Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Riley pulled himself deeper into his coat, but the man took the bait, leaned low, a gust of sour breath into Riley’s face.

“Outstanding! How you doing, Marine? Don’t think I’ve spoken to you as yet. Hate to miss anyone. I assume all of you fellows know I’m trying to gather up as much as I can, to send back home.”

Riley glanced down at his boots, thought, One sharp kick, right into Killian’s crotch. Remember that. I owe him one. He identified the odor, sour cigar smoke, cutting even through the harsh cold of the frigid air. He saw Welch leaning forward, looking at him with an evil smile, others in the truck speaking out now, confirming what Killian had said.

“Yep, he’s your man, sir. Fights bare-handed. Don’t even need a rifle.”

“Toughest hombre in the platoon.”

“I’m scared of him, for sure.”

The exaggerated goofiness seemed contagious, the men welcoming something to laugh about. Riley thought, Maybe I should play the part and grab this idiot by the throat.

Hayes put a hand on Riley’s shoulder, said, “Quite a character, eh? Excellent. So, where’re you from, son?”

Riley tried to avoid the man’s breath. “Pennsylvania. Small town near Harrisburg.”

“Excellent! Amish country. Your family Amish, then?”

Riley could feel the oiliness of the man’s artificial enthusiasm, heard a chuckle from Welch. Riley said, “Not too many Amish Marines, sir.”

“Well, yes, that does make sense. It would make a hell of a story, though.” Hayes laughed, coughed in the sharp, cold air. “Tell me, son, you have a family back home? How’d you like to give them a rousing cheerio, let them know you’re doing fine?”

“I write my wife pretty often. That’s good enough.”

“Yes, well, that’s fine.” Hayes paused, a wet cough blowing out in a fog of steam. “You know, your Colonel Lockwood has authorized me to be out here. I was told you boys would cooperate. I don’t mean to be a bother, but I do have a job to do.”

“Sorry, sir. I don’t hear much that comes direct from the colonel. Guess I just don’t have much to say.”

“Well, let me ask you, son. What’s the one thing you wish for out here, the one thing you wish you had?”

Riley thought a moment, the comments growing quiet, the others more serious now, waiting for his response. The question dug through him, stirred something unexpected, emotions he tried to push away. After a long, cold minute, he said, “I want to see tomorrow.”

Hayes didn’t respond, and Riley tried to ignore him, avoided the thoughts of everything he was missing, of everything that could happen to him. Hayes stared at him for a long moment, then said, “Thank you, Marine.”

The silence hung in the air for another long second, all eyes on Riley, who closed his, pulling himself away. The silence was broken by the voice of Killian. “Here’s what I want. Write this down. Dry feet. Warm feet. A steak. My dog. My wife. My Packard. My wife again. Another steak. My bed. My fireplace. Maybe my wife again. Pork chops. A baked potato with gravy. Another steak…”

The trucks continued their slow progress, climbing, twisting, halting. The reporter was long gone, and Riley wondered if he enjoyed the job, if poking his questions into the faces of fighting men was fun. Has to be interesting, he thought. I guess those fellows gotta keep their heads down, too. He thought of Ernie Pyle, killed near Okinawa, shot down by a Japanese machine gun. Riley never saw Pyle, but knew men who did, who reacted to the reporter’s death as a personal tragedy. This guy’s not anything like Pyle, pretty sure of that. But he’s got a job to do, too. Like the rest of us. And if he’s out here freezing his ass off, give him credit for being something besides a coward. I bet he knows plenty of reporters sitting fat and happy in Tokyo. I shoulda talked to him. Not like Killian’s stupidity. Maybe he’d mention me, make sure Ruthie would see it. He glanced down to his boots, the ground-in filth on his pants legs. Nope, don’t really need her to hear about any of this. Let’s just get this over with.

The truck began to move, swung around a sharp turn, and Riley could see a narrow valley, a flat plain between two massive hills. There was a row of small shacks, a narrow field hemmed in by a collapsing fence. He eyed the shacks, instinct, but he thought, Most likely, no one’s home. It had been that way along every road outside of the bigger towns since they had begun the climb north of Sudong. He was used to it now, the focus solely on just where the enemy might be, if somewhere on the vast hills, there were Chinese eyes watching them pass by, big fat American trucks, big fat targets. Any civilians were just in the way, an inconvenience, and Riley thought of that now, if the Chinese felt the same way. They can’t just shoot them, he thought. The Japs did some of that. Solve their problem by exterminating the pests. Exterminated some of us, too, the POWs. Can’t say we didn’t return the favor once in a while.

He avoided those memories, every engagement bringing a scattering of prisoners and, nearly always, those men in his unit who took out their revenge. War crimes . That’s what the reporters kept saying. Nobody asked if we were doing it, too. That guy Hayes didn’t ask anything like that. I don’t wanna see that stuff in the paper; sure as hell don’t want my wife seeing it.

The truck was moving more quickly now, bone-jarring thumps, and Riley stared out past McCarthy, the truck in another tight turn, another truck coming into view behind them.

Morelli caught his eye, the red-cheeked cheerful face, the kid pointing outside.

“The Koreans must go into the towns when winter comes. Not much to do out here.”

Riley closed his eyes, waited for it, and finally, Killian obliged.

“Yep, that’s it, kid. It’s a hotel I’ve heard about. The Nooks are working heavy construction up in Yalu City. Getting ready for our big liberation Christmas party.”

“You think so? Really?”

The laughter drifted through the truck, Killian the loudest.

“No, you moron. They’re up there in these hills, aiming their rifles at us. Can’t you feel it?”

Morelli was embarrassed into silence now, and Riley knew the redness on his face was more than the cold. He laughed to himself, thought, You’ll figure it out, kid. We all did.

The truck jerked to a halt again, a new burst of griping. McCarthy leaned out through the canvas and Riley heard voices outside. The lieutenant dropped to the ground, a quick conversation, then he called back into the truck.

“Let’s go. Ride’s over. We found the captain. It’s time to walk.”

“GOOD GOD. I didn’t train for this. Where’s the damn beach?”

Riley tried to ignore Killian, raised one foot in front of the other, gaining elevation with each step. Most of the men were silent, moving up the steep slope, all of them too aware what sweating could do. Behind him, Killian huffed along, while Welch led the squad alongside the others, all three of Fox Company’s platoons making the climb off the main road. At the base of the hill, Captain Barber’s aides were raising a tent, alongside a pair of dilapidated shacks. Just above the shacks the hill jutted sharply upward for several yards, where the road itself had been carved out of the hillside. Above that the slope was not as severe, but for men weighed down with their weapons and equipment, the going was slow, methodical, the officers keeping the pace. Through the first part of the climb there were trees, firs and pines wrapping the lower half of the wide hill, the men pushing up through the timber, using the tree trunks for support. But halfway up, the trees gave way to rocky ground, low scrub brush, what Riley had seen on most of the hills in this part of Korea. And without the shelter of the trees, there was nothing to hold back the wind.