Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

“What now, Pete?”

He heard the pain in Killian’s voice, said, “We gotta be close to somebody. This hill ain’t the Rocky Mountains. The only Chinese up here are the ones they left behind.”

Killian pulled his boots up close to his chest, a futile grab at his toes. “Damn it all. I gotta get out of these socks. My feet are dead numb.”

Riley flexed his own toes, could feel the harsh sting of the wet cold. “Then we gotta move.” He heard a voice just past a cluster of small rocks, down a slight draw, whispered, “What the hell’s that?”

Killian was up, kneeling, peering that way, the pistol in his hands. Riley moved up with him, the rifle cradled in both hands, and he saw now a pair of men in white uniforms, kneeling low, tugging at a body. Killian said, “Shambos! Take ’em out!”

“What the hell are they doing?”

“Who the hell cares! Take ’em out!”

Riley pressed the rifle to his shoulder, the men no more than thirty yards away. He aimed, the gun sight squarely on one man’s back, squeezed the trigger, the man punched down. The other soldier looked around sharply, searching, and Riley saw his face, terrified, Killian with a hard whisper in his ears, “Shoot the bastard!”

The rifle fired again, the man falling over, and Killian was up quickly, hobbling toward them, his pistol held out. Riley stood slowly, moved that way, heard Killian whoop.

“You nailed ’em both, straight through the heart! Bastards were stripping one of our guys.”

Riley scanned the distant ridge, said, “Let’s go. Snipers gotta be watching us.”

The sniper obliged, a sharp crack off a rock beside him, and Riley scooted away, rolled down behind another rock. He was annoyed at Killian now, the man throwing out loud curses toward the sniper. Damn you, he thought. Be smart once in a while. Killian was there now, heavy breathing, sliding clumsily through the powdery snow.

“Hey! Lookee here! They had these old rifles. Seen ’em before. Russian, seven point six two. I bet they work better than any damn carbines. Grabbed both of ’em, and a cartridge belt. I ain’t running out of ammo again. You want one?”

“Mine works just fine. You can go souvenir hunting later.”

The crack of another shot splattered the frozen ground beside Riley.

“Let’s go!”

He was on his feet quickly, didn’t wait for Killian, made a darting run for a clump of low brush. He slowed, glanced back, the saddle mostly hidden, saw Killian in a limping run. Riley didn’t wait, the hill dipping low, another slight ridge to the front, and he jumped up again, a quick dart to the rise.

“Get down, you moron!”

The voice startled him, and he stumbled, fell, Killian coming up behind him, a hearty shout, “Well, we made it! I knew you bastards wouldn’t have run off and left us. What the hell you all doing back here?”

Riley unraveled himself from the snow and frozen brush, realized he was flat against a wall of dead Chinese. He backed away, saw men peering up over the corpses, familiar faces, rough beards, weary smiles, black, tired eyes. He crawled up on the bodies, tried not to feel the quilting, the frozen bodies, rolled over the barricade into a slit trench, dropped low, his knees weak, a hand under his arm, another lifting him up.

“Hey, it’s Riley. Damn, Pete, we thought they got you. I knew Irish’d make it. Too dumb to get shot.”

Riley searched the faces, the voice coming from Kane, the BAR crew there as well. He saw more slit trenches, foxholes in a jagged pattern around them, saw one head rising up, the red-faced eagerness of Morelli.

“Hey, Pete! I was worried about you! Thank God!”

Riley waved a weak hand toward the kid, tried to offer a smile, the cracks in his lips too painful. He saw McCarthy now, crawling low, moving closer, and McCarthy said, “Welcome back, Private. Glad you both made it. You wounded? I’ll have the corpsman take a look.”

Riley felt a fog settling over his brain, the hands still holding him up, and he focused on McCarthy, said, “Don’t think so. Sir, you got any water? Mine’s frozen solid.”

McCarthy turned, called out, “Goolsby! On the double!”

Riley saw the young man scrambling low, flopping down behind the hole.

“Sir?”

“You call me that out here one more time and I’ll feed you to the enemy. You got that, son?”

Goolsby nodded. “Sorry. Won’t do it again. What you need, um, Bob?”

“Anything left in your canteen? The good one?”

Goolsby rolled over, slid the canteen out of his belt, held it out toward McCarthy.

“Half-full.”

McCarthy took it, handed it to Riley, said, “Here.”

Riley shook the canteen, surprised to hear the sloshing inside. He unscrewed the top, raised it to his mouth, caught an odd smell. McCarthy was watching him, and Riley took a quick drink, felt a soft burn. Beside him Kane laughed, rapped him on the back.

“It’s okay, Pete. We figured out a remedy.”

Riley drank again, and Killian was there now, said, “Hey, save some. I’m as dry as you.”

Riley passed the canteen to Killian, and McCarthy said, “You didn’t hear this from me, but Sergeant Welch has a knack for thievery. Somehow he found a bottle of medical alcohol. We mixed it in with the ice. Works like a champ.”

Kane said, “Makes life just a little more rosy up here, too.”

Riley focused on the single word. Welch .

“Where’s he at? He okay?”

McCarthy said, “Aid station. The platoon took some hits. More than a dozen casualties. He went down to help a couple of the guys get fixed up. Rebbert’s down there, with the doc. You two are lucky as hell. The enemy’s scattered out all over the far side of the hill, and if their snipers could shoot worth a damn, we’d be wiped out. Mr. Goolsby, make sure they got dry socks. The captain’s checking on Second Platoon, and if they’re ready to go, we’ll be moving out pretty quick.”

Killian handed the canteen to Goolsby, said, “We leaving?”

McCarthy shook his head, pulled the hood of his coat up over his head. “Hell, no. We’re going back up there, and knocking the Chinks off our damn hill!”

FOX HILL—NOVEMBER 28, 1950, 2:00 P.M.

The charge was quick and efficient, most of the Chinese not willing to stand up to a wave of screaming Marines. More of them had already pulled back to the safety of the deep draws, content to let their snipers pick at any target they might find, including any man who attempted to return to the holes farthest forward. For now the perimeter across the crest of Fox Hill resembled a football, more than Barber’s original horseshoe.

Riley settled into a new foxhole, Killian beside him, Killian pulling off his boots. Riley scanned the hillside below them, the distant ridgeline, no activity for now. But his eyes couldn’t avoid the mess that was Killian’s toes.

“Jesus, Sean. That looks awful.”

“No, it don’t. You keep your mouth shut. I’ll be okay.”

Riley leaned closer, winced. “That’s gotta hurt. You gotta get down to the aid station.”

“Shut up! I ain’t going nowhere. They ain’t carting me outta here just cause I got a few blisters.”

“Sean, that’s frostbite. Your toes are gray, for God’s sake. How’s it feel?”

Killian seemed to sag, his voice subdued. “It hurts like hell. It was okay as long as I couldn’t see it. Or maybe they thawed out. Jesus, Pete. I can’t go out like this. You can’t say nothing.”

Killian carefully slid fresh socks over his feet, and Riley looked down, said, “I won’t say anything, not now. But if you can’t fight, I’ll have to. How you gonna march?”

“We ain’t going anywhere no time soon. That’s what the lieutenant said. I got these two new rifles, and a pile of ammo. I can kill as many Shambos as I need to from this damn hole!” Killian paused. “You got any Tootsie Rolls?”