Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

“Yeah, I bet. Wonder what scared him ?”

A different sound came now, an odd chorus far back to the left, down low, muffled by the wind. He wanted to ask, but the others were rising up, weapons coming up, questions swept away by the wind. More sounds came now, low thumps, a chattering from a single machine gun. He kept his eyes that way, kicked out into Killian’s bag, said, “Sean! Get up!”

Killian responded, the bag shoved aside, rising up, rifle in hand. “What the hell’s going on?”

The sounds increased, a spattering of small blasts, nothing to see, the ground hidden by the curve of the hill. He kept his eyes that way, thought, Sounds like from the road. He strained to hear, a hint of rifle fire, another machine gun. Streaks of green now sprayed over the crest of the ridge, some bouncing high, impacts of machine gun fire on the hard ground.

“Make ready!”

Riley turned abruptly, saw McCarthy moving up to the foxholes. Riley pulled his eyes toward the open hillside in front of him, straining to see, the cold forgotten now. Killian leaned forward, beside him, his weapon pointed forward, said, “Come on, you bastards! Try it right here.”

McCarthy was behind them now, his voice cutting through the hard breeze. “There’s something going on down below. No word from the captain. No answer on the field phone. Keep your eyes down that hill. If those boys need our help, we’ll give it. But the enemy could be anywhere. We need some mortar fire up here; light up this hillside. Can’t raise anybody on the radio!”

Riley could hear the anxiousness in McCarthy’s voice, looked back to the left again, staring at nothing, what seemed like muffled mortar rounds, scattered tracers from distant machine guns. He stared hard down the hillside, moonlight and snow, nothing else there, and now more fire, closer, from the left, Second Platoon. Beside him, Killian said, “They’re hitting the captain’s CP. They’re down on the road. A hell of a lot of good we’re doing up here!”

Riley kept his eyes to the front, said, “You don’t know that. We’ve got machine guns there, the mortar teams. Plenty of strength. They need us, we’ll know.”

“What the hell are we supposed to do? Sit up here and wait for all hell to break out? Sounds like it already has!”

McCarthy seemed to hear him, shouted, “Stay put! Hold this perimeter! We see the enemy in our rear, then we hit them. But right now we have to hold this line and keep watch along this hillside!”

Riley could hear Killian’s grumbling, said, “Easy, Sean. Maybe this one isn’t for us. You want a damn fight, there’s time yet.”

He kept his eyes on the new sounds from the left, saw now, far beyond, a flare.

“Hey. What the hell’s that?”

Killian stared that way, more flares rising, barely visible in the far distance.

“Oh, hell. I bet that’s Yudam-ni. Illumination flares. Somebody’s lighting up the world up there. Something’s happening, for damn sure. That’s not what we’re hearing, though.”

A new shower of green tracers sprayed past, coming from the saddle. A mortar burst impacted behind them, another down to the right, more tracers, the chattering of those guns swept away by the wind. Riley crouched lower in the foxhole, his eyes fixed on the hillside below. The firing seemed to grow on the left, another burst of tracer fire, and now a frantic voice behind them, McCarthy, “They’re coming! Give ’em hell!”

Riley gripped the M-1 in his hands, a desperate search for targets, for any kind of movement. But the sounds came first, a chorus of bugles, the crashing of cymbals, and now movement, down the hill. They came in a line, a dozen men, moving slowly, a steady march upward. The machine gun to his left opened, a chattering rattle, red tracers slicing through the men, the line obliterated. Riley stared, dumbfounded, watched another short column farther down, slow progress up the hill, as though no one was watching them. The machine gun opened again, rifle fire down the line, the enemy falling away, some of those men scampering farther down the hill. The bugles came again, somewhere in the darkness, and Riley kept his eyes toward the sounds, scattered rifle fire coming from the men around him. He yelled at the others in his mind, instinctive, Wait! There’s nothing to shoot at! He rose up, aimed the rifle, still nothing, then a new sound, close below him, a sharp click, a voice down in front of him, and now shadows rising up, a flurry of motion, the ground around him impacted by grenades, rolling, bouncing. The first blast came to one side, then more, mostly behind him, his reflexes pushing his face down below the dirt. He waited, the grenades silent, heard more clicks, and he rose up, saw a man a few yards away jamming the potato masher onto the frozen ground, arming it, the click . A new shower of grenades filled the air above him, and Riley crouched low, sheltered by the frozen dirt in front of the foxhole, Killian there as well, loud cursing, his face a shadow. The blasts ripped along the ridgeline, a sharp scream coming from the left, more rifle fire, a brief chatter from the BAR. Killian shouted into his face, “Now!”

