Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

“I’m gonna try to thaw out my chow. The sarge’s done a good job.”

“Yeah, I got some stew here, somewhere. Kinda tired of eating Tootsie Rolls ten times a day. Hey, who’s that?”

Riley followed Killian’s stare, saw a hooded figure coming toward them from the low ground. More men were trailing behind, several ammo carriers, each one hauling a pair of steel boxes. The first man reached the high ground, looked their way, moved closer, pulled back the hood of his coat, slapped his hands together. It was Captain Barber.

“Who’s lighting that fire?”

Welch stood slowly, a show of reluctance, the wind smothering the low flames. “Sergeant Welch, sir. Until it’s dark, the lieutenant and me figured it can’t hurt. We can heat our rations.”

“It’s dark enough, Sergeant. Douse that. You’ve got more important work to do. I want the men to dig in, prepare foxholes.”

To one side, Riley saw McCarthy approaching, his face showing an indiscreet display of wide-eyed fury.

“Prepare with what, sir? We got no TNT up here. This ground’s solid rock. Or ice. Either way—”

“No arguments, Lieutenant!”

“We expecting an attack, sir?”

“I don’t know what to expect. But we need to be ready for anything that happens. They just ran a phone wire to my CP from down at Hagaru-ri, so, at least for now, we’ve got communication with Colonel Lockwood. They’re nervous as hell about this road. If it gets cut, they’re in a world of hurt. Our job is pretty clear, at least for now. Anybody besides Marines moves on that road, or through these hills, blow ’em to hell.”

The sound of trucks came again, and Barber looked down that way.

“This could go on all night, or until the enemy tries to stop it. As narrow as the pass is along this hill, it’s exactly the place he’ll try. Get working. Once the holes are dug, go to fifty percent watch. You hear me, Lieutenant?”

“Loud and clear, sir.”

Barber pulled his hood up, marched away toward the Second Platoon. McCarthy stood silently, the griping rising up around him in a windblown chorus.

“Shut the hell up! Shovels out, and get those holes dug.” McCarthy looked toward Welch, eyed the remnants of the small fire. Riley moved up closer, thought, Just a minute to warm my damn hands. The lieutenant glanced back toward Barber, seemed to wait for the right moment, then leaned closer to Welch, said, “Sergeant, I’ve got a can of beans I’d really like to eat. If you’re gonna build a fire, do a better job of keeping it hidden. From the enemy, that is. You’ve got twenty minutes, so make it work. The rest of us…Christ, we’ve got to chop ice.”

Welch dropped low, huddling over the still-smoking branches, went to work again. McCarthy looked at Riley, the others, the men staring at him with painful disbelief.

“You heard the captain. Make use of those shovels. Nobody sleeps up here until the job is done. Then, fifty percent watch. And keep your feet dry.” He paused. “God help us all.”

“FOX HILL”—NOVEMBER 27, 1950

It was nearly nine o’clock, the griping still flowing through the position in a steady chorus of swearing, made even worse by McCarthy prowling through the position, testing their alertness. There had been passwords given, which McCarthy expected to be acknowledged, a common precaution at night. But the men were struggling with their labor, or, if the holes seemed adequate, they had collapsed into sleep almost immediately. McCarthy’s efforts at testing their response to the password most often resulted in a cascade of swearing from the lieutenant, and several helmets thumped by the butt of his carbine.

Riley had caught his own share of McCarthy’s wrath, his brain struggling to stay focused on chiseling the rock-hard ground. Gradually the hole began to take shape, the shovel clanking hard, chiseling splinters of dirt and rock, Killian working just as hard beside him. Riley stopped, a brief second’s rest, said, “This is stupid as hell. We’re down a whole foot. It’s gonna take us all night, and then you can bet tomorrow they’ll haul us off somewhere else.”

Killian kept working, said, “Hey, it’s getting easier. We get down below the frozen stuff, it’s not bad. Come on, keep digging.”

Riley wrapped stiff fingers around the short handle of the shovel, chopped down, solid impact on a hidden rock. The shovel bounced up, a sharp stinging pain in his hands. Killian paused, said, “Try not to hit the rocks. It’s better in the dirt. Moron.”

Riley saw a smile, the Irishman’s face red, streaked with filthy sweat. “If you’re gonna give me grief, at least pass along some of that Irish whiskey.”

“Forget it. Ran out the first hour I had it. No help from the rest of you.”

Riley jabbed the shovel down, a scoop of dirt, poured it in front of the hole. “We get out of this alive, and I bet we’ll laugh like hell about it. One day, over drinks in some posh club in God knows where. Nobody’ll believe us.”

Killian tossed up more dirt, the deeper ground softening, said, “Yeah, we’ll be telling war stories to our grandkids. They won’t believe a damn word. Where’s that jackass reporter? Ought to have him up here. Maybe take pictures.”

Riley jabbed his shovel down, more of the dirt coming up, the hole deepening more quickly. “Pile it up to the front side. Give us cover, if we need it.”

Killian dropped down into the hole, dug again, said, “There you go, acting like an officer again. That’s what I’ve been doing all along, genius. Okay, it’s about two feet deep. That oughta be enough.”

Welch was there now, a quick exam, said, “Good. Captain can’t gripe about this one. We found some old holes dug down the face of the hill a ways. This place must have been a Chink position and they left ’em behind for us. That either means they hauled their rice bags out of here or they left those holes on purpose, so they’d know where to find us.” Welch looked at Killian. “One of you, go help out Morelli. He’s got a bum shovel. Kane’s to your right, and I checked the thirty gun to our left. They’re fixed mostly out that way, so anything straight to our front is up to you.”

Riley felt the sweat on his back growing colder, said, “I’ll help the kid, Sarge. Sean can clean up this thing, make it cozy. I could use some damn sleep.”

Welch pointed. “Yeah, better you than this idiot Irishman. He’s that way, twenty yards. The rest of the squad’s in pretty good shape. Not sure what we’re expecting to happen, but the lieutenant said the brass is too damn nervous about the road. Not really sure why the Chinks couldn’t just go around us. All they have to do is put a few machine guns and a half-dozen mortars on that taller hill over there and there’s not much we can do about it.”

To one side, the voice of McCarthy. “Sergeant Welch!”

“Here.”

McCarthy was there now, held out his carbine. “Check your weapon. Mine’s frozen stiff. The gun oil’s turned to glue. The M-1s don’t seem to be as bad. Where’s your BAR?”

Welch pointed, said, “Kane’s over there, ten yards.”

“Let’s check it out. Can’t afford to lose the best weapon we’ve got.”

Welch followed the lieutenant, and Riley moved out with them, saw Morelli’s meager foxhole, another man struggling to help. Riley knelt down, said, “You get a little deeper, it gets easier.”

Morelli stared at him, trying to see his face, said, “That you, Pete?”

“Of course it’s me. Who’s your helper?”

The other man stopped digging, sat on the edge of the hole, seemed to welcome the break. “It’s Norman, Pete. We’ve got it. His shovel just fell to pieces. Must be some old army piece of crap.”