The Frozen Hours

by Jeff Shaara

  Morelli stared at him, trying to see his face, said, “That you, Pete?”

  “Of course it’s me. Who’s your helper?”

  The other man stopped digging, sat on the edge of the hole, seemed to welcome the break. “It’s Norman, Pete. We’ve got it. His shovel just fell to pieces. Must be some old army piece of crap.”

  “You got this, then?”

  Norman said, “Can you spare the shovel? The kid needs the exercise.”

  Riley handed the shovel to Morelli, could tell he was shivering, his words in a chatter.

  “Thanks, Pete. You’ll get it back.”

  “I better.”

  Morelli dropped the shovel, and Riley could see him fumble to retrieve it, his hands shaking. He put a hand on Norman’s shoulder. “You get done here, I’d get him into his bag pretty quick.”

  “The sarge already told me. We’re about finished. I’ll take care of him; you worry about Irish over there.”

  Riley turned, saw Killian standing tall in front of the foxhole, realized now the snow had stopped, a hint of moonlight reflecting off the thin carpet of white. Riley moved that way, saw that Killian had no coat.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “Drying off. Best way. The wind gets rid of the sweat in a couple minutes.”

  “It’ll get rid of you, too. Get in the damn hole.”

  Killian kept his pose, arms outstretched, and Welch was there now, said, “Oh, for Chrissakes. He’s bucking for the company’s dumb-ass award. Put your coat on, Irish. I need your rifle even if I don’t need you.”

  Riley looked at the weapon in Welch’s hands. “Your carbine working okay?”

  “Not worth a damn. The lieutenant figures we’re down to single shot. Kane’s BAR is fouled up, too. There’ll be no more gun cleaning. The lieutenant’s really pissed at himself, says he knew better than to order us to wipe everything down. He’s going down the line, checking every piece. Check yours.”

  Riley raised the M-1, worked the action, replaced the clip. “Seems okay.”

  Killian was down in the hole now, pulling on his coat. “Already checked mine. Thought about firing off a clip, but I’d probably start a Fox Company war. Some of these kids are nervous as hell.”

  Welch patted Riley on the shoulder. “You take first watch. Anything to keep him quiet for a couple of hours.”

  Welch moved off, dropping low at the next hole, more instructions, his words swept away by the wind. Riley looked up, the clouds drifting past the moon, said, “Well, you were right about the snow, I guess. Maybe you’re not as stupid as everybody thinks.”

  Killian curled up tight inside his bag, and Riley knelt, his own bag wrapped around his legs. He leaned the rifle up on the mound of fresh dirt, already frozen hard. He felt a stiff crust on his face, and he blinked painfully, his sweat freezing over every part of him. He wiped at his eyes with the rough sleeve of his coat, a useless effort, dried tears digging into his skin. He cupped his hands over his face, blew a breath, a quick burst of warmth, rough gloves clearing his vision. It wasn’t perfect, but he could see down the broad hill, the thin layer of snow barely masking the brush, uneven ground. He pulled the bag up farther, nearly to his waist, touched the rifle, reassuring, one hand pulling the hood of his parka as tight as it could go. But the wind was relentless, numbing cold on his cheeks, more tears clinging in icy flakes around his eyes. He avoided looking upward, but the moonlight told him the clouds were nearly gone, the hillside below him brighter still.

  FOX HILL—NOVEMBER 28, 1950, 2:30 A.M.

  They had changed shifts, each man welcoming the opportunity to dig down deep into the relative warmth of his sleeping bag. Riley was up again, the cold deadening his senses as it deadened his arms. If his feet weren’t warm, at least he could wriggle his toes, the bag still pulled up over his legs. The challenge again was to keep the tears in his eyes from freezing, the hood pulled as tight as possible, as long as it allowed him to see some part of the hillside below. He took the watch very seriously, had known men in the last war who cost lives by falling asleep or focusing more on their own cigarette than on who else out there might see the glowing ash. The officers drove home the punishment for that, of course, a part of every man’s training. Falling asleep on watch was punishable by death, though he had never known anyone to carry that out. More likely, a man who fell asleep might be executed by a stealthy enemy.

