Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

The voice grumbled up from below, “Yeah, go on. I guess it’s time for breakfast.”

The snow was heavier now, and Riley crawled up, one knee on the hard dirt, pushing himself out of the hole. He looked out over the hill, eyed the crest, rocks spread all along, thick brush in patches. He began to move, and the man spoke behind him, low voice, “Hey, Mac. Just so you know. I was gonna plug you. My buddy figured you were okay.”

“Yeah, well, thanks to your buddy.”

He started to crawl, the ground layered in thin powdery snow. The breeze was coming again, and he could see more detail, realized there was a sharp crevice in the hillside, the brush thicker still. He pushed on, slipped above the thicket, heard a snap of branches, froze. There were dead men all around him, all of them Chinese, and he kept still, one hand moving to the .45. The movement in the brush continued, no other sound, and he drew the pistol, tried to flex his stiff fingers, feeling numbly for the safety, sliding his bare trigger finger into the guard. He rolled over, sat, the pistol pointing into the brush, more sounds, closer, his eyes finding more details in the soft gray light. The man appeared now, crawling, the white uniform, his face down, pulling himself free of the brush. Riley blinked, fought the frost around his eyes, aimed the pistol, waited, the man a few feet in front of him, moving closer. The man stopped, seemed to rest, sinking low, no weapon that Riley could see. One voice rolled through him. A prisoner. Take him prisoner. He waited one more second, then said, “Hey!”

The man popped his head up, wide-eyed surprise, the two men staring at each other for a long second. Riley jerked the pistol upward, a signal, kept the aim on the man’s face. The Chinese soldier seemed to understand, moved to his knees, his hands coming up slowly to the top of his head. Riley didn’t know what to do, was sitting, his feet extended, awkward position, and the soldier kept his stare on the pistol, Riley struggling to pull his legs closer.

“You just stay put there, pal.”

Riley tried to turn around, still aiming the pistol, felt stupidly awkward, the soldier watching him now, a glance backward. The brush behind the man erupted now, another man, a surge of motion toward him, a burp gun firing. Riley shouted, fired the pistol, then again, the burp gun dropping. Now another man was there, down beside the prisoner, a rifle in his hands, firing from the hip, blinding flashes, Riley firing into the man’s belly, dropping him. The brush was alive with movement, manic voices, but the men were moving away, down the hill, hidden by the deep cut in the hillside. Riley fired again, aiming at his prisoner, the man crawling away, falling flat. Riley fired again, emptying the pistol, no targets, aiming at noise, and to one side, up on the ridge, a machine gun opened up, chattering fire into the deep draw, splattering the ground, chopping the brush. More men began to crush down the hill, hidden still by the brush, the machine gun finding them, sharp cries. He pushed at the ground with his feet, backed himself frantically up the hill, more fire from the machine gun slicing down in front of him. He wanted to shout, felt the heart-ripping terror, lay flat now, on his back. The machine gun fired again, a shorter burst, then stopped, silence now but for the thunder in his ears. He waited, rolled over slowly, still had the pistol in his hands, peered up beneath the hood of his coat. The machine gun was just off the crest, a formation of rocks, one tall stone.

“Hamp! It’s me!”

“Oh, shut up. I figured that out. Only you’d be that damn lost.”

Riley rose up slowly, looked back toward his would-be prisoner, the man’s chest peppered with holes, his blood oozing out, a thickening pool on the hard ground beside him. Riley pulled himself away, turned, saw several Marines coming down, rifles in hand, faces, one of them the kid, Morelli.

“Jesus, Pete! We thought they got you again! We been watching this bunch, knew they were in this draw. You got ’em to come out.”

He looked at the others, Kane, slinging his BAR up on his shoulder, and Kane stared past him, nodded, said, “Good job, Pete. Remind me to take you fishing sometime. You make damn good bait.”

Welch called out, “Check ’em out. Make sure they’re dead enough. See what they’re carrying.”

The men moved past Riley, Kane probing one of the bodies with the BAR, firing a short burst. Riley jumped, surprised, and Kane moved to the next man, said, “This one’s done. Check him out, kid.”

Riley watched with horrified curiosity, Morelli, leaning low, his hand sliding into the man’s coat. Kane looked at Riley, saw his expression, laughed.

“Yep, we give him all the good jobs.”

Morelli stood now, held something in his hand. “Soap and toothpaste. American stuff, just like the others. And he’s wearing that vest.”

Riley looked down, didn’t know what Morelli meant. “What vest?”

Kane said, “We were wondering why the carbines weren’t dropping these Chink bastards. Like the damn slugs was bouncing off. They’re wearing some kind of hemp thing. Word went out last night to everybody who’s still stuck with a carbine. Aim for the head.” He held up the BAR, another smile. “Didn’t have that problem myself.”

“Get your asses back up here!” Riley saw Welch now, standing at the machine gun, the young lieutenant Goolsby standing beside him. Welch called out, louder now, “There’s sniper fire down that way. Get it done, then get back into cover. This ain’t a picnic!”

Kane looked again at the handful of bodies, said to Morelli, “Hey, kid. Your turn. Plug each one of ’em. Just to be sure.”

Morelli looked at him. “You sure it’s okay?”

Kane said, “Captain’s orders, kid. Do it.”

Riley stood now, eased the stiffness from his legs, said to Kane, “Did the captain really order that?”

Kane was serious now. “I ain’t lying, Pete. Too many of our guys were getting nailed by wounded Chinks.”

He watched Morelli slip down the hill, probing more of the bodies, and now a single shot rang out, then another, Morelli stepping from body to body, the M-1 pointed down into each man’s head. Riley turned away, didn’t want to watch that, looked up toward Welch, the sergeant standing with his hands on his hips, observing. The others waited for Morelli to finish the job, the kid climbing up from the draw, looking at Riley with a smile.

Riley moved up the hill, the others spreading out, Welch calling out again.

“Get in your damn holes. The air boys oughta show up pretty soon, and nobody needs to be hunting souvenirs.”

The men spread out, moving to their own places on the ridge, and Riley stepped closer to Welch, who said, “Where the hell’s my ammo? How’d you end up way the hell out there?” Riley started to speak, felt exhausted relief, adding to the weariness of the long night. He felt the cold engulfing him again, said, “Sorry. Screwed up.”

“Yeah, of course you did. I got ammo from one of the carriers. Made him stay with me and do your job. The Chinks tried like hell to grab this thirty. Figured out a little trick. Started pulling the tracers out of the belt, so they couldn’t find me. They didn’t figure that one out yet. Pretty easy to locate a Chink machine gun when he’s shooting green at you.” He stared at Riley, fixed on his face. “You look like hell. Like that bar fight in Guam.”

“Shell came down, knocked me ass over teakettle. Lost the ammo.”

Welch put a hand on Goolsby’s shoulder, seemed to be checking on him, and Riley was surprised to see blood on the lieutenant’s face.

“Same thing happened to him. Percussion grenade. Hey, Lieutenant, you hearing me okay?” Goolsby nodded, sat down now, and Welch bent low beside him. “We better get you to the aid station, sir.”