Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

It was nearly dark, and already stars were appearing, a clear sign that tonight would be as cold as any they had endured. With the shift in the positions of the perimeter, new foxholes were dug, more slit trenches, the men laboring through the cold, knowing the warmth of their sweat was temporary, that once again the officers would order foot inspections, the men changing their socks as quickly as the work was completed. This time there were no complaints. As they struggled to chop into rock and frozen dirt, Riley and every man around him were aware that Barber’s order to dig the holes, so vigorously cursed the night before, had saved many of their lives.

Riley wiped the wetness from his skin with his spare shirt, fumbled with the buttons, his fingers already turning numb. He watched Killian blowing on his fingers, did the same, a brief remedy, allowing him to fasten a single button.

“Christ, Sean, this is nuts.”

Killian didn’t answer, buried himself in his coat, sat, curling up in a ball, the sleeping bag pulled over his legs. Riley worked the buttons, the shirt finally fastened up completely, and he grabbed his coat, wrapped himself tightly, the hood pulled down hard over his head. He ducked low, shivered, his arms wrapped around him, waiting for the relief, his breathing inside his coat, aimed down over his chest, the only warmth there was. He waited, wouldn’t move again just yet, the cold soaking his brain, every part of him, but easing now, his breathing slower, some feeling again in his limbs. He slid his feet outward, the next task, pulled at the boots, his socks soaked with sweat. He grunted, slid them off his stinging feet, tossed the socks aside, the fresh pair going on quickly, his gloved hands massaging his toes. The boots went back on, the cold in the bottom harsh, still wet, and he cursed, said, “What jackass decided these were the right boots?”

Killian didn’t look up, the hood low over his face, said, “A jackass who never had to wear the damn things. They say the Corps buys stuff from the lowest bidder. Just once, I’d pay extra to get whatever was made by the most expensive guy. Just once. Boots, C-rations. Doesn’t matter.”

Riley curled his legs beneath him, sat gingerly, knew better than to put his legs to sleep. “I bet the rifles are the best ones. They make sure of that.”

“Like hell they do. I heard the sarge say he had to junk his carbine. He’s got a Thompson, the one you grabbed off that Shambo.”

Riley knew Welch was a few yards away, another of the fresh holes dug in virtually a straight line across the crest of the hill.

“Maybe. That’s fine as long as he’s got ammo.”

Killian didn’t answer, sat quietly, a dark lump at one end of the narrow hole.

The ammo drop had come that afternoon, a single cargo plane swooping in low, pallets of boxes dumped out with barely enough altitude for the parachutes to break their fall. But the ammo had been received with eagerness and cheers, the grenades and mortar shells replenishing supplies that had been nearly exhausted. The rifle ammo had come as well, Captain Barber ordering it to be distributed quickly, every man stuffing his coat with as much as the supply officers allowed. Later in the day a single helicopter had arrived, just long enough to drop a supply of fresh batteries for the captain’s radio. For the wounded, the helicopter offered a brief bit of hope of transport off the hill. But the snipers had targeted the chopper immediately, the pilot forced to escape with a crippled engine.

He felt the familiar rumble of hunger, a new thought.

“Hey, Sean, I heard the supply drop didn’t have any rations at all. Just ammo.”

“You surprised? If we can’t fight off the Shambos, we won’t be needing much for dinner. That’s the kind of thinking officers get paid for.”

Riley slid his backpack closer, felt inside. “I got a Tootsie Roll left. A can of something, fruit maybe. I’ll split it with you.”

“Nah. I still got this turkey leg. Figured I’d suck on it awhile.”

Riley laughed to himself, but he knew Killian was serious, thought, He’s carried that stupid thing in his pack for nearly a week.

“Good luck. Your spit won’t be warm enough to thaw it out. It might stick to your tongue.”

Two men were crawling along the hill behind the line, and Riley saw a third man coming up with them, Lieutenant Goolsby. The two men dragged a cloth bag between them, slid closer to a foxhole a few yards away, and Goolsby said, “One per hole. It’s Sterno. You only got a half hour, so use it. Thaw out something to eat. Thaw out your fingers, too. But the captain says to kill the fire at eighteen thirty.”

The two men tossed a can into each hole, one rolling into Riley’s. He grabbed it, as cold as anything around him, was surprised to see Killian produce a lighter, a small flicker of flame. Riley pulled his knife, popped open the lid, held it out, and Killian lit the contents, the pink goo sparking to life. He set the can in the bottom of the hole, one hand close to the meager flame. Killian said, “A half hour. Hell, you couldn’t heat a thimbleful of coffee that quick.”

Riley gave out a low laugh. “Put your turkey leg over it. Always did enjoy an outdoor barbecue.”

Killian sniffed, pulled one boot off, held one stockinged foot over the flame. Riley kept his hands close to the round can, absorbing the warmth. He looked at Killian’s foot, said, “How’s the toes? You ain’t walking too good. The sarge noticed that. He’s watching you.”

Killian withdrew the foot, yanked the boot on, his face hidden. “Foot’s fine. The sarge can worry about you .”

McCarthy was there now, keeping low, and he knelt close behind the row of foxholes, said, “Listen up. Just got word from the captain. No matter what happens tonight in the next hour or two, nobody leaves these holes. The captain’s radio worked just long enough to make contact with the artillery battery in Hagaru-ri, a flock of one-oh-fives, supposed to be supporting us. They’re gonna range the hills around us in a few minutes. The draws, too.” He paused. “They got orders that if we’re overrun, they’re to turn this hill to mush. Anybody gets up and wanders around, they might turn you to mush, too. If we’re going to end up in hell, at least we’ll take a pile of Chinks with us. Now keep low. They start dropping shells out here, it’s just a show, for now. We’ve got enough casualties without losing anybody to friendly fire. Okay, I need every one of you to test your weapons. Fire off a round. Now!”

McCarthy was close behind Welch’s hole, his voice reaching them all. Riley obeyed, raised the M-1, fired, checked the breech, the next round moving into place. Killian did the same, and to one side Riley heard familiar cursing, Welch.

“Forget the damn carbine. It won’t eject worth a damn. I got a single shot and have to screw with the bolt for five minutes to fire the next one. I’ll stick with the Thompson.”

Down the line, other rifles fired, the telltale burst from a BAR, more curses.

McCarthy crawled along the hard ground behind the line, said, “Find a rag, anything that will work. Get as much lube cleaned out of the action as you can, no matter what weapon you’re using. Work the bolt every few minutes. Nelson! How’s the thirty?”

The burst of fire came down to the right.

“Not bad, sir.”

“Fire off another burst every hour, at least. Those bastards will hit us again, sure as hell, and for whatever reason, their weapons aren’t all gummed up like we are. We pulled a bottle of some kind of oil off one of the Chinks. Captain says it’s whale oil. I don’t know. But their weapons are doing just fine. Grab one if you get the chance. And pay attention to your grenades. Don’t just pull the pins. Pull the hammer up before you throw it. They’re mostly frozen together, and all you’ll be doing is smacking them with a baseball. Fire a round every hour, you got that?”