Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Riley glanced up the hill, navigated his way behind Welch, cutting through small rocks, the brush too short to serve as a handle. The trees were well behind them now, and Riley could see the rest of the 240 men, three columns spread out across the face of the hill, mostly faceless men, their hoods pulled tight, protection against the increasing torment from the wind. Behind him, Killian swore again.

“I’m filing a complaint. They pulled me out of the Mediterranean to be here. I ain’t no damn mountain climber.”

In front of Riley, Welch turned, breathing in heavy bursts. “You bitch one more time and I’ll roll you down this damn hill, so’s you can climb it again. You read the same damn brochure we all did. Now shut the hell up.”

Killian was silenced, Welch climbing again. The slope was easier now, the men reaching the summit, and Riley could see across most of that, a wide span spreading over several acres. The other platoons were gathering, receiving instructions from Captain Barber, the lieutenants passing along just what they were supposed to do. Riley stopped, tried to catch his breath, one hand over his mouth, filtering the frigid air from his lungs. He moved again, keeping up with the others, climbed the last ridgeline, a ragged spine that sliced through the center of the hilltop. Far beyond that he could see another hill, taller, more rugged, connected to their position by a narrow saddle, at least two hundred yards long. Except for that one land bridge, the dome of the hill dropped away into a steep slope in every direction.

“Third Platoon, move out this way.” Riley saw McCarthy waving them forward, one arm extended, the men following the order, a single file line along the ridge. They slogged through a patch of dense brush, the hilltop more rugged than the slopes they had climbed. “First squad, right here. Sergeant Welch, arrange your men with a field of fire out that way. The company’s forming a wide horseshoe on top of this hill, with both ends terminating down at the road we just left. The captain’s command post is there, and he’s positioning the mortar teams just uphill from his tent. First Platoon is the right flank of the horseshoe. Second is to the left. We’re the middle. Your squad will be on our left flank. The other two squads will be to your right. There will be a heavy machine gun position on our right, linking us to First Platoon. There’s some heavy brush and some pretty rough ground between us, so keep in mind where they are. No blind shooting. You need anything from those boys, talk to Lieutenant Dunne. He owes me a dozen favors, so don’t be afraid to ask.” McCarthy paused, and Riley saw what seemed to be nervousness, McCarthy laboring to breathe. A new gust of wind swirled up around them, the men huddling closer, Riley moving in with them. He knew there would be more to the instructions, his brain trying to map out just what had led the captain up this particular hill, just why they were here at all. McCarthy scanned the horizon, said, “Dark in a few. I’m betting on snow. The captain’s thermometer said twelve below zero, but that’s down at the road. This wind is pretty nasty, and it won’t get any better, so it’s gonna be a long night. Find some kind of cover, anyplace that might break up the wind, but keep all eyes to the front. We’re in a circle, everybody protecting each other’s asses, even if you can’t see ’em. That’s it for now. The captain’s probably on the radio to somebody in Hagaru-ri, letting them know we’re here. He’ll be up here soon, checking our position, pretty sure of that.”

Welch said, “How about a small fire, sir? Maybe heat up some rations?”

“The wind might make that tough. But the captain’s people said they were lighting a big damn bonfire at their CP, so there’s no reason we can’t heat up our chow. Find a low spot, well back of the crest. Once it’s dark, it’s lights out. No need to advertise we’re up here. You can bet the enemy’s out there somewhere, and they’ve got eyes in the dark, no matter how careful we are. Our job is to keep the enemy off that road and make damn sure that if he tries to cut us off from Hagaru-ri, we make his life miserable. We’re the back door to ten thousand Marines. I don’t want anybody pushing us out of the way.”

There was a rumble from the road below and Riley looked that way, saw a line of vehicles, a half-dozen six-by trucks. He said, “Sir, they sending us more men?”

McCarthy stared down the long hill, said, “Not hardly. That’s what we’re here to protect. Supply convoys, hauling it up to Yudam-ni. We lose any of those fellows and Colonel Litzenberg will have our asses. You know your job, now do it.”

McCarthy moved away, followed by the other two squad leaders. Welch turned to the rest of the men now, said, “You heard him. This looks like solid rock, so pile up some kind of windbreak if you can. There’s a low place right over here, behind that rock. I’ll try to get some kind of fire going. We’ve got a half hour before it’s dark, so if you want a tin can heated up, pay attention. Time to change your socks, too.”

A harder gust rolled over the hillside, a blast of cold that ripped into Riley’s coat. He shook, a hard, uncontrollable shiver, said, “This wind is a pain in the ass. All we need now is snow so we can write home how pretty it is.”

Killian dropped his backpack, sat heavily, began to work on removing his boots. “Too cold to snow. Learned that back home. It gets down below twenty degrees or so, you got nothing to worry about.”

Welch ignored him, went to work with the others in the squad, guiding them into the best position there seemed to be. Riley stood immobile, too chilled to move. He eyed a small flat rock, crouched down onto his knees, pushed one hand on the hard ground, turned stiffly, and sat down. Immediately the cold from the frozen ground began driving up through the seat of his pants, and he kept his head down, the parka tight around his face. He fumbled with the boots, the cold numbing his fingers, his toes too numb to feel anything at all. There was a dusty cloud, coating his gloves, blowing into his eyes, and he brushed it away. But the dust came more heavily now, and he realized it wasn’t dust at all. It was snow. He looked at Killian, the man rubbing his toes, a fresh pair of socks in his hands.

“Hey, Weather Man. One more thing you’re an expert about.”

Killian glanced up, winced, shook his head. “Stupid Shambo snow. Not my fault they got such crazy-assed weather.”

Riley pulled his brain into gear, focused on the task at hand, each movement agonizing, the stiffness spreading through him. He tugged at his wet socks, barefooted now, his hands rubbing briskly, drying, a feeble attempt to bring any warmth at all. He tried to wriggle his toes, massaged them roughly, fumbled with a fresh pair of socks, his hands shaking as he pulled them on. He slid the boots on with an urgent tug, kept his toes in motion, fought the stinging pain. He flexed his fingers, jammed his hands inside his coat, fought to breathe, his heart pounding. Killian grunted out loud, yanking on his boots, and Riley saw the snow forming a light blanket on the man’s coat. He looked at Riley, held up his socks.

“Frozen solid already. They’ll crack in half, I bet. What kind of idiot came up with this place, anyway?”

Riley tried to control his shivering, said, “I’ll agree with you on that one.”

The wind blew harder, a sharp groan emerging from Riley’s misery, and he turned slightly, saw Welch behind the single rock, struggling with a small fire. Leave it to him, he thought. The only man in this company who can build a fire in a gale. Welch had gathered a pile of small sticks, other men now bringing him larger branches, pieces of a broken supply crate. The flames were barely visible, the smoke whisked away quickly by the relentless wind. Welch knelt low, hovering over the fire, protecting his work, more sticks coming up, adding to the glow. Riley thought of his rations, a can of beef stew he had carried optimistically for more than a week. Maybe now’s the time, he thought.