Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

The mortars came first, no warning at all, a sudden rain of explosives all along the crest of the hill. Riley dropped low, a spray of dirt and shattered rock coming down. Voices called out, McCarthy, Welch, the unnecessary warning.

“Make ready! They’ll be coming!”

Riley waited for a pause in the incoming shells, peered up over the edge of the hole, heard Welch.

“When the hell did they bring mortars up here?”

The words flowed through Riley’s brain. If there’s more weapons, it means there’s more troops. Killian seemed to read his thoughts, said, “I bet they sent reinforcements. We kicked their asses last night.”

Riley put one hand up on the hood of his parka, shifted it, clearing his line of sight. He peered down the hill.

“They already forgot about last night. Watch that damn saddle. Both sides of it.”

“Thanks, General. I done this before, you know.”

Riley felt the hard chill all through him, his nervousness adding to the raw cold. “I know. Sorry.”

“And there they come. Look!” Killian called out now. “Hey, Sarge. On the saddle!”

“I see ’em!”

There was a burst of fire from the machine gun to the right, and now scattered firing all along the saddle itself. The mortars began now, pumping their shells over the heads of the Marines, dropping them all along the enemy’s position. Riley stared, knew from the sound it was the 60 millimeters, knew that the gunners had already marked their range. The Chinese came in thin lines, advancing at a slow trot, white uniforms not quite disguised by the uneven snow. But the flashes from the mortar fire lit up the entire scene, enemy soldiers falling in clusters, some tossed aside by the close impact of the shells. The machine guns were rattling all along the hill now, the other guns joining in, down to the left. Riley pulled himself down into the hole, checked the M-1, one hand reaching up, feeling for the rows of grenades. He put a hand down on the .45 at his waist, loosened it, took a long breath, then another, ignored the cold that sliced into his lungs. He waited for a long moment, staring into darkness, felt suddenly like crying. It was so familiar, a new surge of terror boiling up inside him, and he fought it, angry at himself, more furious at the enemy. There were grenade blasts now, very close, the first wave of enemy troops doing their job, but the Marines had prepared for that, tossing their own grenades, and now Riley could hear the voices through the sharp sounds, the enemy, wounded men screaming, torn apart. Behind them, more of the mortar rounds came down, streaks of light overhead, bursts of fire all down the hill. He took a long, deep, icy breath, blinked hard, clearing his vision, and the silent voice came now, inside his head, pushing away the fear. He kicked the sleeping bag from his feet, rose up, felt himself shouting, no words, just noise, raw and vicious. The flashes of light were everywhere, and he saw the targets, men tossing grenades, shot down, men on their knees, some with rifles, and behind them more lines of men, moving up the hillside, through fire and smoke, past the screams of their own.

The noise was deafening, the enemy machine guns throwing their green tracers across the ridge, the chatter adding to the chorus of rifle fire and grenade blasts. The fighting swirled around him, some of the enemy finding their way past the line, close-range fire from Chinese burp guns, the answering chatter of the BARs. Riley kept up his own fire, targets close in front of him, still outlined by the flashes of fire from the mortars. With each advance, the Chinese seemed to grow in number, more of them surging past the Marines, collapsing in a storm of fire from men behind the ridge. In front of Riley it was more of the same scene, rows of men shot down, blown aside, the gaps in the enemy’s advance filled by more men coming up from behind. All across the line, the orders were shouted out, meaningless words, Riley’s terror combining with the raw excitement, adding to the wonder of all that was happening around him. There was no time for thought, for checking the flanks. Throughout the assault, his brain focused on one place, the hillside below him, the relentless charge by an enemy who seemed infinite and unstoppable.

Several times, more than he could count, the Chinese who were able had backed away, re-forming, reloading, Riley using the brief pauses to check his own ammo, the clips in his pocket only a few, the grenades on the ground in front of him down to a pair. As the enemy pulled back, the mortars slowed, darkness returning, and he stared out with furious energy, his hands shaking, spinning cold inside his chest. He steadied his hand by his grip on the rifle, blinked rapidly, keeping his eyes clear. Beside him, Killian seemed to be searching for something, his voice adding to the shouts along the ridge.

“Damn it all! I got nothing left! We gotta fix bayonets!”

Riley forced his eyes off the ridge, looked at him, Killian down low, ripping through his backpack. Riley shouted, louder than he intended, “What is it? You out of ammo?”

Killian ignored him, seemed obsessed with finding something, and Riley could see his rifle leaning up against the side of the hole, the bayonet already attached.

“Get up! Your bayonet’s fixed. What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“I can’t find it! It’s gotta be here! They’re coming!”

Riley heard too much terror in Killian’s voice, and he put a hand out, touched his shoulder. “Sean! Look at your rifle. The bayonet’s there.”

Killian looked at him now, seemed to calm. “They’re coming again. I know it. They’re hard to see.”

Riley kept his hand on Killian’s shoulder. “Yeah, I guess. You need ammo?”

Killian kept low, pulled the rifle in tight to his chest. “I think so. I don’t know. They coming again?”

Riley glanced out past the hole, men on the move, wounded being pulled back, a scramble from the ammo carriers. “Here! Ammo here!”

One man stumbled closer, a heavy bag in his hand.

“I got grenades! That’s it. Ain’t many.”

“Give ’em here. Go get more. We need ammo!”

The man dropped the bag, moved away without speaking, and Riley pulled the bag into the hole, not heavy enough, felt through the burlap.

“Half a dozen. That’s it. Damn!”

Killian didn’t move, sat against the side of the hole, staring at him. Riley laid the grenades out along the lip of the hole, said, “You shoot up all the ammo for those Russian things?”

Killian didn’t answer, stood up now, the rifle down beside him.

“Sean, what the hell you doing? Get your ass down.”

Welch was there now, crawling low. “What’s going on? You need ammo?”

Riley said, “Yeah. I got four clips, six grenades. Not sure about him.”

Welch rose up on his knees, pulled at Killian. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Killian looked at Welch, put one hand up on the side of his head. “You son of a bitch. You hit me with a snowball!”

Riley felt a sickening cold flowing all through him, saw Welch reach out, put a hand inside the hood of Killian’s coat.

“Oh, Christ. Corpsman!”

Riley felt paralyzed, and Welch looked at him, his hand extended.

“He’s hit. Side of his neck.”

Riley absorbed the words, stared hard, nothing to see in the dark. Killian still stood, seemed dazed, and Welch called again, “Corpsman!”

A man ran forward, down on his knees beside Welch, the voice of McCarthy. “Who’s hit?”

“Irish. Wet blood.”

McCarthy added to the chorus.

“Corpsman!”

Riley felt a new kind of panic, stared at Killian, still standing, staring off, and now another man was there, a mumbling voice.