is that smell?”

“Shambos.”

Riley looked across the ridgeline, scanned the hill down behind them, men crawling from their cover, ammo carriers slipping along, hauling the metal crates, more satchels of grenades. He saw Goolsby, the lieutenant ducking down as he moved across the line. Farther down, closer to the road, was the familiar tent, the battalion CP, and closer, the captain’s tent. Men were in motion farther away as well, some down in the roads, a jeep now rolling forward. Killian pointed to one side, said, “Look at that, will you? Those boys let the bastards come inside. Had to be Second Platoon. Jackasses.”

Riley saw now, as he had seen during the fight, that the enemy had broken through. The near side of the hill was peppered with bodies, thick yellow uniforms spread halfway down the hill. Down below, Marines were dragging more bodies up the hill, piling them together. He saw Captain Zorn now, moving toward the corpses, Zorn calling out, “Drag ’em up and over the ridge. Put ’em with their pals out front. I want the enemy to see what he left behind.”

Riley heard a high-pitched shakiness in Zorn’s voice, thought, We all sound like that. He rose up to his knees, climbed to the side of the foxhole, looked out to the far side of the hill, saw a carpet of the odd yellow uniforms. He couldn’t avoid the shock of that, said, “Good God, Sean. We killed a pile of ’em.”

“Ten piles. Damnedest thing I ever seen. A whole row would go down, another would come up behind it. Didn’t slow ’em down. They were tripping over their own dead.”

Riley nodded slowly.

“Yeah. Saw that. Grenades did a hell of a job. Guess we oughta thank that ammo carrier.”

“Screw him. He was hauling it back down the hill when the fun started. How many you think we wiped out?”

Riley scanned the hillside, saw men down the line doing the same, some standing, weapons by their side, cigarettes and canteens. Riley felt a slap on his back, startled, saw it was Welch.

“Good fight, you two. You didn’t forget what it’s like to have the enemy give you an old-fashioned banzai, huh?”

Riley kept his eyes on the shapeless bodies, dark, bloody wounds, faces down in the dirt, some staring up, mouths wide. And the smell.

“I guess so,” he said. “Didn’t feel like that. They weren’t like nuts or anything. Just a big damn bunch of ’em. They kept coming, but I heard screaming, too, not that crazy Jap stuff. Just…terrified, maybe.”

Killian sniffed, pulled out a cigarette. “How the hell do you know that? One Jap same as one Shambo. They charge, we kill ’em.”

Welch said, “I’m going down, help check ’em out. Come on.”

Killian said, “Take Pete. I’d rather eat breakfast, if it’s all the same to you.”

Welch ignored him, moved away, down the hill, and Riley followed, almost by instinct. They kept silent, stepped past a half-dozen bodies, black blood, dried pools in the rocky soil. Others were doing the same, a handful of corpsmen checking bodies, some of the enemy still alive, badly wounded. Other men were checking pockets in the thick padding of the coats, and Riley saw McCarthy standing over a corpse, studying a pad of paper. He turned, moved up the hill past them, said, “Orders, looks like. An officer. Maybe big brass. Gotta find the damn interpreter.”