  He had slept for most of his allotted two hours, knew that Killian took his watch just as seriously. If a man could not completely trust his buddy, there wasn’t much sleep to be had, especially where the enemy preferred a nighttime assault. For all of Killian’s annoying traits, Riley had come to depend on him when it counted most, even if Welch seemed to despise the man.

  He looked down at the dark mound in the hole beside him, a hint of snoring, the only other sound but the blustery wind. He tried to measure the time in his mind, thought, Maybe another half hour to go. Hamp will tell me. He crawls around these holes like some kind of rat, popping up when you need him to. He won’t let Sean get one minute more sleep than he deserves. He stared to the front again, squinted against the wind, the breeze finding its way down his neck. Damn it all, he thought. Who thought climbing up here, out in the wide damn open, was so damn necessary?

  He looked to the side, saw the shadowy forms leaning out above the edges of foxholes all along the hillside, hidden only partially by the low clusters of brush. We’ll lose somebody to frostbite tonight, he thought. There’s always one, too stupid to follow orders, who knows better than the brass. And they’ll peel him away from his socks and chop off his damn feet. The thought made him shiver, and he flexed his toes again, the regular routine, every few seconds testing just how much protection the sleeping bag was giving him. His mind had begun to wander aimlessly, nonsensical, no distraction but the steady blast from the wind. The image of his wife floated past, but that only made him miserable, all that he was missing, all that was waiting for him, and he pushed hard at that, his brain finally settling on a more obvious misery, the cold, how cold, where it might be colder. Hate to be an Eskimo, he thought. They live in this crap all the time. I guess. How the hell do you build an igloo? No Eskimos in this outfit. Maybe one of the new guys. Boy, I bet they’re having a peach of a time, right out of Pendleton. Southern California. Welcome to frozen hell, children.

  The replacements had continued to come, arriving in trucks even in Hagaru-ri, brought along with some of the men from the First Regiment. They’re here right now, he thought. Second Platoon got some of ’em. There’s that one big kid, bigger than Killian, another New Jersey kid. Cafferino, Cafferata, something like that. Football player, they say. I guess he’ll be good if we mount a charge. Killian’d be good at that, too. Something a little nuts about big guys. Wonder what the Chinese think about that? They’re not as puny as the Japs, most of ’em. They must think we’re strange, all those big guys. Or maybe we just make easier targets. All right, you idiot, think of something else.

  He forced himself to stare down the wide hill, blinked through the crust around his eyes, the tears forming a film of ice against his cheeks. There was a hard shout back behind him, shattering the silence, and he spun around, numb fingers on the rifle. He saw now a shadowy shape, moving fast, a full run toward him, then up and over, hard footsteps on the icy ground. Riley felt his chest thundering, swung around, tried to see down the hill, nothing there, heard laughter, close by, another of Welch’s squad.

  “Holy Christ! You see that?”

  Riley wanted to respond, his hands quivering, a hard grip on the rifle. Another man responded now, closer, the voice of Welch.

  “It was a deer. Sure as hell. Caught a good look when it jumped. Hey, Pete. You see that?”

  Riley felt a nervous laugh rising up inside of him, the ice in his chest relaxing. “Yeah. Jumped right over me. Scared hell out of me.”

  “Yeah, I bet. Wonder what scared him?”

  A different sound came now, an odd ch
orus far back to the left, down low, muffled by the wind. He wanted to ask, but the others were rising up, weapons coming up, questions swept away by the wind. More sounds came now, low thumps, a chattering from a single machine gun. He kept his eyes that way, kicked out into Killian’s bag, said, “Sean! Get up!”

  Killian responded, the bag shoved aside, rising up, rifle in hand. “What the hell’s going on?”

  The sounds increased, a spattering of small blasts, nothing to see, the ground hidden by the curve of the hill. He kept his eyes that way, thought, Sounds like from the road. He strained to hear, a hint of rifle fire, another machine gun. Streaks of green now sprayed over the crest of the ridge, some bouncing high, impacts of machine gun fire on the hard ground.

  “Make ready!”

  Riley turned abruptly, saw McCarthy moving up to the foxholes. Riley pulled his eyes toward the open hillside in front of him, straining to see, the cold forgotten now. Killian leaned forward, beside him, his weapon pointed forward, said, “Come on, you bastards! Try it right here.”

