Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

“Here. Who’s hit?”

McCarthy motioned toward Killian. “His neck.”

The corpsman slipped into the hole, Riley climbing out, making room. He watched the corpsman pull something from his mouth, the man pulling Killian down gently, Killian settling into the bottom of the hole. The corpsman huddled low, said, “I got him, sir. Doesn’t feel too bad. I’ll give him morphine, and we’ll get somebody out here to haul him down to the aid station.”

McCarthy said, “Good. We got plenty of men down. They hit us pretty hard. Sergeant, you know how to handle a thirty?”

Welch answered, “Yes, sir. Been a while.”

“You’ll figure it out. Nelson’s hit, down below. His crew’s busted up by grenades. Get over there, man that gun.” McCarthy looked at Riley now. “Go with him. You’re the crew. Your buddy’s gonna be fine.”

There was no discussion to be had, the lieutenant’s orders clear. Welch was up quickly, the Thompson in his hands, and he said to Riley, “Time to move.”

Riley grabbed the rifle, the grenades stuffed into his pocket. He followed Welch, stumbled on the rocky ground, moved past scattered bodies, men in their holes, gathering up ammo, doing what he had done. Welch led him down into a cluster of rocks, one taller, one half of a wall. He saw the machine gun now, bodies scattered around, most of them Chinese. But not all. He moved toward one of the fallen Marines, knelt, stared, helpless, no idea what to do.

“Get your ass over here! There’s ammo in those cans.”

“They might need help.”

“They don’t. Worry about them later. We got bigger problems.”

Riley saw now, the wide hillside below, movement in the snow, the moonlight catching the rows of men moving out into the open.

“Jesus. They’re coming again.”

Welch wrestled with the machine gun, said, “Yeah. They’re coming. Feed me the belts from this side.”

Riley went to work now, felt the heft of the ammo boxes, two full, one partial. “Looks like plenty.”

Welch slapped the gun, settled low behind it, aimed, swiveled. “Ain’t no such thing, Pete.”

The mortars began again, a steady rhythm impacting all down the hill, out on the saddle, the Chinese responding with mortars of their own. The machine guns began their duel as well, the Marines keeping their focus on the enemy troops moving up the hill again, lines of men in white, shot down, more, shot down again.

Welch fired the machine gun, short bursts, seeking targets, the old training. Riley kept close by, feeding him the ammo, and within short minutes, the first box was empty.

The barrel of the gun glowed red, and Welch aimed, stared silently. The Chinese were backing away again, disappearing into the darkness, but to both sides the firing continued. Riley sat on the frozen ground, the rocks to one side offering perfect cover that way. But down the hill, the only cover came from the stacked bodies, pulled into place by Freddy Nelson. Riley hadn’t checked the bodies nearby, had no idea if Nelson was one of the dead Marines, or if they were part of Nelson’s crew. You don’t need to know, he thought.

“How much we got left?”

Riley pulled on the one remaining box, put one hand on the belts inside. “Not much.”

“Go get more. While we got time.”

Riley stared at him, said, “Where?”

“How the hell do I know? Down the hill, back there. There’s gotta be supply idiots down there somewhere.”

Riley looked back beyond the ridge, men in motion, corpsmen, litter bearers, others Riley couldn’t see clearly.

“Okay. You got ammo for that Thompson?”

“Why? You planning on getting lost?”

“Nope. But…”

“Yeah, I got five magazines. Leave me your grenades and your M-1.”

Riley handed Welch his rifle, then emptied his pockets, Welch gathering up the grenades, laying them out beside the machine gun. Riley started to move, hesitated, said, “Not sure about this, Hamp. Hate leaving you alone.”

“I’m not alone, you moron. I got the whole damn Marine Corps up here. Just find me some damn ammo.”

Riley moved away toward the ridgeline, visible in the moonlight. He saw litter bearers, and he followed them, called out, “You ammo carriers?”

No one responded, and Riley felt suddenly helpless, moved closer to another pair of litter bearers. He saw the man between them, wrapped in his coat, faceless, and Riley said, “Ammo dump?”

The men kept moving, but one said, “Yeah. Follow me. There’s crates down below, by the CP.”

Riley stayed close to them, saw men moving in all directions, a spray of green tracers ripping above him. He ducked, instinct, the litter bearers moving away. There was rifle fire to the east, more down along the main road. He felt for his rifle, another instinct, nothing there, realized he had left it with Welch. He kept moving, downhill now, saw the tents, a crush of activity, men laid out in rows, cries and shouts, others kneeling beside them, frantic activity.

“You! Over here!”

Riley realized the man was calling him, and he moved that way, the man pointing to one end of a stretcher.

“Kneel down. Grab his feet. He tries to move, hold him tight.”

He obeyed, put his hands on the wounded man’s boots, a tight grip. The corpsman was doing his work, slipped something from his mouth, Riley watching him intently, the corpsman pulling back the man’s shirt at the waist.

“Only way to keep the morphine from freezing, hold it in your mouth. Just hope the damn syringe doesn’t crack, or I’ll be in Wonderland.” Riley realized the corpsman was talking through a mouthful, the man pulling another syringe from his mouth. “Plasma’s worthless. Freezes solid, and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it. Even if it was thawed out, it’s too cold. You’d kill a man pumping that into his veins. They didn’t teach this stuff in med school. You a corpsman?”

Riley said, “No. Came down here to find ammo.”

“Damn shame. I’m a doctor. I could use a dozen more corpsmen here.” He continued to work, then said, “Only good thing about this cold, the wounds freeze up. Man not as likely to bleed to death. Well, two good things. The dead don’t smell.”

The doctor held a thick bandage on the man’s groin, and Riley felt more helpless now, kept his grip on the boots, nothing to do but wait.

“You need me still, sir?”

The doctor stood, stretched his back. “No, go on. The captain’ll be okay, I think. Right, sir?”

The wounded man responded with a mumble, and Riley stood straight, recognized the wounded man now, the face lit by a small lantern hanging on the nearby tent. It was Captain Barber.

FOX HILL—NOVEMBER 29, 3:00 A.M.

The ammo cans weighed more the farther he climbed. Around him, the litter bearers and so many others were scrambling past, cries for corpsmen in every direction. He focused on the rocks along the crest, the only landmark he could see, but the fiery blasts added to the blindness from the freezing wetness blanketing his eyes. He stopped, gasping for breath, the cold knifing into his lungs, and he bent low, the hood over his face, tried to find any strength at all. He stood again, the ammo cans in each hand, pushed forward, climbing, tried to ignore the aching in his shoulders. He crested the hill now, flashes of fire in every direction, the impact of the mortars still illuminating the saddle. But it was far out to the left, and he felt that familiar burst of panic, searched for the telltale rocks, strained to hear what might be Welch’s machine gun. A flurry of fire whistled past him, and he ducked low, moved down the hill in a clumsy scamper. He stopped, crouched low, looked again for the saddle, nothing there, blind darkness, more flashes of fire cutting above him.