Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

“Right here, Sarge. Nice little pile.”

Welch took the letters, turned to Riley, held them up. “Okay, it’s your turn.”

Riley stepped closer, saw only boxes, bundles, paper, and string. He felt the nervousness again, tightness in his chest. “I don’t see any more letters.”

One of the men up in the truck tossed an empty cloth sack aside.

“Nope, that’s it. What’s your name?”

“PFC Pete Riley.”

The man slapped his buddy, said, “So, this is him.”

Both men stared down at Riley with leering smiles.

“What’s up? There anything for me?”

One of the men in front of him turned, his hand reaching back into the truck.

“We had to make you a pile. Next time you’ll get your own bag. Jesus, buddy, what’s your trick?”

Riley was curious, saw a thick wad of envelopes.

“Trick for what?”

All four men laughed, and one said, “The whole truck smells like perfume now. There’s weapons requisitions that smell like they been to Paris and back. And it’s all yours. You musta done something right.”

Welch said, “They both done something right.”

The man tossed the bundle into Riley’s hands, the scent of her rolling over him, so familiar, so very wonderful. He gripped the letters, lifted them to his face, saw her in his mind, her smiling playfulness. He stepped back, Welch still waiting, and Welch said, “See? Told you so. Don’t ever doubt me again.”

“I’ll doubt you plenty. It’s her I won’t doubt.”

They sat in a small group, silence broken by cheerfulness, each letter bringing some new reaction.

Riley read the letters again, third time around, every one telling him how ridiculous he was for being afraid. He held back a fresh tear, and beside him Welch said, “Good stuff, huh?”

Riley nodded, an unstoppable smile. “My boy’s growing up fast. Knocked hell out of some army officer’s kid in school.”

“My kind of kid.”

Riley shook his head. “He misses his old man. So does she. You were right, Hamp. Every bit of it.”

Welch said nothing, tossed a handful of his own letters down to his feet, and across from him Kane said, “Hey, Sarge. You mind if I read ’em? I hear all you get is good old nasty ones.”

Welch said, “Hell, no.” He reached down, scooped them together, shoved them into his coat. “You want good letters, get yourself a bunch of good women. Best if they’re…enthusiastic.”

Riley leaned close, said, “You still telling them you’re a general?”

“MacArthur’s son-in-law.”

Welch laughed, and Riley absorbed that, was relieved to see the humor, spreading now through all of them. Behind him, he heard a shout, turned, saw Morelli running toward them, a long stick of something red in his hands.

“Hey, fellows! Look what my mama sent me. It’s a salami!”

Welch grabbed the boy, sat him down beside him. “Careful with that. It might be loaded. It any good?”

“Oh yeah, Sarge. There’s a grocer in my neighborhood, Corso and Sons. Makes it himself. The best.” Morelli sniffed the salami, all of three feet long, the others staring with wide, lustful eyes. Morelli looked around, said, “Hey, Sarge, you think it would be okay if I passed it around, maybe let the squad have a chunk? Ain’t enough for the whole platoon.”

Welch pulled out his Ka-Bar, sliced off a four-inch section from the end. “Just what I was thinking.”

“Well, good, Sarge. Yeah, pass it around. I can’t eat the whole thing.”

Welch handed the salami to Riley, who sniffed it, his hand out for Welch’s knife. He sliced off a hefty piece for himself, the next man with his knife already drawn. They passed it quickly, a dozen men whittling the stick down to a fat nub, the last few inches returning to Morelli.

Welch said, “You tell your mama she can send everything that grocer makes. She wants, we’ll mail her some C-rations in return.”

“Sure, Sarge.”

Riley nibbled a stiff bite from the salami, a roar of flavor filling him. He looked at Morelli, nodded.

“Good stuff, kid.”

The others agreed, comments made through sloppy mouthfuls. Across from Riley, Kane said, “You’re okay, kid.”

Welch put his arm around Morelli’s shoulders.

“My buddy’s name is Joey.” Welch released him, said, “You learned something, kid. You wanna grease up to a bunch of old jarheads, bribe ’em with food. But keep it coming. We got short memories.”

“Hey! Lookee here! I told you! I knew it!”

Riley knew Killian’s shouts, saw him walking up toward the group with an arrogant strut. Welch looked down to his feet, said, “Oh, good Christ. What now?”

Killian stood above them, said, “No, Sergeant. It’s good Colleen . I told you she’d come through. Just look at this.”

Riley saw the bundle, brown paper embracing a fat loaf of bread, said, “She baked you some bread?”

Killian leaned the package toward him. “No, Pete. Well, yes. But it’s her secret ingredient. Lookee here .”

Killian reached into the bread, pulled out a small round bottle. Riley was intrigued now, said, “What the hell’s that?”

“My favorite Irish whiskey. She knows she can’t just ship me a bottle or two by itself. It would end up in some squid’s locker. Those bastards all have sticky fingers. So she sticks it inside a loaf of bread. Keeps it from breaking, too. Pretty damn genius, eh?”

Welch said, “She’s a hell of a lot smarter than her husband. You see what Morelli did? He got a treasure from home, shared it with his whole squad. Since you told us all about Colleen and her talents for gift-giving, it appears you’ve got an obligation to your buddies.”

Killian took a step back, and Riley saw the pain on his face.

“You serious, Sarge?”

“Listen, Private, you ever want any of these jarheads to cover your ass in a fight, you better learn when to share.”

Killian seemed defeated, opened the bottle, took a lengthy sip. He blinked hard, let out a breath. “Hooee. Never better.”

He handed the bottle to Riley, who sniffed cautiously, felt the burn rising through his nostrils.

“Holy cow, Sean.” He took a slow sip, the fire ripping through his sinuses. He grunted, handed the bottle to Welch, who took his sip, paused, then took another, drawing an audible groan from Killian. Welch fought to gather himself, said, “Good Christ. We hand this stuff out, won’t nobody even know it’s winter.”

Their stay in Hagaru-ri was to be brief, Colonel Litzenberg already aware that orders had been issued for the Seventh to resume their march on the main road that ran northwesterly, alongside the west side of the reservoir, toward the next town of Yudam-ni. From there they would turn on a more westerly course, a road that would carry them across the razorback peaks of the Taebaek Mountains, moving out into the yawning gap between the Tenth Corps and Walker’s Eighth Army. Behind them, Murray’s Fifth was making preparations to march eastward, far along the opposite side of the reservoir, moving closer to their ultimate goal, the Yalu River.

THE BRUTAL COLD had returned, sweeping down the valleys that framed the reservoir, a thickening layer of ice forming quickly on the surface. The men had attacked whatever labor their officers could find for them, gathering various gear, piling supplies into trucks, the men trying to walk the tightrope of laboring to keep warm, but not so much to build sweat up inside their boots and clothing. It rarely worked.