  McCarthy was behind them now, his voice cutting through the hard breeze. “There’s something going on down below. No word from the captain. No answer on the field phone. Keep your eyes down that hill. If those boys need our help, we’ll give it. But the enemy could be anywhere. We need some mortar fire up here; light up this hillside. Can’t raise anybody on the radio!”

  Riley could hear the anxiousness in McCarthy’s voice, looked back to the left again, staring at nothing, what seemed like muffled mortar rounds, scattered tracers from distant machine guns. He stared hard down the hillside, moonlight and snow, nothing else there, and now more fire, closer, from the left, Second Platoon. Beside him, Killian said, “They’re hitting the captain’s CP. They’re down on the road. A hell of a lot of good we’re doing up here!”

  Riley kept his eyes to the front, said, “You don’t know that. We’ve got machine guns there, the mortar teams. Plenty of strength. They need us, we’ll know.”

  “What the hell are we supposed to do? Sit up here and wait for all hell to break out? Sounds like it already has!”

  McCarthy seemed to hear him, shouted, “Stay put! Hold this perimeter! We see the enemy in our rear, then we hit them. But right now we have to hold this line and keep watch along this hillside!”

  Riley could hear Killian’s grumbling, said, “Easy, Sean. Maybe this one isn’t for us. You want a damn fight, there’s time yet.”

  He kept his eyes on the new sounds from the left, saw now, far beyond, a flare.

  “Hey. What the hell’s that?”

  Killian stared that way, more flares rising, barely visible in the far distance.

  “Oh, hell. I bet that’s Yudam-ni. Illumination flares. Somebody’s lighting up the world up there. Something’s happening, for damn sure. That’s not what we’re hearing, though.”

  A new shower of green tracers sprayed past, coming from the saddle. A mortar burst impacted behind them, another down to the right, more tracers, the chattering of those guns swept away by the wind. Riley crouched lower in the foxhole, his eyes fixed on the hillside below. The firing seemed to grow on the left, another burst of tracer fire, and now a frantic voice behind them, McCarthy, “They’re coming! Give ’em hell!”

  Riley gripped the M-1 in his hands, a desperate search for targets, for any kind of movement. But the sounds came first, a chorus of bugles, the crashing of cymbals, and now movement, down the hill. They came in a line, a dozen men, moving slowly, a steady march upward. The machine gun to his left opened, a chattering rattle, red tracers slicing through the men, the line obliterated. Riley stared, dumbfounded, watched another short column farther down, slow progress up the hill, as though no one was watching them. The machine gun opened again, rifle fire down the line, the enemy falling away, some of those men scampering farther down the hill. The bugles came again, somewhere in the darkness, and Riley kept his eyes toward the sounds, scattered rifle fire coming from the men around him. He yelled at the others in his mind, instinctive, Wait! There’s nothing to shoot at! He rose up, aimed the rifle, still nothing, then a new sound, close below him, a sharp click, a voice down in front of him, and now shadows rising up, a flurry of motion, the ground around him impacted by grenades, rolling, bouncing. The first blast came to one side, then more, mostly behind him, his reflexes pushing his face down below the dirt. He waited, the grenades silent, heard more clicks, and he rose up, saw a man a few yards away jamming the potato masher onto the frozen ground, arming it, the click. A new shower of grenades filled the air above him, and Riley crouched low, sheltered by the frozen dirt in front of the foxhole, Killian there as well, loud cursing, his face a shadow. The blasts ripped along the ridgeline, a sharp scream coming from the left, more rifle fire, a brief chatter from the BAR. Killian shouted into his face, “Now!”

