Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Riley poked into his knapsack, mostly empty now, pulled out a piece of candy. “Here. We need to load up on rations. I’m hauling an empty sack. I’m wearing every damn piece of clothing they gave us. Got one more pair of fresh socks, and they’re jabbed under my armpits.”

Killian slid his legs slowly into his sleeping bag, pulled the bag up to his waist. “Mine are wet, inside my shirt. Whoever said that was the right idea?”

“That’s what they told us, Sean. Dries ’em out faster.”

“And freezes you to death from inside. I tell you, Pete, we get back home, I’m finding me a beach. I’m gonna stick my toes in hot sand and make my wife bring me drinks all day long. Umbrellas in ’em. Coconut and rum and God knows what else they grow in all those tropical places.”

Riley thought of his conversation with the reporter, the only thing that seemed to matter. Tomorrow . “I just want to get off this hill in one piece, and walking.”

“Been thinking about that. You think anybody knows where we are? I heard the radios don’t work worth a crap. We’re the back door and all. To what? What if the front door caves in, and all hell rolls this way? What’re we supposed to do about it? We got problems of our own.”

“You pick up those fancy-assed rifles of yours and you kill Chinese. It ain’t hard.”

The roar of the planes reached him now, and Riley turned that way, saw a formation of four Corsairs rolling up over the ridgeline to the west. Killian said, “Holy moly! Here they come!” He pointed out from the hole toward the saddle. “Over that way, boys!”

Others were shouting out as well, the infectious excitement of seeing the planes. The formation banked hard, all four dipping low, one lower still, and Riley raised up, strained to see, the plane lower than they were. The single Corsair rose up now, following the contour of the hill, skimmed low over the saddle, banked hard to one side, climbing now, moving past the rocky heights. Killian pounded one fist on the frozen ground, called out, “Don’t go away mad! That’s where they was hiding!”

Riley watched the other three, circling, now speeding down, fanning out, following the path of the first. Had to spot ’em first, he thought. The three planes seemed to work in perfect unison, a spray of rocket fire, streaks of white ending in blasts among the ragged rocks. Around Riley, men were cheering, and he couldn’t help a smile, watched the first plane curl back around, low, along the saddle, pulling up now, a single bomb dropping, but it wasn’t a bomb. He watched it tumbling down, bouncing on the saddle, rolling, and now the eruption, a massive ball of fire and black smoke, the saddle plastered with flames. Nearby, Riley heard the word, already forming in his own mind.

“Napalm!”

The cheers continued, the planes curling back, another run, machine gun fire, another rocket attack, the distant ridgeline alive with shattering explosions. Killian shouted out, “Wiped ’em out! Guarantee it! Yee-hah!”

The Corsairs curled around one more time, flying low, roaring past Riley’s position, the faces of the pilots clear, goggles and smiles, the planes each dipping their wings, a final salute to the Marines. And as quickly as they had come, they were gone.

Riley kept his eyes on the saddle, the hill beyond, black smoke in a thick haze, drifting off, flames still in patches of brush. He felt his heart racing, realized he was smiling, heard the cheering still around him.

“God, Sean, that was amazing. I’d love to do that, fly one of those things.”

The voice came from behind him, moving in close. “You’d smack right into these hills. You’re a ground pounder. Leave the flying to the pilots.”

Riley turned, saw Welch, no smile from either man. Welch said, “Stritch and Fry are dead. Bryan, too. The aid station’s a mess. Half the platoon’s been hit. The Second’s pretty bad off, too.”

Riley saw the painful emotion carved hard on Welch’s face, something he had seen before.

Killian said, “That’s rough, Sarge.”

Riley said nothing, no words coming, a wave of anger, hurt, disappointment. Welch looked at him, said, “Let’s go, Private. The lieutenant wants us to check out more of these wounded. Might still be some of our guys alive.”

Riley said, “That’s the corpsmen’s job.”

Welch’s expression didn’t change. “Then we’re supposed to check on the enemy bodies, make sure nobody’s still crawling around. Let’s go.”

Riley understood now, there was more to Welch’s request than any orders from McCarthy. He climbed up and Welch turned away, walked slowly back through the rocky ground. Riley felt drained of any kind of humor, had nothing inside of him to break the odd tension between them. He followed for a dozen yards, and Welch slipped in behind a larger rock, stopped, waited. Riley was face-to-face with him now, and Welch stared at him without speaking. Riley felt the anger taking over. He knew what he had to say.

“You left me out here.”

Welch looked down, nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“I never thought you’d do that. We been through—”

“We’ve never been through this . Right here. This isn’t Okinawa. I got the order to pull out. Goolsby was bawling, screaming that we had to pull back. Damn enemy was all over me, all over the whole squad. Every damn one of the new guys had shot up all his ammo. I had guts blown on me from Stiller. Took a grenade in his chest, I guess. I can still taste his blood. I put my knife through a Chink’s neck while Goolsby’s hollering the order.” Welch paused. “I looked for you. Looked your way. All I saw was Chinks. I figured they got you. Both of you. I pulled Kane out, saved the BAR. McCarthy pulled everybody out he could find. We both did.” Welch stopped, one hand up on his face, hiding a different emotion now. “Yeah. I shoulda stayed put. Made sure the whole squad… my whole squad was pulled out. I thought you were dead. You and Irish both.”

Riley felt the anger slipping away, said, “I thought we were, too. I thought you…Christ, Hamp, I never had so many enemy so damn close. I don’t know how many we killed. Dozens?”

“Captain Barber says he figures five hundred. He’s hit, too. Saw him at the aid station. Took one in the leg, I think. Lieutenant Peterson’s got it worse, but he’s still over there with the Second.” Welch looked at him now. “We’re still here, Pete. This ain’t gonna stop just ’cause we’re tired of it.”

“Killian wants to go to the beach. Stick his toes in the sand.”

There was a gust of wind, Welch pulling his coat tightly around him.

“He isn’t going to have any toes. I’ve seen him limping. That stupid son of a bitch is crippled up.”

Riley was surprised, said, “Didn’t know you watched us that close. Leave him be, Hamp. For now, anyway. He’s good with a rifle. Better than me. I want him next to me.”

Welch nodded. “I owe you that.”

“You don’t owe me a damn thing. Just do your job, Sergeant. And next time, make sure there’s nobody left before you how able out of here.”

Welch nodded, didn’t respond, and Riley could see how angry Welch was, all of it directed toward himself. After a quiet moment, Riley held out his hand. Welch seemed surprised, stared down at Riley’s gesture. He grabbed the hand, a firm shake, looked at Riley now, said, “I’ll do my job. You do yours. Keep your head down, and your feet dry.”

“Whatever you say, Sergeant.”

Riley looked out toward the saddle, the black smoke nearly gone, small flickers of fire still dotting the brush. There was a familiar sound now, the distant rattle of a machine gun, shouts along the hillside. Welch glanced that way, said, “Back to your hole. I guess the air jockeys missed a few.”