Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

They began to discover new challenges, especially during the subzero nights. Sleep was still difficult, though the men were adapting to what luxury they had come to appreciate from their sleeping bags. Eating had created problems of its own. The C-rations were mostly frozen solid now, the few exceptions those cans a man could hold stuffed inside his coat, jammed into an armpit, or, when sleeping, pushed down inside of long johns. Frustrated men still attacked their frozen canned goods, chewing on anything they could slice or crack free, swallowing lumps of icy beef stew or fruit cocktail. But that impatience came with a harsh cost, the frozen food causing an unexpected and very uncomfortable intestinal ailment, and a twisted gut created problems of its own. From their first days wearing the heavier winter clothes, the men had learned just how difficult it was to relieve themselves, even the simple act of urination a struggle when digging through so many layers of clothing. The urgency of diarrhea made that task even more of a challenge, some of the men never reaching the latrines, jogging instead into a cluster of brush, seeking relief behind some shack or supply tent. Even then, the task of undoing the dungarees, of digging through layers of long johns, was often too difficult. There was embarrassment to be sure, the taunting ridicule toward soiled pants from the others in every squad, most of them the loud-mouths who had somehow avoided the miserable affliction. But then the ailment would strike them as well, a kind of justice that even the sickest men enjoyed. Very soon, the shared misery became shared compassion, no one teasing a man for relieving himself inside his clothes. It had become one more part of the torment of this astonishing winter.

Through the misery of trial and error, the men discovered that one part of their C-rations seemed immune to the harsh cold: Tootsie Rolls. Riley learned with the others that holding the chewy candy in your mouth would soften it fairly quickly, making it palatable. The added benefits of course were that the Tootsie Rolls gave the men a brief charge of energy, and even better, they tasted good. The supply officers had responded to that discovery with surprising efficiency, a substantial supply available for every man. Along with the ever-present Hershey bars, the men had discovered another treat that was far easier to eat than anything that came in a can: jelly beans.

They formed up into a ragged line, rifles and carbines hung on shoulders, Lieutenant McCarthy moving past, a quick inspection. Riley had welcomed the order to patrol, anything to stretch cold, stiffened muscles, but around him, the griping poured out, the mood of the men as sour as it had been for days. Riley ignored all of that, held his words inside, thought, It’s been quiet in these hills. If we gotta go up there, this is a good time to do it.

McCarthy stood at the head of the column now, turned to them, his beet-red face hidden by the fog of his breath.

“Listen up! Recon has struck out in those hills to the north, and they’re moving out again to the west. Our orders are to move up in support, protecting their flank, while they hit those ridgelines. There are reports of enemy concentrations out a few miles that way. I don’t think we’ll be going that far, just making sure nobody’s sneaking up closer to where we are now.”

McCarthy kept talking, his words trailing away from Riley’s hearing, swept off by a new burst of wind. Riley heard more griping close by, a chorus of cursing from Killian, groans from some of the others. He looked down, the hood of the parka clamped around his face, began marching in place, keeping his legs in motion. Whatever order the lieutenant got doesn’t matter a hill of beans, he thought. Let’s just march. If the Chinks are there, they’ll let us know.

He felt the soft wad under his arms, the spare pair of socks. It was second nature now, a second pair always at hand, a third in his backpack. The wind slowed and he looked toward McCarthy, the lieutenant waving them forward, a harsh shout, “Let’s move out!”

They marched out along the road to the north, McCarthy moving them in a slow, methodical pace. It was routine now, a slower gait helping keep the socks dry, the sweat off their backs, at least for a while longer. He led them around the first bend, then another hundred yards, Riley keeping his head down, avoiding the amazing wind. He glanced out to the side, toward the reservoir, snow swirling across the ice, thought, Heavy enough for a truck to drive on it, I bet. Somebody else’s truck. I’ll stick to hard ground.

The column halted, four dozen men drawing up closer, McCarthy pointing up to the left. “Time to climb.”

Riley was already warming up, the heft of his clothing giving him more protection now than he needed. There was griping even about that, and he ignored it, had known men who tossed aside various pieces of gear, lightening their loads, only to beg desperately for a handout when their sweat turned cold. He followed the line as it began to move up through the rocky ground, a gentle slope at first. The men in front of him moved in slow, deliberate steps, the pace set by McCarthy, a side hill climb, gaining altitude slowly, keeping the sweat away as long as possible. Riley looked up, small clouds moving past quickly, chased away by the wind. The sky was mostly clear, a piercing blue spreading out above them. There was snow on the hill, but not much, most of that blown into shallow drifts, wrapping around the low brush they stepped past. Farther up, he saw another line of men, easing upward a couple hundred yards farther along the hill. Recon, he thought. I guess so. He wouldn’t ask, knew it didn’t really matter who they were as long as they were Marines. At least we got some help if we run into the Chinks. He felt his breathing, the stab of cold into his lungs, tried to slow that down, but the climb was growing steeper, the sweat now forming on his back and, of course, inside his boots. He tried to guess how far they had come, knew that didn’t matter, either, that McCarthy would lead them wherever it was the captain had ordered them to be. He had started to warm to Captain Barber, the man not hanging as hard to his ridiculous orders to shape up the company. In this cold, exercise at dawn was just torture, and Barber had seemed to understand that he had enough veterans that could shape up most of the new men along the way. Instead of mindless fitness drills, Barber had focused instead on sharpshooting skills, close-range tactics, so many of the lessons most of the veterans had learned in boot camp. Barber understood that these replacements were being shipped overseas with very little of the preparation every commander hoped for. At least by the time Fox Company reached Hagaru-ri, Barber had implanted just a bit more fighting ability into men whose lives might ultimately depend on it.

Riley paused, let out a foggy breath, pushed down hard on a narrow rock, boosting himself up, one hand reaching for a leafless shrub. He saw one man up ahead stumble, saw the frightened look on the man’s very young face. Riley watched as he was helped back to his feet, the others pausing just long enough to keep the formation together. God, they’re young, he thought. I just hope they had enough boot to do all of us some good. It’s bad enough I gotta listen to so much bitching from the veterans. And Welch won’t put up with any crybabies. McCarthy neither. This ain’t Mount Everest, but sure as hell, some eighteen-year-old out here is calling for his mama because his feet hurt.

“Halt here! Sit down, move up close together.”

He saw McCarthy pointing, the ground flattening into a shelf on the hill, a deep gouge in the rocks that offered shelter from the wind. It was a welcome break, the men sliding in close, sitting on the rocky ground, the clusters of dark green huddling together like so many lumps of clay. Riley waited his turn, moved in close to one man, saw it was Welch, a quick nod, Welch ignoring him. He sat, pulled his M-1 in tight to his chest, flexed his fingers. Like so many others, he had sliced the tip off the trigger finger of his glove, and he curled his bare forefinger under, squeezed it with his thumb. Don’t freeze, he thought. Might need you. No need to be stingy with the clips, either. They’ll give us turds to eat, but they ain’t gonna let us run out of ammo.