They rose up together and Riley looked for targets, but the targets were all around him, men running past, more down the hill, coming toward him. The rifle fire was steady now, every direction, and Riley saw a man scamper straight toward him, a flash of fire from Killian, the man tumbling down, loose grenades rolling into the foxhole. Riley fired the rifle, then again, men running past on both sides of the foxhole, some falling, others pushing past, the bursts from their machine guns silhouetting them. Riley fired again, no aim, the rifle at his chest, his back against the foxhole, his hands shaking, and he focused on one man, running across, behind the foxhole, his burp gun blazing. Riley pointed, fired, the man stumbling down, rising up again, staggering, then dropping flat. Riley searched frantically, another cluster of men moving past, and he fired again, no aim necessary. The clip popped free from his rifle, and he struggled with stiff fingers, pulled another from his belt, rammed it home, jerked the trigger, fired into a half-dozen men standing tall over him. He jammed the rifle upward, fired into a man’s gut, then another, Killian answering with shouts, emptying another clip, the cluster of men tumbling down, one man rolling into the hole, crushing weight on Riley’s chest. He yelled, pushed the man off, the man still moving, and Riley reached for the knife at his ankle, his fingers too clumsy, the man rising slowly, on his knees, a burst of fire from somewhere close, the man knocked flat. Riley looked that way, saw men crawling, flashes from the other foxholes, a brief gratefulness, silent words, thank you . He aimed the rifle again, unsure if it was empty, Killian cursing, then up, firing quickly, another clip, Killian working to reload. From below, more men came in a rush, and Killian aimed downward, eight quick shots, another clip, Riley pointing the rifle, pulling the trigger, nothing, damn! He ripped at a new clip, jammed it in, cursed the gloves, his brain yelling at him to take his time, choose targets, his voice responding, “Too many!”

He emptied the clip again, didn’t hear his own rifle, the fire blending with so many others’. But around him, all along the foxholes, men were screaming, hideous sounds, one more sound, Killian, shouting into his ear, “Grenades! Throw all you got!”

Riley crouched low, men still running past, saw Killian rise up, a hard throw, another, down the hill. Riley pulled a grenade from his shirt, ripped at the pin, tossed it low, then again, two more, nothing left.

“Grab the Chink things!”

Riley remembered the man falling, his load rolling into the hole. He bent low, felt in the darkness, his fingers wrapping on the handle of a potato masher. He wanted to ask, How do they work? But there wasn’t time, a new line of the enemy jogging up the hill. He jammed the butt of the wooden handle against a rock, heard the telltale click, flung it downward, searched for another, felt only dirt. Killian had his pistol now, quick blasts into men close by, bursts of machine gun fire blowing over Riley’s head, some downward, ripping the frozen ground. He thought of the pistol, but the rifle was there, ready, and he emptied another clip, fewer men close by, some running, kneeling. Riley felt his belt, more ammo, several clips, thank God, and he waited, searched, saw a man walking up, standing still now, a few feet away, waving to the others, his form outlined by the flashes, the moonlight, the snow, a perfect silhouette. Riley raised the rifle, the blast into the man’s head, one more of the enemy tumbling away. He spun around, the fight spreading out behind him, found another shadow, the man standing motionless, as though watching, as though nothing else mattered, the M-1 blowing a flash of fire into the man’s back. Men began to flow back past him, down the hill, pulling away, the fight slowing, a burst from the machine gun to the left, red tracers spraying back along the ridge, toward the Marines. Down below, the Chinese seemed to gather up, another line, bugles again, coming again, falling, others driven back, only to return, then driven back again.