Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

The firing was continuous, all variety of noises, the spray of the burp guns, the fire from the heavy machine guns, the BAR, more of the M-1s and carbines all along the hillside. The screams came as well, discordant noise, men staggering close, still firing, more grenades coming in, streaks of fire from machine guns, both ways, splashes of color, Riley’s brain struck by the sight, fireworks, like the Fourth of July….

HE WAS AWAKE NOW, stared out over Killian’s head, nothing to see, strained to hear past the hard ringing in his ears. The snow had come again, a cold fog settling low on the crest of the hill. Riley sank down into the sleeping bag, gathered up against his legs, tried to flex his toes. His fingers were stiff and stinging, and he looked at the gloves, the bare trigger finger, curled his hand up against his chest. Killian was staring out, the M-1 lying across the hard mound of frozen earth, its bayonet fixed.

“Good. You’re awake. It’s light enough. You gotta see this. We musta killed them all.”

“Doubt that.”

His words came in a low grunt, choked away by the painful burn in his throat. He tried to swallow, the pain worse, and Killian looked down at him now.

“Hey! You okay? You wounded?”

Riley had already done his personal inventory, no damage that he could feel. “Don’t think so. What’s happening? It’s awful damn quiet.”

“Pretty damn amazing. There’s a million dead Shambos.” Killian paused. “Looks like a bunch of us, too.”

Riley sat up now, a flash through his brain. Welch .

“We gotta go down the line, check out the others. We made it through. But there could be wounded, fellows we need to help.”

Killian stared out, nodded. “I’ll go. You keep an eye out, watch my ass. There’s too many bodies out here, and I bet some of ’em ain’t dead enough.”

Riley straightened up to his knees, still curling his stiff fingers, gripped the M-1. “I got one clip left.”

Killian rose up higher, leaned his M-1 against the side of the hole, pulled out his pistol. “That’s one more than me, old chum. My forty-five’s gotta do. That, and the bayonet. Okay, here I go.”

Killian was out of the hole now, crouching low, Riley up, scanning the ground, snow and the bodies of white-clad Chinese. The snowfall was steady, a thick gray sky, hiding the distant rocky hill. Killian moved off slowly, and Riley looked toward Welch’s hole, knew only that it had been off to the left. Where the hell are you, Hamp? He wanted to call out, breaking the heavy silence, still fought the burning pain in his throat, breathed into his glove. Along the hillside, the other foxholes were mostly hidden, dark places in the snow. He stared, expected to see others up, like Killian, the usual routine after a tough fight. But no one moved, no voices, none of the idiotic chatter. He turned, watched Killian sliding into the next hole to the right, waited, the hard chill driving into his chest, his heartbeat quicker still. What the hell is this? The words came out from inside, his panic taking charge, a burst of noise.

“Hey, Sarge!”

He stared toward Welch’s hole again, then back to Killian, who was head-high in the next hole, staring back at him. Killian shook his head, said, “There’s nobody home. Roll up my sleeping bag, would ya? I’m going farther.”

Riley stood slowly, unlocked the agony in his legs, gathered up both bags. He tied his up tightly, fastened to his pack, the straps over his shoulders. The M-1 was slid up under one arm, and he crawled up out of the hole. The backpack seemed heavier, dead weight on his stiff back, and he moved the opposite way from Killian, toward Welch’s hole, stepped past a white-clad corpse, stopped, a quick look at the Chinese soldier. The man had a clean bloody hole through his forehead, and Riley didn’t stare, thought, Dead enough, turned away, took a few more steps. He stopped, scanned the half-dozen holes he could see, the hillside dropping off into a snowy abyss. Dammit, Hamp, where the hell are you? He took another slow step, the soft crunch of his boots the only sound. There were more bodies now, a pair of Marines, falling together, one man staring up, snow covering his face like a thin sheet. Riley turned away, didn’t want to see, cursed himself, forced himself to look, to know, took another step forward, his eyes locked on the man. He knelt, saw through the snow, the recognition now. That’s Tilhoff, he thought. Oh, hell. He moved to the next man, pulled at the man’s shoulder, rolled him over, the man’s chest a frozen pool, pink blood. Troxell. Paul. Oh, Christ.

The bullet whistled past his head, and Riley froze, unsure of the direction. Now more came past, a ripple through the snow in front of him. He dropped low, rolled hard into the closest hole, heard Killian, “You Shambo bastards! Hey, Pete! They’re shooting at us!”

He expected Killian to empty his pistol, his usual response, but the silence came again, the soft whisper of the snow. Riley pulled himself up, the foxhole not as deep as his own, listened for any other sound. He saw a helmet in one end of the hole, a dent in one side, picked it up, tried not to see any more details. He raised it slowly above him, moved it back and forth, dropped it down, then raised it again. The air was sliced by machine gun fire, a brief burst, and Riley tried to measure the distance from the sound of the gun. Not close, he thought. Maybe that damn hill. He probably can’t see too much. But he knows that if it moves, and it ain’t wearing white, shoot it. He thought of Killian. Yeah. Shambo bastard.

But where the hell did everybody go?

“Hey, Sean!”

“Yeah?”

“What you find?”

Killian seemed to hesitate, and finally, “Stein and Stillwell. Didn’t make it out of their holes. There’s three more back behind. I’m in our hole. Ain’t about to leave my backpack. What the hell do we do now?”

Riley peered up, the snowfall heavier now. “I’m trying it this way. You oughta come with me. Second platoon was over on our flank. Somebody’s gotta be out here. Or else we’ll keep going, and find our way down to the road.”

“If you say so. I ain’t staying in this hole, for sure. Too much nasty stuff in here. There’s a bloody knife, and a busted-up grenade. Probably had my foot on it all night.”

Riley picked up the helmet again, couldn’t avoid looking it over. No blood.

“I’m holding up a tin hat. Whenever you’re ready, head this way. You’ll see it.”

He heard the footsteps, Killian’s hard grunts, the big man sliding low, coming down into him with a cascade of rock and snow. Riley pulled his legs in tight, not tight enough, Killian crushing him.

“Jesus, Sean!”

Killian crawled to one side, hard breathing, said, “Sorry. This ain’t much of a hole.”

“They didn’t have to park their ox in here, like I did.”

Killian reached down, raised an ammo belt. “Son of a bitch. Coulda used these. My M-1’s empty. These boys didn’t do all that much shooting. Here. Take it.”

Riley took the belt, six full clips. “Great. Three for you. Might need ’em.” He thought of the two men, ran the names through his head. “I knew Tilhoff from boot.”

Killian rubbed his hand over his face, pulled on the hood of his parka. “Yeah, I guess. I try not to make friends. This is why. There’s more bodies farther to the right. No sign of the kid, or Kane. They musta pulled out, and somebody didn’t give us the word. I guess we were a little busy. God, Pete, I musta shot down half a battalion. Ran out of everything but forty-five slugs. I’m with you. We should head out this way. We find a corpsman, we’ll send him up here, check on these guys.”