Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

A corpsman was there now, eased Riley out of the way.

“No, they’re not. We just gotta get you to the hospital ship. Maybe Tokyo.”

Killian calmed, the grogginess settling over him again.

Riley felt a desperate helplessness, said to the corpsman, “You sure?”

The man stood again, said, “You bet. Might lose some toes. There’s some a lot worse.”

The man moved away, tending to more of the men in the sleeping bags, and Riley caught the hard smell of excrement, felt himself getting sick, tried to stifle it. He backed away, stumbled against a cot, a man responding with a sharp yelp.

“Oh, Jesus. Sorry.”

He searched for Welch, saw him moving out of the tent, and the man in the cot shouted now, “Get me out of here! I ain’t dying!”

The man reached for him, his hand clawing the air, and Riley backed off, the growling nausea worse, more smells, pushing him past the edge. He turned, hustled out of the tent, collapsed to his knees, vomited in the snow. The tears came now, the despair complete, the horrors overwhelming, the shame of his weakness. He felt a hand on his shoulder, the voice of Welch.

“Get over it. You’ve smelled worse. Seen worse, too.”

Riley closed his eyes, still on his knees, hands down in the snow. “Don’t know what happened.”

“No sleep, no food, assholes shooting at you all night long. And your buddy’s crapped himself. None of us are enjoying this, Pete. Get up.”

Riley rose, struggled to his feet, Welch with a hard grip under his arm.

Another pair of stretcher bearers came down the hill, the wounded man bloodied across his face. They moved inside quickly, and Riley said, “Where the hell are they putting all these guys? Outside? What about tonight, Hamp?”

“That ain’t your problem. They’re doing all they can. The best thing we can do is kill every damn Chink out there, so we can get back to some kinda camp.”

“What are you doing here, boys?”

Riley knew the voice now, saw Captain Barber hobbling toward him, a crude wooden splint on his upper leg, a pair of makeshift tree branches for crutches. Two men were with him and one said, “I’ll get the doctor, sir. You really should stay put here.”

Barber waved one of the crutches at the man, just missing the man’s leg. “I’m fine. Too much to do. Get the damn doctor out here, tell him to stick a fresh bandage on it. Go!”

He looked at Riley again. “I said, what are you doing here?”

Welch said, “Came down to see a buddy, Captain. We’re heading back up.”

“You’re Third Platoon, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

Barber seemed unsteady on the odd crutches, and Riley could tell that the man was in obvious pain.

Barber said, “I was with Lieutenant McCarthy. We both got hit. His leg’s a mess. He’s over at the other tent, last I saw.”

Welch eyed the heavy bandage on the captain’s upper thigh. “Yes, sir, I know. I’m Sergeant Welch. Lieutenant Goolsby’s in command of the rifle squads now. We’ll be moving back up there right now.”

Barber let out a breath, seemed to sag, then forced himself upright. Barber’s aide returned now, the doctor in tow, the same man Riley had seen the night before. The doctor knelt close to Barber’s leg, said, “Damn it all, Captain, I wish you’d be a little smarter. This is a hell of a wound, and you don’t need to lose this leg just because you’re stubborn as hell. You damage the artery and you’ll lose more than the leg.”

Barber scowled at the doctor, said, “Just put a fresh bandage on it. Save the advice.”

“All right. Come inside.”

“Do it right here. I got no time for your bedside manner.”

Riley saw frustration on the doctor’s face, saw the man produce the fresh dressing from his coat as though he had already expected to apply it on the spot. Barber raised his foot slightly, the doctor pulling at the splint, the old bandage stripped away, tossed aside. He worked quickly, the fresh dressing applied, wrapped with tape, and the doctor looked up at Barber, said, “If it wasn’t cold as hell, you’d have bled to death. You still might.”

“It’s not warming up anytime soon, Doc. I’ve got work to do.”

Barber looked at Welch again. “Make it quick down here, Sergeant. There’s a lot more going on than the problems we’ve got on this hill. I want all my platoon and fire team leaders at my CP in ten minutes. I guess that means Goolsby. Give him the word.”

Barber hobbled away, his two aides flanking him, prepared for a stumble. The doctor watched him go, said, “Not sure what he’s trying to prove. He feels guilty getting hit, like he’s letting all of us down.” The doctor looked at Riley now, no recognition. “You boys looking for someone in particular?”

Welch said, “We found him, sir. Frostbite case.”

“There are a lot of those, Sergeant. Not much we can do for ’em out here. I told the captain we need choppers to come in, but the enemy’s shooting them up when they try to land. I got work to do, boys.”

The doctor moved back into the tent, and Riley tested his gut, the nausea passing.

“Never expected to see this kind of stuff. Feet freezing. Christ.”

Welch said, “Never expected to see a Chinese soldier trying to stuff a grenade down my throat, but here we are. Do I have to tell you to change your damn socks?”

“Not anymore.”

“Didn’t think so. Do it right now. I’ll wait. I want to check on McCarthy, and we still gotta hunt down some rations.”

Riley sat, went to work on the boots, pulled the dry socks from his belt. He could see down through the trees to the main road, the narrow strip of snow and dirt, what someone thought was so valuable. From across the road he heard a faint chatter from a distant machine gun, scattered rifle fire closer, above him, along the west side of the hill. Welch began to move out through the trees, and Riley followed, heard more of the machine gun fire ripping across the hill behind him, heard the pop of the rifles, saw more stretcher bearers, moving down, another wounded man, one more sleeping bag, less room for all the rest.

The briefing from Barber to his officers and squad leaders was short and to the point. He had finally made radio contact with Colonel Litzenberg at Yudam-ni. Barber relayed the description of just what had happened there, and what still might happen, that both regiments had already endured a crushing assault from the Chinese from nearly every direction. But Litzenberg’s message to Barber had been clear. If Fox Company could not move off their hill, and add anything to that fight, it was essential that they stay exactly where they were. If the Fifth and Seventh Marines were to have any chance of escaping annihilation, the narrow road that led back through Toktong Pass had to remain in the hands of Barber’s Marines. But there was more to Litzenberg’s message. Litzenberg had finally learned of the situation beyond the Taebaek Mountains, where much of the Eighth Army was in a headlong retreat southward. And, for the first time, Barber and his men were told of the situation at Hagaru-ri. There, Chinese prisoners had offered the matter-of-fact detail that some thirty thousand Chinese troops, the better part of three full divisions, were pushing in toward the Hagaru-ri perimeter from three directions. If Hagaru-ri fell to the enemy, the Marines at Yudam-ni, as well as Barber’s lone company, would be completely cut off. And there was no one anywhere in Korea who could offer any rescue.

HE SAT IN THE JEEP, huddled against the cold, the driver beside him as miserable as he was. Smith kept his gaze on the heavy equipment, the engineers laboring with as much effectiveness now as anytime since the bulldozers arrived at Hagaru-ri. He wiped at his eyes, a hard frost already glued to his face.