Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Goolsby seemed to come awake, said, “No. Lieutenant McCarthy is down. I have to stay up here.”

Welch stood, said to Riley, “I guess he’s in charge, for now. McCarthy’s down the hill. Leg’s busted up good.”

Riley watched Goolsby, saw him shake his head again, trying to blow out the fog.

“Sir, if we get you into a hole, warm you up a little. Might help.”

Goolsby looked up at Riley, nodded. Welch helped Goolsby to his feet again, Riley taking him by the other arm. They moved together, the foxholes close in front of them, and Welch said, “Easy. Here you go, sir. Just sit tight. I’ll find a corpsman, have him check you out.”

Goolsby settled low in the hole. “Thank you, Sergeant. Look after the men. I’ll be okay. Just a knock on the head.”

There was a scattering of rifle fire down to the far side, and Riley looked that way, said, “Second Platoon?”

Welch reached down, picked up the Thompson, and beside it, Riley’s M-1. “Here. Might come in handy. There have been snipers all morning long. The Chinks are lousy shots, mostly. But stay on your toes. No wandering around.”

Riley took the rifle, Welch handing him a pair of clips. He slipped them into his pocket, looked back down the hill, the thicket of brush, the bodies of the Chinese soldiers.

“Why’d you make the kid do that?”

Welch pulled his coat tighter, fighting a new gust of wind. “Didn’t have to. Turns out…he likes it. He’s having as much fun out here as that idiot Irishman.”

Riley felt a jolt. “How’s he doing? Killian, I mean.”

“He’ll live. Not so some of the others. We took a few more good hits last night. You change your socks lately? Nope. Come on, let’s go down the hill. I’ll tell the lieutenant we’ll try to find him a corpsman. I’m betting they’re mostly down at the tents now. A single round took out the captain and Lieutenant McCarthy last night. Last I saw ’em they were both heading down to the tents. Some Chink tossed a percussion grenade right into Goolsby’s hole. Lucky to still have his head.”

Riley remembered the doctor and Barber now, at the aid station. “I saw the captain. They were working on him.”

“They’re gonna be working on all of us if we don’t get off this hill. Grab whatever gear you need, your knapsack, your spare socks. You probably pissed your long johns, too. You oughta get some rations. There’s a big-ass box of Tootsie Rolls down at the aid station. It’s pretty quiet for now. Chinks ain’t interested in daylight assaults. The air boys keep popping up out of nowhere. Damn beautiful sight. Chinks will wait until dark to make trouble.”

Welch was moving off, Riley struggling to keep up, the painful stiffness in his knees, watery cold in his boots. He thought of the tents down below, felt a growling hunger rising in his gut, thoughts of Tootsie Rolls.

The screams caught his attention as they moved past the medical tent, the cries of the wounded blending with the orders called out by the doctor. Beyond was the warming tent, the parking place for the men who had already been treated. Riley stopped, focused on a row of corpses laid out between two fat trees. The faces were covered, the bodies draped with a thin coating of snow. At the tent, Welch said, “How long you gonna stand there? Nothing you can do for ’em.”

Maybe, he thought, if I hadn’t been stumbling around in the dark.

He knew better than to feel guilty about any of the casualties, that no matter what anyone had done, there was a bullet or a grenade or a mortar shell that could find you. The worst had been the direct hit into a foxhole, a mortar shell obliterating the men who had crouched low, believing they were safe. Haven’t seen that yet, he thought. Not out here.

He looked at Welch, who showed him unusual patience.

“Sorry, Hamp. Head’s a little foggy.”

“Make way!”

Riley turned, saw two teams of stretcher bearers moving quickly downhill, headed for the medical tent. He moved aside, the first team carrying their man inside. The second team halted outside, waited for space, one man saying to Riley, or to no one at all, “Damn sniper. Second Platoon’s still catching hell from the west hill. Lieutenant Peterson’s up there half-full of lead, still running the show. Hell of a thing.”

Riley looked at Welch, said, “Maybe we oughta go back up. Pretty busy place.”

“You got a buddy in that warming tent. He’s a jackass, but he’s still a buddy. I wanna check on the lieutenant, see what’s up. And I’m damn cold.”

He followed Welch into the tent, not quite warm, but a definite improvement from the cold outside. The sounds were scattered and many, a sharp scream at the far end of the tent, a hard groan rising up from a man to one side. He tried not to see the details, the smells overwhelming him. Welch said, “Here’s your buddy. Hey, Irish, you awake, or just goofing off?”

Killian lay on the ground, one of a row of men, each stuffed in a sleeping bag. Riley moved closer, bent low, said, “Hey, Sean. You okay?”

Killian looked up at him, staring through grogginess. “I’m alive, I think.”

Riley saw the bandage on his neck, said, “How’s the wound?”

Killian was still trying to focus, blinking his eyes, and Welch said, “He’s doped up. Morphine. Hey, Irish, how big’s the hole in your head?”

Killian shook his head slowly, one hand coming out of the sleeping bag, a clumsy poke at the bandage. “Not bad. Missed the important stuff. But the problem is my feet.” Riley could see fear in Killian’s glassy eyes, and Killian reached clumsily for Riley’s arm. “I’m done for, Pete. My feet are dead. Frostbite. Something like that. They say I can’t fight no more.”

Welch moved closer, down beside Riley. “You slack-jawed bastard. I want you back up on this hill by tonight.”

Riley knew Welch wasn’t serious, had heard this kind of test before, pushing Killian to see if he’d push back. But Killian didn’t respond, the morphine carrying him off someplace else. Beside Killian, another man spoke.

“Leave him be. It’s the shoe pacs. Bunch of us here got nothing left to stand on. I lost most of the hide off the soles of both feet. You thaw out and you know what the hell pain feels like. They’re supposed to evacuate us, hospitals, all of that.”

Killian seemed to doze off, and Riley stood, looked at the other man, said, “You warm enough at least?”

“For now. They keep bringing ’em in, though. And there ain’t enough room.”

Riley bent down, slipped Killian’s arm back inside the bag, pulled the loose top up over Killian’s face. The other man said, “Hey, can you do that for me? My arm’s busted up, can’t move.”

“Sure.”

Riley pulled at the man’s sleeping bag, caught the strong smell of urine now. He looked through the tent, a pair of corpsmen tending to patients, some of them on cots, another row of men in sleeping bags stuffed against one end of the tent.

“I’ll get you somebody. Take care of that.”

The man didn’t respond, seemed to fade into sleep, and Riley was angry now, wanted to call out, order someone to look out for these men. Welch was beside him, seemed to read him.

“They’ll get to him when they can. We’re just in the way. Come on, we got better things to do. I don’t see McCarthy. Maybe in the other tent.”

Riley looked at the other men, the few cots jammed together, couldn’t ignore the cries, the misery muffled by morphine. He heard Killian’s voice, then a soft groan, more words, his name. Riley knelt low again, pulled back the bag, said, “I’m right here. You need something?”

“Oh, God, Pete. It hurts. My feet. They’re gonna chop off my feet.”