Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Pomers seemed weak, and Riley watched him, Pomers removing his helmet. There was a bloody bandage around his head, and Pomers saw Riley’s look, said, “We were supposed to keep the Chinks off the two thirties. The first one, Ladner’s piece, there were too many Chinks. We knocked a bunch of ’em down, but they got the gun. Musta nailed his whole gun crew, too. Ladner wouldn’t have given up his thirty for anything. Lieutenant’s gonna give us hell.”

Cafferata looked at Pomers, said, “I’m tired of hearing that crap. The Chinks put everything they had into grabbing those thirties. How many of those bastards do we have to kill before somebody thinks we done all we could?”

Pomers eased the helmet down on the bandage. “We didn’t do enough.”

Killian spoke now, said, “That’s bull. We’re still here, and a bunch of those Shambos ain’t. Our job now is to find out where the rest of our guys went, and if we can’t do that, then we need to kill another pile of those quilted bastards. They can’t be far. Maybe pulled back, up on that rocky hill. You can talk all day if you want to, or wait for those sons of bitches to come back. I’d like to see you bat down a few grenades, but this ain’t the time.”

Riley heard chatter, out toward the saddle. “Hey! Shut up. Listen. What the hell’s that?”

Killian was quiet now, the men rising up together, and Riley could see more of the saddle, the fog clearing away. The voices came from that way, movement down one side of the hill, Chinese soldiers gathering, searching the bodies of their dead.

Killian said, “Get ready. We got enough ammo to make a fight of it, anyway.”

Riley saw more soldiers farther back, motion up on the saddle itself, another column back on the rocky hill. “Hell, no. There’s a whole battalion out there, maybe more. This ain’t my day to play Custer. If the company’s pulled back, we’ll find them. I say, let’s move.” He looked at Pomers. “Can you walk? Crawl, even?”

Pomers rolled up to his knees. Put one foot down, testing. “I’m ready. Custer’s not my hero, either.”

Cafferata was nodding his own approval, and Riley looked at Killian.

“Well? You gonna fight this war by yourself? Or you gonna be smart for once?”

Killian stared out toward the Chinese, lowered his head. “Okay. But I swear, Pete.”

Cafferata said, “What’s your damn problem? The Chinks ain’t going anywheres else. You wanna have another party like last night, you just wait for sundown. They don’t mind being killed one bit. They just step over their buddies and keep coming. I need some ammo, more grenades, and a better bandage on my finger. It hurts like hell. And I’m damn sure gonna find Benson.” He looked at Pomers, the kid, then at Riley. “You ready?”

Riley inhaled, another sharp stab of cold, a hard look at Killian, said, “Let’s move out together, then spread apart. Head for the ridgeline. Once you get into some cover, make noise, holler, tell ’em you’re a Marine. Make sure anybody out there knows who you are. I don’t wanna get gunned down by some nervous kid like Morelli.”

They moved as quickly as wounds and stiff legs would allow. The machine guns on the far hill made a brief effort, scattered sprays of fire that didn’t find a target. But the Chinese troops seemed more content to hold back, lying low, hidden by the terrain, out of sight of any patrolling aircraft.

The order for the Marines to withdraw had come after the first major Chinese assault, the surprise completely effective. In minutes, openings had been punched all through the Marine positions. The order came first from Captain Barber, Lieutenant McCarthy passing along the only order he could, to salvage what remained of his platoon. Most of the men responded, pulling back over the center ridge of the hill, re-forming down the hill closer to the tree line in their rear. Those who remained were completely engulfed by hordes of Chinese soldiers, or too wounded to respond at all. Even as the Third Platoon was maneuvering to safety, on their left, the Second Platoon had been hit again, another surge by hidden Chinese troops who had swung up the hill from the road below.

With Captain Barber doing all he could to re-form his position and his command, the picture became clearer. The Chinese had come up from the south and east, slipping along the main road, striking hard into Barber’s command post. In the chaos that swallowed the position, Barber had managed to pull his command staff up the hill, repositioning the mortars and what remained of the machine guns, his men using the timber for cover, pushing most of the Chinese in that area away. But the Chinese simply moved toward other targets, driving up the hill, maneuvering out along the saddle, completely hidden by the darkness and the rugged terrain. They struck first at the junction between Second and Third Platoons, aiming for the pair of light machine guns anchored there, those crews and the men who protected them, with little chance to hold back the overwhelming numbers against them. In every case, as they advanced into position, the grenadiers led the way, the men whose single job was to slip closely enough to the Marines without being detected so they could effectively throw their grenades. With signals given by their officers, the crashing of cymbals, the notes of a bugle, the riflemen were sent forward, stepping over and past the first line of men to be cut down. Despite the warning from the bizarre noisemakers, several of the Marines never fired a shot, the men who paid little heed to the warnings from their lieutenants to keep alert. As had happened before, those few men who were too exhausted and too cold to do anything but sleep had been bayoneted in their sleeping bags.

For more than four hours the Chinese pushed hard into the front and left side of Barber’s horseshoe perimeter. The cost in casualties for the Chinese was horrific, entire columns shot down as they swarmed over and around the Marine positions. Their one success came with Barber’s order to withdraw, the Chinese moving up into some of the foxholes the Americans had left behind. But with the dawn, the fighting ceased. The Chinese knew too well that the Americans would once again make good use of air support, and that on this wide hill any movement by a concentration of troops could result in slaughter. Once more the Chinese would pull back into cover, waiting for the darkness.

On the night of November 27, the attack on Fox Company was but one part of Sung Shi-lun’s plan to exterminate the entire Marine and army presence in eastern North Korea. The discovery of the Marine outpost at Toktong Pass had been, for the Chinese, a happy accident. The Chinese had already surrounded Marine positions from Yudam-ni to Koto-ri, slicing across the main supply road, completely isolating the American forces into what resembled a loosely spaced string of five pearls. As the Marines at Yudam-ni pushed westward, in obedience to MacArthur’s orders, they were increasingly aware that the Chinese were in force in the hills around them. What they could not know was that the Chinese were obeying orders as well.

They had split up, Riley and Killian slipping low, through the snowy brush and scattered rocks, while the others moved out toward their own commands. Riley had given a good-luck salute to the others, concerned that their wounds needed treatment. But they had insisted on moving out toward the aid station on their own, which Riley appreciated. He had no idea where any aid station might be.

Killian let him lead the way, their custom now, the Irishman losing some of his bluster. As they slipped along, Riley kept the best cover behind him, protection from the snipers who picked at them still. He sat down now, the agony of the cold in his lungs, tried to slow his breathing, Killian collapsing beside him.