  They rose up together and Riley looked for targets, but the targets were all around him, men running past, more down the hill, coming toward him. The rifle fire was steady now, every direction, and Riley saw a man scamper straight toward him, a flash of fire from Killian, the man tumbling down, loose grenades rolling into the foxhole. Riley fired the rifle, then again, men running past on both sides of the foxhole, some falling, others pushing past, the bursts from their machine guns silhouetting them. Riley fired again, no aim, the rifle at his chest, his back against the foxhole, his hands shaking, and he focused on one man, running across, behind the foxhole, his burp gun blazing. Riley pointed, fired, the man stumbling down, rising up again, staggering, then dropping flat. Riley searched frantically, another cluster of men moving past, and he fired again, no aim necessary. The clip popped free from his rifle, and he struggled with stiff fingers, pulled another from his belt, rammed it home, jerked the trigger, fired into a half-dozen men standing tall over him. He jammed the rifle upward, fired into a man’s gut, then another, Killian answering with shouts, emptying another clip, the cluster of men tumbling down, one man rolling into the hole, crushing weight on Riley’s chest. He yelled, pushed the man off, the man still moving, and Riley reached for the knife at his ankle, his fingers too clumsy, the man rising slowly, on his knees, a burst of fire from somewhere close, the man knocked flat. Riley looked that way, saw men crawling, flashes from the other foxholes, a brief gratefulness, silent words, thank you. He aimed the rifle again, unsure if it was empty, Killian cursing, then up, firing quickly, another clip, Killian working to reload. From below, more men came in a rush, and Killian aimed downward, eight quick shots, another clip, Riley pointing the rifle, pulling the trigger, nothing, damn! He ripped at a new clip, jammed it in, cursed the gloves, his brain yelling at him to take his time, choose targets, his voice responding, “Too many!”

  He emptied the clip again, didn’t hear his own rifle, the fire blending with so many others’. But around him, all along the foxholes, men were screaming, hideous sounds, one more sound, Killian, shouting into his ear, “Grenades! Throw all you got!”

  Riley crouched low, men still running past, saw Killian rise up, a hard throw, another, down the hill. Riley pulled a grenade from his shirt, ripped at the pin, tossed it low, then again, two more, nothing left.

  “Grab the Chink things!”

  Riley remembered the man falling, his load rolling into the hole. He bent low, felt in the darkness, his fingers wrapping on the handle of a potato masher. He wanted to ask, How do they work? But there wasn’t time, a new line of the enemy jogging up the hill. He jammed the butt of the wooden handle against a rock, heard the telltale click, flung it downward, searched for another, felt only dirt. Killian had his pistol now, quick blasts into men close by, bursts of machine gun fire blowing over Riley’s head, some downward, ripping the frozen ground. He thought of the pistol, but the rifle was there, ready, and he emptied another clip, fewer men close by, some running, kneeling. Riley felt his belt, more ammo, several clips, thank God, and he waited, searched, saw a man walking up, standing still now, a few feet away, waving to the others, his form outlined by the
flashes, the moonlight, the snow, a perfect silhouette. Riley raised the rifle, the blast into the man’s head, one more of the enemy tumbling away. He spun around, the fight spreading out behind him, found another shadow, the man standing motionless, as though watching, as though nothing else mattered, the M-1 blowing a flash of fire into the man’s back. Men began to flow back past him, down the hill, pulling away, the fight slowing, a burst from the machine gun to the left, red tracers spraying back along the ridge, toward the Marines. Down below, the Chinese seemed to gather up, another line, bugles again, coming again, falling, others driven back, only to return, then driven back again.

  The firing was continuous, all variety of noises, the spray of the burp guns, the fire from the heavy machine guns, the BAR, more of the M-1s and carbines all along the hillside. The screams came as well, discordant noise, men staggering close, still firing, more grenades coming in, streaks of fire from machine guns, both ways, splashes of color, Riley’s brain struck by the sight, fireworks, like the Fourth of July….

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Riley

  FOX HILL—NOVEMBER 28, 1950, DAWN

  HE WAS AWAKE NOW, stared out over Killian’s head, nothing to see, strained to hear past the hard ringing in his ears. The snow had come again, a cold fog settling low on the crest of the hill. Riley sank down into the sleeping bag, gathered up against his legs, tried to flex his toes. His fingers were stiff and stinging, and he looked at the gloves, the bare trigger finger, curled his hand up against his chest. Killian was staring out, the M-1 lying across the hard mound of frozen earth, its bayonet fixed.

  “Good. You’re awake. It’s light enough. You gotta see this. We musta killed them all.”

  “Doubt that.”