Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

He weighed Killian’s words, thought, Maybe we oughta stay. If there’s anybody wounded, we can’t just run off. But where’d everybody else go? How’d we miss that order? How could Hamp just up and leave? Or maybe…he didn’t.

“We’ll have to check ’em all, bring them down the hill, dead or alive. There could be a bunch more we can’t see.”

“Fine. One thing at a time. Corpsmen and Graves Registration can do their jobs. I’d rather get off this hill on my feet.”

Riley kept his anger inside, no time for arguments. He kept his eyes on the snowfall, raised up slightly, said, “Snow’s getting lighter now. We can’t wait. I think that machine gun’s out on the saddle, or beyond. I’ll go first, if you want, and if he opens up, we’ll dive into anyplace we see. If he doesn’t, let’s just keep going till we see somebody.”

“I always knew you were officer material. I’m ready if you are.”

Riley slowly stood, slid the rifle up out of the hole. He climbed out, didn’t hesitate, rolled away from the hole, then up to his feet, a hard run, the hood of his coat pushed back, snow in his eyes. He jogged to one side, moved through a pair of tall rocks, then out in the open again, low brush, trampled snow, more Chinese bodies, and he dropped into a hole, gasping through the frigid air. He could hear Killian, the man letting out a hard grunt, another hole a few yards away. Riley tried to catch his breath, fought the cold in his throat, the pain returning. Water, he thought. He reached for his canteen, shook it, frozen solid, what passed now for normal. He sat up, eyed the snow, reached one hand out, gripped the soft powder, held it for a long second, then slid it into his mouth. He worked his tongue, the powder thawing into wet goo, but the taste was awful, as much dirt as snow. He tried to swallow, felt like choking, and he spit, blew out what he could. He let out a breath, looked over toward Killian.

“Hey, Sean. You okay?”

“Yeah. Got a buddy here.”

“In the hole? You know him?”

“Not likely. Shambo. Stinking son of a bitch. Garlic and piss.”

Riley fought the grime in his mouth, reached for more snow, more careful this time. He poured it from his hand into his mouth, waited for the thaw, the wetness helping, only a little.

“God, Sean. I need water. Canteen’s a block of ice.”

“Can’t help you. Mine’s frozen, and there’s a bullet hole in it.”

Riley took a long breath, shifted himself in the hole. “You ready to go?”

“Lead the way, General.”

Riley rose up, saw the snow had nearly stopped. The hillside was bathed in a thin fog, and he eyed the saddle, could see the vague shape of the rocky hill beyond. Hope that bastard’s a lousy shot, he thought. He scanned more Chinese bodies, a dozen or more close by, started to climb from the hole, saw movement, one man rolling over, and Riley pointed the rifle, no aim, the man pulling a grenade from his coat, Riley firing, missing, then firing again. The second shot burst into the man’s stomach, punching him in a curl, the man groaning, rolling over.

“Shoot him again!”

Riley responded, aimed now, the shot piercing the man’s chest. Riley kept his stare on the soldier, said, “He has a grenade. Stay away from him!”

Killian was there now, said, “I ain’t got no need to crawl around with no Shambo. Keep your eyes open, I guess. Anybody moves, plug him.”

The machine gun fired again, a spray of bullets through the snow beside them. Riley ducked low, heard a husky voice, “This way!”

The voice came from straight ahead, along the edge of the hill. Killian said, “Who the hell is that?”

“Does it matter? Let’s go.”

He ran hard, heard more firing from the machine gun, searched for the source of the voice. A few yards down the hill he saw a helmet, the man mostly hidden by a slit trench, and he ran that way, the machine gun stitching the ground around him. He slid down now, his backside scraping the rocks, his legs leading him into the trench. He knew Killian was close, said, “Big man coming in behind me!”

Killian crashed in quickly, the men making way. Riley fought his breathing again, saw three men, a handful of wounds, one man in his socks. He was a big man, bigger than Killian, a bandage wrapped around one hand.

“Welcome to our piece of paradise. You ain’t much of a rescue team. We were hoping you’d come to get us the hell out of here.”

Riley heard the heavy New Jersey accent, no different from Morelli.

“We were hoping you’d do the same for us. I’m Pete Riley. This ugly mother is Sean Killian. What happened to your boots?”

The big man held the wounded hand upright, beamed a broad, friendly smile. “They’re down the hill a ways. Didn’t have time to get dressed properly when the Chinks showed up. Don’t need ’em anyhow. The good-looking one there is Harry Pomers. Ain’t worth a damn now that he’s shot up. Hell of a linebacker, though. The kid there, he’s Smith, though I’m bettin’ that’s an alias. Too young to be a Marine. Shoots good, I’ll give him that. We took out a pile of those bastards last night. They kept coming, we kept piling ’em up. Name’s Cafferata. Hector Cafferata.”

“I guess that’s about it. We’d shoot a pile of ’em, and they’d send a bunch more, and all the while they’re tossing grenades at us. I ran out of ammo and ended up using my shovel, whacking hell out of them, sending ’em back down the hill. Old Benson helped best he could, but he got half-blinded by a grenade. Even blind, he helped reload, until we ran out of lead. We skedaddled up here, found this trench, and these two birds. Made a hell of a stand, the lot of us.” Cafferata paused. “It was beautiful.”

Riley stared, amazed at Cafferata’s story. “You batted the grenades back? You some kind of baseball player?”

Cafferata laughed, winced, his good hand massaging the dirty bandage. “Football. World’s worst baseball player. I guess we rise to it sometimes. Caught a few, threw them back. One took off my damn finger. Chink grenades ain’t too efficient, or I’d be spread out all over this hill. Benson’s lucky he only lost his sight, not his damn head. Dumb bastard took off on his own. No, check that. He’s the best man I ever fought with. But he’s pigheaded. Said he had to get to an aid station, blind or not. Tried to help him, he wouldn’t have it, said he’d be okay. Corpsmen running around everywhere, I figured he’d get help.”

Cafferata stopped smiling now, a hint of guilt on the man’s face. Riley said, “He probably made it.”

Pomers said, “Yeah. It was nuts for a while, but the corpsmen were scrambling around here like ants. Grenade smacked me around, bloodied my head, and this damn corpsman drops in here from outta nowhere. Fixes me up, then he’s gone again. Never saw him after that. That’s just what they do, I guess. Pretty damn useful for a squid.”

Riley studied Pomers’s wound, blood in a dark stain on the man’s face and chest. “Guess we better get you to an aid station, too. We didn’t see anybody else. Where’d they go?”

Pomers said, “My squad’s mostly down. We got swarmed over, not much we could do to help each other.” He paused, and Riley saw a stab of emotion. Pomers seemed to fight it, said, “Order finally came to pull back, but I couldn’t move. The kid here stayed with me. Dumb son of a bitch.”

Riley looked at Smith, who said nothing.

“Yeah, we got one of those, too.”

Cafferata said, “Right at dark, the lieutenant sent Benson and me down low, like a lookout post. Told us if we saw something, we were supposed to haul it back up here, let everybody know. But it was too quick. Never heard the bastards coming. They were tossing grenades as soon as we smelled ’em. Once it started, we got surrounded pretty quick. Hightailed it up the hill, found this trench. And these two morons.”