Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

McCarthy was out in front of them, staring farther up the hill, the radioman kneeling beside him. McCarthy knelt now, spoke into the radio, listened, then spoke again. “What? Repeat. Again! Oh, for Chrissakes.”

McCarthy stood, hands on his hips, said, “The radio is crap. This damn cold has wrecked the batteries. Hell, it’s probably left over from Guadalcanal.”

Goolsby rose up from down the row, moved out toward McCarthy, said, “Think we shoulda brought walkie-talkies?”

McCarthy shook his head. “Tried that already. They won’t reach more than fifty yards in these hills. Let’s try to make visual contact with recon. Rest time’s over. Let’s go.”

The men began to rise, the platoon following McCarthy once more, out into the open, the climb resuming. Riley felt the wetness in his socks, the sweat on his back already chilling him. Keep moving, he thought. The clouds were completely gone now, the sun straight overhead. But the winds were relentless, the wisps of snow blowing over his boots, the low scrub brush shuddering as they moved past. McCarthy halted them, a brief rest, men sagging, some leaning down with hands on their knees. Riley could see all of Hagaru-ri now, the reservoir to one side, a frosty white, the thickening ice draped with several inches of snow.

McCarthy waved them forward, the men responding, and Riley looked up the mountain, then down to his feet, searched for the next place to step, felt a hard hand pulling his arm. Around him, men were flattening out, and Riley dropped hard, pain in his shoulder, a protest forming in his brain. The hand released him and he saw Welch, down close to him, black eyes staring out past him. Riley turned that way, saw movement on the hill above them, yellow shapes scurrying up, moving quickly out of sight. He felt a jolt in his chest, gripped the rifle, others around him already prone, aiming. McCarthy rose up, motioned up to the left, a harsh whisper, “Goolsby! Take first squad. Go that way. Try to cut them off.”

Goolsby was up quickly, a wide-eyed stare at Welch, who rose to his knees, his squad responding. Riley pulled himself up, still the stabbing pain in his shoulder, the impact with an unfriendly rock. They began a steeper climb, Welch moving up beside Goolsby. The hill seemed to roll now, a low dip, then another short rise, and Riley kept pace, felt his breathing in heavy bursts, thought, They could have shot us. You can’t see up more than fifty yards.

There was a cluster of low brush, the squad’s dozen men moving into cover, Welch holding them up. Welch said something to Goolsby, who responded with a vigorous nod. Welch looked back, searched faces, saw Riley, a quick wave of his hand. He motioned to Kane now, another wave, the BAR man moving forward, a quick glance at Riley. Riley pushed his boots upward, a single step, then another, did as Welch did, the sergeant bent low. They were clear of the brush now, easing over a hump on the hill. Riley’s brain was screaming at Welch, Slow down! He glanced back to the others, still lying low in the brush, the face of Goolsby peering up like a startled bird. Riley looked again toward Welch, took another slow step, and now Welch stopped, brought his carbine to his shoulder. Riley moved up slowly, saw what Welch saw, the mouth of a small cave. Welch looked back at Kane, pointed at the BAR, Kane staring back at him, a sharp nod. Welch took another step, then motioned with his hand, go . He leapt forward, Riley following, Kane to one side. Welch led them to one side of the cave, dropped, slid in flat beside the opening, the others close beside him, and Riley caught the smell, pungent, unmistakable. Garlic .

Welch kept silent, pulled a grenade from his coat, his arm swinging in a sidearm pitch, the grenade disappearing into the cave. They ducked low, the blast erupting in a cloud of dirt, and Welch yelled at Kane.

“Do it!”

Kane responded, the BAR at his waist, a spray of fire into the cave. Riley pointed the M-1 into the opening, waited, searching for movement, any kind of target, the wind sweeping the dust to one side. Welch started forward, into the cave, barely high enough for a man to stand, no more than six feet wide. He stopped, pointing the carbine, and Riley stepped forward, M-1 ready, the smoke still blowing past, choking dust. Riley searched the space, no one there, Kane now tight behind them, the BAR reloaded.

Welch lowered the carbine, looked at Riley. “You hungry?”

Riley kept his stare into the dusty hole, saw it wasn’t more than a few yards into the hill. “What? Hell no.”

There was commotion behind them, the rest of the squad moving up close. Goolsby was there, pushing into the opening of the cave.

“What happened? You get them?”

Welch said, “Hey, Lieutenant, could we go back outside? It’s a little tight in here.”

“What’s that stink? Your grenade?”

They moved out into the cold sunlight again and Riley saw the usual frown on Welch’s face.

“That stink, Lieutenant, is Charlie Chink. Anybody need a snack, there’s rice plastered all over the walls. And a few busted-up bowls. Looks like we interrupted somebody’s lunch.”

They had returned to the camp, the recon patrol making the same report they had for days now. The enemy was there, in very small numbers, and no one seemed to want to fight. But this time there was a difference. This time recon had hauled in a pair of prisoners.

Riley had been as curious as the rest of the squad, the new men in particular aching to get their first look at just who they were supposed to fight. They had been taken to a small house, back near Litzenberg’s command post, and Riley waited in the cold, Morelli there as well, a half-dozen others around them, most of those from the recon unit. He saw a familiar face, said, “You’re Corporal Glenn, right?”

“Yeah. I know you?”

“Riley, Fox Company. You grabbed the prisoners?”

“I was there. We saw them ducking away from you, and we just sat down and waited. You blew up that cave, they got the message, hauled ass and tripped right over us. Six of ’em. These two collapsed, whimpered like babies, so, here they are.”

Riley thought, The other four? But Glenn didn’t offer, and he knew better than to ask.

“Our lieutenant said we could grab a look at ’em. This is Morelli. He’s pretty fresh. Thought it would do him good to smell one.”

Glenn looked at Morelli, who offered a sheepish smile. Glenn said, “Take a good whiff, kid. You smell that again out in these hills, you’ll know you’re close. Hey, there’s the interp. I guess you boys can go on in, unless somebody tells you to get lost. I’m going to sleep.”

Riley waved toward Glenn as he moved away, and Morelli said, “Interp? You mean the interpreter?”

Riley looked at him, said, “What the hell else could it mean? These Chinks weren’t born in New Jersey.”

The interpreter was accompanied by a pair of officers, the men moving into the house, more men already inside.

Riley said, “Try to look like you belong here. Come on.”

He led Morelli into the house, a guard beside the door, a bored glance at Riley.

Riley said in a low voice, “We were there. We’ve got orders to observe.”

The guard yawned, said nothing, and Riley pulled Morelli by the arm, moved past a small office, a typewriter on a wooden desk. The men had gathered in a larger room, and he kept Morelli back, just outside the doorway. He saw the prisoners, seated on small metal chairs. They still wore their quilted uniforms, but there were no hats, no restraints, nothing binding their hands. Riley thought, They don’t look scared. They just look curious. The room was crowded, a pair of officers standing to one side, others that Riley couldn’t see. The interpreter was a short, thin man, obviously Asian, and he stood in front of the prisoners, then looked to one side, said with a heavy accent, “I can begin, sir?”