Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

A mortar shell impacted a few feet in front of the hole, and Riley flinched, pulled his head down like a turtle. Too close, he thought. Welch said, “They adjust that one a couple notches and we won’t have to worry about it. Shoulda dragged more of those Chinese sandbags up here. We’ll do that tomorrow.”

There was commotion behind the rocks, and Riley heard voices, eased up slowly, a lull in the mortar fire. There were two men hauling a stretcher, the wounded man suddenly rising up, sitting, the men lowering him to the ground. It was Captain Barber.

“All right, I’ve had about enough of this! I’ve ordered the spotter, Lieutenant Campbell, to call back to Hagaru-ri and give us some of that artillery support they say we have. O’Leary’s waiting for word from Campbell to fire some star shells so we can range the incoming fire. Sergeant!”

Riley saw another man crawling up closer, a field telephone wrapped around the man’s shoulder.

“Yes, sir! I’m set!”

Riley was curious, watched the two stretcher bearers, huddled low now, Barber pushing out, lying flat on the ground.

“Give me the damn phone. Who’s this? Campbell? What did they say?” Barber listened for a long moment, said, “Tell Captain Read we’re ready.” He listened again, then said aloud, “All right, listen up! Four artillery rounds coming in! Wait for it!”

Riley couldn’t help peering up, his eyes just above the rim of the hole, staring out toward the saddle. The machine gun fire was relentless from the rocky hill, another spray chewing up rocks down below. The mortar shells erupted over the knoll now, sunlight in the darkness, the star shells drifting lower, the distant rocks bathed in a blinding light. Now the artillery shells came in, sharp slices through the night air, the knoll erupting in four distinct blasts. Riley stared, could see men blown airborne, rocks and equipment blown into pieces. The star shells faded to darkness now, the fiery impacts from the 105 shells passing. Behind him, Barber said, “I’ll be a son of a bitch!” He was on the phone again, said, “Wonderful! Perfect! Cease fire! Targets destroyed!” There was a silent moment, and Barber laughed now. “You heard me! Targets destroyed . Tell that captain I owe him a cigar.”

Riley watched the scene, realized now the barrage had stopped. Welch was up beside him, staring out, said, “What the hell? They hit it the first time?” He turned to Barber now, who sat staring out at the same dark space. “I guess that was some fine shooting, eh, sir?”

Barber said, an announcement to the entire platoon, “That was How Company, Eleventh Marines. Those boys are in Hagaru-ri, seven miles from here. I had hoped they might zero in on those enemy guns after maybe a half-dozen attempts. I was also hoping they didn’t blow us to hell in the process. I need to have more faith. Eyes front, boys. The enemy’s still coming. But there’s a few less machine guns out there to lead the way.”

Riley looked again to the front, silent darkness, heard the captain give a subtle order, the stretcher bearers loading him up once more. They moved off, back down the hillside, and Riley said, “He’s in rough shape. Woulda walked up here if he could.”

Welch adjusted the assortment of weapons in front of him, said, “Yep. Hate to see him go down. Hope the damn doctor pays attention to whatever his wound’s doing. I guess he’s not such a jerk after all.”

“There! To the right of the saddle!”

Riley followed Welch’s point, saw the column of white, filing out quickly from the deep draw.

“God, Hamp, there’s a million of ’em.”

Welch was out of the hole, slid in behind the machine gun, said, “Shut up and handle the ammo.”

Welch worked the action on the .30 caliber, the belt in place, and Riley ignored the M-1, gripped the Thompson. Down below, the hillside was covered with a fresh blanket of snow, several inches deep, the Chinese soldiers standing out plainly against the newly clean background. Riley felt the thunder in his chest, watched the enemy spreading out their lines, off to the right, toward the deep thicket. He felt the terror rising up, the uncontrollable panic, his hands shaking, a painful grip on the Thompson. To one side, a voice, Goolsby.

“Make ready to repel boarders!”

Welch laughed, surprising Riley, the laughter contagious. Welch shook his head, shouted, “Aye, aye, sir!”

Riley kept his eyes on the Chinese, Goolsby’s ridiculous order bringing thoughts of sailing ships and pirates, a celebrated history, part of the lore of the Corps. To the shores of Tripoli …

Welch fired the machine gun now, jarring him, and he put one hand on the first box of ammo, watching Welch, both men huddled low. The machine gun spit out in brief bursts, a two-second pause between, then another burst. Now Welch fired in a long, continuous stream, sweeping the ground in front, taking his toll on the advance of the enemy. When the gun was empty, Riley fed the next belt, dragging another up close. All along the hill, the Marines responded to the Chinese advance, their mortars from the backside of the hill dropping a steady rain of explosive horror all along the enemy’s lines. For the Chinese, nothing had changed, the grenade carriers moving up first, struggling to draw close enough to toss their one weapon, the Marine rifles, machine guns, and mortar shells wiping them away. Behind the grenadiers, the riflemen pushed forward, walking obediently into the bloody carnage, taking aim at the Marines, who took aim at them. Then the third line moved up, men with heavier weapons, the Russian burp guns and American Thompsons, stepping past so many who had already gone down.

The breakthroughs were minor and short-lived, the Marines now too familiar with the methods of their enemy. For the next couple of hours, the Chinese continued to press, while the Marines, fully stocked with a fresh supply of ammunition and arms, mostly held them away.

With the approach of the dawn, the Chinese effort lost energy, the continuing advances more feeble, until finally they pulled back altogether. Across the hillside, the fresh blanket of powdery snow was again spread with the remains of the men who had been sent up the hill to drive the Americans away. For the Chinese soldiers, the effort had been as costly as any before, and still they came, following orders passed down to them from far up their chain of command. The orders reflected the desperate importance of their mission, to eliminate the Marines who held this hill, opening the way for a stout Chinese roadblock at the most effective chokepoint south of Yudam-ni, the winding narrow passage through Toktong Pass. After three nights of massed assaults, both sides had been bloodied, but the Chinese had absorbed astonishing losses against an enemy they outnumbered by better than twelve to one. On November 30, with daylight breaking on another brutally frigid morning, the Chinese could only regroup yet again and watch from their hidden places as the Marines made ready to receive another attack, firmly entrenched on their solitary hill.

THE HOSPITAL WAS SET among a thick grove of trees, a small run-down house, the occupant abandoning it to the Chinese. He came to inspire the men, one of those duties a commander should exercise, whether or not he hated the task.

There was no heat, the risk of a smoky fire too great, the American fighters patrolling the area all through the day. He stood just inside, grateful the cold kept the smells away, watched the doctor working on a soldier, a bloodless operation, removing the man’s fingers. Sung didn’t really want to know why, but there were others, hands wrapped in fat bandages, sitting on the floor of the house, huddled together beneath a number of white blankets.