Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

McCarthy moved away toward the far end of the line, more orders, more single shots ringing out to the left side of the hill. Riley glanced that way, thought, Second Platoon. Pretty close to us. Killian rose up, watching him, his hands over the small flame.

“Ain’t very many of us.”

Riley had made a count in his head, said, “Half of us got hit, I think. A couple dozen still up here.” He looked at the arsenal spread out along the edge of their hole, the Russian rifles Killian had salvaged, another M-1, from one of the Marines no longer using it. “Everybody’s got more weapons than they know what to do with. We’ll be okay.”

“I know exactly what to do with ’em.”

Riley didn’t answer, looked out past the hole, toward Welch, thought, He’s got his own arsenal. And Morelli’s with him now. Good. He thought of Welch’s words earlier, how the new men had shot up all their ammo. Guess I did, too, back then. They give you a rifle, they expect you to use it. The enemy runs up your ass, he expects it, too. As long as the supply people can drop those crates out here, we’ll put up a fight. He wanted to shout over to Welch, thought better of it. He knows I’m here. And he’ll take care of the kid.

He turned his gaze to the hillside, darker now, the snow a thin blanket, deeper drifts blown against the scattered rocks. To one side Lieutenant McCarthy had positioned Freddy Nelson’s crew, manning a light machine gun, and Riley looked that way, could see the gun surrounded by a low rock pile, and more, the stacked bodies of the enemy. We should have done that, he thought. There’s enough dead Chinese to go around. But this hole is deep, plenty of cover. They come, we’ll be ready. I guess. He stared again down the wide hill, across the saddle, the distant hill hidden in darkness. They will come. Like us, they got no place else to be.

There was an odd smell, and he searched, realized it was close, and he looked down, Killian with his hands out over the soft blue flame, holding the turkey leg.

FOX HILL—NOVEMBER 28, 1950, 10:00 P.M.

The artillery had found their range, Riley watching in amazement as the spotters directed the fire from the big guns so many miles away. All around Fox Hill, the incoming fire had peppered the high ground in nearly every direction, a reminder to the enemy that even in the darkness, they were vulnerable. The mortars had the range as well, the 60- and 81-millimeter tubes spread all around the hill, each squad choosing a likely direction to aim their fire. The mortars launched illuminated shells as well as the usual high explosive, an enormous benefit for the men in the foxholes, offering a glimpse of just where the enemy assault might be forming.

Riley had found an hour’s sleep, had the watch now, still embraced by the sleeping bag up to his waist. He could hear Killian’s snoring, an odd mix of spits and hisses and grumbles, what might have been the easiest way to make enemies in a barracks. But the sounds kept Riley entertained, helped to focus his mind, keep his thoughts away from the film of icy frost he couldn’t avoid around his eyes. The shivering came often, the heavy coat not quite adequate, and as he scanned the darkness, he tried to guess the temperature. He was beginning to feel the difference, just how much pain it caused to breathe, how far down his throat the air would threaten to freeze him. With each stiff breeze that slapped his face, tears would come, turning to ice in a minute or less, gluing his eyes shut. It happened now, and he wiped gently, blew into his cupped hands, directed the warmer air upward over his eyes. Ten below zero meant his tears would freeze in a full minute. Twenty below, half that time. Tonight there were short seconds between the clear glimpses of darkness, and the agony of blindness, his fingers wiping at the raw skin around his eyes yet again.

He shifted his feet in the bag, the cold finding him even down low. God, he thought, it’s twenty-five below. Fifty below. Hell, what difference does it make? The damn Chinese don’t seem to care. He didn’t know that, of course, had wondered with the others just how miserable they could be. Their shoes had been a shock, the thin canvas over rubber soles, offering no protection at all. They gotta keep moving, he thought. I guess that’s what they’re doing now, marching up and down the hills out there, keeping warm as best they can. He was curious about the quilted uniforms, just how much protection they provided, but few of the Marines had any notion of trying them on. The smell, even in the cold, could be nauseating, the thick stench of rotten garlic. There’s bugs, too, he thought. Maybe like Okinawa, the damn fleas, infesting every piece of cloth you found. Well, maybe not. How cold does it have to be to kill fleas? But we ain’t taking any baths up here, and we stink just as bad as any of them, even without the garlic.

Beside him, Killian grumbled, a loud snort, and now to one side, Welch said, “Jesus. He’s waking up the whole mountain. The damn Chinks can zero in on us just by listening to him.”

“Let him sleep, Sarge.”

Welch didn’t respond, and Riley could hear more of the low talk around him, the men filling the darkness with tall tales, gripes, any kind of distraction from the cold.

There was a strange whine coming from the left of the saddle, lower on the far hill. More whines came now, and Riley stared that way, the talk around him quieting. Now a voice, loud, uneven, broken by the static from a radio transmitter.

“Hello, Marines! You have few numbers, and we are very many. We are surrounding you. You will die very soon. You must all surrender. It is the wise thing. Do not be foolish.”

The crackling and hissing stopped and the men began to respond, vulgar shouts across the hillside. Riley heard Killian stirring, the muffled question, “Wha’ the hell?”

“Go back to sleep. The enemy’s got somebody who knows English. He keeps that up after daylight, somebody’ll take him out.”

“Marines! Do you wish to die? You must surrender now. Save yourselves. Do not die for the generals in their comfortable homes. They have Korean girls to favor them. You have only death!”

There was a burst from a machine gun down that way, a futile gesture, streaks of red tracers pouring down into the draw. Welch rose up, and Riley heard the familiar cursing, then McCarthy was there, shouted out, “Save your damn ammo! That’s what he wants!”

“Marines, think of your wives back home. How they would enjoy you with them. Not out here, where you will only die.”

The crackling gave way to the harsh whine again, more feedback, and then the first notes of music. The responses came again, more threats and curses from the men along the hilltop, the music now louder still. Riley stared through the darkness, amazed at the effort by the Chinese, the utter ridiculousness of their propaganda. The music continued, clearer now, his own mind opening up, the music finding its way inside, memories he didn’t want. He pushed hard at that, joined in the shouting. There were more rifles firing now, a pair of machine guns. It was a useless exercise against one Chinese officer’s seductive plan, just enough awareness of their culture, their homesickness, their emotions. The outrage was complete, anger at the enemy’s simpleminded approach, the Marines absorbing the insult that someone out there thought a piece of music would tempt them to walk off their hill. But the music continued, and gradually the exhausted Marines realized there was nothing they could do to stop it. And so, with eyes still focused on the darkness, the men began to listen, some of them to enjoy. It was, after all, Bing Crosby. And it was “White Christmas.”

FOX HILL—NOVEMBER 29, 2:00 A.M.